Nury Vittachi - The Feng Shui Detective

Joyce was struck by the sights and smells. It was dark. It was warm. There was something almost frighteningly surreal about the surroundings. In the shadows, fat hawkers appeared and disappeared in the steam from their cooking carts, like djinns conjured up from lamps. Their faces, lit from beneath by their cooking fires, seemed barely half-human. Every few seconds, there would be a sudden woosh and an explosion of conjurer’s smoke as a catty of wet bok choi slid into a super-heated giant wok, before being energetically slapped around with extra-long chopsticks. The sounds of the food market seemed indecently loud in the blackness, which made the night seem further advanced than it was. Against the background roar of several hundred diners talking in that half-shouted style common to Chinese restaurants, there were the cries of the independent vendors with their portable stove-carts, the sizzle of the ‘show’ dishes, the clinks of a thousand bottles and dishes, and the honks of the traffic backed-up on the adjoining high street.

She was half-conscious that it was the sort of lively nighttime, fire-lit gathering that was somehow primal: people must have gathered at dusk like this to share cooked meats over bonfires ever since man evolved. She sensed the appeal of allowing herself to be sucked into the scene, but she felt too unsettled and unconnected to submit to it. She couldn’t relax. She felt her world was one of brightly lit, surgically clean McDonald’s restaurants. This dark, noisy doppelganger was all just a bit too far beyond the boundaries, she mused.

The feng shui master slid his thin form gracefully through the tables, evidently knowing where he was going, although in his companion’s eyes, the restaurants all blurred into one pandemonious dining hall. She followed more tentatively, squinting at her feet to make sure she did not tread on ill-placed bags, children or small dogs.

Suddenly, she felt hungry. Wafts of pungent smoke were drifting from the cooking areas, carrying tempting smells of singed meats. Chilli in the air mingled with the odours of cumin and coriander, the comforting fragrance of boiled rice and the tang of fresh coconut. There was sweet mango, sour shrimp paste, something that smelled like burnt sugar and a hundred other smells she couldn’t identify.

But now where was Wong? He had been right in front of her a minute ago…

There. The geomancer had abruptly stopped and clasped hands with an Indian man of about sixty who had been sitting at a stained, circular table surrounded by small stools. Wong and Sinha had greeted each other with an odd combination of stiff formality and easy warmth. Clasping four hands together, they had looked into each other’s eyes and nodded their heads, their eyes still locked. Then they had swapped verbal greetings while maintaining the tight grip on each other’s fingers.

‘Been too long, Wong. Must meet more often, stop waiting for the mystics.’

‘True. We should make more effort. Let us not end this evening without choosing another date.’

‘Madam Xu’s already here. She has gone to talk to her friend first. Some old customers of hers here, she says. Come, sit. And the young lady.’

Wong had then introduced his assistant to the old Indian, Sinha, an astrologer, and the three of them took their seats. A thin young man had immediately appeared through the haze from the stoves with three plastic tumblers full of lukewarm Chinese tea.

Feeling a little more secure now that they had settled at a table, Joyce sipped the tepid liquid and cast her eyes around at the scene. It always surprised her to see so many young children and even babies out and about at night. You would never see under-fives running around at night in England, she mused. It was milk at seven and bed at half-past, no arguments. Yet in Singapore, children simply seemed to adopt their parents’ schedule, staying up until eleven or midnight, and if they got tired, they just put their heads on the tables and slept where they were.

As she scanned the crowd, she noticed an elegant, chop-stick-thin middle-aged woman approaching their table. On her bony shoulders hung a black cheong-saam with red piping. ‘Madam Xu!’ Sinha leapt to his feet and held the fortune teller’s hands to guide her to her seat. Before sitting, she bowed and smiled at Wong, who rose and bowed his own greeting.

‘And is this the child?’ Madam Xu asked, smiling at Joyce. ‘Hello, xiao pangyou. How old are you?’

‘Seventeen,’ said Joyce, although she had not started a conversation by volunteering such information since she had been a child.

‘And do you want to be a mystic or fortune teller or something similar when you grow up?’

‘Erm. I don’t know. Maybe. I’m just like, studying with Mr Wong at the moment. To write something for my project. It’s very kind of you to let me join the meeting. I hope I won’t be in the way.’ Joyce was shocked to hear herself accepting the role of a polite, model child-something she had never been.

‘I’m sure there will be no problem. Mr Wong explained on the phone that you understood the form of these meetings, that no information derived here ever goes outside. Superintendent Tan is right behind me, and he will speak of things that are official secrets.’

Joyce nodded. ‘Yes, C F told me already. It’s all hush-hush top secret, I know.’

Suddenly a rather delicate male hand appeared on Madam Xu’s shoulder, and a thirty-ish Chinese face loomed over her head. ‘Hello guys and dolls. Sorry I’m late. Quite unforgivable, I know. Helluva cheeky, since I called the meeting. Shall I sit here, is it?’

The question was perfunctory, since it was the only seat remaining. Superintendent Tan greeted Sinha and Wong and blinked quizzically at McQuinnie. A stocky, Malay-Chinese man with a pear-shaped head, he eased himself down into the chair and his eyebrows rose at the young woman opposite. Not just his clothes, but his entire body seemed to have the rumpled air of the overworked civil servant.

‘Please, Superintendent, I must introduce my assistant to you,’ said Wong. ‘I spoke to the others to tell them she is coming. I could not get through to you. You are so busy. She is Joyce McQuinnie. She is helping me this summer. I hope you do not mind she is joining us. She is the daughter of a friend of one of my bosses, so I cannot say no.’

‘Gee, thanks,’ said Joyce, glaring at Wong.

‘Pleased to meet you,’ said the Superintendent, arranging a large pile of papers on the table. ‘Bit young, isn’t she, Wong? I mean, for all this stuff? You know what we sometimes get into. Murders and rapes and things.’

‘I’m not young,’ said Joyce. ‘I know a lot of stuff. You’d be surprised. And I’ve helped Mr Wong on cases already. Murders and things, whatever,’ she added, as if she were discussing the irritation quotient of mosquitoes.

The ever-smiling Madam Xu leaned forwards and beamed at the police detective. ‘She is very mature. I can feel it. You need not worry, Superintendent. Almost as knowledgeable as some of my girls.’

‘I hope not,’ said Tan. ‘Anyway, if you are all comfortable with her here, it’s okay with me too. Good to see you all. You are looking well Madam Xu, and you, Wong. And how’s my old friend Dilip?’

‘I am extremely well and in fine fettle, Superintendent,’ said the elderly Indian. ‘For my happiness to be complete, only your presence was needed. And now you are here.’ He bowed his head gallantly.

‘Very nice speaking as usual,’ said the police officer. ‘Well, first, let me apologise for keeping you waiting. Helluva bad show. But this is worth waiting for. The case which I shall place before you is an interesting one in my humble opinion. Let me just wet my whistle and I will give you all the juiciest details. Under the usual condition of strict secrecy of course,’ he added with a special look at the youngest member of the party.