Late Nights With Putri III

Sometimes you get an ominous feeling which claws at your heart. Something is wrong, the feeling whispers. You try to shrug it off but as if it was a flu, you eventually find yourself absolutely stripped of willpower. I had that feeling. It stayed with me, gripping my shoulders with talons of steel, for a whole month. Eventually I came to the realisation that something was in fact wrong and decided that I should probably search for the cause.

I can't say for sure how exactly I came to the aforementioned conclusion. It could be I was merely acting on instinct. It could be that I had nothing better to do.

Perhaps it was the fact that one night, I came home to find my front door having a rather engaging conversation with an empty vase.

"So I told the guy, you might want to take a look at your chainsaw, it just sounded awfully funny. And what did he do?" My front door asked my vase rhetorically.

"What? Don't tell me he ignored you?" The vase had an Indian accent. Which was strange, considering it was made in China. Also, vases aren't supposed to talk, are they?

"He bloody well did just that! He just rammed the blade against my back and expected it to do its job, sounding like that." I pushed my key into the lock and gave it a slight wiggle. "Whoa, easy there, that tickles." My door sighed as the lock unlatched itself and I let myself in.

"What happened then?" The vase asked.

"I'll tell you what goddamn happened, the chainsaw damn near blew up in his face. Only managed a scratch on my bark."

"Urgh, typical, I swear these people never ever listen to what we have to say. I remember this one time..."

The problem with facing an event which you knew to be absolutely fucking impossible, so to say, was that your brain will probably ignore it in its totality. I was halfway to the living room when I realised that one; my house was ice cold and two; my fucking door was having a conversation with my fucking vase.

"Excuse me," I interjected as the vase was telling his story. "This might be somewhat daft of me but... how exactly are you... I mean... You're not supposed to... For God's sake this can't really be happening..."

"Ah, it seems that the young sir has come to his senses," the door said. If it had a face, it was probably trying very hard to hide a grin. The vase on the other hand, abandoned all restrained and laughed till it was out of breath.

"The good Lady is waiting for you in the kitchen," it managed to mutter before losing itself in hysterics. I turned my back against them but before I left, the door managed to slip in a warning.

"She is... very upset."

*

I've thought about death before. Much more than the next bastard, at least and strangely, most of the scenarios in my head pertaining to my eventual demise included either too much time to think about my life or no time at all. There never was any in between. For example, I've seen myself dying of terminal cancer, 3 months to live the whole shebang, just enough time to write letters and whatever it is people do before they die. I've dreamt about being in a car crash and dying immediately without being able to think of a regret, even.

What I never thought of was having to walk fifty steps before I die. Sixty five, if I did a little awkward shuffle. Now, how the fuck was I supposed to write letters in this time period? So I did the next best thing. Shrug and pretend I didn't know what was going on.

The kitchen had fucking icicles growing from the ceiling. This might be common in certain parts of the world which I was not aware of but it was 35 degrees outside. Not exactly icicle friendly temperature. She was sitting on what I could only describe as a throne of ice, leg crossed, hands folded on her thighs.

"Oh, balik dah?" Her face brightened up with a smile. If looks could kill, my liver would have ruptured right then.

"Um, yeah, just now. What's-" A chair snapped itself free from frost and landed neatly behind me. It nudged me repeatedly until eventually, it rammed against the back of my knees, forcing me to sit down. The marble kitchen table slid in front of me, bringing with it a layer of shaved ice which buried my feet.

"Dah makan?" Plates whirred through the air and settled themselves on the table. Food appeared on them and steam filled the freezing atmosphere. Mutton curry, rice and spinach sautéd with shrimp paste. My favourite. "I cooked them myself."

"I appreciate it," I said, clearing my throat. "But you must excuse me for not being hungry." Her eyes glinted with daggers but she forced a smile. I sighed and gestured at a particularly large piece of icicle. "Boleh tak explain apa benda semua ni?"

"Beta tidak faham maksud kamu."

"Oh ye? Minta maaf la Tuan Puteri tapi rasanya sebelum ni, pintu depan tu tak pernah pulak bersembang dengan pasu tu. Rasanya rumah aku ni dulu tak pernah pulak ada fucking icicles growing out of the fucking kitchen cabinet. Rasanya sebelum ni, tak pernah pulak ada takhta kat tengah kitchen. So, cuba cerita sikit apa yang Tuan Puteri tak paham?" The emotional dam broke. Anger rushed through and drowned my brain.

Putri stared at me through fiery eyes and she grit her teeth. Fear returned and battled the anger fuelled courage I temporarily gained. She raised her hands, I clenched my fists. This is the end.

The kitchen regained its usual dull splendour. The light flickered twice but managed to regain its composure. There were no traces of the icicles; I touched the cabinets and they were warm and dry. The anger drained away and dissolved, leaving only confusion in its wake. Putri was gone.

*

I sat on the rattan swing outside, cigarette dangling from my lips. The sky was preparing for the arrival of the Sun.

"You know," my door cleared its throat. If it had a throat. "You were slightly harsh with her."

"Harsh? My house was filled with icicles. Fucking icicles. No sane man should let that slip with just a polite slap on the fucking wrists."

"Mmm, perhaps," The crickets began their nightly banter afresh. "Say, mind if I bum a puff off your fag?"

"I... I'm not sure how, to be honest. You don't exactly have a... well... mouth."

"Nonsense, of course I have one. Shove it in right here." After a couple of false tries, I came to the conclusion that its mouth was in fact, the keyhole. The cigarette burned brightly and my door let a sigh escape. "Been awhile since I've had one of those."

The audacity of the situation forced me to laugh.

"I thought you'd be against the whole smoking thing. You know. Plants. Smoke. Fire. Doesn't seem to mix."

"You kidding me? We used to love forest fires. Man, the high you get from the smoke? Well worth the couple of friends who get incinerated. And they don't really die, come to think." I lit a new cigarette and jammed it into the keyhole.

"Put yourself in her shoes for once. I don't think you've done that." The door said after a pause. "Beauty, power, utter magnificence, divinity, you name it... But at the same time lonely and vulnerable and sadly, immortal. And then she found you and she gave herself to you, something she never did before. She expects you to do the same and yes, while that in itself is very naïve, put in mind who she is. Compare her status to yours. Perhaps that might explain her reaction to your absence."

"You know, that's not bad coming from a door," It chuckled. "But how am I supposed to tell her what I truly think when I'm constantly afraid of being transformed into a plastic cup?"

"Well, if you think that she would actually do that, then you're just as dumb as she is, if you don't mind me saying."

"I know, I know," I sighed and lit another cigarette. "Where is she anyway?"

"Who knows. If history is to be trusted, she won't come round here for the next five to ten days and it's not exactly smart of you to go looking for her. Perhaps she won't ever appear again and I'm sorry to say that you have to learn yo deal with that."

The thought chilled my bones. To not have her around ever again seemed to jolt my mind into overdrive.

"So what should I do?" I asked my door.

"Wait, if you want."

I waited.

*

Four days later I saw her sitting on the branch of the mango tree outside of my gate. My first impulse was to beg for forgiveness but I restrained myself. Instead I let her linger, pretending to take no notice until she herself was restless. When she came closer to the gate, I relented.

Her eyes still shone with spite and betrayal but the ferocity was no longer there. I felt sorry for her and the words of my door echoed in my mind. She was lonely.

"Putri?" I called out to her. She did not respond but her eyes shone. "Putri. Dah makan?"