Out front of the
eatery—albeit airconned behind thick plate glass—a man selling books from tall
stacks standing on the pavement. New, plastic-wrapped, serious volumes it
appeared. Somehow yesterday the man immediately twigged his quarry might have
been a Pramoedya fan. Pulled out the article as if from a hat and passed across.
Pramoedya Ananta Toer, not Soer. Might not have been the prison notebook. When
the chap discerned the gleam in the eye his hand quickly fell on another by the
same author in the top third of one of the towers. Westerners liked dissidents
of other countries of course; and Pramoedya was usually the only Indo writer
known outside Indonesia. (Full disclosure: full admission. Apart from gleanings
of the new young writer who had made a splash with some deftly adapted magical
realism from the Caribbean Tropics to the SE Asian, Eka Kurniawan.) The stylish
topi, the original panama, encouraged
the man here. That kinda superior article denoted a reader, and Pramoedya perfect
fit. Had the red bandana been donned yesterday the personal preference might
have been all the clearer. Unnecessary for this book-seller. Not a speaker of
the language? Well, makes no never mind. Store it up for the day, Chum. The
lack of shade out there did not seem to bother the man, nor give concern for his
store. Occasionally the waiters left one of the doors more invitingly open for
passing customers and the stream of air provided relief. Today a young child
selling double-strength tissue packs sat beside the door leaning on the glass
for the cool. Diners indoors were in need of better than the thin material the
restaurant provided after their rich, saucy meals. Thirty or more in each
tower, on consignment no doubt.
No comments:
Post a Comment