Highest Stealth

Once more the study through the glass of the window. There was telltale glistening over by the rail-tracks on some kind of corrugated sheeting it looked, though that could not be right. Patterned concrete possibly; twilight made it very difficult. Not a sign of anything otherwise on any side, not on Meldrum's orange paving, not the awnings, nor the usual reliable square under the lamplight of the store by the corner. The sky itself was the last place to see anything. Cars going past the servo half-way to the rails were often a good guide—perhaps it was raining fifty metres across there. Again negative, none of the blades going. Overhead the patchy black clouds were certainly dark enough. Not a sound of any kind, not the merest whisper; the light voices as usual from the tables down below. On this occasion the event would be waited out patiently by the window, ears pricked and determined. Not unlike hunting a wild animal in the jungle. Ambush; though in this case one was the wary victim-to-be.... It was finally the play of drops over the strangely transformed rectangle by the rails that showed definite and undeniable two or three minutes before the first hint of percussion, glistening like snail trail; like silver coating catching light. A downpour and one half finally that meant dinner would be delayed and a change of location needed. The lads at Reaz were a bridge too far; it would need to be the hairy-armed Paki at Medina for his garlic nan. (Amusing how the chap seemed struck by the White’s order and evident relish. He had been caught by chance coming down from Masjid India after the Friday prayer almost unrecognizable in his long caftan shift and white cap, stopping hesitantly before the table, uncertain whether he would be acknowledged away from his station. Once again the returned touch to the heart was too slow.) Thief, cheating lover, spy or terrorist could not have accomplished their infiltration with the aplomb of this monsoonal rain.

On the Corner

Woman waiting tables next door owns only the one good pair of tights for work, lurid pink which a darker toned scarf off-sets in some kind of rough harmony. In between the blouse is unimportant with the apron. Thus she carries it off night after night. Rolled up makes it half nine, in for the overnight haul. The hot fluro not a sign she’s putting out by the way: even on Meldrum–Sui Nam corner a modicum of finery is required serving customers. Here the Bangla lad with four years schooling back home explains that he has never had any kind of problem with the Chins, the Malays or anyone else. Nobody. Many in fact do not know his nationality and assume he is Malay. Nice looking skinny boy sporting a recent rust tint he did at home with a RM5.50 sachet from the supermarket. Two years here his accomplished Malay has been added to native Bengali and serviceable Hindi/Urdu. English can be parroted rather than read, but Yasir is well in advance of any of the other foreign workers on that corner and when interpreting is required it is he who is called upon. Fitted in well to his new environment, — Nobody disturb me. The verb too in possession had surprised. Well done lad! Written in caps back of journal syllable by syllable there was need of encouragement and aid, but Yasir does climb that mountain and pleasure found at the summit. Broad grin. Not so hard, hey. A task now to find something appropriate for the lad on the Popular shelves at the mall—not the worst bookshop in creation by the way; possibly print up for him this little sketch of himself and his corner where he will spend the remaining three years of his contract, before returning home for good he hopes if some kind of business there can be engineered. RM1, 000 per month, board & keep provided by the Tamil boss. Six hundred sent to parents and the remainder sufficient for new tees from the bargain tables at the mall, phone and ciggies. Yasir reminded of the simple mnemonic for Bengali Thanks: Dunno vat — Oz-Germanic intonation. Nineteen. 

Goddess (Nilla)

The name came back after a few minutes. Names of streets, locales, restaurants always seemed a little preposterous, put-ons and layovers, someone's bright idea we were asked to take seriously and carry away with us on somebody or others' say-so. Rarely did such have any true, deeper meaning. Why would you bother with them? Get on with what you were doing whatever that may be. Nevertheless, after a few minutes Nilla came back more or less of her own accord. One assumed female, by no means confidently. In foreign cultures you were lost with gender forms, among much else. We made Nilla a goddess, one of the three hundred million in the Hindu pantheon was it? Hard to go wrong. Average teh and wait on the meal, ten minutes the waiter said, closer fifteen. Never mind, even with the pain in the foot not properly elevated. Near half four, high time the cheaper thosais were available. Down in Singapore they did the same: during the lunch hour, 11 - 3, the thosais and chapattis were off—customers steered toward the pricier heavy glutinous processed rice with your choice of veg. Without breakfast and gone mid-afternoon, the rawa masala thosai had been fixed upon since noon. It was yummy at Nilla, the potato insert mixed with crunchy green peppers and three thick sambal. Go for it Boss!... First time their teh halia sampled. Not so crash hot: thin, little ginger evident and lukewarm. What to do?... Fatties over-represented piling in. Not an attractive display when eating with the fingers meant presenting the platter-tongue. Ah! the elegance of the French and English with their shiny cutlery — an art installation of sorts. Little wonder the Indians often avoided direct sight-lines with foreigners when they were hoeing in. Girls, guys, mums and dads with big bums, bellies and thighs; staggering, rocky gaits. By reports, pre-Donald they would have fitted in well in the States. Some of these young lads on the floor would positively favour the big-size gals: not a sign of any kind of distaste or indifference and quite the contrary. As in Africa, the sign of health/wealth encoded somehow affirmatively. Made one think these girls could really turn it on, never mind flab and folds. Shake it baby! Then their mothers and sisters factoring. These boys were all for it; thin anorexics were marked low. Great deal of easy sweet pleasantry from the waiters bending at their tables. Horrid alum. chairs, easy wiping and moving the diners. Like the Malays, there was no long sitting-on after a meal holding conversation. Conversation took place elsewhere; there was little time or need for it; much of it seemed in passing and casual. Uncomfortable. Prone to sliding, the chairs required upright posture. Pain. Interesting Oz nomadic miners item on ABC online earlier. Finally, after many years of fruitless prospecting across the Outback wastes, this couple struck big time big nugget. Shiny rock worth big bucks enabled them to buy a house, car, travel properly, gift their friends. Some time later, some few years, regret arrived that the pair had not endowed their children better. It had been a conscious decision from fear of spoiling. Interesting. Understandable both sides of the equation. Bushies done it hard all their lives; a terrible thing to transmit shallowness and complacency; ruin a being. Yet, then again. Infection almost certainly in the foot. That was what was causing the recent blisters when one thought one was out of the woods; odour too. Recalling the old guys out on the street, the one in particular with the swollen red feet sleeping on shop ledges against the shutters, through the day getting some comfort from the slope on little used stairs. The Rudy Valentino hair with the wave over forehead threatening to dump on the rider any sec. Wow! When was that last seen? Rockers and bikers in over-sized studded leather jackets at the top end of Mason Street Newport, near the station and the two pubs either side. Lottsa their compatriot barbers highly skilled, confident and assured like any elsewhere wielding cut-throats and sharp scissors. They would all have their particular faves of course who knew just how they liked it. Sometimes the lad with that style would blow a snort of air by nostrils and over forehead to feel it riffle the plume. Rarely did the foreign workers carry the elaborate dyes, the russet and honey highlights like the Bollywood lad at Muthu. A regular looker like him happily paid. Horrid furniture, fittings and finishing, all entirely overcome, overthrown, cast into insignificance by the people here and not only the staff;  though grounded so firmly and securely of course back in their homeland, the waiters were inevitably the front-runners. The diaspora here, young ones in particular, receive the unconscious echoes and elaborations of familiar patterning served by these distant cousins. Fluro lights on white wall tiles, gas bottle two metres from the table by the appom stand, bulky aircon unit in the front against the window, exposed wiring and racket in the cavern-like dual chambers, all overthrown. White shirt floor manager swanning a moment ago through the blue caps and polos with a platter for a front table. Everywhere warm, free glimpses among the lads, between themselves and the clientele, many regulars no doubt. Back in the day in for a late supper draped with his fox fur after a performance, Rudy Nureyev would have found a way with the young Valentino in the back squat toilets—Ruskis we used to call them in Titoist Yugoslavia.

NB. Nilla was third consort of Lord Vishnu

VD Klinik Deja Vu

St. Nikola it dawns. Yes, the 19^th. The Saint of travelers and something else. Sveti Nikola Putnik look over you from Bab for even short little outings. In the Balkans, down in Boka, it remains well short of dawn. Those holding the feast have been preparing weeks ahead. Comfortable enough in the aircon and front seat with leg room. God knows whether Doc’s arrived and the show rolling. Hour and half wait best guess for No. 5 on the appointment list, pre-booked the day previous. Overnight bad bad itch in another blister sprouting down nearer the heel, scratching resisted somehow for the 1 ½ hour torment. (The literature suggests it spreads the infection.) Five hours and another late added overnight. Dozen plus in the seats listening to the comedy skit with the receptionist over the “Marital Status.” You not married? You not married?  You not married? through the circle in her perspex. Third confirmation TIDAH in a snorted laugh spread merriment through the audience. Refrained from questioning her interest; the incredulity was clear. Newspaper trash here as always, under 10 mins. Quite enough for it today. The Skin sign out front not obsolete: here was a young schoolboy with his mother adjacent wearing some kind of facial rash that the former wants Boy to display for Uncle. There had been verification of the date on one of the Serbian sites a few days before. Jolly glad the visuals demonstrate to all and sundry in the room that the mat salleh isn’t here because he has been screwing the locals, the lasses down along the road for example. Noooo Siree! Weeks now the Klinik had been passed without the signage transmitting. It looked a sorry nook indeed; now you were yourself in need. Couple days prior at the first reconnoiter the added VD specialization in the practice was observed on the door. Ah! Well sited here. One could have played the guessing game in the room, but not from the front row. Guy come up with his young wife, possibly a No. 2. Not likely he was going to allow any kind of examination behind these partition walls without his presence. Thankfully the TV off, out of order perhaps. Large display of acne cases with black strips covering the eyes of the pitiful victims. How long could the leg be kept crossed like this?... In fact only a dozen in the ranks behind. 14 suddenly flashing along with the buzzer. Hey! What about us?... Aduh! Precisely as anticipated. Shortly thereafter orderly sequence again, a semblance of order returned. That’s better. Three quarts of an hour later No. 1 had been seen and sent on her way. Doc rocked up late no hurry to enter his surgery, you couldn’t blame him. Well, what kind of scene awaited? Will the fellow be smoking at his desk like old Dr. Clarke in the old days? Calendar on the wall, collar beneath dustcoat. Patients would not buy without the white coat. A tie? Perhaps for an Indian rising above the blood, the sweat and the fetid infections. Not a little unpleasant either having to sing out to the girl earlier the age too; holding the passport in her hand there could be no fudging. That was a first, sounding out that damnable diseased number, owning it. Preposterous. She was honour bound to ask of course, no room for complaint. Grrrh. RM100-120 best guess, all worth it if pristine condition returned and pain relief two days later. Antibiots and cream for the pustules and blisters. Out, out damn spots!

Snow-Drift (Equatorial)

Foot-slog of the second mall at City Square after lunch. Trousers, Lee jeans, various casual wear. One or two roomy possibilities found in the midst of all the tight skinny-legged whatnot. Sore with the slow recovery from this darn tinea and then the milling shoppers. Such numbers of extended Chinese families gliding through the aisles, strings of 7 - 8 like fish in a pond. Men emerging from change rooms in their white polos slashed with red and royal blue crests pulling at collars and needing the advice of mothers and wives. Cripes!... School hols. and Chrissy creeping on snow-drift quiet. Numerous fagged out shags on rocks waiting on couches. In one of the up-market stores—but then they were all up-market above the dirty street and canal—a plush apple-red Chesterfield chair held a shrunken Asian princess bargain hunter reminiscent of the skit in the Two Ronnies when little Corbert delivered one of his set routines. Polished tiles, bright colours, soaps, deodorants & perfumes. The species perfectly adapted to the environment, cruising like ice-skaters, even older heads who might have known better. Many were the recent generation of newly minted Singaporean of course crossed over for the plummeting ringgit. Poor Bangla lad coming down an escalator held his mop over the fixed stainless panel against the perspex like he was taught by the supervisor: tight, firm and applying pressure top of handle. The lad’s compatriots at the exits were dressed in fatigues almost and crowned with reddy-orange berets in some kind of compromise between security and couture. All of which almost entirely without looking, head down-nose clean, barely a single instance of eye contact. Flooding images overpowering regardless. In Malaysia mind, where on the streets of the provinces at least a social whirl of acknowledgements, greetings, abrupt enquiries after your nativity, smiles for miles and miles. The micro-climate of the mall on a Monday afternoon almost a fortnight to Christmas, sharia law about to be promulgated in one or two states to the north, flooding in various regions, the political class braving a torrent of accusation, mass weddings (one involving a fifteen year old and later in the week another national suicide bomber in Syria—thirty-eight thus far). Earlier in the morning a substantial procession of foreign workers almost to a man waving make-shift green flags down the middle of Trus toward Masjid India. Maulid, the Prophet's birthday, which in these parts really does seem to occur at least two or three times a year. And why had the author subjected himself to the trial, pray tell? Slogging through the mall?... Well, it does not befit one of the White race with Arts bureaucrats to engage shortly and then Immigration officials, to go about in what the old Australians would term "the arse hanging outta his pants." A dirty great tear in the seat of the outdoor clobber not a year old, purchased in the happy isle to the South. (Not the first shoddy product bought from Campers beside the Church of St. Peter and St. Paul on Queen Street.)

Flocking

Late afternoon light over the rail-line that sits in a little cavern surrounded by ten, twenty and thirty storey buildings. Buses with their horns queueing for the terminal beyond. The last forty-eight hours confined to the room and the window for outlook, when suddenly the larger confinement struck with some sharpness. Three times a large flock of dark birds had wheeled over in formation from the south, the water-side; two passes in-close and the third a hundred and more metres high. Dotted cloud swarms with undulating narrow wings diving and surging over this massed concrete. How long it had been! In the last week the realization had come that there were no seagulls on the shores of the equator. Were these then the pigeons that the hole-in-the-wall Indian store-keepers fed around the corner from Muthu? Middle-class children in Singapore possibly come to witness such events on holidays in foreign parts. There were certainly pigeons in the southern republic, they were poisoned regularly by the Enviro. men. Too large for starlings these here.

Bob and a Sweet Tamil Song

Bob winning the big one few weeks back—awarded just the other day in Stockholm in absentia—generated some discussion with friends down in the Great Southern Land. One lad had memorably breathed Bob’s air in an elevator in the Hilton hotel on one of his tours Downunder, the number of floors traveled in the august company forgotten now.

— But you didn’t say anything George? What! Not even Hallo, welcome to Melbourne….

(No intention to big-note, but this Scribe did manage a gallantry for Kiri Te Kanawa on the steps of the State Library in Melbourne following a choir of Maori voices within inaugurating a touring exhibition of artefacts at the then shared Museum. How much more glorious that had been than any formal recitation!)

…. Literature?/Not literature? Electric/Golden/Acoustic &etc. 

Coming after the depths of Alexievich made it rather hard to swallow for a hard-bitten Lit. man resistant to all forms of industrial production.

Anyhow, after a review recently the following rescued from the Draft file:

….Yeah, well, i got a fave current too, great little Tamil thing carrying awesome beat. After 4-5 weeks of it coming on fr the music store a few doors from my Indian brekkie place, i'm totally hooked. Knew it was love of one sort or another, sort of. Youtube suggests gal keeps a fave laying hen that the boy pretend-steals possibly. There might be a loud rooster of hers too keeping him awake that she hasta Shushhhh!... No movie sequence. In this case stills from the movie are dealt like cards that follow the wonderful beat: Bam Bam, Bam. Flick, Flick, Flick. She keeps the birds in a tall segmented cage with a thatched roof. Finger-crossing lips, — Shush. Her brand of hair oil—probably neem organic—gives wonderful lustre. (After quite a few years combing through the Indian stores there has been some insight attained.) Delightful unadorned beauty otherwise. When we were young pretenders a cousin in Montenegro had memorably dismissed such gals as seljacka ljepota, village beauties. Well, we know better now. This one even Donald in his younger days in the back-lot might not have grabbed by the pussy. Ah! The mustachioed lad here was made for her. You could see the fine character in both simply from the stills. No wife-beating, drinking and probably no unfaithfulness either in store for this union. Old Babi used to say of a particularly good, capable wife, Napravila covjeka, Made a man of him. If you beg me I'll give you the title. Attracted 2mil+ hits by the way. Beaut stuff.

NB. Titled Ei suhali. Give it a spin

A Great Teacher

A Guardian excerpt of Alexievich from her Chernobyl book from last year after her win rather disappointing. The reader landing on that would wonder what all the fuss was about. Plain, mildly touching personal testimony from a few "polyphonic" voices in brief fragments without any grip. It was nothing like the soaring other excerpted by the NYRB earlier this year.
         Gone 7pm. Unavoidable little 20 minute snooze a couple of hours ago after writing and reading.
         — Bome platit cu ja to!...
         Her voice returning with the characteristic phrase. By the Lord I'll be paying for that.
         A wave of her undemonstrative, deep love radiating from it.
        Nearly ten years after her death Bab's legendary holding herself to account suggested her great capacities and dimensions.
         A snooze in the middle of the day would certainly be paid for in the night. Sometimes a night could be longer than a gladna godina, a year of famine.
         There had never been such an expression as Volim te, I love you.
         It had been strange on the first visit to Boka hearing all the love songs on the radios and cassette players in the houses of the younger generation.
         Volim te duso draga, I love you my soul.... Jedina moja, My one and only….
         Once Bab had complained rather startlingly, only once, — Nikad me i njesi voleo. You never did love me.
         Of course in the last years if not before, if ever there was any doubt, the falsity of that charge was made abundantly clear to her.
         All thanks here to our dear neighbour Dragica too. Without Drage's example one might never have kissed mother’s hands, the snowy top of her head, perhaps not even her cheeks. Drage was the great teacher. In childhood we had an old spinster neighbour we called Teta zlato moje, behind her back. Auntie my gold—in the sense of fortune. The old widow had adult children of her own, but when a child came within her orbit they were blessed with  her fine, expressive loving and given one of her cookies. That dear lady’s way was not our own. At home in the last years we secretly mock-cherished Dragica's magnificent tenderness too.
         Along with dozens of other emigrants, mostly from our own community, Bab had minded Drage's two young children, Nada and Sasha. Drage might have been the first of the newer immigrants to call Bab “mother”. The strange occasion registered of course most particularly. Most of the others respectfully called Bab Tete, Auntie, the standard.
         Pitying Dragica in her financial struggles, Bab would wrap her child-minding fees in little Sasha's nappies for Dragica to later discover at home.
         Drage from a village in Southern Serbia in the vicinity of Vranje, where they taught her beautiful ways of affection. (Like Babi too, Drage was a terrible scold—a lazy-bones husband, children careless with school-work, relatives slipping in proper conduct all fell victim. But that for another episode.)

Obs.

The Paki from behind his pillar furtively observing the meal being consumed. Cool nights his clay oven offers some welcome warmth—even here in the tropics, spitting distance from the equator, believe it or not. (Damp mid December, grey skies like over the cricket fields in England.) White guy, journalist or writer something or other taking bread from his hands; taking his finely diced shallots into his mouth with his fingers. Never tiring of the fare, invariably the same order night after night. There was a McDonalds in the near mall and KFC the one over the canal, queues at both, weekends in particular. Yet this chap preferred the bread he had shaped from his dough, raw onion and two plain sambal. Staying at one of the hotels nearby not short of a shekel; knew some Hindi. Early on picked him as a Paki and took his plate and glass out back before paying. Strange bird. (Difficult to counteract the drones of course for all             
     
                                                                                         Johor Bahru, Malaysia Dec2016

Athlete’s Foot

Shaving naked at the basin in front of the mirror towel draped in the classic way you inevitably gather some movie star glitter-shiver. Ah me! Well, well.... In order to stop the blood flow into the swollen toes of the right, up onto the toilet lid with you peg-leg. Top of the cistern would be better but too much of a stretch. With two-part shaving regime it made it all easier—gargling the mouthwash you did the sideys and corner of the cheeks, jaw-bone, edge of the neck. But no need that trifle. Catching in the mirror the bodily sway made by the passes of the blade in the main-sail one recalled the magnificent Polynesian sailors of old out on their communal fishing expeditions, or else traversing the vast salty stretch between the islands bride-hunting perchance. Their trusty, reliable navigation tool lowered into the cool rushing water judging tide and current to a nicety. Unsurpassable mastery of their watery world without destroying the whole box and dice. Ah! some little unexpected pleasure. Scraping the lather this morn after a fair night's sleep, the flame of the fungus waking only the once.

Winning the Lottery

A pillow-hawker with a fold-out chair now carried over his shoulder arm through the rails. Where in the heck had he been trying up that end toward the Checkpoint? And in his wake almost immediately after the newly released Lottery numbers hitting the street, chaps running around with their limp sheaves folded over their hands. There was a limit of some kind to their usefulness, the first couple of hours after the draw for all these people without access to the Net. Interesting. One of the hawkers doubled back here to deposit his large pillow in the rear of the little canary yellow motor parked on the corner (like the Roma in Europe, the runners have back-up from the operators). Woman from a few nights ago out again with her sheets on the same corner. From memory up in KL three or four years ago they charged 20 sens for early release of the numbers. (Later the girl at Reception revealed they were 50 sens currently.) Young Indian on the phone searching for the particular coin in the dark to give the woman. The old Bersih sympathiser rounding back from his supper on Meldrum stops to chat and takes one from her. Each night during the candle-lit vigils for Maria, the Bersih leader, kept a week or ten days in solitary, the group had gathered at various locations after being moved on by the police. (In advance of Bersih 5 the local Sultan here had forbade any public agitation against a duly elected government on his patch, democratic principles and all that.) Each night the old man—Peranakan Chinese-Malay—had come out to stand opposite the gathering giving his cautious, tacit support. The raja filling their pockets; nothing for the rakyat, the old man had explained in whispers. Another regular leaflet man in this quarter quick-stepping past, in his case killing two birds collecting aluminum cans same time in a large plastic bag.

Ibrahim and Ismail - published by Antigonish Review

Fifty or sixty sheep waiting within the muddy pen that had been improvised against the front fence of the Madrassa. They had arrived late last week, the Qantas flights resumed just in time. The sheep had come from Adelaide; the cheaper goats Perth. Soon after nine an expectant crowd had gathered. Near the side fence a plastic bucket of knives; plastic sheeting spread on the opposite side. The arrangement was clear. Hoses, large plastic bags and boxes, more knives on tables. Above what looked like a pit near the bucket a couple of rails had been laid—in fact it was a drain. The blood would not be collected; that was another kind of practice in northern climates. Two thirds of the meat was usually reserved for the poor, of whom as yet there was no sign. The slaughter was due to begin after the second prayer.

         There was no announcement, no officialdom or muezzin call. The burly young chap who had waited within the pen with the animals made the first move, taking down a sheep by the rear legs. Once the animal was on its side a helper grabbed the fore. It took a short while to unbar the improvised side gate. Three or four more animals were soon waiting in line, held down and quiet.
         The slaughtermen were older hands, unremarkable in the common dress. From an almost vertical position the long blade came down, a prompt and what seemed neat slit following the plunge. Almost like a hot knife in butter: the blade was very sharp. After a number of animals had been done a chap with a whetstone re-sharpened. Behind, the twitching of the animal's tail lagged a little after the knife. It was only almost an hour later and a score of beasts that the twitching on the pallets before the butchers was noticed. This was a shock. It was possible the second slaughterman was responsible for that; somehow he seemed less accomplished.
         The blood from the knife was wiped on the sheep each time, one side of the blade carefully after the other. It was an integral part of the proceeding. Each time the slaughterman did the same, the second man like the one before him. The remaining blood was washed from the blade by cupping water from another bucket; between times the rails were hosed. The ground throughout the forecourt of the Madrassa was muddy from the rain of past days. Adding further water would only have made the job more difficult.
         A group of men beside the drain raised prayers as the knife came down on each animal, singing a short, plaintive couple of verses that included the acknowledgement of God's greatness. 
         — Allahu Akbar. Allahu Akbar.
         The voices were thin and minor key the same as the rest of the scene from one end of the forecourt to the other. It was very much a Brueghel canvas. In front of the chorus as if supervising a young woman stood with a sheet of paper. She had not been present from the beginning; the choir itself might not have been present initially. Various young men helped inside the pen and young boys of ten given a turn too, their laughter and high spirits allowed. After a number of animals had been skinned on the other side a chap produced an electric saw and proceeded to dismember with that. Three or four animals were hung at a time. On a table near the fence on the side of the butchering a man cleaned animal heads. Everyone knew their task without any kind of order or system apparent. This was a practiced communal event far from industrial slaughter.
         After something like a score of animals had been done, the first slaughterman was relieved. The second around the same age, somewhere in his early sixties, wore a black songkok. Once or twice his blade came down a second time after what must have been an imperfect cut of the jugular. At one point there was a clear spout of blood that shot well outside the drain. Possibly the impression of lesser surety was mistaken.
         The relieving of duty was unexpected. Was it the bending that had tired the first slaughterman so quickly? His role was confined to the knife only. The rails were sometimes hosed by him, sometimes by a bystander. So efficiently had the man worked the assumption had been that he might do the entire pen. When he was relieved more than half the animals remained. Somehow the second slaughterman broke the earlier smooth rhythm.
         In the contemporary Christian tradition it is the lamb of the manger that is remembered, if at all. For Jesus the shepherd there is the lamb and the flock—standing for the gentle meekness that has erased the radicalism of the prophet (as Christ is acknowledged in Islam). Abraham and Isaac have been long forgotten in the contemporary Western consciousness. In pockets of the U.S. it might be different.
         A significant number of applicants here were disappointed in not winning a place in the Saudi quota for the hajj. Some who cannot attend pay for an animal to be slaughtered in Mecca on their behalf. Prices of livestock have risen this year because of weather factors. The Straits Times reported $443 per head of Australian sheep and $395 goat — transport inclusive.

                                                                                                Geylang, Singapore 2011

NB. Published in Canada by The Antigonish Review, No. 187

On the Crawl

Like the blind, from your sick bed you listen out more carefully and strain for the doings of the street. This rapid chopping-board dicing was a first, definitely not heard here before. According to the online advice, right now some garlic between the affected toes would be useful to combat this athlete's foot fungus. With a little more of the language the woman below might have been hailed from the window to bring some up. Tomorrow you have to drag yourself down to the mall for a number of purchases: cotton socks, a pair of sandals with a toe-strap only (not the band across), more tea tree oil, one of the recommended creams and a plaster for the other foot where a couple of days wear of these rotten plastic sandals the hotel provides raised a blister. (Like having your feet in the campfire, the medico online diagnosing the condition with a little sadistic touch.) The Paki nan-maker at what was once called Restoran Medina is only thirty metres away; anything further today could not have been ventured. Usually the only the kitchen sounds carried up here on the third floor was the steel spatula hammering in the wok. Caterwauling late nights sometimes; a couple of bedraggled crows roost in the frangipani opposite cawing. This morning going out for a late breakfast a Viet woman had suddenly set off at a run down the adjacent lane, as she passed the Tamil from the news-stand calling out, Sini, sini — Here, here. Ignored by her. A few moments later a young burly guy set off after the woman and in his wake an older fellow with a look of the main man about him. Off he paced in the same direction more or less leisurely, but face hard-set. Somewhere out of sight the heavily made-up woman in the get-up was in for it. At the eatery tables opposite a couple dozen of this woman's compatriots sit at the tables daily entertaining the old local Chinese uncles. Not easy to swallow day after day passing, though apart from a cat-fight involving a pair a couple of weeks ago the whole affair here runs smooth. Two or three times a week the place directly opposite behind the frangipani cranks up the happy days Indon numbers well past the dead of night. One hundred metres off sits a large police base, which means there are only rare disturbances in the quarter. Singapore spitting distance off, its housing towers visible at any of the passes toward the canal. The old Havana chomping uncle on the corner of the lane out back looks into the neighbour's heart all through the long day, with nary any kind of longing or disappointment one can most certainly tell. For the first month the man was selling luku at RM5 a kilo, delivered by a relative still out in the kampung one guesses. Perfectly content chap on his perch, friendly and always ready with greeting. Now the durians have arrived and the uncle sits confidently beside that king of fruits from early morning until the shadows of late afternoon, always a band of pals joining with whom to shoot the breeze. None of these men cast longing looks toward the shiny tall towers beyond sighing. They can have it, the men would tell you if the bridge of language allowed. Younger Tamil lads breakfasting at Muthu this morning had the neighbouring isle under examination. Stress, stress they reiterated in English. (That particular term of course does not exist in their mother tongue.) The Bollywood waiter at Muthu with the rusty highlights maintained from Devali a few weeks ago suggested something similar explaining his lack of interest in the money lure over the water. I no like machine, he said. Only working, working. There were no gulls in the tropics and certainly few birds of the air in the cities: sometimes the crows calling over what one knows is near-by water deceive. Slamming shutters in the last half for seven, the dark soon to gather, a narrow prospect opposite over the rusted rails. With the tee showing the Arabic script from the Islamic Museum in KL and a word or two of Urdu, some small confidence has been established with the Paki.

Pillows & Blankets

Gone half ten after a circuit for the newspaper. Two 7-Elevens and two street stalls had turned up nada. The reliable fifth stop was up on Jalan Trus opposite the Johor Bahru Old Chinese Temple. Was the New Straits Times a touch better or more comprehensive than The Star? Golly the factory product produced at politico HQ! Could Pravda ever have been as bad? Politika in middle-late Yugoslavia seemed quite a few notches above in the 1980s while there still remained some belief in the federation. This morning it was worth the trek for the coverage of Maria's release from prison, the leader of the opposition demonstrations ten days kept in solitary. Front page was a tinge of yellow, the protest colour, but within that cloud a smiling PM resplendent in red polka dot tie and matching handkerchief in the breast-coat pocket.  En route two trash fossickers, one on Jalan Wong Ah Fook and the other out front of Muthu, both surprising by the passable attire they wore. Such chaps no longer make one wince each and every time, not necessarily. More than all the others, more than the cripples, the dark foreign salt-mine labourers and the trafficked trannies, in recent weeks the ones afflicting the mind most strongly on these streets of the old town were the Paki and Bangla pillow-hawkers carting their colourful product round and round. Good quality over-stuffed articles wrapped in plastic in each hand and hanging from straps on their backs. At the cool, wet end of year the men had been laden with floor mattresses, blankets and bed-sheets of the same bright colours and design. Last night one of the bearded chaps had stopped to chat to a working girl under the columns on Ah Fook, recognizing a compatriot possibly, or else trying his miserable luck.
            .... Spoke too soon too. After breakfast and the newspaper a poor blighted old girl missing her two front teeth came jigging along the pavement to the song blaring from the store up from Muthu. A long white fabric that might have served overnight as a blanket she had draped over her poor stricken head. The dress of chocolate embroidered with gold trim recalled better days. In mismatched flip-flops standing in front of the Restoran mouthing into the street, rocking and swaying. Did she actually have the coin to pay for the sachet of milk at Muthu, or was it provided by the lads?
            Ten minutes later Yick's security guard jumping up to move the witches-hats for the late arriving Merc at Warna altars raised the stakes further still. In forty-five days of breakfasts there opposite that ponce in his chariot has not alighted and dirtied his own fingers even once.

The Kambodja

Nearing half three after lunch back at the Teahouse where a good option has been discovered at Razali's stall—pre-packed mee noodles with a couple of veg. perfectly satisfying. There are now five or six alternatives at different places here in the old town, even Reaz offering vegetable briyani as a good alternative to their thick, oily nan. As usual too the appetite returned after lunch for another review of last night's revisions and the morning print. Truly the matter is an appetite: sometimes looking again at the work for the fifth or sixth time in a 24 hour cycle just cannot be stomached. Making the first journal note of the afternoon the kambodja happened to deposit a large, only partly yellowed leaf directly onto the shoe almost. Plop! audibly onto the old mottled concrete path under the Teahouse veranda where a familiar rusted drain-cover reminded of the one at Bab's outside her laundry window. On the raised concrete basin there over the drain Bab would wash the potato and greens from her garden for supper, catching the dirty water in one of her troughs and back into the garden. It had taken over forty years to identify the tree Malouf and the other Queensland writers of a generation past had delivered to the literary world down in the great Southern land: the handsome kambodja or frangipani, originating in fact from the other side of the world entirely in Mexico. Couple of sparrows here on adjacent branches that appeared from the ground as brittle as our backyard walnut; pendant dead flowers in November with small new blossoms of the coming season. The thickset new Indon waitress clearing the table pauses for a message on her phone that she carries against her cheek tucked inside her tight brown scarf. Something of some concern by the looks. Opposite at the popular bakery disappointed customers from Singapore who had been unaware of the half-day Sunday trade. On the other side the Fruiterer was awaiting the sale of the last of his goods, around a dozen various cuts in their plastic sleeves prepared at home by his wife. Another RM20 if the Fruiterer was lucky. Sundays were always a good trade.

Consumption

Almost six weeks in Johor Bahru the count of soaps surprises: 2 small cakes of camphor bought from the store on Jalan Wong Ah Fook opposite the canal (RM1.50); one turmeric & agar from an Indian store on Jl. Trus (RM5.19) and thus far two small lozenges of coffee from the night-market. (One initial purchase of the latter and three subsequently discounted — RM7 & 15.) The heat in the bathroom across the day progressively softening and melting possibly; the little bugs feasting on the sugar content the other possibility. Wonderfully fragrant all; the first used for hand and clothes-washing and shaving. One large tube of Dentobac NEEM toothpaste recommended for tartar control almost finished, with another waiting on the high ledge of the bathroom. Two and one half Listerine neon-blue tartar control 250ml flasks; perhaps 7 - 8 cold-pressed pomegranate vials from the night-market (RM15 two nights' usage); and four 120gm Yemeni honey jars (morning and nightly teaspoons). (The Singaporean regime of apple cider vinegar has been omitted for want of the product—only found now at a medical supplies on Trus opposite the temple.) Forty either pongal or uppuma breakfasts at Muthu, excepting unavailability during Deepavali and the once or twice run-out after late arrival. Lunches have been mostly taken at Razali's stall at the teahouse opposite the bakery where a range of fish and 2 - 3 veg. RM7 – 9. Fruit to top off ciku & papaya usually. Supper alternates a few places in order to limit the nan in-take — Reaz chiefly and then the nameless mamak place on Meldrum - Siu Nam corner where the hairy-armed Lohorean does his thinner with mint dip side. The two 50ml Dettol should be added and perhaps half the part-spilt 320ml treating a painfully inflamed blister of some kind on the sole of the foot that has developed into what is perhaps a boil on the third toe. A fortnight now with antiseptic cream (25gm) recalls tales of Babi's father crudely operating on his daughter's heels and Uncle George's late-onset gout. Lattes every second day at Maco mostly beside the bakery RM9.90 and perhaps 3 - 4 small-pack banana cakes bought from the latter largely in an attempt to gift the Indon crew at the teahouse, where finally the sleepy-head Sumatran is accepting both fruit & cake (RM5.80). The New Straits Times (RM1.50) usually from the trannie at the convenience store a few doors from the hotel, as it is difficult to find at the Indian vendors; otherwise the Star. Forty days reading and scanning one continues to marvel at the half-baked propaganda hashed page after page shamelessly trying one angle after another. Blunt bludgeoning that demonstrates how far the outer rings of hangers-on extend in kleptocracies. Perhaps three gel pens, which emptied of ink and left at eatery tables cause Indian lads to run after the writer. (RM3.20 the better class.) With the original Mark I ipad barely functioning and battery running down in little over three hours, the purchase of an Energizer portable charger from the Apple store at Machines, City Square (RM299). Malfunctioning within a week in fact and only today returned from KL. Still awaiting a graphic artist/designer to recast the MS of Southernmost Point: Jalan-Jalan Johor Bahru. A map is to be added to the end pages, captioned photographs gathered and finally a Cast of Characters in order to fit a format the ThinkCity people intend to use for further writings about this town. (This after meticulous page lay-out with Steve Black the photographer.)

NB. At time of writing $AUS1 : RM3.23

Three Recent Publications: Canada & India

Earlier in the month a short piece of mine from 2011 in Singapore titled “Ibrahim and Ismail” was published in Canada by The Antigonish Review (No. 187), a quarterly literary journal issued by St. Francis Xavier University, Nova Scotia. It may have curled their hair a bit up in the far north that one.
Digital copies are available at Kobobooks.com — $US8 for anyone interested; hard copy mail-out otherwise. (After a decent interval I will post it here on the blog.)

In late September an Indian journal where my work has appeared previously published another piece, titled “Dessert (Payasam)”  — a short masquerading as a food item and placed on the site in the Non-fiction & also Travel files. The Literary Yard is a N. Delhi-based free online journal

One more too appeared in August: titled “Southernmost Point”, published by Contemporary Literary Review India, Vol. 3 No. 3, downloadable pdf file available online

Salam and shanti to all

Pavle

No Offence Taken

A kind of non sequitur this, although nothing had been said to the lass in passing. Merely as our eyes met she unexpectedly threw out, — That man has a big cock!

         Smiling, rising lilt in the voice like a girl (a real girl) much younger than herself might have made to mummy at a fairground. ("Willy" substituted perhaps.)
         An old Montenegrin would have deadpanned: — Jesam li te ja sto pitao? Did I ask anything of you?...
         Caught by surprise of course. An innocent, hapless victim of one knew not what. They didn’t do better on the stage; old-style vaudeville perhaps.
         One had to laugh. Twice it may have been and after an attempted stifling; which meant with the road noise the lass was unlikely to have heard.
         — My dear, do you suppose that is of any interest for myself? Englishman faking it….
         An odd kind of stud in this case too one must say, certainly to have raised such evident enthusiasm. In passing there had been a glimpse of an odd young chap loitering on the inner footpath. Almost certainly the woman meant the dork in the shorts, sandals and non-descript tee who looked a mite touched.

         Loose mouth, bent head and mussed hair. A couple of lasses had gathered close. Certainly fellow didn't look like he would have any money in his pocket. (Assuming the briefs were equipped.)
         Did these chromosomally conflicted ladies truly do favours for well-hung chappies, as some of the folklore suggested? The testosterone run wildly in that direction?

         Some men of course did find ridgey-didge textbook ladies rather dull and uninteresting by comparison with these spirited, high-strung gals. And it did seem to be the Indians in particular who had the knowledge. The Indian lads were always disproportionately represented along Wong Ah Fook there evenings, no shame about frankly admiring.
         Now, by making the remark, conveying her appreciation and relish, was the gal here attempting to insinuate herself in fact? self-promoting? That is, in addressing a white guy the lady hinting her anticipation of a certain likely parity and giving to understand there was delight ready to flow from that?

         Declaring such keen interest there was a definite inference to be deducted that could only run in the lady's favour touting for some business?
         Why in the heck otherwise would the woman offer such information? Purely a case of a lady’s enthusiasm bubbling over, the exclamation just happening fortuitously to be directed at your person passing at that juncture?

         These girls had a range of seductive come-ons, sneaky and adept. Genet of course had written startling prose on the subject.
         Not the prettiest on the street this lass, tall, stout and round-shouldered; she was forced to other strategies. Some were quite beautiful and naturally so: there would be no surgeries or expensive enhancement at this street-level in such a town. Thais or Filipino/as almost certainly. (The matter of trafficking only occurred later.) 

         A number of older veterans who did not enter the fray usually sat at the first table within the lane. One of the seniors, a Chinese still in good trim, spruiked for the youngsters.

         Another fixture at that place—wholly male in his case—always hovered nearby and dropped his eyes when observed. Living on the earnings.
         One could only thank the girls, smile and lightly break the hold on the arm. After a number of weeks now they were hardly putting out at all for the panama. The bright-eyed girl that night was new.

Baby Among the Reeds

Long article in the Sunday Times needed to be read through in order to decipher the caption for the main picture accompanying:

“OrphanCare arranges adoption of babies left in baby hatches”

Scarved woman hovering over a new-born lying within a kind of out-sized microwave capsule built into a pillar or corner of a building on a street pavement it looked…. Keypad adjacent, temperature controlled presumably; piping of nutrients not visible.
The penultimate paragraph: “An average of 100 babies are dumped every year in Malaysia and more than 50% do not survive.”
And the last paragraph: “OrphanCare runs baby hatches in Petaling Jaya, Johor Bahru and Sungai Petani…”
….Facility adopted from where?... They didn’t dream this up here that was for sure.

Google search showed 1. china 2. baby hatches a safer and better future 3. germany 4. usa

The contemporary church steps, basket among the reeds by the river-bank, what-have-you.

                                                                    S. T., p.14 November 13 2016 Johor Bahru

Night-shift Martyr

Tubby with his yellow apron on the night shift must have trudged up early tonight. A recent hair-cut. All the lads at Reaz receive regular trims from the barber shop that was run by a branch of the family down in the ground floor well below the eatery. The red and yellow cap tonight that matched Tub’s Maggi apron had not been sighted previously; blue nylon short-sleeved shirt. Tough climb up the incline nights and not a happy camper on first landing Tub. At home at the bottom of the dark lane there was no one to wash, cook or warm Tubby’s bed. (Overcast, cool drizzly days upon us now at the tail-end of the year.) First notice of the chap's presence tonight was the strange half-yawned tune from the entry to the severy behind. Allahu'akbar in a tone certainly never heard before. Resting on the counter and head back-tilted, the cap pulled from his brow and scratching beneath, the man gave out the battle-cry of the suicide bombers and other martyrs just to himself there in a moment of release.

Double-Barrelled

Remarkable insistent flashing. Mesmerising to watch. The chap at the cashier’s desk at Muthu turkey head extended, and the eyes above all. As if on stalks. Beaming, bulging, near popping from their sockets. The greatest strain was concentrated in those orbs. Nothing whatever about the cashier to explain it, good, regular guy possessed of a brilliant smile tickled. But this chap was seeking, enquiring, unable to fathom something that was before him. Not surprisingly the other avoided his gaze. What too was remarkable here almost as much as the look itself was the reflection of Yanasagaran. This man was darker, colour and even more features recalling Rawat’s revelation of the African slave trade that was introduced into that unexpected corner of the sub-continent. Old Hollywood films, comedies and serials, where the servant or cow-hand entered, contained precisely this visage, the cameras searching it out for the audience laughs. Yana when he was hearing the unexpected, when challenged or uncertain, would flex his facial muscles and cast into precisely that form and aspect. Striking and most unusual to have it repeated here in Yana’s home town. Was it Africa and Southern India too in confrontation with the gun barrel and its administrators? What was it?

NB. The Slave Trade in Africa - A Historical Perspective, Hasan M. Rawat. Karachi, 1985

Johor Bahru, Malaysia

Some Dirt

As usual the Fruit-vendor after lunch needing a little chat to break his boredom. Weekday afternoons were slow and the last items always took some while to sell. Rain was the great dampener too now in the monsoon season. Still, little of it in the past few weeks, evenings mainly that were of no concern to the Fruit-man. After the fruit-stall the vendor would return home via his massage shop to check on things there. Today however he was tired and needed an hour's sleep. Thick pouches under the Fruit-man's eyes told of his nightly battles.
         Three thousand ringitt a month was made from the fruit-stall, massage operation and some other venture that the man did not specify, some minor kind of enterprise. One thousand dollars. Hardly a pile, but in Malaysia not too bad either. The Fruit-man ran a car, owned his own house some way out of town. Originally he had hailed from a town about an hour out of old JB. The fact had emerged during a conversation with a younger Indian who had sat at the adjoining table around on the side where the Fruit-man set-up shop. Since the Fruiterer had moved he rarely went back. Some of his tiredness peeled away listening to the Tamil speak of his former home.

         A customer had made the Fruit-man jump. When he returned to the seat in the shade against the wall he quickly flagged again.

         There would not even be energy for teeth-sucking today; Fruit-man was too tired. Who needed paste, floss or picks when a chap could bring suction like that to bear.
         Fruit-man had two sons, one working ready, as they said in the local patois, as an engineer down in Singapore. The younger was currently in Prague on an exchange program in his final year of engineering himself. Once that lad was earning there would be an easing of pressure. The exchange was funded by the Singaporean university the boy attended where a scholarship had been won. Nevertheless there were of course additional expenses. Winter in Prague presented an ordeal for a boy from the tropics. In January it would be all over and hopefully a job in Singapore or elsewhere.

         The Fruit-man, formerly a taxi driver, was a proud father. He had done well with the upbringing. Another year or two of fruit nonetheless.
         — You younger than me, Fruit-man guessed, risen again from his lethargy.

         Some chat would help keep him on the job. Like most others judging outside their racial group, the man was at a loss on this ground.
         Fruit-man's sharp eyed look suggested understanding his gambit might just as likely go the other way too. It seemed he did want to know, was measuring himself perhaps.
         Told he should call his friend abang, older brother, the Fruiterer responded with thumb and forefinger.

         There could only be a small difference in it; in the difference of the two ages. A bee's dick, the boys said in Australia.
         Weekends you could count on a fair trade and good takings, about double other days. Weekends and public holidays.
         — Singapore holidays best.
         True enough, Fruit-man had to agree. 
         The old charcoal-fueled bakery over the road drew large groups of Singaporeans. With prices three and even four times cheaper in JB, many crossed the two hundred metre Causeway to take advantage. In recent days the Malaysian government had placed a fee on vehicles crossing onto their territory through Johor Bahru and within a day or too the Singaporeans had replied with the same on their side. For some while now there had been a difficult law to enforce stipulating drivers exiting Singapore could not have less than three-quarts of a tank of fuel. The border hopping for that common lurk was destabilizing Singaporean retailers. 
         Last week a call from the dark had found old Raja Leong, the Sale King in one of the massage chairs on Jalan Meldrum. Then the other day Raja’s John! from a bench in front of a barber's behind Muthu.

         Great to see the old indomitable rogue. Many crossed the border for a hair-cut, manicure or massage.
         Slow days the Fruit-man sought opportunity for chat. With limited English there was little scope. Fruit-man was not a real talker either. How he could turn some more ringitt was his sole focus; it was doubtful he talked anything else with his pals.
         — Not married huh? Single?... Your wage how much?... Go America, England, very good?...
         One needed to humour the man best one could. He forgot everything he had been told in any case; the Abang line had been used at his last enquiry on age. Perhaps he had not forgotten and was foxing, distrusting what he had been formerly told.

         One needed to humour. Do the minimum and shake Fruit-man off politely.
         Today however we would venture some little part further nevertheless, tired as was the Fruit-man. Stuck with the fellow milk him some or prick just for the heck of it.
         The arrangement at the teahouse was not altogether clear. The lady operator sub-let to Razali for his food-stall. (In fact head-hunted Razali to bring his food business there.) Sub-let to the Fruit-man and to a Chinese woman who ran another food option, a mee alternative. (Razali offered traditional Malay, cooked by his wife at home and transported.) 
         Fruit-man was charged RM300 per month to set up his pre-packed ice-box of cut fruit around beneath the frangipani in the side street opposite the charcoal-fired bakery that had become a great favourite: watermelon, papaya, pineapple, chiku, a local pear and apple variety. 

         One hundred dollars near enough. Many fruit vendors were charged a nominal fee, but they weren’t sited opposite the gold mountain.
         Most of the serving girls of Razali's and the Mee lady were Indonesian. There was one Chinese. The teahouse lady had a few Indonesians and also four male waiting on tables, fetching supplies and carting. Two young lads, one of whom was the Teahouse lady's youngest son; the second a pal of the boy, perhaps a cousin. Minimal English both; neither had progressed far in their schooling and almost not at all in the English stream.
         One other older man just an employee and the last who looked some little part more. This latter was the odd man out, difficult to place. 
         There was nothing in it of course, mere idle curiosity. However today Fruit-man was to be  asked whether this chap might be the husband of Teahouse Madame.

         The question had been crystallizing for some time without any particular focus. There was nothing in it either way of course.
         Affirmative nod elicited; lizard-lazy eyes.
         Husband Number Three in case you didn't know, Fruit-man added, nodding again with less threat of nodding off.
         Not so common this and worth remarking.
         One heard of course of men with two, three and four wives in this region; simultaneously of course. Divorces were not altogether uncommon, but one usually heard of men in the record. A woman who had had three husbands—the Teahouse lady was a first there, in this particular perhaps not extensive acquaintance.
         And three—Fruit-man held up pinkie, ring and middle finger, unfurled in that order, all long-nailed—three years the lady's junior to boot.
         Wah! Husband No. 3 was three years younger than his twice previously divorced wife? (Almost certainly we were not talking widowhood.)
         Heavy lids and jowls added years to Fruit-man's visage. Clearly into his sixties a casual observer would guess.
         Other chap concerned here with previously twice married bride and three years his senior had been difficult to pick for rank. In the years previously the assumption had been that he was another employee, perhaps within the family circle and not hireling.

         For the first few years thought had been the husband of the Teahouse lady kept away, perhaps with bigger fish to fry and serious dosh making. This other man did seem to have a certain elevation, but not much. His calls from the tables over the other side of the street on busy weekends had been noted five years before.

         — Kopiii Oh! like a cock chortling. Most of the others called the orders on the move without any grandstanding.
         Five years ago in fact when the Teahouse was first discovered the Teahouse lady, clearly the owner and moving spirit, had been asked whether she had inherited the business from her family perhaps. The old building had been theirs?
         No. Her in-laws, she had said. And Fruit-man gave the same information unbidden today.
         Hubbie No. 3 hopped to the tune played by his senior and wife. On his own resources the man could never have carried out such an operation. Never in a day. This was perfectly evident to all and sundry, the Fruit-man and everybody else. Had the chap somehow attempted to carry the venture here on his inherited plot Fruit-man would not be docked RM300 per month.

         Nice tubby fellow, always with his hands full. Occasionally there was briefest consultation between the couple. (Good reliable cousins one had thought.) Something the man had seen that needed pointing out, as today. Nods. OK. Away the woman went with the insight.
         — Veeeery stingy, Fruit-man charged.
         That was plain to see and no doubt Fruit-man suffered for it.
         Three hundred a month for nothing really. The fruit was an addition for the patrons, a further draw for the teas.
        Iron discipline over the work-force, helmet hair-cut, jowls and marching gait. The wounds of the past worn by the Teahouse lady were all too visible. How long buried was carefree ease and generous spirit? How the younger self had paid for it. It was exceedingly difficult to reassemble something of the former life.

         From what a depth the Teahouse Madame had been raised the week before when she had been told what a spitting image was her baby boy—as if there was no father involved. (There was a girl from the same second husband and eldest boy from the first, the Fruiterer knew.) Warmest delight from that particularly fine gallantry. Hit the mark quite unexpectedly.