Throwing myself off the roof might do. Perhaps walking into an oncoming truck; lying across a train track, or maybe lots of poison…
Landon stops. When it comes to this point, the soliloquy feels juvenile and stupid. If he had the courage, he would’ve done it already.
Death is easy and tempting. But it worries him because there is something intrinsically inane about wanting to die. It feels like there is a consequence to it—one more terrifying than Death itself.
He returns to the lavatory and rushes through his shower because the dead gecko is staring at him from the rusted grating. Then he climbs an old squeaking staircase that winds up to a hallway on the second floor.
In one of the four rooms, the wan light of a naked bulb reveals an antiquated bed of carven teak bedposts and brass hooks from which a mosquito net used to drape. The windows are shuttered and have crusty latches of oxidised bronze. There is a wardrobe with an elaborate architrave and misaligned doors; a profusely-decorated dresser with its mirror missing; an old bronze lampstand, its wires fuzzy with dust; a damaged phonograph; a flatscreen TV perching precariously on top of a rusting treadle sewing machine; a low cabinet, its glass doors misty with age, containing a tired-looking collection of old ointment bottles and snuff cases; disused pipes; little rusting tin boxes; a pocket-watch; and a monocle with its chain still attached.
A chalkboard reads: “Dinner with Cheok on Monday, 2100.” By a window there is a jelutong writing table flecked with scratches. It has a top that can be opened and four drawers fitted with elaborate ring handles of brass. Nearby, a headless tailoring mannequin stands erect, dressed in a high-collared cheongsam of red silk.
Landon produces a thick roll of cash from his bag and stores it in a biscuit tin he keeps in one of the drawers because he holds no bank account. Having a bank account is suicidal if you are already having trouble keeping up a legitimate identity.
Then, on a fresh page of his journal, he pens the usual opening line.
My name is Landon…
He finishes the entry and lights a kerosene lamp by a nightstand. The flame produces an orb of warm light and dances with curves like a woman’s body. For a long time he lies on his bed watching it.
Tomorrow he will begin the process of killing Landon.
Slowly, he lowers the flame and snuffs it.
In the waiting lounge of an expensive hospital, visitors drowse on leather couches, their limbs drawn against the pre-dawn chill. The large glass panes out in front are frosted over with condensation, and beyond them one sees nothing but one’s reflection against the darkness outside. Behind the counters, arriving receptionists shiver and pull in their jackets.
Landon is kept awake by the prospect of committing a crime. The carbon paper of the Notice of Live Birth crinkles pleasantly in his hand. He commends himself for having been astute enough to pilfer a piece of it from the pad just a week earlier, when a flustered nurse left it at the counter in one of the delivery suites. He even snatched an Identity Card belonging to a lady who had used it to reserve a table at a food court while she tittered her way to the stalls. It was clipped to a lanyard, along with her office pass.
Thievery is low business. But no one ever told him that procuring an identity would be this hard. If he botches this attempt, he exposes himself, and if he doesn’t, the loneliness might kill him anyway. Either way, the future isn’t going to be rosy.
The number ticker buzzes. He checks his electronic queue slip and bolts forward, clumsily clutching the documents to his chest.
“Birth cert, sir?” a petite Malay lady behind the counter requests in a sprightly voice.
He hands her the Notice of Live Birth. She takes it with both hands and scans it. “A son? Congratulations.”
“Thank you. A daughter would be just as nice.”
“I need the ICs of you and your wife.”
He slides them over the counter. His countenance is still, but his heart is racing.
“How’s mummy?”
“She’s doing well. I highly recommend the epidural; it lets you enjoy the birth.”
“Thanks for the tip.” She hands the ICs back to him. “I’m only just engaged.”
“Your turn will come.”
The lady hands him the certificate. “Check the particulars, sir.”
“Everything’s perfect.”
“Adam is a nice name.”
“Thank you,” says Landon, the knot in his guts unravelling slowly. “I like names beginning with ‘A’.”
The lady points to another spot. “There’s the birth certificate number. Remember, it’s going to be different from the passport number, so take note when you make one for him.”
Landon manages a laugh. “That’ll be a long way off.”
“I have three nephews. Children grow up in the blink of an eye.” She laminates the certificate and presents it to him with both hands. “Check it again, just in case.”
“Flawless.”
In fifteen years Landon will be dead, and Adam shall walk the Earth.
“Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?”
Landon slips the certificate into his folder and zips it up. “Can’t think of anything.”
It is only 8.15 and Landon feels so light and sprightly he could sing to the soft warmth of the early sun. There’s the day to spare, and the freshness of morning washes away whatever traces of melancholia that remain in him. He is early, and he can read for an hour at the civic plaza before heading up to the bookstore. A nice slow breakfast at Café Kinos will be a good start, then he’ll browse the morning away before catching a film at Shaw. Afterwards, he’ll have tea and cake and read through the afternoon. Then it’ll be dinner—a light one. He’s thinking Italian, one with an antipasti bar. Or tapas maybe.
And then his day will end. And another will begin.
He has all the time in the world and little to live for. And he can never decide if it’s a good or a bad thing. But for now it is good. He is happy.
At the centre of the plaza he finds a black marquee. Air-blown streamers flutter beside giant speakers wrapped in black polypropylene. He squints at the event boards. Something about fashion, football and fund-raising. Throngs of teenagers gather. The speakers blare and a clichéd medley of party music thumps away like there’s no tomorrow, drawing in the exuberance of youth that passes him.
An hour later, Landon finds solace in an air-conditioned interior and its scent of fresh books. He goes to the café and picks a window seat that overlooks the mall and plaza, where the event host delivers a muffled, incomprehensible speech in an insufferable attempt to sound eloquent. Music pounds on dully behind the thick glass panes.
He orders a frittata with grilled tomatoes, slow-poached eggs and a side of spinach dressed in oil. He flips the menu page and adds a couple of blueberry waffles with crème and syrup.
“Send them after the frittata, please,” he tells the waitress.
“Any drinks, sir?”
He scans an insert and settles for a pot of Hawai‘ian Kona. “It’s going to be a quick brew so grind the beans fine. Don’t burn the grinds, and let the coffee steep three minutes before plunging. You use the French press?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay, use that, not the drip. Better still, just pour in the water and bring me the press. I’m very particular about my coffee.”
The waitress flashes an obligatory smile and departs. Landon detects displeasure in it and justifies to himself his fastidiousness over coffee. It takes only a hair’s breadth of inattention to foul up a good pot of Kona.
He sips his iced water and waits. It pleases him to see the store filling up. At the religion section, a scholarly old man reads with his glasses propped over his brows. Nearby, an elderly couple, probably Australian judging by their accent, discusses a title. A woman, Senegalese from her gaudy, tie-dyed, starchy boubou and headdress, haunts the politics section.