Singapore Noir

Not pausing for her to respond, because she never does, he rattles off a long list of faraway cities and exotic resorts, his flights of fantasy becoming ever more unrestrained. As for Merla, her imagination, so rarely fed and now drawing off vague memories of photographs she may have glimpsed ages ago, lifts and carries her thousands of miles to Vatican City. She forms a hazy picture of the dome of the great basilica, the glorious symmetry of the colonnade spreading out around the towering obelisk. What she would give to see His Holiness at the library window and be blessed...

...and Rome! she hears Zach call out. For the hot guys and fashion!

Merla has not completely slipped out of her reverie. Show me, she says.

Zach leans back a bit, completely taken by surprise. What do you mean? he asks.

Putting aside the mop and pail, Merla sits on the wooden boards, her legs hanging over the edge of the berth. You, she says indistinctly. Modeling.

Zach is hesitant at first. The images from the Vogue Hommes are still fresh in his mind, so he proceeds to pump up his chest and give his best version of brooding sexiness. Standing, arms folded, gazing into the far distance. Lying down on the chaise lounge, propped up on one elbow, knee artfully bent. Dashing aft to do an exuberant star jump on the diving platform. When, from the corner of his eye he clocks that Merla is looking more amused than impressed, he decides he may as well segue into outright comedy, so he begins to mime — a guest at a cocktail party, air-kissing, snootily turning away a waiter carrying champagne. Merla’s features begin to betray the faintest of smiles, which she tries to hide with her hand; then a mere whisper of a giggle escapes from her lips, and taking the cue, Zach bursts into laughter.

In a flash, Zach’s countenance morphs into impassivity. Merla turns and immediately notices the man on the upstairs balcony. She rushes to get onto her feet, loses her balance, and stumbles into the water with a yelp. Zach springs to the edge of the boat but Merla is already clambering back onto the berth. She stands there, shoulders hunched, arms straight down by her sides, not knowing what to do next, shaking her head at Zach’s offer of his robe.

At the balcony, a poker face. The man prolongs the silence. All Merla can think of is how shameful it is that her undergarments are visible and how disgraceful it must be that they are gray and threadbare. The man looks at Zach and, as a lewd signal, grabs his crotch, tilting his head in the direction of the bedroom. Zach silently obeys. Merla is just about to scamper into the house behind him when the man shouts for her to stop. He asks, You finish? So she continues to mop — mopping up the water dripping off her, with her head down, until the sun begins to set.

When she returns to her quarters, she recoils at a smell coming from her room. She traces the stench to the toilet, where she finds, awaiting her, human waste and, half-buried within, her rosary.

The air is thick and heavy. It is that strange, deceptive kind of electrical storm where the lashing winds by turn wheeze and howl but no rain ever comes. The yacht rocks upon the dark currents, the corner of its stern thumping heavily against the side of the berth. Jagged edges of water lurk on the surface of the pool. Upstairs, the candles are lit, the lava lamps switched on, and the contents of the tray have been laid out. With another rumble of thunder echoing in her chest, Merla shuts the last of the sliding doors, the thick glass vibrating in its frame. No better time to use her one tea bag.