On the second visit the three elders gave no sign of acknowledgement. On the approach the youngster had hailed without too long a delay, Teh O kosong.
At one point this afternoon the four had sat a quarter hour at the one table. Not the same as on the first visit between counter and servery, but the one next to it, which was true centre of the tea-house floor. Overhead there the ceiling was lower and a fan turned rapidly. Two other fans turned, one adjacent just barely. A third stood motionless. An electrician had his coil of wire and tool-box on the floor. After finishing the man received his complimentary food and drink and some lively chat from Number One particularly, making for some good laughter.
The foursome had sat together easily; Eldest often with her cheek resting on the stainless lidded pot before her. Fagged out late afternoon, but Elder lent a hand with various tasks, bestirred herself properly when the place more than half-filled, relayed orders to the drinks counter near the back with some strength. At the table Youngest turned her hands over examining her palms. Number Three looked about the shop and Two looked from a half bent position. Later this one too would rest her weary head on the table-top.
Rouged Chief Helper out on the floor was bare-legged this afternoon — in these parts, whether Malay or Chinese, unusual in that generation. The rouge was high on each cheek and underneath on one side a red welt that might have been from cupping. Again Chief Helper's favourite colour tone predominated: thin orange dress and hooped bright red and white long socks almost like footballers' appareil. On her forearms Chief Helper wore mohair maroon sleeve-lets. More than half an hour the Chief Helper swept the floor, around the tables and benches, along the walkway outside the perimeter on both street frontages. Chief Helper too gave no sign of recognition. This was not a good day. A number of times the woman gave speeches to the ladies at the tables and for a good while kept up an audible muttering. There may have been fire-works at lunch-time. Perhaps more than anything that had wearied Number One. None of the sisters looked at Chief Helper, much less responded to anything she uttered. In the second hour of the visit less was forthcoming from her. One could be excused for blowing off steam. The sisters no doubt had it good compared to Chief Helper.
Out beyond the larger housing block half-way up the hill one of the Petronas towers reared up. The sight-line truncated the structure and the begrimed housing block cut a portion one side. Beside it the brother tower was completely lost to view. Later in the evening the glass and steel would candle the tea-house pleasantly. The twinkling lights across these towers made a good part of the effect, but equally the honeycombed shining steel reflecting light from various quarters.
The blackened pots on the stove clearly did not dissuade the regulars here. Over-boiling had done worse than anything for the near one. At one point there were over a dozen customers at the tables: the secret charm on this corner was widely shared. Twice Chief Helper dropped an old wrinkled tin ashtray unbidden on a table. Some men drank beer alone; others with ladies from the office soft drinks. Some tables sat with noodles. Even groups of four or five kept voices low and looked about themselves. Subtly the charm in the shadows radiated from all sides.
Collecting a fifty from a young chap buying cigarettes, Elder raised the note to the light before opening her drawer for the change. The youngest was sent to tables for orders; the elder two didn't serve directly. On this second visit the building was found to be much larger than first realized, three or even four storeys in fact, but also wide and broad. Half a dozen separate shops might sit above. Built forty or fifty years ago after two generations' earlier toil in a less imposing structure no doubt.
An extra fluro was turned on by Number Three when yet another party entered. Number Two had sagged further in her chair. A sudden scraping behind saw her shake herself free and rise. What could they be shovelling back there? Coal for the fire it sounded like. It was an ice-box, standing to one side of the fridge row at the back, stainless with a hooded door that needed to be lifted.
With the encroaching dusk time for lighting the joss sticks. There could be no surprise that the task was left to the Elder. Around the back somewhere she lit a handful and began walking along the perimeter of the building fanning the flame. Heavy footfalls going along slowly the length of the building, around in front and back again, marking off the sanctuary. The Elder must have gone right around the back too in her return leg. She was gone a long while. At the corners she might have stopped and lifted the smoking sticks to her forehead. The shrine and small altar was down at floor level beside the fridge, opposite the ice-box. Short and bent, not a long way down for the Elder. An early turning in for her. Eight o'clock would not come too soon.
The son-in-law's seating suggested years before Number Three he had taken as wife. From his own age that might have been guessed. The wife was taking some food. Earlier Son-in-law had moved to that table from a pair of the others. Elbows propping his head, bare feet up on a chair, almost a whisper for Number Three, his wife. Shortly thereafter clear, positive whispers that were almost mimed from the youngest at the neighbouring table, channelled directly to her cluster. Nothing serious more than likely.
Lost & Found (Four Sisters)
First wrong turn took one into YSL territory, where along the aisle ice-cream rose up in thirty fluro colours. At a vacant eatery a dancing troupe in service livery delivered a hand-clapping, good-time swing number. The aircon had drawn shirts, ties, heels and disproportionate numbers of Westerners.
It could not be too difficult, 150-200m from the elevated line; downhill from the station. That much was clearly recalled.
One-way traffic was promising. Touts for massage places getting warm.
Garish dress-up of cheap labour, opportunism, noise and clamour made the passage a minefield.
Three years later, the last of the past, of customary rule, had more than likely been rooted out of the area.
Ah! Yes. The Royale Bintang, KL. The Four Sisters had sat directly adjacent on the facing corner looking onto those walls.
Could the old girls possibly have held out against all the encroachment and the hellish construction? If investment in Malaysia had dried up and the economy was constricting, it did not look like it in the YSL quarter.
Four Cantonese sisters still in life three years later? The eldest would be mid-eighties. Against the odds.
Yet…What was this, then? One old face, that of the son-in-law, was it? The apron suggested.
Another too. And in behind the tea-stand a third.
Gee. You could get lucky sometimes.
Slowly crossing the stage-set from one side of the room to the other, with what must have been an odd and puzzling smile.
— What you wan? from a customer roughly volunteering aid.
Told it was four sisters that were wanted, the chap was not daunted.
— And what you wan, take them?
Well, that depended on your price, my man.
The Fourth had not yet arrived, reported Elder, the one who perhaps most reminded of Bab.
All three of the older reminded in some way: sureness of manner; the lines of jowls; the prints they wore. In their day too they might have been pretty and caused their father some consternation.
Three present and Youngest evidently in life too, delayed at some home duty, they said.
Bab likewise had three sisters. Thirty odd years after the immigration, only three could be brought together. On the single occasion that was witnessed, the event was negligently observed, casually discounted; received as simple entertainment. There was enough presence of mind only for a photograph, and very little attention.
The fourth, the youngest sister, an unlikely blonde like their father, and more beautiful than Doris Day (doubly unlikely), had stood unrecognised, uncomprehended and positively disbelieved in Bab’s kitchen vitrine along with some other ghostly mysteries. Embarrassing artefacts from some dubious unknown that was best ignored.
Changes were minimal at the Four Sisters on Bukit Bintang—Starry Hill, down to the simple, basic fare on the menu.
A young lad now dished up the mee, without the meat a thin meal of pickled mushrooms and a couple of leaves of green.
The recalcitrant gypsy Fifth of the extended family, with the red bird-cage ear-rings, was missing in action. Replaced now by others. There had been some friction last time.
A series of tables pushed together catered for banquet parties—larger office groups at least, perhaps. The four sisters still had their local fans. A group of 7-Eleven from HQ nearby had come down.
The chilli container surprised. Surely it would have been remembered had it dated back to the first acquaintance. Small plastic screw-top, yet holding a spoon within?
Ah. Glass jar was Part A. For which a cut-off plastic bottle (Part B) formed close-fitting lid.
The corner of one of the Petronas towers, split down the middle, stood as another of the orientations.
It was Bukit Bintang Station under construction opposite—the sky-line here would not be radically altered. The Four Sisters could troop some way further onward yet.
What was keeping No. 4 so long?
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