YBLalat's 'The Icebreakers'

    In Friendster.com, whenever a person submits to me a sincere testimonial, I would then, in kind return, submit to him or her my most sincere form of flattery: a short piece of original writing acting as a testimonial which is inspired by, or dedicated to, that person.

    Reflecting upon my love for creative writing, these original testimonials are not simply written as typical testimonials from one friend to another, but rather as entirely fictional accounts of us first meeting each other, and are written in the literature styling of the grand tragic romanticism of 1940's film noir genre. (Literally, "black film" in French; stylistically, seedy characters and bleak, pessimistic view of humanity).

    These fictional testimonials are what then become 'The Icebreakers' series; very short stories specific to the persons for which they are written for, completely independent of each other in most aspects, but are held together by the same sense of style and purpose.

    The three stories below are inspired by, or imagined from, the following three great films of film noir genre of the 1940s: Sabariah, Isteri Curiga (John Huston's "The Maltese Falcon", 1941), Zarina, Hati Kristal (Billy Wilder's "Double Indemnity", 1944) and Hernani, Gadis Jongang (Tay Garnett's "The Postman Always Rings Twice", 1946)

   Sabariah, Isteri Curiga

    The first time I met her, it was raining outside and business that day was very slow. The phones were dead; I thought maybe the lines were hit by lightning again. Paperwork from the previous extramarital affair case was strewn all over the desk; I did not have the mood or strength to go through all of them without my secretary around, who was on maternal leave at the time. Lunch was at the local diner, a tuna sandwich with cheese and a small cup of coffee. The office, poorly lit by a lone dangling light bulb, was gloomy. The quietness that came with the rain, and the strong smell of tuna on my jacket; I thought maybe it was time to close the office and call it a day.

    But then, she came; her footsteps, climbing up the stairwell, were as loud as church bells.

    She knocked softly on my door, twice, and waited, and then she knocked again, twice.

    "Come in", I said.

    Slowly, the doorknob turned. I saw the elegant diamond ring on her finger first. She had a bright red gown on, with a light pink fur coat on top, sprawling like a mess; she had style and grace, her handbag was dark leather. Then came the legs, they were long, petite and glistening. Her high heels gave vigor to the pale wooden floor; with each step, they made a loud clicking sound. Her head popped out from the back of the door, and she browsed the room --her eyes were wild but discreet. Immediately, it came to me: she was a lady in distress.

    "Are you a private-eye investigator, dear sir?"

    "Yes, I am, ma'am", I replied, "Please, come in, and have a seat."

   Zarina, Hati Kristal

    We met each other through a mutual friend, who thought that the idea of a blind date between two equally reclusive and socially awkward individuals would produce a bond that is equally magical, beyond romantic and, preferably, everlasting. This mutual friend of ours, whose persistent pestering for us to live life and enjoy youth is as annoying as his unrestrained optimism and glee, is known in his elite social circle as the one who, carelessly and almost habitually, throws away lavish weekend parties on the beautiful exotic garden of his millionaire parents’ mansion by the beach. And it was to this spoiled hobby of his that later he developed the taste of playing matchmaker and Cupid to those lonely and dear that he calls friends; Zarina and I, we were one of the many toy pieces of his blind date games, and this was how we both met for the first time: in one of his weekend garden party.

    “Zarina, I'd like you to meet Faizal, and Faizal, this is Zarina--”
        “--Hello.”
        “--Hi there.”
    “Well, I leave you two to get acquainted. Enjoy the spectacular party, yes?”

    Upon him leaving us alone, Zarina quickly drew away her indifferent look from my nervous eyes and took a light sip of champagne from her glass, and she saw to it that I, as the gentleman, break the ice first. She kept her silence like a treasured, pampered pet; always close and at her side for her to stroke it gently and idly once in a while, as she waited for me to make a fool out of myself. Zarina had the most beautiful, if not the most expensive and intricately decorated, evening gown at the party, with matching Prada handbag made out of crocodile leather, and soft suede gloves in the shade of her smooth, feminine skin –-all in all, a sophisticated young woman very comfortable with her social and economic status, and not too far away from being the center of such a glamorous party.

    I took a deep breath, calmed my jangled nerves and soon braved her tease.

    “So, Zarina, what is it that you do for a living?”

    “I’m a divorce lawyer”, she said in an icy cold voice, “I eat men like you.”

   Hernani, Gadis Jongang

    Hernani Mohd Yusof,
    315 Lorong Jentayu,
    Jalan Klang Lama,
    45000 Kuala Selangor,
    Selangor Darul Ehsan.

    “Hernani Mohd Yusof.”

    The beautiful girl with the protruding teeth, the youngest daughter of the District Welfare Officer, the one with the most lonesome and saddest set of eyes on an innocent child.

    “I’ll send her letters last, at the end of my day’s rounds.”

    Journeying to her home, I remember my mind calmly floating out of my body and over the post office’s motorcycle; overhead the waves of youth and passion, an albatross hangs motionless upon the air, and deep beneath the rolling sea in labyrinth of coral reefs, the echo of a distant tide comes willowing across the sand, rumbling.

    At the door, I rang the bell, twice, and a familiar, childlike shadow appeared from behind the curtains.

    Almost immediately, she saw who it was; the young postman, he comes here more often than always these days; and she ran skittishly to where her young woman’s headscarf was lying about. Her thin, soft fingers carelessly tucked the rampant flowing corners of her large scarf around her small face; tightening it as she walked rapidly to the door, hopelessly holding back her smile and her excitement.

    “Assalamualaikum.”

    “Wa'alaikumussalam”, she replied; her luring eyes shying away from mine.

    Into the small, private crack at the door, I carefully held out to her the letters: those colorful, self-made envelopes, with exquisitely pencil-drawn flowers and birds and bees at the corners, and lively boys and girls playfully chasing each other, smiling and laughing.

    “Your letters are very beautiful.”

    She smiled bashfully, but then quickly pulled it back and down with her upper lip; a conscious effort on her part to lessen the uninviting visual effect of her protruding smile; otherwise the loveliest girl in the whole town, whose front-row pearl-white teeth were her only --but most visibly cruel-- Achilles' heel to her perfect young-goddess beauty.

    Unhindered by her shyness, I flirted: “What’s your name, little girl?”

    “Hernani”, she replied very softly, twice, “Hernani Mohd Yusof.”