[story] the unbearable hotness of being
author: d.m. jewelle (dmjewelle)
e-mail: jv.choong [ at ] gmail dot com
Behold the soldier, standing amongst the prone,
curl'd near earthen walls, liquid rust melting from bone.
Do you hear the chattering teeth? The strangled sob?
There's a man what's done his job.
He prayed and pleaded, "Someone save me!
Or this body’s lost, I guarantee!"
Spirits and sprites, both fae and dead,
Rushed forth where the soldier bled,
"Use our strength!" they cried. "We are legion,
as one we'll be strongest in the region!"
He shuddered and shivered, then loosed a wild cry.
In his place stood a beast of frightening size!
Foe and friend he burned and devoured,
until the land was barren and scoured.
Behold the lone soldier, his heart aflame
with anger, remorse, sorrow, and shame
for seeking unnatural help, untamed.
(He still lives, but constantly fleeing
the unbearable hotness of simply being)
-----
The first time Arthur speaks to John Tan is to apologise.
Arthur straightens his shirt and buttons up his jacket. He takes a deep breath, then nudges the door open. The hinges creak, so he stops after an inch: He sees a figure sitting on the edge of the bed, back to the door, hunched over. Is he packing? Looking through mementoes from his homeland (Arthur recalls it is somewhere near Australia, but the name escapes him)? Had last night's attack frightened him enough to leave?
Such questions are pointless speculation, so Arthur knocks.
The figure's back straightens and his head whips around. John Tan's eyes are small, but larger than those of the Chinese men Arthur recalls from books and movies. His large round spectacle frames give him an owlish appearance and his hair does not dispel the impression: John Tan has tried to tame it with gels and oils, but the Aberdeen winds love to run their icy fingers through it, flipping and twisting it to resemble an owl's feathers.
John Tan stares, mouth shaped into an unsounded word.
"Mr. Tan? I came to apologise."
The Chinese man does not respond.
"Last night, my behaviour was...unacceptable. I apologise for being unable to control my..." Arthur ruffles the back of his head and looks down, searching for the right phrase, "...emotions, for lack of a better word." He wonders how much Lockheed told John Tan; he also wonders how much he should say if the old crone told him nothing. In the end he decides to leave it at that and prays John Tan will just nod and pretend to understand.
"Unfortunately, I cannot promise that the same episode will not occur again, but I shall keep to my room if the occasion arises-"
Arthur's carefully scripted impromptu speech is interrupted by the thudding of shoes on a wooden floor; when he looks up, he finds John Tan inches from his face. It startles him so much that it takes him a moment to realize that the young man barely reaches his nose, and that underneath his beaming smile he is extending a hand.
Arthur takes the hand and feels warmth twining around his fingers, curling at the crook of his elbow and racing up to his arm; flitting along his shoulder and diving into his chest. When the heat fills him, his first thought is to get out. Arthur knows about heat in enclosed spaces, the kind that wraps around one's chest and presses down on it, crushing one’s ribcage; he knows the heat from angry sprites, screaming and pounding against his skin begging for release, until he finally yields and becomes the selfsame beast who nearly tore off John Tan's face with claws burning like fire brands.
This heat is different, however. It is not forceful and does not threaten to burn him and flay his skin to pieces. This warmth is inviting, welcoming. The heat emanating from John Tan's hand wraps around him like a large woollen scarf, taking away the chill and leaving only a pleasant tingling that lingers like mild perfume.
Arthur certainly does not hate this new sensation.
He squeezes John Tan's hand a bit tighter.
On cold winter nights John Tan had spoken of how comfortably cool Taiping is, compared to the frigid temperatures of Aberdeen. A place where the mountain breeze dries the sweat off one’s shirt, but never turns so cold that one must curl in a corner with one's thickest blankets.
Compared to Aberdeen, Taiping is a hothouse.
Arthur's handkerchief is damp, and he is tempted to leave it on his forehead for the cooling effect. When a light breeze occasionally brushes by, it does nothing for him; to top it off he can hear everyone around them whispering words he does not understand - they speak in the local dialects ("Those two are speaking Malay, and that family is speaking Hokkien, I don't know what that Indian couple are saying, it might be English but their accent is so thick it could be Tamil," John Tan tells him) - but from their stolen glances and palms over mouths they are obviously talking about Arthur and his overworking sweat glands.
"Pay no attention to them, Mr Winters," an accented female voice says over his right shoulder.
Arthur has been concentrating so hard on ignoring the sweltering heat that he hasn’t noticed Iris coming up beside them. He looks at her long black hair coiled and twisted into a bun, exposing her slender white neck. Now he truly feels foreign: Here he is drenched in sweat while Iris, in a traditional Chinese cotton blouse with a high collar, has nary a drop sweat on her painted face, smelling only of the faint iris perfume that trails behind her.
Arthur inches sideways from Iris, keeping a polite distance. "I shall try, Miss Lim," he says, bowing his head slightly. John Tan is now at least three feet in front of them, pointing out buildings and people, his words often lost in the noise of the marketplace.
"He does that," Iris says.
Arthur blinks. "I beg your pardon?"
"I lost him once. He walked into the Lake Gardens and vanished into some trees. By the time I found him, the sun had already set and my father scolded him for bringing me home late," Iris smiles nostalgically for a brief moment before recovering her serious demeanour. "Oh, but don't think badly of John - he was looking for some flowers to make a bouquet for me, and he was too absorbed to notice the time."
"And is this...normal?”
"For John? Yes."
"No, I-I mean, for betrothed couples. Is it normal to abandon your fiancée...?" Arthur trails off as his eyes follow John Tan strolling ahead, leaving them behind little by little.
Iris's smile grows beatific. "In the end he returns; is that not enough?" She digs into her purse and pulls out a silk handkerchief. "You've started sweating again, Mr. Winters. Use this."
Arthur is careful not to brush her fingers as he takes the handkerchief from her; bringing it closer, he discretely steals a kiss, breathing in its perfume. When he wipes the sweat from his eyebrows, he sees John Tan jogging toward them waving and beckoning, stretching his hand out to Iris as she catches up to him.
Seeing their hands touch, Arthur Winters feels his chest tighten.
He is certain the flush in his cheeks is not the weather's doing.
John Tan has been unconscious for the last three days.
Perhaps John's brother thought a thick woven blanket would be less obvious, but one look and Arthur Winters sees John Tan's right arm end before the waist while his other arm rests whole by his side, a reminder of last Sunday.
Arthur does not need to step out of the hospital to hear the noise - people running from house to house, knocking on doors, chattering in dialect, almost inevitably about Sunday. He does not need to see the bobbing heads, nor the children twisting free from their parents' hands to gather scrap metal from the exploded Japanese airship, to know they are there. A mid-air explosion produces less debris, so anything they find earns their peers' respect and admiration. To adults, it is proof of victory: The British empire is not dead, nor have the Malayans lost their fighting spirit, content to sit back and let their white masters do the work for them.
Standing before John Tan now, victory is a much more disheartening picture.
To Arthur, this is not the young man whose face he nearly clawed off in a tiny rented room in Aberdeen, who yet extended his hand, assuring him he meant no harm. That warm, accepting hand still belongs to John Tan as far as Arthur is concerned; it was never sliced off and blown to bits in the defence of his homeland. John Tan had risked his life once for a foreign land and come out unscathed, so why should this time be different? Why should healthy, joyful John Tan, whose eyes light up at each new discovery, now lie comatose with a face pale as death?
The door creaks open, and Dr. Robert Tan gives Arthur the briefest of nods before standing at John's bedside, hands in his white coat pockets.
"If it's any consolation, he's stable," Robert says, eyes fixed on his younger brother's stomach lightly rising and falling. "He's just not waking up."
Arthur shares this man's refusal to look into each other's eyes. Robert Tan fusses over John, tapping a finger here, feeling a pulse there, looking into an eye, then straightens and turns around.
"Perhaps some magic will do the trick," he says, shutting the door behind him.
One year in Malaya and Arthur can no longer tell the difference between old-fashioned British wit and piercing Asian taunts - in the choking heat, they all sound alike - the same beastly rage roils within him, he wants to - it only takes a thought - but at the same time John Tan's stillness suppresses the beast, and Arthur Winters returns to simply existing: a cold dark space instead of a roaring fireplace threatening to burn everything.
The back of his hand lies on John Tan's forehead, and touches cool damp skin.
For once, Arthur desires the unbearable hotness of being.
the end
e-mail: jv.choong [ at ] gmail dot com
Behold the soldier, standing amongst the prone,
curl'd near earthen walls, liquid rust melting from bone.
Do you hear the chattering teeth? The strangled sob?
There's a man what's done his job.
He prayed and pleaded, "Someone save me!
Or this body’s lost, I guarantee!"
Spirits and sprites, both fae and dead,
Rushed forth where the soldier bled,
"Use our strength!" they cried. "We are legion,
as one we'll be strongest in the region!"
He shuddered and shivered, then loosed a wild cry.
In his place stood a beast of frightening size!
Foe and friend he burned and devoured,
until the land was barren and scoured.
Behold the lone soldier, his heart aflame
with anger, remorse, sorrow, and shame
for seeking unnatural help, untamed.
(He still lives, but constantly fleeing
the unbearable hotness of simply being)
-----
The first time Arthur speaks to John Tan is to apologise.
Arthur straightens his shirt and buttons up his jacket. He takes a deep breath, then nudges the door open. The hinges creak, so he stops after an inch: He sees a figure sitting on the edge of the bed, back to the door, hunched over. Is he packing? Looking through mementoes from his homeland (Arthur recalls it is somewhere near Australia, but the name escapes him)? Had last night's attack frightened him enough to leave?
Such questions are pointless speculation, so Arthur knocks.
The figure's back straightens and his head whips around. John Tan's eyes are small, but larger than those of the Chinese men Arthur recalls from books and movies. His large round spectacle frames give him an owlish appearance and his hair does not dispel the impression: John Tan has tried to tame it with gels and oils, but the Aberdeen winds love to run their icy fingers through it, flipping and twisting it to resemble an owl's feathers.
John Tan stares, mouth shaped into an unsounded word.
"Mr. Tan? I came to apologise."
The Chinese man does not respond.
"Last night, my behaviour was...unacceptable. I apologise for being unable to control my..." Arthur ruffles the back of his head and looks down, searching for the right phrase, "...emotions, for lack of a better word." He wonders how much Lockheed told John Tan; he also wonders how much he should say if the old crone told him nothing. In the end he decides to leave it at that and prays John Tan will just nod and pretend to understand.
"Unfortunately, I cannot promise that the same episode will not occur again, but I shall keep to my room if the occasion arises-"
Arthur's carefully scripted impromptu speech is interrupted by the thudding of shoes on a wooden floor; when he looks up, he finds John Tan inches from his face. It startles him so much that it takes him a moment to realize that the young man barely reaches his nose, and that underneath his beaming smile he is extending a hand.
Arthur takes the hand and feels warmth twining around his fingers, curling at the crook of his elbow and racing up to his arm; flitting along his shoulder and diving into his chest. When the heat fills him, his first thought is to get out. Arthur knows about heat in enclosed spaces, the kind that wraps around one's chest and presses down on it, crushing one’s ribcage; he knows the heat from angry sprites, screaming and pounding against his skin begging for release, until he finally yields and becomes the selfsame beast who nearly tore off John Tan's face with claws burning like fire brands.
This heat is different, however. It is not forceful and does not threaten to burn him and flay his skin to pieces. This warmth is inviting, welcoming. The heat emanating from John Tan's hand wraps around him like a large woollen scarf, taking away the chill and leaving only a pleasant tingling that lingers like mild perfume.
Arthur certainly does not hate this new sensation.
He squeezes John Tan's hand a bit tighter.
On cold winter nights John Tan had spoken of how comfortably cool Taiping is, compared to the frigid temperatures of Aberdeen. A place where the mountain breeze dries the sweat off one’s shirt, but never turns so cold that one must curl in a corner with one's thickest blankets.
Compared to Aberdeen, Taiping is a hothouse.
Arthur's handkerchief is damp, and he is tempted to leave it on his forehead for the cooling effect. When a light breeze occasionally brushes by, it does nothing for him; to top it off he can hear everyone around them whispering words he does not understand - they speak in the local dialects ("Those two are speaking Malay, and that family is speaking Hokkien, I don't know what that Indian couple are saying, it might be English but their accent is so thick it could be Tamil," John Tan tells him) - but from their stolen glances and palms over mouths they are obviously talking about Arthur and his overworking sweat glands.
"Pay no attention to them, Mr Winters," an accented female voice says over his right shoulder.
Arthur has been concentrating so hard on ignoring the sweltering heat that he hasn’t noticed Iris coming up beside them. He looks at her long black hair coiled and twisted into a bun, exposing her slender white neck. Now he truly feels foreign: Here he is drenched in sweat while Iris, in a traditional Chinese cotton blouse with a high collar, has nary a drop sweat on her painted face, smelling only of the faint iris perfume that trails behind her.
Arthur inches sideways from Iris, keeping a polite distance. "I shall try, Miss Lim," he says, bowing his head slightly. John Tan is now at least three feet in front of them, pointing out buildings and people, his words often lost in the noise of the marketplace.
"He does that," Iris says.
Arthur blinks. "I beg your pardon?"
"I lost him once. He walked into the Lake Gardens and vanished into some trees. By the time I found him, the sun had already set and my father scolded him for bringing me home late," Iris smiles nostalgically for a brief moment before recovering her serious demeanour. "Oh, but don't think badly of John - he was looking for some flowers to make a bouquet for me, and he was too absorbed to notice the time."
"And is this...normal?”
"For John? Yes."
"No, I-I mean, for betrothed couples. Is it normal to abandon your fiancée...?" Arthur trails off as his eyes follow John Tan strolling ahead, leaving them behind little by little.
Iris's smile grows beatific. "In the end he returns; is that not enough?" She digs into her purse and pulls out a silk handkerchief. "You've started sweating again, Mr. Winters. Use this."
Arthur is careful not to brush her fingers as he takes the handkerchief from her; bringing it closer, he discretely steals a kiss, breathing in its perfume. When he wipes the sweat from his eyebrows, he sees John Tan jogging toward them waving and beckoning, stretching his hand out to Iris as she catches up to him.
Seeing their hands touch, Arthur Winters feels his chest tighten.
He is certain the flush in his cheeks is not the weather's doing.
John Tan has been unconscious for the last three days.
Perhaps John's brother thought a thick woven blanket would be less obvious, but one look and Arthur Winters sees John Tan's right arm end before the waist while his other arm rests whole by his side, a reminder of last Sunday.
Arthur does not need to step out of the hospital to hear the noise - people running from house to house, knocking on doors, chattering in dialect, almost inevitably about Sunday. He does not need to see the bobbing heads, nor the children twisting free from their parents' hands to gather scrap metal from the exploded Japanese airship, to know they are there. A mid-air explosion produces less debris, so anything they find earns their peers' respect and admiration. To adults, it is proof of victory: The British empire is not dead, nor have the Malayans lost their fighting spirit, content to sit back and let their white masters do the work for them.
Standing before John Tan now, victory is a much more disheartening picture.
To Arthur, this is not the young man whose face he nearly clawed off in a tiny rented room in Aberdeen, who yet extended his hand, assuring him he meant no harm. That warm, accepting hand still belongs to John Tan as far as Arthur is concerned; it was never sliced off and blown to bits in the defence of his homeland. John Tan had risked his life once for a foreign land and come out unscathed, so why should this time be different? Why should healthy, joyful John Tan, whose eyes light up at each new discovery, now lie comatose with a face pale as death?
The door creaks open, and Dr. Robert Tan gives Arthur the briefest of nods before standing at John's bedside, hands in his white coat pockets.
"If it's any consolation, he's stable," Robert says, eyes fixed on his younger brother's stomach lightly rising and falling. "He's just not waking up."
Arthur shares this man's refusal to look into each other's eyes. Robert Tan fusses over John, tapping a finger here, feeling a pulse there, looking into an eye, then straightens and turns around.
"Perhaps some magic will do the trick," he says, shutting the door behind him.
One year in Malaya and Arthur can no longer tell the difference between old-fashioned British wit and piercing Asian taunts - in the choking heat, they all sound alike - the same beastly rage roils within him, he wants to - it only takes a thought - but at the same time John Tan's stillness suppresses the beast, and Arthur Winters returns to simply existing: a cold dark space instead of a roaring fireplace threatening to burn everything.
The back of his hand lies on John Tan's forehead, and touches cool damp skin.
For once, Arthur desires the unbearable hotness of being.
the end