By Melvin Sterne

I was passing through Changi Airport on my way to Tokyo and the connecting flight was delayed. I had about three hours to kill, but if one must kill time in an airport, Changi is the place to do it. I was sipping a fine latte and taking in the indoor waterfall when I felt an overpowering sense of déjà vu. It wasn't exactly déjà vu – not that dreamlike sensation of having been there before – but it was the man who crossed my line of vision on the other side of the waterfall and then circled around and suddenly appeared just slightly behind and to the right of my right shoulder. The smooth, silent, cat-like way that he walked. The way that he materialised behind me as if from nothing. And there he stood, just by my shoulder, and certainly watching me. I felt that strange sensation and it took me only a second to place him.

"You know," I said, lowering my voice to its most serious bass tone and turning to face him, "the last time a man tried to pick my pocket I broke the thumb and all four fingers of his right hand."

The man broke into a wide smile. "You remember me?" he said.

"Of course I do," I replied. "And clearly you remember me."

"Yes," he said, nodding and tapping his temple with his right forefinger, "I remember. They use that video in training many years. I have seen many times."

The man was a uniformed security guard on the train that I took regularly to work for nine years that I taught in Beijing. That was what – 11 years ago? It was no accident that he was standing beside me now. He must have spotted me. But why? And what on earth was he doing in Singapore?

The man had aged – as I had aged – but he was still broad-shouldered and looked fit. He had a rugged, square face and large hands. He was of average height, but tall for a Chinese. His hair was still full and mostly black. He stood quite erect, much as he had stood years before, standing beside me and riding the nine-line, swaying to the motion of the train. He had a bit of a military bearing and I always suspected he had served in the Chinese army – an officer, I would assume, from the look of him. For example: I once saluted him, and he promptly returned my salute. Like a reflex, it was. But until today, we had never spoken. In fact, I had no idea he even spoke English.

"You have eaten today?" he asked.

This is not so much a real question as a rhetorical question – a form of Chinese greeting.

"Yes," I replied. "And you?"

"Yes. Singapore food very good."

He nodded at my cane. "You have injury?"

"No," I replied, patting my right hip. "I have arthritis."

"Ah. I see. That is good."

I looked the man over. Security guards on trains don't make a high salary, but he was wearing a tailored suit of a good, dark blue material. White shirt. No tie. Good black New Balance walking shoes. He carried a small black backpack – his carry-on, I presumed – and a large, red paper sack from the duty-free shop. Probably chocolate or whiskey or some gifts for his family back home. He was certainly doing well for himself. But still, I found it unsettling to see him again after all these years. The truth is, I hated the man. But he was not alone in that. I don't get on with many people. My fate I suppose. But I found the incident to which I allude particularly disturbing. I wished that it hadn't got thrown back in my face after all this time. It caused me a great deal of trouble and nearly cost me my job – not to mention potentially landing me in prison. 

You see, it had been one of those particularly annoying days at work – morning classes with whiney, disinterested students; afternoon meetings with lazy, unmotivated faculty; and then a long evening planning session and dinner with an idiot Dean who didn't know etymology from dermatology. But our Dean was the son-in-law of an obscure uncle of one of the more important party members in Beijing – hence his elevated position in academia. And after that meeting, tired, annoyed, and a little bit drunk, I found myself on the right train but headed in the wrong direction. And so lost I was in my frustrations that it took me a half-hour and nearly ten stops before I realised my mistake. I had to cross the platform and catch the return train and had nearly an hour's ride to my home neighbourhood. And I hate the underground.

So it was on that train – the car nearly deserted – that a stranger suddenly appeared just slightly behind me and to my right. On any ordinary night I would have paid the man no attention at all, but besides him, there was only one or two other people in the car. His proximity was unusual. Chinese generally avoid contact with foreigners. And that night, I was so damned aggravated that anyone's intrusive presence would have grated on me.

I confess: I am not known for patience. And I am not liked by many people. My classmates in school detested me. I had many rivals in the sports clubs and they took an instant dislike to me – a contempt made only worse when I showed them up on the pitch. And I had colleagues who found me aloof or aggressive or hyper-critical, but what they really meant was that my work published while theirs didn't, and I earned my promotions while they languished in lesser positions. And, of course, I had rivals for women. And these rivals abhorred me. Even the women themselves sooner or later came to loathe me. And that's how I found myself alone and the head of a language division at a famous university in Beijing. And there I stood, staring in the window glass of the doors in front of me watching the man behind me turn and deftly lift the tip of my coat with his right hand and reach for my wallet with his left.

It was like a dance move – perhaps something from a tango or a ballet. My hand shot up and snared his wrist and I turned, spinning the man around as I jerked his arm up and away, my left foot catching his left foot spot-on the Achilles, knocking his leg from under him and sending him crashing to the floor. He fell, but I gripped that right arm in an arm bar bent across my left leg, all my weight bearing down on it. And with my left hand I grabbed his pinky and ring finger and snapped them clean back. The man shrieked, but he was in no position to counter. He sprawled flat on his back flailing on the floor and I mule-kicked him right in the mouth. And then I took the index and middle finger and snapped them, as well – and when he shrieked (albeit higher-pitched and with less volume), I kicked him again. I could have broken his arm. I had full leverage over it. But I resisted the temptation. Instead, I glared down at him and growled, "Like taking what doesn't belong to you? Well, let me give you a little something to remember me by." And with that, I snapped his thumb.

Of course there was surveillance video. I was on a train in Beijing. The police were waiting at the carriage door at the next stop (and that was only a couple of minutes down the line). The man still lay on his back, cradling his hand, sobbing and blubbering. I had also kicked him several times in the ribs, though I did not remember that until I saw the video at trial.

I must admit it was impressive. And precisely, I thought, standing there in Changi Airport, looking at that spectacular indoor waterfall, the kind of thing that made me so universally unpopular. I won again. But what had I gained?

I was arrested and spent the night alone in a concrete cell in some police station or another. About ten the next morning, a trio of officers politely escorted me – no handcuffs or anything – up several flights of stairs to an office where, among a crowd of police and officials, I saw the very Dean with whom I had been so aggravated the night before. Evidently my arrest had become political. It was not so much the matter that I had stopped the pickpocket – his intentions were obvious on the video and he had a lengthy police record for petty theft. The Chinese, I think, did not appreciate the manner in which I stopped him. They did not like me injuring one of their own. I suppose they thought it a tad excessive.

I was only in jail three days before I was brought to trial. The university provided a lawyer. The matter was conducted swiftly and almost entirely in Chinese. The only question put to me directly (and translated into English for my benefit) was whether or not I had any military training. I replied that I did not. I was ordered to pay the man's medical bills and a small sum for his injuries. To this day I am not sure whether I was found innocent or guilty, or with what offense I was charged (or if, in fact, I was charged with anything).

The following Monday, when I returned to work, and boarded the train, the man – this man – was right there beside me. And he rode that train nearly every working day for the remainder of my time in Beijing. Oh, once in a while there was someone else. An illness or vacation, perhaps. But for nearly nine years, this man stood beside me every morning and every evening. We never spoke. And I hated him the entire time. And now, here he was, standing beside me in the airport in Singapore, smiling like we were old friends.

"What brings you to Singapore?" I asked.

"I visit my son and daughter-in-law," he replied. "And you? You retire, yes?"

"Yes," I said. "I retired several years ago."

"But you live Hong Kong, yes?"

"Well, I spent quite some time there, but I'm originally Welsh. Now I live in New Zealand. I'm on my way to Japan for a vacation."

"You visit friend?"

"Yes," I replied. "Friends."

The man nodded, then contemplated the waterfall while I finished my latte. At length he said, "I go home Beijing. I also retire."

"And your family?" I asked. "Are they well?"

The man shook his head. "My wife pass away last year."

"I'm sorry." 

He nodded and I detected a silent sigh. "It is the way," he said.

"Tell me," I said, "all those years you watched me. How did it feel, lording over a man like he was an insect?"

The man looked at me, clearly puzzled. "Sorry, my English very poor."

"Have you trained in the martial arts?"

The man shook his head. I could not tell if he meant No or if he simply didn't understand the questions.

"Karate? Kung Fu? You?" I pointed and made a boxing gesture with my fists.

He smiled. "I Tai Chi every morning in park. Many years. Make many friends."

"I see," I said. "So that is why you were watching me?"

The man looked at me, his expression again puzzled.

"You stood there every day for nine years watching me – reminding me to put up with the crowds and the stink and the noise and the rudeness. Watching me to be sure that I kept my mouth shut and my hands to myself. You think I don't know why I was released and why they put you there? To keep an eye on me? Pig. Brute. How many of you were there? Besides you, I mean. They wouldn't put just one man to watch me. There must have been others. How many of you were there?"

"Only I," he said.

"How could you do that?" I asked. "Shadow a man like that?"

"I have son," he said. He gestured with his right hand making a sign for a small amount. "Army pension small. Take other job. I pay him go college. Singapore. He work very hard. I proud him. Also proud protect you."

"Protect me?"

"Yes," the man said. "You foreigner. Perhaps other try hurt you. Other thief. Pickpocket. Bad man. My job: protect you. Every day I stand. It was honour, protect famous foreign professor." The man bowed slightly, then looked at his watch. "Must go," he said. "Please take care when travel." He shook a warning finger at me. "No pickpocket. Many people bad intention."

After the man was gone, I watched a team of Singapore police walking through the airport. In Singapore, the police patrol in teams of seven. You see three together, or four. You see one group, but the other is around, perhaps out-of-sight, but certainly nearby. Always on the lookout.

To protect me, the man said. And all those years I had hated him. I never thought of it like that. I checked my watch. I still had a couple of hours to kill. It was going to be a long day. Too bad I wasn't really meeting any friends in Japan. Too bad I didn't have any friends to meet.

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