The Man

A short story

The tick tick ticking grew louder in her ears as she stood in front of the mirror, her hands trembling. She shakily tucked in the loose strands of her long black hair behind her ears. Every second counts when you are a Winged. She could feel The Man as if he was standing at the back of her head, making ripples on her hair that cascaded down to her shoulders with his breathing. The smell of her sakura blossom fragranted shampoo and his Darlie breath intermingling.

She steadied her hands and closed her eyes. Happy place, go to your happy place. The tick tick ticking throbbed and her heartbeats submitted, they synchronised in a tune that was now enlarged, expanded.

Her hands so translucent in front of her, it is a spectre, she, a ghost, plucking stars from the sky. Eight balls of bright light in the palms of her hands, she threw them up and waited for them to settle on her wings like confetti. How the sparks trickled on her arms, making the hairs on them stand up.

Tick, tick, tick.

The day her son was born, the joy, the pain of all the women before her and all the women after her who had to and will be doing the same. The smell of the sterile maternity ward that she shared with eleven other women trying to deny her of that heavenly top of the head newborn smell as she took it all in. The sounds of the mothers aching and the interns shouting orders for nurses to pull catheters out of urethras on bed numbers they call out as if at a cattle drive all drowned out. My baby. A mother. Finally.

Tick, tick, tick.

That serendipitous encounter with a stranger at a cafe, drinking her hot mocha in a paper cup that was peeling on the rim from where she bit whenever she took a sip, leaving tiny teethmarks like a squirrel’s. How the stranger turned out to be The Man, and how he proposed then a method to making her face perfect, her life, perfect. He had sent her to the stars.

She opened her eyes and saw the line across her face, red and swollen like a phlebitis, a long slither of lava enclosed within the surface of her epidermis. It ran from the top of her left eyebrow all the way down to the end of her lips in the morphology of a river. Zig-zaggy. She traced her finger all along it, feeling its nooks and crannies, careful of her own fragility.

The tick tick ticking continued. She looked at her body, so small a Man could fit her in his palms. How was she supposed to use her Wings to fly away if she was tethered by the string of her scar? Being born with it, she always felt the need to wait to be claimed, as if having the scar had left her in a box of lost and found property.

She took out a piece of folded paper out of the left pocket of her white Winged dress, peeked under it like a croupier, and slid it back into the same pocket. She patted on her right pocket and it jiggled and clinked. One last look into the mirror. She was ready.

***

Melur blinked, disappeared, then reappeared under a huge mango tree. The rounded canopy of the tree swayed slightly in the breeze, and under the streetlamp, Melur could see three different colours on each kidney-shaped fruits pulling the branches low with their weight. She tiptoed to reach up and with feet en pointe, she punched her fist through the skin of a reddish orange one that was just above her head. The juice dribbled and Melur took a step back to avoid it dripping onto her head. She licked her hand, savouring the sweet liquid on her tongue and wiped her fingers on the waist of her dress. The yellow sticky smear glowed, then vanished. They must use Persil up there in the White Room. Melur let out a cheeky chuckle.

The Moon was out, watching her. She walked on the edges of the walkway towards the cobalt blue door of the entrance to the house the mango tree belonged to, afraid to use her Wings in case someone was looking. There was a cul-de-sac shaped window next to the door. The curtains were drawn, but she could tell the adults must still be up on account of the flickering light from the TV.

Melur got to the door and flew up. The door opened to reveal an exact replica of her, but in human form, dressed in a silk bathrobe and a towel turban on the top of her head. Melur stared at her face. No scar.

I didn’t think you’d make it, said her twin sister, Melati. Melur shrugged. She could smell the after odour of dinner from the doorway, something cheesy.

He’s upstairs, Melati continued as she moved to the side to let Melur pass through. From the TV, a crowd was laughing.

***

In human form, Melur was a baker. She owned a little cafe in Taman Tun, on the top floor of the old wet market building. Her father, who was a government servant all his life, had made many business connections during his service, but it was his old friend, a fellow MCOBA alumnus who had given him the opportunity to take up the place to rent, at the minimum rate. When her father offered it to his twins, it was Melur who agreed. Showing her father that she supported him in his effort to maintain the status quo has always made her feel safer and more valuable. What was safer than to be depended upon a parent, her own father? As to her value, Melur left that too to the approval of such men. She had only the scar on her face to show otherwise. She was determined to be rid of it as best she could. Her father would be proud.

The wet market still operating on the bottom floors, her customers would come in for coffee or tea and her famous orange oil madeleines, their hands full with the red and yellow plastic shopping bags, their wrists taught with the handles worn like bracelets, threatening to cut off their blood circulation with the weight. She had plastic boxes laid out at each table for them to settle their bags of fruits and vegetables and spices and cut-up chickens and chunks of beef and whole fish heads in. Her customers were mainly middle-aged housewives who would complain to her the signs of their failing bodies and children, share with her their inherited recipes for tripe soup and chicken liver in soy sauce, and gossip about their husbands potential second or third wives. The younger ones who came in for one coffee and stayed for the day would listen to music on their Bosch headphones and edit animations on their laptops while Melur nodded in praise over their shoulders for political cartoon animals she had no motivation for.

As a baker, Melur’s day started early, so on the days where she would bake double, Fridays and Saturdays, she would leave her house at 3am and take the ten minute walk to the cafe, accompanied by the sounds of raucous pub-dwellers and teenagers having roti canai and a glass of milk tea to fill their alcohol-laden stomachs after clubbing before sneaking back home. The building’s Nepalese security guard, Arnon, would help her to slide the metal shutters up and when her muffins were ready, she would put one aside in a brown paper bag with a paper cup of strong tea to gift to Arnon for his company before going home to shower.

On these days, Melati would be the one picking up Melur’s four-year-old son, Firdaus, from school and it was there that he slept now, in a room decorated with his toys, two houses to call his own.

***

Tick, tick, tick.

***

Melur floated above Firdaus’ head and stared lovingly at her son. The Moon gave in and let a triangle of light settle on his face. His eyelashes fluttered slightly. His breath consistent and calm.

Melur reached her arm under his pillow slowly. Her left wing got stuck. He had shifted his body. She couldn’t move. He opened his eyes.

I’m -, Hani stammered.

I knew you were real, Firdaus said with a wide smile that revealed a black space in the front where his tooth was missing. Firdaus didn’t know then that who he was addressing was his own mother. Children (under the age of five) would see an ambiguous face set on a tiny body and would always assume it was the Tooth Fairy, which was exactly the intention of The Man. If anything bad happened, Tooth Fairies would be the one to blame. He sat up propping his pillow, releasing Melur from its hold, ready for whatever it was that was waiting for him. He kept bouncing on the spring foam mattress, and Melur suddenly felt nauseous.

The Buzz Lightyear robot she had bought him for his birthday bobbed up and down on his side. He picked it up, accidentally pressing the red button (to infinity and beyondddd) and placed it upright on his nightstand, next to the table lamp they had made together at the Clay Play and Make Activity Centre. He’d insisted on painting rockets and stars on them, and looking at it now, she saw how much the rockets look more like mushrooms. Mushrooms and stars. There’s a future she wishes he would be able to avoid.

Her fingers trembled as she took the note out of her pocket. The alarm clock shaped as the green alien from Toy Story showed 12.09am in blue light on his belly. She unfolded the paper, and as she looked at Firdaus’ face, she couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. His big eyes glistened in the reflection of her wings and the blue light. This isn’t right.

I’m sure there’s been a terrible mistake, she said out loud, surprised by the clarity and volume of her own voice in the otherwise quiet night.

Her safe word. Mistake.

***

She reappeared a second later in a room that was so brightly lit she had to shield her eyes with her hand in a salute. When her eyes adjusted to the light, she saw the chair, and The Man sitting in it. He was wearing his white suit, with a white shirt underneath, the collar neatly tucked, and the buttons done right up to the visible dip in his neck. His face was clear from stubble and his eyes were bright and large. The sterility and monotony of the White Room made Melur dizzy.

She couldn’t look him in the eye.

He cleared his throat delicately coaxing her attention.

We gave you a choice, and you had said yes, He said, matter-of-factly. He didn’t. She didn’t.

I did, Melur mumbled to her chest.

Read your agreement to me, He said, lacing his fingers together and putting them over his mouth, his elbows propped elegantly on the arms of the chair.

She took out the small piece of note and unfolded it. When she looked at the piece of paper in her hand, it had suddenly become longer, unscrolling as it fell down to her feet with a gentle flop.

I, the undersigned Container, otherwise known as a Winged, vow to do what needs to be done, and in doing so, vow not to allow my feelings or instincts to take over my final decision. I shall do what The Man has deemed fit in order to be the best Container for Him. I shall endure whatever sacrifice that needs to be because I am a Container and nothing else. As a Container, I am obliged to follow the rules of The Man because He is The Man and His way may not be questioned.

The instructions for the Deed is as follows- she looked up to see if He wanted her to continue.

That’s enough for now, He said, unfolding his fingers.

You see, Melur, I believe in you. I know that you can do this, I know that in your heart of hearts that you want to do this. You’re just letting your emotions cloud your judgement, He said, more gently than she had expected. She winced.

I was just talking to Melati’s Man this morning, she’s your sister, isn’t she? He was telling me how much happier He has been since she did her Deed. He cannot lift His eyes off of her, she’s so beautiful. And all she had to do was to let Time pass faster with her daughter, to let her daughter grow up so suddenly she doesn’t notice it, in order to take away her wrinkles. Her Man tells me her skin is so smooth under his touch it feels like whipped cream, He chuckled.

That scar on your face, He continued, after recovering himself from the joke that was not funny, I mean, I don’t mind it, but if it was this easy to get rid of it, wouldn’t you want to?

Do you know what Non-Containers would do if they had a scar like that? He continued on, They would get ‘therapy’- and here he holds his forefingers and middle fingers out and curls them up and down, up and down, -they would put on thick make-up when they go out with friends, deceiving poor, innocent potential Men from ever believing they were without a scar.

But you, all you have to do to get rid of yours is to make sure your son, our son, gets one. I am making it so easy for you, sweetheart. Let him be a Man. He’ll live. He smirked. And most importantly, you and I will be happy.

But he’s my son, I don’t want him getting hurt, she said, pleading with Him.

He’s our son, and he will get hurt whether or not you are the one inflicting it, He said.

He undid the button on his left sleeve and folded the arm of the shirt up to his elbow.

You remember this? It was a raw red line, as thick as a pencil running along his inner forearm. How do you think I got it? Why, from my incompetent Container of a mother, of course. His laugh sounded less condescending than it was tortured. She had a scar on her arm that she wanted to get rid off, so I get a scar on my arm. It’s just the way it is.

And would you know, this scar has made me better, stronger. It’s a mark of survival. A mark of power, He said as a finality.

Now go back and finish your job, He said, and with that, the White Room vanished and Melur disappeared again.

***

Firdaus woke up not knowing what the day had installed for him.

He would get out of bed, brush his teeth and comb his hair, have his cereal in his favourite blue bowl that had a tiny chip on its rim. He would touch the rim before pouring in the milk, as if it was a secret handshake, and smile. He would wash his bowl in the sink, standing on the Ikea wooden stool so he could reach the soap and his Mak Su Melati would let him know who would be picking him up from school today, and whether he would again sleep over here for the night.

He would get his drawing of his family, the one he did last night, the one he needed to present to his whole class today, and he would forget his bag, and would have needed to go back upstairs to get it.

He would get in his Mak Su’s car, rolled down the window and let the wind mess up his hair, shouting as loud as he could and the wind would do its job and carry his voice away.

During recess, he would get punched on his stomach by the Big Ones for showing the whole class his drawing, the one where his father is smiling his great big smile, and him, in the drawing, looking up to him with a smile so similar it looked fake. Copied and pasted on. He wouldn’t know that the other students would find his presentation boring. Boring presentations was a mark of a doodoo head. And doodoo heads needed to be punished.

They wouldn’t have noticed how his mother looked in the drawing either. No one would. They wouldn’t have seen how he had drawn her so small she was almost not there. They wouldn’t have seen her face. They wouldn’t have known that she no longer had her scar.

When he buckled over from the blow to his stomach, he wouldn’t know that another classmate would kick him on his face. He wouldn’t know how the scar it would leave him with for the rest of his life would look so similar to the one his mother had that it almost looked fake. Copied and pasted on. The drawing of his family, with his father and Firdaus smiling, and his mother with her perfect face unsmiling now lay next to him in the mud, looking up at the sky.

A leaf blown up would carry along the message.

It would float away, up and down, up and down, up and down until it reached the mango tree at his Mak Su’s house, the one with the big blue door. In his bedroom, on his bedside table, tucked underneath the lamp he had made with his mother, the one he had painted rockets and stars on, was a five ringgit note, folded so neatly he wouldn’t have noticed it at all.

His green alien alarm clock would go on ticking.