Really poured on the eve in two or three passages. These
rains are something. Thunders too. A little while ago the Straits Times quoted someone or other, a meteorologist it may have
been, who declared Singapore the thunder capital of the world. At the outdoor
tables when the thunder-claps sound in the near distance no one bats an
eye-lid. Not the slightest sign given. It is the rain that is most affecting.
That has even the locals casting their eyes out into the thicket.
In an effort to seize something of the Christmas festival a turn out to Raffles Place for licorice and chilli flavoured dark chocolate from Marks & Spencer seemed appropriate. Raffles Place is a large shopping complex that reflects the glory of the famous hotel on the opposite corner. On the first level of the tower not far from the escalator, Marks & Spencer was doing a fair trade. As usual, most of the shoppers were gathered in the confectionary department. In a small area at the bottom left corner, beside ladies lingerie, stood the racks of chocolate, biscuit and lollies. As far as the eye could see the remainder of the store comprised clothing apparel, middle of the road budget wear, floral prints and lace. At first acquaintance lingerie and sweets seemed an odd arrangement.
The crush in the plaza of the tower was not so bad. Not much more than brisk trade. The practiced shoppers had got in early. Bargain hunters naturally awaited the dawn after the manger dawn. (Like back home, the doors of the stores were due to open at five AM on Boxing Day—a de facto rather than designated holiday here.) British India had drawn some custom, when there had never been seen a soul there on previous visits. One could never pass through that first corridor off North Bridge without a side-long look at the shop-front. It remained a surprise here being reminded of British India. There were all manner of trading concerns in Singapore with strange names. British India should not have come as any kind of surprise. The difference was today on the return, nearly seven months into the stay in Singapore, the store would finally be entered. What better time than Christmas.
One or two of the other boutiques on the ground floor of Raffles Place had collected last minute shoppers. Both Raoul and Love & Co, opposite each other in the same first passage off North Bridge, again appeared vacant. In the case of fashion and jewelry respectively, it could be understood at Christmas. On the walk up and also the return, the cluster under the veranda beside the back entry of Raffles Hotel showed not a single customer: Elliott & Carmen, Irene’s Creation, the antique store beside the circular drive. (The smaller entry; the main entrance to Raffles Hotel is on the other side of the block, where you find the full, sweeping circular drive.) None of these stores held a single, solitary shopper. But then so far as that was concerned, on any other day it was the same. Christmas merely reinforced the impression. Volume was not what it was about in those shaded Raffles nooks. Understood. They may have possibly traded by appointment there. On this occasion in the walk along the Raffles veranda on North Bridge Road on Christmas Eve the thought arose whether there might be some kind of subtle subterfuge at work along this row. An idle thought in passing. Nonetheless there it was. It made one wonder. Are these stores there within the famous old hotel truly functional commercial enterprises, as they appear to the street? Do they indeed operate as shops at all, Elliot, Irene and the rest? An illustrious old boutique hotel such as this might easily create mock-up store-fronts in order to deliver a desired effect, add another layer to the aura of exclusivity and charm. Without Cartier and Rolex under those arches more than half the allure of old Sir Stamford's pile might be lost. Occasionally a figure flitted behind the windows. Everything suggested a real shop-keeper of that particular station—collars and ties, glasses on chains, shaped coiffures. The fixed, ordered wares in the interiors had the aspect of a stage-set, one where actors were redundant. The mind could play tricks on a journeyman, and the rain may have been a factor. Uncharitable thoughts at this time of year.
A great deal of dark wood-paneling once inside the door at British India. The timber floor had not registered earlier. Inside the entry the incense and burning oil needed fording almost like a river. The staff had clearly overloaded trying to attract the attention of the passers-by out in the passage. In the men's shirts the pastels of the familiar kind seemed to be a colour representation of the rich perfume. The Indian lads in Geylang wore similar shades in the cheaper articles from the discount stores. Surprisingly the staff here held off. Possibly they could immediately detect a sight-seer. Within the ramparts there was generous space allotment. One was not crowed in British India like in Marks & Spencer. Linen fabrics an important line. Without too close an inspection, fairly casual most of the wear. In the open shelves opposite the men’s shirts the polos were sorted in fine gradations of colour. One had seen the range elsewhere in the city. Here there was the surprise of a new, entirely unexpected breast emblem. Instead of the Ferrari stallion, the Giordano prancing English lion up on its hind-quarters, the popular mounted polo player of an unknown brand, here in British India the ceremonial elephant in a range of livery was the specially chosen motif. Again, the surprise shouldn't have been. Prancing steed or lion—why not the more august pachyderm for those of another cast of mind? There were twenty different tones and combinations. Orchard Road and the arts precinct had chosen the same highly enameled wise old figure for the dominant motif in the street sculpture this year. No exaggeration, there must be in existence ten thousand snaps of children and family propped beside the dazzling baby elephants of the streets of Singapore in the run-down to Christmas alone. No more natural extension of the motif could be found than the one inside the doors of British India. It really did bring a smile seeing the racks. Touchingly innocent design development across the cultural spectrum, across the globe and all its people. A cow would have been inappropriate here. A profanity. The great dependable old thick-skinned Ellie a much more comforting, conciliatory totem; more Eastern. The visit to British India had been delayed too long. None of this clothing here had been sighted on the streets of the city.
To draw out the Eve a little further, in order to linger a little longer, some refreshment at one of the bars or cafes seemed an idea. In was not due until four. Plenty of time to gather the Christmas omens. There was no point rushing back to Geylang. At Geylang there was no mark of the day of any kind. One or two churches had been found off in the side lorongs of Geylang too. Worshippers would wend their way quietly there from the HDB's. Six or seven per cent might be the statistics for Christians in Singapore. Perhaps a little above. Certainly nothing like enough to produce any kind of festive spirit, in Geylang especially. As one of the older men remarked the other day, Geylang was the real Chinatown in Singapore. The advertised one near the river was—like the large temple there—a tourist mock-up.
Tokyo Deli Cafe didn't offer allure this afternoon. On the entry French windows and tired looking salads displayed. Even though there was no thought of lunch, it had to be passed on this occasion. Another look at O'Gambino’s failed to inspire. Irish-Italo the sign said. This had to be a well-known chain, especially with that name. But in Singapore one couldn't be quite sure. From the print on the awning an old-time Chicago god-father looked down his nose. The advertising and the branding here kept one on one's toes. However the case may be, O'Gambino's seemed excessive for Chrissy eve. Some other time. A short way around the base of the tower found Double Bay boarded up. A couple of months ago a fair crowd had been drawn there, ex-pats and locals mixed. The high Oz $ possibly responsible for the closure.
By default more than anything, Brotzeit back a bit had to be it if it was going to be anywhere this Christmas. The tall ornamental fir stood directly in front. Brotzeit was a chain. One could pretty easily tell. Possibly not the only outlet in Singapore either. The fit-out could be plonked as required in any kind of space. It was no good being critical. Brotzeit had to do. Being picky would get you nowhere fast in Singapore. What did it matter? A few days before they had Beatles covers going, a fair John impersonator delivering a hits medley. It had been forgotten until the seat was taken. No cause for alarm. Today was another playlist. When the waiter opened the door to come out to the patio smoking area there was no John. Whatever they had on inside was muted, turned right down in honour of the season. Yet this was neither hymns nor carols. Didn't sound like.
Brotzeit wasn't so bad, looking out at the corner of Bras Basah and North Bridge Roads. Facing the street you didn't see the interior. Grey slate ran down to the traffic lights and seemed to continue upward diagonally opposite on the Carlton tower. On the near corner stood Chijmes, an impressive nineteenth century ecclesiastical cluster now devoted to boutique shops and bars. Unfortunately from North Bridge one faced the rear end. The cross on the chief building—it must have been the church—was retained at Chijmes. It might have been a special arrangement with Rome. (Could it be possible that on the Sunday the church function reverted, with a split of profits? The Chinese were nothing if not practical.) From across the way the Carlton appeared as offices. It must in fact be a three or four star hotel, with what looked like from the street an Arabian tailor off the foyer. High season in the luxury hotels here sets you back two or three thousand a night—plus for Emperor suites and the like. Having the old hotel across the road must have been a great boon for business at the Carlton, the shopping tower, the Chijmes bars and the church too. A better Chrissy than at this crossroads couldn't be found elsewhere in Singapore.
The festooned holly through the gate on the side of Raffles was clearly visible. The trishaws waited under the alcoves. Around Raffles was the only place one saw the trishaws. Christmas Eve seemed an unlikely occasion for them. The chaps no doubt knew better. They seemed to be out in force. Perhaps there was an evening market, a little turn after supper through the lighted streets and down by the river. Three storeys high Raffles rose. Of course in former days it had been a landmark. Coming up from the river it would have stood as a beacon beside the spire of the church at Chijmes. (Pronounced chimes, deriving from the former Catholic Convent of the Holy Infant Jesus.) Raffles gleamed in what might have been the original white and forest green trim.
The Chrissy tree on the corner this side was the largest in these parts, rising about twenty metres. It had been scaled to the Raffles upper storey and the spire. The faux-fir was precisely trimmed and shaped into a perfect elongated cone. Alternate red and gold mushroom-like discs ran in a couple of stripes across, with spherical gold baubles interspersed. The spots of colour compensated for what was a lackluster, brittle green. At the pinnacle a larger gold disc of the same form, only enlarged, created a crown. After the rain the colours gave a jewel-like sparkle.
At the adjoining table at Brotzeit a little gathering of real Deutschers was found. Even before the big beefy Bavarian or Schwabian opposite the two ladies gave a salutation, the indication was strong. While speaking the man kept his Roman coin visage erect and raised. The identification was made spontaneously. This had to be a German chain. The beers were the usual mix, but in the case of wine German reds and whites predominated. A home away from home for the lucky Germans; their ringing tones and laughter as a consequence. It seemed a little touch of Christmas. The group were old friends. One of the women might have been the man's wife. It seemed the ladies politely took turns going for a cigarette. First one went off with a cigarette in hand ready for lighting, then the other. Their laughter came regularly. They had come down from one of the hotel towers in the neighbourhood between the rain storms. Perhaps the tree had drawn them and only afterward had they found the bar. A week or two ago a Christmas tree in the city had mysteriously gone up in flames. The brief mention and the lack of any follow-up in subsequent days suggested some kind of foul play. Drawing notice to the matter must have been judged unwise. There were numerous alerts here for anything suspicious, baggage and parcels, unusual behaviour. The race riots back in the early sixties had not been forgotten; after 9/11 some kind of planned attack on Changi airport had been nipped in the bud. Ten minutes away on the bus was Malaysia; Indonesia an hour on the ferry. When news of the arson was first heard naturally the tall cone at Raffles Place was recalled. Given the fact that the fire had occurred more than a fortnight out, there may have been no connection with Christmas, no racial or religious undertone. Knowing the promptness of the civic authorities, a search for the burnt tree was not entertained. Knowing the promptness of the authorities, it was highly likely the tree that had been destroyed, whether here at Raffles Place or elsewhere, would have been rapidly replaced. At any rate there was no need to spoil the scene beneath the tall, dressed fir out front of Brotzeit, the shoppers passing this way and that, Raffles one side and Chijmes the other, while the Deutschers chattered adjacent. The glasses on their table were full again. An impressive freedom the Deutschers displayed. They had bought their gifts on the way through customs perhaps. Comfortably they sat in the plush leather. A traditional dinner awaited them at their hotel. If the group was a little larger staff would put on traditional carols in German. With the relief from the rain this was a fine Christmas in shirt sleeves and blouses. No doubt many northerners came down to Singapore this time of year. Possibly the trio may have been able to fit together into one of the trishaws. A merry Christmas to them.
As arranged, In arrived at the hotel shortly after 4. It was a good thing the Germans and the street Christmas had not detained longer. The usual Christmas Eve church attendance In had decided to forgo this year. Though a keen church-goer and regular in attendance, this Christmas Eve In was perfectly ready to make the concession. She had proposed the meeting herself. The formalities of church service seemed not especially important to In. Recently the pastor at her church had asked her to lead some hymn singing. It seemed ordinarily In hung back a little in church. At night she regularly prayed. When there was some trouble at work she cried at night and the prayers must have helped. Overall In managed her responsibilities well. How much of a concession was In's decision this Christmas Eve wasn't entirely clear.
In an effort to seize something of the Christmas festival a turn out to Raffles Place for licorice and chilli flavoured dark chocolate from Marks & Spencer seemed appropriate. Raffles Place is a large shopping complex that reflects the glory of the famous hotel on the opposite corner. On the first level of the tower not far from the escalator, Marks & Spencer was doing a fair trade. As usual, most of the shoppers were gathered in the confectionary department. In a small area at the bottom left corner, beside ladies lingerie, stood the racks of chocolate, biscuit and lollies. As far as the eye could see the remainder of the store comprised clothing apparel, middle of the road budget wear, floral prints and lace. At first acquaintance lingerie and sweets seemed an odd arrangement.
The crush in the plaza of the tower was not so bad. Not much more than brisk trade. The practiced shoppers had got in early. Bargain hunters naturally awaited the dawn after the manger dawn. (Like back home, the doors of the stores were due to open at five AM on Boxing Day—a de facto rather than designated holiday here.) British India had drawn some custom, when there had never been seen a soul there on previous visits. One could never pass through that first corridor off North Bridge without a side-long look at the shop-front. It remained a surprise here being reminded of British India. There were all manner of trading concerns in Singapore with strange names. British India should not have come as any kind of surprise. The difference was today on the return, nearly seven months into the stay in Singapore, the store would finally be entered. What better time than Christmas.
One or two of the other boutiques on the ground floor of Raffles Place had collected last minute shoppers. Both Raoul and Love & Co, opposite each other in the same first passage off North Bridge, again appeared vacant. In the case of fashion and jewelry respectively, it could be understood at Christmas. On the walk up and also the return, the cluster under the veranda beside the back entry of Raffles Hotel showed not a single customer: Elliott & Carmen, Irene’s Creation, the antique store beside the circular drive. (The smaller entry; the main entrance to Raffles Hotel is on the other side of the block, where you find the full, sweeping circular drive.) None of these stores held a single, solitary shopper. But then so far as that was concerned, on any other day it was the same. Christmas merely reinforced the impression. Volume was not what it was about in those shaded Raffles nooks. Understood. They may have possibly traded by appointment there. On this occasion in the walk along the Raffles veranda on North Bridge Road on Christmas Eve the thought arose whether there might be some kind of subtle subterfuge at work along this row. An idle thought in passing. Nonetheless there it was. It made one wonder. Are these stores there within the famous old hotel truly functional commercial enterprises, as they appear to the street? Do they indeed operate as shops at all, Elliot, Irene and the rest? An illustrious old boutique hotel such as this might easily create mock-up store-fronts in order to deliver a desired effect, add another layer to the aura of exclusivity and charm. Without Cartier and Rolex under those arches more than half the allure of old Sir Stamford's pile might be lost. Occasionally a figure flitted behind the windows. Everything suggested a real shop-keeper of that particular station—collars and ties, glasses on chains, shaped coiffures. The fixed, ordered wares in the interiors had the aspect of a stage-set, one where actors were redundant. The mind could play tricks on a journeyman, and the rain may have been a factor. Uncharitable thoughts at this time of year.
A great deal of dark wood-paneling once inside the door at British India. The timber floor had not registered earlier. Inside the entry the incense and burning oil needed fording almost like a river. The staff had clearly overloaded trying to attract the attention of the passers-by out in the passage. In the men's shirts the pastels of the familiar kind seemed to be a colour representation of the rich perfume. The Indian lads in Geylang wore similar shades in the cheaper articles from the discount stores. Surprisingly the staff here held off. Possibly they could immediately detect a sight-seer. Within the ramparts there was generous space allotment. One was not crowed in British India like in Marks & Spencer. Linen fabrics an important line. Without too close an inspection, fairly casual most of the wear. In the open shelves opposite the men’s shirts the polos were sorted in fine gradations of colour. One had seen the range elsewhere in the city. Here there was the surprise of a new, entirely unexpected breast emblem. Instead of the Ferrari stallion, the Giordano prancing English lion up on its hind-quarters, the popular mounted polo player of an unknown brand, here in British India the ceremonial elephant in a range of livery was the specially chosen motif. Again, the surprise shouldn't have been. Prancing steed or lion—why not the more august pachyderm for those of another cast of mind? There were twenty different tones and combinations. Orchard Road and the arts precinct had chosen the same highly enameled wise old figure for the dominant motif in the street sculpture this year. No exaggeration, there must be in existence ten thousand snaps of children and family propped beside the dazzling baby elephants of the streets of Singapore in the run-down to Christmas alone. No more natural extension of the motif could be found than the one inside the doors of British India. It really did bring a smile seeing the racks. Touchingly innocent design development across the cultural spectrum, across the globe and all its people. A cow would have been inappropriate here. A profanity. The great dependable old thick-skinned Ellie a much more comforting, conciliatory totem; more Eastern. The visit to British India had been delayed too long. None of this clothing here had been sighted on the streets of the city.
To draw out the Eve a little further, in order to linger a little longer, some refreshment at one of the bars or cafes seemed an idea. In was not due until four. Plenty of time to gather the Christmas omens. There was no point rushing back to Geylang. At Geylang there was no mark of the day of any kind. One or two churches had been found off in the side lorongs of Geylang too. Worshippers would wend their way quietly there from the HDB's. Six or seven per cent might be the statistics for Christians in Singapore. Perhaps a little above. Certainly nothing like enough to produce any kind of festive spirit, in Geylang especially. As one of the older men remarked the other day, Geylang was the real Chinatown in Singapore. The advertised one near the river was—like the large temple there—a tourist mock-up.
Tokyo Deli Cafe didn't offer allure this afternoon. On the entry French windows and tired looking salads displayed. Even though there was no thought of lunch, it had to be passed on this occasion. Another look at O'Gambino’s failed to inspire. Irish-Italo the sign said. This had to be a well-known chain, especially with that name. But in Singapore one couldn't be quite sure. From the print on the awning an old-time Chicago god-father looked down his nose. The advertising and the branding here kept one on one's toes. However the case may be, O'Gambino's seemed excessive for Chrissy eve. Some other time. A short way around the base of the tower found Double Bay boarded up. A couple of months ago a fair crowd had been drawn there, ex-pats and locals mixed. The high Oz $ possibly responsible for the closure.
By default more than anything, Brotzeit back a bit had to be it if it was going to be anywhere this Christmas. The tall ornamental fir stood directly in front. Brotzeit was a chain. One could pretty easily tell. Possibly not the only outlet in Singapore either. The fit-out could be plonked as required in any kind of space. It was no good being critical. Brotzeit had to do. Being picky would get you nowhere fast in Singapore. What did it matter? A few days before they had Beatles covers going, a fair John impersonator delivering a hits medley. It had been forgotten until the seat was taken. No cause for alarm. Today was another playlist. When the waiter opened the door to come out to the patio smoking area there was no John. Whatever they had on inside was muted, turned right down in honour of the season. Yet this was neither hymns nor carols. Didn't sound like.
Brotzeit wasn't so bad, looking out at the corner of Bras Basah and North Bridge Roads. Facing the street you didn't see the interior. Grey slate ran down to the traffic lights and seemed to continue upward diagonally opposite on the Carlton tower. On the near corner stood Chijmes, an impressive nineteenth century ecclesiastical cluster now devoted to boutique shops and bars. Unfortunately from North Bridge one faced the rear end. The cross on the chief building—it must have been the church—was retained at Chijmes. It might have been a special arrangement with Rome. (Could it be possible that on the Sunday the church function reverted, with a split of profits? The Chinese were nothing if not practical.) From across the way the Carlton appeared as offices. It must in fact be a three or four star hotel, with what looked like from the street an Arabian tailor off the foyer. High season in the luxury hotels here sets you back two or three thousand a night—plus for Emperor suites and the like. Having the old hotel across the road must have been a great boon for business at the Carlton, the shopping tower, the Chijmes bars and the church too. A better Chrissy than at this crossroads couldn't be found elsewhere in Singapore.
The festooned holly through the gate on the side of Raffles was clearly visible. The trishaws waited under the alcoves. Around Raffles was the only place one saw the trishaws. Christmas Eve seemed an unlikely occasion for them. The chaps no doubt knew better. They seemed to be out in force. Perhaps there was an evening market, a little turn after supper through the lighted streets and down by the river. Three storeys high Raffles rose. Of course in former days it had been a landmark. Coming up from the river it would have stood as a beacon beside the spire of the church at Chijmes. (Pronounced chimes, deriving from the former Catholic Convent of the Holy Infant Jesus.) Raffles gleamed in what might have been the original white and forest green trim.
The Chrissy tree on the corner this side was the largest in these parts, rising about twenty metres. It had been scaled to the Raffles upper storey and the spire. The faux-fir was precisely trimmed and shaped into a perfect elongated cone. Alternate red and gold mushroom-like discs ran in a couple of stripes across, with spherical gold baubles interspersed. The spots of colour compensated for what was a lackluster, brittle green. At the pinnacle a larger gold disc of the same form, only enlarged, created a crown. After the rain the colours gave a jewel-like sparkle.
At the adjoining table at Brotzeit a little gathering of real Deutschers was found. Even before the big beefy Bavarian or Schwabian opposite the two ladies gave a salutation, the indication was strong. While speaking the man kept his Roman coin visage erect and raised. The identification was made spontaneously. This had to be a German chain. The beers were the usual mix, but in the case of wine German reds and whites predominated. A home away from home for the lucky Germans; their ringing tones and laughter as a consequence. It seemed a little touch of Christmas. The group were old friends. One of the women might have been the man's wife. It seemed the ladies politely took turns going for a cigarette. First one went off with a cigarette in hand ready for lighting, then the other. Their laughter came regularly. They had come down from one of the hotel towers in the neighbourhood between the rain storms. Perhaps the tree had drawn them and only afterward had they found the bar. A week or two ago a Christmas tree in the city had mysteriously gone up in flames. The brief mention and the lack of any follow-up in subsequent days suggested some kind of foul play. Drawing notice to the matter must have been judged unwise. There were numerous alerts here for anything suspicious, baggage and parcels, unusual behaviour. The race riots back in the early sixties had not been forgotten; after 9/11 some kind of planned attack on Changi airport had been nipped in the bud. Ten minutes away on the bus was Malaysia; Indonesia an hour on the ferry. When news of the arson was first heard naturally the tall cone at Raffles Place was recalled. Given the fact that the fire had occurred more than a fortnight out, there may have been no connection with Christmas, no racial or religious undertone. Knowing the promptness of the civic authorities, a search for the burnt tree was not entertained. Knowing the promptness of the authorities, it was highly likely the tree that had been destroyed, whether here at Raffles Place or elsewhere, would have been rapidly replaced. At any rate there was no need to spoil the scene beneath the tall, dressed fir out front of Brotzeit, the shoppers passing this way and that, Raffles one side and Chijmes the other, while the Deutschers chattered adjacent. The glasses on their table were full again. An impressive freedom the Deutschers displayed. They had bought their gifts on the way through customs perhaps. Comfortably they sat in the plush leather. A traditional dinner awaited them at their hotel. If the group was a little larger staff would put on traditional carols in German. With the relief from the rain this was a fine Christmas in shirt sleeves and blouses. No doubt many northerners came down to Singapore this time of year. Possibly the trio may have been able to fit together into one of the trishaws. A merry Christmas to them.
As arranged, In arrived at the hotel shortly after 4. It was a good thing the Germans and the street Christmas had not detained longer. The usual Christmas Eve church attendance In had decided to forgo this year. Though a keen church-goer and regular in attendance, this Christmas Eve In was perfectly ready to make the concession. She had proposed the meeting herself. The formalities of church service seemed not especially important to In. Recently the pastor at her church had asked her to lead some hymn singing. It seemed ordinarily In hung back a little in church. At night she regularly prayed. When there was some trouble at work she cried at night and the prayers must have helped. Overall In managed her responsibilities well. How much of a concession was In's decision this Christmas Eve wasn't entirely clear.
In's
warmth and ardour rise rapidly. A hint of her passion might be guessed from her
alertness and quick movement. Having herself slowed and restrained In easily
accommodates; like a good, practiced dance partner, In adjusts and adapts.
Words are entirely unnecessary, all is understood and accepted. In presses
forcefully; she clings tight. Plunging deep from the outset, In never lets up.
Nonetheless, Ind always waits on her lover too. Like her compatriots, Ind never
disrobes herself. In will only oblige and aid the disrobing. Never a demand
voiced or hinted. Delay, playfulness and withholding bring Ind delight, perhaps
unexpectedly. At the moment when the union is about to be fulfilled In swells
in her body and gives her tongue. Something like the bracing an athlete
prepares prior to a critical response flexes In's small, neat frame and Indri
flows out to meet her lover, expectant and keen.
In the ascending progress Indri could not have anticipated the clamp on her tongue. Without warning suddenly, a hard, tight clenching and pinching. On the first occasion the surprise had clearly caught Ind completely unaware. Now it is possible Ind awaits the action. The trap sprung, In is held fast, hard and fast. In may intuit the move as a response to her own, move and counter. Then the second of In's shifts is more remarkable and stirring again than the first. All at once Indri is completely paralyzed, completely transfixed. One single pin has rendered the woman entirely and utterly motionless. In the first moments of this rigid arrest, this sudden turning to stone under the assault, In's vertiginous stillness leaves her lover groping after her, hurrying to keep up.
In the ascending progress Indri could not have anticipated the clamp on her tongue. Without warning suddenly, a hard, tight clenching and pinching. On the first occasion the surprise had clearly caught Ind completely unaware. Now it is possible Ind awaits the action. The trap sprung, In is held fast, hard and fast. In may intuit the move as a response to her own, move and counter. Then the second of In's shifts is more remarkable and stirring again than the first. All at once Indri is completely paralyzed, completely transfixed. One single pin has rendered the woman entirely and utterly motionless. In the first moments of this rigid arrest, this sudden turning to stone under the assault, In's vertiginous stillness leaves her lover groping after her, hurrying to keep up.
The
posture is maintained. It is as if In has arched her body to its limit, without
any semblance of movement, without a muscle or tendon engaged. Indri doesn't breathe,
doesn't make the slightest stir. Motionless and still, swelled and risen
somehow imperceptibly, small, barely audible whimpers arrive instead of breaths.
Slight gasps as from a fire. Gasps and little small moans. The first afternoon
the effect was overwhelming. Subsequent afternoon and morning meetings
attempted a recapture.
The thought had been to have the windows in the room opened wide this Christmas Eve, the curtains drawn and the crashing rain brought indoors. Usually the wind drives the rain in under the narrow eaves of the hotel and the window has to be closed. For this monsoon Christmas it would be alright. The curtains would soon dry. In any case in the new year the hotel was due for renovation and refurbishment. Through the teeming afternoon rains in the city, watching the falls from one shelter and then another, the thought had returned to In's breathless whimpers, the high elevation of her frozen stance. The last window at the bed-head would be opened wide, the curtain only part closed to allow some of the drops on the pillows. If you didn’t have a hay-stack in a stable with the doors open in front this would suffice. Dark chilli chocolate and fruit on a platter, the old Malay crooners from the karaoke stand beside the supermarket providing carols.
The thought had been to have the windows in the room opened wide this Christmas Eve, the curtains drawn and the crashing rain brought indoors. Usually the wind drives the rain in under the narrow eaves of the hotel and the window has to be closed. For this monsoon Christmas it would be alright. The curtains would soon dry. In any case in the new year the hotel was due for renovation and refurbishment. Through the teeming afternoon rains in the city, watching the falls from one shelter and then another, the thought had returned to In's breathless whimpers, the high elevation of her frozen stance. The last window at the bed-head would be opened wide, the curtain only part closed to allow some of the drops on the pillows. If you didn’t have a hay-stack in a stable with the doors open in front this would suffice. Dark chilli chocolate and fruit on a platter, the old Malay crooners from the karaoke stand beside the supermarket providing carols.
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