Some Dirt

As usual the Fruit-vendor after lunch needing a little chat to break his boredom. Weekday afternoons were slow and the last items always took some while to sell. Rain was the great dampener too now in the monsoon season. Still, little of it in the past few weeks, evenings mainly that were of no concern to the Fruit-man. After the fruit-stall the vendor would return home via his massage shop to check on things there. Today however he was tired and needed an hour's sleep. Thick pouches under the Fruit-man's eyes told of his nightly battles.
         Three thousand ringitt a month was made from the fruit-stall, massage operation and some other venture that the man did not specify, some minor kind of enterprise. One thousand dollars. Hardly a pile, but in Malaysia not too bad either. The Fruit-man ran a car, owned his own house some way out of town. Originally he had hailed from a town about an hour out of old JB. The fact had emerged during a conversation with a younger Indian who had sat at the adjoining table around on the side where the Fruit-man set-up shop. Since the Fruiterer had moved he rarely went back. Some of his tiredness peeled away listening to the Tamil speak of his former home.

         A customer had made the Fruit-man jump. When he returned to the seat in the shade against the wall he quickly flagged again.

         There would not even be energy for teeth-sucking today; Fruit-man was too tired. Who needed paste, floss or picks when a chap could bring suction like that to bear.
         Fruit-man had two sons, one working ready, as they said in the local patois, as an engineer down in Singapore. The younger was currently in Prague on an exchange program in his final year of engineering himself. Once that lad was earning there would be an easing of pressure. The exchange was funded by the Singaporean university the boy attended where a scholarship had been won. Nevertheless there were of course additional expenses. Winter in Prague presented an ordeal for a boy from the tropics. In January it would be all over and hopefully a job in Singapore or elsewhere.

         The Fruit-man, formerly a taxi driver, was a proud father. He had done well with the upbringing. Another year or two of fruit nonetheless.
         — You younger than me, Fruit-man guessed, risen again from his lethargy.

         Some chat would help keep him on the job. Like most others judging outside their racial group, the man was at a loss on this ground.
         Fruit-man's sharp eyed look suggested understanding his gambit might just as likely go the other way too. It seemed he did want to know, was measuring himself perhaps.
         Told he should call his friend abang, older brother, the Fruiterer responded with thumb and forefinger.

         There could only be a small difference in it; in the difference of the two ages. A bee's dick, the boys said in Australia.
         Weekends you could count on a fair trade and good takings, about double other days. Weekends and public holidays.
         — Singapore holidays best.
         True enough, Fruit-man had to agree. 
         The old charcoal-fueled bakery over the road drew large groups of Singaporeans. With prices three and even four times cheaper in JB, many crossed the two hundred metre Causeway to take advantage. In recent days the Malaysian government had placed a fee on vehicles crossing onto their territory through Johor Bahru and within a day or too the Singaporeans had replied with the same on their side. For some while now there had been a difficult law to enforce stipulating drivers exiting Singapore could not have less than three-quarts of a tank of fuel. The border hopping for that common lurk was destabilizing Singaporean retailers. 
         Last week a call from the dark had found old Raja Leong, the Sale King in one of the massage chairs on Jalan Meldrum. Then the other day Raja’s John! from a bench in front of a barber's behind Muthu.

         Great to see the old indomitable rogue. Many crossed the border for a hair-cut, manicure or massage.
         Slow days the Fruit-man sought opportunity for chat. With limited English there was little scope. Fruit-man was not a real talker either. How he could turn some more ringitt was his sole focus; it was doubtful he talked anything else with his pals.
         — Not married huh? Single?... Your wage how much?... Go America, England, very good?...
         One needed to humour the man best one could. He forgot everything he had been told in any case; the Abang line had been used at his last enquiry on age. Perhaps he had not forgotten and was foxing, distrusting what he had been formerly told.

         One needed to humour. Do the minimum and shake Fruit-man off politely.
         Today however we would venture some little part further nevertheless, tired as was the Fruit-man. Stuck with the fellow milk him some or prick just for the heck of it.
         The arrangement at the teahouse was not altogether clear. The lady operator sub-let to Razali for his food-stall. (In fact head-hunted Razali to bring his food business there.) Sub-let to the Fruit-man and to a Chinese woman who ran another food option, a mee alternative. (Razali offered traditional Malay, cooked by his wife at home and transported.) 
         Fruit-man was charged RM300 per month to set up his pre-packed ice-box of cut fruit around beneath the frangipani in the side street opposite the charcoal-fired bakery that had become a great favourite: watermelon, papaya, pineapple, chiku, a local pear and apple variety. 

         One hundred dollars near enough. Many fruit vendors were charged a nominal fee, but they weren’t sited opposite the gold mountain.
         Most of the serving girls of Razali's and the Mee lady were Indonesian. There was one Chinese. The teahouse lady had a few Indonesians and also four male waiting on tables, fetching supplies and carting. Two young lads, one of whom was the Teahouse lady's youngest son; the second a pal of the boy, perhaps a cousin. Minimal English both; neither had progressed far in their schooling and almost not at all in the English stream.
         One other older man just an employee and the last who looked some little part more. This latter was the odd man out, difficult to place. 
         There was nothing in it of course, mere idle curiosity. However today Fruit-man was to be  asked whether this chap might be the husband of Teahouse Madame.

         The question had been crystallizing for some time without any particular focus. There was nothing in it either way of course.
         Affirmative nod elicited; lizard-lazy eyes.
         Husband Number Three in case you didn't know, Fruit-man added, nodding again with less threat of nodding off.
         Not so common this and worth remarking.
         One heard of course of men with two, three and four wives in this region; simultaneously of course. Divorces were not altogether uncommon, but one usually heard of men in the record. A woman who had had three husbands—the Teahouse lady was a first there, in this particular perhaps not extensive acquaintance.
         And three—Fruit-man held up pinkie, ring and middle finger, unfurled in that order, all long-nailed—three years the lady's junior to boot.
         Wah! Husband No. 3 was three years younger than his twice previously divorced wife? (Almost certainly we were not talking widowhood.)
         Heavy lids and jowls added years to Fruit-man's visage. Clearly into his sixties a casual observer would guess.
         Other chap concerned here with previously twice married bride and three years his senior had been difficult to pick for rank. In the years previously the assumption had been that he was another employee, perhaps within the family circle and not hireling.

         For the first few years thought had been the husband of the Teahouse lady kept away, perhaps with bigger fish to fry and serious dosh making. This other man did seem to have a certain elevation, but not much. His calls from the tables over the other side of the street on busy weekends had been noted five years before.

         — Kopiii Oh! like a cock chortling. Most of the others called the orders on the move without any grandstanding.
         Five years ago in fact when the Teahouse was first discovered the Teahouse lady, clearly the owner and moving spirit, had been asked whether she had inherited the business from her family perhaps. The old building had been theirs?
         No. Her in-laws, she had said. And Fruit-man gave the same information unbidden today.
         Hubbie No. 3 hopped to the tune played by his senior and wife. On his own resources the man could never have carried out such an operation. Never in a day. This was perfectly evident to all and sundry, the Fruit-man and everybody else. Had the chap somehow attempted to carry the venture here on his inherited plot Fruit-man would not be docked RM300 per month.

         Nice tubby fellow, always with his hands full. Occasionally there was briefest consultation between the couple. (Good reliable cousins one had thought.) Something the man had seen that needed pointing out, as today. Nods. OK. Away the woman went with the insight.
         — Veeeery stingy, Fruit-man charged.
         That was plain to see and no doubt Fruit-man suffered for it.
         Three hundred a month for nothing really. The fruit was an addition for the patrons, a further draw for the teas.
        Iron discipline over the work-force, helmet hair-cut, jowls and marching gait. The wounds of the past worn by the Teahouse lady were all too visible. How long buried was carefree ease and generous spirit? How the younger self had paid for it. It was exceedingly difficult to reassemble something of the former life.

         From what a depth the Teahouse Madame had been raised the week before when she had been told what a spitting image was her baby boy—as if there was no father involved. (There was a girl from the same second husband and eldest boy from the first, the Fruiterer knew.) Warmest delight from that particularly fine gallantry. Hit the mark quite unexpectedly.