Overpass (Georgetown) April24

Old Chinese ahma on the walkway near Komtar. There had been a beggar earlier sitting on the floor tiles, hand out and smiling. The ahma was leaning on the wall, greeting in her own way. You get used to impromptu greetings and scrutiny as a foreigner in these parts, no harm done; rather a privilege in fact, unearned of course and against natural justice. (Invariably the assumption was Englishman or American.) Mat salleh, massage. Which was quickly developed with the universal sign—forefinger circled and the other sawing... (For many years Mister Stole's reference back home had not been comprehended. The meaning had been unmistakable, but what was that sharpening? Such and such sharpens.Sharpening…Too difficult to share with the ahma.) The woman ought to have been told clearly, Ma’am, I beg your pardon. Sorry. Some minor confusion above the stream of traffic darting beneath us. Penang Road was...where now? Looking for on-going when of course it should have been on-coming in order to head back home. Short round of the market on the way for more tasty South African apples, small, but crispy was better than sales pitch. At RM1: AU$0.30. Not long after noon. Not so many takers would be enticed by the grannie at that hour, not at fifty a go. She needed to be heard out and nothing discourteous. Penang Road indicated half-heartedly and none too clearly. Print top light jade; slacks cut at the calves. Ostrich egg eye-shadow and black dye, without lippy. The cop-shop was spitting distance. The Chief Minister here no doubt ran a tight ship if the ubiquitous photographs of a surprisingly young man was something to judge. (Post Offices and the like; along with the currently reigning Sultan and his consort/wife.) Nothing to tarnish his town. We were in a Muslim country after all. (Apparently the position in Malaysia was as long as the workers were not Malay, no harm done. Chinese, Indian, kaffirs of whatever stripe was OK.) The most had been made of ahma's possibilities. Sixty-five at a pinch. Puffy, heavy bags showed rough nights. Forty would be OK. The thumb retracted. Down the stairs, first alley on the left. Something had made the poor dear hopeful. Had to be four though; it was good. The other thrown into the bargain in case you didn't know how it went. Faint blush was entirely ignored by the woman. Come, thirty then. The forefinger pulled back with the thumb. Tuesday morning could not have held much hope of better. The room would have been worth a look. Just for a look the ahma would have been happy with thirty, no offence taken, no worries. Thank you, ah! Suit yourself, come again. Small chance the thug springing from behind the door.