Tham Cheng-E - Surrogate Protocol

After she lumbered up the next flight and out of sight Anton pried a misshapen journal from his rear pocket and consulted an entry written a week ago:

Got another dose of barbiturate this morning. The good doctor thinks sleep therapy might help if I should have any schizophrenic undertones associated with my memory loss. Otherwise it would have to be a case of syphilis that might still be incubating. He called it general paresis, and insisted that I be completely honest with him concerning any visits to brothels despite countless attempts on my part to convince him otherwise. After waking from the barbiturate he didn’t tell me much, though he said something about my blood being very peculiar and that he’ll need time for a more accurate diagnosis.

It would’ve done Anton some good knowing what exactly was wrong with his blood. The doctor had charged him nothing for the treatments because he regarded Anton to be some sort of a lab rat, and it was for the better since Anton had scarcely been able to make ends meet from peddling cigarettes.

Not that it mattered now because the doctor was dead.

It so happened that at noon Anton was waiting in line by the jinriksha station at Maxwell Road when a Kling approached him. He had been considering the benefits of pulling the night shift as he stood sandwiched between two sweaty, steaming coolies.

Like him they were seeking to bolster their income by pulling rickshaws on days when quayside jobs were few. Even as the laden bumboats docked there’d be a long line of coolies waiting for their turn to unload the cargo. If you were far behind in the line, you missed the work and you didn’t get paid. Rickshaws, on the other hand, were a more reliable source of income. The jinriksha station rented out rickshaws at a good rate of 11 cents a day, and the waiting coolies packed themselves tightly for fear of queue jumping, which almost always degenerated into brawls.

When the Kling came over many greasy, sun-scorched faces turned to him all at once. Anton too looked in their direction, catching waft after waft of their stale, hot breaths. He stared at the Kling and pointed to his chest. Me?

The Kling grinned, revealing a flawless set of white teeth. “Come.”

“I’ve been queuing for an hour,” said Anton. “Not about to give it up.”

“I got something better. A job offer,” said the Kling.

“What job?”

The Kling surveyed the line. “Too many eyes lah. You want to know, you come.”

Anton closed his eyes and made the leap. As soon as he left the queue the coolie behind him stepped forward and pressed in chesttoback against the man in front. The lines advanced a foot, and the waiting continued under the blinding noonday sun.

“Why did you pick me?” Anton asked.

“Because you look too weak to pull rickshaw lah.” The Kling draped an arm over Anton’s shoulders and offered a hand. “My name is Amal.”

“Anton.”

Amal took him a hundred yards down Maxwell Road into an alley where roaches roamed the sewerage-crusted drains, even in the day. There he opened a wicker basket he had been carrying and furtively fished out a bottle of brandy.

“We can sell this.”

“They’re expensive,” said Anton. “I don’t have any money for them.”

“They’re fake one.” Amal wiggled his head at the confession. “Very cheap, so don’t worry about money. I only need you to help carry and move them. And you know,” he said, scratching a cheek, “be lookout lah.”

“Isn’t it illegal?”

“No—” The word came out as a drawling growl, as if Anton had uttered the most ridiculous thing in the world. “If people like the liquor, we re-brand into our own brand lah.”

Anton picked at the back of his ear. “Well, I’m not sure if…”

“If you so scared I also got other business.” Amal took out a warmer flask and poured out, in its cap, a brew that exuded a delicious scent. Anton sipped it cautiously.

“It’s very good coffee,” he said, returning the cap.

“I can teach you how to make them, for free.” Amal grinned. “Tea also, especially tea; they all in my blood lah. I from Ceylon. You know Ceylon?”

“Heard of it.”

“So how?” Amal’s head waggled slightly. “Join me lah, we make money together.”

When Anton nodded he almost gagged from a slap to his back. A delighted Amal then snatched up his finger and pricked it with an object that glinted in the sunlight. It vanished as quickly as it appeared. Before he could even flinch Amal was already clutching his hand in a fist and hefting it up to their noses in a display of unity.

“Now we business blood-brothers,” said he, flashing his brilliant white teeth.

Anton pulled out his hand and examined his finger. The bleeding had stopped, leaving only a tiny red dot on the punctured skin. “What did you cut me with?”

“Pocketknife lah,” said Amal. “Clean lah, don’t worry. This is custom, bring luck!”

At lunch Amal brought Anton to a stall along Tras Street where he was fed roast chicken with rice cooked in its drippings. The meal came with a side serving of cucumbers spiced and pickled in vinegar. They lunched around a crate placed on the tarmac, and sat on stools no higher than a shoebox.

“How do you keep your teeth so white?” said Anton.

Amal showed him a small round tin containing a certain brand of tooth powder. “I also sell this at Change Alley.” He marketed it with another of his trademark grins. “You want can sell it together lah. These days we must sell everything to make money.”

“I’d prefer this. It’s more legal.”

Amal snivelled. “Very little money lah, all these kuching kurak things. Sell until die only earn peanuts. But if you got time you follow me, I show you better business.”

After lunch they went to South Bridge Road where a tall Sikh directed traffic with a pair of wicker wings strapped to his back. At the service store of a petrol station, before a tight-faced woman standing behind a glass and wood counter, Amal announced his arrival with a pompous display of opened arms. She reciprocated Amal’s gregariousness with an uneasy smile and went to the back to fetch someone.

Anton examined cans of lubricants, motor oil and cigarettes stacked inside glass cases. The air was sweltering despite an electric fan chugging away laboriously on a table.

“I supply motor oil and lubricants to our dear colonial masters.” Amal whispered to Anton over another head-waggle. “Business better during the Great War lah. I can take bigger cut. Now only small commission.”

Anton nodded in comprehension.

“You got memory problems?” Amal tapped his own oiled hair.

Anton’s eyes grew wide. “How’d you know?”

“I know many things,” Amal went to a dusty rack and picked out a bottle of clear red fluid and pushed it to him. “Take this, three times a day. I sell it, so I know it’s very good.”

“Wait…” Anton didn’t know what to do with the bottle. “It’s impossible that you—”

Before he could finish the woman returned with a tall man and once more Amal threw out his arms in greeting. The man, initially stern-faced like the woman, became affable as soon as he saw Amal and greeted him with similar zest.

“Koon!” Amal hauled Anton over by his arm. “I got new partner. Meet Anton.”

Anton shook hands cordially with the stranger named Koon, whom he found had piercingly large eyes. After the formalities Amal and Koon began conferring in low tones over something about renting trucks and getting something across the new causeway. Then Amal signed some chits and pushed himself away from the counter, sighing, and seeming very satisfied over a deal made.