Cat and Mouse in Singapore

Lee See Fong’s hands were exquisite, slender with long tapering fingers. Perhaps See Fong thought his hands were out of proportion; he folded his fingers inward at the second knuckle — like a cat’s retractable claws. Cunning and enigmatic creatures, cats dislike authority as thoroughly as See Fong resented me.

See Fong reported to me — an awkward arrangement. We were both in our early thirties; university graduates, with somewhat the same banking experience. However, we worked for the Bank of America in the mid 1970s; and I was paid an American salary along with significant housing and home-leave perks. See Fong’s remuneration would only approach my package after many years and several promotions. The Singaporeans knew that’s how it worked; they also knew that, no matter how far they advanced, they would report to an American. To compensate, the American banks paid far better than the local banks; but the disparity rankled.

On Saturdays the bank was open until noon; half the staff rotated every other week. Although the men wore ties, dressing was less formal. Early one Saturday, I was talking to Martha Tan, my secretary, when See Fong arrived. Martha said something in Chinese, and he approached us. Speaking to Martha in Chinese, he turned around. See Fong was wearing a perfect white cotton jacket, matching knee-length shorts, men’s white knee stockings, and white shoes; for color he wore a blue and white checkered shirt with a Windsor collar and a maroon silk knit tie.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“Those shorts and stockings, Mr. Lee calls them empire builders,” Martha said.

“Empire builders?”

“Like British gentlemen wore during colonial times when they were building their empire.”

See Fong said in English, “A customer invited me to the Tanglin Club this afternoon for tiffin.” With an arched eyebrow, “Tiffin, it’s an old British word for lunch.”

“I know.”

“Do you belong to the Tanglin Club?”

“I’ve applied, but there’s quite a waiting list. I understand they’re picky about Americans.”

See Fong folded his hands. “Not so long ago, the Tanglin Club was whites only; the British called us WOGs — Westernized-Oriental-Gentlemen.”

Before Singapore’s independence, the Tanglin Club was the center of British society. Much had changed since then; the club’s membership reflected the higher reaches of Singapore’s society: a Chinese majority, Indians, British, other Europeans — all Caucasians were called Europeans. But the Tanglin Club retained its colonial ambiance: the president was British; a portrait of Winston Churchill gazed down from behind the main bar. Saturday night suppers were black-tie followed by dancing.

“All those ugly names,” I said. “Well, that was a long time ago.”

“I see. How do I look?”

“Dated,” I said. “No one has dressed like that since the ’30s; but, if you’re mocking the club’s history and the British members, that outfit should do it.”

“What would happen if you went to the Tanglin Club dressed like this?”

“Americans never dressed that way. So they might think I was pretending to be an Englishman who hasn’t been around for decades. They’d probably laugh.”

“Your dressing this way is a joke; with me it’s mockery, why?”

“I don’t resent the Tanglin Club like I suppose you do.”

“Because you’re white and have nothing to resent?” See Fong glanced at his hands before smoothing his hair. ”Let’s say that you were in Singapore back then, would you have accepted the color bar? Or would you’ve made a statement and declined?”

“My statement would probably have gone unnoticed. Anyway, you’re asking me to apply today’s viewpoints to forty or fifty years ago.”

“My question stands.”

“Okay, to be frank, I don’t know what I’d have done.” I thought about that. “I’m something of a conformist and probably would have joined. Hopefully I’d have felt guilty.”

Martha turned to her desk and became busy tapping the typewriter’s keys harder than usual.

See Fong straightened his tie, “Ah, an honest answer without equivocal clichés.”

Our tenuous relationship had turned confrontational. See Fong had become the cat, and I the angry mouse. “I’ve got work to do and am going to get to it.”

The bank had closed for the day, Martha was clearing her desk, and See Fong had gone to lunch. I said goodbye to Martha; she replied with a curt mumble. I thought about explaining my conversation with See Fong, but that would have complicated matters. Anyway, the uncomfortable squall would blow over.

Late one afternoon a couple of months later, See Fong approached my desk with a cat’s quiet dignity and that day’s edition of The Straits Times. Unfolding the newspaper, he said, “I understand you were born in Boston?”

“That’s right, but I grew up in California. Why do you ask?”

“Well, today’s newspaper is troubling.” He placed it in front of me; the front page covered the school bussing crisis during the 1970s in South Boston — Southie it’s called — an old Irish neighborhood. There were photos of angry whites yelling at black children.

I scanned the article; sliding the paper back to him, “How awful.”

“Quite,” he replied. “Where in Europe is your family from?”

“My father’s side is Irish; my mother’s Welsh and English.”

“Your father’s family fled Ireland because of the potato famines during the late 1840s?”

“You know your history.”

“You’re a Catholic?”

“Yes.”

“Catholic persecution was another issue?”

“The British confiscated Catholic lands and the owners became sharecroppers on the land they once owned. How did you learn about that?”

“As a boy I collected stamps,” See Fong said.

“So did I. Are there stamps depicting Irish-Catholic persecution?”

“I doubt it. But collecting stamps piques an interest in history, doesn’t it?”

“It did mine.”

See Fong seemed conflicted and didn’t continue.

“And so here we are with more in common that we may have thought: two properly dressed bankers in this posh, air-conditioned office, the descendants of poor immigrants — yours from southern China, mine from southern Ireland.”

See Fong took a deep breath. “We in the Third World have a problem with Americans; they seem so preachy, so… so self-righteous. Then America’s unsightly underside reveals itself.” Pointing to the newspaper, “Your relatives, perhaps?”

“My family in Boston consists of an aunt and an uncle, educated people, who don’t live near that neighborhood and would never take part in something like that.”

I hadn’t been raised to feel particularly Irish or Welsh or English. While my life in the States was distanced from racial confrontations like those in Boston, I believed that blacks deserved equal rights. Looking at the street crowded with well dressed people — primarily Chinese — driving imported cars, I said, “Might the people outside be surprised to learn they’re living in the Third World?”

“Point taken,” See Fong replied and smoothed his tie. “Do you know many black people?”

“Not many, however, my decisions about people are based on the individual, not their skin color.”

See Fong tented his long fingers. “Americans rely on platitudes when it comes to race, don’t they?”

“I was paraphrasing from a civil rights speech.”

“Hmm…” he purred and started to leave.

“Wait a moment,” I said. “Blacks in America are a lot like Malays in Singapore. Blacks comprise, I think, about thirteen percent of the population, slightly less than Malays here.” I looked around, “I don’t see a single Malay officer in this bank and will be surprised if I ever do. Malay friends — how many do you have?”

“Come on, here it’s just like the States. Malays breed children and live off the government’s largess — which, of course, translates into my taxes.” Suppressing a smile, he returned to his desk.

While I’d never know See Fong’s thoughts about Malays, he’d cut through my clichés and left me with an attitude that some white Americans espoused. I could have followed See Fong to his desk and explained myself better; but I’d have been the supplicant — unacceptable, since he reported to me.

As a young banker, I had worked for managers including an aspiring politician who avoided making loans and a not too bright Harvard graduate with a patronizing attitude. While I made fun of those two in private, mocking them to their faces never crossed my mind. See Fong was playing a dangerous game I couldn’t fathom; I was frustrated and angry, but See Fong’s annual performance report was coming up.

Instead of reacting to his customers’ requests as many bankers do, See Fong crafted credit facilities his customers would need before they thought to ask. His forethought was repaid with gratitude and loyalty. An outstanding officer, giving See Fong even a mediocre performance report would have been unethical. So I praised his lending acumen and focused on his ability to keep one step ahead of his customers.

Tradition had it that good performance reports were reviewed over a lunch the supervisor hosted. Friday afternoon I invited See Fong to lunch at the Tanglin Club that Saturday for his annual review.

With a fleeting smile, See Fong said, “So you’ve become a member?”

“Came through last week. You’re my first guest.”

“I’m flattered. What are you going to wear?”

I thought of telling him empire builders but said, “My best navy blue suit.”

That afternoon, we were dressed much the same: tropical-weight navy blue suits, the black oxfords the British call city shoes, snowy white shirts and subdued ties. We were seated in the dining room; a waiter appeared with menus and asked about drinks. I ordered a pink gin, See Fong a stengha (half in Malay; during British colonial times, a stengha was a half jigger of whiskey with soda).

“I haven’t come across stengha since reading Somerset Maugham,” I said.

“My favorite writer when I was younger,” See Fong said. “But I learned that he used a thesaurus — disappointing, I must say.”

“You enjoy British writers?”

“My favorites,” he said. “Do you have a favorite?”

“Evelyn Waugh.”

“Because he was a Catholic? Wasn’t Brideshead Revisited all about Catholicism?”

“I thought the Brideshead’s back story was centered on the collapse of the Catholic aristocracy.”

“Well, you know better than I do about that.” Our drinks arrived; I handed See Fong his performance report.

Finishing, he looked up and said, “Thank you.”

“You’ve earned it.”

“My promotion…”

“I’ve cleared it up the line. You’ll be promoted next month and will report to Fred Zimmerman.” Fred was the branch manager and twenty years older than we were. “Fred’s looking forward to working with you.”

“I respect him a great deal.”

See Fong leaned back clenching his hands. Sensing the cat and the angry mouse were about to rejoin us, I glanced at the menu, “I’m going to start with the shrimp ceviche with mango.”

“Excellent choice, I must say. May I suggest the beef fillet? Bacon is wrapped around the beef before it’s grilled — simply scrumptious.”

“Sounds great. Another stengha?

“Don’t mind if I do.”

The day’s business was completed. Over lunch, we split a bottle of claret and talked of stamps, thesauruses and British writers.