The Catherine Lim Collection (42 page)

At first, the shoppers look upon the beard
and giggle. They are amused by the multiplicity of colours – white, black,
brown, grey, russet, rust, blonde, even a greenish hue that some of the
shoppers speculate to be the effect of a lifelong vegetarian diet.

“Do you think the multi-colours reflect our
multi-racial society?” whispers a woman shopper, giggling a little. Her
companion who has been gazing at the luxuriant growth with increasing interest,
suddenly gives a little shriek.

“An insect!” she gasps, “I saw an insect
jump in the beard just now. I think it’s a flea, maybe a louse.”

The crowds who come to look at Goonalaan’s
beard are not only shoppers but include those who have heard strange stories
about the growth of that feature and want to see it with their own eyes.

The beard grows and grows.

The vermin in the beard increase in number,
till they are very visible, and can be distinctly seen crawling, hopping,
jumping from one segment of beard to another, in search of more congenial spots
for mating and breeding.

The shopping centres blare with national
songs about happy, caring Singaporeans who will put the interests of others
above their own. The sight of Goonalaan’s beard – unruly and overrun by
competitive vermin – has the effect of muting the fervour of these songs, so
that after a while, they are not sung anymore. Singaporeans, suddenly
confronted by their own rampant selfishness in the proliferating lushness of
Goonalaan’s beard, slink past him, yet throw a furtive backward glance at that
compelling beard.

There is a seminar organised by the National
Cultural Association in which the topic is “Towards a Caring Society in the
Nineties.” But the seminar on the caring society never gets off ground because
the image of Goonalaan’s beard indicating the contrary invariably looms large
in each speaker’s mind. Precisely at the point when the speaker is extolling the
virtues of Singaporeans or expressing a hope for the emergence of those virtues
in the nineties, the picture of the beard makes its mental appearance. The
speaker then sits down, having lost his trend of thinking and looks sheepish
and confused.

In a debate organised by the National
University on the question of whether there is a national identity, the
chairperson, in a preliminary laying down of rules for the debaters, states
emphatically that any reference to Goonalaan’s beard will not be accepted as a valid
debating point. One of the debaters for the motion, to illustrate his point
about there being already in existence a national identity, holds up high over
his head for all to see a poster of a group of Singaporeans from all walks of
life in smiling camaraderie with one another. His opponent leaps up from his
seat, cries, “Not true!” and then in defiance of the chairperson’s earlier
warning, whips out an enlarged picture of Goonalaan’s beard, bristling with
contentious vermin, and cries, ‘And this is the incontrovertible proof!’

Groups of people continue to cluster around
Goonalaan, sitting cross-legged on the ground, and study his beard with a
mixture of fascination and timidity. Not all of them are Singaporeans. One is a
foreign journalist who now peers at Goonalaan’s beard with intense interest and
joy and says he will write an article on it immediately. He takes careful note
of the rate of growth of the beard (by now it has grown beyond the navel), the
diversity of colours, the texture, the shape. He records the population density
of vermin (number of visible vermin per square inch of beard). Most of all, he
is interested in the socio-cultural milieu of this vermin population. He
records, with increasing enthusiasm, the dynamics of competition among the
vermin in the restricted space of the albeit lush beard. He notices in
particular a group of young rapidly climbing vermin; from the deepest recesses
of Goonalaan’s beard, they scramble out for the bits of food and scab resting
on the surface of the beard, often climbing over the heads of older vermin.

The choicest bits are in that part of the
beard closest to Goonalaan’s mouth, and the vermin compete with great ferocity
for the space there, the competition often breaking out in open hostility among
the different colonies. Some colonies have grown inordinately fat; their round
little bodies are replete with food, but that does not prevent them from making
nests in the beard for the hoarding of extra food.

The journalist excitedly records every
detail, and quickly despatches his article to his editors.

And through all this, Goonalaan sits
tranquilly on his piece of newspaper, his eyes closed, his features composed.
The Chief for Promotion of Tourism is very upset not because Goonalaan’s beard
(by now reaching to his knees and so filled with vermin that a continuous low
humming sound is heard from it) keeps tourists away but because, on the
contrary, it attracts very large crowds of these tourists.

“I spent hundreds of thousands of dollars
doing up the Haw Par Villa,’ wails the Chief, ‘and hundreds of thousands of
dollars to restore the Imperial Jade House and my staff and I spent months
cracking our heads about how to bring back the delights of Bugis Street for the
tourists, down to the last detail of the potholes and the outdoor lavatory with
the cement roof, and what do we have? Tourists who ask only to see Goonalaan’s
beard!”

It is true that large numbers of tourists in
their sunhats and sunglasses come to gape at Goonalaan’s beard, and are
mesmerised by its eloquent power.

“Real Rolex watches, madam, we Singaporeans
very honest, we never cheat,” says the young tout, opening his jacket to reveal
a row of gleaming gold watches to the lady tourist who tries to get past him.

“Never cheat? Go look at Goonalaan’s beard,”
snaps the lady and walks away in a huff.

“65 per cent more Singaporeans think less of
money now than they did three years ago,” says a survey commissioned by The
Straits Times.

“Yeah?” says a letter to the newspaper the
next day. “Your survey may say so, but Goonalaan’s beard does not. Statistics
can be manipulated, but not beards.”

The Society of Concerned Singaporeans thinks
that something should be done about the situation; if allowed to go on, the
image that the world will have of Singaporeans will be damaged beyond repair.
Furthermore, the national self image has never been poorer, the national
self-confidence never lower. Already, the more sensitive Singaporeans are
suffering from severe guilt and becoming very defensive and aggressive whenever
the subject of beards or hair or vermin or dirt, comes up.

There is a great deal of discussion about
the problem, but so far no solution has been found. Each ministry wants to push
the problem to the other. The Ministry for Moral Development which everyone
thinks ought to be dealing with the matter is arguing that the problem properly
belongs to the Ministry for Tourism which in turn thinks that, in view of
Goonalaan’s beard being a likely source for the spread of vermin-caused
diseases, the problem should be handled by the Ministry of Health. All agree
with some degree of resentment that it is an intractable problem and one that
requires very careful handling.

The only suggestion which has met with any
degree of concurrence is that a special seat be created in Parliament for
Goonalaan, the condition being that he must shave off his beard or at least
give it a thorough cleaning up. It is also suggested that as a Member of
Parliament, Goonalaan’s special responsibility be restricted solely to the
nurturing of clean beards in the Republic, since he has so conclusively proved
a positive relationship between dirty beards and immoral behaviour. In this
way, the activities of this very troublesome individual can be curtailed;
indeed, the activities may in effect be no more than routine checks on
hairdressers and barbers to ensure proper shaving and cleaning of beards and
moustaches; and no more than occasional campaigns against hirsutism. With
Goonalaan as ‘Minister for Tonsorial Affairs’, a title which he will no doubt
be very happy to append to his name, the very vexatious problem of Goonalaan’s
beard will be satisfactorily solved at last.

Once upon a
time,
there was a beautiful princess in Singapore, so
beautiful that all came to court her, from far and wide. Actually, she was not
a real princess, but the title of ‘Singapore Princess’ conferred upon her in
the annual Beauty Contest among young maidens, was almost as good as the real
thing. Indeed, it was the opinion of all that no real princess in the world
could match Singapore Princess in her beauty. Her skin was pure porcelain, her
eyes were the perfect shape of almonds, her lips the essence of rosebuds, her
tresses a cascade of silken ebony, her breasts, a pair of perfectly shaped and
hued apricots ripening on branch, her tiny feet two pink lotus buds in bloom. O
the ineffable beauty of Singapore Princess!

Now there was a Wise Man of Singapore who
astonished everybody by the extent and depth of his knowledge and wisdom. This
Wise Man was very pleased by the crowning of Singapore Princess because he had
actually predicted that one day such a maiden would appear in Singapore and
dazzle all with her beauty. The Wise Man had even predicted the exact day when
the star would make its appearance in the Singapore firmament. He was able to
do this because he had detailed knowledge of the family from which this paragon
was sprung.

It was the Wong family, and they had come,
many years ago, from their hometown, Ipoh, in Malaysia, to settle in Singapore.
Now Ipoh was well known for the beautiful women it was continually producing;
some speculated that it was the special Ipoh soil and water that have also
successfully produced the best pomelos and groundnuts in the country. Whatever
the cause, the women from Ipoh were renowned for their very fine complexions
and delicate features. The Wise Man of Singapore looked closely at the first
Wong lady to settle in Singapore: she was extremely lovely even though in those
days, feminine charms were hidden behind very loose blouses and trousers. The
Wise Man, looking at her, proclaimed that even though she was the most
beautiful woman he had seen, there would come one, some time in the future, who
would surpass her in loveliness, as the swan surpasses the goose. The Wise Man
did not mean to disparage the lady; he only meant to convey the impression of a
beauty so great that it was hardly within the power of speech to describe it.
In his knowledge and wisdom, he said that it would take three generations for
the beauty in the Wong lineage to reach full flowering, and when the final
triumph came, it would leave the country spellbound.

And the Wise Man had predicted correctly –
right down to the last detail of design and colour of the swimsuit worn by
Singapore Princess as she paraded on the dais, and the men were stunned into a
state of speechless wonder, so that a full minute elapsed before they broke
into delirious cheers.

Every eligible bachelor in Singapore wanted
to woo Singapore Princess; they came from far and wide, as far away as Pulau
Tekong and Kusu Island. But the Princess remained aloof and unattainable, and
the wooers went away with sadness in their hearts.

Now there was somebody who was also very
sad, but for a different reason. This was Lady Matchmaker who had been given
the awesome responsibility of finding husbands for the plainest and least
endowed of Singapore’s maidens. Her job was a very difficult one indeed, and
just now, she had more than 150 unwed maidens on her hands, with very little
likelihood of their being sought. The crowning of Singapore Princess, and the
excitement that it had created among the men, caused this good lady to remark
sadly, “Oh, the unfairness of Fate! Why must so much beauty be concentrated in
one person? If the Princess’s beauty had been equally distributed among my poor
unwed maidens, I’m sure there would be enough for each to be unwed no longer!
Oh, the unfairness of it all!”

The Wise Man of Singapore heard about Lady
Matchmaker’s predicament and decided that he would do something to help her. He
thought up a plan. And it was this: invitations would be sent out to all the
eligible men in Singapore to try to win the hand of Singapore Princess in marriage.
To do so, they would have to take part in a contest, and the one who won it
would have the Princess as the prize. The trick, of course (and here the Wise
Man leaned over to Lady Matchmaker with a conspiratorial wink of his heavily
hooded eyes), was to make the contest so very difficult that nobody would
succeed. All the hopeful young men would fail miserably, as a result of which
they would have to pay a penalty. And the penalty was that (here the Wise Man
leaned even closer to Lady Matchmaker and slowly stroked the three venerable
long hair on his venerable chin), every one of those who failed would have to
take a bride from Lady Matchmaker’s pool of hopefuls.

When Lady Matchmaker heard this, she clapped
her hands in joy, but still she could not help being anxious.

‘How are we going to ensure that all the
young men will fail the test?’ she asked. ‘I have at present 158 unwed maidens
in my care, and I need precisely that number of young men.’

‘Leave it to me,’ said the Wise Man of
Singapore. ‘I am not called Wise Man for nothing.’

Soon the news of the contest spread to the
furthest corners of the country. Everybody was talking about the contest. In
it, each young man aspiring for the hand of Singapore Princess would have to
devise seven questions to ask the Wise Man of Singapore, one question for each
day of the week. If the Wise Man was unable to answer all the questions, the
young man would be the winner and could claim Singapore Princess for his bride.
If the Wise Man on the other hand was able to answer the questions, the young
man would be led away by Lady Matchmaker.