Friday, June 10, 2011

The Man In The Shadow




My first impressions of Uncle Alfred was formless. I was only about 18, working part time at a pool side bistro. I have to admit, I didn't care about the world back then. Just needed the money to fuel some foolish chase. It was a motley crew that worked Summer House that one year or so I was there.

John and Choon Hong were aspiring but crazy chefs. Rachel, Jessie, and two other equally aloof teenage girls provided much comic relief while being reliably efficient at waiting tables. Nizam, Christopher and Man worked the bar and knew every concoction like their alphabets. Lily was a door bitch. Period. Desmond and myself were just the washing and replenishment dudes. Then there was Uncle Alfred, the man in the shadows, whose job was basically supporting the chefs in the kitchen. It was a small family, that cooked up a pretty colourful history of my life.

I remembered Uncle Alfred was a man of very limited words. He was in his fifties, but pretty sturdy and strong for a man his age. He has a couple of diminishing tattoos that must have meant dearly to him, though we could not decipher the beauty of his chosen design. But he set about his job with few words, his facial expression, and constant empty stares, seemed to want to voice out, yet remained hesitant.

I remembered one particular night as we were done with closing, most of the guys had already hit the showers. Choon Hong, the younger chef decided to not waste the scraps of whatever ingredients we had left over and was busy preparing a simple dish.

I was sitting on the stainless steel kitchen top, looking on. Uncle Alfred was in the corner, as usual, sharpening the kitchen knives upon the slab of sharpening stone. He was it for a good ten minutes or so, just that single knife. It was a common sight, and we were immune to it. Dedicated we thought, that 60 year old man.

"Aiya Alfred, you play play play the stone knife wont get sharper la bro", Choon Hong poked fun at him. Alfred just smiled wryly. "You see I just do this this this a few times....can already!", Choon Hong continued as he proceeded to chop some carrots. But deep down, Choon Hong knew that that old man probably had some kind of magic or secret skill that he mastered over the years sharpening knives. Choon Hong did mention to me before, there was a difference using the knives sharpened by Uncle Alfred. No matter how many times Alfred tried to teach those two chefs, they still couldn't get it as sharp as he did. The tailor always has the better suit I guess.

What did I know I thought as I munched on whatever Choon Hong conjured in his kitchen. Choon Hong whistled as he brought the entire pan to the bar to share with the bar boys.

I decided to stay around with Uncle Alfred that night. The sleek sound of "schick...schick...schick" filled the kitchen as Uncle Alfred was deep in concentration, hardly battling an eyelid as he went through in perfect gliding motion, like silk on ice. It was almost...comforting.

Slowly, Uncle Alfred raised his head and looked toward me. "You young people, what do you guys know. Never tasted hardship in life.Whole life got people doing things for you", Alfred lamented. There was a long pause before he continued.

"You want to know Uncle's secret anot boy?", Alfred spoke in hush tones. "You know when you are sharpening knives, the stroke, angle, repetitions...all these are important...but not everything. Anybody can follow the motion man!", Alfred continued. "But they can never get it razor", Alfred moved on. "Something is missing my friend. You know what?", Alfred stopped abruptly as he gazed upon me from the shadows. I jerked my head slightly to signal him to continue.

Alfred sighed as he continued with the incessant sharpening. "If you want your knife to be the sharpest, put some soul into it. You got to imagine what you want to do with this knife. Imagine you are going to kill and slice your enemy with this knife. There. That's the key", Alfred finished his sentence as his placed all the knives neatly on the towel and walked out, leaving me speechless.

I was bewildered. I honestly thought the guy was loco. Until today. A good ten years on since I last set foot in Summer House with the motley bunch. I opened the local newspapers and was struck dumb when I saw Uncle Alfred plastered across the home page. Murder of the highest degree. With no intention to run or hide, the police found him there, by the lifeless victim, a fellow man in his sixties. Probed further, Alfred admitted his motive had always been revenge. He just wanted to kill the man that stole his Margaret from him in 1965.

My mind rolled back again to that particular night when Alfred talked to me. I didn't really grasp what he was trying to say then. But then it strikes me now, as I read between the lines. It wasn't entirely hatred and revenge that fueled Alfred into a master craftsman of sorts. It was sheer Patience, Perseverance, and brutal Ambition.