Tham Cheng-E - Surrogate Protocol

With the town still reeling from yesterday’s riots, it would’ve been a miracle if any businesses ran at all, considering the risks. The plump, polygamous owner of Prosperous Hong decided it would operate regardless and persuaded his stall tenants to return with the promise of a discount on the month’s rent. Arthur had given his word so he had to work. It probably augured good business.

But that morning Prosperous Hong saw only its few elderly regulars, whose habit of burying their noses in the morning papers over a cup of coffee or tea remained unbroken, killer mobs or not.

Arthur sat Poppy down on an old wicker couch in a crummy backroom, and brought water to a boil in an earthenware pot for the medicine before he got started on the coffee roasting. He lit charcoal in a stone stove, fanned the embers to a healthy glow and kicked it under the oven—a sooty contraption of a steel barrel turned on its side. In went the beans, three huge dollops of butter, and Arthur started revolving the barrel with turns of the crank.

The alley basked in its rattle. Otherwise the morning was still. Then salvos of childish whooping broke the harmony. It was too much.

Arthur stopped his work and snatched up a greasy phone in the backroom and dialled for the only help that came to mind. After grovelling over the handset for a few minutes he scooped Poppy into his arms and left the eatery.

The public bus took them to an estate wedged between Margaret Drive and Commonwealth Avenue. Hawkers plied along Dawson Road that ran northwards through the estate, and there Arthur bought milk from an elderly Sikh with four scraggy cows, and bread off a shallow basket perched over a younger Sikh’s white turban. Poppy, though feverish, amused himself by patting the cows’ ribbed barrels before Arthur yanked him away.

They passed into a block of flats that had windows of blue glass and concrete balustrades cast in the likeness of brick patterns flipped vertically. Arthur bore Poppy in his arms and stormed up two flights of stairs, arriving at a compact little foyer that accommodated four flats.

One of them had its door open, and there Hannah stood waiting. She was dressed in a white sleeveless blouse, floral skirt, a knitted headband that kept her hair behind her ears and looked achingly beautiful. From inside the apartment Doris Day was singing Tea for Two .

“Sorry for the late notice,” said Arthur, his breaths deep and heavy.

Hannah turned up her lips at the corners in tepid greeting. She waited, as if she knew he had more to say to her.

“I was thinking of letting out my house at Clacton…” Arthur went on undecidedly. “Is it expensive to rent this place?”

“Thirty-five a month,” she said. “They have the rates at Princess House down the road.” She gave a desultory nod towards a spot somewhere behind her.

“You searched this out on your own?”

Hannah folded her arms. “Why the concern?”

“Nothing.” Arthur smiled uncomfortably. “You just sounded reluctant over the phone.”

“I don’t particularly like children.” Hannah flashed him a look of disdain. “I thought you knew.”

“Sorry, I don’t mean to pry,” said Arthur. “I saw Khun the other day; told him I couldn’t pay him just yet.”

“I’m living alone, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Arthur forced a smile. “Hope he isn’t bothering you.”

“I took care of that.”

“How?”

“Give it a rest, Arthur,” Hannah said, her expression dithering between that of spite and sympathy. “I wouldn’t even let you touch me.”

“That’s good to hear.” Arthur nodded fawningly. “I promised the boss I’d work today, so I really appreciate you helping me out.”

“Come get him at seven, no later, please.”

“Cross my heart.”

Hannah gave him a dutiful twitch of her lips that revealed more impatience than anything else. Arthur didn’t understand. Why the sudden coldness? She’d previously given him the idea that they had something going. The idea of women blowing hot and cold was driving him nuts.

He dug into the paper bag he had brought with him. “I have some milk and bread. Poppy threw up his breakfast earlier. And the medicine,” he handed her the pink triangular packets. “Brew for an hour each and administer every three hours. I suppose you’ll need two before I get back.”

Hannah returned the bottles. “Not the milk. They might carry parasites.”

Arthur kept them. “I was thinking,” he said, raising his tone a little to get Hannah’s attention. “When Poppy recovers maybe we could all go for a show. Mary Poppins just left the cinemas, we could catch it at the drive-ins for half the price.”

“You don’t have a car, Arthur.”

“I could borrow one.”

“We’ll see.”

When Arthur turned to leave Poppy unleashed a feral cry and ran to him. Hannah’s attempt at restraining him only strengthened his resolve in holding Arthur back. She entered the flat and returned with her guitar and caught Poppy’s attention by playing the familiar arpeggios of Romance Anónimo .

Despite hearing difficulties, Poppy could discern sharp and high-pitched sounds, and was particularly fond of the sound of guitars. A few bars into it Hannah offered the guitar to Poppy, whose gaze began shifting tenuously between Arthur and the instrument. It took a final reassurance from Arthur before he took it and tottered into the apartment with Hannah.

The door to Hannah’s flat clicked shut and Arthur was left standing by the threshold.

After all these years, he never understood the distance between them.

On the contrary, Hannah understood everything only too well. She had to keep Arthur close, but how close she herself could never tell. Besides, she didn’t approve of the way he’d taken Poppy in. Children permeated everything. They roused emotions you thought you’d managed to keep in check. And just as you thought you’d achieved stoicism, they tenderised your heart and weakened your will, especially the innocent ones.

Especially orphans.

Her encounters with Arthur and Poppy afforded rare moments when she felt emboldened and compelled to go on living. At the same time, they made her feel vulnerable and burdened. They were making her fear something she never thought she would—death.

Hannah put aside her guitar after playing Romance Anónimo eight times over on Poppy’s request, and in doing so managed to get Poppy to drink the first bitter dose of the sepia-toned herbal concoction. Poppy tapped Hannah’s arm and pointed at the guitar by the wall. When she refused he persisted, tapping and humming and pointing doggedly with his little hand, ceasing only at her reproachful glare because he wasn’t used to her looking that way. Instead she indulged him with a box of faux jewellery while she embroidered.

At lunch they went to a nearby market that sold cooked food, a hubbub of street hawkers on patches of lawn, conducting a symphony of clanking woks and roaring furnaces. At one stall Hannah had congee ladled into a steel warmer. Turning around, she found Poppy by a fruit stall. He was pulling himself over the edge of a crate in an attempt to look inside when it overturned and sent dozens of persimmons bobbing across the rutted ground.

Hannah scrambled to collect the tumbling fruits while Poppy stood guilt-ridden. She returned the sullied persimmons in a little heaps, with an apology. Even then the stallholders fumed. They were a hollow-chested man and his wife with thin, scowling lips and vicious eyes. They derided Hannah’s efforts in a spate of dialect and demanded that she pay for the damages. When she offered to clean the fruits a hail of invectives deplored her acute lack of business sense. By then the commotion had drawn a small crowd.