Soaking It Up

True enough, scattered showers as warned by Doreen from the kitchen table at her early supper. Better take an umbrella. A look out west through the living-room window had shown blue and high cloud. By that hour the skies would have emptied themselves surely. At ground level stepping off the void deck on the vegetable garden side the drops surprised. From the tenth floor Dore could not have seen the pitter-patter along the outer walk-way. Nevertheless, the landlady proved perfectly correct: umbrellas in hand and out from the shelter all unfurled. Light steady sprinkling. Regardless, this population in the tropics was justifiably wary of getting the scalp wet. One often saw all ages and genders with outspread hand atop the head as people passed between the buildings or stepped from buses. The matter had been proved too: even a light dousing of the scone here was often enough to raise sniffles and in short order disabling head colds. Yet out on the bench at the edge of the exercise yard, close by the vegetable gardens, there lay the loner using his seat as a bed, one leg crooked and the other over the rest; opposite the weary old head was pillowed. Late morning the man had stopped in his mustard caftan by the Wadi table, mutely pleading alms. Eventually, while the coin was fished out, four or five words had been exchanged. Man was well, baik. By early evening he had tired himself.