Story: Molly in Singapore. Part 14.

By Camille Langtry and Monica Graz

Still in a state of shock, I was walking down the road toward the Signora’s house, which fortunately wasn’t very far. I was feeling very vulnerable in my fetishistic French maid’s uniform, but in this rich residential neighborhood the streets were very quiet and only an occasional car was passing or an occasional maid was walking a dog. I was immensely relieved when I suddenly realized that I was clutching my purse, which contained my cheap mobile, some small change and Signora’s house keys; I must have grabbed it on my way out without even thinking, what a relief!

I was pleased to see that nobody was in the house so I run to my room, high heels in my hands, and changed instantly into my regular uniform and apron, not forgetting my white cap. I immediately felt that I was back in my comfort zone and all of a sudden I realized how deeply dependent I have become on my maid persona.   

I began ironing in the utility room, trying to diffuse my anger and frustration. Gradually I started realizing the enormity of what has just happened. The contempt in Mark’s eyes when he made me kneel in front of him kept returning to my mind and then I remembered Dr. Caprio’s words that I would need a shock to overtake that period of my life. The shock was given to me by Mark himself and together with the shock the catharsis came; I felt free to move on now.  

But what did it mean exactly, to move on? That question that Linda posed me with when I first arrived in Singapore - do you want to be a maid a decade from now? - was more relevant than ever. With my Julia life, with all its frustration and insecurity, now behind me, I had no choice but to fully embrace my life as Molly. That meant that the answer to Linda’s question was “yes, I do.” That was it then? I had to follow my Molly Apuya path of no return from now on?

With my broken English and my unfinished high school education - barely enough to meet Singapore’s requirements for an FDW - working as a maid was one of the very few relatively respectable vocations open to me. Another one was a wife and a mother. And that brought me back to John Carlo and our time together, but before I could really think it over I heard the key in the front door and then the Signora’s voice: “Is anyone home? Is that you, Molly, why are you back so soon?”

I rushed to the hall and with my customary curtsey said, “Yes, Ma’am, I back,” not forgetting my flawlessly bad English.

“You look terrible, have you been crying? What on earth has happened to you?” said the Signora, a suspicious tone in her voice. I suddenly felt guilty as if I’ve somehow let her down by not doing as instructed and returning home early.

So I had to explain everything and Signora was so eager to find out what happened exactly that she allowed me to speak with my Julia English, which, I realized alarmingly, was slipping from me more and more as I struggled with correct word order and vocabulary as some of the big words took a while to recollect. Molly was taking over even on that level.

I had no idea how the Signora would react to my behavior with Mark, but to my surprise she acted in her capacity of a psychologist and said exactly what I was feeling.

“This is your catharsis, Molly, and Dr. Carpio would agree with me. Mark is out of your system for good and you can move on as the Filipina you let yourself become,” she finally said after listening to my tale.

Her tone of voice was slightly ironical and had a finality that frightened me. As if to reinforce my thoughts she added in a casual tone, “Oh, almost forgot! I bought you a special tanning lotion in the pharmacy, I’ve noticed that you are getting a bit pale again and this remedy you'd been taking for a long time now, whatever it is called, is not acting as strongly anymore. Read the instructions and put the lotion on before you go to bed, let it dry on you and don’t shower until the next morning, is that clear, girl?”

“Yes Ma’am,” I answered with a curtsey, feeling grateful to her that she did not punish me for behaving so badly in Mark’s house.

Once again she read my mind because she added, “And don’t you worry about Mark, I’ll call him and apologize on your behalf. After all you are nothing more than a peasant Catholic ignorant girl and of course you panicked with his very macho Western behavior, completely misunderstanding his innocent intentions. And I’ll make sure he sends back your street clothing and whatever else you left behind.”

“Thank you, Ma’am, I very gratepul, Ma’am,” I said and she dismissed me with a hand gesture, sending me back to the utility room.

The signora took out her cellphone, went to the study and locked the door behind her, but I could just about make out that she called Mark. I had to fight the temptation to stay by the locked door and eavesdrop, but having the Signora catch me doing that was the last thing I needed given the circumstances. So I straightened my apron, set my cap straight, and returned to my duties, once again forgetting myself in endless household chores.

About an hour later I heard the bell ring. I rushed to get the door, which was my responsibility, but saw the Signora in the corridor, who motioned for me to return to my work. I did as instructed, but not until I heard her greet the visitor - it was Mark! I continued ironing, hoping against hope that he didn’t come to see me or that they’d somehow forget about my existence and just let me be. Of course, it wasn’t long before the Signora called me.

I entered the room, my heart racing and my knees trembling, and saw red-faced Mark. I couldn’t hear the conversation before I was called in, but their facial expressions were more than telling: he was clearly given a dressing down by the Signora.

“Mr. Fitzwilliam brought your things, Molly, and wanted to tell you something,’’ the Signora said dryly. “I will leave the two of you now.”

She left the room, leaving us alone. Mark made a step toward  me and handed me a bag containing my street clothing. I accepted it with a small curtsey without uttering a word.

“I brought you this, Julia,’’ he said.

For some reason it really made me mad that he called me Julia.

“My name Molly, sir,’’ I said in my sing-song accent. “I no Julia.’’

“Very well. If you want to continue playing this game, Molly,’’ he said.

“This no game, sir,” I said firmly. “This my life.”

“If you so desire,’’ he said and raised his hands in the air, as if he was giving up. “Anyway, I just wanted to tell you that I came here to apologize for our little misunderstanding.”

I just stood there, my work-hardened hands resting on my apron. Mark was silent, obviously expecting some sort of a response from me and I said in my strong accent: “I need do my duties, sir. Very many work.”

“Very well. Before you go, here is your payment for your work today,’’ he opened his wallet and handed me a blue bill - 50 Singapore dollars. “And here is a little bit more for your troubles,’’ he added and took another bill, this time a red one, from his wallet.

I really wanted to tell him to go screw himself, but, again, that would have been so Julia. As far as Molly was concerned, the 60 dollars he was holding in his hands were a significant share of her monthly maid’s wage - all for less than a day’s work. I was a Filipina maid and I was in this country to make money. And he did owe me. I reached for the money and put the folded bills in my breast pocket.

“I’ll be on then, Molly,” he said. “Good bye, Mrs. Moretti,” he shouted into the study. The signora let him out and locked the door.

“Please return to your work,’’ she told me and I did just that - my work as maid was never done.