Orlando Chronicles

By Leon Wing

It is the swinging 60s in seedy Chow Kit, Kuala Lumpur, in recently renamed South East Asian country of Malaysia. Nightclub singer Ah Lan can make the whole room stand up, in more ways than one. Her musical coach Sammi is looking for love from a GI on R&R from the war in Vietnam.  Elderly neighbours the Tans are trying to fix her up with Affendi, and he does not really bartend at a club. While Ah Lan puzzles over the subtle changes happening to her body, her dressmaker Mrs Chan invokes the spirits. All these people brought together in an explosive ending witness Ah Lan becoming Ah Lan Toh.

 

 

200 years later continues the story of Ah Lan. She has now completely transitioned into a full blown man. He is more than merely unusual in his gender transformation. He has managed to outlive all the characters in the last book—by more than a hundred years. 

 

He is a very very old gentleman these days. Having lived for over a hundred years, he has come to accept his longevity. But lately he has noticed once again the beginnings to another set of subtle changes about to happen. 

 

Now officially named Orlando Toh, he had married and had children. They in turn married and had their own children. Living as he is now for up to a hundred years and more, he rues watching loved ones come and go. 

 

Now, still living in ultra modernized Chow Kit in vastly developed Malaysia, he mostly contends himself with a quiet life, living under the same roof as his surviving great great granddaughter. And she is now herself eighty years old, with her own grown and married children, and in the course of things, she has her own grandchildren, even a young son.

 

This old woman will be planning his great great grandfather's ultimate birthday. 

 

And in the end what will happen to Orlando?

• Language: English
• Publisher: WingWorldWeb
• Release date: Dec 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223154747

Leon Wing

Leon Wing's poems can be found in PoetryPoem, Readings from Readings 2, The Malaysian Poetic Chronicles, Eksentrika, Rambutan Literary, and Haikuniverse. A poem about the Syrian migration to Europe is featured in the Fixi anthology Little Basket 2017. He occasionally takes some poem apart and puts it back together, on the poetry blog puisipoesy.blogspot.com.   He has short stories published in Eksentrika, Queer Southeast Asia and the Canadian Asian literary magazine Ricepaper, and in anthologies like PJ Confidential and Remang, a collection of Malaysian ghost stories.

Book preview

About Book 1

It is the swinging 60s in seedy Chow Kit, Kuala Lumpur, in recently renamed South East Asian country of Malaysia. Nightclub singer Ah Lan can make the whole room stand up, in more ways than one. Her musical coach Sammi is looking for love from a GI on R&R from the war in Vietnam.  Elderly neighbors the Tans are trying to fix her up with Affendi, and he does not really bartend at a club. While Ah Lan puzzles over the subtle changes happening to her body, her dressmaker Mrs Chan invokes the spirits. All these people brought together in an explosive ending witness Ah Lan becoming Ah Lan Toh.

The sound of the trumpets died away and Orlando stood stark naked. No human being, since the world began, has ever looked more ravishing. His form combined in one the strength of a man and a woman's grace.

From ‘Orlando’ by Virginia Woolf

Chapter 1

When her falsetto went up to a certain pitch, something under their flies suddenly kicked up. For the older men with not so perfect hearing, it felt like a length of balloon rising up in their trousers.

The period was the 60s. The fashion statement of the time was long hair, for both men and women alike. The clothes then were crazy, groovy colors and wide bell bottoms. But tonight the audience didn't see any of these on the stage, in this night club in the hustle and bustle of Chow Kit Road, right in the capital city of Kuala Lumpur in the recently renamed south east Asian country of Malaysia.

The backing musicians behind her donned nondescript - either brown, grey or black—Chinese pajamas, with white cuffs showing under the shirt sleeve. They sat on wooden stools. Their inert tanned and leathery faces belied the nimble and professional manner they fingered, plucked, blew, and thrummed these quaint instruments—erhu, gushing, dizi, laba, pipa and a big drum. Their handlers managed to make themselves discreet and practically invisible to the audience; as they should be.

Though there was sufficient light for them to read the music sheets, it was never as overwhelming as the sodium lamps above them. These lights were deliberately trained solely on the singer. That one single round very bright white light—like a beacon from a lighthouse—spotlighted her like a banshee singing across rough seas to lure sailors. Tonight, in her

and shimmering cheongsam, and heavily powdered and rouged, Ah Lan was looking more like a Shanghai songstress transported directly from China.

The only thing detracting from the picture was her chest. You couldn't really call those inchoate mounds breasts. Her chest was practically flat if not for the tight corset squeezing her already tiny waist even smaller still. The thing pushed her breasts higher. And this illusion was further enhanced by a wired bra a size or two bigger.

Whatever the shortcomings some would say about her breasts, one could not concerning her voice. It was pristine and unlike her chest, not at all flat. Any musical director from any West End theatre at the time - if they intended to make a Mandarin version of Funny Girl - would kill to have such a pitch perfect sound projected onto their much bigger halls. But Ah Lan didn't have the luck or happenstance to be exposed to people from that western entertainment industry. At best, the closest she was getting in the way of a western audience was singing in front of these groups of American GIs, in a shoddy cramped hall, in a seedy low class club, within a much seedier part of the city.

At this moment in time some war was still being fought north and outside of the country, in far away Vietnam. But no matter the gore, the horror and depravity happening there, the soldiers, the ones on the side of democracy, these Americans, they still had time to plan their R and R to Ah Lan's country. It was not so much to drink the excellent and well known Tiger beer but to attend one of these little musical soirée they got to hear about from other GIs who returned fully satisfied, if one could justify that word for an experience beyond their wildest expectations.

By this token, Ah Lan could draw the toughest and the bravest American GI soldiers on R and R all the way from Vietnam to this place. A couple of them were now sitting watching and listening attentively. They were gripping their Tiger beers in their big hands. They were not caring that they couldn't understand a word of what was coming out of Ah Lan's mouth. Beneath their khaki flies, some of them were straining over the biggest and hardest boners they had ever gotten in the presence of any female.

At the ending notes of the song, Ah Lan lowered her neck and hid her kohled eyes behind her shiny straight fringe of hair. She remained in this submissive attitude for some moments, staring at the floor of the stage, which was speckled with stains, with spilled stuff- the cleaning staff hadn't done their job thoroughly. The coyness she was mimicking seemed to always go down well with foreigners. She was very pleased—no, happy—with the loud applause before her. But she wasn't aware that the clapping could have risen louder still, if some of the male clientele were not so preoccupied with trying to shield or press down their bulging crotches. All through her rendition of the piece of Shanghai musical, some of them had also been entertaining images in their heads, of themselves and her in some manner of entanglement.

The lighting was dim at the tables, almost dark if not for the low red glow. Only after the applause subsided did Ah Lan lift up her head. She managed to catch a glimpse of Sammi sitting among the heaving crowd. He was at a table close to the front of the stage, and there was a big white man sitting opposite him. The man was clapping but not as enthusiastically as the others around him. Unlike them, he wasn't whooping, with fists punching upwards in the air, as if hitting at some Vietcong above him. She could see Sammi watching his sedate neighbor. He had a shadow of a smile on his lips. She wondered if the big man was some new friend.

––––––––

Sammi was her music tutor. He worked as some sort of musical director for the local television station TV Malaysia. He helped to direct musicals, mostly in the Malay language, occasionally with performing artistes from other races, Chinese and Indian. He was employed on some freelance basis by her manager, Ah Chong. He was a fat nasty looking chinaman but in reality a sweet pussy underneath. Though he could be protective of his girls, he could be a real dog at times. But so far it was only with his other girls, not her. That was probably because he thought they were less talented than her. They couldn't sing as well as her, and draw such a crowd. Before tonight, Ah Lan knew she could sing but by Chong's standard or estimate she still was not that good enough to draw a regular audience night after night. Which was why he had employed Sammi. Sammi was brought in to teach her the finer points of the art of singing.

On the first day when she was introduced to Sammi, she attempted to soften him up, but discovered that he was all seriousness and no funny business. He ran a tough regime, teaching her how to project her voice without help from a microphone. And of course how to sing in falsetto, even though she figured that she could have easily cut it - she was a woman after all. But Sammi proved her wrong there. During one lesson he got her to try singing a popular Mandarin piece, a hit in China, especially Shanghai. It seemed that any female songstress worth her salt in that country was belting it out and finding willing and enthusiastic audiences. Aware of that, Chong instructed Sammi to teach her that song.

Sammi demonstrated how one sang the piece and astonished her with the purity and authenticity of his falsetto. What struck her was how feminine the sound coming out from him was, especially if she closed her eyes. When she opened her eyes, she only saw a thirty something but still good looking Indian man. He was waving his arms like he was conducting a symphony.

Sammi was not his actual name; it was what his parents named him at birth and what you would find on his birth certificate: Saminathan s/o Muniandy. Growing up, and reaching his twenties, he began to dislike that name. It was a time when being called Saminathan made him cringe. And it was even worse when someone said his entire name out loud, adding for good measure his father's name as well. It was a mouthful to most of his Malay and Chinese friends at school. Until one day when a good friend of his teased him and christened him Sammi. He grew to like the name, and encouraged people he met to call him Sammi. It sounded western, and as he wasn't as dark as his parents, he imagined himself as a dark westerner, like some kind of Latin man. He spelt it Sammi, with an 'i', if anyone asked.

––––––––

Sammi now watched Ah Lan finish bowing gracefully and exit the stage like any professional actor in the West End after a resounding applause from her appreciative audience. It was one of those tricks he taught her in one of his lessons. One other trick he  also imparted to her was his method of bringing her falsetto to a particular level of frequency. But he didn't tell her that this would impact upon the primary auditory cortex of the listener's brain and engender an instantaneous erection. Which was the reason he was here tonight. Well, not to also experience this but to confirm this effect. And he was satisfied with what he could observe around him : men astonished at suddenly experiencing an impromptu erection.

As for the effect on a man like Sammi, even though he had perfect hearing, his penis remained flaccid.

He now watched Ah Lan descend the stage with mincing steps, like a geisha in a tight dress, before turning back to gaze again at his big neighbor. Even though the man wasn't wearing any GI khakis, like the other white guys, but some batik shirt and loose trousers, Sammi was sure he was American.  He was, well, big - huge,in fact. Not that he hadn't come across men of that size before. He had, when he was studyinrg overseas, in England, for his music degree. It was just that this man emanated a rawness, a quality he never found in Englishmen he had met.

He was also certain that the man wasn't aware of Sammi's sidelong gaze. The man looked too preoccupied with other things, like Ah Lan probably. Also, as the room was dark, Sammi felt safe, without being caught. So he continued to let his eyes rove over the GI, slowly, from the head downwards.

He approved of the short stubby crop of his blond hair, and there was a day or two worth of facial growth. It enhanced the man's appeal; he appeared more gruff and a little dangerous. And Sammi liked that in a man. He lowered his gaze further, and appreciated the little light colored hairs peeping out of the top of his opened collar.  

Sammi  was inured to Ah Lan's singing and its effect, and only his scrutiny of the man could trigger a similar reaction under his slacks. Under the table, he rubbed the flat of his hand lightly over his crotch. He squeezed his eyes shut for a brief moment, in a swoon. He imagined his hand roving over the camber of the man's chest and grazing over pale pink nipples. He opened his eyes to take in the man's arm, resting on the table. It was meaty and knotted with muscles. He figured that it could be as big as his skinny thighs. He could picture both big arms wrapped around his own lithe body. He was envisioning his head resting on the man's broad shoulder, the man's chin nuzzling Sammi's hair.

Ah Lan had now left the stage, and he guessed that after that last performance, the Americans - or for that matter, any man in the room - would not be interested in any other act in her wake. It was time for the audience to depart.

The big man got up to go. Sammi did the same. He decided he would risk tailing him. Who knew, he could get lucky tonight.

Chapter 2

Ah Lan made her tremulous way to her little room, tip toeing on her  high spiked heels. They could stab any too forward customer if need be, to protect herself. If she was outside the club, in the midst of hot and busy Chow Kit Road, it would be a miracle if anybody would come to her rescue. But most people didn't know Ah Lan that well enough because she possessed the nous to protect herself in ways you wouldn't expect.

Anyway, she managed to negotiate her way through the dark passageway leading to some little doors. She found the one that belonged to her. Well, it was not entirely hers.  She had to share it with other girls on different shifts. The night club was opened most hours of the day and night and beyond, especially in the small hours of the morning. Fortunately at this particular hour, she was the only person occupying the room, as the next act was half an hour away.

Once inside, she immediately pulled her shoes off in two flicks, landing them into a corner. She next dropped herself onto a cushioned chair. Rucking up the bottom of her dress, she proceeded to peel off her nylon leggings. She let these fall softly on the floor, not caring if they were strewn amongst unrecognisable articles and pieces of clothing, like disembodied pieces. And she could see little bits of what looked or used to look like food. They were probably days old, by how desiccated they all looked. She shouldn't wonder if some of the stuff down there were squashed dried lizards, or even a rat.

After the work she had to put into her performance, and the way she had to control her larynx and project her voice to the back of the hall, as how Sammi taught her, she really needed a drink; but not the stiff kind. Ah Lan would rather have a sip of hot tea. With a slice of lemon and a teaspoonful of something sweet - not sugar - like honey. She liked how the sweet golden liquid would run down her throat, to soothe the bruised tendons there.

She unbuttoned, peeled and shrugged herself out of the tight clothes, and then had to contend with the tighter still corset that constricted her tiny waist to a wisp. As the corset fell off her, she breathed a deep sigh of relief. She rummaged  around for her off work clothes, somewhere among some other girls' belongings. Finding them—most of their off work clothing looked similar, but she was sure the ones she just picked up from the floor belonged to her—she started to put them on, but then remembered that she had to wipe the thick rouge off her face.

Still in her underclothing, she lowered herself onto the chair and looked for the creams which would do the job. She rubbed some on her fingers and smeared the nice smelling stuff over her forehead, working it downward to her cheeks and nose, and lastly the chin and neck. She finished off by scrubbing with a cloth. She gave a quick glance at the clock above the mirror. It was past midnight already, time to go home. Her face and neck now cleansed, she finished dressing and looked for her scarf. She tied a sturdy knot under her chin, to keep her hair in place, and also to cover it up. She also put on a pair of tinted glasses, even though she could see perfectly.

She gave a final inspection of her reflection in the mirror. She saw someone completely transformed out of the hot, sexy and glamorous songstress an hour ago, into this rather tall and studious looking but a little flat chested young woman. Keys in hand, and her little bag over an arm, she left the room, leaving behind the scent of the creams she had been using.

––––––––

Coming out of the club, she rubbed shoulders with the crowd going in and out through the front door.  Rather, a head above most of the locals, she rubbed shoulders against their arms. Realising that these people didn't recognise her as the songstress earlier on, in her normal attire, she broke into the merest smile. They would never believe that this woman whom they would not normally look at twice was actually Ah Lan the songstress. Gaining opened space, or so she thought, she nearly collided with some American GIs. Especially these loud Americans, some of whom were brandishing bottles of Tiger beer and exclaiming something to their friends, cupping their crotches dramatically, and thrusting their pelvises. But she managed to side side them.

Having put some distance between them, Ah Lan made a beeline to a hawker stall not too far off, which sold fried mee. She ordered one packet to go. She looked about for somewhere or something to lean against or to sit on. She spotted a tiny wooden stool near her feet. It looked too low for her long limbs, but nevertheless she lowered herself onto it, putting a knee over the other, in a semblance of propriety. She watched the cook throw strings of mee, sprinkle sauces and condiments into the steaming wok, and work the whole thing with a ladle into a concoction of what the Chinese locals here called fukien mee.

The kerosene lamp burning nearby was bright enough to allow the cook to do his job without blindly picking the wrong ingredients but not bright enough to illume properly his customers around him. The light was certainly not brighter or as bright as the sodium lamps in her dance hall. So whoever who were sitting around her who had come directly from the dance hall for their past midnight supper would certainly not be able to recognise her, not especially when she was wearing her off duty clothes and donning a scarf and glasses.

The cook tipped the cooked food in the wok onto a banana leaf laid over a newspaper, wrapping the whole thing and handing it to her. She paid promptly. Carrying the hot bundle with the hemp string looped around her wrist, she strolled back to her flat. Her place was a mere couple of minutes away. She was thinking herself lucky not to have to live too far away from her place of work. Unlike some of her friends who had to work nearer to the centre of the capital, in the Golden Triangle.

Reaching her building, she now had to climb up four flights of stairs. At every floor she went past some unlit flats, and was aware that people living in them had to get their night's rest as they worked regular nine to five jobs, unlike her. Coming up to her floor, she started to sweat a little. She breathed deeply.  That was  a lot of walking to do, much like exercising, making her hot and sticky. She looked forward to a bath.

Once inside her flat, she got out of her clothes and headed to a little bathroom. There was no shower, only a bricked and cemented tank filled with cold water. She didn't need to heat up any water; she could handle the cold. There was a little plastic bucket to scoop water up to the top of her head and let fall a cascade of wet coldness over her. Of course some soap over her skin, to clean off the dirt of the night. Then shivering, she padded back to her room to towel off. Then it was time for bed.

However, though it was way past midnight already, in the small hours of the morning but still dark, and she could still see bits of light in the far distances outside her window, she couldn't close her eyes to go to sleep yet. She leaned to the side of her bed. She reached under it, and brought out a book, an English reader for secondary school. She found it left outside the rubbish bin shared by neighbors on her floor. It probably belonged to one of the teenagers living near her flat, who was still attending school. He probably didn't need it now if he was clever enough to climb up to the next school form. Unlike her; shehad to leave school after her Form Five.

It wasn't something she wanted, but needs must as her parents deemed that Form  Five was as high as it should go as education for a girl. Her parents themselves assured her that no lady needed any higher education and especially not university. And they hadn't even heard of university or the notion that a teenager these days could advance further up in school and take some special classes or course,  to prepare her for some high ranking and possibly managerial job. For them the epitome of an education for boys was a good steady job in a bank, as a clerk perhaps, which could lead to a higher rank as a bank officer, if he worked hard enough.

But it was different for a girl, thought Ah Lan's parents. As she was growing to be a rather too tall lady, they thought that there was a risk of her not finding a suitable man to marry herself off to. As it was, most of the eligible Chinese young men around her neighborhood happened to be all shorter than Ah Lan. There was a time when her mother sighed and said she regretted not binding her feet into those tiny delicate stumps. That fashion, her mother informed her, signified that one came from a high class family. What high class family were her family anyway? She didn't dare to say it loudly, lest she got a cuff from her mother, and worse still a caning from her father, the patriarch.

So it was that when she finished taking her Form Five examinations - she passed, actually - she bid tearful goodbyes to some of her classmates who were destined to climb higher in the school, into the Sixth Form.

Ah Lan wondered, for instance, where  Meena was now. She was one of her closest school friends, one of a few who were not intimidated by her height. Ah Lan even managed one time to invite her into her home and found that her family was