A Walk with My Two-Year-Old Son

I first posted this in February 2007 in another blog, though the actual walk took place in 2006.  Based on the original comments, I regret not bringing a camera.  Nor did my phone, an old Nokia, have one either.

Before moving to Sarawak and to get out of rut, I decided to take my two-year-old son, Jason, for a walk. Usually when we walk it’s to a known destination for a known reason—running errands for me or playing outside with him. Today would be different. I wanted to see if we could learn anything in half an hour. Any longer than that, the mosquitoes would be biting.

We lived in Penang, in a mostly Chinese residential area, in Malaysia. Other than being Jason’s father, I teach creative writing and recently published a collection of short stories set in Malaysia, Lovers and Strangers Revisited—the Silverfish version.

Lately I’ve been feeling weary of the “author” bit and needed to get back to “writing”. But in order to write, I needed to start observing my surroundings again like I used to do when I first moved from America to Malaysia. Jason, on the other hand, like most two-year olds, is a natural sponge, taking everything in around him. He’s also tiny for his age, petite like his mother, a Bidayuh from Sarawak.

I grabbed some biscuits for the both of us and a spongy orange ball to play with. We didn’t get far; halfway down the stairs, I realized I had left the ball behind while unlocking the door.

“Back so soon?” my wife asked, teasing me.

Jason wanted to hold the ball but I didn’t want him to drop it into the monsoon drain that ran alongside our street, so I handed him a biscuit instead and held his free hand securely.  I didn’t want him to fall into the drain either.

We turned the corner to the small field behind our building; we were both startled to see an elderly Chinese man sitting on the ground, looking suspicious and looking suspiciously at us. Careful not to make any eye contact, I steered Jason around this man, whom I had never seen before. Not far away from him, on the other side of a tree, was a small wicker basket. Nor­mal­ly, I would have taken a closer look but the man’s gaze continued to bear down on us, so we kept walking.

Initially I planned to play ball here, but my wife had warned me before about getting my son’s hands dirty and having him put those dirty fingers into his mouth. So, I handed Jason another biscuit. I figured we’d finish the biscuits first and play ball later. We were half way to the end of the field, when the Chinese man began to point and shout at us as if ordering us off the field. I detoured toward the road, but then I saw it, a zebra-striped dove resting peace­fully in the center of the field.

I pointed it out to Jason, and his eyes grew with excitement. We ventured closer. The Chinese man shouted and furiously waved us away. Since he was making his way toward us, wicker basket in hand, I thought it best to lead Jason toward the side of the road. We stood there eating our biscuits, observing both this strange man and this bird. I thought perhaps he was a bird-catcher, like Papageno in The Magic Flute. (I had written a novel about a delusional man obsessed with The Magic Flute.) The man cautiously approached the dove. He set the basket down, opened the lower portion and gently coaxed the dove inside.

Afterwards, he began to pick at the grass. At first, I thought he was gathering some edible goodies for the bird. Then I saw a small spool. He was rewinding the line that kept the bird from fleeing. I assumed the wings had been clipped to prevent it from flying away. This dove—called a peaceful dove, I later learned—was popular for cage-bird singing competi­tions. The man carried the dove in the basket under his arm to his motorcycle; as he rode off, Jason and I waved goodbye.

We made our way up a short alley, crossed the road and walked along a road I had never been on before since I had assumed it was a dead end. Jason and I discovered a much bigger field containing an old playground.

Delighted, Jason practically dragged me to the nearest sliding board. I helped him up the steps and sat him down at the top of the plastic slide. He squealed with delight when I caught him at the bottom—his first slide! He slid down three more times before I led him to a larger sliding board and placed him at the bottom and rolled the ball down from the top. He laughed and caught the ball.

Catching on to this new game, he threw the ball about halfway up the slide and laughed as the ball rolled down to him. He could’ve played all night, but I spotted an even larger slide at the far end of the field, so we went to investigate. It was an old wooden slide and way too tall for Jason or me. Again, I placed him at the bottom of the board and rolled the ball to the top. Jason’s eyes grew wide and wider as the ball rolled toward him, gathering speed along the way.

Next up was the adjacent swing. Leaving the ball on the ground, we got on with Jason on my lap. He giggled as we swung, higher and higher. Wanting his ball, Jason got off to play with it while I continued to swing. Jason suddenly ran behind me. I desperately tried to stop the swing from slamming into him. I somehow managed to reach around and catch Jason by the shoulder and stopped him, the swing an inch from his head.

Relieved but upset, I had a stern talk with Jason about running in back of swings. Jason, nodded.  He may not have under­stood my every word but he understood my mood and knew that he had done something wrong; he also knew or sensed it wouldn’t be fair to punish him because I was partly at fault.  Either way, we agreed not to tell his mother.

Noticing a mosquito on his arm, I swatted it away and we made our way back across the field. Blocking our exit, however, were four large stray dogs. Being a dog lover, Jason pointed with glee and said, “Dog!” He would’ve run straight toward them if I hadn’t held him back. Not sure if the dogs were friends or foes, I maintained a wary eye, while the four dogs eyed me and Jason rather warily. Afraid he might hug them to death, the dogs wisely moved from our path. Jason waved to the dogs as we passed by and said, “Bye!”

Jason and I crossed the road where I noticed three Indian children playing in a fenced in area with three rabbits. Jason didn’t know what to make of the rabbits. Other than Bugs Bunny, he had never seen a live rabbit before. Eyes large and round, he marvelled as the rabbits hopped across the lawn pursued by the three children.

Watching us watch the rabbits were two stray cats. Jason took an interest in them. He gave chase and the cats, fearing for their lives, hid under a car. Jason squatted down, bent over, and laughed as if to say, “You can’t hide from me!”

Four dogs, three rabbits, two cats.  What next?  We were nearly home when we came upon this woman who was walking beside us, almost step by step, although we were in the alley and she was at a lower level beside her building. The woman kept looking up at Jason and me as if trying to get our attention. Then we saw it. Perched on her left hand was a small green bird. I pointed it out to Jason. Like the elderly Chinese man, the woman was taking her bird for a walk.

When we reached home, I glanced at the time.  Exactly half an hour had passed since we had left for our walk. In that short time Jason and I had seen a lot and had a whole lot of fun and even made a discovery and learned a valuable lesson about safety. 

Already I was looking forward to our next walk—no doubt our first walk in Sarawak.  Soon, though, he would have a little brother to walk beside him.

   --Borneo Expat Writer

Faulkner-Wisdom: Gift from the Past: The Girl in the Bathtub

After last year when The Girl in the Bathtub was named a finalist in the 2012 Faulkner-Wisdom for the novel-in progress category (and a short-list finalist for 2013), I decided it was high time that I finished that book.  It was nearly a decade when I first wrote those opening chapters, gradually adding a chapter here and there until I passed the 200-page mark, ending Part One. 

 

I still had two parts to go.

The Girl in the Bathtub is also the follow up to A Perfect Day for an Expat Exit, another finalist from last year’s Faulkner-Wisdom in the novel category, and the second in a series on Expats in Southeast Asia that I had planned while living in Penang, where both novels are set.  A third book would be set in Singapore, a fourth in Thailand, and a possibly a fifth in Borneo where I now live.

But that second book kept stalling or I kept setting it aside to work on my other novels (reviving two from the dead: one made it to the finals last year, the other short-list finals this year).  It wasn’t the blank page that was bothering me; it was the opposite—I was over­whelmed by all these notes, over 200 pages, single-spaced, and organized mostly in rough form by chapters for Part Two and Part Three.  Originally they were written on various sizes of papers from a pocket-size notebook to back of enve­lopes to half or full length pages in my scrawling handwriting that my students com­plained about for years:  “Thanks for all the comments on my story, sir, but I can’t read it.”

Even I had difficulty deciphering some of my cryptic notes for this novel.  Gradually, over the years, I did type these notes into the computer and did manage to fit them into the appropriate chapters (chapter outlines do come in handy) or if I wasn’t sure, tacked them on to the end of Part Two or Part Three to be dealt with later.  I would also advance the latest chapter, make more notes along the way, and occasionally revise the first fifty or all two hundred pages of Part One to keep the novel alive.

Still, I had to deal with this huge jigsaw puzzle of notes that contained individual sentences, paragraphs, descriptions, plot ideas, character sketches and snippets of dialogue . . . with plenty of pieces missing.   At times, they were overwhelming.

Finally last year I made some headway into Part Two, chapter 13, when I got stalled again.  Then mid-May this year, after editing and reading aloud three novels before submitting them to 2013 Faulkner-Wisdom, in­cluding the first 50 pages of The Girl in the Bathtub, I reread the remainder of those two hundred pages of Part One and decided this is going to be the year that I completed the first draft.  I realized that I was looking at the problem the wrong way.  Instead of feeling overwhelmed by all these notes, I felt grateful that I had all these notes—better than a blank screen!  In fact, the notes were a gift from my past, and the time had arrived for me to accept this gift with open arms. 

I knew if I just stuck with it and plowed through them I could carve out a first draft in three months as a birth­day present to myself.  This sounded like a win-win challenge for me (plus a nice present, too).  Instead of looking at all 200 pages of notes as a mess to deal with, I broke them down to bite size chunks, first by chapter, then by scenes.  I would read through the 10-15 pages of notes for a chapter, jot down what the scenes were about, and organized the notes by scene (giving each note a letter a, b, c, d, e) and then shifted the notes into each section.  Next, I’d work within each scene, putting related stuff together and seeing if I could work out an opening and keep it going.

Once I finished chapter 13 (after cleaning it up, printing it out, editing and correcting) I immediately moved on to chapter 14, not wanting to stop my mo­mentum and risk letting weeks, months, or another ten years slip by.  The Girl in the Bathtub became this game for me, a challenge of taking all these old ideas and seeing if I could turn it into something new that moved the novel forward.  Occasionally I’d have to create new material as an opening for a chapter or as a transition scene, while tossing out stuff that no longer worked or shifting leftover material to later chapters or to the end of Part Two, just in case. 

 

Pretty soon, I began rethinking my plot, making new notes, asking myself questions about scenes and the characters.  If you write down those questions to yourself, ultimately you’ll get the answers; I often did late at night or stepping out of the shower in the morning, a reason I keep notepads and pens everywhere.

I gained more confidence as I moved into chapter 15 and began thinking ahead to the following chapters and would work out the various scene sections and if I was lucky, an opening paragraph or two, so by the time I was ready to move into that chapter, I already had a head start; I wouldn’t have to start cold.

Some chapters, like chapter 19, the last chapter of Part Two, were a nightmare.  I had 30 pages of single-spaced notes (potentially 60 double spaced pages) for basically one really long scene, including all this leftover stuff from the preceding chapters that I couldn’t fit in any­where.  Some of the stuff I had to shift to Part Three for the same reasons.  I was careful about deleting stuff, because I found too many instances where I kept pushing bits and pieces of stuff that didn’t seem to work to later chapters, and then my subcon­scious would find a way to link three or four of these pieces together in a way that I had never antici­pated and I would think, wow, where did that come from?

Most chapters came together in a fairly straight forward manner; however, it may have taken me a week to piece it all altogether and iron out the wrinkles.  Others, like chapters 19 and 22, felt like I was pulling my hair and teeth at the same time.  I’d have all these notes, cleaned up more or less in order by section but I couldn’t see how they could work together, so I’d have to print it out and try matching them up with some creative editing notes and directional arrows whereby I needed to link a few sentences from four separate pages and then shift all that to a paragraph on a fifth page before combining it with another paragraph on a sixth page (spread over 15 or so pages, going back and forth in different directions).  A night­mare that re­quired a lot of concen­tration and no interruptions from my wife or children or I’d freak out and take hours to find out where missing stuff ended up and risk either losing my mind or getting stalled for another ten years.

Some chapters I had no idea how I was going to start or end it until I actually got to the end.  Other times, I had to skip the beginning and worked the later sections first and only then did I find a way to write an opening scene.  Mostly what I had to do was just sit there, hours on end, and plow through this maze of notes, scene by scene, and try not to bail out to check the internet or emails or work on other projects.

Eventually, out of sheer determination, I made it to the end of each scene, end of each chapter all the way to chapter 25 and the end of Part Three by August 2^nd, the day before my birthday.  In the process, I took The Girl in the Bathtub from page 204, after years of going nowhere very fast, to page 510.  That’s three hundred decent pages in less than three months.

I know, it’s still a first draft and it’s still going to require a lot of work, but right now, unlike those previous years, I have a complete draft of a new novel to work with and that’s pretty exciting.  As I begin the revising process for draft two The Girl in the Bathtub can only get better.

Of course, I would not recommend writing a novel this way, but sometimes you got to do what you got to do to get the darn thing finished, if only for yourself.  And if judges for Faulkner-Wisdom competition are thinking the first part is pretty darn good, then I’d better make sure the rest is pretty good, too.

Once this second book in the Expats in Southeast Asia series is completed, I can start sifting through my notes for my Singapore book and the one set in Thailand.   

These books will also be gifts from my past.

                          --Borneo Expat Writer 

*An Unexpected Gift from a Growling Fool was also named a shortlist finalist for the 2013 Faulkner-Wisdom Novel, and Act of Theft, shortlist finalist for the novella, so five books into two years!

**Amazon Breakthrough Novel Awards:  Six Lessons

Here are links to some of my author-to-author interviews of first novelists:

Ivy Ngeow author of Cry of the Flying Rhino, winner of the 2016 Proverse Prize.

Golda Mowe author of Iban Dream and Iban Journey.

Preeta Samarasan author of Evening is the Whole Day. 

Chuah Guat Eng,  author of Echoes of Silence and Days of Change. 

Plus:

Five part Maugham and Me series

Beheaded on Road to Nationhood: Sarawak Reclaimed—Part I 

A Perfect Day for an Expat Exit--pitch and chapter one

 Yesterday, after “The Woman on the Ferry” the excerpt from my Penang-set novel, The Expatriate’s Choice * new title: A Perfect Day for an Expat Exit), was published in the New Straits Times, I thought it might be a good idea to put that story in the context of the first chapter (since six pages precede it) and show the character’s state of mind as he boards the ferry to Penang.

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:

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.

               --Robert Raymer, Borneo Expat Writer