Classic
gleaming black stilettos pointing the young girl’s route out and away. Doubtful
that sheen could have been delivered by spit and polish, or even the best
creams; under this sun particularly. Pretty office lass unlikely to have a
maid. Could Bapak and Mami stretch expenses that far? The
girl’s own earnings would not suffice. Blouse like that one day wear; maybe
Monday & week’s end. Immediately she stepped from the tiles of the café an
awkward landing and twisting her ankle. Oh! Ya! Smiles for her understanding
friend... What a passage the lovely would need to pick along that broken
pavement, that higgledy-piggledy shambles of a track on Sabang. Truly defied
belief that; surely there must have been similar footwear worn by ladies in the
days before that had somehow passed completely without notice. Difficult to
credit. There was a desk in one of the smaller towers within the street itself here
where a flower chosen by the girl sat in a pot, a telephone ringing incessantly
shaking the stem. Stairs; no lift. One of the taller towers further off was not
possible—the Sweet would never have been able to make it.
Do the Scarves
truly envy girls like her, the ones brought up right?
As
elsewhere, talk here on this street would ease everything, lessening the
oppressiveness, the heat and even the hardship of poverty. Sharing around the
pals while you scratched the bottom of your sole and your toes, like the fellow
manning the STEMPEL desk directly outside the cafe. (Loosely
speaking: a street stand rather. A camera could not be inflicted upon the man.)
Stamps, labels,
office signage of the pre-digi form. The crippled off-sider today might be an
elder brother—motorbike, what else?
Jl. Sabang it
was still commonly called, despite the formally updated Hajji Agus
Salim.
Notwithstanding
predominant Islam in Indonesia, the Chinese ran the show that counted,
the Stempel man suggested when he was done with his pedicure.
Worse still in
Thailand and Burma, the man added, passing his forefinger over his throat.
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