Having the hennaed beard of Sheik Mokhtar, the haberdasher, look you in the eye from close-range was different to the screen presence. In life, within the walls of the heavily-stocked shop, you were the freak and oddity. You could see it in the Sheik's fixed stare. Even seated he looked you straight in the eye, an uncannily tall man. Possibly he was expecting some haggling from the likes of you. The Sheik stood all of seven foot tall. Your request of size 44 was nothing to him; it might have turned the heads of the middle-aged saucy wenches back on the island who extrapolated proportions; not in the shop of the Sheik. A day or two ago on the first visit the Sheik had been between colourings. Suddenly, when he returned to close the deal on the sandals (as feared, the sole coming unstuck third day back), the horse head turned chestnut. Five ringgit reduction was the best that could be got from the Sheik.
The first reconnoitre of the old town the other side of the river near the Backpacker had been less than promising. Most of the old shop-houses were closed and looked to have given up the ghost. Those that were trading catered to tourists, of which there were a great number, either rock 'n roll or classical/opera luring from the street. On the other side of the river it was another story.
The city had not won its UNESCO Heritage award for architecture alone. On this side of the river Melaka town was a living museum of shopkeepers continuing the line inherited from their grandfathers and beyond. Despite the seeming numbers on the street, the wash of tourists was not such as to encourage restoration and modernisation. If that was coming it was not yet; not on a scale to seriously concern. On this side of the river the various enterprises still served the local population: carpets, clothing, food, footwear and repair, stationery supplies.
There were two stationers along Laksamana Street, both miracle exhibits. In other circumstances and other locales one would need to pay to enter behind such doors. In the first establishment, signed Henry Waugh, the old Indian woman said the owner had run the shop for seventy years, going to be. The cupboard, the desk, the shelving provided confirmation, if any was needed.
A woman of her sort might have run a tea and cake stall somewhere up in the alpine country back home two or three generations ago. The reflex to give her a peck on the cheek created an awkward stand-off. On the near side of the desk her friend helping her pass the time had just emerged from her parlour with her whitened face and coloured hair.
A theatre piece: one needed to deliver one's own lines impromptu somehow. Within a church one moved with less restraint and awe.
The second stationer actually traded and ran a business. A rep. from KL had landed on him, two or three customers thronged, the telephone rang ceaselessly (allowed to ring off more than once). The piles, the stacks—you needed to pogo-jump at a couple of passes—the serried ranks. People sandwiched in-between was too much. The heaps, the masses and bundles, all in a perfect order of arrangement. The poor Malay lad—the owner was Chinese, as were the majority in the precinct—needed to be told firmly but not unkindly to look out back again. It was there. This—showing the article again; not that—showing the comparison.
The man knew every last corner of his shop. Boxed board games filled the highest shelf near the register, one facing out for identification. Computer accessories were studded in-between the exotica. A young Indian girl with her father had managed to find some art materials. The hurricane that seemed to have blown through had in fact done no damage. Everything in its place. For all the recent additions, grand-dad coming back would not take long to find his feet here.
Around his entry-way an old tin-smith in the street behind kept a variety of caged birds. Four or five high cages in which a bird flitted around and sang a little. The floor of the shop was earthen, a little loose on top from carting the brassieres, the storage racks and shelving that had been made. These items stood inside the door-way; the cages hung without. Bent at his work the man would have heard the movement of the birds as well as their occasional calls. There was no sign of the chap, though the traces were clear.
At the end of the street, thirty metres from the smith, a giant tree had drawn birds of the air, large black crows and a brightly coloured parrot that immediately hid itself within the foliage. One of these birds filled the street calling from on high. A few doors down a general store kept its birds in crowded cages, chooks of various kinds, doves, pigeons and parrots. An old turkey had the largest cage to itself; nothing like large enough for comfort however. The big bird bent its head onto its red neck one side and on the other the tail protruded through the wire. It could not have been economical to keep the creature cramped like that. The man looked to know his business. A young Malay couple was getting short shrift attempting bargaining over some chickens.
One can get lucky occasionally. The last evening an open back-kitchen a way off from the Friday night tourist stalls on Jonker Street drew attention. In fact the only entry-way here was through this back kitchen, where three or four cooks worked. This was a family business which must have been operating another seventy years, going to be. Here old granddad sat cross-legged on two red plastic chairs mounted one on top of the other, showing the smiling Buddha countenance to no one in particular. On the shelf beside the door-way was mounted a large snow scene of reindeer and bare overhanging tree branches. For balance on the other wall something native to the region: geese under a waterfall, the first flowers of spring bloom on the trees. Fruit, vegetables, fish on ice lay in containers on all sides. The tightness of space made for a furnishing with the materials for the meals.
Up on his feet the old man paced slowly a few steps one way and another, hands clasped behind his back, radiant, enquiring more by gesture than words. One of the women of the house came out to adore the young baby at the largest table. There a proud, younger granddad held court. Over the years he had been a regular at the place and told the juniors a little of the history. There had been seven daughters in the house. This liability had been overcome by all appearances. The smooth functioning proved it. In front the chaps at the fires had been sons-in-law; the boys serving brothers and cousins. The latter alone had the English.
The sign showed a Teochew establishment. (Chaozhou in contemporary form, eastern Guangdong. There were large Teochew Clan Associations down in Singapore, a recent spat between different branches giving unwanted publicity.)
Before the meal was done one of the sons-in-law had been called in for the telephone and must have spoken the dialect into the receiver. It was clear the man did all his telephone communication with the fixed line; the hand-phone was not for him. In the films of Spencer Tracey, or perhaps Jimmy Cagney in the decade before, men and women held the telephone receiver like the Teochew son-in-law that evening in Malacca, looking up into the corner of the room smilingly, the beam radiating, lifted chin showing a long polished jaw-bone.
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