Tuesday, November 01, 2005,3:25 PM
Frangipani
“Papa, can you accompany me out for supper? I am hungry,” I said.

My father was comfortably tucked between the sheets in his bedroom. His reading glasses rested at the tip of his nose. He was gently dozing off when I came into the room at 2100 hours. He made some noises as he got up.

“Papa, can you accompany me for supper?” I asked him again.

“Mmmm…” he said.

He rubbed his eyes, sat up and leaned against the headboard. He pushed his glasses back into position, at the bridge of his nose. He looked at me. I walked closer towards him, hopped onto the bed and sat next to him.

“Can you please?” I asked.

“Why don’t you just have some instant noodles at home?” he asked.

“I am craving for the fried noodles,” I replied.

“Okay, just give me five minutes to stretch and get ready,” my father said.

I switched to Channel 8. A young man and a girl were hosting a talk show. My father got up and changed into a pair of dark blue trousers. He picked the comb on the dressing table and combed his hair. He flicked the comb to the right, then to the left. Placed the comb down, took another look at himself. Slowly he pushed his hair downwards, flattened his upswept hair.

I took my car keys and we took a ten minutes drive to the night market. The street was busy with all the peddlers vying for the attention of passer bys. Pirated DVD sellers with movies so new, they were not even shown on the local cinemas yet. Fruit sellers and their local fruits all laid out on mats, middle aged ladies selling T-shirts imported from China and Thailand. An Indian man and his wife, busy deep frying some ground nuts.

A family of four stood up, they were ready to leave their table. My father walked towards the soon to be vacant table. They exchanged smiles. I walked towards the cook and placed my order. A plate of friend noodles, just a little spicy. The cook was a lady, perhaps in her forties. A red cap absorbed her tiny beads of sweat as she worked tirelessly by the huge stove. There was an Indonesian lady who collected the orders and brought the orders to different tables.

“How is your book coming along?” my father asked.

“I am suffering from writer’s block.” I sighed.

The night was clear. The pale moonlight shone, illuminated the whole street with its magnificent light. It was amazing how the moon reflected sun light and shone so beautifully. The night was humid. There was noise everywhere as people walked through the streets in search of good buys for the week. Young children squeezed through the crowds of people as they played tag. Their laughter infected those who watched them play.

We took a stroll down the street. Bought a packet of jackfruit from a young boy. He was barely twelve years old but he was skilled. He added and subtracted with great ease, having helped his family in the evenings as they traveled from one night market to another, selling fruits. What a hardworking and smart boy, I thought to myself.

As we snaked down the street, I stopped by a stall selling beautiful hair clips. I reached my right hand out and picked up a hairpin. I pinned it to my hair and looked into the mirror. Pleased with what I saw, I turned around and searched for my father.

“Papa? Do you think this looks nice?” I asked.

“You look pretty.”

“Do you think I should buy it?” I asked my father.

I believe not many fathers accompany their daughters shopping. However this was the special relationship I shared with my father. As a child, it was my father who accompanied me when I shopped Chinese New Year dresses. He was the one to teach me about sex and especially about men. We spent many hours chatting and I confided in him like my close friend.

“Do you think I should buy this?” I asked him again. I turned my head to the left, revealing a pretty artificial white frangipani, glued to the hairpin. I loved quirky pieces of clothes and was never one who enjoyed girlish outfits. But there was something about that white frangipani.

“Well,” my father said, “Are you sure you want to wear a white frangipani?”

The lady had a pink plastic bag ready. She was convinced that I would buy the hairpin. Her sales pitch was perfect: Oh looks very good on you. Very cheap, cannot find anywhere else. Give you special price because you are so pretty looking. You won’t find anywhere else. RM3.50, good discount. She placed one of the hairpins into a pink plastic bag.

“You know that white frangipanis are planted in many cemeteries,” my father said.

I put the white frangipani hairpin down. I smiled at the lady and shook my head.


***
“Otto…” the voice on the mobile phone said, “Please come and pick me home…”

I mumbled. I kicked the duvet and rolled over to my right, my toes peeked out at the end of the duvet.

“I don’t know where I am…” the voice struggled on.

It sounded very noisy and I could hardly hear a word he said. He sounded confused. The bass thumped hard, so loud it was that I placed the mobile phone a little away from my right ear.

“Aidan, it’s half five…” I mumbled.

“Please…”

His voice was frail. He was disoriented and he was mumbling, “It’s noisy. I don’t know where I am. They are still in there. I can’t take it anymore.”

I took a deep breath. Exhaled. I rubbed my eyes. I wriggled my toes. With the duvet up to my neck each night, my toes peeked out of it. Those ten toes moderated the temperature underneath the down duvet. I rolled onto my stomach, switched the mobile phone from my right ear to my left.

“Please…” he said again.

“It’s too late, Aidan. I need to work tomorrow,” I said.

“Please Otto, please…”

I wore a sweater on top of my pajamas. I was determined to fetch him home and then rush home for the last few minutes of slumber. Drove down some junctions. Not a single car insight. I yawned. Took a left and parked in front of a club. I looked around but he was nowhere in sight.

“I’m outside,” I said.

“I don’t know where the door is,” he said. He sounded so pathetic and sad, lost in the underground dance floor.

“Just concentrate and look for the ‘exit’ sign, Aidan.” I said.

Some minutes later, I saw him walking towards the car. You know how you try to aim a bowling ball down a lane and it sways to the side? That was how Aidan was. He tried hard to walk straight but he was swaying to the left. Then he swayed to the right. Then he reached my car. He pulled the door, looked into the car and smiled.

“Hi,” he said, “Thank you, Otto.”

“Get in. We are going home,” I said.

He sat in the passanger seat. I buckled him into the seat. His eyes were glazed. He was not able to sit still, having sway to the left or to the right. He laughed.

“Okay two rules, remember? One, no puking in my car,” I said.

He nodded his head.

“Two, no swearing…” he said.

He leaned his head against the window. His eyes closed, he panted.

I switched on the headlights and drove down the street. Everywhere else in the city was quiet and dead but on this street, there were stalls selling warm drinks and supper for the bar hoppers and pill poppers. People were walking everywhere; groups of friends out on a night of high and fun.

“What are you on?” I asked.

“Two tabs of E,”

“And earlier in the night?” I quizzed him.

“Some shit joints at Cassie’s,” he replied.

I was a little annoyed. Okay, I was feeling rather unforgiving and impatient as I drove him home that morning. Anyone would have felt the same, given the circumstances. What an ungodly hour it was to be awake! It was almost 0600 hours and the day was about to start. The moon was sat low, large and bluish gray against the horizon.

Sniffle, sniffle. I sneezed. Twice. Held onto the steering wheel. Closed my eyes and sneezed again. My eyes were runny. So was my nose. I sniffled and reached out for a piece of tissue paper.

“Can we stop at Seven-Eleven?” he asked, “I need to get some ciggies.”

He came back into the car with a small plastic bag. I was puzzled but refrained from asking him any questions. What is the use of asking someone who drank probably three bottles of Heineken, five shots of vodka and had 2 tablets of amphetamine and joints that he could not even remember. I knew better.

I reached out and turned my right palm up. He searched for his house keys. He passed them to me when he found them. He lit a cigarette. A puff of smoke later, the main door was opened. His paintings littered the whole floor space in his small living room. Paint bottles and brushes were everywhere, on all table surfaces, on the floor, on the shelves, everywhere.

“Oh don’t go,” Aidan said, “Come watch the water lily bloom.”

I looked at the pond. A water lily planted in the middle of the pond that Aidan made some months ago as a weekend project. He said the sound of the water swirling in the pond soothed his soul and gave him inspirations. It was not going to bloom then. It was not going to bloom for the next few days.

I sneezed. I loved early mornings. However the coolness of dawn often triggered a round of rhinitis. I took a deep breath, pushed my hair to the back and looked at him.

“We can watch another day, okay?” I replied, “It’s time to sleep. Go to bed, Aidan.”

“Come sit with me please. There will not be another day.”

He held onto the plastic bag, his cigarette dangling between his pursed lips. He walked me to the pond.

“Come sit with me… please…” he said with great emphasis, “There will not be another day.”

I hated moments like this. Moments when his mind was colors twirling in a never-ending tunnel. Moments when he was dancing the fine line the conscious and the darkest depths of his mind. Moments when he was an innocent as a child. Moments when he painted the most beautiful. Moments when I had to drag him home.

Aidan pointed towards the garden bench and patted it. I sighed and sat on the chair. I looked at the water lily, still a young bud. I looked at Aidan. Ashes were falling off his cigarette. He walked back into the house. He came back out with a duvet in his hands. Aidan placed the duvet on my lap. He pulled the blue duvet up towards my back and wrapped it around me.

“That’ll keep you warm,” he said, then patted my head gently.

He walked back into the house and came out with a glass of water. He placed the glass of water on a makeshift table made from pieces of wood found by the side of a road. One of its legs was shorter and the glass of water tilted towards it. Aidan opened the plastic bag and took out a box of Tylenol.

“Have two. They will help decongest your nose,”

He took two tablets out from the box, passed them to me along with the glass of water. I reached out and took them. Dumbfounded. I placed them on the table again.

“Swallow them,” he said.

“I don’t want to,”

“Swallow them,” he said again.

“No Aidan, I don’t like taking medicine,”

“If you take them, I have a small reward for you…” Aidan said.

He reached down, to the plastic bag between his feet. He reached into the bag, muddled around it a little. I looked on, curious of what he had in his little plastic bag.

“If you take those Tylenols, I’ll give you your favorite sweetie,” he said. He waved the tube of Mentos and smiled. “I know, I know… just the orange flavoured ones.” He smiled again.

I reached out for the glass of water and the two Tylenols. Popped them into my mouth and sipped some water. Aidan looked satisfied. He smiled. He opened the tube of Mentos and searched for the orange flavored ones. The first was a purple, so he placed it in his mouth. The second was a yellow. He placed it on the table, next to the glass of water. The third was yet another yellow.

I coughed the two Tylenols into my left hand while he was searching for it. Placed them sweater. I look on as he searched for my favourite Mentos, the orange flavored. Aidan finally found out and quickly placed it into my palm. I popped the Mentos into my mouth, twirled it in my mouth. I smiled.

Suddenly he grabbed my hand and pulled me to another part of his garden. There was a huge pot (the largest in the garden) at the end of the pond. He lit a cigarette and took a close look at it. He sighed.


“She is suffering from fungus at the moment but she'll get better,” he said, looking at the leaves.

“Your plant is a female?” I asked.

“But of course… and when she grows up, my frangipani will blossom into the most elegant of all flowers,” Aidan said. He looked at another leave, looked at it and let out another sigh.

“Guess what’s her name?” he asked.

I enjoyed conversations with Aidan. You will never know what he would say next. For example, we discussed on the possibility of life on other planets over last weekend. He was completing a piece of painting entitled, "Nude And The Frangipani". He painted at the edge of the coffee table, near the sofa where I sat with a book in my hand. Alternate Sundays were fun at Aidan’s, having spent them painting and making great conversations. All these while reading The Five People You Meet In Heaven.

Conversation revolved around the possibility of other life forms on other planets. Aidan believed that there were beings far more superior than the human race and he was convinced that some day, these beings will visit us when we are ready. And when will the human race ever be ready? When mankind reached a state of peace, he replied. I doubted any life forms will ever visit us. If they are smart enough, they would not. Mankind are great fuck-ups. He laughed when I said that.

“So what is her name?” I gently asked Aidan.

He laughed to himself. He swept his hair back and looked at the fungus infected leaves again. It felt almost redundant to repeat the question again. The moon was long gone and sun was rising. Other than a dog barking three doors away, everything was still. He had heard of my question but for a long time, Aidan did not look at me nor speak to me.

“Oh my darling, don’t worry. I will protect you and make you well,” he said. He patted a leaf on the white frangipani tree, “I promise you, Otto, you will be the most beautiful frangipani tree on earth.”
 
posted by Otto
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