SHORT FICTION
The Bait — Chapter One
Is this relationship doomed?
They are sitting under an umbrella haphazardly propped through a hole in the middle of a plastic table. Her back is fairly straight while he is slumped on his haunches. He is contemplating a glass of lime-coloured, milky concoction with bobbing ice shards, stirring at the contents every few seconds. It is around 7:30pm.
“They’ve promised…I believe they mean it this time,” he exhales, making eye contact for the first time in the 15 minutes since they sat across from each other.
“You’d said that six months ago….” she frowns as she squints at him, daring him to refute her. He lowers his gaze to the drink.
“But I’m really going to work for them. I’m signing the contract tomorrow. You’ll see,” he whispers inaudibly to the half-empty glass twirling between his fingers.
“About time. You’ve been unemployed for a year.”
Silence.
“How much will they be paying you?” she persists, her voice softens in anticipation. You know what he’s like, her mind exclaims. But there’s still a possibility, her heart reasons.
“Don’t know. We haven’t discussed it yet. MYR*XXXX?”
She stares at him.
“What?? How’re you planning to survive on that? If you’re going to take up that job…. ask for something more reasonable.”
He is silent, a protest about to be uttered now sealed into his lips. Out comes a cigarette box, a tiny click, a bluish flicker. He puffs away with that faraway look that always infuriates her. He is insufferable, she fumes. Suddenly, he looks at her, his eyes glinting.
“Did I mention the artwork I’m doing?”
He is avoiding again.
Still, she could not helped being startled. She recalls that he has not done any art, on his own volition, for over two years.
“No…what about?”
“You will see it, when it is ready.” He enunciates every syllable.
“When?”
“You’ll know.”
The room is oblong but spacious. A small bathroom cubicle is attached. The door opens into a small courtyard with a tiny garden patio of sparse herbage. Little pots of bonsai dot the sides of the portico. The room has its own entrance so that she need not walk through the familial hall when she comes home. The porcelain-and-stainless-steel bathroom sparkles, signs of regular scrubbing. The room is lined with five six-foot high bookcases, burdened with books to the degree that of the shelves have slightly caved under the weight. The cases are all covered with glass frames, except for the last one next to the bed, reserved for non-bookish items. It is lined with all manner of bric-a-brac. There is a Russian Babushka, a four-dimensional rubric cube, a crystal snowball with a wooden cottage, a pair of patung goloks, Chinese earthenware and miniature figurines bought from flea markets during travels.
A delicately-made papier-mâché cylindrical tube inlaid with varnished seashells holds the stationery. There are tins of tea of every flavour, a dainty tea-service, a tin of Milo, two huge plain mugs of blue and white, a small container overflowing with cutleries, a jar of chocolate chip cookies, and a bowl of uncut fruits. Two working desks are next to each other; one holds the computer and related paraphernalia while the other triples as a writing desk, dining table and dressing table. The desk is arrayed with cosmetic cleansers, potted creams, other beauty aids, with a folded mirror fitted to a hook that is screwed onto the side of the table.
The door opens and she walks in, leaving her shoes slightly askew on the rack. After setting her handbag and briefcase carefully at the bottom nook of the open shelf, she gathers some fresh clothes and goes into the bathroom.
Half an hour later, she is by her writing desk, stretching to the opened tablet and pen. She scans through her notes, then turns to a fresh page, and starts to scribble furiously. She likes to handwrite all her drafts until she is satisfied before typing them up.
Claudine was alone at her table, nursing her champagne. She wore a gorgeously set, brilliant-cut diamond lavaliere that used to belong to her mother, and a form-fitting, bias-cut silver lame dress with matching dangling earrings and a pair of white satin slides. She was the epitome of beauty, elegance, and poise; except for the disconsolate look on her face. Her eyes were furtively darting to the other side of the room, to a particular table. More specifically, they were gazing over at a laughing couple at a table near the centre of the restaurant. It was a ritzy place, but that girl, Eva was simply dressed, like a college student, in white peasant blouse and cigarette pants. No make-up other than a dash of lipstick, no accessories beyond the chunky watch she was wearing; her wavy, shoulder length, black hair is lightly styled. But Claudine’s attention was fixed on Rolf, dashing in his evening dress, oblivious to anyone else other than Eva. Claudine noted disdainfully that he seemed unperturbed by Eva’s inappropriate attire, though she must admit, somewhat reluctantly, that the girl still looks good.
Claudine’s eyes narrow as she saw him giving Eva a beautifully wrapped box. She felt a dull ache in the recesses of her heart and took another sip at her drink. Despite her attempt at looking inscrutable, she had paled a shade under her CC cream.
Eva unwrapped the box carefully, looking startled yet pleased as she fished out something from within. She held a large hardcover book which she proceeded to open. After a short interval, she looked up and smiled at Rolf, her lips moving slightly. He gently took the book and turned it over to the other side. A small, beautiful leather case was lightly stuck to the centre jacket of the book’s flap, in a manner so ingenious as to leave no mark or dent on either the case or the book. He detached the case and snapped it open. Then, holding something glittery, he got up, went behind Eva, and clasped it onto her neck, gently caressing her nape as he did so.
A familiar tune floats from inside her handbag. She purses her lips in irritation and drags herself off the chair to the other side of the room to the bag with polyphonic tones ululating from its belly.
“What?”
“Can I … Can I see you tomorrow?” His voice hesitant at the other end.
“Why? You’d nothing to say just now. If you do now, then say it, over the phone.”
“I’m sorry. I’m tired. But I do want to talk to you tomorrow…. really…”
“We’ll see. Call me again … before 5 pm,” She sets her mobile phone to silent.
She turns back to her tablet. Eugh, too contrived. She will have to rewrite. She sucks in her breathe sharply as she thinks of the lack of progress. She has been working on the same chapter for the past six months. She then slowly exhales.
After her beauty regiment, she dons a silk slip of peaches and cream before curling into bed. Under the comforter, snuggling sideways, she lightly glides her right index finger up her bare legs, feels her skin through the sheer slip. She then kisses the tip of that finger and promptly falls asleep. But not before an image flits pass her mind.
Prone on a moth-eaten mattress, legs out-stretch, and smoke curling through the ends of a stumpy cigarette, his eyes absentmindedly take in the lattice square of the white-washed ceiling with peeling plaster; his head propped on an unsheathed pillow. A low table next to the mattress is strewn with half-done sketches, all with the face of a young woman. It looks like the artist has attempted many angles, some showing the body, some only the face.
A red and white mengkuang cushion is the base to the rest of the furniture, which consists of a few stools for the only table in the square room, a low shelf with some books, a mug with spoon and three huge rattan baskets. His knapsack stands at the corner. The walls are bare except for some posters he had done for previous jobs, three paintings from his art school days, and two cheap reprints of Matisse and Dali with the ends already curling.
It is almost 1 am. For the past four hours, he has been working on the sketches which are now on the table but he remains unsatisfied. He feels like getting a teh-tarik but decides against it, remembering his resolution to be more cautious with the balance of his slender savings. He looks at the sketches, his forehead wrinkling in contemplation. Grabbing a piece of charcoal from a former Premier tissue box, he colours inside the feathery lines he made.
After a second cigarette break, he looks at his imitation Swatch. The hands are pointed at two and six, indicating that it is now the wee hours of the morning. He needs to catch up on sleep.
Just before he dozes off, an image glides through his mind.
To be continued…
Glossary
- Patung golok — wooden puppets used in shadow puppetry performances, originally from Indonesia.
- MYR — Malaysian Ringgit.
- Milo — a popular cocoa-flavoured drink in Southeast Asia.
- Mengkuang — known also as screw pine, its scientific name is Enstonea Atrocarpa, a grasslike plant species frequently found in Malaysia, Thailand, and Indonesia.
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