Richard sat down at the canteen table. He lit up another cigarette. Distance stares from neighbouring tables almost swallowed him. Smoking wasn't allowed in the canteen.
The rule came into effect early last year, drafted by the governer after reports of the harmful effects of smoking came out. The governer was a health-nut.
It was stringently enforced but like all rules, there those like Richard who stood above it.
As the liason officer between the colonial government and the locals, he reported directly to the governer. He was beneath one man but above thousands.
Richard was also the adopted son of the previous governer. With a privileged position and a priviliged past, Richard was untouchable. Sometimes, even the governer had to give in to him.
"Richard! Good day!"
It was the governer. He was medium built and had a full head of barely existent hair. He was a good decade or two older than Richard, with a good greying beard to show for it. He frowned slightly at the sight of Richard's cigarette.
"How are you this fine afternoon?"
The governer was shaking Richards hand and patting his shoulder. Almost like a broher would. But behind his eyes, his displeasure was not very well hidden. He had no intention of being Richard's brother.
"Saintly."
Richard replied through a forced smile. Though wide and full of teeth, it did not extend past the boundaries of his lips.
Richard knew the governer had no intention or being his brother.
"So, how did the meeting with that local fellow go?"
"Boring."
The governer chuckled. Richard squeezed out a few deliberate laughs.
After work, the conversation went on to family. With both men feigning interest and inserting well placed laughs between sentences. It looked almost comical.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Friday, January 23, 2009
Chapter 5
This contempt that Richard had for the local population was mutual. The Chinese did not see him as one of them. To them, he was a deflector; a snake. Despite corresponding constantly with the locals, he had zero Chinese friends; he was permanently an outsider; a regular "banana", yellow on the outside and white on the inside.
That was exactly what Boon Hock had called him.
When he was younger, Richard might have been agitated, he might even have struck Boon Hock. But twenty years of hearing the same thing does wonders in dulling one's temper.
Sometimes, he did not even mind that label anymore.
Richard got up walked to the door. At the edge of it, he lit up another cigarette before walking out and towards the canteen.
He liked smoking while walking. As a child he was socially awkward and extremely self-conscious. In the presence of other people, he would suddenly become aware of his entire body. Where should he place his hands while seating? How about standing? How wide should he open his legs? How often should he shift his gaze?
His movements were awkward and unnatural. As a result, he had few acquaintances and even less friends.
He hated walking past people. Under the perceived stares of the crowd, his strides open to scrutiny, he felt naked and exposed. He would feel very self aware. All thoughts of his would be focused on his bodily movements, like how big a stride to take or how to swing his arms.
Maybe he should just keep them in his pockets and not swing at all.
But cigarettes changed all that. The elevating euphoria of tobacco made him forget himself. A stick in his hand was like a royal decree; he felt empowered and larger-than-life. Like all the cigarette welding heroes of films and real life, he was invincible.
That was exactly what Boon Hock had called him.
When he was younger, Richard might have been agitated, he might even have struck Boon Hock. But twenty years of hearing the same thing does wonders in dulling one's temper.
Sometimes, he did not even mind that label anymore.
Richard got up walked to the door. At the edge of it, he lit up another cigarette before walking out and towards the canteen.
He liked smoking while walking. As a child he was socially awkward and extremely self-conscious. In the presence of other people, he would suddenly become aware of his entire body. Where should he place his hands while seating? How about standing? How wide should he open his legs? How often should he shift his gaze?
His movements were awkward and unnatural. As a result, he had few acquaintances and even less friends.
He hated walking past people. Under the perceived stares of the crowd, his strides open to scrutiny, he felt naked and exposed. He would feel very self aware. All thoughts of his would be focused on his bodily movements, like how big a stride to take or how to swing his arms.
Maybe he should just keep them in his pockets and not swing at all.
But cigarettes changed all that. The elevating euphoria of tobacco made him forget himself. A stick in his hand was like a royal decree; he felt empowered and larger-than-life. Like all the cigarette welding heroes of films and real life, he was invincible.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Chapter 4
"Thank you for your time. I will take your opinion into consideration. The welfare of the coolies is our utmost concern."
Richard interrupted Tan Boon Hock rather abruptly.
Momentarily, Boon Hock was stunned, his mouth opened and closed, his language center trying frantically to translate his thoughts into English.
All this time, Richard did not look away. He stared hard into Boon Hock; He saw every involuntary movement Boon Hock was making. He saw Boon Hock's constant fidgets; He saw the big goblets of sweat making their way down Boon Hock's forehead.
He saw Boon Hock squirm at the word "coolie".
"We are done now, Mr. Tanne."
Boon Hock squirmed again. There were flashes of displeasure in Boon Hock's fat face. For a few seconds, it looked as though he would voice them.
But Boon Hock did not; he slowly got out of his chair, took one last look at Richard and made his way out. He muttered something under his breath. It was inaudible and in Chinese.
But Richard knew exactly what he had said.
He lit up another cigarette. He smoked slowly. It was lunch time and as much as he was hungry, lunch was not something he was looking forward to. He was going to eat alone, just like how he always did.
Though Richard wanted and tried desperately to be British, Richard was Chinese. No amount of Western education could change that fact. So what if his received pronunciation was so fucking perfect? He was Chinese; He was a member of a race whose language he could not speak.
Richard knew he was different. Despite the overwhelming amount of tea and crumpets flowing through his blood, his skin was yellow. They don't trust him; they talk behind his back. To his face, no one says anything. But Richard knows; he reads people.
Richard knows he only got his job because he was Chinese. As a liaison officer with the local trade unions, he met constantly with his equals. Especially then, when the governor was drafting the Chinese Protectorate, a bill in which Richard had little interest in.
Richard did not care about the rights of the local population. He could not be bothered to give a God damned flying fuck about the welfare of those motherless savages.
Richard interrupted Tan Boon Hock rather abruptly.
Momentarily, Boon Hock was stunned, his mouth opened and closed, his language center trying frantically to translate his thoughts into English.
All this time, Richard did not look away. He stared hard into Boon Hock; He saw every involuntary movement Boon Hock was making. He saw Boon Hock's constant fidgets; He saw the big goblets of sweat making their way down Boon Hock's forehead.
He saw Boon Hock squirm at the word "coolie".
"We are done now, Mr. Tanne."
Boon Hock squirmed again. There were flashes of displeasure in Boon Hock's fat face. For a few seconds, it looked as though he would voice them.
But Boon Hock did not; he slowly got out of his chair, took one last look at Richard and made his way out. He muttered something under his breath. It was inaudible and in Chinese.
But Richard knew exactly what he had said.
He lit up another cigarette. He smoked slowly. It was lunch time and as much as he was hungry, lunch was not something he was looking forward to. He was going to eat alone, just like how he always did.
Though Richard wanted and tried desperately to be British, Richard was Chinese. No amount of Western education could change that fact. So what if his received pronunciation was so fucking perfect? He was Chinese; He was a member of a race whose language he could not speak.
Richard knew he was different. Despite the overwhelming amount of tea and crumpets flowing through his blood, his skin was yellow. They don't trust him; they talk behind his back. To his face, no one says anything. But Richard knows; he reads people.
Richard knows he only got his job because he was Chinese. As a liaison officer with the local trade unions, he met constantly with his equals. Especially then, when the governor was drafting the Chinese Protectorate, a bill in which Richard had little interest in.
Richard did not care about the rights of the local population. He could not be bothered to give a God damned flying fuck about the welfare of those motherless savages.
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