The Malay Mother

It was no one but her. Yet in her figure she was taller and in feature altered. A tall, elderly, blanched embodiment. Scarfed and with a suggestion of the kebaya, the Malaya blouse from these parts. Pleading of course she never indulged in, or almost never. In the last year or so she would plead a little for this or that little thing; or in order to avoid this or that little thing, such as bathing, or right near the end, her bitter pills, which became harder and harder to swallow. From earliest childhood she had been taught never to plead, the same as she taught when she later, unexpectedly, became a mother. Enduring without was one of her great principles and lessons. This morning in the second course of sleep it was herself and no one else. Standing on a little rise perhaps, it seemed a front lawn or footpath; clearly an Australian street scene, the wide, flat Australian light. On her way somewhere she was caught, as if a neighbour stopped for an acquaintance and making a little request. What she requested was impossible for mother. Rarely had a single drop of alcohol passed mother's lips, rather like these stout and upright good Muslim matrons hereabout. In the last ten years or so of her life she liked to take a bevanda with her meals, a half-and-half of water and wine. The full, undiluted strong drink was too much for a teetotaler such as herself. A nip of the really strong stuff, the 45% proof sljivovica or rakija, grappa could almost never be pressed on her. A drop in the cap of the bottle merely to taste the quality on her tongue might occasionally be successfully ventured, very occasionally. In this particular emanation she had a tummy ache. As she said, almost never did she suffer from a tummy ache. On the footpath, slightly browned grass behind her, she explained as if to a listener who did not know her thoroughly, that she almost never had a tummy ache. Her hand passed over her midriff to exemplify. Mother was the original iron-guts, a good inheritance to have received. Again, moderation, the Friday fasting — which in the case of the Montenegrin coast-dwellers simply meant no meat or dairy products, which she maintained throughout her life — the simplicity of her food, the plain fare, stood her in good stead. Yet here she was with a tummy ache. And up and about somewhere when perhaps she ought to be resting. Further still, unaccountably, for relief she was asking for a nip of rakija. The resulting bewilderment was raised by it a notch further still. As in the case of the plea to avoid her medication in the last days, she had been declined, sent on her way almost, as if she were one of the street beggars here who have worn out their welcome. She who never ceased giving and striving, who attained such limitless strength and integrity from the power of her self-denial, was this morning turned away and denied.