A Tiger in the Kitchen Read Free

white tablecloth before me as I wondered why we were there. It wasn’t my birthday—or his. And I couldn’t think of any special reason that would have earned such a treat. We were simply having lunch, it turned out—an excuse to show me what it was like to eat at a nice restaurant without my mother ordering for me or family members grabbing pieces of chicken with chopsticks and filling my plate. Terrified that I might do something wrong, I ordered the item on the menu that I had eaten and understood before—a large bratwurst. I remember it being delicious, but not as delicious as the feeling of being an adult, sitting with my father, talking about school, about work, as we leisurely had lunch.
    When I was nine, my father took a job in Hong Kong, commuting to Singapore for long weekends just once every three weeks. I missed him terribly. This was a man who occasionally chased me around the dining room table with a cane in hand just to get me to practice the piano. But the same man would sometimes wake me up in the mornings by standing quietly at the window, peering out very intently, until I sleepily asked, “What’s happening outside?” “OH,” he’d reply. “There’s an elephant walking down the road,” which would always prompt me to jump out of bed and run to the window for a peek. (It took me many years to figure this one out.)
    When my father left for Hong Kong, I might have lost my partner in insomnia, but I gained a pen pal. Dear Cheryl, he wrote to the ten-year-old me. Thank you for your two letters. I’m sorry I have not written lately. You can imagine how busy I’ve been. . . . When I next return to Singapore, can you remind me to order the Reader’s Digest for you? Meanwhile, I am always dreaming of the beautiful sunshine in Singapore and our swimming pool. Love, Papa.
    September 20, 1984, on hotel letterhead bearing the words “Honey Lake Country Club” and “Shenzhen, China”: Dearest Cheryl, I am now in China for the first time in my life. This evening I spent my time walking around the town to see how people live. The streets are full of bicycles as people here are too poor to afford cars. There are so many bicycles moving in the streets that you worry very much about being knocked down by a bicycle—just imagine that!! Today I visited two towns or cities—Shekou and Shenzhen, both very close to Hong Kong. These two areas are industrial areas—many factories. We are negotiating to buy three factories—a flour mill, biscuit factory, and a feed mill. I hope one day that I can bring all of you to visit China. China is famous for beautiful sceneries, and also it is a chance for you to see how poor people are. With lots of love, Papa.
    Sometime the following year, on stationery from the Prince Hotel in Hong Kong: Many thanks for your letters and postcards. When I read the letters and cards, I can feel how strongly you love me. Papa is very happy and proud. So proud and happy that I will continue to be a good papa to you and Daffy. . . . I am sad to realise that when I was in Singapore during the Chinese new year holidays I have not heard you play the PIANO ONCE !! What a pity! Especially when Mummy and I struggled so hard to buy you a piano ! I’m ashamed. Cheryl, Papa and Mummy love you and want you to enjoy your life and work. Love and good luck, Papa.
    Shortly after that, when my parents had bought me my first computer: Dearest Cheryl, While the computer may do wonders for you, I still prefer to read your letters in your own handwriting. Your handwriting reflects to some extent your personality. So I hope I will not miss my dearest daughter’s handwriting. What do you think of my personality from my writing? Confusing?
    April 15, 1986, a year after my parents bought me a dog, a shih tzu my sister and I named Erny: Looking back at your letters, you keep mentioning ERNY. Shouldn’t we be tired of talking about him now—after more than 1 year? (Or less?) . . . Went to a movie “Out of