Death by Perfume Read online

  After a pause, he went on, “The worst thing is, the workers who gamble away their entire wages have no money to send home, so they lie to their family that the company is withholding their pay. Recently, we’ve been getting angry letters from relatives about this!”

  “Why doesn’t the company try to stop them gambling?”

  “We send someone to look around the hostel every night, but that isn’t very effective. As soon as the inspection is over, they just start gambling again.”

  The next day, as he cleaned, I ventured to ask, “Mongkol, I’ve heard that gambling is quite popular in the workers’ hostel these days.”

  He eyed me warily. “It’s just for fun.”

  “Playing cards to pass the time is harmless, but imagine putting an entire month’s hard-earned wages on the table—how foolish that would be!” I kept my eyes on him, refusing to let him off the hook.

  He twisted the mop in his hands, his face completely blank. Observing how coldly he’d reacted, I swallowed the next few words I’d intended to say.

  Mongkol avoided me over the next few days, probably afraid I’d interrogate him more about gambling. He arrived in a hurry, performed his duties in a slipshod manner, then left as soon as he could. It was only one afternoon, having hit rock bottom, that he finally revealed what was bothering him.

  On that day, he came to our little white house as usual, filled a bucket and walked into the living room. Like always, I sat in the kitchen drinking coffee. Normally, just as I was finishing my first cup, Mongkol would come through with the dirty laundry, having done the floors. But strangely, on this day I got through two cups of coffee without hearing any movement from the other room. I stuck my head in to investigate, and got a fright to see Mongkol squatting in the centre of the living room, his arms hanging loosely, his eyes blank, as if he didn’t know where he was. I walked over and said, “Mongkol, what’s wrong?”

  Even my gentle voice caused him to jump violently. He stood up, his entire face flushed red.

  “Mongkol, if you’re not feeling well, you can go back and rest, don’t worry about the remaining chores.”

  “I—no, it’s nothing.”

  “Or come and have a cup of coffee first. Would you like that?”

  He hesitated for a long while before nodding slowly.

  In the kitchen, he clutched his steaming mug, his listless gaze directed at the floor. Suddenly, without preamble, he uttered, “Ma’am, you were right.”

  “Yes?”

  “I shouldn’t have gambled away my hard-earned money.”

  His face was pinched with tension. I asked clumsily, “Did you—lose a lot?”

  “Yes, a lot.” His expression turned bitter. “I haven’t sent any money home for a month now.”

  “What!” I shouted, and immediately saw before my eyes his son’s clean-cut face, his dreams of becoming a doctor. “Mongkol—”

  “Ma’am,” he waved to interrupt me. “I used to look at other people gambling and think how useless they were, how backward. And now I’ve become the most useless, backward one of all!”

  “Don’t say that, Mongkol.” I knew gambling was as addictive as opium, impossible to quit, but still I said, “If you just stop now, won’t everything be okay again?”

  “I still owe my workmates a lot of money. I just need to win enough to clear my debts, and then I’ll stop,” he said heavily.

  But gamblers lose nine times out of ten; wagering even more money to clear gambling debts—this was the talk of a madman.

  “Mongkol, please don’t gamble anymore,” I urged him. “What if you got an advance on next month’s salary? I’ll ask Mr Lim for you, if you like.”

  “No! No!” He shook his head stubbornly. “Don’t trouble yourself. I can sort out my own difficulties.”

  That night, I spoke to James about Mongkol again. He said Mongkol’s attitude and commitment were worsening at work, and he was neglecting many of his duties, sometimes even dozing off during office hours.

  “The kitchen supervisor has warned him several times. If he doesn’t buck up, the company may cut his wages as punishment.”

  That such a lively, hard-working person could be so transformed by gambling—I shook my head and sighed.

  • • •

  One evening two weeks later, the three of us were crouched on the floor, putting together a jigsaw puzzle. Suddenly, there was an urgent knocking on the door. This sound, echoing through the deep silence of the desert night, sent a shiver through each of us.

  Outside the door was a high-ranking official from the company. Still panting, he gasped, “Workers fighting at the hostel. Please come and take a look.”

  James swiftly tugged on his jacket and rushed out. I tried to silence my thumping heart, and sat with Danny beneath the yellow lamp, continuing to fit jagged pieces of jigsaw together. Danny pouted when he noticed how distracted I was, jamming pieces in where they didn’t belong, and yelled, “Mama, you’re doing this all wrong, I don’t want to play with you anymore!”

  I took the opportunity to dispatch him quickly to bed.

  It was a dark, windless night, but still freezing cold. I sat alone on the stone steps outside the house, looking at the black silhouettes of mountains in the distance, nursing anxiety in my heart.

  James finally came back close to midnight, by which time the whole desert was so still you could hear the very sound of loneliness, the kind of solitude that presses on your heart and creates a niggling pain.

  “What happened?” I asked urgently.

  “It’s fixed.” James, looking utterly exhausted, was stingy with his words.

  “Fixed how?” I persisted.

  “Fired Mongkol.”

  “What!” I clutched at his arm, crying out, “Why? Why fire him?”

  “Fighting. He almost gouged out another Thai worker’s eye.” Rage trembled beneath the surface of his voice.

  “He—how could he do that?” I said, disbelieving.

  “Gambling, of course!” James tumbled onto the sofa and sighed, “He said the other Thai was a cheat, fixing the cards to steal his money.”

  You can’t force a cow to drink if it won’t lower his head. Gamblers are like fish willingly impaling themselves on the fisherman’s hook; Mongkol had swallowed the bait, and was now complaining it was poisoned!

  “He was like a madman. The other guy was almost beaten to death, poor thing.”

  “Didn’t anyone try to stop them?”

  “Of course! But he was in such a frenzy, even several big guys couldn’t pull him off.”

  “And—what about the injured worker?”

  “He’s been sent to hospital. His left eye isn’t looking good. They might not be able to save it.”

  “Blinded!” A great sadness rolled over me. “Was he really a cheat?”

  “Who knows?” answered James impatiently. “Mongkol said so, but couldn’t prove it. And even if he really was cheating at cards, that wasn’t a reason to attack him so viciously.”

  I nodded in agreement. The first person to use violence, however justified he may feel, is still the one at fault.

  “I’ve booked his plane ticket. First thing tomorrow morning, he’ll be leaving for Bangkok,” said James, his face rigid. “When I spoke with him alone, he kept saying he was sorry, asking for another chance. He couldn’t stop crying. But there’s no way to cover this up—it’s far too serious. We have to follow the rules.”

  Mongkol, poor Mongkol, shedding tears.

  Thinking of his smiling, comical face, and his dreams of sending his son to university, I could only lower my head in silence.

  And the night continued, cold and dark, the wind frozen beyond the mountains.

  The Buffalo and the Peacock

  BY THE TIME we arrived at Steven’s place, it was after eight. The wind was high that night, blowing sand all over my face and hair. I panted my way up three flights of stairs, my head grey-white from grit. In truth, around six that evening, I’d looked at the rising sandstorm and wished I could find an excuse not to go—but it would have been terribly rude to break an appointment at the last minute. Steven received guests so seldom, it’d be offensive not to turn up; I had no choice but to suffer through the journey!

  The maid opened the door to us, revealing a houseful of people, chatter and perfume all around. As I entered, my eyes immediately landed on Steven’s wife Gloria. She was wearing a black evening gown in velvet, its V-neck showing off her collarbones, silver threads glittering around the neckline and hem—a sexy, eye-catching outfit. Her make-up, like her voice, was overstated: silver eyeshadow, orange-red lipstick, magnificently seductive. She was clutching a glass of wine, chatting merrily with her guests, crystal earrings swaying flirtatiously with each toss of her head.

  “Hey, Jimmy!”

  It was Steven calling to us. He stood by the table, mixing drinks, his normally dour face now bursting with a broad smile. I felt this grin was pasted on for the benefit of his wife, and normally remained in deep-freeze, only brought out to thaw when Gloria deigned to fly to Jeddah from the States.

  We walked over to him.

  “How are things? And how long is Gloria staying this time round?” asked James.

  “About a month!” he replied, handing us two cocktails.

  “A month?” I was a little surprised. “That long?”

  In my memory, Gloria was a shadow-like figure, only flickering into view for a few days at a time before vanishing again. A few times she’d stayed as little as a couple of days. She loved to travel, and often used Saudi Arabia as a mere transit point, a place to rest for a day or two.

  “Ah—she, um, she has a few things to take care of here,” Steven mumbled.

  I headed to the corner and found a place to sit down. Glori
a’s voice, like marbles scattered across the floor, seemed to roll into every corner of the house. It felt as if she hadn’t had the chance to speak for many years and now, afraid the words lodged in her belly had begun to fester, was spitting them out in long streams.

  Most of the people hovering by Gloria’s side were men. Some were Steven’s colleagues, but there were others too. Gloria enjoyed the hubbub, and loved to be social, so each time she visited, Steven did as she asked and threw her a party. The men were always delighted to be invited, particularly as Steven’s home contained a secret stash of alcohol that he generously pressed on his visitors—an oasis in the desert of Saudi Arabia’s strict anti-drinking laws. If they grew too drunk, his guests were welcome to stay the night. But to my thinking, there was another element attracting them here, and that was Gloria herself. An uninhibited woman, she loved being surrounded by fun and excitement, taking such delight in conversation that, when she reached a point of pure happiness, she’d explode into laughter as if no one were present but her. The men flirted shamelessly with her, but not only did she never grow cross with them, they provoked her into delicious, quivering laughter.

  Oddly, the stolid Steven saw all of this, but like a pool of still water, he never grew annoyed or agitated, behaving as if it were normal. If Gloria was an untameable wild horse, then Steven was no whip-wielding horse-tamer, but the saddle on the horse’s back, facing east when she faced east, west when she turned in that direction, sitting and standing along with her. Was this what was meant by the saying, “The deepest love bears no grudge”?

  That evening, I developed a headache and left early, so I had no idea what time the party finally ended, or in what manner. But I did start planning to invite them over in return.

  • • •

  Two days later, we had dinner with Gloria and Steven at a French restaurant known for their steaks. Air-freighted from abroad, the beef was tender and delicious.

  Gloria was in high spirits, her speech animated. She prattled on about snow in Switzerland, cheese in the Netherlands, fashion in France, casinos in Monaco, bullfighting in Spain…Her eyes gleamed as she spoke, her expression glowing with vigour.

  “I can’t imagine how impoverished and empty my life would be, if I couldn’t go travelling.” She nudged Steven, batting her eye-lashes at him. “Sweetheart, don’t you agree?”

  Steven said nothing, only smiled indulgently at her.

  “You’ve been to every country in Western Europe more than once. Why don’t you have a look around the Middle East instead?” I asked curiously. “Now that you’re in Saudi Arabia, why not visit the countries in the vicinity, like Jordan, Syria or Egypt?”

  “You’re joking!” Her brown eyes flashed at me. “What would I do in these places, except suffer?”

  I stared at her, not comprehending.

  “Really, just think about it. What’s the whole point of travelling?” she said insistently. “These countries are so backward and so conservative, why on earth would I go there? If it wasn’t for Steven, I wouldn’t even put one foot inside a hellhole like Saudi Arabia.”

  We were on different paths, unable to meet. She was a spoilt, overgrown child. For her, life existed solely for pleasure. How could we have a conversation about the purpose and significance of travel? No, she’d only look at me as if I were an alien.

  “So, where’s your next stop?” I asked blandly.

  “Paris.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “For fun, but also to pick up some stock.”

  “Pick up stock?” I was confused. “What stock?”

  “Oh, didn’t Steven tell you?” She reached out with an exaggerated gesture to fondle her husband’s earlobe. “What’s wrong with you, keeping this to yourself. Thank goodness you aren’t my publicist.”

  Steven reached for her hand and held it in his own, stroking it. She turned to us and began speaking animatedly. “I’ve gone in together with a friend to open a boutique in Los Angeles. She’s in charge of running the shop, and I’ll take on the designing and purchasing of materials. You know how it is, the beginning of anything is always the hardest, and I can’t get my hands on the capital I need to start things moving. Steven’s agreed to help me raise the cash.” She sighed deeply. “But that means I’m stuck here for a whole month. I think I’ll go mad, it’s so dull here, there’s nothing at all to do! I wanted to go straight to Paris, but Steven won’t let me.”

  I glanced at Steven and noticed a muscle in his cheek twitching.

  He was extremely thin, so thin he came across as rather fragile. If he’d only gain some weight, he’d probably be quite good-looking. As it was, the most noticeable feature in his emaciated face was his amber-coloured eyes that seemed to change colour, sometimes pale yellow, sometimes hazel, sometimes auburn, depending on his mood. I’d noticed that whenever he grew agitated, his pupils would slowly darken.

  At that moment, those amber eyes were like a dark lake, so deep you couldn’t see the bottom.

  Love really is incomprehensible. How could a man like Steven, his emotions normally locked carefully at the bottom of his heart, give himself to a woman like Gloria who had no secrets at all, but artlessly spoke aloud every thought that entered her brain? Did Gloria love him back? I didn’t know, or at least I couldn’t tell. If she loved him, truly loved him, she surely wouldn’t flirt so openly with other men to his face, nor would she leave him toiling away in Saudi Arabia all these years, while she remained at home happily spending his hard-earned cash. And surely a woman in love wouldn’t complain so bitterly about having to spend a month by the side of her husband, claiming it was agonisingly boring, that each day felt like a year? I suspected that if placed on either side of a celestial scale, this couple would not be in equilibrium.

  It was eleven by the time we finished eating. Gloria was still full of energy, and invited us round to a friend’s house for some music and dancing. Anxious about leaving our son with the babysitter too long, I hurriedly declined.

  As we walked to the car park, I noticed the very different ways Gloria and Steven walked. In her loose, full dress, Gloria strode confidently, shoulders swivelling, her colourful clothing and gait making her resemble a peacock with its tail fanned out. As for Steven, he plodded along with lowered head, like a loyal, hardworking water buffalo.

  The water buffalo laboured away without complaint, in order for the peacock to be comfortable and able to constantly beautify herself. The pity of it was, the peacock was incapable of gratitude, viewing this instead as the natural state of affairs.

  What an unlikely match these two creatures were!

  • • •

  Gloria asked me to go shopping with her.

  “Jeddah only has clothes that cover you from head to toe. Are you thinking of starting a new trend back in LA?” I teased her.

  “Do you think I’m interested in looking like a black widow?” she snapped. “Let me tell you—what I’m after is jewellery.”

  Most of the jewellers were on King Abdul Aziz Street, that incomparably busy thoroughfare in the city centre, full of women who came here to shop, and men who flocked to leer at the women. With Saudi Arabia being an ultra-conservative society, ladies were obliged to cover their faces with black fabric when they left the house, so it was usually impossible to make out their features. When jewellery shopping, however, they had no choice but to lower their veils in order to try on necklaces and earrings, and so each shop usually had men pacing outside pretending to browse the window displays, each pair of eyes focussed past the objects on show to the women’s faces, satisfying their pathetic shreds of curiosity.

  Coming to these places always made me feel my banknotes might as well be hell money, completely worthless in this world—the prices shown beside each item of jewellery were so high as to be meaningless. One of the larger shops had on display an extraordinary diamond, gleaming with a dazzling light, that cost a million dollars. My god, a whole million! An ordinary person could slave away her entire life and, even if she ate and drank nothing, not accumulate that kind of money.

  Gloria stood in front of this stone for a very long time, with the gaze of a little child eyeing an ice cream cone, only without the innocence or delight. Instead, her eyes were filled with a mixture of helplessness and rage. She mumbled, as if talking in her sleep, “I’d die with no regrets, if I could only have this diamond.”