After checking Art’s flight had landed and noting where he should wait, Percy wandered along until he found the correct gate number. Through the glass, he could see several baggage carousels. All were empty and none were yet moving, so he decided to buy a drink.
He found a small coffee bar and bought a takeaway cappuccino before striding quickly back to the gate. Percy wanted to watch as Art’s familiar form came down the steps. He might even catch his eye before he looked for his bag. Percy checked the time. Unless immigration was busy he should be through quite soon. At that moment a message came.
Heaving in here mate. Could be sometime. Art.
Percy felt fidgety, but rather than pace up and down he found a seat from where he could see as and when things changed. As he sat, so he began his habit of people-watching. An immaculately dressed white woman wobbled by in the highest heels Percy had ever seen, her posh flight bag in hand. How had she managed such a feat, Percy wondered? When he and Sal had flown in they had worn comfortable shoes and clothes and yet still disembarked looking as if they’d been flying at thirty-nine thousand feet without the plane. A young man strode past, dressed far more practically, wearing not only sensible clothes but also the sensibly serious frown of a man on business. Percy found himself mirroring the expression as he watched him go by, his gaze then becoming caught on a Chinese family who looked to be from China rather than Singapore, bustling along with three full trolleys towering with multiple bags. Then another woman went by in too-high heels, this time wearing a burka. As he wondered about what else might lie beneath the black shroud, he heard what he thought was a gaggle of children. He turned to see just three; quite young, fair hair tousled and messy, in full argument as they pulled small wheeled cases and trailed behind a woman he supposed was their mother. From the stony look on her pale face he gleaned they had flown a long way and her patience was nearing its end. He’d never have the patience for children, Percy reflected, not even if they did nothing more than sit in front of the television all day.
So his watching went on, with the mix of people enthralling him, until he remembered why he had come and looked across to see that he had missed Art’s dramatic entrance. His friend already had his bag. A smile broke free as Percy stood up, moving ready to meet Art as he exited. Moments later, the pair were vigorously shaking hands.
‘Things got moving a bit quicker than I expected,’ Art said. ‘Want one?’ He held out a hand and in his palm were two wrapped boiled sweets.
Percy smiled. He’d forgotten there were sweets in bowls at immigration control. He shook his head. ‘You have them. Good flight?’
‘Mostly.’
‘Only mostly?’
‘Guy behind threw-up.’
Percy went to take Art’s suitcase. ‘Ah. Not nice.’
‘I’ll carry it, mate, but cheers. It was less nice for the lady next to him. He filled her shoes, I think.’ Art laughed.
‘Just excuse me.’ Percy dashed across to the café bin and threw away his empty cup. ‘Do you want one?’ he called back.
Art shook his head. ‘A beer would be nice though.’
Percy was astounded. When he had finished his own thirteen-hour flight, all he had wanted was a cup of tea and to sit back down. But Art had always been more hardcore. ‘Let’s get going then. Go and find a taxi.’
Art yawned. ‘Great.’
As they walked towards the exit, Percy asked, ‘Do you really want a beer? Or go home?’
‘A beer would be great.’
‘Okay. How about we go back to mine and drop your bags, then we can walk to my local. You up for that?’
Art gave a thumbs up, ‘The legendary Tired Turtle, I suppose,’ and as he walked out through the automatic main door, yelped, ‘Jesus! That’s bloody hot!’
Percy smiled.
*
Four Floors of Whores.
Percy had not meant to go there. He had heard of it because most people had. It was an example of the side of life that every city in the world contains, just as every town and village to one degree or another. Except it was located upon squeaky-clean Orchard Road. More properly known as Orchard Towers, Four Floors of Whores by day looked to be a small, rather scruffy, mall. A shopper might wander in and wander out again never knowing what was above their head, or that they had just walked past a young man and not a sexy young woman as they supposed. Late afternoon would see the dynamic shift, as fewer shoppers and more drinkers stepped onto the escalators. By nightfall, the shopping mall was a market for only one kind of service, and the more drinkers that came, the more clients there might be.
Like any centre of ill repute, many visitors were there only to satisfy their curiosity; voyeurs of a life they did not truly understand or else might not have been so keen to witness. Alluring faces flashing and laughing amongst the noise and banter do not flash so convincingly by day. But by day, they are not seen.
As planned, Percy and Art started their drinking at the Tired Turtle. Art, after deciding it was to be a Guinness only night, had remarked that he seemed to be able to drink more without feeling drunk than he was able to at home. Percy said he thought it was to do with the flight, since most people he knew soon found themselves less tolerant of alcohol once in Singapore. So they set about testing just exactly how much they could tolerate. Before long, a man joined them, an acquaintance Percy had made through Phrike, whose wife had thrown an enormous drinks party for no apparent reason, and insisted her husband’s entire Discussion Group attend. This friend of Phrike’s happened to be on his way home to an empty house, since his wife was out for the evening. Art and Percy had needed no catalyst to propel the evening towards oblivion, but this man satisfied that role anyway.
Percy was happier than he had been in so long that he couldn’t remember when he had laughed so much. Art had not changed at all. His grumbling was still delivered with the sharpest wit, his displeasure with a cheeriest of smiles. Any other night, Percy might have thought about Sal, tried to fathom why she did not like Art as much as he did, even though he was always pleasant and amusing company. But not tonight. Tonight his mind showed no interest in pondering his wife, and it was perfect.
It was Phrike’s friend that suggested Orchard Towers, and this was how he had said it, Orchard Towers, rather than using its popular title. Percy was not a man to sit in judgement when it came to the sexual interests of others – it was one of the few things he did not judge – but he might not have gone along had his befuddled brain teased out the subtext of the suggestion, because prostitutes had never been his thing. As it was, Art roared yes, and Percy roared yes, and once they finally found a taxi driver prepared to risk three drunken men, off they went.
Orchard Towers was a modest building from the outside. It looked neither shopping mall nor den of iniquity, but rather like an office block, so when they pulled up outside, Art’s face dropped.
‘Is this it? What is it?’ he asked.
‘Just get out,’ Percy said.
Phrike’s friend was already out of the cab and heading for the entrance. Two large men in dark suits hung around outside, seeming like doormen but not. Percy watched them cast an eye over everyone going in.
‘You been here before, Fieldy?’
‘Not inside.’
‘What is it?’
‘Bars mainly, I think. Pretty seedy.’ Percy paid the driver, then after steadying a wobble looked at Art. ‘You okay?’
Art had been standing very still with his eyes closed. He opened them. ‘Yeah. Just feeling a bit tired now. Jet Lag.’
‘Beer’ll fix that,’ Percy advised. ‘C’mon.’
They followed Phrike’s friend inside and joined him on an escalator. Art looked about, muttering that it was quite a weird looking place. He asked Percy if all of Singapore was like this. Percy shook his head. Eventually, after passing several bars on each of the levels, they walked behind Phrike’s friend into his place of choice. It was loud, dark and busy, and at first glance filled mostly with regular
looking people; those people who might have wandered the floors below during the day. Then Percy began to notice an excess of glamorous girls talking with older men. But were they girls? He couldn’t tell, but knew enough about Four Floors to wonder.
They squeezed in at the bar and ordered drinks. Percy was instantly pleased with this feel of home, however tenuous, of propping up the bar and seeming ever so slightly invisible. As he waited for Phrike’s friend to get in the round, his eyes kept drifting, but were soon kept in check by the returned gaze of one individual whose wink and nod made Percy suddenly want to leave. Next to him, Art was again falling asleep.
Percy nudged him, ‘Do you want to go home?’
Art woke up. ‘Huh? No. Not yet. Might not be long though, eh?’
‘What was that?’ Phrike’s friend asked, leaning in as they turned from the bar, bottles of lager in hand.
‘Might make this our last.’ Percy said, taking his.
‘I can’t hear you.’
‘I said that we might make these our last!’ Percy shouted. ‘He’s knackered!’
‘We’ve only just got here!’
‘I know!’
Phrike’s friend shrugged, ‘Okay then!’ he manoeuvred away, sliding off through the crowd.
Percy stared. He hadn’t meant they were going now.
Art leaned into Percy’s ear. ‘This is shit. I’m too old. Let’s go.’
‘Drink up first?’
‘He’s got mine,’ Art said, pointing with a tired wave after Phrike’s friend, who was already squashed against a beautiful girl in the crowd. ‘Actually, not any more. He just gave it to her.’
Percy offered Art his bottle, but Art refused it. Percy could see his friend was on a sudden decline. He’d done well to travel so far, drink so much and survive the night, for it was now well past dawn in England.
‘Come on mate. Let’s get you home. We’ll go somewhere decent tomorrow. You’re right, this is shit,’ Percy looked at the bottle, ‘and they don’t even sell proper beer.’ He shoved it into the hand of a passing girl, who scowled and banged it down onto a narrow table. Percy shrugged, oblivious as to why she might have done so. A stranger shouted in Percy’s ear that she thought he’d spiked it.
‘Should have given it to me,’ the stranger slurred.
‘Take it,’ Percy said, pointing.
‘You spiked it?’
‘No!’
‘No thanks then,’ the drunk replied, grinning.
Percy stared.
Momentarily Art revived, ‘He’s pulling your leg, Fieldy. Jesus, let’s get out of this shithole.’
As they made their way from the bar, a group of women on a hen night staggered from the top of the escalator. The fact they were so drunk told Percy all he needed to know about the sort of evening they had enjoyed so far, and their presence here demonstrated a raucous night ahead. Percy observed they were a mixed bunch in terms of age, though uniform in almost every other sense. The youngest was probably no more than twenty-five, the eldest fifty, and all were white bar one older, woman, who was black. And it was this woman who caught Percy’s full attention. He’d seen her before. She was hard to forget since not only was she very attractive, in Singapore there were few black faces. Her hair was strikingly braided against her head exactly as it had been at Phrike’s wife’s drinks party. Chances were, she was about to catch her husband with a prostitute. She saw Percy and smiled. Percy nodded back and thought fuck it.
Chapter 23
ART
The visit was over too quickly. It felt to Percy as if he had no sooner collected Art from the airport than he was taking him back again; a u-turn on the expressway.
After the first night’s binge there had been more, but not nearly as extreme. Orchard Towers was not a place to revisit, or Phrike’s friend company to seek out. Instead, alone, the two men toured the sights by day and good bars by night. They didn’t talk about Sal, or the pub closing down back home, or anything about Art and his life. Instead they became tourists, their main focus beyond the sights of Singapore nothing more than the same old grousing.
Percy found it an absolute pleasure to entertain someone he knew so well and liked so much, though of course Art was no longer Percy’s only real friend. Since getting to know him, Percy had found Phrike’s friendship a great comfort; he was a man speaking sense amongst the shamelessly cheerful.
Rose coloured spectacles proved fantastic filters for these particular happy souls, sieving out anything and everything that did not suit the mood or the moment. They were people seemingly unable to simply accept life as it really was and get on with it. Norm often sprang to mind when Percy thought this way. With his ultra-white smile, he’d even attempted to invade one of Percy’s dreams. Percy, not normally able to control dreams, had physically pushed Norm from it. Phrike was not one of these people and never could or would be. He was one reliably great man amongst the annoying multitude, but equally Percy recognised that as a kindred spirit good old Art was entirely irreplaceable.
Art’s verdict was that on the whole Singapore was an enviable place to live. He had been particularly taken by the Asian Civilisations Museum. His interest at first had been less than respectful, since it started with him laughing as they walked past the museum on their way for an evening meal at the restaurant where Percy had first met Joyann. Percy had been unable to make any sense of Art’s sudden and unusual burst of mirth, until Art speculated dramatically about what an Asian Art might look like. Percy was puzzled, but when a collapsing Art indicated an advert worded Inside Asian Art, he understood. His friend continued to chortle, as if an invisible force were gripping his neck and tickling his sides at the same time; the boy at the back of the class who knew he should not be laughing and so could not stop.
Percy had been mortified, looking about to see if anyone had noticed Art’s impression of himself as an Asian man. An involuntary laugh burst free from Percy as the contagion infected him, but the urge quickly passed. He wasn’t sure if it was politically correct or incorrect for Art to do such a thing, since the apparent Singaporean view on difference had muddled Percy’s judgment. At home it would be unthinkable, but here, where people seemed to make sweeping statements about other races without a second thought, he couldn’t be sure. But he decided at some level it must be illegal. He was surprised at Art. Art was no racist. Or was he? What defined racism? Maybe it wasn’t racism but culturism? Was that even a thing? Percy decided to stop thinking. He stared at his old friend who by now could barely breathe, wondering what on earth he was picturing that could be so funny.
They had gone back the next day to look at a few of the advertised exhibitions, including Inside Asian Art, and once Art had again gone through the cycle of hysteria and shame, they’d settled down and enjoyed themselves, impressed by the displays of ancient works; none of which looked like Caucasian Art, inside or out.
Art enjoyed the Duck Tour, too, though Percy hadn’t. The Duck Tour was a sight seeing trip covering an area near Marina Bay, partly on land and partly crossing the harbour, using an amphibious vehicle painted to look like a duck. Percy had been looking forward to learning something new, but ended up annoyed with the guide because his act – for that is what Percy decided it was, rather than an informative talk – was rubbish. In Percy’s opinion, the young man lost the heart of every woman on board, because his insistence on playing out a sexist joke about seasons and shopping was so ill judged. It was a yarn Percy could not even begin to understand, though he hadn’t tried very hard. It had started with the question how many seasons are there in Singapore, the first offered answer being none. At no point did anyone guess eleven, and it wasn’t long before Percy thought either he or the guide might be better off jumping overboard. There was no cultural difference here, Percy seethed privately, after choosing to remain dry, only suspect comedic ability.
In contrast, Art was not listening, instead watching the world go by with obvious fascination.
Percy of course took Ar
t to his beloved Botanic Gardens. Art was an avid gardener and so Percy knew he would enjoy every last petal and leaf of it. Afterwards, they visited a garden centre, where Art almost cried because of the range of tropical plants available that would be impossible to take home or to grow outside there. Percy also took him to see the biodomes and gardens near Marina Bay Sands Hotel, a building of three huge columns that appeared to hold up a giant boat that was in fact the hotel’s infinity pool. Percy wasn’t sure if it was meant to be a boat or if it symbolised something else; he didn’t bother to find out as they agreed it would only ever be a boat to them.
Art appreciated everything he saw, and Percy appreciated Art’s appreciation. The only thing Art did not like was the heat.
‘Novelty’s worn off, Fieldy,’ he’d said, as they ambled through Little India looking to eat a banana leaf curry. The end of the holiday was nearing, and this was an experience Percy did not want Art to miss.
‘In what way?’
‘It’s too bloody hot.’
‘You get used to it.’
To this, Art had released a long breathy groan, and fanned his face with a guidebook. ‘God knows how you cope.’
‘I told you. You get used to it and quite quickly if you just accept it’s hot and get on with it.’
‘I can hardly breathe.’
‘It’s pretty heavy today. We can always do something inside. Another museum, maybe? Or just head back for a swim?’
‘We’ll be in a restaurant soon anyway, won’t we? That’ll be air-conditioned, won’t it.’
Percy had nodded, then patted his red-faced friend on the shoulder. ‘You need a beer.’
‘I never thought I’d say this about beer, but I’d die for a cold one.’
‘Well you don’t have to. Here’s Racecourse Road, so we’re nearly there.’
After they turned the corner, Percy and Art checked the names of the many eateries as they walked along, until after a short time they found the one mentioned in Art’s book. Around them the aroma of spices hung on the still air. Percy said to Art that they should sit outside, Art had refused to smile and gone straight in.