Podiums

Featuring in the sports pages this morning a chap in the Bosnian sitting volleyball team. Olympic gold medalists at Athens 2004 & London 2012. Silvers Beijing 2008 & Rio 2016, as well as bronze at Tokyo, 2020. Three world championships and eleven European titles to boot. Their chief competitor on the current world stage is that other fertile ground, Iran. Iraq, Afghanistan, Sudan, Ethiopia, Sri Lanka, Central African countries for various good reasons don't feature. More Slavs still will soon progress along the path. The lack of infrastructure might keep the Palestinians from reaching the pinnacle.

Salaryman

  

A second sink hole had opened overnight on Jalan Masjid India, KL. The dramatic video of the first that took the poor Indian woman still not found reached Hal this morning, leaving her understandably horrified. At the time Hal had been spared the first item and now WhatsApped it herself.

Just before departure for the newspaper & morning teh, Rony had been caught at the bench outside his door, presenting a lachrymose picture as he prepared his lunchbox, it may have been.

Every day go office, as much as he could deliver in reply to the greeting. (It was very possible enquiries of howdydo? took another form in Eastern cultures.)

Everyday Rony shaved that scone of his; there was never a hint of any growth, never the faintest shadow.

Yet what was the man saying here? Hadn’t he had the previous day free and Friday the same, at least so far as office attendance was concerned? Wasn’t that what he said a couple weeks before when he was caught near Four Chain on his walk after an early supper? Two days work from home either side of the weekend.

The Tuesday return was likely quite bad enough. Some IT/bureaucratic function was involved, where the kinda bucks Wahyu was pulling was no doubt unavailable to Rony. But still, being fifteen years older, Rony was shortly to enter the housing market just like Wahyu. After a few months he would be able to put the little shoebox of Landlord Tan’s behind him. Just the other day Rony had received word that he had progressed from PR to citizenship. The little boost had clearly not lasted.

Another deracinated Indo-Chinese, like Wahyu, although in Rony’s case there may have been some little Mandarin or Hokkien retained. What a visage the salaryman had attempted to hide by the bench there, bowing and twisting his head. Staggering over the afternoon later; mentally thudding in recall. There was insufficient pity in the cruel world to fairly grant Rony.

Had the guess voiced soto voce to Yan on the night of her first visit since the return to Carpmael been correct, that the new housemate had never known a girl? In her own quiet way Yan had seemed incredulous and doubting. In Yan’s experience in her Javanese kampung there had never appeared a salaryman of this kind.

At the encounter in the street near Four Chain, unasked, Rony had promised to keep quiet his side of the party wall. It was just hollow plaster there, Rony explained; nights when Wahyu’s mother had stayed he could hear her coughs.

A week later Rony has proved as good as his word; not a peep of any kind. Only sometimes in the dead of night Rony’s slow, steady rowing across the wastes could be heard as he crossed to our near shore.  Certainly it was not enough to wake and would never be mentioned.

 

 

Snuggling Up

 

Only a brief lead time for the splash this morning, the darkening cloud quickly gathering. Most of the breakfast people moved one or two rows under the Sarah awning. Ah! The mist drifting in nicely, just like in Paris a few weeks ago in the newspapers. (Over at the entryway at Kinex the overhead misting was installed even five years ago.) In the Sing Tropics the rains provide the closest, most welcome & pleasurable encounter with nature. There was only a brief visual effect from the pavement rain trees, even the tallest. Pigeons, mynahs, cats & occasional dogs failed to do it. Occasionally a family of otters surprise in the channels & rivers. In the much touted local cuisine the fruits & vegetables seem to bear the marks of their refrigerated transport. (Spices perhaps doing better.) Turned into a brief, minor event just now. Of course in Melbourne it was little different. And not forgetting the great thunder claps too, though that of course continues to hold some of its integral terror, more strongly still than the jets coming in so low to land at the military airfield over the back, at Paya Lebar.

 

 

 

Like Father

A surprise to see a younger man coming along scavenging through the drains, lifting the grates, lying himself down full length and scraping with bare hand. The long sapling one hand and plastic bag wound around the other, for the coin. About the right age to be the son of the elder, who was spotted just a couple days before over at the Haig at his trade. Had the old man taken a turn, been unable to rise from his bed that morning. Very easily happens of course, even overnight. Elder had appeared his old self on the Friday, before the busier weekend. It would be to honour the father too the immediate resumption; precisely what you would expect in a filial culture. (The old Malay engineer from Katong, who of course well-knew the other, agreed it was likely.)

 

  

Archetypes (3)

On the bus returning from Bugis the Ruski on the Priority seating was swivelled round 45 degrees, blaring into her phone. Blah blah. Blah blah blah unceasing. Early/mid-40s, able-bodied; lady had no right to the place. Beside her a Chinaman fifteen or twenty years her senior sat eyes bent to the floor. A possible husband practiced in enduring his wife’s barrage, had it not been for the racial divide. (The earlier generation had not crossed so readily for partners, and this looked nothing like.) Lady dressed in easy, comfortable street wear, without any adornment; not the ugly, showy type. Man similar, a notch simpler; nondescript attire. His dye was a couple weeks old, grey yet to show; hers was natural mousy tone, minimal and artful. Blah blah. Blah blah blah. Not top of the dial megaphone, but nonetheless, channeled directly into the right ear of the victim; funnelled precisely. Not that the man flinched in any way at all. Not a single blink or flutter; perfectly unperturbed. Water off a duck’s back; completely unruffled. Was the chap deaf by chance? There was an instinct to protest on his behalf, sign the woman sharply. Let her know; don’t let her get away with it. Blah blah you silly old so-and-so! Have a mind! (Shaming the Slavs.) After lunch earlier that day Yasu in Tokyo had reminded of the uncanny Japanese delicacy and consideration: shortly he would be getting on a train and unable to continue the conversation. In Japan there was none of this rudeness on public transport; the old decorum remained—the report of a few years before was confirmed. Even twenty years later after the routine had taken over the rest of the planet, the Japs were still holding to the old standards: circumspection, respectfulness, tact. Astonishing. Not a single twitch of any kind from the guy, the old master. Magnificent. Better than any of the Olympic gold in Paris. The silly old duck got herself off at Lavender and the Taoist a few stops later, padding off quietly, eyes fixed on the ground. At Tanjong Katong corner shortly afterward, it could only have been an Oz gal. Half a generation younger than the Ruski, turned thirty and looking a few years older. Pink & green highlights grown out; creased and misshapen. Crossing against the lights. In the States or UK they might not have progressed to wearing this particular billboard. It took a couple secs to gather properly. Fire engine red caps on white: SLUT FAMING. Progressing this particular campaign in this fashion would need some good while in Sing & the region. Japan it would need an eternity.

Publication news: “Practice Makes Perfect” - Airplane Reading

 Hello everyone

Returning out here to my corner on the equator couple weeks ago caused the usual anxieties. Penning the ordeal has resulted in another publication now at Airplane Reading.

Another short freely available on the site, 750 words—

https://airplanereading.org/story/5091/practice-makes-perfect

See how you like it.

Cheers & best wishes

Pavle

A Bookman Takes Stock

 

Kinokun needed a survey on each return, a serious, professional duty was involved.

As usual, near the entry the first stacks on the low tables received a lazy eye, not much more than the wash of colours acclimatising. One exception was for a case of Armageddon—A Biography of NATO. Deterring here, which may have not been recent release.

Only a short way along in a tall glass case stood deluxe JK Roll, in what must have been choice excerpts from the volumes, or newly released notebooks perhaps. Slim and stylish leathers, subtly spot-lit with thin, individual beams. No begrudging the gal, her entertaining jaunts had provided a lotta pleasure to many. The anti-Trans could be put to one side; that argument ought be engaged with the heavy hitters in the field. 

In mags further along, as usual the notable Lits were well represented. Back in the day Hudson Rev had published Hemingway at any early stage of his career. There was Agni again, an inch perhaps slimmer than Granta, which was oddly absent. In the files there were 2-3 c_ck-teasers from that editorial desk at Agni. (This is not our standard rejection letter… &etc.)

The Atlantic was not likely to fail to find a place within that stand; the Sing KinoK acquisition guy, who had been profiled a few years back in the S.T., knew the fanciest jewels in the cabinet. Harper’s beside The American Conservative (“Tell Me About Ohio” – Vance) was running a piece on exorcism.

There may have been at least one other notable among these that had slipped an hour later. The NY-er of course featured in any marque bookstore. Back in Melbourne the cataract surgeon Mark had the latest edition in the centre of his large desk, a subscription that went direct to the office letter box, likely. Three or four gilt-edged names were included in the current edition, in what must have been the summer holiday issue—Sal Roon, Haruki & Annie Proulx. There may have been a notable’s posthumous item recently discovered in an attic trunk somewhere.

A piece on the Fitzcaraldo  operation claimed the attention, 4 - 5 columns read right the way through. The case of the Pole Olga Tok. made an interesting tale. There had been earlier French & German translations, but the psychologist only got lifted into the larger global frame after the English. Nobel, sales, &etc. following.

For some reason the Review was absent now. Never previously had it missed at the Sing KinoK. shelves. The LRB had fallen off the perch in that store 5 - 6 years ago, but NYRB had always found a place. Was it the format, the way the odd sized sheet always bent, folded over and produced an untidy look that spoilt the stand? Not that the Rev had been bought these last 7 - 8 years since the online subscription. It was only for old time’s sake one usually took it in hand and flipped through. In fact the old fave had begun to rather pale of late; didn't really cut it any longer. The subscription would be maintained, it could not be abandoned; but the  unread issues in the In-box had certainly begun to mount. Even before Oct 7 the view from the Hudson River, its soft-pedalling and hedging, seemed hardly worth the candle.

By the cashier the Bestseller stand always needed a survey. There was no need to handle the volumes, riffle and sample the pages; covers and titles more than sufficed there. On this occasion one surprising absentee was Jane A. The spinster seemed not to have found a place just at the moment. The lower reaches were not carefully scanned, but it would be odd to find Jane cast down at those levels at KinoK SG. In a bright, graphic cover Plath’s Bell Jar had taken its place at the top row, beside Dante’s Comedy. (Utmost top bestsellers over the centuries maybe.)

Impractical Uses of Cake had won a place on the top shelf of Bestsellers. Very top, extreme right. On that same peg was another that had also never been heard of previously, All the Light We Cannot See. Kitchen drama perhaps, and hopefully not set in some exotic beachside locale.

One should never judge by cover or title alone, of course. It went without saying. Still, there had been some kinda expertise developed over the journey.

Back in Melbourne one had waded through the entirety of the recent Norwegian Nobel, Fosse, 745 slow, slow-slow repetitive pages without any skipping. A face out presentation with the embossed medallion could have been expected here, in place of something titled The Woman With the Knife.

On the approach to KinoK’s entrance, Crystal Jade resto was found in place, while its neighbour Imperial Palace-something seemed to have recently folded. Cartier, MontBlanc, Tiffany & Co. The first must have held the Philippe Patek that was plastered high in the corridor advertising. Ferregamo had never appeared with the others in the lush advertising in the newspaper. Many of these high-end stores employed doormen in evening dress, mostly waiting on the other side of the glass, but in one case a pair out in the passage. 

Like the magazines, the Highlights shelves by Info & Reservations at KK could not be ignored. On the other side of the aisle a short distance off the graphic section was placed, with stationery adjacent. For a long time, a number of years, these prominent shelves were mistakenly assumed to be motivational, or leadership, perhaps. Initially, on the first pass, a lady in blouse & heels at Highlights had been reading a weighty volume whose single word title semaphored without the eye really trying.

POWER.

Orange cover in a kind of incendiary tone. The lady in whose hands it lay open seemed to be easily hefting. Absorbed.

It was the day before the Hiroshima anniversary, which had not been anticipated in any of the media. On the next day an item on the commemoration appeared in the Straits Times, with mention of the usual Israeli invitation at Nagasaki omitted this year.

The lady at Highlights had evidently found a strong page and might have been caught near point of purchase. Somehow, politically incorrectly, her gender and Asian features produced a certain dissonance.

On the pass here, apart from this particular element, the shelves at the Highlights stand by Info & Res had only received a cursory look. Many a time previously those shelves standing along the main passage had been closely surveyed. On this occasion thought was to skip by. The colour and wrap preceding had buckled the brain.

En route to Philosophy in a corner back by the entry a few minutes later, The Wit & Wisdom of Lee Kuan Yew stood on a low stand in what must have been Politics. Pol that was adjacent Phil and 3 - 4 times the size. Realpolitik you could count on it here in the Republic. The chainsaw-wielding Argentine with his weapon for woke programming had popped up in the paper recently; little doubt he received attention somewhere within those shelves. Strangely, Mr Trumpet’s pictures had not immediately appeared on any of the shelves or stands, at least on a casual survey. Not even at the Magazine.

A look in passing at the Highlights, initially. Down on ground, however, on the concourse outside the Takashimaya’s doors, footing along by Montblanc, there came some second thoughts. Some kinda nagging unexpectedly took hold. The POWER held by the blouse & heels lady was taunting somehow. Hiroshima, Ukraine, Gaza, Sudan, the Taiwan Strait—Power’s counterparts on those shelves ought be apprised properly. One needed to be informed, if only to get a general impression. There was no need to spend time there; a pic would possibly do, even if only for the files.

Retracing the steps from three flights down out on the steamy concourse. Ya, make it happen! A pic and lazy look at leisure later back at the ranch. There had never been a pic taken at KinoK previously. The time was now.

Three flights on the escalator, past the old sec guy leaning against the electronic gantry, closed-eye he may have been second time round. At the stand an older chap had been sampling a volume and held his place afterward, texting with back-turned. Didn't look like moving. Fellow turned into an obliging uncle who pretended understanding for a pic right there and then.

Well, a half hour later on the Bibliotheque 8th, comfortably seated, a look-see what did we have there. Musk? Buffet perchance? Think Like a Zen Monk, wazit? Something of that form had popped up recently in the Arts or Invest pages

Ya, the X man alright, face-out covering the whole of the cover. No prize there. Making Sense of Chaos could have raised chuckles on another occasion. Yeah, right. The Stoic Path To Wealth. Algebra of Wealth: A Simple Formula For Success.

These Are the Plunderers—in this fin. hub where a number of the banks had figured in the exposés was an encouraging sign.

Why Women Don't Talk Money. Sex they had begun to talk but not yet $$$ possibly.

Warren was there after all, sharing the stage with Bill in this case. The earlier era superseded.

POWER must have been around the other side of the stand, or sold out, the lady picking up the lucky last.

As well as the Highlights stand thought was to snap an old favourite that had been done in a deluxe edition in Philosophy. Previously, one had never seen syphilitic Frederick given anything like that royal treatment. The hour had arrived. $32.70, appropriate spider web cover in carmine, dark chocolate border. Adjacent cheaper p/b options and Ecce Homo, &etc.

The shelf immediately below held Persig in multiple editions, one a fiftieth anniversary, paper for the present.

Judging by the newly plastered signs the gals had begun working the bus stop on Orchard opposite Takashimaya: 3 - 4 bright new loitering stickers prominently positioned. Older gals had been seen earlier at a temp bus stop on Geylang, Viets possibly near one of their eateries. The operation had migrated a couple hundred metres westward. A rather poor glossy rust red hairpiece was spied coming down some steps with a suitcase near Paragon. Young Indo parents had fallen entirely, head-over-heels, for all the strip had to offer. Happy giggles & smiles. The Impressions of Money hanging from the stanchions must have been museum show. Foot traffic had been light either side on Orchard. The guitar & vocal beside the busy ice cream uncle at the crossing had opted for whiteboard to advertise his mission: uni fees were stretching his parents. Chap’s tone was a close approximation of the R&B gospel guy of twelve months before.

Back on the 8th at Reference on Victoria & Middle, Idealism & Related Systems & Doctrines was first section inside the door. Never noted previously.

 

 

Russian Dolls (Niece & Aunt) (late Aug)

 

Rain. In the morning it was light. By afternoon another episode saw first a spattering on the windowpane, and some minutes later streaks lashing the dark screens on the balcony at the top of the pesantren behind the hotel. Finally, evidence of its strength was down in the puddles over the paving, meaning sheltering indoors. 

Hal had popped in at Al Sarah—formerly Al Azhar and before that Al Wadi & Mr Teh Tarik. As expected, it was almost noon by the time she arrived, after her call to her daughter in the boarding pesantren, to which she had been sent in Java. 

A month ago the girl was dispatched to a superior kind of establishment of two or three storeys, newly painted and with fancy arches. Initially Hal had reported the girl was well settled, when last year there had been much resistance at the prospect. 

There was no surprise now at the video Hal presented, at the tears and clinging to the legs of her aunt, who had come to visit. The late-30s aunt, Hal’s younger sister, had her twelve year old son there in the same pesantren, a year now in the male section. 

Last year without her mother’s presence in the kampung, Hal’s girl had been lazy, disordered and not attending school. The pesantren had been hoped to be a solution.

Hal's sister had come up in the mentions earlier. She was pretty, earning some reasonable rupiah in a furniture factory in Jepara, where Hal too had worked before coming to Singapore. Now in addition the sister was also running a little food stall that Hal had helped establish. 

The young woman was recalled for her marital situation as the second wife of a rich guy from Majalengka, further west in Central Java. They may have met in the furniture factory, where the chap had been a client. Rich guy with a first wife & children back in his home town, taking a younger second. Nothing particularly unusual there. 

Hal had been against the union; a second wife’s position was always problematic. The sister was pretty, had some upper secondary schooling. Guy was some years older too. 

Nonetheless, so it transpired. 

One other detail on the sister had been forgotten: this was her own second marriage too. From the first there was a previous child, but what may not have been conveyed last year, the child of that first union had been taken by the father, the first husband, over to his kampung in Sumatra. Dark side of the moon more or less; a heck of a distance for a mother of limited means. 

The sister had divorced what had been a lay-about first husband. Very likely she had not seen her child for years; it was no doubt a question when she might. 

So, that much. And then news this morning that the second husband was marrying again; or had in fact done so. Hal might not have been informed promptly. 

This woman now, the third wife, hailed from the region of the pesantren, where the boy with the second wife, Hal’s sister, had been placed. Third wife added for the rich Majalengka husband, and you would bet he might not stop there.

A husband of course was supposed to obtain his wife's free approval for any subsequent marriage. All wives were supposed to be treated in precisely the same way; financially equally supported, housed in the same manner and style. Conjugal duties were supposed to be undertaken equally, without any discrimination.

Hal's sister had in fact never met wife No. 2; never been over to Majalengka. Bets were off on anything better with the third wife now.

It was an unfortunate state of affairs; pretty routine in Indonesia. At the table telling it Hal could only bow her head.

Hal's daughter, this No. 2 Wife’s niece, clung so very tight to her aunt’s legs, using her scarf to dry her tears and cover her face, before she returned to her clasping. The girl begged rescue. Begged to return back home with her aunt. 

At the pesantren classes were difficult. Many of the girls had passages, some even a number of chapters of the Quran already by heart, before they had even entered the school. The chief program of the pesantrens was to learn the whole of the holy book by heart.

Ten years of age; late-thirties the aunt. The child in the woman, unavoidably suggested.