Now You See Us, page 2
Ma’am Elizabeth pulls the forms from her bag and slides them across the table. The man fans out the documents, and on each signature line, he makes an X. He taps the pen impatiently at Cora. All other questions about her are directed to Ma’am Elizabeth.
She’s done her medicals? No health problems? No disease? X-rays clear, AIDS test negative? She’s under the age of sixty? She was employed directly from the Philippines?
Yes, yes, yes, Ma’am Elizabeth answers to everything, but then comes a question about Cora’s previous employer.
“She was under a contract from her previous employer in the Philippines. Where is the letter of release?” the man asks.
Cora freezes. “Letter of release?” she repeats. She did not think it would matter how she’d left the Calverts as long as she left the country altogether. They had been away on vacation when Cora decided to go, and there was no time to request a letter in any case. She had simply packed her bags and left a note: Sir Jack and Ma’am Patricia, I’m very sorry, I must leave for personal reasons. Madison, Sierra, and Bennett, I will miss you so much. She had pressed her single gold earring into the security guard’s palm so he would stall the men if they returned for her.
“Yes, letter of release,” the man says slowly, as if Cora cannot understand English. “We need to provide this to the ministry in case there are any questions about your employment pass and previous work experience.”
Cora searches her mind for an explanation, but she finds it crowded with groceries. Iceberg lettuce, ranch dressing, garlic. There were two brands of bottled anchovies but Mrs. Calvert preferred the one with the gold lettering on the label—what was it called?
“We don’t need the letter immediately, though, do we?” Ma’am Elizabeth asks, glancing at the silver-chain-link watch on her wrist. “She’s a good worker. My friend recommended her to me. I’m sure there won’t be any issues.”
“I can make Caesar salad.” Words spurt out of Cora as if from a rusty tap, as if she has been holding her breath for days. She wonders if this is why Ma’am Elizabeth hasn’t asked much of her so far.
The man gives her a strange look before he resumes typing, and then he pauses to peer at the screen. His face is knotted in concentration, and for a moment, Cora fears that he has found out everything. It’s not possible—her name was not in the news—but her heart is pounding so loudly, she is sure that every Merry Maid and ma’am on the island can hear it. What if they cancel her work permit? What if they put her on a plane this afternoon and send her straight back to Manila? She crushes the rosary beads into her palm.
“That’s fine, then,” he mutters, stacking the papers in a yellow cardboard folder.
“We’re done?” Ma’am Elizabeth says. “Thank you very much.” She gathers her bag and tugs at the edges of her shawl so it covers her slender shoulders. The cold air streaming from the air-conditioning vents makes the hairs on Cora’s arms stand up.
As they walk out of the agency, Cora realizes she has probably raised a few questions in Ma’am Elizabeth’s mind. She’s still clutching the rosary beads, and they are biting into her skin. Please don’t let her ask me about what happened in Manila, Cora pleads with a God who stopped listening to her the day Raymond died. She doesn’t want to lie to this kindhearted ma’am, but she will if it means avoiding being sent home.
“Elizabeth Lee?”
She and Ma’am Elizabeth both turn around to see Mrs. Fann coming towards them, her arms outstretched. She is wearing the kind of smile that you give the dentist when he needs to look at every single tooth. “It’s been sooooo long! How are yooooou?” she coos, puckering the air with kisses as she approaches. Gone is the fury from before. Cora might be imagining this, but just before Mrs. Fann’s kisses land on her cheeks, Ma’am Elizabeth lets out a quiet groan that sounds like a shorthand version of Oh no.
“I’m well, Poh Choo,” Ma’am Elizabeth says, her lips stretched into a thin smile. “Just needed to get some paperwork done, and halfway through filling out the forms myself, I remembered Belinda Quek’s agency and figured it would be easier for them to do it. This is my new helper, Cora.”
Mrs. Fann acknowledges Cora with a quick glance as she links her arm through Ma’am Elizabeth’s. “We must get together, it’s been so long. How is Cecilia these days? The kids don’t want to come back once they’ve gone abroad, do they? They like that relaxed ang moh lifestyle. Ha-ha! I see Jacqueline is doing well. I heard she and her fiancé closed on an apartment in Quayside Suites recently. Setting up house already, hmm, before marriage?”
For the first time, Cora notices Ma’am Elizabeth acting aloof. She uses the straightening of her shawl as an excuse to break away from Mrs. Fann’s grip, and her answers are brief. Mrs. Fann doesn’t get the hint. The further Ma’am Elizabeth withdraws, the higher and louder Mrs. Fann’s voice becomes. The three of them form a wobbly convoy moving towards the escalators, with Ma’am Elizabeth meandering away, Mrs. Fann tugging her back, and Cora falling two steps behind. Mrs. Fann prattles on:
“Belinda Quek is my friend lah, okay, but this girl her agency sent me? A nightmare. You’re lucky you never had to deal with this, although I don’t know how you managed to maintain that big house without any help before this.”
Cora knows that the first rule of being a maid is “Be invisible”—strive for the translucency of ghostly soup stains on kopitiam tabletops. Sidle from room to room and pretend to know nothing that has not been directly revealed to you. But she cannot hide her surprise at Mrs. Fann’s words. The Lees have never had a maid? How did they manage the cooking, the cleaning? Between the living room, the dining area, and the five rooms upstairs, just washing all the curtains would take an entire day. Who swept the dried leaves from that huge back porch or brought in the laundry at the first distant rumble of thunder? She can’t imagine Ma’am Elizabeth, with all her poise and grace, on her knees scrubbing the floors. Yet the house was clean when Cora arrived, if a little bit bare in the pantry.
Mrs. Fann’s eyes narrow when she catches Cora paying attention. She nudges Ma’am Elizabeth and says something in Mandarin.
Ma’am Elizabeth replies in English. “Establishing trust goes both ways, don’t you think, Poh Choo?”
Her answer brings a flush to Mrs. Fann’s cheeks. She takes a small step away from Ma’am Elizabeth and her tone becomes icy. “I hope that’s true. The older maids tend to be better anyway, hmm? Age slows them down, makes them more sensible maybe. There’s my girl, by the way.”
Cora follows the direction of Mrs. Fann’s nod, and immediately she sees the problem. Dressed in a skin-hugging pink tank top and tiny white denim shorts that reveal slender legs, this girl does not look like she apologizes for anything. Her large rhinestone-studded hoop earrings wink as she tosses her hair from side to side. If Mrs. Fann’s husband has a wandering eye, she probably has reason to worry.
A long time ago, Cora overheard her former employer Mrs. Motwani advising a neighbour to avoid hiring pretty maids. “Have you seen mine? Hardly a threat,” she said without bothering to keep her voice down, as if she thought Cora were deaf as well as plain. With sleek long hair and heavily lined eyes, Mrs. Fann’s maid is very striking, and she appears to know it. The purse that swings from a narrow strap on her shoulder matches the cherry-red gloss of her lipstick and fingernails. She is holding two Cold Storage plastic bags limply at her side, as if she wants to forget them.
Ma’am Elizabeth and Cora walk with Mrs. Fann towards the supermarket, and as Mrs. Fann examines the contents of the bags, Cora gives the girl an understanding smile. The girl gazes back coolly. A young man wearing jeans and sandals walks past and stares so hard at the girl that he collides with the cart outside Cold Storage where a supermarket clerk is peddling a new matcha-flavoured pizza. She offers samples to Mrs. Fann and Ma’am Elizabeth, who pauses to have a taste. “It’s . . . interesting,” she says to the representative, who beams like this is the highest compliment. She holds out a tray and explains the other pizza samples: red bean and corn, mango-chili, durian-prawn, and spicy-sweet pork floss. Ma’am Elizabeth reluctantly tries the mango-chili. “That one is a little better,” she says unconvincingly.
“Donita, I said no breasts!” Mrs. Fann’s voice booms.
Yes, we get the point, Cora is tempted to say. How many more faults will Mrs. Fann find with her maid, who obviously does not understand the unwritten rules about modesty? Then she sees Mrs. Fann holding up a packet of chicken fillets. “I cannot cook with these, do you understand? I need the bones in order to make stock for the soup,” she cries. Her voice echoes off the walls. “You see what I mean?” she asks Ma’am Elizabeth. “Every little thing, she gets wrong. They’re supposed to make our lives easier, but I’m doing more work correcting her mistakes.”
“I’m sure it’s like that in the early days,” Ma’am Elizabeth says. “Give her some time to settle in.” She offers Donita a reassuring smile but the girl’s sullen expression doesn’t change.
“Aiyah, Elizabeth, you are very patient,” Mrs. Fann says, then she looks around conspiratorially before continuing. “I think Belinda Quek’s standards are dropping. Even her office staff are subpar. I finally got the receptionist to tell me where she is and she said, ‘Myanmar recruitment trip.’ She used to have Merry Maids, now they are Budget Maids. To tell the truth, I was tempted to go elsewhere to hire better help, but how would that look? What if it got back to her?”
As she launches into another litany of complaints about maid agencies, Cora introduces herself to Donita in Tagalog. “I’m Corazon Bautista, from Manila.”
“I’m Donita.” Her eyes brighten at the chance to say her name. Cora feels a pang—Raymond was around the same age. If he were alive, he would be like that young man in the sandals who is lingering nearby, suffering through sample after sample of terrible pizza-flavour combinations in a bid to get a closer look at Donita.
Cora glances at Mrs. Fann. “Is she always like this?”
“So far,” Donita says. “She doesn’t give proper instructions just so she can scold me for not reading her mind.” She holds up a hand, trembling from pasma. “She made me hand-wash all the laundry last night because I asked her how to use the washing machine. She said, ‘Maybe after this, you will make the effort to learn.’”
Donita speaks Tagalog with a strong Ilocano accent. “You’re from the north?” Cora asks.
Donita nods, and there is a flash of longing in her eyes at the mention of home. Cora recognizes this too; the first months are the hardest. She wants to tell Donita that it will get better, but she knows what a long road it can be with employers like Mrs. Fann.
“Just a word of advice,” Cora says. “If you cover up a bit more, she might give you an easier time.”
Donita’s expression hardens again, and with a defiant upwards tilt of her chin, she says, “This is who I am. If she doesn’t like it, that’s her problem.”
Her response twists something in Cora’s gut. Maybe Donita is too young and idealistic to understand that nobody cares who she is here. Cora flashes back to her younger self, crimping her hair for the passport photograph, thinking surely the authorities would see her as somebody worthy of respect. Surely the family in Serangoon Gardens wouldn’t make Cora continue sleeping in a tin shed outside when they had two spare bedrooms. Surely the Motwani kids would stop shouting “You’re stupider than the maid” to each other as an insult. Surely Ma’am Roberta’s husband, who was always misplacing things, would not accuse Cora of sweeping his parking coupon into the bin. As he picked up the ashtray and reared back his hand, time slowed down to accommodate her denial for one last time—Surely this is not happening to me—before it landed with a blinding crack on the bridge of her nose.
Of course she says none of this, and soon Donita is turning her back as Mrs. Fann hustles her into the supermarket to return the other grocery items that she got wrong. “Elizabeth, we must make a time to catch up soon, hmm?” Mrs. Fann calls over her shoulder.
Ma’am Elizabeth smiles and waves. “Have a good day, Poh Choo. Bye-bye, Donita.” She and Cora walk in the opposite direction, towards the lift to the basement, where Ma’am Elizabeth has parked her car. Cora has to hurry to keep up with Ma’am Elizabeth, who seems eager to get away. As the neon signage of Cold Storage recedes, Cora doesn’t remind Ma’am Elizabeth that they still need to buy groceries. She’s just glad to leave Mrs. Fann and Donita behind.
Two
On Sunday, Donita clutches her list from Mrs. Fann and jostles with late-morning shoppers in Marine Terrace market. The crates in the vegetable stalls are piled high with rippling green leaves of kai lan and sawi. The man who runs the fruit stall makes proud announcements about his crop of dragon fruits. “Ripest in Singapore,” he declares, directing drifting shoppers to take in the blushing pink fruit and its curly green tendrils. In one swift move, he cleaves a pomegranate and pries it open to show the gemstone seeds gleaming within. Donita zigzags through the rows. If not for all these people who pause and ponder and bargain and suddenly shoot out their arms to pick up a lemon or collect their change, Donita’s shopping would be quick, and she wouldn’t be so worried about being late to meet Flor. The market is a muggy, raucous maze, and the wet floor squelches under her black slingback wedges. After each purchase, she must ask for a receipt, which makes the vendors scratch their heads—What receipt? This is not a supermarket—which leads her to say: “Just write the amount and the product on a piece of paper, please.” Some understand and do this for her. Others, like Ah Seck the fishmonger, thinks it’s a trap.
“For what?” he asks, his chin jutting out. “No-return policy, this mackerel. All sales final.”
“I do not want to return it. It is for my boss,” Donita says, but Ah Seck has already turned to another customer. Donita sighs and picks up the crinkly plastic bag of fish. A stiff tail pokes out of the opening and scratches her wrist. Every trip to the market is like this, and Sundays are the worst because Mrs. Fann will return from church fizzing with nervous energy. She will scrutinize Donita’s purchases and complain triumphantly—Aha!—when they don’t tally with the receipts. “How do I know these sugar snap peas cost three dollars? What if they actually cost two dollars fifty and you kept the fifty cents for yourself?” Mrs. Fann asked last week, waving the bag at Donita. “And these eggs? Did you really get them from the market?”
“Where else I will get them from? You see any chickens here, you idiot?” Donita replied. Although she and Mrs. Fann communicated in English, she said the last part in her language—tanga—and it was satisfying to see Mrs. Fann stare blankly at the insult.
“Don’t try to be smart with me. There was a maid in this building who used to keep the grocery money for herself and then just go around borrowing from all the other households. One cup of sugar here, a few eggs there; she managed to fool her employers. I. Will. Not. Be. Fooled. In. My. House.” Mrs. Fann punctuated each word with a jab of her finger.
“Ma’am, if you think I am taking advantage, then why not you go to the market yourself and see how much is everything?” Donita retorted. Mrs. Fann’s nostrils flared in anger. She stalked off to the study.
“You see what kind of attitude I have to put up with?” she asked Mr. Fann before launching into a tirade in Mandarin. Donita did not understand any of it, but the shrills of Mrs. Fann’s voice suggested that she was urging her husband to get involved. He didn’t say much, but there was nothing unusual there. Mr. Fann is the quietest man Donita has ever met. She has heard his newspapers rustling more often than his actual voice.
Emerging from the market, Donita takes a gulp of fresh air and looks around. She spots Flordeliza standing at the edge of the entrance, sipping from a tall plastic cup of orange juice. Oversize gold hoop earrings graze her slender shoulders, and the tips of her nails are perfect white squares. Donita always felt a mix of admiration and envy for women like Flor, the ones who come home at Christmas basking in the sheen of their overseas salaries. The first time Flor returned, her lips were buttery with a shade of maroon deeper than anything Donita had seen in real life. “Long-lasting Revlon,” Flordeliza had said, flicking a tube of lipstick at her. Gifts shot from her hands just like that—Mars bars, souvenir T-shirts wrapped in rustling plastic, a toy electric guitar for Flor’s daughter, Josephina, who wore it around her neck for days.
“Donita,” Flordeliza says happily now, squeezing her with a hug. It feels so good to hear a friend say her name. “How are you?”
Donita shrugs and tries to brave a smile. She turns to show Flordeliza her apartment complex. “That’s where I live,” she says, as if it will explain everything. It is strange, calling a place that she loathes “home” in Ilocano. Standing at the end of this boulevard of white concrete apartment buildings, Block One breaks the sky. Even Mrs. Fann doesn’t seem to like this neighbourhood of identical government-housing flats. She keeps a stack of leaflets for exclusive private condominiums that property agents slip into the letterbox—the Prescott! D’Azure Apartelles! Regal Living! A canal runs inland towards the tree-lined neighbourhood off East Coast Road, where Donita suspects Mrs. Fann would rather live. The houses there have slanting red roofs and green lawns and probably enough space for ma’ams and maids to get on with their days without constantly butting heads. Flor works there and she seems happier.
“I’ve got a few more things to get—the market is really crowded today,” Donita says.
“I’ll help,” Flordeliza offers. “You look like you’ll need an extra pair of hands.” It’s true. The groceries are heavier today because Mrs. Fann’s list included one kilogram of onions, a sack of Thai red rice, and two whole pumpkins for a cake she is baking for a church fundraiser. The pink plastic bag handles have already begun to stretch and turn into string.
