Choice Fruit (Sept26)

 

Took some time to dredge up the greeting for the Malay waitress at the Saturday lunch-spot up near Aljunied this afternoon. Detained her at table a stretch. Simply couldn't tumble to it. Since receiving it a week ago, it kept slipping again and again. There hadn't been a single occasion where it was produced without consulting the little vocab list. And bringing out the booklet for reference hardly counted. What kind of greeting was possible like that?... It shouldn’t have been that difficult. Three syllables... What was it again?... 

She waited.... 
APA - Kha-bar!

Yes. Four syllables. Ah! The woman hadn't waited in vain.

Big wide smiles. Like the poor everywhere, gaps in the teeth (no more than mid thirties).

A hard one for some reason, something in the construction. And quite new. Up until it had been sourced, Salam was the usual (mistaken) greeting offered the Malays.

In Malaysia, the try-hard, sensitive tourists might give it. Highly unlikely this lass had ever been served in this fashion from a fellow like that here. Not in Geylang.

Turned on her heel jauntily. But only driving off a short step or two.

Paused. Paused a much briefer time than her interlocutor just prior. Swung half-back.

Merri Chrismas! 

That was good too. Well done. Properly chuffed she was. The smile as large as the one before.

The Malay-Singaporean security guard downstairs translated it literally as: What news? "Khabar" can be seen on the local newspaper masthead, Mr. Batam pointed out. (Born post-war directly across the road in Malay kampung, while it was a real kampung. The man's second wife lives on Batam, where he visits weekends. Recently turned sixty-five, second wife a cool thirty years junior, same age as Mr. Batam's eldest son. The scribe is Mr. Bakso—following his enthusiasm for the dish of that name taken at a street-stall in Nagoya City, Batam. Highly amusing to Mr. Batam.)

Full-house again at the hot-spot. Perhaps two dozen girls just on the corner either side and down the slope. More spectators, double the number. Shared table not unusual for lunch.

Mostly the regular were old-timers. One dollar coffee-O's and teas. Gone 1PM.

Couple heavy showers through the morning. The lasses must have flooded out as soon as it cleared.

Scene no more bleak than any other day. One or two of the girls perhaps wearied. Mostly they held up.

Hang-time a little more evident, perhaps. Couldn't ever be helped. Two dozen at a pinch this afternoon as the hour wore on. Brolleys swinging more than bags, jauntiness here and there.

There must be 30-40 of these middle-aged China-girls working the immediate quarter. Many of the faces familiar over the seven months. No drugs, or evidence of violence. The factors at work here, the whys and wherefores, well hidden. These were not trafficked women. A number displayed mostly discreet tattoos. At a guess, average age thirty four.

A cheeky old bugger coming down the incline gets a half-hearted Howdydo? from one of the lasses. A matter of pure form. But it makes the fella circle to her at the last minute. The approach is close and near, as if he was about to whisper something to her. She herself doesn't know what's afoot. Up onto the footpath where she stands. Known perhaps. The locals in the immediate neighbourhood are on good terms with the China-girls, the old men certainly. This fellow looks like he has come down from nearby. Lots of the men come from a distance to sit in the circle on the corner there. Merely to sit and watch them. The scribe does the same. It was a fascinating spectacle.

Must be late turned seventy & pitched beyond, the old geezer. Girl wears a low-cut, black satin bit above her knees. Carefully measured. Simple gold necklace.

Chap might be giving the jewellery a close inspection.

No. The aim was higher. Bending his head, an appreciative kiss planted on the lady's bosom. Possibly not fully landing, it was hard to see.

Gallantry of the highest form. The smile resulting was much broader on his own dial.

Hang about! Some consideration was due here. Howabout it? Come on.

The fella doesn't have much more than two brass razoos. She knows that. Doesn't try to work him; waste of time. Another would drop her a tenner.

Not a mean guy, but nothing to shake down. Almost certainly.

Small branded shopping bag like they all have. The wife’s. The first that came to hand leaving the house. Held very little.

What was he fishing for?

Up from the bottom it does come. A ripe, well-chosen orange.

Many of the oranges here were tinged with yellow, shipped from China, California, South Africa; and also the land of Oz.

Only careful handling and close inspection will get one edible fruit. Only in the past few days had the quality improved somewhat.

A good one presented in this offering.

And you don't think she turned him down? Immediately began peeling.

Why wouldn't she? Wasn't going to juggle it at her post. Wasn't going to save it for later.

Most of the rind comes off in a single piece. A near-by pal will take some. Some sweetness by the looks. The old fella didn't wait around.