Singapore Noir

It is past two a.m. and Saiful stands outside the Church of St. Anthony on Woodlands Avenue 1, smoking one kretek after another as he nervously tugs on his long, greasy hair. He has been waiting for the better part of an hour and is ready to bolt. But he can’t. It is ridiculous to think that all this trouble has been the result of a stupid postage stamp. But the stamp — a rare Straits Settlement misprint from 1902 featuring a pink-colored King Edward VII — is all that Saiful has. On her deathbed, Saiful’s mom, dying prematurely of liver disease, told him to hang onto the family heirloom at any cost. At any cost — that was what she had said, and he had promised her that he would. Now, he is beginning to understand the gravity of his commitment.

Saiful was once considered a mat rocker, a somewhat derogatory term referring to a young Malay who is into heavy metal. With his tight leather jacket, gold-rimmed Ray-Bans, and long sun-bleached hair, he used to be a fixture at Studebaker’s disco in Pacific Plaza. But now that he is reaching the ripe old age of thirty-five, other priorities have surfaced. For one, he has begun to think seriously about getting married and starting a family. After all, his childhood friends Ismail and Khamsani are both hitched and have seven children between them. Plus, the government is extending all sorts of monetary incentives to increase the fertility rate of Singaporeans; though, of course, the unspoken truth is that the bureaucrats are hoping to have more Chinese babies, not Malay ones.

Still, the thought of getting married gives him a headache. He knows only too well that the lovely Aishah, his longtime girlfriend, is averse to the idea. It is not about money — Aishah has said as much; but Saiful feels ashamed that he is unable to afford a condo, car, or country club membership. Sure, it is always possible to sell the stamp and potentially net a six-figure sum, but that would expressly go against his mother’s dying wish. At any cost — the words continue to ring in Saiful’s mind. The truth is, Aishah has other priorities. As much as she appears to love him, her career as a stewardess with Singapore Airlines currently takes center stage.

Saiful takes another drag of the kretek and glances at his watch. At that moment, a creaky, badly scratched Mitsubishi Lancer appears around the bend. The car stops, the door opens and dislodges a petite Indian woman wearing a sari and sporting a pair of sparkly gypsy-style earrings.

Before Saiful can say anything, Leela, for that is the woman’s name, comes right up to him and jabs her index finger at his nonexistent pecs.

“First of all, shut the fuck up. If you want your fucking stamp back, do as I say. And no fucking comments on my brother’s pimp mobile.”

Saiful takes a closer look at the Lancer and decides to keep his opinion to himself. He sees that the driver is Indian too, and correctly assumes that this must be the brother, whom Leela refers to as Babu. Saiful and Leela hop into the vehicle and it trundles off.

Almost immediately, Saiful senses there is something wrong with the baby-faced Babu, but cannot put a finger on it. When he sees the siblings communicating animatedly in sign language, his discomfort builds.

“Doesn’t he speak?”

“What do you think?” Leela retorts.

Then it occurs to Saiful — Babu is a deaf-mute. He isn’t allowed to drive, of course; but Saiful can see that Babu is the perfect chauffeur and getaway driver — his heightened visual sense makes navigating the confusing Woodlands thoroughfares a cakewalk.

“Should he be driving?” Saiful tries again.

“Just keep your fucking mouth shut till we get to the temple.”

As the Lancer chugs along, Saiful peers out onto the empty streets. All he is concerned with right now is getting his stamp back. And whatever he needs to do to make Mr. Rao happy. He has no choice.

Illuminated by the mercury flare of the endless rows of streetlamps, Woodlands looks nondescript and anonymous. Yet this is where Saiful feels most at home. Cars and trucks zoom past this forsaken bit of Singapore toward the checkpoint and onward to Malaysia via the causeway. No one stops here, not unless they have to fill up their gas tanks. And those that do make sure they don’t stay too long.