Tales From A Broad Read online

  By the second year, Frank was placing late-night calls to Sebastian and telling him he needed to produce.

  ‘You must be patient,’ hissed the Gok. ‘We need to move cautiously in this part of the world.’ He added, rather ominously, ‘You can’t make enemies here.’

  By the third year, Frank was sick of the bullshit and Sebastian’s inertia. The only time Sebastian seemed to put any effort into his communication was when he was whining about his dental plan or vacation time, or wondering whether he could stay at the Regent and have his massage covered. Frank warned him again and again that the boss needed action.

  I’d sometimes bring Frank a beer and sit with him during his weekly late-night phone calls to Singapore, my stomach turning to knots as I heard him say once again: ‘Write up a report, Sebastian.’

  He absolutely spelled out to Sebastian what needed to be done, put together the precise m.o. and faxed it off. He went to Singapore a few times and conducted the raids and audits himself, allowing Sebastian as much involvement as was necessary to give him some esteem. As God is my witness, Frank tried to save Sebastian’s hide.

  But each time Frank returned from Singapore, he was disheartened and deflated. Trying to rev up Sebastian was like using a defibrillator on a stuffed moose. There was no response. Frank discovered files full of unopened mail – stuff he had sent to Sebastian – and car catalogues full of Post-its. It seemed that poor Sebastian could not really expand his focus much beyond being fed. He didn’t even bother any more to deliver his teahouse wisdom about patience being rewarded and greed being a man’s downfall. His mind was too addled with expense-account dinners and greasy mee goreng breakfasts.

  We had him over for dinner with some company brass once when he was in New York. Had I not known from previous experience that he was just as delighted with fish heads and chicken feet, I’d have been somewhat pleased with his appreciation of all my hard work in the kitchen. Had this not been something of a business dinner, we all might have joined him, tucking a napkin into our collars, rolling up our sleeves and slurping away (I’d leave out the sweating), but the more he ate, the less anyone else felt like it.

  He paid no heed to verbal expression. When we convened for coffee and conversation, his eyes darted to the desserts on the table, his discourse limited to, ‘Is that savoury or sweet?’ and ‘This is cinnamon on top? I like cinnamon.’

  In the end, Sebastian signed his own death warrant when he allowed himself to be quoted in a trade magazine. There was never any so obvious a trespass with Ken. It was strictly against company policy. Frank and I were astounded that Sebastian had anything to say on a work-related subject, but he did. ‘We’re planning some really big raids this year,’ said Sebastian Gok of the music industry.

  All the stars were now aligned. Sebastian was to be kicked out and Frank needed to sort it out. And I just wanted out. That’s how we got our three months – enough time to see a new director through, too much time to leave the family behind.

  Sebastian was dismissed with a generous package designed to mitigate any suffering. Our comfort poured forth: ‘Anything you need, let us know.’ Gosh, but he seemed to take it in his stride. He held nothing against Frank. Indeed, in the first few days of our being in Singapore, he chauffeured Frank around in the company car to help us set up home. He knew that Frank was his friend, that Frank had stretched himself so thin trying to keep everyone’s head above water, that Frank had nothing to do with the decision. Sebastian was likely quite relieved to be out of the treacherous waters, tired of doggy-paddling from lie to lie, glad to go back to being a Gok, beached and bloated.

  To hear him talk, he was flush with cash and prospects. He once let me know that when they were growing up he and his brothers were called ‘The Sensational Gok Boys’. Apparently by the entire country. Obviously, he came from a family of standing and wealth. That explained his laziness and gluttony. What remained a mystery was how anyone would, without great irony, refer to him as a Sensational Gok Boy. Maybe it was Gok-boy, like Ape-man or Bird-man, something part ‘gok’ and part boy.

  Now that we’re to get together in Singapore for dinner with Sebastian and his wife, I’m just slightly concerned about the awkwardness. Obviously, I can’t stand him, but I do want to go out. And I guess I’m a little depraved, a little compelled to poke around the body.

  I dress in something new I picked up this afternoon. I’d taken the kids to the mall to look for Huxley’s sleeping arrangements and found myself trying on clothes instead. The neat thing about shopping in Singapore is that stuff finally fits me. I can pop in anywhere and it’s as easy as buying rice. I’m small. You wouldn’t know it to hear me.

  So here I am in a shiny little black top like a tropical sort of motorcycle jacket with silver zippers. Under that, I wear a black Harley tank top from the States, new black satin shorts and big, big shoes.

  Frank and I leave early so we can have cocktails before dinner. Sebastian is a man given to ordering the food and drinks at once. I want happy hour. We stop in a place called Club Europa, which is downstairs from International Seafood, the restaurant Sebastian has insisted we eat at. Europa has nothing to do with International Seafood, but the phenomenon here is that eating and drinking establishments are all together in clusters. In fact, Club Europa is a disco, restaurant and bar attached to Wine Mine, a Thai place. All are adjacent to Big Splash Water Park, which has snack bars, burger joints, food trolleys and a coffee shop. Connected to the whole conglomeration are three outdoor restaurants – Indonesian, Italian and Chinese. From the obvious inactivity in most of the places, I believe the proprietors overestimated how hungry people would be after going down a big slide. It was certainly a lot of dining for one lame theme park attraction.

  We had passed this world of food a few times already on our way into the city and thought it looked old and tacky. It had been repainted swimming-pool blue so many times, it looked slimy. Chunks of plaster had dropped off here and there. When Sebastian had suggested it, I’d said, ‘It looks kinda yukky, Sebastian.’ He said it was great; we’d love it.

  Happy hour at Club Europa is fun. The bartender has watched that Tom Cruise movie Cocktail a thousand times, and does all the tricks. It’s cute and I feel bad about ordering beer and wine. He looks forlorn with nothing to shake.

  I take my last swig and my last puff and jump off the stool to go meet Sebastian and his wife, Sylvia. They’re already in the foyer. Sebastian has on slacks, he looks clean, seems less mucousy. Sylvia is in a short-sleeved sweater, respectable skirt and flat, chewed-up shoes. She looks downright dowdy, which makes me look positively vampish. We embrace one another. It’s a moment, all right.

  Surprise, surprise, the place is a knockout. Behind the tired façade is an innovative restaurant buzzing with life. Upon arrival, we’re given a number and, after a short spell, introduced to our personal shopper, Ms Chow. We take a supermarket trolley and follow her. First, she leads us to tanks inhabited by fresh exotic fish. On the wall, pictures depict how they can be prepared. Sebastian takes control and orders. A flopping fish is tossed into our trolley. Ms Chow speaks into her headset and leads us to the next station, the shellfish corner. Sebastian points, gets tête-à-tête with Ms Chow, obviously relating to her the precise way he wants the shellfish prepared, and a new bundle is hurled into our trolley. A similar pantomime occurs at the meat station, noodle counter, bakery. Then we come to the vegies, which are laid out like you’d find in a supermarket. Sebastian grabs two large, green bunches of something that looks a bit like celery cleaved to a cabbage head, tosses them into the cart, whispers to Ms Chow and leads us to the wine. Here, he allows Frank and me to have our say. There is a sommelier roaming about and we motion to him. He describes several of his favourites and we settle on three bottles of wine.

  Ms Chow takes the trolley, talks into her headset and leads us to a table outside, overlooking the sea. Within moments, we’re presented with the white wine and something called Drunken Prawns. The wine is f
ine but the prawns are still alive and twitching about in a covered bowl. Sebastian says, ‘Okay, let’s eat.’

  I say squeamishly, ‘Not for me just now.’ Sebastian and Sylvia start to laugh. Oh, it was a joke. Sebastian and Sylvia are having a joke on us. That’s cute. The shrimp are going to be cooked and dead when we eat them, but the custom is to show how they were once alive. Sebastian nods to the waiter and he removes the shrimp. But when they come back, their heads are still on. Part two of the joke?

  We drink our wine and talk about Singapore. I’m doing most of the talking, yammering away about how wonderful it is here. I’m going on and on and I can’t stop because no one is letting me. Frank is swirling his wine, Sebastian is attacking the garlic bread, and Sylvia doesn’t know how to have a conversation. I’m just autopiloting, until I empty my head of all I know. I move to plan B: ask a question.

  ‘Sylvia,’ I say, ‘I hear your father had a few wives.’

  I wish I had asked about the Sensational Gok Boys because her tale is so depressing, I want to shoot myself. Her parents are Chinese. Her mother was her father’s third wife. He was a mere farmer and there wasn’t enough to go around. Her mother only bore girls so her father was displeased and didn’t have much to do with them. But recently, when he got sick, he contacted her. They had a reunion of sorts, which cost her and Sebastian lots of money. It was incumbent upon them to get only the best care for this great daddy. The other wives and offspring were apparently too poor or too selfish or too bitter to part with a dime for his health. She and Sebastian have had to cut off her eight-year-old daughter’s piano, ballet and tennis lessons for a year. And we all know the really happy ending … now her husband is out of work.

  Suddenly, I wish I could take back everything I’d said about how thrilled we are here. I’m the one with Tourette’s – tactless remarks jump out at regular intervals. I wish I’d recognised more fully that we were taking over their lives. I wish I could’ve embraced, or even endured, her husband’s disgusting demeanour. Luckily we are all knocked out of an uncomfortable silence as the food arrives. With great pomp and circumstance, two waitresses come over. Placing each dish down, they ceremoniously state its name as if introducing us to Prime Minister ‘Chilli Prawn’ and his cabinet member ‘Red Bean Garuper’. Along comes another waiter and another and another and another. ‘Butter Lobster.’ ‘Beef Kway Teow.’ ‘Orange Chicken.’ ‘Baby Kai Lan.’ ‘Cuttlefish.’

  Sebastian and Sylvia bend their heads down low as if to recite a prayer. Frank and I respectfully follow, but no ‘Glory be to God who delivers’ is uttered. This is merely the starting position. As soon as the staff say ‘Enjoy’, Sebastian and Sylvia commence scooping and passing and grabbing and plopping. It was the Singapore version of ‘ready, set, go’. Are we on a timer? Is it going to be taken away?

  At first I don’t think I’m hungry. I usually eat much later after a lot more wine but, gee, if I’m gonna get any, I better start. One bite makes me feel like I’ve been hungry all my life. The fish is light and flaky, subtle; the toasted red beans on top, sweet and crunchy like a mild nut; the lobster fleshy, firm, rich and buttery; the kway teow a salty, slippery blend of broad rice noodles, stir-fried vegetables and strips of thinly sliced tenderloin. Everything is magical. Thousands of tastes in each divine bite.

  I steal a look at Frank. He’s finishing his wine, smoothing out his napkin and just about to tuck into his food: one slice of garlic bread, a nugget of lobster and a noodle cradling a small snow pea. I look down at my feed-the-village portion. I’m like Pinocchio as he gave in to Pleasure Island and morphed into a donkey – except I’m turning Gok. There’s no going back now. I resume shovelling.

  I don’t care. Let Frank be a prissy eater. He has pretty much always been that way. I think my family disgust him as much as Sebastian does me. If you ever saw or read Goodbye, Columbus, that’s us. The Lebowitzes exercise for hours on end; we are robust, handsome and fit and we eat ungodly portions thinking it’s totally normal. No one just orders one main course! Our frenetic, vigorous activity also annoys Frank, who is capable of sitting and contentedly reading, or sitting and just whistling, or sitting and rooting around in his wallet studying old receipts.

  During the summer, before kids, Frank and I would visit my folks in Baltimore some weekends. Days were spent playing tennis, swimming, jogging, playing more tennis. Afterwards, my dad would take us all to our favourite crab joint. It was always packed and we’d invariably have to wait at the bar. We’d get drinks, of course, and a bucket of steamers (steamed mussels). Once seated, we’d order pitchers of beer, two pizzas, soft-shell-crab sandwiches, two dozen crabs, crab fluffs (deep-fried crabs stuffed with crab cakes), and how about throwing in a few extra packages of saltine crackers. My dad would demonstrate, with terrific fanfare and flourish, his skill at opening a crab and getting the most out of it. With just one whack of the hammer and a perfectly placed knife, he was able to crack that sucker in such a way that all the meat was exposed and ready to be sucked up. He was like a master diamond cutter. He’d wave a big hunk of claw meat in front of us all, demanding our appreciation of his surgery. That’s how it is in Baltimore crab joints. Everyone wants to show off how much they can extract from a single blow of the mallet. Total strangers lean over each other sharing tips, eager for acknowledgement. Indeed, in Baltimore, eating steamed crabs is a sacred rite.

  Frank never even tried it. He nibbled a club sandwich, drank beer and worked hard at not offending my father when he beamed and shouted, ‘Would you look at this! All this meat here!’

  Nothing changes old Frank. At this table in Singapore, laden with amazing and exotic foods, he sticks to the familiar and keeps it real simple. I, on the other hand, can’t help myself. I’m reaching and plucking and passing and drinking and scarfing and happy, happy, happy.

  When nothing is left of the feast but bones, we start talking again. My neck is stiff from peering down for so long. I look Sebastian in the eye, finally understanding him, wipe my mouth and say, ‘That was the best meal I’ve ever had.’

  Frank pours another glass of wine and pushes his plate out in front of him. The snow pea remains.

  The bill is handed to Frank. I find that strange. The waiter should ask, or place it in the middle of the table. Sebastian doesn’t look at it. I take a gander. Whoa, $1,400.I see a brief smile pass between Sebastian and Sylvia. Frank tosses his card onto the table and doesn’t show a single sign of shock or dismay. I look at him with a dumbfounded expression, but he just stays steadfast and cool. That’s Frank.

  We’ve been had but I surmise that I’m to remain insouciant. So, when we rise from the table I hug the Goks and tell them that I’d love to see them again soon. Of course, of course, we all agree. What a nice evening we all had. They stay with us while we wait for a taxi, despite our insistence that they don’t need to. As we’re sliding into the cab, Sebastian says, ‘By the way, Mr Liao and his lawyers have, um, invited me to lunch to share some of my experiences in the old job. I think they have some questions about the raid you are planning on his record company. I’ll be wanting to keep the car, of course, and anything else you can think of that might make me not remember certain things.’

  My stomach drops. I squeeze Frank’s hand. If only Sebastian had found this sort of gumption when he was working for Frank. Now, Frank is getting blackmailed. Frank smiles and shakes his head. He closes the cab door and we go home to pay the babysitter.

  Okay, I know it’s only going to be three months but these are the three months that are supposed to change my life. I need some structure. Right now, I’m just sort of pacing, head full of steam, no good place to blow it off. Not having an itinerary to my day is like not changing my underwear. I feel pretty icky. Right, make a list. There are three things I need to do … well, maybe four or five: I need an exercise regime to get me upbeat, I need to get work done so I don’t get fired, I need to be a good mom because … I haven’t been and I need to be, I need to have fun because I want to be
more cheerful, I need to open up the goddamned stack of books on things to do in Singapore and do some of them because I will have fun, dammit, and grow more cheerful from the experience. The end result, I just know, will be a serene but lighthearted completeness that will last for the rest of my life.

  First, to gird me for the long, hot days of my friend-empty, plan-bereft, daycare-free, long vacation of sorts, I need to get on with some exercise. It’s always been part of my life. I’ve known since I was 14 that if I don’t do something vigorous, I am doomed to be full of unnamed dread and anxiety. Sure, sure, running can be a bitch and, yes, I know they make this stuff called Prozac now so I could stay clean and dry while also remaining relatively sane. But I happen to love a good run almost as much as sex. Like sex, there are often times I don’t think I’m interested until I’m into it. Unlike sex, I do have to get out of bed and into the elements.

  I hate leaving bed. Every morning at reveille I come up with excuses to my inner drill sergeant: ‘Ummmm, you know how it is, Sarg, Frank needs a cuddle.’

  ‘Tie up your shoes, soldier!’

  ‘Frank, do something, dammit!’ If Frank were to grab me and pull me back under the covers, I’d settle for a dishonourable discharge, but he is fast asleep, hugging a pillow. Frank loves sleeping so much, he even yawns in his sleep because he’s dreaming about going to sleep.

  Post-exercise, I’m singing, ‘I am so glad I did that!’ Of course, about five minutes later, something unfortunate will happen to me, because I have a black cloud for a pet. I might close the car door on the end of my raincoat and not be able to open it again because the keys have fallen into the lining in the very corner that is on the other side of the locked door. I might do it again the next week. This is a typical start to a normal day in Franland.

  But it’d all be worse if I didn’t run.

  Exercise is the highest priority. I wouldn’t leave my kids alone in the house to go out for a run … but I would strap them to my ankles and get a better workout. The only time I didn’t exercise was during both pregnancies. My body made a good argument when it wouldn’t fit into the shorts.