Saving Beauty and the Beast

I see him through the mists of dawn. The apparition which had scare had scared me witless, is actually a ghastly man on a wheelchair. His face is bandaged. His eyes I cannot see. The white gauze covering his skin just below his forehead which slashed to parts of his cheeks remind me of a scene from a war movie I had watched during my university days.

"Is someone there?" His deep voice growls at me.

"I am sorry. I did not see you." I say.

"Are you blind?" He asks in a dry voice.

Touché. He is indeed blind.

"No, but it is always misty here by the sea and the sun has not quite risen." I answer back.

I think of running away from him. He cannot possibly see, can he? Then I wonder if he could hear well. Am I as nimble as I think I am? Or will my gargantuan shoes give way?

"Still there?" He asks.

His voice is like roaring thunder.

A redundant question but I still think about running.

He does not wait though and lashes out at me.

"I was wondering if you know where I can find someone to work for me the next three months." He says suddenly.

I look beyond him, into the mist that does not hide the gargantuan size of his yacht. The sneakers I once called gargantuan pale in comparison. A whole lot. The word Equanimity is plastered on its side. It is one of the grandest I have ever seen.

"You need crew or domestic help for your yacht?" I ask.

I think that I can cook him the local cuisine if he is looking for a chef or more down to earth cook I will say. He is not local judging by that blond hair, the paleness of skin which has yet to see sun...

Back to my premature job targeting, it will not matter that I am not a good cook or whether it is actually authentic. He will never know. Filthy rich like him only come once to this God-forsaken place and then never come back.

"Not exactly. I am looking for something on a more interpersonal level." He says.

My eyes widen and I am glad that he is blind. He will not catch my extreme surprise.

"This part of the country is more conservative than the northern coast. If you sail a few more hours to the north, you will come across the pier of Belatek Island. It is touristic and you can find what you are looking for there." I say.

"How do you know what I am looking for?" He asks, in a crisp voice.

It is horribly hard to read his expression because his face is a total mask with that gauze.

"Belatek has women." I say, without batting an eyelid.

"No men?" He asks.

He scratches his head.

Ouch, I did not know what his preferences were. But then, how could I tell from that face which I can barely make out?

"I don't think there are many men available, but I wouldn't know for certain." I say.

The gender disproportion of the sex trade is obvious. It is not even legal in this country.

"I take it that the men are seafaring folk then. There is no tribal war there, is there?" He asks.

I shake my head. Did he just come sailing right through this part of Asia without doing any background research first?

"No war but piracy is prevalent in the eastern coast but the northern side of the peninsula is generally safe. Not much of hiding places here due to the straight makeup of the coast. No small islands whatsoever. Further the mainland town is self-sufficient." I say.

"My captain says that there is a small island that we can see right from this pier." He says.

"Yes." I reply.

"You said no small islands whatsoever." He repeated my words.

"Oh, that island...Boneka Island. It's haunted so it doesn't count to me. Even pirates don't go there." I say.

"You really believe that?" He asks.

"I only know that no one ever goes there. So do not go there for your own safety." I say.

"But the fact that it's haunted. Do you think it is?" He pesters me.

"I don't know." I say truthfully.

"Well, where are all the Belatek men?" He asks, bridging our earlier conversation before we sidestepped into haunted islands.

I wonder how to answer his question.

"There is not much demand for men, therefore they find other jobs." I answer. "Men generally work on the cruise ships, and only a small majority are fishermen due to the dwindling catch. Some move to bigger towns in the heart of the peninsula." I continue.

"What a disproportionate island with females only. Must be heaven for men." He says.

I smile at him but I realise belatedly he would not be able to see it.

"I see. So what is it do you think I am looking for which is available in Belatek?" He asks.

Have I not just answered his question? Only that he wanted men.

"Men." I say.

"I think women have more patience with me." He says.

I see him smile for the first time.

This poor man must be confused. He desires men but wants to sleep with women.

"Whichever gives you more satisfaction?" I say.

Not sure if I was asking him a question.

"Men or women aside, why not you since you are right here in front of me?" He asks.

I hear a shuffle and a thud. Then I am falling down through the mists. Next thing I know is that I am grasping the wooden edge of the long pier.

"Goodness, take my hand!" He shouts.

I see the white gloved hands dangling in front of me and I grasp more than his hands. I take his arms. My fingers sink into his skin.

"I don't want to fall. I can't swim." I mutter these two sentences like a mantra, over and over again.

My feet are dangling below the pier.

"You will not fall. Listen to me. Hold on to me tight." He says in a stern voice.

At the same time, his free arm pulls my other arm up. Then he manages to reach for my shoulders. With a sudden great lift, he pulls me up like a crane.

Due to the momentum of his lift and subsequent release, I crash down into his chest like a wrecking ball.

We were silent for what seemed to me a long time. Like someone paused a movie. I can hear my own muffled breathing against his chest. I can feel his heart beat.

His arms which had circled mine now strokes my head.

"Are you alright, Miss...? I don't even know your name." He says.

I nod. And this time he is aware of my acquiescence because he feels me moving my head against his chest.

"There now. You did not fall into the sea." He says.

"Thank you, Mr..." I say.

"de Louterbergh. Glad to be of assistance. A sort of serendipity, isn't it?" He says.

But his retort on why not me rings in my mind now. It had shocked me. I had stepped backwards without care to the limited breadth of the pier and toppled myself over. I could have fallen into the water. And that would be a first.

And then I wonder if I should sleep with him to thank him. Perhaps I could challenge myself for once. I have desires, do I not? Of course I do.

I untangle myself from his embrace.

"After all that, I can understand if you do not want me anymore." I say.

Just checking to see if he still wanted me.

"Well, you can be clumsy." He says.

"Yes." I say.

"Still, I am rather desperate." He says.

I catch a faint hint of a smile on his face. His cheekbones curl up despite the gauze.

"But you must know I might not be able to pleasure you like a man does." I say.

He is silent. His expression ... oh damn that gauze. It seems like he has become a piece of wood, devoid of anything human now.

It takes me some time to see through the dim light of dawn that whatever pale colour he possessed has drained from his face.

"I'm sorry that I am rather inexperienced in sex. That is why I suggested Belatek. It is still the best place to look for a male escort or prostitute. You can also hire transsexuals if you are unsure." I say, speaking very, very frankly now.

He lets out a loud sigh. I can hear his breath gushing out through his mouth and nose.

"Do you actually know what I really want?" He asks finally.

"Sexual preferences are very private, de Louterbergh. I would not know. Mr. de Louterbergh I mean." I answer, adding in the salutation to his name. What a pompous name, I thought.

"Why on earth would I want sex from this God-forsaken place? Had I not enough sex before I came here? Do you think I am a sex tourist?" he asks in exasperation.

He lifts his arms up. The wheelchair rolls backwards a little. I move towards its back, securing the wheelchair in place. If he fell into the water, I would never be able to save him.

"I'm not insulting nor judging you." I say.

I know enough not to.

"My dear Miss...What's your name, please?" He asks me.

"Lisa." I say.

"Miss Lisa..."

"No, Miss Phan to be accurate. That's my surname." I say.

It does not matter but why am I being so nitty-picky?

"Miss Phan... you got it all wrong. What I want is..." He says.

"I really don't need to know that." I say.

It comes to my realization that the sun had risen while we were talking about him procuring a male prostitute. I am ashamed of my conversation with him. What would grandmother say if she knew I was talking bluntly about sex with a bad foreigner? All white-skinned foreigners are bad, grandmother says, still immersed in the colonial days. And talking about sex is a sin too.

"But you need to hear what I have to say, Miss Phan, since you were so quick to judge me." He just had to go on.

"Judge you? Forsooth... I have been very open-minded." I say in defence.

"Have you now? By the way forsooth is an archaic word." He says, making fun of my English in the meantime.

Does he not know that we speak a kind of pidgin English here? This peninsula has been isolated from the outside world for centuries until the start of the last century.

I want to call him idiot but I keep my mouth shut. Surely there is a better adjective to describe this ghastly looking man. I want to describe his character and not his physical appearance. That is only fair. We do not choose the way we look, although in his case, something bad must have happened to him to have his face bandaged up like that with a wheelchair to boot.

"We are talking about you procuring a male sexual partner. That's illegal in this country, but then you are ignorant of the laws here." I say.

"And if you smuggle drugs in, it will be death by hanging." I say.

I just had to add that bit in. Foreign embassies have fought for their nationals to be exempted from the death penalty but to no avail. Our government is an inflexible dictatorship.

"And now we are talking about me trafficking drugs?" He asks, incredulously.

"No. I am just letting you know." I say, indignantly.

"Whatever for?" He asks.

"Quite a few people who enter the country via the isolated piers like this one are drug mules. That's why they can afford yachts like yours." I say.

"Miss Phan..." He starts.

He calls my name in a strained tone.

"You are just completely ignorant of who I am and what I do. And of course, what my preferences are!" He manages to yell at me this time.

I get a little afraid but now I am aware I am stepping back from the pier.

"Do I look like a drug mule to you, just because I am different from you? Just because I own a yacht?" He keeps yelling.

I am going to run away. And run away from him I did.

"Stop, please, Miss Phan!" He shouts after me.

Upon hearing my surname shouted in that strange accent of his, I stop dead in my tracks.

"I am a poor, blind man in a wheelchair. I won't bite. Not even if I wanted to because I can't see a bloody thing!" He yells more, but there is a plea in his voice.

Instantly I feel sorry for him. I become appreciative of my sight -- my eyes. And my mobility -- my feet which ran from him and which clumsily staggered into the water.

"Hear me out, will you?" He cries out into the nothingness which darkens his world.

But I see him, clearly now, in the rising sun. He has pinkish lips and brown eyebrows. He has long fingers and a broad chest. He looks tall in that wheelchair.

Oh, how very pale skin!

"I am here, Mr. de Louterbergh." I say, in a soft voice.

I am right in front of him. No need to speak louder. And because I feel sorry for him. He seems to be in worse shape than I am.

"I am a lawyer in show business. Made my fortune representing A-List stars in divorce cases. This yacht is an appreciative gesture from one of my clients who was financially broke. Not in terms of property though." He says.

"Okay. I am a piano teacher trying to make ends meet." I say.

I figure that I have to talk about myself.

"I am not a drug mule. I am a law-abiding citizen. Goodness, I am a lawyer, you fool." He says, in that raised voice again.

Lawyers are rarely law-abiding citizens. They twist and turn the law, finding loopholes to suit themselves. But I do not say anything.

"I admit I am a fool." I say, believing it to be true anyway.

I never claimed superiority over anything. At least I am egoless enough to admit that I am a fool.

"I make mistakes all the time. I am sorry that I have offended you." I say.

I do not wish to make this not so poor man angrier than he was. People like him could cause trouble to people like me.

"I'm sorry. I did not mean to call you a fool." He says.

His voice is softer now and a little turbulent. It is as if he wants to say more to me but decides against it because I am a fool.

"I have been holed up in my yacht, sailing for weeks without land in sight until I became cranky and irritable." He says.

And utterly ridiculous too, I say privately to myself.

"I am sorry that I have lashed out at you. I am the fool here, not you. You were just telling me the law in general and it triggered the past for me." He says.

"No, I have always been a fool." I say.

What I have said had nothing to do with him. It is why I am here every day at the pier. Running, walking and mostly trying to numb my feelings. There is hardly anyone here.

This pier had been one of the previous government's mega projects. Too ambitious for its own good and left largely abandoned. His yacht was one of the five at this huge monstrosity of a billion dollar project. There were complex buildings nearby and they were all closed due to mismanagement of funds.

"I say things without thinking. I gave no thought whether I was insinuating that you were a drug mule." I say.

I remembered a time when I always second-guessed myself into a nervous breakdown. But now I do not want to go back there.

"Shall we start afresh?" He asks, with a broader smile curved on his lips.

I think then that his lips defined his whole face because they looked beautiful compared to all the gauze bandaged around him.

He holds out his hand, not really in my direction, because he cannot see me.

I bend my knees a little, take his hand gently and we shake hands.

I can feel the heat of his skin through the white gloves. I wonder if he has a skin condition as well. There is no need to wear gloves here given the heat, or is it standard attire wherever it is he came from?

"You're all skin and bones." He says, pressing my fingers together until the bones clumped.

I am taken aback again. Is that an insult?

Can he not say slim, elongated fingers or something to this effect?

"I do not eat much, Mr. de Louterbergh." I answer the truth instead.

"Why not?" He asks.

"I do not have a big appetite." I say to him.

I have been ill, I say to myself.

"Such a pity." He says.

I agree with him. I remembered the time when I could gobble up a horse...

I should not go back into the past. It makes me cry when I think too much.

Suddenly a tear comes dripping down in the most ungraceful manner. Again I am so relieved that he is blind. I wipe it away hastily.

There is an awkward silence. I feel compelled to say something.

"But still I can cook for you the famous local cuisine. If you do not want it too spicy, I can add other spices to suit milder taste buds." I say.

I just blurt it out. Is it prompted by all the food that I used to crave for but cannot eat? But I can scent and smell, can I not?

"Are you a good cook?" He asks.

Perhaps finally he is now considering me as a potential cook too.

"Yes." I say.

"Humph...it's not you. It's me. I am a fussy eater. I only eat what I have eaten before." He retorts immediately.

"I understand. So that you do not get food poisoning especially when sailing." I say.

"Well said, Lisa." He says, and then, quickly he adds in, "May I call you Lisa, Miss Phan?" He asks.

"You already have." I say.

I cannot help a smile now. Strange feeling. I have not smiled without cue in a long time now.

"Then call me Andrew, not the stuffy Mr. de Louterbergh." He says.

"Andrew." I say his name just for him to hear.

"And as to my sexual preference, Lisa- hear this. I desire women." He says.

I dared not question him more.

"But that is not why I wanted to look for someone to work for me for the interpersonal matter I was talking about." He continues.

"I see." I say, but I do not see really.

"I need someone to be my eyes and take me around this place. I need a wheelchair pusher and a local guide, if you put it that way. Personal assistant, maybe to make it sound posher and if you are particular about technicalities." He says.

I stare at him, simply amazed really that I had managed to get it all wrong.

"Yes, just that. No sex involved. You can say that because of my condition, I do not get much of a chance anyway." He says.

"Oh..." I say. Then I say more, "I am sorry to have misunderstood you. I thought that you wanted..."

"A splendid tropical island getaway fuck?" He continues for me, in a bitter voice now.

The tone of his voice changes so fast from serious to bitter that I can barely catch up.

"You may not judge, Lisa, but you do assume a lot." He says.

"I was wrong to generalize." I say.

"The same way I was. I should not have barged in on you like that before sunrise. To you, perhaps I was behaving suspiciously." He says.

We are mutually apologizing again without saying the words. My head spins. This blind cripple of a man is so strange.

"So will you be my eyes to the world for the next three months? I'm a difficult man to tolerate but I think we could not fall short from our magnificent first impression." He says, very seriously.

"Yes, what are the odds of that?" I say, taking it very seriously as well.

But I kind of feel like I am starting to fly. Light -- this feeling of about to take off from the ground. I start to giggle. I try to stifle it. He hears me. He starts laughing, first trying to control it like me and then he laughs freely. We both do.

"I take it as a yes?" He asks.

But he is not really asking. We have reached a consensus and he knows it.

He insists on wheeling himself back into his yacht. He beckons me to follow him in to discuss the details of my wheelchair-pusher / eyes of the world work with him. Inside I see an ancient looking mariner. I just know from the way he is dressed -- blue, white and looking smart. The total opposite of Andrew.

He greets me with a nod. He tells me his name. Ralph, he says with a smile. Lisa, I say, returning his smile.

We go below the decks into a cosy lounge sort of room. My yacht terminology is nil. There are a few flights of stairs. Andrew is carried by Ralph down the stairs and placed with dignity on the side sofa which provides good back support.

After it was decided that I was to be with him every day in the mornings till early afternoon, and then go to the music school for a few hours to teach my students in the afternoons, I was to be back with him at 8pm till about 10pm at his yacht. I agreed.

He told me the amount he was prepared to pay me.

"One million dollars. In US currency for convenience." He says.

He could joke with a straight voice, if not face, for it was shrouded.