5Three a.m. at the Singapore River.
Weng can’t stop the melody that goes round and round in his mind. He hits the railing with his fist.
The dark waters flow in placid indifference to his pain. His insomnia has returned. His nights creep at a snail’s pace. Awake at home, he listens to the rumble of memories. Awake at the river, he emits an old man’s sigh. Damn. He’d been a fool to love her. He hasn’t stopped thinking about Ping ever since Mrs Chang, her aunt, gave him news of her impending arrival. Was that deliberate? Would Ping recognise him? He imagines her grey and ravaged, two bitter lines skirting the corners of her mouth. He’d heard she’s divorced and childless. That should be revenge enough. But then he’d found no joy in other women either. The violinist he married had left him a
