Now You See Us, page 3
The silver-haired butcher is friendlier than the fishmonger. He hums to the tune pouring out of his portable speakers, and his smile doesn’t drop when Donita gets to the front of the queue after two Singaporean women move on to another stall. “How many grams, miss?” he asks, and he says, “No problem,” when Donita asks for a receipt.
“See? How hard is it to just be helpful?” Donita asks, shooting a scowl at the fishmonger behind her.
“Not hard at all,” Flordeliza agrees. “But the fish guy, he’s different because his wife is around. You see her over there, watching him?”
Donita follows her gaze. Behind Ah Seck stands a small-framed woman with short hair and clipped-back fringe. Her eyes follow his every movement. Donita realizes it then: Ah Seck might be at the front of the store, shaking buckets of crushed ice over the fish and declaring his tiger prawns the freshest catch on the island, but his wife is the real boss. Donita thinks of Mrs. Fann chastising Mr. Fann and demanding his attention last week. His responses dwindled down to nothing and she stormed out of the study, fired up by her defeat.
Together, Donita and Flordeliza walk back out onto Marine Terrace. The sky is high and bright above the tall apartment complexes, and there is only a smear of clouds. Children in neon sneakers shriek and chase each other through the fanned shadows of palm leaves. Beyond this road is the winking blue strip of sea, where throngs of workers convened first thing this morning for their day off. The wind carried their celebratory reunion upwards into the Fanns’ kitchen as Donita washed the breakfast dishes, wishing she were part of it. On weekdays, she lingers in the kitchen to peer out at the bright green belt of trees hugging the island’s edges. Water laps gently at the shore, and cyclists glide along the concrete East Coast Park path that leads westward to the jagged city skyline.
Donita can feel the excitement tuning her voice as she tells Flordeliza every bit of news from home. The Tantoco family had a small accident with their truck on the farm-to-market road. Rumour had it that Junior Salangsang’s new wife was a mangkukulam—because only a witch could manage to seduce somebody so handsome and educated—and his sisters had taken to wearing anting-anting and spreading salt outside their doors to reduce her powers. The sugarcane crops were supposedly worse due to the weather, but everyone was saying that the basi produced after a heat wave several years ago was the sweetest they had ever had, so who knew?
“I really miss it,” she confesses. Around them, the white apartment blocks look like bones picked clean. “It is nothing like this.” She feels the tears rising, and as she turns away to fight them back, her bags break. Out tumble the shallots, followed by the garlic cloves. “Ay, this is hopeless,” Donita cries. She lowers the bags to the ground and drops there with them, sobs juddering through her shoulders.
Flordeliza briskly gathers the ripped bags, brings them to the concrete mah-jongg table, and consolidates the groceries in her own canvas bag while Donita tells her about the fining system that Mrs. Fann implemented after last week’s chicken-breast mix-up: twenty cents for every misunderstood instruction, fifty cents for every surface covered in dust at the end of the day, one dollar for every eye-roll or sour look from Donita. “At this rate, your ma’am will be able to pay herself a nice bonus at the end of the year,” Flor quips.
“I can’t seem to do anything right,” Donita says. She hesitates. “Is it true that rice cookers can be possessed?”
Laughter dances in Flor’s eyes. Donita swats her on the arm. “I’m not saying I believe it, but I posted a picture of Mrs. Fann’s rice cooker on the East Coast Pinoy Maids Facebook group to ask for help because I kept burning the rice, and everybody offered the measurements I was already using, and then this one woman—let me find her.” Donita takes out her phone and starts scrolling. “This woman, Luwalhati Macablo, she said: ‘Has there been a death in the house? Sometimes spirits can possess electrical appliances, especially the spirits of children. They are playful, but be careful not to offend.’”
“So you’re being extra-polite to the rice cooker now?” Flor giggles.
“I think the Fanns’ son died,” says Donita.
This information wipes the smirk off Flor’s face. “He was older,” Donita says quickly so Flor isn’t reminded of the daughter she is unable to tuck into bed every night. Flor makes up for her absence in daily phone calls and gifts for Josephina. Donita visited Flor’s parents once and saw the slatted bamboo floor covered with colourful foam jigsaw tiles that Flordeliza had sent home to soften her daughter’s falls. “I don’t know it for sure, but when Mrs. Fann gave me her son’s room, she said, ‘Weston is no longer with us, but this is still his room.’” She wants to describe the slight quaver of Mrs. Fann’s voice, but Flor dismisses her.
“That means he’s probably studying abroad,” Flor says. “And she wanted you to know that she was being very generous, not making you sleep on the kitchen floor.”
Donita finds herself unloading all her burdens on Flordeliza as they walk towards her building. She tells her first about the Fanns’ cluttered flat. Instead of tasteful interior design, there are rows of Precious Moments figurines, picture frames covered in seashells, and glass participation trophies. A pocketed wall hanging with silver embroidered elephants overflows with junk mail, and there are stacks of yellowed newspapers in Mr. Fann’s study. “She’s always complaining that the apartment isn’t clean enough, but she’s the one who collects junk,” Donita tells Flor. The storeroom is piled high with bottles of paint samples, spare bicycle parts, a cracked, mouldy fish tank, and old appliances. Every time Donita goes in there to get the broom and dustpan, she holds her breath to avoid choking on the dust.
“She goes to church nearly every day for meetings, but before her Sunday service, she is moodier than ever. She brushes her hair one way, then clips it back, then shakes it out and starts again. The whole flat is cloudy with hair spray. Then she starts fussing over her outfit and her jewellery.”
When Mrs. Fann ran out of things to fuss about this morning, she pointed a finger at Donita’s door. “Why is it shut?” she demanded.
“For my privacy,” Donita replied. She saw this word register on Mrs. Fann’s face: privacy meant Donita was being dishonest. What was there to be private about if she had nothing to be ashamed of? Before Mrs. Fann could start accusing her of hiding something, Donita had flung open the door.
“I had my lacy lavender bra and a fresh pair of blue and white polka-dot underpants on the bed. One glimpse, and Mrs. Fann was hastily rushing to shut the door,” Donita says now, her story bringing a flash of delight to Flordeliza’s face.
“She was probably terrified her husband would see it,” Flordeliza says.
Donita screws up her face at the thought.
“Make sure you’re never alone with your sir for too long,” Flordeliza warns her.
“I think my sir is pretty harmless,” Donita says.
“Sometimes it’s the quiet men that you can’t be sure about,” Flordeliza tells Donita. “But you also have the kind of ma’am who will accuse you of trying something if you and her husband are alone together. Trust me, you don’t want any of that.” When Flordeliza catches Donita searching her face, she smiles. “Not me,” she says. “Although I think my sir has someone on the side.”
“Who is it?” Donita asks.
“No idea. It’s not like they tell you anything directly, right? You just pick up information here and there. There was online gossip about him sleeping with a teaching assistant at his university a few years ago—I heard that from the neighbours’ maid across the street. And then, last December, my ma’am noticed a hotel key card at the bottom of the laundry basket and she asked me about it. I told her it wasn’t mine and she believed me—I mean, it was the Ritz-Carlton! There was lots of angry whispering after that, and then they all packed up and went for their annual holiday.”
“Everything was okay when they returned?” Donita asks.
Flordeliza shakes her head. “It was really quiet around the house—sir wasn’t talking to anybody, and the daughter was always moody and sniffling. They all avoided each other. I overheard my ma’am on the phone with her friend one day, crying and saying, ‘I cannot believe he would betray us like this.’”
“Wow,” Donita says. In comparison, Mr. Fann is a benign shadow in the landscape. She can count on one hand the number of times he has spoken directly to her. Last Tuesday, she woke up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom and found him at the sink, tossing two white pills into his mouth. “For sleeping,” he muttered as he passed her on the way out.
Flordeliza’s hands plunge into her tank top to retrieve a silver cigarette case. She pops it open and offers a cigarette to Donita, who hesitates.
“You don’t smoke anymore?” Flordeliza asks.
“I do, but . . .” Donita looks around. “Anybody can see us, and I don’t know who will report back to my ma’am.” The black windows of the apartment buildings stare back at her.
“The canal, then,” Flordeliza says. A paved jogging path and a bank of trees line the canal’s edges. There is a fitness corner with heavy exercise equipment, all bolted to the ground, and two park benches that are partially shrouded by the shadows.
Sneaking off like this brings back the thrill of skipping school with Flordeliza in the old days. They would hitch rides on the backs of trucks and go to the market in town to buy hair clips and rings. Sometimes they found themselves undressing hastily in alleyways for boys who kissed them and made promises they never kept.
Donita checks the time on her phone and sees a notification—another private message from a stranger on Facebook. Friend requests from men have come pouring in ever since she changed her location to Singapore. Hi, how r u? Hey, beautiful body, so sexy, want to b frenz? When ur off day, where 2 meet u? She blocked most of them immediately, but there is one picture that she saved last night. This one has taken care to present his personality: He is standing next to a No Smoking sign and holding his hand to his lips. A cartoon Popeye cigar has been edited onto his fingers. Donita can’t help smiling.
“What do you think of this guy?” she asks Flordeliza when they find a seat near the canal.
Flordeliza glances at her screen and looks impressed. “Not bad,” she says.
Donita opens the message and reads it aloud: “‘Hello! You are in Singapore just to visit or working? I’m Sanjeev Singh, doing hospitality course, always happy to make new friends.’”
It’s not very different from the messages from the other men, but Sanjeev has made no reference to her sexiness or called her “hotttt stuffz,” which is an improvement.
“I’d send him a reply,” Flordeliza says. “There aren’t many guys I’d say that about.”
If Flordeliza approves, it must be a big deal. “You have a boyfriend now?” Donita asks, lighting a cigarette.
Flordeliza shrugs. “If he feels like calling himself that.” She takes a long drag from her cigarette and looks away.
Donita scrolls quickly through Sanjeev’s pictures to see if he’s attractive from other angles. She finds that the No Smoking profile photo is part of a series in which Sanjeev poses in front of signs doing the opposite of what they say. In one, he’s kicking an imaginary ball next to a No Football sign outside a high-rise, and in another, he’s wearing thick black glasses and peering into a book next to a No Studying sign in a café.
Flordeliza looks over her shoulder. “If you don’t reply to him, I’m going to do it for you.” She pretends to snatch the phone from Donita, who squeals and pulls it away. “Wait!” Donita cries. “I need to do more research. Don’t you know, I have high standards.”
She and Flordeliza are doubled over with laughter when Mrs. Fann’s voice rings out suddenly from across the canal.
“Donita! What do you think you’re doing?”
“Oh, shit.” Donita tosses the cigarette into the bushes. Mrs. Fann was supposed to be at church for another hour at least. That would have given Donita enough time to put all the groceries away, sweep the house, hang the clothes that she left in the machine on the bamboo poles outside, and chop some vegetables for lunch.
Flordeliza is still giggling as Donita shouts her goodbyes and hurries back to Block One with the groceries in Flor’s canvas bag. With every fervent gesture Mrs. Fann makes, berating her from the other bank as she hustles to join Donita at the entrance, her brick of a purse swings from her elbow. Around the corner in the car park, Donita notices Mr. Fann standing by the door of his car. She thinks he’s just come home, but then he gets into the driver’s seat. Moments later, the car is backing out and leaving Marine Terrace.
“I send you to the market to do the shopping, not to stand downstairs and talk to your friends,” Mrs. Fann says to Donita as they enter the lift. “You were smoking, I saw you.” The rings on her fingers clatter together as she jabs the button for the seventh floor and then the Door Close button. “Hand me your phone.”
“No,” Donita says, putting her phone behind her back. If she has to put it down her pants, she will. She doubts Mrs. Fann would want to get her precious rings anywhere near Donita’s crotch.
“I said give me the phone,” Mrs. Fann says. Her voice is quiet and full of menace. Donita wonders what would happen if Mrs. Fann lunged at her now and snatched the phone out of her hands.
“No,” Donita repeats calmly, which infuriates Mrs. Fann. The lift doors open and they sidle out, still facing each other, and carry the argument to the gate of the flat. “You can’t have my phone. My things are my things. You don’t like this, you send me back to Merry Maids.”
Donita hopes her fiery stare is enough to make her resolve clear, but Mrs. Fann takes a step towards her. “They’ll send you straight back to the Philippines.”
“I don’t care,” Donita replies, but it’s hard to keep the panic from rippling through her voice as she thinks about the debt she won’t be able to repay to the agents, who initially wanted a hefty deposit because she was inexperienced. Donita didn’t understand how they could have said that. She’d grown up shuttling between the homes of distant relatives who fed and clothed her in exchange for housework. In her aunt’s home in Solsona and then another relative’s home in Pasuquin, she had woken at dawn every morning to scrub the dirt off the kamote planted between the rice crops. She lit fires under clay stoves and used all her strength to crank the lever on the village well. But those are not necessary skills here. What’s necessary is keeping her cool around Mrs. Fann, who is making a show of picking up her phone and calling Merry Maids. “Pack up your things,” Mrs. Fann tells Donita. “You will leave this afternoon.”
Will she be sent back to the boardinghouse? Donita wonders. Upon arriving in Singapore, she and seven other women were crammed into a van and shuttled there. In the dark of the next morning, they were piled into the van again and told they were to begin work. “I didn’t bring my suitcase,” she protested, and the driver said, “You’ll come back tonight.” He drove for so long that Donita was convinced they were crossing over to Malaysia or heading even farther north to Thailand. Through windows mottled with dried rain stains, Donita watched the shy pink streaks of daylight prying the sky open until the van peeled off the highway and started climbing up a long gravelly path. Fields of scraggly grass surrounded the van; these were followed by tamer squares of land and a loose cluster of boxy buildings. A sign said neng tew agricultural industries. The women were led to a fetid-smelling room with high walls and only three small windows in the top corner, like postage stamps. A row of blue crates lined one side near a shallow gutter and some hoses extending from taps in the wall. The crates were piled high with mushrooms, the source of that smell of festering mud. A supervisor arrived and ordered them to wash the mushrooms in the crates. Donita opened her mouth to ask if there had been a mistake, but she shut her mouth right away when she saw that all the other women had the same question on their faces. From 6:30 a.m. till 6:30 p.m. every day for a week, they crouched over basins teeming with oversize mushrooms, alien and slippery. Donita found that at the end of each day, she could not scrub the dirt out of the ridges in her own skin or stop the dreams of monstrous billowing white caps expanding and engulfing her.
In the evenings at the boardinghouse, she overheard some women saying that this type of work was illegal, that the Merry Maids people were loaning them out to factories for a profit, but who would dare complain?
“What do you mean, I will lose my security bond?” Mrs. Fann’s shouts into the phone bring Donita back to the present. “You send me these kinds of lousy maids all the time and now you’re saying I have to make it work?”
Donita begins gathering her things—her lipsticks, her bottle of lavender Baby Bench cologne, her hot-water bottle for period cramps, a box of Sutla papaya soap, a spiral-bound diary, and her razor. In the corner of the room, there is a faded built-in closet with sliding wooden doors that don’t quite close. Something is rattling back there—probably a loose roller that has fallen out at the end of the track—and it’s preventing her from sliding open the door fully.
She sends Flor a message: Looks like I’m about to be fired, she types. Goodbye, Singapore.
Flor: It’s not so simple. The agency will try to transfer you to another household.
Donita: I can transfer? Why didn’t anybody tell me?
Flor: Because it’s not up to you. Your ma’am has to release you. And just so you know, they have their own way of blacklisting maids. Hopefully your new employer isn’t on any of those Facebook groups.
A couple of screenshots follow Flor’s message:
Do not trust this maid Perlita Kristine Ortega, also goes by Krissy. She is a thief. If she tries to apply for a job with you, please contact me.
Here is a picture of our former helper Uthpala Gunaratne. She left us and returned to Sri Lanka without any warning in January.
