Quite a Figure

  

YOU POST  

TOO MUCH  

Chap footing over Middle Road toward the library, trapped cookie-cutter Joe perhaps unhappy about that. Coming from the Buddhist art shop on Victoria Street, the figures in the window had you swivelling around at the Box, surveying the faces. Not such a lot of pointers 2-300 years later. It was the Renaissance most strongly recalled at that window; nothing of the present; or almost nothing. Glimpses in faces here carried some minute correspondence: a middle-aged woman finding pleasure in her friend’s talk; pensive younger gal fixed on her top. Certainly any Western café would find nada. The figure carrying the lamb or calf on the window shelf strongly suggested the Italian Peninsular, from ages past. Within the hills across the other side of the Adriatic, not so very many ages, in fact. Through the early ‘80s there had been many such examples, women of course more than men. In the Bras Basah Complex window display it was a placid, bald, kindly shepherd figured. Perhaps in the back country in many locales even now suchlike existed. The beauty in the simple robe with head bowed corresponded with the common Roman religious iconography; not so much our mountain form. Here among the remnant kampung folk such was more common. A scholar at his table, accomplished and far-seeing, surprised like a family member suddenly appeared. Child figures carrying some kind of surety, if not authority, one of them pointing a pistol, were something entirely new. They reminded of the importance of students & youth in revolutionary epochs. Bab’s tale of the wild young buck come into ascendency at the end of the war, riding a mule or donkey on a march, while his uncle trudged along wearily beside. When the old man asked the youngster for a turn, the hot young Partizan replied, Da si zasluzio, sad bi jasio. Did you deserve it, you’d be mounted now. Fathers and others who were treated roughly, even brutally, by nearest kin would receive apologies and pleas for forgiveness years later when the inner flames had burned out. The Maoist period, clearly. There were very few lines apparent across the Box’s tables. For some substantial affinity one needed to travel away from tiled walkways and aircon. Green Milo tins lined the upper shelf at Toast Box, a highly popular beverage among young and old alike on the equator. Hanging by the toasting counter the blank, naïve portrait of a woman never failed to shock. Why in the heck would anyone mount that blank nullity for display?

  

 

 

Shards

 

The pattern of an old bowl, one of Bab's purchases. Unimpressive; nothing whatever of note. No reason it would retain a place in memory, float up unbidden from the past. None of her purchases were ever noteworthy, ever of any aesthetic value—a former beauty like her. She had no real taste, always buying only the cheapest sale items. Yet this bowl that will need to be disposed of shortly when the old house is sold emerged from the deepest depths for no reason of its own in the very dead of night, a little torment in fact.

 

 

Appearances & Non

 

Last week a well-known US editor who had recognised and published a dozen & half previous pieces responded to the last submission, Didn't see it, alas. A family tableau of Muslim Malays gathered at their lunch table. Man failed to see the quiet beauty of the occasion, the delicate, respectful orderliness, artfully presented. (It had won some notice elsewhere.) Tonight's scene coming out for supper was in the same vein, perhaps more straightforward. Short tubby guy afoot was slow-stepping along; companion in the saddle on his two-wheeler tootling beside, slowly. Not long before the azan had sounded. Lads foreign workers, it was clear from their drab apparel, might have come up from the tarawih prayer at the mosque. Short needed to reach up to get his hand on the shoulder of his companion. Together they went on toward Block 7 at the Haig. The mounted tall wore a white songkok; less favoured a bright smile that was turned up to the other more than once. At the yellow stanchions that marked the limit of vehicular traffic, like an agile footballer, Shortie stepped round the impediment without losing touch of his partner on the other side. Onward footing & wheeling. Does this appear for you Reader, and signify, wherever you be? For the author suchlike appeared regularly and kept him so long in that place.

The Knight & His Rapier (revised Sept23)

One of the Malay guys with a Chinese grandparent in the works somewhere, you would guess. Hailing on the approach, pulled up a seat diagonally opposite, after first thinking this side one over. Couldn’t do that; thought again. Pal joined shortly after, ailing evidently. When the first went for a pee, the other doubled over and stayed doubled couple minutes. On the first’s return a lottery ticket became the focus of attention. With the journal open all the while, rapier pointed and occasionally deployed, chap knew better than to intrude, respecting the divide. (Schopenhauer’s challenge at his café table was recalled, the old curmudgeon offering reward for something he hadn’t previously heard—from any who thought they could deliver.) All of these guys had only a rudimentary form of the imposed language, of course. In his first scouting of the prospects for a pew, the man had offered in passing, Have a break. Have a Kit Kat. Initial thought had been a suggestion to take a pause from the labour; he might offer you a little out with some chat. The men’s English often came in lines from the old crooners, rock ‘n roll, school rhymes & advertising tags.

Nine-Year Widow

 

Fine burrowing indeed, couldn’t ask for any better than that. Warm & snug. There may have been an anatomical aspect. Not surprisingly, it was relished even more on Yan’s side after that famished stretch of hers. Little doubt about the veracity. In the kampung it would have been impossible to find a partner and here the Bangla boys working the construction sites did not appeal. Positioning for entry, the gal was immediately outta the blocks and racing. Agog. Whispered questions were frankly answered, pretty much verbatim Molly B. Yes, Yes, Yes… Spinning the duration. Throughout. Absolutely without pause. Did she catch her breath once at all? Again, as on the couple previous occasions, the lady had countenanced little delay. Pretend incidental discovery of the readiness beneath the thin cover of the sarong set the wild goose chase going—disrobing without explanation; briefs retained only briefly after the rest. When they too were removed, the jockey mount was sought without further ado. As soon as proximate skin-on-skin was effected, the slide began. Slip-sliding away. (Had Yani ever seen a top traversing the floor? Spinning tops still delighted children in Javanese kampungs.) Frank admission that the position was unaccustomed and relished for the control, Yan added, with the note of recent discovery. Good job below being able to restrain so long, albeit falling far, far short of what was wanted. Might have been fully ninety seconds of the clock, counting each interval of duration. Yan’s upping the ante on the straight was curbed once. Curbed twice. Thrice undone. The woman had been her own worst enemy. A suggestion of another meeting in two or three days promising better might not have been comprehended by a widow like that. Sitting up, looking past her fall of hair seeking confirmation of spillage. Squinting. Unable to detect in the lamplight and left dubious, as if a fraud had been perpetrated.

 

 

The Coach

 

Life coach at the adjacent table at KV, the inevitable happened. You think you have attained a position where you… can couch on life? it may have been. Now how in the heck did that get out? Even mid-stream a more canny fellow might have turned it around. There had been a lazy attempt, too late. Lady was a Penny Wong lookalike, recently savaged by the old lion Paul Keating.  Very close. Could have been related, the two onslaughts, or digs. Turned out of course lady was only in the corner of righting a listing sailboat that had run into choppy waters, nothing too serious. Get the client to ID their position, the problem, and nudge forward from there. No commandeering; only patient, gentle steering. Her mention of enjoy it while you can earlier wasn’t really referring to the growing gloom. Climate, geo-pol, the alienation & anomie not really her bag. Concentrate on the positive was the way for the sailors & yachties. That took you a fair way. In the end had the cheek to comment on the phone fixation through the course. Well, madam, it was a surprise we travelled so far; thought it was gonna fizzle pruuuty quickly. And by the way, that there was standard working author on the job, revision of the Sikh thing here, actually. Nothing of Fbook nor Insta. (No opportunity to get that point in, it turned out.)

 

 

 

Here is the evidence, virtual ink barely dry:

 

When R___ removed her mask for her own lunch the former handsome, middle-aged woman suddenly appeared as a grotesque, deformed creature from the studio make-up department. A fright! The shock of it was impossible to hide and must have been perfectly plain to see. Tiny, round mouth gaping wide; sharp incisors seemingly biting in her speech. Whatever she had spoken seemed not to have properly emerged from the cavern. It was a reminder that the lady had never appeared at the Buffalo Road outlet pre-Covid. The first cancer had been in the ‘90s; more recently she had exceeded all the expert opinion with the incidence in her pancreas. A number of weeks the name R___ had been difficult to recall for the regular greetings in the queues at the resto; finally it had been recorded on the phone. R___ was used for both genders in the Punjab, yes; that had been correctly recalled from somewhere, news reports probably. In Punjabi it signified heroism. (R___’s own Paulo was let ride.) At some point earlier the cancer might perhaps have been in the jaw. Recalling the figure of the woman later, it seemed the likeliest explanation. It was a particular kind of Covid story, twelve months now almost into recovery.