The Influence
Would you allow a dream to interfere with your life? Or screw up your mind?
Of course you wouldn’t. A dream is a dream is a dream. Nothing more than millions of active brain synapses, neurons firing minute electrical charges at random and without restraint while you sleep. They amuse you at best, with a fairytale in sparkling bright Technicolor, a bit of synaesthesia thrown in if you’re really lucky. Or present you with a nightmare in shades of depressing black and magenta and suicidal aquamarine and sickly yellow. But mostly they are just boring, autistic replays of otherwise unmemorable events in your dull life. Distilling your waking desires and fears and regrets, nothing more than that. Neither prophetic nor portentous. Most assuredly not supernatural.
I didn’t think twice before mentioning my silly dream to the one person I hold dear. How could I have known that she’d take it seriously? Or that more dreams would follow, each one progressively more outrageous in its choreographed gore, all of them inviting me – us – to explore emotions best left alone.
Why are we so eager to fuck up our lives? We go on making the same mistakes and get increasingly burdened by our regrets as we age, yet we stubbornly refuse to learn from them.
I’ve learned one thing, though: I am no longer who I once thought I was.
Of course you wouldn’t. A dream is a dream is a dream. Nothing more than millions of active brain synapses, neurons firing minute electrical charges at random and without restraint while you sleep. They amuse you at best, with a fairytale in sparkling bright Technicolor, a bit of synaesthesia thrown in if you’re really lucky. Or present you with a nightmare in shades of depressing black and magenta and suicidal aquamarine and sickly yellow. But mostly they are just boring, autistic replays of otherwise unmemorable events in your dull life. Distilling your waking desires and fears and regrets, nothing more than that. Neither prophetic nor portentous. Most assuredly not supernatural.
I didn’t think twice before mentioning my silly dream to the one person I hold dear. How could I have known that she’d take it seriously? Or that more dreams would follow, each one progressively more outrageous in its choreographed gore, all of them inviting me – us – to explore emotions best left alone.
Why are we so eager to fuck up our lives? We go on making the same mistakes and get increasingly burdened by our regrets as we age, yet we stubbornly refuse to learn from them.
I’ve learned one thing, though: I am no longer who I once thought I was.
I. Monkey Rage
Chapter 1
The man grunts while trying to release the trunk from where it has caught on the mesh of vines of a wild passion fruit plant. As the moon appears between the clouds, lighting up the overgrown driveway with an orange tinge, he fumbles with a pocket knife and starts cutting the vines, each cut accompanied by a litany of curses. Not that any of the words are discernible, nor the language, but the meaning is obvious. At the bottom of the driveway a car is parked under a tree, dark and menacing in the moonlight filtering through the branches, its roof absorbing the faint rays that play over the long, angular bonnet.
Freeing the trunk, the man continues to pull it towards the decaying house. But as it snags on yet another vine, the trunk opens and a woman nearly spills out. She is naked, the limbs artfully arranged around her torso in defiance of human anatomy. Her black hair is in stark contrast to the pale skin which shines with a plastic quality. A hole with irregular edges, next to her breast, looks as if it had been punched in by a fist. Shaking with rage – or is that fear? – the man looks around anxiously and pushes the stiff body back into the trunk. Closing the lid and cutting the last vine, he drags the trunk the few remaining steps to what was once the main entrance. There, he lets go of the trunk and, releasing a sigh, stretches to his full height, which isn’t much by any standards. Nearly as wide as he is short, he presents a curious sight. Dressed in black tie, he could’ve just stepped outside for a minute from a formal but boring reception to light a cigar, if it hadn’t been for the crumpled and stained jacket, the torn ends of the trouser legs and the once elegant shoes now covered in mud.
Taking out a handkerchief with which he proceeds to diligently wipe his face and hands, he makes a full turn, observing his surroundings. All is still but for a slight ripple on the surface of the decorative pond that once graced the entrance driveway. Its fountain now dry and the masonry crumbling, the pond is filled with rainwater, scum covering its surface. The man shudders as if shrugging off an unwelcome thought and turns towards the door opening.
A rustle comes from inside. Another one, followed by muted whoops, almost like whispers. Then a distinct grunt. The first head appears in the opening, upside down as the macaque hangs from the remains of the elaborately carved lintel. The female, unafraid, observes the man, twitches her whiskers and beard, purses her lips. A keening sound emanates from her and, as if on cue, other monkeys come into sight. Some of them move cautiously forward from the gloom of the ruin, others climb down the remains of the wall, all of them looking intently at the trunk with more than the usual monkey curiosity. As the female’s keening gets louder, it is joined by whoops and grunts and coughs from the newcomers, increasing in intensity as they approach the man and the trunk.
The man looks puzzled, then angry. And as he is about to pull something out of his jacket, he looks again at the pond. There must be freak gusts of wind, very localised, as the surface is now bubbling and churning, slopping the dirty water over the edges. Something tugs at his trousers and, as he looks down, the monkey bites his leg savagely, drawing blood, then jumps back just out of reach and snarls.
In pain and scared, the man flaps his arms and shouts incoherently, spittle flying from his fat lips. Yet the monkeys do not retreat. Instead, in visible contempt of the man, sweating and frightened as he is, yes, definitely frightened by now, they grow bolder. The chattering comes from all directions now; the monkeys are baring their teeth and coming closer and there is movement behind him. The alpha male, mouth wide open, lips pulled back and canines exposed, charges with arms the size of tree trunks, shrieking like it’s the end of the world and–
The fan ground to a halt with a screeching sound as I woke up, confused and with a lingering sense of discomfort. Why would I have an unpleasant dream, yet feel as horny as a teenager about to have the first fuck of his life, and with a grand erection to prove it? Not that it was the first time – the fan acting up, that is. I’d been patching it up for a couple of months now, nursing it as if it were a baby, the last salvageable air mover in the house. Ah, when I say house I’m being charitable, it’s more of a ruin, really. I sleep in the only usable room and let me tell you, it took me a couple of weeks to make it acceptable, it and the attached bathroom. It’s a grand old room, with a ceiling so high that I could just discern, in the inadequate light thrown by the cheapo IKEA bedside lamp, the geckos and obscenely huge spiders living together in perfect harmony and feeding nightly off the mosquitoes that, bless their little bloodsucking souls, manage to find their way through the cracks in the window frames – not yet replaced – and, disagreeing with my somewhat alcohol-infused perspiration end up on the ceiling instead. I’ve been known to lose my way in here on the odd night, despite the only pieces of furniture being an enormous poster bed with a depressingly sagging mattress (no, not even the local IKEA store had anything close to this size) and a wardrobe you could hide a submarine in. But until I found one, I was using it as storage for most of the clothes in my possession. The rest were in two suitcases, both of which had by now attracted a devoted following by the local insect populations, most of which would probably have kept Linnaeus busy for months, determining which particular genera they belong to.
6:27 a.m., as the phone informed me. Too early to get up, too late to go back to sleep. But the seized fan had to be switched off immediately. Wouldn’t want to start a fire in the fan or the fuse box downstairs, would I? Not in a heritage marked house, and certainly not in what, for the foreseeable future, was my home.
Indecently early to get up, but I figured, after I grabbed the torch by the bedside (indispensable in this part of the world, trust me) and switched off the fan controller, I might as well make myself a coffee. Caffeine and nicotine, the perfect duo, are what keep me going. First things first, though. I opened the bathroom door and made sure to switch on the light and scout the floor before I stepped in, then checked the toilet bowl. You cannot be too careful with plumbing here, you know. There are stories of pythons making their way up sewer pipes, even to the centre of the city. Yes, these are probably urban legends, but better safe than sorry. It gives a whole new meaning to being bitten in the arse.
Back in the bedroom, as I rummaged through one of the suitcases and shook it, a spider dropped out and scuttled towards the nearest dark corner. Fat body with faint yellow stripes, thin legs the size of my fingers. Hmm, never seen one of those before. I took out a pair of shorts and running shoes, picked up the torch and made my way out into the corridor.
As I opened the door I caught a familiar sight in the torch beam. Minnie, my favourite resident rat. Actually, I’ve no idea which gender it is, but being kind of cute as well as lacking the prominent balls that I’d seen on some of the other rats loitering about, I’d decided after several encounters that she must be female. She peered at me intently, having come out from behind the row of industrial sized paint cans I keep there, together with stacks of tiles, plaster and cement sacks, and miscellaneous planks.
‘Hey girl, how about an early breakfast?’ I could’ve sworn that she nodded in approval. ‘Nasi lemak remains? All yours, if you want them.’ I went down the stairs and heard her scampering behind me as she followed me to the kitchen. Switched on the espresso machine before I pulled on the shorts.
‘Just so you know, girl, I’m doing this for you only, to preserve your sense of modesty. You’ve never told me whether you’re an agnostic like me or if you subscribe to any of the locally popular, and populist, religions,’ I mused, and added as an afterthought, ‘in which case you can bugger off if you’re scandalised and go annoy someone in that nice condo down the road.’
It was the first time that we’d discussed nudity. And religion. As if she cares one way or the other. Eying me suspiciously while I went through the espresso making ritual she waited until I gave her my dinner leftovers and, with a cursory glance at me, focused on the meal. Thus I had my first cigarette of the day together with a double strength espresso as I watched my pet rat eat.
Freeing the trunk, the man continues to pull it towards the decaying house. But as it snags on yet another vine, the trunk opens and a woman nearly spills out. She is naked, the limbs artfully arranged around her torso in defiance of human anatomy. Her black hair is in stark contrast to the pale skin which shines with a plastic quality. A hole with irregular edges, next to her breast, looks as if it had been punched in by a fist. Shaking with rage – or is that fear? – the man looks around anxiously and pushes the stiff body back into the trunk. Closing the lid and cutting the last vine, he drags the trunk the few remaining steps to what was once the main entrance. There, he lets go of the trunk and, releasing a sigh, stretches to his full height, which isn’t much by any standards. Nearly as wide as he is short, he presents a curious sight. Dressed in black tie, he could’ve just stepped outside for a minute from a formal but boring reception to light a cigar, if it hadn’t been for the crumpled and stained jacket, the torn ends of the trouser legs and the once elegant shoes now covered in mud.
Taking out a handkerchief with which he proceeds to diligently wipe his face and hands, he makes a full turn, observing his surroundings. All is still but for a slight ripple on the surface of the decorative pond that once graced the entrance driveway. Its fountain now dry and the masonry crumbling, the pond is filled with rainwater, scum covering its surface. The man shudders as if shrugging off an unwelcome thought and turns towards the door opening.
A rustle comes from inside. Another one, followed by muted whoops, almost like whispers. Then a distinct grunt. The first head appears in the opening, upside down as the macaque hangs from the remains of the elaborately carved lintel. The female, unafraid, observes the man, twitches her whiskers and beard, purses her lips. A keening sound emanates from her and, as if on cue, other monkeys come into sight. Some of them move cautiously forward from the gloom of the ruin, others climb down the remains of the wall, all of them looking intently at the trunk with more than the usual monkey curiosity. As the female’s keening gets louder, it is joined by whoops and grunts and coughs from the newcomers, increasing in intensity as they approach the man and the trunk.
The man looks puzzled, then angry. And as he is about to pull something out of his jacket, he looks again at the pond. There must be freak gusts of wind, very localised, as the surface is now bubbling and churning, slopping the dirty water over the edges. Something tugs at his trousers and, as he looks down, the monkey bites his leg savagely, drawing blood, then jumps back just out of reach and snarls.
In pain and scared, the man flaps his arms and shouts incoherently, spittle flying from his fat lips. Yet the monkeys do not retreat. Instead, in visible contempt of the man, sweating and frightened as he is, yes, definitely frightened by now, they grow bolder. The chattering comes from all directions now; the monkeys are baring their teeth and coming closer and there is movement behind him. The alpha male, mouth wide open, lips pulled back and canines exposed, charges with arms the size of tree trunks, shrieking like it’s the end of the world and–
The fan ground to a halt with a screeching sound as I woke up, confused and with a lingering sense of discomfort. Why would I have an unpleasant dream, yet feel as horny as a teenager about to have the first fuck of his life, and with a grand erection to prove it? Not that it was the first time – the fan acting up, that is. I’d been patching it up for a couple of months now, nursing it as if it were a baby, the last salvageable air mover in the house. Ah, when I say house I’m being charitable, it’s more of a ruin, really. I sleep in the only usable room and let me tell you, it took me a couple of weeks to make it acceptable, it and the attached bathroom. It’s a grand old room, with a ceiling so high that I could just discern, in the inadequate light thrown by the cheapo IKEA bedside lamp, the geckos and obscenely huge spiders living together in perfect harmony and feeding nightly off the mosquitoes that, bless their little bloodsucking souls, manage to find their way through the cracks in the window frames – not yet replaced – and, disagreeing with my somewhat alcohol-infused perspiration end up on the ceiling instead. I’ve been known to lose my way in here on the odd night, despite the only pieces of furniture being an enormous poster bed with a depressingly sagging mattress (no, not even the local IKEA store had anything close to this size) and a wardrobe you could hide a submarine in. But until I found one, I was using it as storage for most of the clothes in my possession. The rest were in two suitcases, both of which had by now attracted a devoted following by the local insect populations, most of which would probably have kept Linnaeus busy for months, determining which particular genera they belong to.
6:27 a.m., as the phone informed me. Too early to get up, too late to go back to sleep. But the seized fan had to be switched off immediately. Wouldn’t want to start a fire in the fan or the fuse box downstairs, would I? Not in a heritage marked house, and certainly not in what, for the foreseeable future, was my home.
Indecently early to get up, but I figured, after I grabbed the torch by the bedside (indispensable in this part of the world, trust me) and switched off the fan controller, I might as well make myself a coffee. Caffeine and nicotine, the perfect duo, are what keep me going. First things first, though. I opened the bathroom door and made sure to switch on the light and scout the floor before I stepped in, then checked the toilet bowl. You cannot be too careful with plumbing here, you know. There are stories of pythons making their way up sewer pipes, even to the centre of the city. Yes, these are probably urban legends, but better safe than sorry. It gives a whole new meaning to being bitten in the arse.
Back in the bedroom, as I rummaged through one of the suitcases and shook it, a spider dropped out and scuttled towards the nearest dark corner. Fat body with faint yellow stripes, thin legs the size of my fingers. Hmm, never seen one of those before. I took out a pair of shorts and running shoes, picked up the torch and made my way out into the corridor.
As I opened the door I caught a familiar sight in the torch beam. Minnie, my favourite resident rat. Actually, I’ve no idea which gender it is, but being kind of cute as well as lacking the prominent balls that I’d seen on some of the other rats loitering about, I’d decided after several encounters that she must be female. She peered at me intently, having come out from behind the row of industrial sized paint cans I keep there, together with stacks of tiles, plaster and cement sacks, and miscellaneous planks.
‘Hey girl, how about an early breakfast?’ I could’ve sworn that she nodded in approval. ‘Nasi lemak remains? All yours, if you want them.’ I went down the stairs and heard her scampering behind me as she followed me to the kitchen. Switched on the espresso machine before I pulled on the shorts.
‘Just so you know, girl, I’m doing this for you only, to preserve your sense of modesty. You’ve never told me whether you’re an agnostic like me or if you subscribe to any of the locally popular, and populist, religions,’ I mused, and added as an afterthought, ‘in which case you can bugger off if you’re scandalised and go annoy someone in that nice condo down the road.’
It was the first time that we’d discussed nudity. And religion. As if she cares one way or the other. Eying me suspiciously while I went through the espresso making ritual she waited until I gave her my dinner leftovers and, with a cursory glance at me, focused on the meal. Thus I had my first cigarette of the day together with a double strength espresso as I watched my pet rat eat.
Chapter 2
So I talk to a rat every now and then. It’s not a big deal. Usually, I ask her opinion on colour schemes and the merits of introducing contemporary wiring and plumbing in colonial age buildings. Not that we ever have a two way conversation, you understand. Some people may consider me slightly loony, but I’m not crazy enough to believe that a rat and I can have meaningful discussions. It’s just my way of formalising my thoughts, usually about how to get the house sorted out.
‘Anyway, you want to hear about this dream that woke me up? About a fat midget and a corpse?’
No reaction from Minnie, the whiskers still moving back and forth as she chomped on the congealed rice and the inedible remains of ayam rendang – fried chicken, omnipresent throughout Southeast Asia. Come to think of it, there’s no religion in the world that views chickens as either holy or dirty. Everyone, other than hardcore vegetarians, eats them. But I digress.
‘There’s this guy, a midget. Dragging a corpse. In a trunk. In the middle of the night, in a jungle somewhere.’
No reaction whatsoever.
‘He comes up to this old ruin, just the supporting walls and parts of the roof remaining, really. Then all these monkeys appear. And they’re not happy.’
Minnie stopped eating and looked at me.
‘Ah, got your attention now, didn’t I? I must’ve had a few too many last night. Because these monkeys were macaques and they aren’t even supposed to be awake at night, right? They all go and find themselves a nice branch somewhere at sunset and go do whatever monkeys do getting ready for the night. But this bunch was crazy. And very unhappy with the fat guy.’
Minnie had turned away from the plate now, and as I watched her she watched me back. If I didn’t know better than to project human behaviour onto an animal, I’d have sworn she was giving me a condescending look, with some pitying thrown in for good measure.
‘Nasi lemak not to your liking this morning? The rendang maybe too hot for you to start the day with? Would madam prefer something less spicy for tonight’s dinner? How about a nice tournedos royale, just for the two of us? Light on the chillies but heavy on garlic butter, sautéed in tomato juice. With just a dash of lime and a whisk of tamarind paste, sprinkled with a handful of lovingly chopped coriander leaves and the thinnest of slices of ginger flower. Would that be to madam’s liking?’
Minnie was visibly unimpressed with my dinner plans and culinary know-how. Leaving the nasi lemak half eaten, she moved towards the kitchen door and stopped just long enough to turn around and give me a final look (Did she actually shake her head in disappointment?) before she disappeared into the reception hall. As I sucked up the espresso dregs and stubbed out the second cigarette, I contemplated the dream, but just briefly. Half an hour to sunrise so a good time for my early morning run.
I walked down the wide but sadly overgrown driveway, closed my eyes and inhaled deeply. I relish the smells of the rainforest. The heavy fragrances of blossoms, the slightly musty smell of damp soil and vegetation following a brief but heavy rain, even the sweet, dark whiff of decaying plants, to me these are intoxicating. And the predawn sounds of the jungle, with an abundance of insects and early rising birds competing for attention. Somewhere in there, a dry branch cracked and fell to the ground, or maybe it was just a mature coconut. In daytime, you get the additional bonus of roaming gangs of macaques, lined up on the cables strung between the lamp posts, observing you as you observe them. Then there’s the odd monitor lizard walking imperiously by the side of the road, flicking its long tongue and tasting the air for roadkill; and if you’re in luck, you may get a glimpse of a snake. Usually a python or an impressive but harmless wolf snake, more rarely an irritated pit viper. This is what people pay good money for, you know, coming from Europe for a week to experience nature as it once was. After a year I was still blown away by the fact that I actually live here and have paradise on my doorstep.
The roads here are not very wide, but are kept in quite good condition as opposed to the rest of the city. Not surprising, considering the number of resident ministers and their lackeys. This early, there was no traffic at all, and even during the rush hour this place is spared from all but the worst of the otherwise common, and seriously irritating traffic jams. My regular run includes a satisfying mix of tough steep slopes, the occasional relaxing downhill, and flat ground. Unless I’m recovering from the night before, it takes me just under an hour to complete it. Maybe if I quit smoking I could do it faster and lower my blood pressure at the same time, but I do like a good challenge.
Running past the odd house here and there I considered, as always, the quirkiness of local architecture, and the appalling – and unfortunately prevailing – lack of style displayed by the majority of the residential home owners. Sadly, being in possession of serious money more often than not seems to exclude any sense of aesthetics, or even just plain good taste. There are still a few houses left that fit the landscape – a handful of old colonial style mansions, including mine – but otherwise the place is littered with newly built monstrosities. There’s a small castle not too far from my house. A castle, for crying out loud, complete with turrets and called – wait for it – Camelot! As for the rest, they all seem to have been designed by the same architect, someone who obviously worships the SIS headquarters in Vauxhall. Chunky concrete blocks in different sizes stacked on top or side of each other, mixed with steel beams and huge tinted windows. But I was slowly getting used to it in this part of the world, where there is more money than common sense.
There are also numerous sorry looking, abandoned plots of land around, with once stately homes now in various states of decay and more or less taken over by nature. Like the property next door, where you can barely discern the crumbling gate posts flanking what at some time must have been an impressive driveway up to a regal mansion. Nowadays, the house, if it’s still there, has surely been swallowed up by the jungle and the driveway is gone, replaced by thick bushes and vines, every single leaf in competition with its neighbours for a few faint rays of sunlight. Compared with that, my place seemed like the pinnacle of comfort and homeliness.
Drenched with sweat as I got back home, and with the eastern sky showing off with the faintest pink and red and orange tints and promising another sunny, cloudless morning, I decided not to have a shower and get on with interior painting. Instead, I grabbed a towel and headed down the road, in the opposite direction of my run, towards Kristina’s condo.
‘Anyway, you want to hear about this dream that woke me up? About a fat midget and a corpse?’
No reaction from Minnie, the whiskers still moving back and forth as she chomped on the congealed rice and the inedible remains of ayam rendang – fried chicken, omnipresent throughout Southeast Asia. Come to think of it, there’s no religion in the world that views chickens as either holy or dirty. Everyone, other than hardcore vegetarians, eats them. But I digress.
‘There’s this guy, a midget. Dragging a corpse. In a trunk. In the middle of the night, in a jungle somewhere.’
No reaction whatsoever.
‘He comes up to this old ruin, just the supporting walls and parts of the roof remaining, really. Then all these monkeys appear. And they’re not happy.’
Minnie stopped eating and looked at me.
‘Ah, got your attention now, didn’t I? I must’ve had a few too many last night. Because these monkeys were macaques and they aren’t even supposed to be awake at night, right? They all go and find themselves a nice branch somewhere at sunset and go do whatever monkeys do getting ready for the night. But this bunch was crazy. And very unhappy with the fat guy.’
Minnie had turned away from the plate now, and as I watched her she watched me back. If I didn’t know better than to project human behaviour onto an animal, I’d have sworn she was giving me a condescending look, with some pitying thrown in for good measure.
‘Nasi lemak not to your liking this morning? The rendang maybe too hot for you to start the day with? Would madam prefer something less spicy for tonight’s dinner? How about a nice tournedos royale, just for the two of us? Light on the chillies but heavy on garlic butter, sautéed in tomato juice. With just a dash of lime and a whisk of tamarind paste, sprinkled with a handful of lovingly chopped coriander leaves and the thinnest of slices of ginger flower. Would that be to madam’s liking?’
Minnie was visibly unimpressed with my dinner plans and culinary know-how. Leaving the nasi lemak half eaten, she moved towards the kitchen door and stopped just long enough to turn around and give me a final look (Did she actually shake her head in disappointment?) before she disappeared into the reception hall. As I sucked up the espresso dregs and stubbed out the second cigarette, I contemplated the dream, but just briefly. Half an hour to sunrise so a good time for my early morning run.
I walked down the wide but sadly overgrown driveway, closed my eyes and inhaled deeply. I relish the smells of the rainforest. The heavy fragrances of blossoms, the slightly musty smell of damp soil and vegetation following a brief but heavy rain, even the sweet, dark whiff of decaying plants, to me these are intoxicating. And the predawn sounds of the jungle, with an abundance of insects and early rising birds competing for attention. Somewhere in there, a dry branch cracked and fell to the ground, or maybe it was just a mature coconut. In daytime, you get the additional bonus of roaming gangs of macaques, lined up on the cables strung between the lamp posts, observing you as you observe them. Then there’s the odd monitor lizard walking imperiously by the side of the road, flicking its long tongue and tasting the air for roadkill; and if you’re in luck, you may get a glimpse of a snake. Usually a python or an impressive but harmless wolf snake, more rarely an irritated pit viper. This is what people pay good money for, you know, coming from Europe for a week to experience nature as it once was. After a year I was still blown away by the fact that I actually live here and have paradise on my doorstep.
The roads here are not very wide, but are kept in quite good condition as opposed to the rest of the city. Not surprising, considering the number of resident ministers and their lackeys. This early, there was no traffic at all, and even during the rush hour this place is spared from all but the worst of the otherwise common, and seriously irritating traffic jams. My regular run includes a satisfying mix of tough steep slopes, the occasional relaxing downhill, and flat ground. Unless I’m recovering from the night before, it takes me just under an hour to complete it. Maybe if I quit smoking I could do it faster and lower my blood pressure at the same time, but I do like a good challenge.
Running past the odd house here and there I considered, as always, the quirkiness of local architecture, and the appalling – and unfortunately prevailing – lack of style displayed by the majority of the residential home owners. Sadly, being in possession of serious money more often than not seems to exclude any sense of aesthetics, or even just plain good taste. There are still a few houses left that fit the landscape – a handful of old colonial style mansions, including mine – but otherwise the place is littered with newly built monstrosities. There’s a small castle not too far from my house. A castle, for crying out loud, complete with turrets and called – wait for it – Camelot! As for the rest, they all seem to have been designed by the same architect, someone who obviously worships the SIS headquarters in Vauxhall. Chunky concrete blocks in different sizes stacked on top or side of each other, mixed with steel beams and huge tinted windows. But I was slowly getting used to it in this part of the world, where there is more money than common sense.
There are also numerous sorry looking, abandoned plots of land around, with once stately homes now in various states of decay and more or less taken over by nature. Like the property next door, where you can barely discern the crumbling gate posts flanking what at some time must have been an impressive driveway up to a regal mansion. Nowadays, the house, if it’s still there, has surely been swallowed up by the jungle and the driveway is gone, replaced by thick bushes and vines, every single leaf in competition with its neighbours for a few faint rays of sunlight. Compared with that, my place seemed like the pinnacle of comfort and homeliness.
Drenched with sweat as I got back home, and with the eastern sky showing off with the faintest pink and red and orange tints and promising another sunny, cloudless morning, I decided not to have a shower and get on with interior painting. Instead, I grabbed a towel and headed down the road, in the opposite direction of my run, towards Kristina’s condo.
Chapter 3
Luckily for my sanity, not to mention some of my primal male needs, Minnie is not the only female I know here and with whom I consort regularly. There’s also Kristina – Kris, as I call her, living in a posh condo down the road from me. Very civilised compared to the place I call my home.
Only a fifteen minute walk from me, with dense jungle on both sides of the road but lifestyles apart, the condo is a haven of sophisticated urban living. A sprawling estate with three low-rise buildings surrounding a picture perfect rock pool with a waterfall, cleverly designed to look natural, the buildings fringed by immaculate gardens with every colourful, exotic bush and tree you can think of. And all of these minutely pruned and limited to their allotted space by the resident gardener.
A glance across the covered parking spaces gives you an idea about the people that live here. In addition to the common and oh-so-bourgeois Beemers and Mercs and Jags, the mode of transport here ranges from screaming red, orange and lime Ferraris and Lambos for the Italian aficionados to Bentleys and Aston Martins in discrete colour schemes for the more conservative residents. As well as one midnight black TVR Tuscan. The S model, to be precise. Kris’, of course. Always slightly different from everyone else around her. Not that it’s intentional, she just is like that. Different. And her neighbours all adore her, the corporate tycoons, the media people, the politicians and the odd expat that’s discovered this city oasis.
I walked around a black Bentley by the entrance, engine idling, the chauffeur’s silhouette visible through the tinted windows, and approached the guard house.
‘Morning, boss!’
‘And a good morning to you, Min. Miss Kristina at home?’ I asked the Gurkha guard.
‘Yes, boss. She have party last night so maybe still sleep,’ he replied, and I could’ve sworn he winked at me.
‘Oh, big party?’
‘No, boss. Not many people. But one not leave yet, still with miss Kristina.’ Another wide, toothy smile. ‘You want I call and say you here?’
‘No, let them sleep,’ I answered. ‘I’ll just have a swim and a snooze.’
I made my way to the pool, took off my running shoes, had the briefest of showers and dove in. The water was refreshing after the run, slightly cool from the night rain and not yet the temperature of a hot tub. Swimming lazily, I checked out Kris’ bedroom, the curtains still drawn across the panorama windows. Not that it necessarily meant she was asleep, I thought with a slight pang of jealousy which I brushed away as I came out of the pool and stretched out on the lounger to catch up on my sleep.
Only a fifteen minute walk from me, with dense jungle on both sides of the road but lifestyles apart, the condo is a haven of sophisticated urban living. A sprawling estate with three low-rise buildings surrounding a picture perfect rock pool with a waterfall, cleverly designed to look natural, the buildings fringed by immaculate gardens with every colourful, exotic bush and tree you can think of. And all of these minutely pruned and limited to their allotted space by the resident gardener.
A glance across the covered parking spaces gives you an idea about the people that live here. In addition to the common and oh-so-bourgeois Beemers and Mercs and Jags, the mode of transport here ranges from screaming red, orange and lime Ferraris and Lambos for the Italian aficionados to Bentleys and Aston Martins in discrete colour schemes for the more conservative residents. As well as one midnight black TVR Tuscan. The S model, to be precise. Kris’, of course. Always slightly different from everyone else around her. Not that it’s intentional, she just is like that. Different. And her neighbours all adore her, the corporate tycoons, the media people, the politicians and the odd expat that’s discovered this city oasis.
I walked around a black Bentley by the entrance, engine idling, the chauffeur’s silhouette visible through the tinted windows, and approached the guard house.
‘Morning, boss!’
‘And a good morning to you, Min. Miss Kristina at home?’ I asked the Gurkha guard.
‘Yes, boss. She have party last night so maybe still sleep,’ he replied, and I could’ve sworn he winked at me.
‘Oh, big party?’
‘No, boss. Not many people. But one not leave yet, still with miss Kristina.’ Another wide, toothy smile. ‘You want I call and say you here?’
‘No, let them sleep,’ I answered. ‘I’ll just have a swim and a snooze.’
I made my way to the pool, took off my running shoes, had the briefest of showers and dove in. The water was refreshing after the run, slightly cool from the night rain and not yet the temperature of a hot tub. Swimming lazily, I checked out Kris’ bedroom, the curtains still drawn across the panorama windows. Not that it necessarily meant she was asleep, I thought with a slight pang of jealousy which I brushed away as I came out of the pool and stretched out on the lounger to catch up on my sleep.
●
‘Hello, handsome. Not having a wet dream, are you?’
I struggled back to consciousness and squinted at the sun, higher in the sky than I expected it to be. Standing above me were two silhouettes.
‘Ah, looks like I was out longer then intended,’ I croaked sleepily. ‘What time is it?’
‘After nine,’ Kris replied. ‘Ayu, this is Alex, a very dear friend of mine who loves sleeping by the pool. That is, when he’s not busy playing house renovator. Alex, meet Ayu. I had a small party last night and we discovered how much we have in common, so she spent the night here.’
Blinking furiously and forcing my eyes to focus, I saw Kris, lovely as ever, in a tiny bikini, with a towel draped over her arm. Next to her a petite, gorgeous Malay girl, most of her body modestly covered in very tight designer jeans and a silk top, revealing her figure to an extent that would surely be considered haram in this country. Did I detect a slight unsteadiness where she stood, and some colouring of her cheeks? Which condition, as I know well, is usually caused by overindulgence in alcoholic beverages combined with temporary sleep deprivation.
‘Nice to make your acquaintance, Ayu,’ I said. ‘I’m sure Kris was a perfect hostess, as always, seeing to your every need throughout the evening. And the night,’ I added cheekily.
‘Hello, nice meeting you,’ Ayu said, blushing. ‘I’ve got to rush. My husband’s waiting for me at the Lake Club. The car’s already here, I think.’
‘If you’re referring to a black Bentley that was already waiting when I got here, engine on and frosted windows,’ I couldn’t resist and continued, aimed at Kris, really, ‘by now it should be freezing enough inside to cool you down before you reach the club.’
I ignored the almost palpable poison darts shooting from Kris and smiled benignly at both of them.
‘Never mind him, dear, he’s always a bit strange when he wakes up,’ Kris murmured in Ayu’s ear. ‘Just pretend he’s part of the scenery.’ And, almost licking her ear lobe, ‘Let’s meet up again, soon.’
With chaste pecks on the cheeks, both sides as is the current fashion around town, the girls parted, promising to stay in touch and Ayu walked away – somewhat shakily, if you ask me – as Kris collapsed on the lounger next to me.
‘You didn’t have to embarrass Ayu like that. It was her first time, you know.’
‘I only wish I was a gecko on your bedroom ceiling occasionally. Like last night.’
‘Don’t you start on that again. Please?’
‘Okay. Sorry, I just couldn’t help myself,’ I said with a smirk.
‘She’s the wife of one of the up-and-coming hotshots on the stock exchange. And I expect to continue to get titbits of useful info from her every now and then, if you don’t mind. Which I won’t be able to do if you persist in being an utter swine.’
I grunted in response, not too convincingly, and offered a contrite look. With a sigh and a shake of her head, Kris closed her eyes, reclined on the lounger next to mine and turned her face towards the sun.
Alas, not for long. A bunch of kids approached the pool from the other side, chattering noisily and giggling, shoving and pinching each other, then jumped into the pool screaming, splashing water on everything and everyone in the vicinity. Kris lifted her head slightly and eyed them wearily over the top of her sunglasses.
‘So much for a moment of tranquillity. If I ever say that I want a child of my own, please shoot me without hesitation. How about breakfast instead?’ And with that she got up, picked up the towel and walked off towards her flat, not waiting for my answer. I couldn’t but concur silently, with the rest of the morning by the pool spoiled by the obnoxious brats, and followed her inside.
‘Hey, so you didn’t even have time for breakfast?’
‘I told you to drop it.’
‘Mea maxima culpa, darling. No more innuendoes, I promise. Anyway, I came here straight from a run and wouldn’t mind sharing a tasty brekkie with you. Maybe some dessert afterwards? If your bed’s still unmade?’
‘Possibly, if you’re a good boy and behave yourself. But I have to do some work later. Ayu’s told me something that may concern Golden Dawn and their going public.’
‘Golden Dawn, eh? As in esoteric Crowley mumbo-jumbo crap? For real?’ I’m far from an expert on Aleister Crowley, the last of the infamous, self-proclaimed English satanists, or his gentlemen’s club, aka The Golden Dawn, but surely anyone literate has come across that name. ‘Aren’t they just a bunch of bored Americans nowadays, getting together once a month for a good old-fashioned orgy and a piss-up?’
‘No, silly. This is a different outfit, as if you didn’t know better. A Malay-Indonesian joint venture with a gold mine in Irian Jaya. Or is it West Papua they call it nowadays?’ Kris shook her head. ‘Anyway, you know the Chinese, everything has to do with luck, gold, prosperity, sunrise, strength, blah, blah, blah; the more of it that you can cram into the company name the better. Because, as everyone surely knows, you must have a fortuitous name to succeed in business. It does make me wonder how Microsoft ever managed to make it. A tiny, flaccid company. Pah, it would never have worked here in Asia.’
‘Ah, I see, oh enlightened one. Any potentially prosperous name suggestions for my future hotel then? Lucky Morning Star Boutique Residence? The Shangri La? Damn, name already taken. How about Nirvana? I must say I quite like that one.’
‘Oh yes, why not. I’m sure that will attract the crowds. Particularly if you team up with the local Chinese crematorium of the same name. I can just see the slogan: “Check in to eternity with us.” You’ll be pulling them in like there’s no tomorrow. Which there won’t be for your clients, of course, in that line of business.’
‘Ha, ha, very funny. Me, I prefer having fun while I’m still alive. But then I’m not a Buddhist.’
‘Actually, I’m a Shintoist, if anything, as if you don’t already know it, you European heathen. Now shut up and help me with the breakfast.’
‘Oh, lovely, I’ll start with two eggs then, sunny side up with the yolks still runny. With mushrooms and crispy fried bacon, two fresh-out-of-the-oven buns and New Zealand butter, cherry tomatoes, capers and onion rings on the side, all smothered in Italian dressing. And, of course, a couple of Danish pastries to finish it off. With English breakfast tea and freshly squeezed orange juice, please.’
As I snuggled up to her from behind, one hand toying with her belly button, the other cupping one of her perky breasts, I whispered, ‘And afterwards I’ll show you my undying gratitude by giving you total sexual pleasure. As only a man can.’
‘Fuck off, you sex crazed glutton,’ Kris purred, not at all unhappily, rubbing her bum against my cock. ‘As for the breakfast, you’re not in a bloody hotel now. What you get is the party leftovers. Som tam, crispy fish, and I believe there’s some larb moo and yam neua remaining. The prawn salad and massaman curry are finished, as is the chicken soup. So either you eat with me, or you watch me eat, your choice. And afterwards, you may eat me. If you behave yourself.’
She extracted herself from my arms, plucked out several bowls from the fridge and started lining them up on the table. And I could only drool at her listing of Thai food on offer. One of the many things Kris and I have in common is unconditional love of almost any food originating in the kingdom of Siam.
I struggled back to consciousness and squinted at the sun, higher in the sky than I expected it to be. Standing above me were two silhouettes.
‘Ah, looks like I was out longer then intended,’ I croaked sleepily. ‘What time is it?’
‘After nine,’ Kris replied. ‘Ayu, this is Alex, a very dear friend of mine who loves sleeping by the pool. That is, when he’s not busy playing house renovator. Alex, meet Ayu. I had a small party last night and we discovered how much we have in common, so she spent the night here.’
Blinking furiously and forcing my eyes to focus, I saw Kris, lovely as ever, in a tiny bikini, with a towel draped over her arm. Next to her a petite, gorgeous Malay girl, most of her body modestly covered in very tight designer jeans and a silk top, revealing her figure to an extent that would surely be considered haram in this country. Did I detect a slight unsteadiness where she stood, and some colouring of her cheeks? Which condition, as I know well, is usually caused by overindulgence in alcoholic beverages combined with temporary sleep deprivation.
‘Nice to make your acquaintance, Ayu,’ I said. ‘I’m sure Kris was a perfect hostess, as always, seeing to your every need throughout the evening. And the night,’ I added cheekily.
‘Hello, nice meeting you,’ Ayu said, blushing. ‘I’ve got to rush. My husband’s waiting for me at the Lake Club. The car’s already here, I think.’
‘If you’re referring to a black Bentley that was already waiting when I got here, engine on and frosted windows,’ I couldn’t resist and continued, aimed at Kris, really, ‘by now it should be freezing enough inside to cool you down before you reach the club.’
I ignored the almost palpable poison darts shooting from Kris and smiled benignly at both of them.
‘Never mind him, dear, he’s always a bit strange when he wakes up,’ Kris murmured in Ayu’s ear. ‘Just pretend he’s part of the scenery.’ And, almost licking her ear lobe, ‘Let’s meet up again, soon.’
With chaste pecks on the cheeks, both sides as is the current fashion around town, the girls parted, promising to stay in touch and Ayu walked away – somewhat shakily, if you ask me – as Kris collapsed on the lounger next to me.
‘You didn’t have to embarrass Ayu like that. It was her first time, you know.’
‘I only wish I was a gecko on your bedroom ceiling occasionally. Like last night.’
‘Don’t you start on that again. Please?’
‘Okay. Sorry, I just couldn’t help myself,’ I said with a smirk.
‘She’s the wife of one of the up-and-coming hotshots on the stock exchange. And I expect to continue to get titbits of useful info from her every now and then, if you don’t mind. Which I won’t be able to do if you persist in being an utter swine.’
I grunted in response, not too convincingly, and offered a contrite look. With a sigh and a shake of her head, Kris closed her eyes, reclined on the lounger next to mine and turned her face towards the sun.
Alas, not for long. A bunch of kids approached the pool from the other side, chattering noisily and giggling, shoving and pinching each other, then jumped into the pool screaming, splashing water on everything and everyone in the vicinity. Kris lifted her head slightly and eyed them wearily over the top of her sunglasses.
‘So much for a moment of tranquillity. If I ever say that I want a child of my own, please shoot me without hesitation. How about breakfast instead?’ And with that she got up, picked up the towel and walked off towards her flat, not waiting for my answer. I couldn’t but concur silently, with the rest of the morning by the pool spoiled by the obnoxious brats, and followed her inside.
‘Hey, so you didn’t even have time for breakfast?’
‘I told you to drop it.’
‘Mea maxima culpa, darling. No more innuendoes, I promise. Anyway, I came here straight from a run and wouldn’t mind sharing a tasty brekkie with you. Maybe some dessert afterwards? If your bed’s still unmade?’
‘Possibly, if you’re a good boy and behave yourself. But I have to do some work later. Ayu’s told me something that may concern Golden Dawn and their going public.’
‘Golden Dawn, eh? As in esoteric Crowley mumbo-jumbo crap? For real?’ I’m far from an expert on Aleister Crowley, the last of the infamous, self-proclaimed English satanists, or his gentlemen’s club, aka The Golden Dawn, but surely anyone literate has come across that name. ‘Aren’t they just a bunch of bored Americans nowadays, getting together once a month for a good old-fashioned orgy and a piss-up?’
‘No, silly. This is a different outfit, as if you didn’t know better. A Malay-Indonesian joint venture with a gold mine in Irian Jaya. Or is it West Papua they call it nowadays?’ Kris shook her head. ‘Anyway, you know the Chinese, everything has to do with luck, gold, prosperity, sunrise, strength, blah, blah, blah; the more of it that you can cram into the company name the better. Because, as everyone surely knows, you must have a fortuitous name to succeed in business. It does make me wonder how Microsoft ever managed to make it. A tiny, flaccid company. Pah, it would never have worked here in Asia.’
‘Ah, I see, oh enlightened one. Any potentially prosperous name suggestions for my future hotel then? Lucky Morning Star Boutique Residence? The Shangri La? Damn, name already taken. How about Nirvana? I must say I quite like that one.’
‘Oh yes, why not. I’m sure that will attract the crowds. Particularly if you team up with the local Chinese crematorium of the same name. I can just see the slogan: “Check in to eternity with us.” You’ll be pulling them in like there’s no tomorrow. Which there won’t be for your clients, of course, in that line of business.’
‘Ha, ha, very funny. Me, I prefer having fun while I’m still alive. But then I’m not a Buddhist.’
‘Actually, I’m a Shintoist, if anything, as if you don’t already know it, you European heathen. Now shut up and help me with the breakfast.’
‘Oh, lovely, I’ll start with two eggs then, sunny side up with the yolks still runny. With mushrooms and crispy fried bacon, two fresh-out-of-the-oven buns and New Zealand butter, cherry tomatoes, capers and onion rings on the side, all smothered in Italian dressing. And, of course, a couple of Danish pastries to finish it off. With English breakfast tea and freshly squeezed orange juice, please.’
As I snuggled up to her from behind, one hand toying with her belly button, the other cupping one of her perky breasts, I whispered, ‘And afterwards I’ll show you my undying gratitude by giving you total sexual pleasure. As only a man can.’
‘Fuck off, you sex crazed glutton,’ Kris purred, not at all unhappily, rubbing her bum against my cock. ‘As for the breakfast, you’re not in a bloody hotel now. What you get is the party leftovers. Som tam, crispy fish, and I believe there’s some larb moo and yam neua remaining. The prawn salad and massaman curry are finished, as is the chicken soup. So either you eat with me, or you watch me eat, your choice. And afterwards, you may eat me. If you behave yourself.’
She extracted herself from my arms, plucked out several bowls from the fridge and started lining them up on the table. And I could only drool at her listing of Thai food on offer. One of the many things Kris and I have in common is unconditional love of almost any food originating in the kingdom of Siam.
Chapter 4
As we enjoyed our breakfast in silence, I remembered my nightmare.
‘Had a strange dream this morning that woke me up,’ I said. ‘About a fat midget dragging a corpse and getting attacked by monkeys.’
‘Don’t you regularly have strange dreams? Usually assisted by whisky and ganja? Freud and Jung would’ve loved to have you as a patient, your dreams always being in Cinemascope and very detailed. You weirdo.’ This last said lovingly, I hoped.
‘Yes, but this one was really bizarre, like I was an onlooker, or rather a passive participant in the whole thing, and I could see everything that was happening. Like a film. It could’ve been next door to me for all that I know, because it certainly looked like my part of the woods. And those monkeys were vicious.’
Kris looked at me enquiringly. ‘And that is what woke you up?’
‘Well yes, there’s this huge car parked by the side of the road, with the lights on, and this dressed up midget dragging a trunk, with a corpse inside it, towards the remains of a house. Then he gets attacked by rabid monkeys. Much more aggressive than they normally are. And at night, when they should be sleeping.’
‘Of course you dreamt about monkeys, darling,’ Kris said, nodding. ‘What did you expect, moving into a dilapidated house in a godforsaken part of Bukit Tunku? It’s monkey heaven. Just as I told you it would be.’
Boy, don’t I know it. Kuala Lumpur, or just KL as the locals call it, is a mind blowing city as I discovered when I moved here, and a funny place to live in. Yes, on occasion it can be amusing, but mainly it’s weird. A huge metropolis with millions of people and, seen through the eyes of transient visitors, virtually indistinguishable from any other Southeast Asian city. Reasonably organised and thoroughly westernised, with tall buildings lining the wide, regularly congested streets. Sprinkled throughout with numerous parks, with neat rows of bushes and trees and paths and benches and children’s playgrounds, all put up as a token gesture for the city dwellers who wish to pretend they haven’t forgotten mother nature. Yet, leave downtown by way of Chinatown and Little India and you soon come upon a large, hilly and densely forested area, dotted here and there with mansions complete with pools and manicured lawns, and a handful of luxury condos. No city noise here, just birds, insects and monkeys providing the sound backdrop. This is Bukit Tunku, the most exclusive part of Kuala Lumpur. It used to be known as Kenny Hills in colonial times but following independence and fired by nationalistic fervour the name was changed to, for us foreigners, something meaningless yet much more exotic sounding.
Only the ultra rich can afford to live here. Malaysia, despite all the government propaganda, is still a country thoroughly segregated by money, race and religion, in that order. Once you move here and thus pass the first hurdle, where you originate from and what, if anything, you believe in is irrelevant. Chinese, Malays, Indians, foreigners – everyone is equal in Bukit Tunku and appreciates both alcohol, pork and beef served at weekend barbecues, impromptu poolside parties and formal dinners.
So here we were, a couple of foreigners, feasting on delicious Thai salads in a huge flat that not even upper-middle class Malaysians could ever hope to aspire to own. On the morning after a party where in all probability the combined cost of the aged single malts and cognacs and French vintage wines consumed in one night was more than an office slave earns in six months. Most of it, I was sure, drunk by those same members of the community that outwardly insist on pure living according to their faith. Not unlike, come to think of it, the smug puritans and politically correct hypocrites in the West. But, as they say, plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.
‘Had a strange dream this morning that woke me up,’ I said. ‘About a fat midget dragging a corpse and getting attacked by monkeys.’
‘Don’t you regularly have strange dreams? Usually assisted by whisky and ganja? Freud and Jung would’ve loved to have you as a patient, your dreams always being in Cinemascope and very detailed. You weirdo.’ This last said lovingly, I hoped.
‘Yes, but this one was really bizarre, like I was an onlooker, or rather a passive participant in the whole thing, and I could see everything that was happening. Like a film. It could’ve been next door to me for all that I know, because it certainly looked like my part of the woods. And those monkeys were vicious.’
Kris looked at me enquiringly. ‘And that is what woke you up?’
‘Well yes, there’s this huge car parked by the side of the road, with the lights on, and this dressed up midget dragging a trunk, with a corpse inside it, towards the remains of a house. Then he gets attacked by rabid monkeys. Much more aggressive than they normally are. And at night, when they should be sleeping.’
‘Of course you dreamt about monkeys, darling,’ Kris said, nodding. ‘What did you expect, moving into a dilapidated house in a godforsaken part of Bukit Tunku? It’s monkey heaven. Just as I told you it would be.’
Boy, don’t I know it. Kuala Lumpur, or just KL as the locals call it, is a mind blowing city as I discovered when I moved here, and a funny place to live in. Yes, on occasion it can be amusing, but mainly it’s weird. A huge metropolis with millions of people and, seen through the eyes of transient visitors, virtually indistinguishable from any other Southeast Asian city. Reasonably organised and thoroughly westernised, with tall buildings lining the wide, regularly congested streets. Sprinkled throughout with numerous parks, with neat rows of bushes and trees and paths and benches and children’s playgrounds, all put up as a token gesture for the city dwellers who wish to pretend they haven’t forgotten mother nature. Yet, leave downtown by way of Chinatown and Little India and you soon come upon a large, hilly and densely forested area, dotted here and there with mansions complete with pools and manicured lawns, and a handful of luxury condos. No city noise here, just birds, insects and monkeys providing the sound backdrop. This is Bukit Tunku, the most exclusive part of Kuala Lumpur. It used to be known as Kenny Hills in colonial times but following independence and fired by nationalistic fervour the name was changed to, for us foreigners, something meaningless yet much more exotic sounding.
Only the ultra rich can afford to live here. Malaysia, despite all the government propaganda, is still a country thoroughly segregated by money, race and religion, in that order. Once you move here and thus pass the first hurdle, where you originate from and what, if anything, you believe in is irrelevant. Chinese, Malays, Indians, foreigners – everyone is equal in Bukit Tunku and appreciates both alcohol, pork and beef served at weekend barbecues, impromptu poolside parties and formal dinners.
So here we were, a couple of foreigners, feasting on delicious Thai salads in a huge flat that not even upper-middle class Malaysians could ever hope to aspire to own. On the morning after a party where in all probability the combined cost of the aged single malts and cognacs and French vintage wines consumed in one night was more than an office slave earns in six months. Most of it, I was sure, drunk by those same members of the community that outwardly insist on pure living according to their faith. Not unlike, come to think of it, the smug puritans and politically correct hypocrites in the West. But, as they say, plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.
●
A couple of hours later, stretched out on Kris’ bed, sweating despite the aircon going at full blast, with her on top of me, sprawled sideways and her glorious bum in the air just within my reach, I contemplated my good fortune. Living in a country with eternal summer, in possession of a mansion – a ruin, maybe, but still a mansion – in the midst of jungle yet within minutes of downtown KL, fucking one of the most desirable women in the country, I felt that life just couldn’t get any better. I could still taste her on my lips, which made my cock twitch in fond memory. As I sighed contently and patted her arse, Kris wrapped her fingers around it affectionately.
‘I like what you do to me. Who knows, one day I may even love you for it,’ she purred, followed by a gentle squeeze. ‘You Neanderthal brute.’
‘I always aim to please, despite unfair competition.’
‘Can you describe the car?’ Kris tactfully ignored my jibe.
‘What car?’
‘The one in your dream, silly. If you still remember it.’
‘I tell you about my dream with corpses and rabid monkeys and all you want to know about is the car?’
‘Indulge me.’
I tried to recall the details, but all I could remember was its size, the long bonnet and the grille. And the slanting headlights.
‘Ever seen a Chinese Eye?’
‘Eh?’
‘You know, a 1960s Rolls or Bentley Continental. Could it have been one of those?’
‘And how, pray, would I be able to identify a car I saw in a dream? With most of it being about a guy about to get ripped to pieces by monkeys.’
‘Because the headlights you described are quite unique. The grille – did it look like a Rolls grille? Sharp or rounded?’
Sometimes Kris gets quite passionate about a subject and you just have to go with the flow.
‘Well, now that you mention it, it was kind of bulky and tall, Rolls Royce-like but smoother looking.’
As a male, of course I’m reasonably familiar with four and two wheeled modes of transport. Whereas Kris could, if she ever wanted to, earn her living as a sleazy classic car dealer and be able to point out features in select vehicles that even the manufacturers didn’t know about. Blame it on her dad, a chronic car collector who probably owns more cars than most of us have socks. Single ones, not pairs.
‘Definitely a Bentley, then. So your midget has good taste. And a cartload of money. Those cars were not cheap when new, and even less so now. Barely seventy of them produced, if it was an S3.’
‘Well, that really makes me feel better. At least my nightmares feature affluent people.’
‘All I’m saying is that you have very interesting and detailed dreams,’ Kris’ other hand had moved up now, her thumb and forefinger playing with my nipple. ‘The midget was dressed up, you said? As in black tie?’
‘Mmm, yes,’ I was slightly distracted. ‘Full dinner jacket outfit. Mind you, it looked less than impeccable, being in tatters and covered in mud.’
‘European? Or Asian?’
‘What, the outfit?’ I got a painful pinch in response. ‘Ouch. No clue, darling. It was a dream, you know. I could’ve hardly asked him about his ethnicity. Or his credentials. Anything else I can help you with?’
An exasperated sigh from Kris. ‘Did it look like it could have been around here? I mean – jungle, old house, and an obviously reasonably paved road. For someone to drive a Bentley on. Darling, this is fabulous. Why don’t you have more of these dreams, write a book about them and I’ll get you a publisher. Then you’ll get rich and famous and can afford to hire workers for that project of yours.’
She rolled away and bounced up from the bed, looking at me over her shoulder as she walked to the bathroom.
‘Now get your arse into gear and get dressed. I’ve a meeting in one hour in the Towers and have to get ready. I’ll drive you home on my way there.’
‘I like what you do to me. Who knows, one day I may even love you for it,’ she purred, followed by a gentle squeeze. ‘You Neanderthal brute.’
‘I always aim to please, despite unfair competition.’
‘Can you describe the car?’ Kris tactfully ignored my jibe.
‘What car?’
‘The one in your dream, silly. If you still remember it.’
‘I tell you about my dream with corpses and rabid monkeys and all you want to know about is the car?’
‘Indulge me.’
I tried to recall the details, but all I could remember was its size, the long bonnet and the grille. And the slanting headlights.
‘Ever seen a Chinese Eye?’
‘Eh?’
‘You know, a 1960s Rolls or Bentley Continental. Could it have been one of those?’
‘And how, pray, would I be able to identify a car I saw in a dream? With most of it being about a guy about to get ripped to pieces by monkeys.’
‘Because the headlights you described are quite unique. The grille – did it look like a Rolls grille? Sharp or rounded?’
Sometimes Kris gets quite passionate about a subject and you just have to go with the flow.
‘Well, now that you mention it, it was kind of bulky and tall, Rolls Royce-like but smoother looking.’
As a male, of course I’m reasonably familiar with four and two wheeled modes of transport. Whereas Kris could, if she ever wanted to, earn her living as a sleazy classic car dealer and be able to point out features in select vehicles that even the manufacturers didn’t know about. Blame it on her dad, a chronic car collector who probably owns more cars than most of us have socks. Single ones, not pairs.
‘Definitely a Bentley, then. So your midget has good taste. And a cartload of money. Those cars were not cheap when new, and even less so now. Barely seventy of them produced, if it was an S3.’
‘Well, that really makes me feel better. At least my nightmares feature affluent people.’
‘All I’m saying is that you have very interesting and detailed dreams,’ Kris’ other hand had moved up now, her thumb and forefinger playing with my nipple. ‘The midget was dressed up, you said? As in black tie?’
‘Mmm, yes,’ I was slightly distracted. ‘Full dinner jacket outfit. Mind you, it looked less than impeccable, being in tatters and covered in mud.’
‘European? Or Asian?’
‘What, the outfit?’ I got a painful pinch in response. ‘Ouch. No clue, darling. It was a dream, you know. I could’ve hardly asked him about his ethnicity. Or his credentials. Anything else I can help you with?’
An exasperated sigh from Kris. ‘Did it look like it could have been around here? I mean – jungle, old house, and an obviously reasonably paved road. For someone to drive a Bentley on. Darling, this is fabulous. Why don’t you have more of these dreams, write a book about them and I’ll get you a publisher. Then you’ll get rich and famous and can afford to hire workers for that project of yours.’
She rolled away and bounced up from the bed, looking at me over her shoulder as she walked to the bathroom.
‘Now get your arse into gear and get dressed. I’ve a meeting in one hour in the Towers and have to get ready. I’ll drive you home on my way there.’
Chapter 5
I didn’t see or hear from Kris for the next two days. We were both busy, she with making more money in that short time span than even the most hardened venture capitalist would consider decent, me finally finishing the renovation of the first of the guest rooms in my future hotel.
I’d started by having professionals, as rare as it is to find them in KL, replace all the water and sewer pipes, then all the trunking and circuits throughout the house, followed by retiling the roof. In the meantime I stayed in a hotel, spending too much of my project funds. This was before I’d met Kris, otherwise she would’ve insisted I stay with her. Only for the duration of the work, of course. She is fiercely independent and very protective of what she calls her own space. Just as I am, really. Despite the fact that, although we initially only shared pure sexual attraction, it had since developed into a permanent relationship. A somewhat twisted and possibly occasionally bizarre relationship, granted, but there we were. We’re all different, aren’t we? Except for those of us who are more different.
Once the infrastructure was in place, I made one of the rooms habitable and got the huge kitchen in order so that I could move into the house. Now I was renovating the rest of the rooms, to be followed by all the common areas. Then doing the exterior walls and surrounding gardens, putting in a pool and finally decorating and furnishing the place. All leading to the grand opening, when I would greet a never ending stream of wealthy guests, playing the debonair hotelier. My own, and hopefully considerably improved version of Fawlty Towers.
It was a good plan, and I felt that my old skills as a project manager were finally paying off. The odd delay here and there, as expected, but nothing I couldn’t cope with.
The phone rang. My mobile phone which, in this part of the world, is called a handphone. Although, considering the current size trends, it should really be called a twohandphone.
‘Hello darling. Are you sitting down?’
‘Hi, Kris. Actually, yes, I’m in the kitchen. Celebrating the completion of room one whilst enjoying the late afternoon sun shining through the smudgy windows and making pretty patterns on the peeling walls. Together with Minnie. We’re sharing a decent Ruffino Prosecco, well chilled. Do you want to join us?’
‘You’re obviously drunk. Or high. And never mind the plonk you’re drinking, with a rat to boot. Ng, does it mean anything to you?’
‘Ungh? Unk? Ankh? Ah, yes, the old Egyptian symbol!’
‘No, you barbarian. Ng, as in the quite common Chinese surname. Your fat midget. He exists. Or rather, existed. Tigran Ng, a local bigwig.’
I became aware of Minnie looking at me with, as I felt, more than the usual ratty inquisitiveness. Her saucer was empty. As was my glass, I realised.
‘Hold on, give me a second,’ I said. As Minnie and I shared the last of the bubbly, the impatient silence that emanated from the phone was perceptible. ‘I’m back. Do tell.’
‘So, a very wealthy, and more than a bit shady entrepreneur of mixed Armenian and Chinese and god know what else origins lived in what was then Malaya, and disappeared in 1964, a year after it became Malaysia. And he was one of only three people in the country that had a Chinese Eye in those days.’ I could hear the excitement in her voice. ‘As for the other two owners, one was the son of the Sultan of Johor, the other a woman who was well into her eighties then, so they’re out of the picture.’
‘Well, if we are going to pretend that my dream somehow included real people, why not go for royalty and assume it was the Sultan’s son?’ I asked. ‘Better class of people and all that. Or maybe it was the old spinster’s driver or, even more risqué, her toy boy using it.’
‘Just stop being facetious for a second, will you, and listen,’ Kris was getting increasingly impatient. ‘Can you remember the colour of the car? And did it have a soft top?’
‘Colour? It was bloody dark is all I can say.’ I tried to remember. ‘But the roof did seem darker still, and didn’t reflect any of the moonlight.’
‘That settles it! His car was a maroon convertible, with a black top. The other two were white saloons. Which means that somehow you, my darling, must have dreamt about something that really happened.’
I didn’t buy it. ‘If you’re trying to infer that I’m psychic, I’m not. There’s no such thing, I just have vivid dreams,’ I said. ‘I may have read about the guy somewhere and my subconscious turned it into a dream.’
Another exasperated sigh from Kris. ‘Never mind, just have a shower and shave and I’ll pick you up around eight. Smart casual, please. We’re going out for dinner tonight with two investors from Hong Kong. And later, I’ll share with you what I’ve found out.’
I’d started by having professionals, as rare as it is to find them in KL, replace all the water and sewer pipes, then all the trunking and circuits throughout the house, followed by retiling the roof. In the meantime I stayed in a hotel, spending too much of my project funds. This was before I’d met Kris, otherwise she would’ve insisted I stay with her. Only for the duration of the work, of course. She is fiercely independent and very protective of what she calls her own space. Just as I am, really. Despite the fact that, although we initially only shared pure sexual attraction, it had since developed into a permanent relationship. A somewhat twisted and possibly occasionally bizarre relationship, granted, but there we were. We’re all different, aren’t we? Except for those of us who are more different.
Once the infrastructure was in place, I made one of the rooms habitable and got the huge kitchen in order so that I could move into the house. Now I was renovating the rest of the rooms, to be followed by all the common areas. Then doing the exterior walls and surrounding gardens, putting in a pool and finally decorating and furnishing the place. All leading to the grand opening, when I would greet a never ending stream of wealthy guests, playing the debonair hotelier. My own, and hopefully considerably improved version of Fawlty Towers.
It was a good plan, and I felt that my old skills as a project manager were finally paying off. The odd delay here and there, as expected, but nothing I couldn’t cope with.
The phone rang. My mobile phone which, in this part of the world, is called a handphone. Although, considering the current size trends, it should really be called a twohandphone.
‘Hello darling. Are you sitting down?’
‘Hi, Kris. Actually, yes, I’m in the kitchen. Celebrating the completion of room one whilst enjoying the late afternoon sun shining through the smudgy windows and making pretty patterns on the peeling walls. Together with Minnie. We’re sharing a decent Ruffino Prosecco, well chilled. Do you want to join us?’
‘You’re obviously drunk. Or high. And never mind the plonk you’re drinking, with a rat to boot. Ng, does it mean anything to you?’
‘Ungh? Unk? Ankh? Ah, yes, the old Egyptian symbol!’
‘No, you barbarian. Ng, as in the quite common Chinese surname. Your fat midget. He exists. Or rather, existed. Tigran Ng, a local bigwig.’
I became aware of Minnie looking at me with, as I felt, more than the usual ratty inquisitiveness. Her saucer was empty. As was my glass, I realised.
‘Hold on, give me a second,’ I said. As Minnie and I shared the last of the bubbly, the impatient silence that emanated from the phone was perceptible. ‘I’m back. Do tell.’
‘So, a very wealthy, and more than a bit shady entrepreneur of mixed Armenian and Chinese and god know what else origins lived in what was then Malaya, and disappeared in 1964, a year after it became Malaysia. And he was one of only three people in the country that had a Chinese Eye in those days.’ I could hear the excitement in her voice. ‘As for the other two owners, one was the son of the Sultan of Johor, the other a woman who was well into her eighties then, so they’re out of the picture.’
‘Well, if we are going to pretend that my dream somehow included real people, why not go for royalty and assume it was the Sultan’s son?’ I asked. ‘Better class of people and all that. Or maybe it was the old spinster’s driver or, even more risqué, her toy boy using it.’
‘Just stop being facetious for a second, will you, and listen,’ Kris was getting increasingly impatient. ‘Can you remember the colour of the car? And did it have a soft top?’
‘Colour? It was bloody dark is all I can say.’ I tried to remember. ‘But the roof did seem darker still, and didn’t reflect any of the moonlight.’
‘That settles it! His car was a maroon convertible, with a black top. The other two were white saloons. Which means that somehow you, my darling, must have dreamt about something that really happened.’
I didn’t buy it. ‘If you’re trying to infer that I’m psychic, I’m not. There’s no such thing, I just have vivid dreams,’ I said. ‘I may have read about the guy somewhere and my subconscious turned it into a dream.’
Another exasperated sigh from Kris. ‘Never mind, just have a shower and shave and I’ll pick you up around eight. Smart casual, please. We’re going out for dinner tonight with two investors from Hong Kong. And later, I’ll share with you what I’ve found out.’
Chapter 6
To my astonishment, the restaurant of choice for the dinner with the investors turned out to be the Ming Room in Bangsar, a place that Kris and I shun as it serves shark fin soup. But, as she said quietly while we were getting seated, ‘Sometimes you have to forego your principles for the greater good.’ Which in this case meant sourcing additional funds for a start-up dive resort off Sabah that promoted preservation of the seas. Something which was obviously lost on the two bastards as they noisily slurped their soups and burped while disputing the costs to extend the resort to include a marine biology research facility. And when I pointed it out, as diplomatically as I could, all I got from one of them was ‘Plenty of sharks in the sea, meh.’
Not generalising here, you understand, but in my experience you have to search hard to find more callous, unsophisticated and, frankly, rude people than Hong Kong Chinese loaded with money. Ah, I forgot boring. Because they were, unbelievably boring. But then money talk bores me and always has, unless it’s about how to spend it. Fortunately, one of them had brought his wife with him. At least, that’s how he presented her – my first thought when I saw her was how the hell someone as gross as him could have such a cute daughter.
Thus, while Kris and the bores were busy going through stacks of papers filled with figures, I amused myself with chatting up the doll next to me. Somewhere in her late twenties, she had that perfect porcelain skin coupled with large eyes, a delicate nose and plump, absolutely adorable lips that you rarely see outside airbrushed magazine covers. However, although her English was acceptable, her general knowledge was less than adequate.
‘So, how do you like KL?’
‘I’m sorry? Keh Err?’
‘Kuala Lumpur. Your first visit or have you been here before?’
‘Ah, that name of town? Andrew, he only say: “We go Malaysia.” First time here. Good spas, but shopping better in Hong Kong.’
See what I mean?
At least she proved a distraction throughout the dinner, as I surreptitiously checked out her body while wondering how much the obvious boob job had cost.
Not generalising here, you understand, but in my experience you have to search hard to find more callous, unsophisticated and, frankly, rude people than Hong Kong Chinese loaded with money. Ah, I forgot boring. Because they were, unbelievably boring. But then money talk bores me and always has, unless it’s about how to spend it. Fortunately, one of them had brought his wife with him. At least, that’s how he presented her – my first thought when I saw her was how the hell someone as gross as him could have such a cute daughter.
Thus, while Kris and the bores were busy going through stacks of papers filled with figures, I amused myself with chatting up the doll next to me. Somewhere in her late twenties, she had that perfect porcelain skin coupled with large eyes, a delicate nose and plump, absolutely adorable lips that you rarely see outside airbrushed magazine covers. However, although her English was acceptable, her general knowledge was less than adequate.
‘So, how do you like KL?’
‘I’m sorry? Keh Err?’
‘Kuala Lumpur. Your first visit or have you been here before?’
‘Ah, that name of town? Andrew, he only say: “We go Malaysia.” First time here. Good spas, but shopping better in Hong Kong.’
See what I mean?
At least she proved a distraction throughout the dinner, as I surreptitiously checked out her body while wondering how much the obvious boob job had cost.
●
On the way back to Kris’ condo, as she skilfully slalomed between smoking Protons and suicidal motorcyclists on Jalan Duta, she reached out and squeezed my thigh. ‘Thanks for doing this for me, lover. I know it was a chore for you, but I managed to get a couple of million from them, signed and sealed. The sharks will thank you.’ She moved her hand up and ran her nails lightly over my crotch, ‘Maybe I can help you when we get home and relieve all the tension you built up while ogling that hooker next to you.’
This was unexpected. ‘What do you mean hooker? Surely not?’
Kris smiled. ‘Did you really believe that she was his wife? Darling, she wasn’t even his minor wife, probably not even his regular mistress. Any of these would have focused on our negotiations and stopped him before he committed to anything, saying that I’ll get his answer tomorrow. It’s the wives that run Hong Kong, didn’t you know that?’
‘A babe in the Asian concrete jungles, that’s me, obviously. But still, regardless of her, as you would have it, somewhat less than reputable profession, she’s a dish.’ I ventured a sideways glance at Kris. ‘Wouldn’t you agree?’
‘She sure is. But I prefer girls with brains as well as tits. And,’ she dug in the nails a little, ‘don’t think I didn’t notice you drooling over them. Anyway, it would cost you an arm and a leg. Although, as I have it from reputable sources,’ another naughty smile, ‘they do give you your money’s worth for a night. Or a weekend.’
Back in her condo, Kris filled two glasses with generous amounts of her favourite malt, Dalwhinnie 1991, sat down, pulled my arm around her and sighed, ‘Only five bottles left. I’ll have to source another case soon. Anyway, your fat midget, I know all about him.’
‘Not really my midget, is he? I can’t claim possession of everyone I happen to dream of.’
‘True. And he wasn’t a midget either, not in the technical sense of the word. Just a short person. And very fat. Going by the incongruous name of Tigran Ng, but I’ve already told you that. Here’s the rest of the story.’
This was unexpected. ‘What do you mean hooker? Surely not?’
Kris smiled. ‘Did you really believe that she was his wife? Darling, she wasn’t even his minor wife, probably not even his regular mistress. Any of these would have focused on our negotiations and stopped him before he committed to anything, saying that I’ll get his answer tomorrow. It’s the wives that run Hong Kong, didn’t you know that?’
‘A babe in the Asian concrete jungles, that’s me, obviously. But still, regardless of her, as you would have it, somewhat less than reputable profession, she’s a dish.’ I ventured a sideways glance at Kris. ‘Wouldn’t you agree?’
‘She sure is. But I prefer girls with brains as well as tits. And,’ she dug in the nails a little, ‘don’t think I didn’t notice you drooling over them. Anyway, it would cost you an arm and a leg. Although, as I have it from reputable sources,’ another naughty smile, ‘they do give you your money’s worth for a night. Or a weekend.’
Back in her condo, Kris filled two glasses with generous amounts of her favourite malt, Dalwhinnie 1991, sat down, pulled my arm around her and sighed, ‘Only five bottles left. I’ll have to source another case soon. Anyway, your fat midget, I know all about him.’
‘Not really my midget, is he? I can’t claim possession of everyone I happen to dream of.’
‘True. And he wasn’t a midget either, not in the technical sense of the word. Just a short person. And very fat. Going by the incongruous name of Tigran Ng, but I’ve already told you that. Here’s the rest of the story.’
Chapter 7
Tigran, as I found out over the course of several glasses, was one of those colourful, larger than life personalities that flourished in this part of the world during the last century. The future heir to the two richest and most powerful families in Singapore, Tigran Wei Charles Ng Sarkesian was inflicted upon the world in August 1931.
His Armenian ancestors, the Sarkesian family, had moved to Singapore early in the nineteenth century, as merchants, and there were even some distant family links to the original owners of the Raffles hotel. By the beginning of the last century, the family had firmly established itself as the major merchant firm on the island, dealing in anything and everything.
At the same time, the Ng, formerly Siah, family, had become one of the major property entrepreneurs and owners in Singapore. In the early 1880s, the family shrewdly extended its business interests to Kuala Lumpur, at that time a small backwater community of Chinese tin miners. Following a fire that destroyed most of the town, the family set up a brick factory in an area which to this day, in modern Kuala Lumpur, is called Brickfields.
A very bright youngster, Tigran was sent to Cambridge at the age of seventeen to complete his education in preparation of taking over the family business. Arriving in England with a voracious appetite for learning and a never ending inquisitiveness, he soon enrolled in classical arts and languages as well as anthropology courses, in addition to the business studies that he had come for. Being a pleasant, polite and affable young man (and not least exotically handsome – he was quite slim at the time, albeit somewhat short of stature), he soon found himself involved in numerous social activities, including brief sexual liaisons with both genders, although by all accounts he seemed to have preferred females. Having unlimited funds at his disposal certainly contributed to his popularity. A Sunday champagne picnic – just talk to Tiggers. Need a nice car to take a girl for a ride and impress her? Ask Tiggers, he won’t mind lending you his Rolls and chauffeur.
Alas, Tiggers didn’t last long in Cambridge. Following a scandal – all hushed up, no doubt as the Bursar’s son was reputed to have been involved – he was requested, in no uncertain terms, to leave the faculty and the town. In fact, it was made clear to him that his permanent absence from the country was highly desirable.
Upon his return to Singapore, and getting severely chastised by his father for disgracing the family, Tigran did everything he could to compensate for his lack of a formal degree. He spent most of his waking hours together with his father and senior managers of the sundry companies, learning all the intricacies of negotiations, management, financial control, market swings, as well as how and when to use the delicate arts of bribery, intimidation and sycophancy to achieve the desired outcome. Within less than a year following his return, Tigran had become his father’s most trusted advisor and deputy. By the age of twenty and still formally a minor, Tigran was de facto running the empire, which was more prosperous than ever before.
As the Chinese are keen to point out, there is usually a three-generation cycle within a family. The first generation makes money, the second conserves it and makes it grow, while the third one squanders it. In Tigran’s case, he was a third generation child. The only offspring and therefore sole heir to two family fortunes, he indulged in a life of luxury and excess, at first cautiously and surreptitiously as a minor, thereafter blatantly and without restraint as an adult.
He didn’t quite ruin the families, though, as he was intelligent and shrewd enough to continue running the two businesses successfully for years, just as he was sufficiently ruthless to remove anyone and anything standing in his way of making a profit. No, Tigran’s problem was that he enjoyed spending the money even more than making it. By the age of twenty-three, he was reputed to have the most extensive collection of Japanese erotic prints outside Japan. However, the majority of the prints were not the usual mild depictions of couples having it off and having fun doing it as you or I would. Oh no, not Tigran. These were rumoured to be very sick pieces showing beheadings or disembowelment of one or more of the participants while in the throes of ecstasy. But each to his own, as they say.
Tigran had also developed other interests, no less bizarre: the origins of the German Nazi party and its climb to power; the machinations of the Japanese army generals as they pushed the Emperor towards war, learning both German and Japanese in the process; and not least the mythologies and prehistory of the Pacific islands, stretching from eastern Indonesia to the Solomon Islands and beyond. He was said to have mastered Wantok (or Tok Pisin, depending on who you ask), the pidgin language across Melanesia, just to be able to converse with the villagers each time he visited a remote location to recover valuable artefacts. To this day, if you are so inclined, you can visit the Muzium Antropologi Negara in KL to see a small part of his Melanesian collection. The remainder of it, the “interesting bits”, have disappeared.
Why Kuala Lumpur, you may wonder. Why not Singapore? By 1956, and in the aftermath of yet another incident (Singapore, even more British than its colonial rulers in those days, did not have scandals, sorry old chap, totally non-British and unacceptable etc), Tigran wisely decided to move to KL, still very much a frontier town where money talked and life was good to those that had it. By then, he had begun to sell off some of the companies under his control and was moving most of the earnings from the others into the newly formed Malaya Properties Ltd, with one of the local sultans as a minority shareholder. Between the two of them, by early 1960s, they owned most of the commercial and a significant part of the residential properties in the town.
‘In the sultan, Tigran had apparently found a bosom buddy, with the two of them staging some of the wildest and most decadent parties that KL had ever known,’ Kris said.
‘Which goes to show,’ I commented, ‘that neither having religion nor being brought up in a strict family matters much once you develop certain tastes. Unless having these tastes to start with actually contributes to making you a degenerate. But then, not having the slightest inclination towards psychotherapy, I’ll leave it to professionals to argue about. Also, I’m getting thirsty from all this information, let me top up our glasses.’
‘You’ve just interrupted me at the most interesting part,’ Kris pouted.
‘Sorry darling, pray continue.’
‘Thank you. As I was about to say, Tigran’s sudden disappearance, in the spring of 1964, from the KL party scene and, well, from life as it turned out, has been reasonably well documented, and is no less strange than the stories and whispers about his debauchery.’
Tigran was last seen in a restaurant in Ampang, the wealthy eastern part of KL, arguing loudly with his table companion, a Westerner. Tigran’s Bentley (yes, Kris was right, a maroon 1963 Chinese Eye drophead) was stopped that same night, in the early hours of the morning. Coming up Treacher Road in an erratic fashion, the Bentley had crashed into one of the few police cars in KL at that time, in the intersection with Weld Road at the top of the hill. The rear end of the Ford Anglia was thoroughly demolished and the constable in charge somewhat shaken, but it was nothing compared to his experience when he approached the car.
According to the police report, there were two Chinese girls in the back seat, scantily dressed and very much in a state of indecency, a highly agitated macaque monkey in the front passenger seat, brandishing a Zippo lighter and an unlit cigar, and a British subject in the driver’s seat who, as the report states, “reeked of alcohol and was holding an opium pipe at the time of apprehension.” At the police station, the confused chap insisted that he had found the Bentley not far from an embassy party that he had attended in Kenny Hills, with the lights on and engine running, and repeated over and over again that ‘the monkey told me to drive it.’ As for Tigran, he was never seen again.
‘Ah, obviously the guy was a man of many talents,’ I commented. ‘Someone I’d have loved to meet. And of course that monkey, it sure knew how to party. So how did you manage to get all this information? And what happened to Tigran?’
‘Most of it’s in the public domain, if you dig deep enough. As for the rest, I just asked the right people the right questions. But if you think that he was cool, think again.’ Kris looked at me with a serious and earnest expression I hadn’t seen before. ‘My gut feeling is that he’s the nastiest person I’ve ever come across.’
‘Aw, come on. He was just a child of his times. A tough guy who got his pleasure wherever he could, with plenty of money. Give him a break.’
‘No. Definitely not. A very bad person, rotten to the core. Nasty. Unbelievably nasty. And I want to know why you dreamt of him.’
‘Surely you can’t blame me for having bloody dreams? I’m not in control of my dreams. No one is. How would you even know that my dream was about him?’
‘I do know. That car was unique. And of course I don’t blame you for anything. But I would like to know more, and I definitely want to know why you had this dream. Nothing happens in our lives accidentally, it just doesn’t. Everything has a reason. Certainly when you’ve had a dream about someone that you’ve never known. Someone that disappeared before you were born. On another continent.’
‘Right. Fine. No problems.’ I was slightly drunk by then, thoroughly enjoying the single malt, and getting more than a tad horny. ‘So how do you propose we continue? Let’s go to bed and figure it out.’
‘I’d be very happy,’ Kris purred, nudging me with her elbow, ‘to get a firm proof of your affection. Let me just finish the story. A few days before Tigran disappeared, he had a visitor from Singapore that, funny enough, also vanished into thin air at about the same time. Edward Tobyn-Ffolkes, Esq., an antique dealer from Singapore who, according to Tigran’s staff, visited him a couple of days before the disappearance. Supposedly with a unique Pacific object for sale. He must have been the other party at the restaurant.’
‘How exciting.’ I really wanted to go to bed, a combination of tired and horny.
‘We’re going to Singapore to check out that dealer. It all started with him, I’m sure.’
‘Right, let’s go investigate Toby Fucks. Funny name, or what?’ I poked my finger down Kris’ panties. ‘Do I get to pack first?’
She pulled my hand away. ‘Tobyn-Ffolkes, you lecher. Do try to be serious, will you. And yes, of course. It’s not like we’re leaving tomorrow. I’ve got some boring work stuff to do. But soon.’
‘Sure, Singapore it is then. You really are serious about this? All because of a dream?’
‘Darling,’ Kris said, taking my face in her hands, gently but firmly. ‘You’re European, I’m half Asian. You’ve barely been in KL for a year and I’ve lived here for more than a decade. One day I may tell you about some of the things that have happened to me. Even here, in this condo. This part of the world is so much different from Europe. Forget organised religion, forget rational thought and behaviour. Here everyone, no matter how educated and westernised, believes on some level in the spirit world, in ghosts and demons.’
‘Demons? For real?’ I yawned.
She was solemn. ‘I care about you, more than I’ve ever cared about anyone else. I believe there’s a reason why you’ve had this dream and I don’t want you to come to any harm. That’s why we need to find out more. Please let me be Asian for a while.’
His Armenian ancestors, the Sarkesian family, had moved to Singapore early in the nineteenth century, as merchants, and there were even some distant family links to the original owners of the Raffles hotel. By the beginning of the last century, the family had firmly established itself as the major merchant firm on the island, dealing in anything and everything.
At the same time, the Ng, formerly Siah, family, had become one of the major property entrepreneurs and owners in Singapore. In the early 1880s, the family shrewdly extended its business interests to Kuala Lumpur, at that time a small backwater community of Chinese tin miners. Following a fire that destroyed most of the town, the family set up a brick factory in an area which to this day, in modern Kuala Lumpur, is called Brickfields.
A very bright youngster, Tigran was sent to Cambridge at the age of seventeen to complete his education in preparation of taking over the family business. Arriving in England with a voracious appetite for learning and a never ending inquisitiveness, he soon enrolled in classical arts and languages as well as anthropology courses, in addition to the business studies that he had come for. Being a pleasant, polite and affable young man (and not least exotically handsome – he was quite slim at the time, albeit somewhat short of stature), he soon found himself involved in numerous social activities, including brief sexual liaisons with both genders, although by all accounts he seemed to have preferred females. Having unlimited funds at his disposal certainly contributed to his popularity. A Sunday champagne picnic – just talk to Tiggers. Need a nice car to take a girl for a ride and impress her? Ask Tiggers, he won’t mind lending you his Rolls and chauffeur.
Alas, Tiggers didn’t last long in Cambridge. Following a scandal – all hushed up, no doubt as the Bursar’s son was reputed to have been involved – he was requested, in no uncertain terms, to leave the faculty and the town. In fact, it was made clear to him that his permanent absence from the country was highly desirable.
Upon his return to Singapore, and getting severely chastised by his father for disgracing the family, Tigran did everything he could to compensate for his lack of a formal degree. He spent most of his waking hours together with his father and senior managers of the sundry companies, learning all the intricacies of negotiations, management, financial control, market swings, as well as how and when to use the delicate arts of bribery, intimidation and sycophancy to achieve the desired outcome. Within less than a year following his return, Tigran had become his father’s most trusted advisor and deputy. By the age of twenty and still formally a minor, Tigran was de facto running the empire, which was more prosperous than ever before.
As the Chinese are keen to point out, there is usually a three-generation cycle within a family. The first generation makes money, the second conserves it and makes it grow, while the third one squanders it. In Tigran’s case, he was a third generation child. The only offspring and therefore sole heir to two family fortunes, he indulged in a life of luxury and excess, at first cautiously and surreptitiously as a minor, thereafter blatantly and without restraint as an adult.
He didn’t quite ruin the families, though, as he was intelligent and shrewd enough to continue running the two businesses successfully for years, just as he was sufficiently ruthless to remove anyone and anything standing in his way of making a profit. No, Tigran’s problem was that he enjoyed spending the money even more than making it. By the age of twenty-three, he was reputed to have the most extensive collection of Japanese erotic prints outside Japan. However, the majority of the prints were not the usual mild depictions of couples having it off and having fun doing it as you or I would. Oh no, not Tigran. These were rumoured to be very sick pieces showing beheadings or disembowelment of one or more of the participants while in the throes of ecstasy. But each to his own, as they say.
Tigran had also developed other interests, no less bizarre: the origins of the German Nazi party and its climb to power; the machinations of the Japanese army generals as they pushed the Emperor towards war, learning both German and Japanese in the process; and not least the mythologies and prehistory of the Pacific islands, stretching from eastern Indonesia to the Solomon Islands and beyond. He was said to have mastered Wantok (or Tok Pisin, depending on who you ask), the pidgin language across Melanesia, just to be able to converse with the villagers each time he visited a remote location to recover valuable artefacts. To this day, if you are so inclined, you can visit the Muzium Antropologi Negara in KL to see a small part of his Melanesian collection. The remainder of it, the “interesting bits”, have disappeared.
Why Kuala Lumpur, you may wonder. Why not Singapore? By 1956, and in the aftermath of yet another incident (Singapore, even more British than its colonial rulers in those days, did not have scandals, sorry old chap, totally non-British and unacceptable etc), Tigran wisely decided to move to KL, still very much a frontier town where money talked and life was good to those that had it. By then, he had begun to sell off some of the companies under his control and was moving most of the earnings from the others into the newly formed Malaya Properties Ltd, with one of the local sultans as a minority shareholder. Between the two of them, by early 1960s, they owned most of the commercial and a significant part of the residential properties in the town.
‘In the sultan, Tigran had apparently found a bosom buddy, with the two of them staging some of the wildest and most decadent parties that KL had ever known,’ Kris said.
‘Which goes to show,’ I commented, ‘that neither having religion nor being brought up in a strict family matters much once you develop certain tastes. Unless having these tastes to start with actually contributes to making you a degenerate. But then, not having the slightest inclination towards psychotherapy, I’ll leave it to professionals to argue about. Also, I’m getting thirsty from all this information, let me top up our glasses.’
‘You’ve just interrupted me at the most interesting part,’ Kris pouted.
‘Sorry darling, pray continue.’
‘Thank you. As I was about to say, Tigran’s sudden disappearance, in the spring of 1964, from the KL party scene and, well, from life as it turned out, has been reasonably well documented, and is no less strange than the stories and whispers about his debauchery.’
Tigran was last seen in a restaurant in Ampang, the wealthy eastern part of KL, arguing loudly with his table companion, a Westerner. Tigran’s Bentley (yes, Kris was right, a maroon 1963 Chinese Eye drophead) was stopped that same night, in the early hours of the morning. Coming up Treacher Road in an erratic fashion, the Bentley had crashed into one of the few police cars in KL at that time, in the intersection with Weld Road at the top of the hill. The rear end of the Ford Anglia was thoroughly demolished and the constable in charge somewhat shaken, but it was nothing compared to his experience when he approached the car.
According to the police report, there were two Chinese girls in the back seat, scantily dressed and very much in a state of indecency, a highly agitated macaque monkey in the front passenger seat, brandishing a Zippo lighter and an unlit cigar, and a British subject in the driver’s seat who, as the report states, “reeked of alcohol and was holding an opium pipe at the time of apprehension.” At the police station, the confused chap insisted that he had found the Bentley not far from an embassy party that he had attended in Kenny Hills, with the lights on and engine running, and repeated over and over again that ‘the monkey told me to drive it.’ As for Tigran, he was never seen again.
‘Ah, obviously the guy was a man of many talents,’ I commented. ‘Someone I’d have loved to meet. And of course that monkey, it sure knew how to party. So how did you manage to get all this information? And what happened to Tigran?’
‘Most of it’s in the public domain, if you dig deep enough. As for the rest, I just asked the right people the right questions. But if you think that he was cool, think again.’ Kris looked at me with a serious and earnest expression I hadn’t seen before. ‘My gut feeling is that he’s the nastiest person I’ve ever come across.’
‘Aw, come on. He was just a child of his times. A tough guy who got his pleasure wherever he could, with plenty of money. Give him a break.’
‘No. Definitely not. A very bad person, rotten to the core. Nasty. Unbelievably nasty. And I want to know why you dreamt of him.’
‘Surely you can’t blame me for having bloody dreams? I’m not in control of my dreams. No one is. How would you even know that my dream was about him?’
‘I do know. That car was unique. And of course I don’t blame you for anything. But I would like to know more, and I definitely want to know why you had this dream. Nothing happens in our lives accidentally, it just doesn’t. Everything has a reason. Certainly when you’ve had a dream about someone that you’ve never known. Someone that disappeared before you were born. On another continent.’
‘Right. Fine. No problems.’ I was slightly drunk by then, thoroughly enjoying the single malt, and getting more than a tad horny. ‘So how do you propose we continue? Let’s go to bed and figure it out.’
‘I’d be very happy,’ Kris purred, nudging me with her elbow, ‘to get a firm proof of your affection. Let me just finish the story. A few days before Tigran disappeared, he had a visitor from Singapore that, funny enough, also vanished into thin air at about the same time. Edward Tobyn-Ffolkes, Esq., an antique dealer from Singapore who, according to Tigran’s staff, visited him a couple of days before the disappearance. Supposedly with a unique Pacific object for sale. He must have been the other party at the restaurant.’
‘How exciting.’ I really wanted to go to bed, a combination of tired and horny.
‘We’re going to Singapore to check out that dealer. It all started with him, I’m sure.’
‘Right, let’s go investigate Toby Fucks. Funny name, or what?’ I poked my finger down Kris’ panties. ‘Do I get to pack first?’
She pulled my hand away. ‘Tobyn-Ffolkes, you lecher. Do try to be serious, will you. And yes, of course. It’s not like we’re leaving tomorrow. I’ve got some boring work stuff to do. But soon.’
‘Sure, Singapore it is then. You really are serious about this? All because of a dream?’
‘Darling,’ Kris said, taking my face in her hands, gently but firmly. ‘You’re European, I’m half Asian. You’ve barely been in KL for a year and I’ve lived here for more than a decade. One day I may tell you about some of the things that have happened to me. Even here, in this condo. This part of the world is so much different from Europe. Forget organised religion, forget rational thought and behaviour. Here everyone, no matter how educated and westernised, believes on some level in the spirit world, in ghosts and demons.’
‘Demons? For real?’ I yawned.
She was solemn. ‘I care about you, more than I’ve ever cared about anyone else. I believe there’s a reason why you’ve had this dream and I don’t want you to come to any harm. That’s why we need to find out more. Please let me be Asian for a while.’