Smart, reed-thin little guy Tungku looking a picture as usual this afternoon, and handsomer still with his goatee strands and moustache. (You look so young Tungku, someone recently flattered.) Weekly visits to the barber & daily shaving. (The latter during ablutions and feeling in the dark more than sufficient.) Only just woke, he confesses, after retiring 3-4am. Under the stairs at the market was Tungku’s chosen corner, where he mixed with some of the riff-raff who drank and traded in the illegal ciggies. A prince in fact among them, who declined disguise. Tales of lordly life related briefly: the blessing of parents at first biz ventures, appetite for justice & pride in the ability to meet all classes equally, from the beggar to most high. Self-described. Big, big flashing reminders of the chief leader of the pack in primary school, little mousey-haired, freckled Kenny Roussell. (Certainly back then never pronounced in the French.) What a joy it was to be invited to the birthday party at Kenny’s house in Hick Street, ‘66 or ‘67. Appalling shame at Babi’s horrid present, however! A striped rocket pencil-case that she bought without consultation. One that, astonishingly, Kenny accepted with finest grace and allowance. A leader of boys, and men, indeed!… Three or four times the dapper chappie here reported references by petitioners of various kinds to his royal person. One police inspector among the rest, who produced Tengku’s voluminous file with CCTV shots & prints. (You think it fazed the man? Wah! The Tungku was needed on-side.) A seat over in one of the off-shore islands, among other ancestral holdings elsewhere, that were stolen by Raffles & the Brit thieves. Lavender long-sleeve, black slacks & polished shoes in the heavy overcast well-suited that afternoon.
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