Solo

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Interesting enquiry from a smiling, well-disposed chap at the adjacent table the other evening deserves noting. It seemed he must have been saying something else first hearing. Leaning closer there could be no doubt.
         With a raised finger to help along the communication, he asked again, repeating with a knotted brow:
         — One person? Forefinger held high.
         One was never alone in the kampungs. Or not for long; not ultimately. Chap could not have been seventy. The whole of his adult life he had lived in a bird-cage and most of his early years too. Malay, but the accent clearly Singaporean. (We find ourselves at Labu Labi again, dear Reader, the site of four or five months study either side of the Malaysian trip. Labu Labi approximates something like Yum-Yum; Finger-lickin'. Stems from a TV serial or popular song. Of little consequence. On the aprons and the hoarding above the entrance a fat-head chef in his tall chef's hat giving the international salute of twirling fingers brought to the corner of lips: Good tucker, take it from me.)
         Like the others, countless times the chap has seen the mat salleh with paper and pen . With better 3G reception in recent times the impressive screen and keyboard, hammering at the L.L. hang-out, where one never sees a Chinese—unless it be BeeChoo joining—let alone a mat salleh. Often the lads stand at elbow watching the crawling ants appear on the screen. Every mat salleh has one of these contraptions. How much? Old model?... That can hardly be. Even pen and paper produces the smile. These people do not need to be told it is they themselves that are the inspiration for this study. Word has gone out here and there of course. But there is little need. Suspicions of a PAP or CIA plant more or less overcome. It may——
         ——The Sabah waiter needed to be urgently summoned. Whistles, pointing, motioning. In the end almost tripped himself up the poor man hurrying over. Looked like trouble. And more than a beetle landed in the teh too.
         — See that man. Footpath. Glasses. (Pointing to own.) See?... Not play dam with him. Carefully. (They often knew the adverb, when for some unknown reason the adjective was avoided.) Five hundred dollars (from memory). Take—Five fingers, thumb rubbing fore- and middle and pointing to the open palm. No play him. Five hundred. FIVE.
         Chap suitably impressed. It seemed to penetrate. The old man was nothing to look at. He knew him vaguely from roundabout, an old pensioner (if he was lucky enough). Never came to any of the tables here. A player and a half that guy. Duly warned.
         No-one sits alone in this little quarter. It is incomprehensible. How many people have asked the same question over these many months? How much incredulity has been produced, as here in this instance? (The fellow can only look and stare. Nod his head pretending to understand.) Of course they themselves stand in the midst of remarkable, unprecedented change that has not yet come full term. Third World to First in thirty years, as the powers that be here like to trumpet at every opportunity.

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