Heaven's Breath

Dempsey Hill was millionaire or billionaire row according to the guide Gabriel. So it proved winding over the rise on the narrow footpath by the little police boxes that reminded of the Japanese example and the affluent areas of Jakarta. The French Embassy had occupied a suitably impressive Edwardian mansion; outdone by India House, which was not the Embassy proper, but rather the site for cultural events and receptions of one sort or another. A private residence that commanded a hill-top was perhaps most grand of all. A Tzar of the armaments industry, oil, construction or banking perhaps. All of the above and everything else most likely. It went against the grain rubber-necking at this lot. An observer behind the drapes might think you were green with envy.
         The former Anglican Hall that had become the church deserved a peek. In recent years when the former British officer quarter had been transformed into middle-road chic, the church itself had been converted into some kind of commercial enterprise. Nicely high vaulted roof, stained glass, timber seats with croqueted slips for the prayer mats. A chap out front was giving the cross a careful shellacking, working the shaft with its inlay and then the branches. At the head of the raised platform upon which the altar sat a woman had half prostrated herself and remained in prayer a full quarter hour and perhaps more. Knees on the lower ground, she had extended herself full length, resting her trunk upon her elbows and bringing her forehead down on the blue felt-like cover on the platform. When Gabriel made his exit she turned to see him off. The second observer may have remained unnoticed behind. 
         On the right the organ called for an inspection. Being an organist of some fair repute, the guide Gabriel, once he was brought back indoors, provided excellent information. An electric organ of course in the case of a minor building of this rank. Gabriel told of the working of the foot keys, the crescendo and other pedals and the arrangement of the stops, here in the form of buttons. Playing a proper organ in the tropics involved a serious work-out for the organist. Before Gabriel was fetched, in the pass  by the woman the prayer was just  being completed. Beginning to raise herself on her elbows, she stopped a few moments to wipe first one eye, then the second with one crooked forefinger followed by the other, scooping out her tears, a woman of indeterminate racial background. After the walk by the fenced pools, the extensive gardens, the garaged Rolls Royce, the helplessness was peculiar.
         On the first section of the walk over the former old rail-line that ran from the port at Tanjong Pagar up to Woodlands and across to the Peninsular the avenue of jungle trees provided shade and gave a mild, heady perfume most of the way along. Only a small section of track had been left on the ground at the old Bukit Timah station to hint at what had been. Pacing uncovered ground in Singapore brought small reminders. The breeze was a god-send in the middle of the day. Because of an irritable cleaning lady's Thursday schedule the guide Gabriel settled upon the morning of that day for these explorations. A refreshing breeze, and not only for the cool wafting over the sweating body. Here were further reminders still of other place and living. From memory the Japanese had a hundred and more words for particular kinds of wind; just as they had a similar number for particular kinds of snow. Wind through a stand of bamboo was one example. The orchestra of the tree-tops played all along the old line here in contemporary Singapore for two bushy Australian hikers Thursday gone.