Triste

The less accomplished Deaf over for Hello and in fact to bid Farewell. Unusually, none of his crew was in attendance that night. An emptiness for the man: two raised hands fingers extended swiveling beneath clown-crumpled chin. Left alone solo in the midst of all the hubbub of the tables at Mr. T. T. and Labu Labi on a Saturday night. Right raised forefinger close to the chest, with a head-shake that makes the middle-aged man's jowls tremble. Oh. Oh, my man. I see. That's no good. Off up the road where perhaps better luck awaits. Go look-see: horizontal forefinger drilling toward the Haig Road stalls. These are the two poles for the old displaced Malay community here: Labu Labi (from a song lyric associated with an old film, basically connoting Yum-Yum) and this Geylang branch of the Mr. Teh Tarik chain (Tea Stretched) at one end. Opposite a mock-up Malay Kampung built in the 60s as the last of the kind were disappearing; Geylang Serai market, not the worst of the architectural blots on this small island adjacent; And then one hundred metres up the road forty or so small keyhole mostly Malay food and drink stalls bound by Haig Road at the end. (Chinese Geylang begins beyond that boundary—beer and karaoke bars, pork and frog porridge eateries and brothels and street girls.) The former Queen Theatre gangster, tough and stand-over man, uncle Enek, in his wheelchair, one leg amputated, retains a commanding corner at Haig Road with numerous old crocodiles fanning round. The ex-cop Yousef has long made his peace with his old adversary there. Yousef is currently returned from Medan, Sumatra, sleeping rough around the Converts, while uncle Enek turns his face toward his feather-down some short distance away in his flat. Evil triumphing over good in this unjust world as usual. Mr. Hussein the kway sweet-seller takes a seat in the smokers' circle opposite the first row of stalls at the Haig. A non-smoker Mr. Hussein as well as non-talker in that round of gabbers finds a place. Middle-aged heavy-bottomed Batam ladies who jolly the old boys trawl between the two poles, down to the lower end where Geylang Road terminates at the market and back up to the Haig intersect. The sixteen storey housing towers ranging behind there at the Haig neatly painted where many of these gals find shelter for their three or four week visits, five or six on the floor, corridor included, $8-10 per diem. Off the Deaf trudges along the inner path, a last lachrymose sign scoring trails beneath his eyes and down his cheeks, baby-face sad. Poor me, poor me. Confreres hopefully not too far distant bon chance.