Sixty Is The New Assassin

Prologue

She closed the lid of the suitcase and zipped it.

Her car would be here in half an hour.

She sat at the dressing table and looked in the mirror. She looked haggard, she thought.

She was seething. While her expression was stoic, fury bubbled inside her, threatening to erupt.

The call this morning had lasted only a few minutes. But it was the latest of many. And for her, the final straw.

No more, she vowed, her eyes staring into the mirror uncompromisingly.

It was time to stop this. Once and for all.

She glanced at the strolley standing next to the door of her bedroom.

She had everything she needed.

She did a mental inventory. One final check. A habit from when she started work so many decades ago. Do once, check twice.

One last look at the mirror. Then she took a deep breath and stood up.

Time to set things right. Permanently.

She grasped the handle of the suitcase and strode to the door.

Chapter 1

Call me Ishmael.

Scratch that. Such a cheesy way to start the Great Singaporean Novel.

My name is Ishmael. Ishmael Dollah.

I am sixty years old.

I am a retired CEO.

Till about a year ago, my serene life revolved around my wife, tennis, Netflix, Kindle and the Club.

Then, I found out that my daughter-in-law was having an affair with an asshole.

Chapter 2

I am a bit of an asshole myself. At least that is what my wife tells me, when she ends our arguments.

“You are an asshole, Ishmael!”

Nysa uses other endearments, too, but this is a frequent one.

I love her very much.

But I digress.

Yes, I know that the first chapter seemed short.

It piqued your interest though, didn’t it?

“The first slide of your presentation has to provoke and excite rather than inform,” my first boss had said, a thousand times, “the audience must sit forward in their seats in anticipation of what is coming next.”

So, as you saw, the first chapter hinted at money, sex, intrigue and a mysterious arch villain.

All the ingredients for a humdinger, you will agree.

“But,” my boss continued, “never promise what you cannot deliver. You cannot start the presentation with ‘Amazing First Quarter Results!’ and then follow that with announcing a miserly growth of 3%. The audience will feel let down and betrayed.”

This is why I disclosed only part of what is in store for you. This book has much more, edge-of-your-seat, bite-your-nails-until-they-bleed stuff – but I learnt, both from my boss and through experience, that the sure path to customer satisfaction is to promise less and deliver more – so I will not reveal any more just yet.

“Next, tell your audience a little about yourself. Who you are, why you are here and what you are going to talk about,” were my boss’s next instructions.

My name, as I said, is Ishmael Dollah.

I have no idea why my father insisted on naming me Ishmael. I had no say in the matter. Later, when I was old enough to recognize that this name was a millstone around my neck, I asked my mother why.

“It seems he saw a movie,” said my mother, “which had a big fish and a man with one leg. I don’t remember the name. He liked it very much.”

I guess I am lucky he didn’t name me Starbucks.

The origin of our last name, Dollah, is lost in the mists of time. It seems to have been a name found at regular intervals in Asia. There are many forms – Dola, Dolha, Dolah, Dowlah. It sounds vaguely Middle Eastern, but I could find no connection that crossed the Indian Ocean.

Our family has lived in Southeast Asia at least for the past six generations. We were originally farmers, then cultivators, then merchants and now white-collar workers. As far back as I knew, my ancestors belonged to the Adventist Church. I vaguely remember my grandparents taking me to church on Saturdays in Melaka when I was a little child. This was before I could run faster than them.

My father was an accountant. He was a rigid, by-the-book, binary man. There was the right way, which was the way he did things, or the wrong way, which was any other way. He was not an easy man to live with. I believe that both my mother and I felt, among other emotions, a sense of relief when he left us.

My mother was a teacher, a homemaker, an artist, a seamstress, a chef, a counsellor, a mediator, a confidante. She was the obverse of my father. My mother was the centre of our community – she was the first port of call and the court of last resort for our extended family and the entire neighbourhood.

I was an only child.

My childhood was one of silence. My father rarely spoke to me. It didn’t seem as if he wanted to. My mother was busy all the time and spoke little to me, even if she wanted to. She looked after me, cared for me, gave me most of what I asked for. I know she loved me. I loved her but did not really know her. So, from early on, I lived more inside myself than I engaged with the world.

Because of this, I learned to watch and observe. While I never had it in me to sense emotions or feelings, I learned how to read and respond to them. Over time, I understood what people expect and want to see and fashioned my behaviour accordingly.

As I grew, I learned to depend on no one but myself. I couldn’t depend on my father as he was so remote. I couldn’t depend on my mother as she was so involved.

I am an outcome of my father’s strictures and my mother’s nurture. This is not as easy as you think. I am often torn choosing between discipline and freedom, rules and whims, right and acceptable. I have been stressed out most of my life.

These opposing forces, while not great for my mental health, worked well together in both my academics and my career.

I did well in school, then studied engineering, and spent a few years building and fixing things. I followed that up with a master’s in management, and moved to leading teams that did various things such as marketing and selling and leasing, all focused on making money hand over fist.

My performance in my roles convinced my bosses to promote me at regular intervals, and one day, I moved into a corner office, as the CEO.

On my ascent up the corporate ladder, I have been called cold, and calculating, and ruthless, and relentless. These are loose words from people who don’t understand that, once I decide my tasks and objectives, I ensure that I complete and achieve them, every single time. Failure may be the stepping stone to success, but I have always preferred to plan past failure rather than to step on it.

Life as a CEO, all fourteen years of it, was great. I built companies, transformed companies and turned around companies and built a reputation of delivering amazing outcomes.

My first company as a CEO was Growstern Global, a family run company that we expanded across 15 countries within 6 years. The second was Biorgan, a publicly listed icon that had fallen on hard times; I turned this company around in 36 months and sold it to a hedge fund for a fortune. The third was Metrocyn, a transnational company that was stagnating and sliding towards obscurity; I transformed the group into the powerhouse it is today.

Over the course of my career, I built an amazing network of ‘friends’ and acquaintances, made quite a bit of money, travelled the world.

“Don’t go on and on till their eyes glaze over and they start nodding to sleep,” my boss had said when we overdid the ‘about us’ section with details no one was interested in.

Most of my life, I have tried my best to do the right things for the right reasons. As far as possible, I conformed to expectations. Even when it tore me apart, I trod the beaten path.

Time and again, I have suppressed the flares of rage and violence that erupted inside me when I observed people exploiting or hurting or dominating. I have ignored and overlooked heinous behaviour. I have inured myself from reacting to the deadly sins that humans find themselves committing and repeating. I did this so that my family and I could lead a ‘normal’ life, a life that aligns with what society deems acceptable. So that the consequences of my actions would never hurt my wife or son.

However, since I retired about eighteen months ago, my life has taken a sharp turn into roads that most people haven’t seen, much less travelled.

My life has been thrown into turmoil. It is exciting and terrifying at the same time.

I feel like I am walking on the edge and may tip over into the abyss at any time, but I don’t want to stop.

I need to share this with someone. The pressure inside me is too much to bear alone.

“Now, move into the main part of the presentation – the narrative,” he had continued, “take the audience through the events that led to where you are today.”

Thank you for joining me.

Please turn off your phones or put them on silent.

Please feel free to ask questions at any time.

Chapter 3

Coming back to the affair.

I would never have never suspected Marianna of anything other than settling when she married Shahed. She was a ten, he was at best, a seven. [Of course, she settled, Nysa!]

Till I attended her firm’s annual Dinner & Dance last December.

Nestor & Ross threw some amazing parties, but their annual jamboree is to be attended to be believed.

The annual party was planned for the coming Thursday night. Shahed was travelling for work and could not attend. He was in KL and was expected back only on Friday evening. Shahed has clients across South East Asia and travels three or four days a week.

Marianna had asked me to stand in for Shahed.

She had invited Nysa, too, but Nysa doesn’t like big parties. Too loud, too many people, she says. Nysa prefers small groups.

I can take or leave parties, but as I said, the Nestor & Ross parties were awesome. Two years ago, they brought in David Copperfield, and he literally blew everyone’s socks off. I am not joking – every single male in that party lost his socks. He refused to return them to us. By the time I reached home, I had a blister that took 3 days to subside. He still owes me sixteen dollars.

At 7:00 pm I picked up Marianna from their condo and drove us to the Ritz-Carlton. This is a luxury hotel located in the Marina Bay area, and a favourite choice for corporate shindigs. They have great food and valet parking, two necessities for an enjoyable evening.

Marianna was about five and a half feet tall, just a couple of inches shorter than me. She was both slim and voluptuous, a combination most women would sell their husbands for. Her mixed ancestry made her features exotic, with a slight tilt to her eyes and a retroussé nose.

This evening, Marianna was radiant in her turquoise blue off-shoulder dress. When we entered the ballroom foyer, most male heads swivelled. My head swelled.

Within a few minutes, Marianna had gotten swallowed up by groups of colleagues and friends, leaving me to make my way to one of the four bars scattered in the foyer. I walked over to the furthest one, got myself a dark rum and Coke, and as was my usual practice, stood against the wall watching the crowd engage in their usual rituals.

You may have heard the phrase, “Oh, I would have liked to be a fly on the wall in that room / during that meeting / watching that argument.”

I was a fly on the foyer wall.

Sipping my drink, I looked and listened and smiled at the vagaries of humans.

At one group,

“Yeah, of course I know Martin. Smart guy, excellent lawyer, would have been a partner by now, except (lowering voice) for his body odour.”

“I know, it is impossible to sit next to him in the conference room! Hasn’t he heard of deodorant?”

“Or a toothbrush?”

Chuckles and chortles all around.

At another group,

“You know, I felt so humbled to have received the award? I never dreamt that I would be recognised in this manner.”

“Is that the award, Jennifer, that one needs to nominate oneself and then ask friends to vote?”

A sudden snarl morphing into an indulgent laugh.

“Oh, Chetan, always the jester! You never stop pulling my leg, do you?”

Light, trilling laughter belied by angry, hate-filled eyes.

Then, two men walking past,

“…going to Bangkok next week. God, I love that place. The women, they are to die for…”

‘No, Justin, the women, they are to screw for!”

“Ha ha, well put! I really like the young ones, the ones who practically have no hair...”

“I wish I were going with you…”

Two glasses clinking together in celebration of mutual misogyny.

As I stood and watched and listened, now and again I glimpsed Marianna in this group and that, the centre of animation.

After about 15 minutes, I went to the bar to get a refill.

“Rum and Coke, eh?” said the man standing next to me, waiting for his drink. “That is a classic that will never fade.”

He was of Chinese origin and was wearing a snazzy designer suit sans the tie.

I smiled at him. “Why change a winning combination?”

“Absolutely!” he grinned. He picked up his drink with his left hand and thrust his right at me. “I’m James.”

“Ishmael,” I said, as we shook.

“Lawyer or client?” he asked, half joking.

I did not feel it necessary to explain my presence.

“Client.” I said.

“Welcome to Nestor & Ross,” said James, “and thank you for your custom.”

We moved together to the wall and stood side by side. He seemed in his mid- to late-thirties, but like many Chinese Singaporeans, could have been anywhere between thirty and seventy. They had hit the gene jackpot, remaining forever slim and youthful.

Over the next few minutes, James pointed out people and told me anecdotes about them. Some of them racy, some of them downright scandalous.

“That old man there, in the silver tie,” he said, leaning conspiratorially towards my ear, “Roland Lum – he’s under investigation by the CPIB for embezzlement. More than ten million dollars! I believe he has a mansion in Bintan and a beachfront property in Bali…”

I nodded and sipped.

“And that one there, Chris Marshal,” he almost whispered, indicating an old white man with a nod of his head, “on his third wife and fourth mistress – and both of them share the same hairdresser!”

I wanted to yawn but did not. I was trained to be polite.

“Umm, I need to go and find…” I began, hoping to find a more peaceful stretch of wall.

“Ahh, the latest scandal of the season,” said James, ignoring my tentative plea, “that woman in blue, Marianna – she and Greg Closier are steaming up her office windows ‘working late nights’!” He air-quoted the last three words and winked at me like an adolescent.

My wife says I have an expressive face. She is right. My team members would always be able to read my expressions easily. Especially those that did not bode well for them.

I tried to keep my face blank. I was assisted by the fact that James was not looking at me – he was trying to spot his next news item.

“Who is Greg Closier?” I asked, as calmly as I could.

“Who? Oh, Greg? He is the Joint Managing Partner,” said James, “I wouldn’t be surprised if Marianna finds a promotion stuffed in her stocking this Christmas! Especially as he stuffs himself into her quite regularly!” He winked again, man to man.

“I see.” I resisted hitting James on his narrow skull with the heavy crystal glass in my hand.

“I wouldn’t mind ‘stuffing’ her myself,” he chuckled, air-quoting again, “but I am too low in the pecking order. She doesn’t even know who I am, probably.”

My resistance took on heroic proportions.

“It was a pleasure meeting you,” I said, levering myself off the wall. “I have to find someone, it’s quite important…”

James looked rather disappointed. I had been a willing foil for his commentary, it seems.

“A pleasure, Ishmael,” he said, “hope to bump into you later this evening.”

I smiled, nodded and made my way around the small groups of chatter.

With a few words, James had shattered my comfortable world.

Marianna having an affair? Cuckolding poor Shahed? Our Marianna?

Shahed hit the jackpot when he wooed and married Marianna. The two of them met at a friend’s party about twelve years ago. Nothing came out of that first meeting. They went their ways. They met again, by chance, at the wedding of a mutual friend a year or so later. They recognised one another from the party. When looking for their place cards, they realised that they were seated at the same table at the reception dinner. They sat next to each other. Over wine and then dinner, they spent the evening talking. That night changed their lives. From then on, they had eyes for only each other. Shahed proposed a few months later, and their wedding took place soon thereafter.

Marianna’s family was originally from Penang in Malaysia. Marianna came to Singapore about two decades ago to study and has lived here since, except for two years for her master’s in the UK.

Marianna is a lawyer. She is currently a partner at Nestor & Ross and is an expert on corporate and contractual law.

I was quite surprised when Shahed and Marianna announced their engagement. Shahed was my son, and I thought the world of him, but Marianna was clearly out of his league. Marianna was smart and talented – she was the editor of her college law review. She was ambitious – she wanted to run her own international law firm. She was drop-dead beautiful. Even though she was in her thirties, people approached her and asked her to model for them. Marianna could have had any man she wanted.

Was Greg Closier the man she wanted? Was she done with Shahed? Would she walk away, leaving him bereft and broken?

The star of the evening’s entertainment was Russel Peters. He had everyone laughing till they were rolling in the aisles. I sat still, unaffected by the gales of laughter swirling around me.