Promises and Portals
by Samuel R. Kaplan
I love my wife. Waiting a lifetime to find someone or something creates value. I had searched to the ends of the earth to find her. She is Chinese, and we retired to her country of Singapore, a former British colony. When she asked that I outlive her, that she not be condemned to grieve my death, I agreed to do my best.
That promise motivates me out the door in the morning for a walk to MacRitchie Reservoir, when I might prefer slothful, sleepy lingering in my bed. Also, the more daytime physical activity, the less geriatric insomnia to plague my nights.
I walk down the sidewalk, pass in front of the MRT (subway) station, cross the street, continuing down the sidewalk to the pedestrian tunnel on my right that passes under the highway. As I emerge from the yellow-tiled tunnel and walk up the inclined path, there is a rectangular service cover, a waffle of steel encrusted with graveled asphalt, resting askew, seeming to balance a corner on one of the two parallel lines of blue tile.
Whenever I cross the oblong, whether conscious of it or not, I feel a neurological twinge, akin to the first jolt of caffeine or buzz of nicotine, as it seems to slide quickly beneath my feet, independent of my pace.
I continue across the small side street and into the park. Some mornings, I take the fork to the left, following the pavement around the reservoir and climbing the hill to the tomb of Lim Bo Seng, a hero who kept military secrets at the cost of his life under torture in a Japanese detention camp during the Second World War. I bow three times, paying respects in the Chinese fashion, before retracing my steps toward the park entrance, where I take the same fork toward the right and the elevated walkway through the jungle.
On most days, I walk to the end of the walkway, from Prunus Trail to Petai Trail, a distance less than 2.5 kilometers, before returning to the entrance, observing Asian monitors, long-tailed macaques, turtles, and wild boars. Leaving the park and descending to the tunnel, I feel the same frisson as before when crossing the service cover.
* * *
This daily routine continued for months, interrupted only by morning storms, disabling indigestion, or insomniac fatigue. One morning I was on the Petai Trail when a storm arose, emptying the sky with torrents of water. I took refuge at the wooden storm shelter about two kilometers along the path.
Sitting and observing, I waited out the storm. Such waits in a changeless scene of greenery seem endless. When I could leave, I opted to exit from the end of the trail, climbing the steps, turning left on the dirt road at the top and going through the wooded area by turning right on the path 50 meters along the road.
From atop the hill on Thomson Heights, I descended to Upper Thomson, passed the Sheng Siong grocery, and the community center, before taking the pedestrian bridge across the runoff canal into the neighborhood of owned public-housing where we live.
Arriving home and taking the elevator to the third story, I opened the metal security gate then the front door. When I entered, my wife ran to greet me, throwing her arms around me, crying: “Where have you been? I was so worried. I reported you missing to the police two days ago.”
She continued to sob, as if greeting a returned detainee from a POW camp. I embraced her, confused by the reaction to my return.
“Two days? What are you talking about? I took my usual walk. I was delayed by the thunderstorm and waited for it to end. Then, I came home.”
She stopped crying. She wiped her face. She stared. “What thunderstorm? We are having a drought. It has not rained in weeks.”
Now I stared, each of us silently evaluating the mental health of the other. “l told you where I was, but I am home now. You had better let the police know.”
“They will want to interview you.”
“Set up something for after lunch, please. I need to run a quick errand at Sheng Siong.”
“You’re not leaving again, are you?”
“It will not take long, less than an hour, but I need to get something.”
To discourage further protest I rushed back out the door, retracing my steps toward Thomson Heights, where I reentered the jungle, footpath to dirt road to walkway. I returned to the beginning of the trail and exited the park, feeling a slight shiver as the service cover passed beneath me. I went through the tunnel, turned left on the sidewalk, crossed the street, passed the MRT station and went up the elevator to our third story place.
Unlocking the gate and the front door, I entered to see my wife eating breakfast. She looked up. “Good morning. Did you have a nice walk?”
“Just the usual. Tell me, I saw some police downstairs. Any idea what that was about?”
“Police? What would I know anything about police? I am just having breakfast.”
“Okay, just curious.”
Magic abounds. Strange things happen. Memories fade, retreating into the realm of the fuzzy boundary between dream and reality, dismissed as daytime fantasy, if recalled at all.
* * *
My happy but simple life continued, frequenting the café where they brought my breakfast unbidden, playing bridge, walking among the fauna of the reservoir and other parks, rejoicing in my wife’s embrace at night.
One morning, after a bout of geriatric insomnia, something novice oldsters are not warned about, I felt a profound fatigue halfway into my regular jaunt along the reservoir. After a rest at the shelter, I decided to exit the reservoir by the path through the wooded area to Thomson Heights. I looked forward to a quick shower and early nap for relief.
Approaching the door of our third story flat, I noticed that the front door was open behind the grill. We always closed both for privacy, especially since my answer to the tropical heat was minimal clothing. I tried my key in the grill. It did not fit. I turned it, thinking I had inserted it incorrectly. No. I looked at the key and at the grill.
“Sweetheart, are you up?”
A woman my age — whom I did not recognize — approached from inside. She was the height of my wife, but her round face was framed by short, straight hair, streaked with black and silver. Her expression brightened at finding someone at the door, as if it were open in hopes of such a miracle.
“May I help you?”
“Excuse me. Who are you?”
“I am the property owner. May I help?”
“Oh, I thought Lim Meiling lived here.”
“She did. Many years ago. We bought it from her family after she died, about ten years ago. Sad story. The neighbors told me that she died of grief after the disappearance of her husband. Did you know them?”
“I am an old friend. I lost touch with them and was trying to reconnect.”
“You look tired. May I offer you a cup of tea and biscuits?”
I was fatigued, from walking, from the turn of events, and from every one of my seventy-five years. I wanted to tarry, to regroup with tea and cookies, but, accessing my inner Persephone, knew I could not.
“I am tired. That is a kind offer, but I still have errands to run. It is nice to know I would be welcome if I return.”
“Company is always welcome when we are older and live alone. My name is Ping Ping.”
“Thanks. Perhaps I’ll be back.”
* * *
My thoughts and feet raced together. A strangely kept promise. A need to overcome fatigue. I ran down the three familiar flights of steps, unwilling to await the elevator. I turned left beneath the covered walkway toward the back of the development. Memory focused. Would this work again, never to be repeated?
I crossed the footbridge over the canal and arrived in front of Sheng Siong, retracing my steps of minutes previously. The pedestrian signal showed less than 15 seconds for a favorable light. I sprinted across the dual highway. Along with insomnia, the ability to sprint remaining, were the two big surprises of my seventies.
I hurried up the hill, unable to run on the incline, to the wooded area above. I found the staircase off the dirt road and descended to the walkway, half-walking, half-running as if my life depended on it. Luscious jungle. Dark and deep. Walking to regain my lost breath. Promises to keep. Jogging. Running. One kilometer to go. To weep or sleep.
Reaching the end of the walkway, I crossed the exercise equipment area and trotted down the path toward the exit. I crossed the street and walked down the tiled path, feeling a cruel tropical shiver as the iron oblong slid beneath me. Had my love been sufficient in what seemed a distant past to carry it forward?
I hesitated, gathering my breath, glancing the length of the tunnel before me, and then continued my descent into its mouth to discover where my future lay, with the woman I loved or an unknown quantum.
Emerging on the other side, I returned to our apartment building, where the arrival of the elevator seemed interminable, as they always take the longest route to reach me, a constant conspiracy of fate. Arriving on the fourth floor, I was relieved that the fragrance of freshly-baked, sourdough bread greeted me. Only one person could produce that reassuring aroma.
Copyright © 2022 by Samuel R. Kaplan
