Tham Cheng-E - Surrogate Protocol

Arthur smothered his vexation. “Mm goi ler.”

There were three sublet bedrooms. Hannah’s door had a coat of pale green paint and a round brass handle drooped and jiggled. Inside Arthur found an unadorned double-leaf wardrobe. A bed clad in white sheets flecked with tiny printed flowers. A dresser with a gilded, elliptical swivelling mirror and a small hardwood box. Everything basked in the mellow glow of daylight through orange curtains. A floral scent hung in the air like a haunting spirit. It carried with it a familiar longing that made Arthur’s his heart race.

He sat down on the bed and ran his hand adoringly across the sheets. Against a wall he saw three sacks. He sifted through them and found clothes, some bedcovers, books, a Gideon Bible. Then curiosity drove him towards a wooden box on the dresser. It was crafted of lacquered jelutong and resin inlay. The landlady had probably fished it out of the sacks thinking she could sell it. But he could tell that it wasn’t valuable, although it was well-made. He flipped open its lid and a melody infused the room like an old perfume. In the box there were hairpins, dozens of them; ornamented and pearly, most of them murky with an oxidised crust.

He shut the lid and killed the haunting tune.

The wardrobe doors opened soundlessly. Mirrors on the inner panels, its interior redolent of the same familiar scent. Only a few dresses hung from an old brass bar. They must’ve been the nicer pieces. Quite a snake of the landlady to be sifting through her things like that. Arthur slid them aside one after another and stopped at one— an old, high-collared Mandarin gown in red silk and black lace.

A memory sparked and died as soon as it entered his head. It left an imprint—a floating spot in his vision. And the harder he tried to give it clarity the faster it slipped, like sand between his fingers. He lifted the gown off its hanger and draped it over his arm. That landlady wouldn’t care much for hairpins. But for this he would have to make her a deal.

In the months after, Arthur lived off a meagre income he got from a till job at Fitzpatrick’s supermarket. Then shortly before Christmas he landed himself an interview for a barista opening at the Robinsons Café at Raffles Place.

“The coffee’s good.” Robert swallowed the brew with an audible gulp. “Where’d you learn how to use these?” he thumbed at the antiquated percolator behind the counter.

“London,” said Arthur. “I worked at the Ace Café for a few years.”

Robert lifted his thick, shaggy brows in admiration. “The leather boys, huh.”

“I’ve seen them.”

Robert stared at Arthur long enough to induce a twinge of discomfort. “I find a certain semblance in you,” he said, wagging his finger pedantically.

He got up from the bar stool, went over to an oak-panelled wall behind the counter where an old daguerreotype hung. It depicted a small group of men and women behind the counter; at the centre stood an aged but elegant Caucasian lady, and beside her a young man with his arms propped casually against the countertop. He was a spitting image of Arthur.

“Very mystifying,” said Robert, alternating his sight between Arthur and the daguerreotype. “You’re a doppelganger.”

Arthur’s stomach churned. “May I know when this was taken?”

Robert squinted at the lower right corner. “It says February 2nd, 1942. I heard we’d only had one bloke running the café before the surrender.”

“That might explain it,” said Arthur, feeling immensely relieved at having consulted his journals before the interview. “My father worked here when he got hurt in a bombing raid. He told me stories of how this place became a sanctuary when food and water ran low, and of how generous the store managers were.” He went over and passed a fond finger over his own face, smiling at the fascination of it all. “This man is my father.”

“Well, damned if I hadn’t met him in person,” said Robert, giving off a brisk chortle. “A little war hero of our own! On this account I should be obliged to give you the job!”

“He has passed on, I’m afraid.”

Robert frowned. “So sorry to hear. What was his name?”

For a moment Arthur stood gobsmacked. Then it came to him in an epiphany and he seized it before it slipped back into the depths. “Anton, sir,” he said. “Anton Lock.”

“I would have to look him up in the records then,” Robert said. “Now for one last thing.” He pulled out a pulpy blue card from a clipboard. “You have a very old IC, and you know they’ve changed it since ‘66. I need to know if it’s legitimate.”

“It is, sir,” said Arthur. “I got registered in ‘55.”

“Still, you could’ve changed it in ‘66 when you had the chance.”

“I was away in London.” Arthur was prepared for this.

Robert sized Arthur up with that formidable gaze of his. But this time Arthur secured his trust with a steadfast disposition. “You will get it changed as soon as you can?” said Robert. “We take no chances in this country.”

“Certainly, sir.”

A young lady breezed into the café wearing groovy tiered ginghams and velour bell bottoms. An expensive-looking bag hung from the crook of her arm and large red hoops dangled from her earlobes. She strutted past them, her clogs clattering on the floorboards, and headed straight for the glass counter where the muffins were kept and ordered one.

“You’re paying for that, I suppose.” Robert’s voice bore down on her.

“I am.” The young lady rummaged her purse for coins.

“You put it on credit the last time. Staff gets discounts, not free breakfasts.”

“Paid my due, Mr Marshall.” The young lady turned to leave, taking along her muffin in a bag.

Robert’s arm shot out and halted her. Then turning to Arthur he said, “Keep tabs on her, my friend. No more credits on her morning muffins. This café accepts cash only.”

Arthur greeted the young lady, whose brief glance towards him had the unmistakable air of condescension. Robert said to her, “Meet Arthur, our new barista.” Then turning to Arthur he said, “Arthur, meet Rachel.”

Arthur offered his hand, but Rachel merely shouldered past Robert’s outstretched arm and went on her way.

Dear Arthur,

I trust this letter finds you warm and snug in wintry London. I know London hardly snows. It is often wet and grey in winter, so I hope this letter dispels the dreariness and brings you cheer.

A piece of good news: I wrote in my previous letter that military enlistment comes officially in force in March this year. Last month I verified with the manpower office that you do not exist. Please don’t whinge over this because it keeps you safe. You have an interim identity in London which I hope you will guard diligently so that life will be easier for the both of us. Arrangements will be made for your return in another year, two at the latest.

I must apologise for not allowing you to write me. Again, it is for your protection. You must’ve known by now that Graeme Sanderson at Ace is part of this. He’s here to help, but he’s only paid to and he knows too little to give you any information that’s of worth. Otherwise he’s a good guy so please go easy on him, unless he’s trying to turn you into one of his leather biker boys.

I hope Ifor Evans Hall is adequate residence for you over the past four months. I apologise for the relocation and the fact that you have to put up with the student bashes, fundraising and all of that. Hotels and apartments have too many eyes and ears in them. Student residences are a better choice.