After a gap of five years, as I worked on other projects that have done well this year in the Amazon and the Faulkner-Wisdom Novel competitions, I finally picked up this novel, originally titled Tropical Moods. Then over several drafts, I ruthlessly cut 100 pages out of it—one fourth the length, though in actuality about 10% of the words.
UPDATE: My novel A Perfect Day for an Expat Exit has made the finals of the 2012 Faulkner-Wisdom Competition, results announced before 25 September. (I'm adding the revised versions of both the pitch and chapter one, now in first person, past tense.)
Here is my pitch:
Here is my pitch:
A Perfect Day
for an Expat Exit (86,700
words)
Having your fate hinged on the erratic behavior of a
self-indulgent
American expat who has nothing left to live for cannot be
good…
The American expatriate Michael Graver seems to know everybody’s personal
secrets. When his own carefully cultivated
past begins to unravel, he lashes out at everyone and three people end up dead.
Distraught over catching his wife making love to an ex-boyfriend, Steve Boston arrives
on the island of Penang in Southeast Asia.
En route to a colonial landmark, the E & O Hotel, Boston comes to the aid of a
mysterious woman whose complicated
life has been made even messier by her father’s body washing ashore. His death is not only linked to Michael Graver,
but also his opium-addicted, anti-American British wife, Amanda.
With nothing left to live for other than an elusive treasure buried by
the Japanese at the end of World War Two, Graver gamely manipulates those
around him, including Steve Boston who is caught smack in the middle with a gun
aimed at his head.
Set on the tropical island of Penang over a period of nine days
culminating with the Chinese New Year, A Perfect Day for an Expat Exit revolves around
six desperate and lonely people whose quiet lives explode, thanks to one man
and his obsession—Michael Graver.
A Perfect Day for an
Expat Exit is
currently a finalist in the 2012 Faulkner-Wisdom
novel contest, the first book in a potential series set in Southeast Asia. Two chapters and parts of others have been
published as short stories. The second
book, The Girl in the Bathtub, is also a finalist in their novel-in-progress
category.
# # #
A Perfect Day for an Expat Exit
The mysterious East faced me, perfumed like a flower,
silent like death, dark like a grave.
-Joseph Conrad
1
Wednesday,
10 February
Michael
Graver was the first man I had ever met who had killed a man. The fact that he killed two men—on two
separate occasions—in front of me did not make that any easier for me to
digest. He could’ve just as easily killed
me, too, but he chose not to—at least not yet.
Michael
Graver was also an expatriate. . . . Having read my share of stories by the
likes of Conrad, Kipling and Maugham, I knew that the East had always attracted
that strange beast called an expatriate, one of those lonely, alienated men who
often have nothing left to live for. Either they were hiding from their troubled
past, seeking some self-indulgent pleasure, or searching for a mythical
treasure—or perhaps a little of each, as in Michael Graver’s case—thus adding
to their array of personal problems from the bad life choices that they’d made. They would then lash out at everyone,
including the ones they claimed to love, blaming their circumstances on fate
conspiring against them as if it was merely a matter of being in the wrong
place at the wrong time . . . . Inevitably their lives came to a violent or a pathetic
end—usually at their own hands.
Michael
Graver was no different.
Being
in the wrong place at the wrong time, by the way, was how this journey to the
East began for me back in Madison, Wisconsin after I caught my wife Patricia in
the backseat of her car—our car—with her old boyfriend. One of the bad choices that I made that day
was fleeing half way across the planet.
The alternative, despite some personal satisfaction, would’ve put me
into prison. I only hoped that by coming
to Malaysia I did not suffer the same fate as those other long-lost expatriates—a
fate that now befell Michael Graver whose very life has begun to unravel before
my eyes.
“When
living overseas as long as I have,” Graver once said to me from the comforts of
his decaying, rent-controlled, reputedly-haunted bungalow, “the question that
you always have to ask yourself . . . is today a perfect day for an expat exit?”
One
week earlier, while boarding the ferry to Penang, I lagged behind the other
passengers—mostly Malays, Chinese, and Indians—overly conscious of the way the
others kept looking at me, as if questioning my reasons for coming. Something I had been doing a lot of on my own
. . . . Still wary of my exact motives for coming here, I suddenly felt a
distinct uneasiness, an urgency that penetrated deep inside me; something I
hadn’t felt since I was a teenager in my maddening quest to get laid, to
forever rid myself the burden of still being labeled a virgin after high school. Then I realized why I had come. A cat when ready to die goes to a corner and waits. I had come to my own corner of Southeast
Asia, or more precisely Patricia’s corner, a tropical island off the west coast
of Malaysia.
Death,
when I thought about it, did seem logical.
Already I left my wife, left my business, left my country . . . . Was
that the real reason I had come to Penang?
Was that why I was here? Not
entirely convinced, I lugged my oversized suitcase to the side railing where I
playfully considered the options.
Drowning, I quickly concluded, would be the easiest . . . . There was
no poison to find. No weapon to
procure. No high place to seek out. No special timing involved. Just jump when I was good and ready . . . . A
ferry jump also smacked of intrigue. Some
young, ambitious detective bucking for a promotion may suggest that perhaps I
had been pushed. In any language that would
translate into murder. The local press
would have a field day. With an American
involved—identified from my business card-cum-nametag on my luggage—the international
wire service would pick up on the story.
Headlines would glare:
AMERICAN
BUSINESSMAN DROWNS IN MALAYSIA
POLICE
SUSPECT MURDER
Even
if the papers toned it down to FOUL PLAY, it would still grab people’s
attention; maybe even Patricia’s. Someone might recognize my name or the name
of our business and point it out to her.
At least here in Malaysia, like those colonial expatriates from long
ago, I could die anonymously, buried in an unmarked grave in some overgrown
cemetery that people rarely visited, resting in permanent peace . . . . Then
again, I didn’t have to die. Just fake my
death. Disappear. Change my identity from Steve Boston to
someone else, someone already dead.
Thus, no divorce proceedings. No
lawyers. No past to deal with. Just start from scratch here in Penang as a
tropical virgin.
I
wiped the perspiration from my forehead as I glanced at some of the seated passengers—an
elderly Chinese man, stroking the gray strands of hair sprouting from a chin
mole; a stout, turbaned Sikh, shuffling his thick sandaled feet; and a
sari-clad woman with a gold ring through her nose, nodding at him respectfully. Sitting in front of them, three school girls
in matching turquoise pinafores giggled at two boys snapping chewing gum. An Australian serviceman shot stern looks at
the boys, while a pair of laid-back backpackers took it all in. Plenty of potential witnesses, about two
hundred—more than enough to confuse the truth.
I
could just picture the look on Patricia’s pretty freckled face when she found
out where I had fled to: her beloved
Penang, her birthplace, where she lived the first six months of her life, the
daughter of an American couple who met and copulated while in the Peace
Corps. My death would cast a pall on her
treasured memories of having been an exchange student here in high school and returning
later with her boyfriend Martin. The
same Martin I caught her fucking in the backseat of her car—in our car. All Patricia ever seemed to talk about was
Penang. But now she would no longer be
able to think about her precious Penang without thinking of me.
An
old Chinese man munching on sunflowers seeds spat the shells onto the wooden
deck. He paused to look at me but then
continued adding to the mess that he was creating. The throbbing motion of the ferry as it left
the mainland port of Butterworth added to my restlessness. Lost in my jumbled, jet-lagged thoughts, I stared
blankly out at the sea. Another
passenger bumped into me but kept on going as if I was not there. Patricia used to do the same, treating me as though
I were a misplaced chair that was constantly in the way.
I
peered over the side of the ferry at the green water churning to white. Pieces of wood, bits of styrofoam and a
colorful array of plastic bags were being sucked in by the advancing ferry and spat
out. Beige foam covered patches of the
sea like icing. Despite its filth, its
drifting flotsam, the sea still held a special allure. Admittedly I felt drawn to it, drawn to its
eternal patience, its willingness to accept me on my own terms. It would be easy to yield to it. If I concentrated hard enough on the same
spot, I could see myself in the water, see my image spiraling downwards, my
arms fully extended above my head, my hands reaching, grasping for the surface
as I sank deeper and deeper.
Finding
a foothold on the railing, I stepped up to get a better look at the sea. The ferry suddenly lurched and I was thrust
forward. To keep from being tossed over
the side like unwanted trash, I tightened my grip on the ledge, my knuckles
turning bone white, and braced myself.
Heart thumping, legs shaking, I held onto the railing longer than
necessary before I eased myself back down.
Avoiding
the gaze of those around me, lest one or all of them had been watching, I noticed
an empty seat between two Chinese men. I
dragged my suitcase and sat down in muted silence, putting on hold any further speculations
on this silly notion of suicide. Really,
I was not in the mood. I wasn’t in the
mood for much of anything right now other than to get as far away from Patricia
as I possibly could, even if it killed me.
Off
to the left, Penang Bridge came into view—reputedly the third longest in Asia
when it was built. I had seen it before in
Patricia’s photos and coffee table books on Penang, mostly while under construction. Midway between the bridge and the ferry, an
unusual brightness seared its way through the clouds. The brightness grew in intensity before
finally revealing itself in its entirety, a ball so huge and orange I could almost
taste it. The sun’s rays created an
illuminated path along the sea that stretched toward me like an accusing
finger. Entering the path, a red and
black freighter transformed itself into a silhouette. The sunlit water around the freighter shimmered
in its wake. A double-decker ferry, mustard
in color with black smoke billowing from its stack, crept toward us from the
opposite shore as it returned to the mainland.
The ferry, like the one that I was on, had pedestrians on top and cars
and motorcycles below. Thinking photograph,
I reached for the camera inside my suitcase. At that same moment the Chinese man sitting
next to me spat on the floor. The spit’s
sheen against the dull planks held my attention longer than I preferred. I quickly turned away. A glint of gold, however, caught my eye.
The
gold was draped around a dark slender ankle.
The woman’s foot arched in and out of a black and gray low-heeled
shoe. In and out . . . in and out the
foot went. It kicked itself free of the
shoe, leaving only the toes inside. The
leg was crossed, the foot rose, and the shoe dangled precariously from its new
height. Up and down . . . up and down
the foot went . . . . The shoe, on
several occasions, came dangerously close to dropping. But each time, the foot arched, the toes straightened,
and the shoe slid back into place, securely hooked. The foot was lowered and the toes slipped
out, free at last. All five of them
celebrated by curling up and down and wiggling from side to side, soaking up
the fresh air. The ankle rotated clockwise,
and then counterclockwise. With each
movement, the anklet danced merrily around the owner’s ankle.
The
smooth curve of the attached leg drew my gaze up the gentle slope of the calf,
up and around the bent knee to a white-pleated skirt. The skirt led directly to the thighs, to the
hips, to the waist, where it abruptly ended at a navy blue blouse. Midway up the blouse my gaze was blocked when
an overweight woman shifted over a seat.
I leaned back and forward, and from side to side, but every effort to
see around the woman was frustrated by the plumpness of her presence.
Having
lost all interest in the photograph, I bided my time until I could see the rest
of this woman, if only out of curiosity, her face in particular . . . . While
waiting, I retrieved the map of Penang to familiarize myself with the general
layout of George Town, specifically the area around the jetty and Fort
Cornwallis and also where I planned to stay, The Eastern & Oriental Hotel,
a colonial landmark that dated back to 1885.
I
looked up just as the woman began to make her way toward the center aisle. She was Indian, as I had surmised from her
ankle, yet her smooth light brown hair seemed rather peculiar. For one, it wasn’t black. The hair didn’t appear to be dyed either, but
natural, as if she were part Caucasian.
The woman, perhaps conscious that she was being watched, glanced my way. She revealed high cheek bones, slender nose,
sensuous lips, and dark alluring eyes that were black as obsidian with the
right touch of mystery. She epitomized everything
that I had read and imagined about the East, except for the color of her hair.
Intrigued,
I found myself rising from my seat. I left
behind my oversized luggage that was not only bulky but also impractical. I gingerly stepped over the old man’s spit and
made my way to the center aisle.
An
Indian in his late forties entered the aisle a few rows ahead of me and blocked
my view of the woman. He was dressed
shabbily in a torn yellow T-shirt, filthy blue sweat pants, and rubber sandals
too small for his cracked and callused feet. The other passengers turned and looked at each
of us in succession as we passed by:
the woman, the Indian, and me.
Upon
reaching the front of the ferry, the woman leaned on the front railing and
pushed her smooth hair back as she gazed out at the sea. The Indian walked up to her and whispered
into her ear. She cringed and shooed him
away. Noticing that I was watching them as
I approached, the man stepped aside. He
lit a cigarette all the while ogling the woman.
Since
there was not enough space between them without crowding in, and none on the
woman’s right due to some other passengers, I settled for a spot to the left of
the Indian, glad to have a decent view of both the woman and also the approaching
island—such a contrast to Madison where I was born and bred and bored to death
until Patricia came along and ran my life through a clothes wringer and then turned
me, rather unceremoniously, into a cuckold.
Despite
Penang having its own airport and a bridge linking it to the mainland, the
best way to arrive on the island, at least according to Patricia, was by
ferry. Only the ferry came directly at
the headland, creeping upon it slowly, thus allowing you the full experience
of discovering Penang as it unfolded:
its tropical ambiance, its colonial-era buildings, and its multiracial
cultures. There were a lot more
high-rise buildings than I had hoped to see, including an octagonal monstrosity
right smack in the center of George Town that dwarfed everything else on the
island.
My
clothes flapped in the breeze as I glanced at the woman. Perhaps she was part of the Eurasian community
I had read about in one of Patricia’s books, a descendent of the Portuguese
that had originally settled in Malacca.
Or maybe she was a product of mixed parentage, an offspring of a
colonial officer and an immigrant from Sri Lanka. Penang was famous for its mixed
marriages. As far as I could tell, other
than a glance or two in my general direction, if only to keep an eye on the
Indian, she hadn’t really noticed me.
Who did notice me, of course, was the Indian. The man drew in long and hard on his cigarette,
sucking in the last remnants of charred tobacco; he then flicked the cigarette
butt over the railing. I followed its arc,
lit red by the ash, into the sea. When I
looked up, the man’s eyes were fixed on me; his head cocked back into a grin. His face was gaunt, pockmarked, his eyes
milky, and his teeth yellow and decaying.
In a groggy, drunken fashion he swiveled around and gaped at the other
passengers, many of them gathering their belongings and corralling their
children, preparing to disembark.
Turning
his attention back to me, he said in a hoarse, whispery voice, “I have what you’re
looking for.”
I
pretended not to understand him and shifted my gaze to the ramshackled piers
jutting out from the shore.
Corrugated-zinc roofed shacks had been built on top of the pier; below, sampans
rotted in the mud and the sewage. The moored
sampans and rickety piers were reminiscent of another era. I could easily imagine the coolies unloading incoming
cargo from the ships and carrying them on their bent-over backs. And the Chinese, with their long black queues,
waiting tirelessly beside their rickshaws for their British Raj
passengers. The British were long gone;
even their name for Penang—Prince of Wales Island for the future George IV—was
dropped in 1957 after Malaya won independence.
Remaining behind was the faded elegance of their colonial buildings standing
sentinel along the shore. Even these seemed
overshadowed by the octagonal Komtar, rising a full-bodied sixty-five stories
to the clouds. At its base, and completing
its phallic image, was a geodesic dome.
The
Indian cleared his throat and spat into the sea. He asked, “You, Englishman?”
I
nodded, though I didn’t bother to correct the man as I continued to study the
approaching island.
“My
name, Raja,” he said. “Your name
what? John?”
“Yes,”
I replied, glancing at him, reluctant to reveal my real name. For now John was as good as any.
Raja
again cleared his throat. He gazed once
more at the woman as he headed back to an empty seat, dragging his rubber
sandals along the bare planks, not bothering to lift his feet. Just before he sat down, he cast one final
glance at her, a look suggesting he not only knew her but was expecting something
from her. I wondered what it was.
The
woman leaned heavily on the railing, her arm closely guarding a black travel
bag strapped around her shoulder. She
pushed her hair aside as she glanced in my direction. Noticing that I was watching—perhaps she had
been aware all along—she hesitated but then smiled at me. The smile seemed friendly, spontaneous, and
maybe even genuine. It took me by
surprise.
I
attempted to muster a friendly smile of my own, though I was not all that
successful. Half of my mind was still
on Patricia, on what I had caught her doing in our car. The woman’s dark eyes glistened as if sensing my
ambivalence. She turned away.
I
kicked myself for blowing it.
Moments
later, I watched as she rubbed her shoe against the back of the other leg
causing the gold anklet to slide up and down her ankle. Up and down . . . up and down the anklet went
. . . . My gaze traveled to her matching gold bangles, gold watch, and gold earrings. No gold wedding band that I could see, though
her left hand was partially blocked by the travel bag.
The
ferry aligned itself with the jetty. More
passengers stirred in their seats; several in back were already advancing eager
to get a jump on those still seated. I
kept thinking about the woman’s smile, her hair, her anklet, and her restless
feet . . . and tried to block out the disjointed thoughts about my life with
Patricia back in Madison. I only wanted
to think about this woman on the ferry.
More
and more passengers came to the front, crowding the area, filling the gap between
the woman and me. I inched closer, but
too many people were blocking the way. The
ferry docked and the remaining passengers rose to their feet.
“Move,”
I told myself and the front gate yawned open.
I attempted to reach the woman if only to exchange another smile. The surging crowd cut me off. Passengers bumped into me from all
sides. I was in their way, blocking
their path. I tried to follow the woman
through the throng of people, but there were too many people separating us . .
. . Then she was gone.
I
lost her.
Reluctantly,
I retreated back to my seat to retrieve my luggage. Several people gave me annoyed looks for going
in the wrong direction, against the flow.
Raja smirked at me as if I were no better than him. I kept moving and mumbling “Sorry” as I steered
myself out of their way. At the same
time, I was scolding myself for not acting when I had the chance; for letting the
woman get away. I then reminded myself
that this woman was only another passenger on a ferry. Someone from a different country, a different
culture, and a different race.
A
complete stranger.
Upon
reaching the approximate area where I thought I had sat, I had to pause and think,
was it here? Or further back? Something crunched underneath my shoe. The shells from the sunflower seeds. I found the row where I had sat, but there
was no suitcase. It was no longer where I
had left it.
What
the . . . ?
I
searched under the rows in front and behind and then all around the area. I didn’t see my luggage anywhere. I looked around for help but the ferry was
empty except for an old man at the far end sweeping away some debris.
“Where’s
my luggage?” I shouted at the man.
“Where’s my luggage!”
The
man squinted at me. He held up his hand
into the shape of a cup and wiggled it from side to side.
“Me
no speak English. Me no speak English,”
he said, and went back to his sweeping.
I
contemplated my predicament and couldn’t help but laugh.
So this is what it’s like starting from
scratch.
One thing I did know
for certain was that I was alive and well on Patricia’s Penang.
2 comments:
Great Blog! Looking forward to reading more :) I just launched my own expatriate tax return service at www.expatriatetaxreturns.com. Check it out!
Diane, thanks. That sounds like a great idea! There's a need for it. Good luck!
Post a Comment