Out front the
eatery—albeit airconned & behind thick plate glass—a man selling books from tall pavement stacks. New, plastic-wrapped, serious volumes, it
appeared. Somehow yesterday the chap immediately twigged his quarry might have
been a Pramoedya fan. Pulled out the article as if from a hat.
Pramoedya Ananta Toer; not Soer. Might not have been the prison notebook. When the gleam in the eye was discerned his hand quickly fell on another by the
same, in the top third of one of the towers. Westerners liked dissidents
of other countries of course; and Pramoedya was usually the only Indo writer
known outside Indonesia. (Full disclosure: full admission. Apart from gleanings
of the new young guy who had made a splash with some adapted mag. real. from the Caribbean Tropics, Eka Kurniawan.) The stylish
topi, the original panama, encouraged
the man here. That kinda superior article denoted a reader; Pramoedya perfect
fit. Had the red bandana been donned that morning, the personal inclination might
have been clearer still. Unnecessary for this book-seller. Not a speaker of
the language? Well, makes no never mind. Store it up for the day, Chum. The
lack of shade out there did not seem to bother the man, nor give concern for his
store. Occasionally the waiters left one of the doors more invitingly open for
passing customers and the stream of cool provided. Today a young child
selling double-strength tissue packs sat beside the door leaning his back against the glass. Diners indoors were in need of better than the thin material the
restaurant provided after their rich, saucy meals. Thirty or more in each
tower, on consignment, no doubt.
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