Foreign Bodies: A Novel - Couverture rigide

Tan, HH

Couverture rigide

ISBN 10 : 0892552360 ISBN 13 : 9780892552368

Editeur : Persea Books Inc, 2003

Synopsis

This first novel about international Gen-Xers is set in Singapore and follows three friends caught up in a mystery that ends in a spiritual quest. It heralds the arrival of an exciting new writer.

A propos du livre

Extrait

Chapter I

DAY ONE: SUNDAY (VERY EARLY) MORNING

Mei

'Are you a Singaporean citizen, over twenty-one, and a lawyer?' he said.

I recognized that voice at once, the English accent, the voice roughened by too much tar and endless lager sagas. It could only be Andy. Now the above question might seem fairly innocuous to the casual eavesdropper, but in this instance it caused me a great deal of aggravation. Believe me, if Mother Teresa was in my place, if she was asked the same question under the same controlled circumstances, it would be enough to make her chuck her role as the saint of the century and send her screaming down the streets, going apeshit, looking for babies to kick. Why was Andy's question so provocative? I'll tell you why. Firstly, not only because it was one in the morning (and looking at my glow-in-the-dark Casio clock, I saw that it was 1:16 a.m. to be exact), but secondly, and more importantly, Andy knew, that I knew, that he knew, the answer to all three questions, because five hours earlier he was supposed to meet me outside Tung Lok Shark's Fin Restaurant to celebrate my getting the licence to practise law. Of course, Andy didn't turn up. I hate eating alone, so I went home early, and woe to me -- I returned to the flat only to find my mother having a karaoke night with her mah-jong playmates. So instead of feasting on Abalone Delight and Peking Duck, I spent my evening trying to block out the sound of fifty-something housewives wailing songs from the Karaoke Hit List From Hell, songs like 'Sealed With A Kiss', 'Singapura, Oh Singapura (Sunny Island Set In The Sea)', 'Tie A Yellow Ribbon Round the Old Oak Tree', 'Que Será Será', and 'Ne Xin Li Ken Ben Mei Yao Wo' (or 'Your Heart Never Had Me'). Trust me, you haven't seen something truly Satanic until you've seen your mother belting out 'Chain Reaction' complete with Diana Ross hand actions and bum wiggles. So, as you can imagine, when Andy phoned, I was in less than a good mood. What would you do -- after the pain in your ears has subsided, when you've finally managed to fall asleep -- what would you do, if you were woken at one in the morning by someone who had stood you up five hours earlier, and asked three completely inane questions?

I pondered my options, rolled over the choices that came to mind, and finally decided upon the calmest, the most apposite, indeed, the most mature response. I slammed down the phone. It rang again, and I picked it up and said, 'I'm very pissed off now, and you have about five seconds to make me un-pissed-off, preferably using a technique which involves three words or less, or else this phone is going down again.'

Silence on the other end as Andy paused to think of those all-important three words. As our Andrew ponders upon those crucial phrases, perhaps now would be a good time to introduce him. This is a tricky process because of the Eugene Connection. Andy wasn't really a friend, he was more like a friend-in-law -- I knew him through Eugene. Eugene was my neighbour-cum-childhood playmate. When we were kids, we had great adventures together, like investigating 'The Case of Mrs Lam's (Possibly) Murdered Maid', but that's another story. Now pay attention, here's where it gets complicated, because Eugene is one of those people with those intricate, exotic backgrounds that most normal people like me would kill for. During his teens, Eugene and his parents emigrated to Holland to open a Chinese restaurant. He returned to Singapore for a few years to complete his National Service, then he went to university in England, where he met Andy. They became best friends, and spent their undergraduate years cultivating their passion for soccer, kebabs, and Cocoa Bombs. Anyway, post-graduation, when Andy (unsurprisingly) couldn't get a job in England., he decided to go East to seek his fortune.

Andy finally thought of those three magic words -- 'I'm in jail.'

Now it was my turn to be speechless.

So Andy said, 'Have I used up my words quota yet or can I say more?'

I graciously granted him permission to speak.

'They think I'm the head of a soccer gambling syndicate. I'm supposed to be like some octopus, with tentacles all over the place, in Asia, Europe, everywhere. Imagine that -- little ol' me. Head of a multi-million betting empire. I don't know whether to be flattered or outraged.'

'Have you been charged?'

'I've been arrested under -- what was that phrase again? -- the Common Betting Act. They said it was a "bookable offence". What's that in normal English?'

'It's legalese for "You're in big trouble."'

'So, as you see, I need someone to bail me out. And the police said that that someone had to be Singaporean, and over twenty-one. And I thought, hey, I've got a friend -- not just an acquaintance, but a good friend, who fits that description perfectly. Plus she's just got her law licence.'

'I'm impervious to flattery at one in the morning.' But once again, I knew I had to do it. I had to rescue Andy again.

Andy was always stumbling into trouble. I don't think he ever had a plan in fife, but if he did, it was probably to live a life of complete cluelessness. He would do something outrageous, after which he would flash his trademark stricken-yet-ingenuous look: he would widen his doe-like eyes, scrunch his mouth and flap his hands as if trying to fend off any accusations of misconduct. 'It's not my fault,' he would invariably say, 'I don't know how that broke*/I don't know how the snot got sprayed all over your CDs*/I didn't know you weren't supposed to smoke that in this country* (*delete as applicable) -- it just happened.' I was used to getting him out of trouble. In the past few months, he had depended on me to bail him out, in the metaphorical sense. I didn't mind that. It's just that I never expected to have to bail him out literally.

Ah well. Some were born to guardian angelhoods; others have guardian angelhoods thrust upon them. I fall into the latter category. Eugene came to Singapore for a few months, to help Andy settle in, but last week I had to take over from Eugene after he got a phone call from his parents, demanding that he return to Holland to help them run their Chinese restaurants.

'My father wants to open two new branches in Leiden and Utrecht', Eugene said, 'called Triple Pagoda, or Moon Dragon Flying Round Lotus Umbrella, or something stupid like that. I better go to Holland and stop him before he does any more pei-say things like that. Can you imagine, he even wants to put bami balls on the menu?' Eugene stuck a finger down his throat, and pretended to gag.

So Eugene entrusted Andy to my care. 'You got to take care of him for me. We're like brothers. Like Frank and Joe Hardy. Like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.'

'Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid weren't brothers,' I said.

'Ai-ya, you lawyer types are so pedantic,' Eugene said. 'But hey, seriously, Andy needs help. You know what he's like. I need someone to look after him for me.'

That someone had to be me. I didn't really have a choice. I remember when I first saw Andy. He stood out from all the other passengers at the arrival lounge, surveying his surroundings with innocent awe. His face looked so fragile -- skin white as fine china, as if one touch would shatter it into a powder of dust. Pale like marble, with wisps of red hair, and fine, fragile features, he would have looked terribly Pre-Raphaelite, but for the freckles and glasses. With those plump cheeks, curly red hair and brilliant blue eyes, he looked like a baby angel, empty of guile, filled with pure, naive joy. One look at him and I knew that I had to dedicate my life to protect that innocence, preserve that purity, shelter him from an evil and cunning world. Even though his red head towered a foot above me, I felt a deep need to go up and pat him on the head.

Andy had this helpless boy charm, the kind that brought out all the maternal instincts that I never knew I had. When I first saw him I suddenly had all these unnatural urges -- I wanted to bring him home, sit him down on the sofa, place the remote control in his hand, and say, 'You just stay here watching the highlights from the Premier League while I go into the kitchen and happily spend three hours brewing a bowl of red date soup for you.' Once, while watching Four Weddings and A Funeral, I had a vision of myself smiling up at him, barefoot and pregnant, like some model out of a Ministry of Community Development poster. And I was like -- Holy Jesus, what's happening to me? Why am I thinking these evil thoughts? Why have ten years of feminist education suddenly evaporated?

That's why I have spent the past few months cleaning up after Andy. Recently, there have been many of Andy's 'It just Happened' incidents. Like the time we were at Newton Circus, when Andy ordered a cup of Ovaltine. He poured the Ovaltine into a saucer, blew on it to cool it, then added some vodka. 'It's called Cocoa Bomb,' he said.

Afterwards, we made our way to my new car. Now I know that Andy loves my car, because when he first saw it, he knew a lot more about it than I did -- 'Unbelievable! You've got the best model in the range. As Jeremy Clarkson says -- not only does this car combine the smooth ride and responsiveness of a gasoline engine with the fuel economy of a diesel, it also has three-channel anti-skid brakes, and a computer-controlled traction control system. Cool.' However, I didn't buy the car for any of those reasons. I bought the car because I fell in love with its one genuinely distinctive feature -- its green-tinted glass roof, which Andy proceeded to make even more distinctive by being sick all over it. That night at Newton Circus, I learnt another dubiously useful lesson, which I shall pass on for your instruction and edification: if someone pukes on your car roof, it will set off the alarm.

'Sorry, I didn't mean to do that. It just happened. It must have been the curry.' Footnote: even if he's drunk three gallons of beer, it's never the alcohol that causes Andy's awesome feats of regurgitation -- it's always something else -- like the kebab, or the crisps, or the Wagon Wheels. When I point that out, he says, 'Don't you tell me what to eat Miss Slim-Fast, Miss Ryvita-With-Jam. You're just jealous because I don't have to worry about my thighs.' That's another thing that drives me nuts, the way Andy mainlines Mars bars and liquorice without gaining a pound. I think he's signed a pact with the Devil -- how else can you explain how Andy manages to maintain the body of an Adonis while subsisting on the fantasy diet of a nine-year-old?

Another time when there was a lot of cleaning up to do was during Andy's first MRT trip. There were these big signs plastered all over the train station, these drawings of a cup and a plate of steaming food, with a huge red cross stamped across them. For those lacking the ability to interpret visual symbols, a caption underneath that warned us that the possessors of food and drink in an MRT station would be subjected to a five-hundred dollar fine. I told Andy to hide his bottle of Cocoa Bomb in his bag, but he said, 'I'm not going to let any foreign government dictate my eating habits.' So we were standing on the platform, waiting for the train, and Andy starts recounting Fallensham United's latest victory, jiggling his hands as he tried to reconstruct Varney's lastminute winning piledriver. Of course he spilled his drink all over the floor. He took off his T-shirt, got down on his knees, and went -- 'Shit shit shit shit shit' as he tried to mop up the brown mess. Then this huge mother of a voice booms out from some hidden PA system. The cameras had been watching us all this time, that panoptic system that governs the public transport system. 'The voice said, 'Will the topless man please make his way to the Central Control Station.' As usual, it was down to me to deal with the grim grey-uniformed MRT wardens, grovelling on Andy's behalf, soothing things over in the Singlish lingo that only the natives could do -- 'Ai-ya, sorry about my friend lah. He's ang mo, you know what they're like. He just got off the plane, he came from this small ulu ulu town in England, very sau-ku, he doesn't know anything. You give him chance, okay or not?'

'Okay, this time we give him chance,' the station manager said, 'but next time he do this again, we ou kong him a lot of money.'

It was Andy's first encounter with Singlish, so after we left the control station, he asked me, 'What were you talking about?'

'I told them you were this stupid white foreign country bumpkin,' I said, 'and they said they would let you off this time, but if you litter again, they'll fine you five hundred dollars.' I explained to Andy that though people like me and Eugene could speak perfect English, we reserved our 'proper' English for foreigners, job interviews and English oral exams. With friends or family, we always used Singlish, that is, Singapore slang. Singlish is a type of pidgin English, where English words are arranged according to the rules of Chinese grammar, and sentences are sprinkled with the occasional Chinese, Malay and Indian words. Singlish sounds like 'broken' English -- to foreign ears it can sound unintelligible, uneducated, even crude. However, we didn't speak 'broken' English because we lacked the ability to speak the Queen's English; we spoke Singlish, because with all its contortions of grammar and pronunciation, its new and localized vocabulary, Singlish expressed our thoughts in a way that the formal, perfectly enunciated, anal BBC World Service English never could. Besides, who wants to talk like some 0 level textbook, instead of using our own language, our home language, the language of our souls?

I don't speak either standard English or Singlish consistently. When I'm with friends like Eugene, I enjoy switching between the Queen's English and the Ah Ma's English, randomly, arbitrarily and often in mid-sentence. It's just the Singaporean way, this totally jumbled, multi-lingual lingo -- just part of our melting pot, rojak way of speech, thought and life.

I didn't know how Andy managed to get arrested, but based upon previous experiences, I could probably guess correctly. Every Saturday over the past few months, Andy would get together with Eugene and their other punter friends to bet on soccer results. I told Andy he would get arrested if the police caught him, but he wouldn't listen. He's obsessed with soccer. A month ago, I was yabbering away for about five minutes before I realized that I was talking at Andy, rather than to him. I hit the back of his head, and he jerked to attention.

'Sorry -- just thinking about class tomorrow. I'm thinking of giving the kids Defoe. He can be, really, uh, deep.' Andy shook his head and blinked a couple of times to clear his head. 'Right, I'm with you now. "Justice is always violent to the party offending, for every man is innocent in his own eyes." Marvellous quote from "The Shortest Way With The Dissenters".'

'You weren't thinking about Defoe or justice,' I said. 'Don't think you can smokescreen me with all that literary crap.'

'I was thinking about Defoe!'

'No you weren't. It's the same every Saturday night. You sit there, practically catatonic. When I jerk you to attention you always insist that you were thinking about Updike's latest novel, or the Bosnian peace process, or the Tory party conference at Blackpool, but I know you're lying. I've seen that glazed look before. You're replaying the winning volley by Mikhailichenko, against Man United. You can d...

Revue de presse

The New York Times Book Review A gripping story...

Kirkus Reviews Witty, hip, engrossing -- and utterly astonishing both in breadth of feeling and depth of intelligence: one of the strongest and most original works of the year.

Boston Globe Audacious.

The Wall Street Journal A milestone.

Larry Beinhart author of American Hero (filmed as Wag the Dog) Hwee Hwee Tan is a child-genius and Nobel laureate embryo.

Los Angeles Times Book Review Tan digs through the irony to get at her characters' buried secrets -- their "foreign bodies" -- making us care about these precocious, clueless border-crossers.

Chuck Wachtel author ofJoe the Engineer and The Gates The world the narrators of this extraordinary novel inhabit -- ours, now -- tries to deny them the knowledge of how much it injures them just to live in it. In voices that are lightning fast and sharply observant, that are as uncertain as they are wise, that dare to be funny even when they should not be, they struggle to take back the meaning of their lives. This -- in our particular moment in human history -- makes them heroes, and makes their story a great pleasure to read.

Publishers Weekly Tan's lucid and wide-ranging first novel is a memorable portrait of disenchanted and feckless youth, a narrative that gains indelible resonance as the plot unfolds....This seductive novel moves with furious grace to a transcendent conclusion.

The New York Times Book Review Tan's prose resembles that of British writers like Helen Fielding and Nick Hornby....A promising, original debut.

The Economist A novel of distinction almost indecently accomplished for a twenty-three-year-old.

Détails de l'édition

• Éditeur: Persea Books Inc
• Date d'édition: 2003
• Langue: anglais
• ISBN 10: 0892552360
• ISBN 13: 9780892552368
• Reliure: Relié
• Nombre de pages: 278
• Coordonnées du fabricant: non disponible
• Personne responsable: non disponible