Continued
Muthu's extra cabbage. He gave extra to Lina without asking. Arjun noticed because he notices everything Lina pretends not to notice. Muthu gave extra because he saw shoulder touching on low plastic stools, and in Penang, shoulder touching at Muthu's at 2:15 is as good as announcement in Sin Chew Jit Poh.
"Do you think Muthu knows?" Lina asked.
"Everyone knows," Arjun said. "Ah Lan knows. Mr. Chew knows. Mynah bird knows. Only we thought we were hiding."
"Are we hiding?"
"No. We were inventory that was short and now we are inventory that is full. Mr. Chew crossed out."
She squeezed hand. Yellow stain from curry on her fingers mixed with brown from tamarind on his, making new color, like kuah campur. All this conversation tasted better over the two packets of Nasi Kandar they brought back to the room.
Outside, evening creeping in. In 1977 Georgetown, everything changing, but Hotel Malaya Bar kept time seven minutes slow and always remembering. You could hear evening call to prayer from Acheh Street mosque, not loud, but soft, like it didn't want to wake nap. You could hear ferry horn 6:30, low and mournful, same ferry that could take you home in hour if you wanted, same ferry that Arjun waited at three days in 1977 thinking mother would come.
He didn't wait anymore. He posted letter yesterday, May 6th, 15 cent stamp, post office man said Butterworth arrive tomorrow, mothers always still there. He believed man, because post office man had mustache like Muthu and mustache like that should be trusted.
Lina had posted letter too, to Kuala Ketil temple, incense money for mother, not to father, to temple, because temple doesn't say father would never, temple just takes incense and lets smoke go.
Two letters, two ferries, same sea.
She leaned head against wall, plaster cool, and said, "In my room, I can hear bar closing at night. I can hear you washing glasses. I like that sound. It means I'm not in Kuala Ketil anymore."
He said, "In my room, I can hear your door in morning when you go buy kuih. 6:15 every day, small sound, like it doesn't want to wake Ah Hock. I like that sound too. It means you stayed."
He left hand open on floor between them. Invitation, not claim.
She put hand in his. Yellow and brown.
Confession done over the two packets of Nasi Kandar they brought back to the room.
Not with tears, but with Nasi Kandar on fingers and two empty rooms that suddenly felt less empty, because empty plus empty, if you put them together right, is not double empty, but full, like kuah campur, like tamarind whiskey that is bitter then sweet at end if you wait, like bar that started as lie in 1936 and became home because people stayed long enough to make it home.
At 7 PM, they went downstairs, hands washed, but smell faint, like memory, and Mr. Chew looked at them and didn't count limes, just said, "Good, you ate. Now work. Tonight many people, Muthu's son brought friends, they want Batch 3."
And they worked, side by side, behind Chengal bar that was supposed to be teak, under fan that clicked every seventh turn since 1941, under clock that lost seven minutes and never fixed, in bar that remembered how to be home for people who ran.
And at Muthu's corner next day, at 2:15, two low plastic stools were empty, saved without anyone saving, because Muthu remembered.
Morning inventory next day, May 9th, was different.
Mr. Chew did three sharp raps at 7 AM, but he knocked on their two doors, her room above sundry shop and his room behind bar, not just bar door. He knew where they lived, because he owned building and because he counted.
He had clipboard, but also had two small packets of kuih, one for each, from morning market, because Ah Lan said if you knock at 7 AM you should bring kuih, otherwise you are rude.
Lina opened door, hair hastily tied, but with pearl hairpin still, wall sweating behind her, mattress on floor, nail with two shirts, biro with paper under leg. Chew looked and didn't say empty, said, "Good, you have window, can see bar lights if lean. Good for safety."
Arjun opened door, same cot, same mirror cracked same corner, calendar 1972 pretty girl faded pink, photo of mother face-up now since May 5th. Chew looked and didn't say small, said, "Good, you have same fan noise since 1941. Some people pay good money just to vanish for a night. Good you don't."
They went downstairs, ate kuih, did inventory.
Limes 30->10, very good business. Tamarind 100g->50g, still testing and remembering. Gula Melaka gone, need buy. Whiskey House Pour gone, need buy. Glasses 22->22, miracle.
Chew wrote at bottom, small blue Bic, so small that couldn't be read without glasses: "People - 2 staff who went for Nasi Kandar at 2:15 and came back shoulder touching. Inventory - full. Love - enough to be short tomorrow too, but in good way, like kuah campur."
He closed clipboard.
At noon, Muthu's queue went around corner, Indians, Chinese, Malays, all sweating together. At 2:15, Arjun and Lina sat on low plastic stools, shoulders touching, rice steaming, extra cabbage for Lina without asking, last ladle kuah campur darkest bottom of pot for Arjun.
Muthu smiled into pot.
"Same?" he asked.
"Same," they said together, and laughed, and ate like people who used to not get enough but now get enough, and know that enough is more than enough if you share.
That is confession. Not words, but rice. Not tears, but hands stained yellow and brown making new color.
The island kept its doors open for those about to go. Until someone lingers and turns transit into belonging. And some homes have two empty rooms that are not empty anymore because you can hear bar closing and door opening and know you stayed.
The sundry shop downstairs, Ah Hock's, sold everything. Dried anchovies, Tiger Balm, notebooks with ships, White Horse cigarettes, rubber bands, incense, and also gossip, free.
Ah Hock was seventy, from Hokkien family that came Penang 1920, and he had seen girls come and go above his shop. He charged Lina $30 a month, no visitors after 10 PM, no cooking, because he said fire upstairs burns downstairs, and also because he liked to pretend he was strict.
But he liked Lina because she paid on time, first of month, folded money, and because she never asked for help, like Arjun.
When she came back from Nasi Kandar that Monday at 3 PM, shoulder touching Arjun, hands stained, Ah Hock looked from his counter, where he was stacking anchovies, and said, "Wah, today you eat with friend ah?"
Lina said, "Muthu gave extra cabbage."
Ah Hock said, "Muthu never give extra unless he likes you. He likes you two. Good."
That was Ah Hock way of blessing.
Upstairs, wall sweated. One window facing back lane where cats fought. One mattress. One nail where two shirts hung. One small biro where all other clothes kept, paper under leg. Enough, because it was hers. You knocked before you came in — that was the rule. That rule, no one came in without knocking, was written on paper and taped to door, in Malay and Chinese, because in Kuala Ketil, no one knocked.
She had written it first week, after Ah Hock's son came up without knocking to fix light. She shouted, small girl shouting loud, "Knock!" Son knocked, embarrassed. Ah Hock came up, read paper, nodded, said, "Good, you teach my son manners. He needs."
Arjun's room behind bar, Mr. Chew gave him 1977, same cot upstairs just different room, same mirror cracked, same calendar 1972 pretty girl, same fan noise since 1941. He liked that it was small. He didn't trust big places. Big places left. Big places like KL where he went 1971-77 and found only that big places have more places to leave, and more people to not remember you.
He kept photo under mirror face-down since 1977, face-up since May 5th when Lina turned it with infinite care. Photo of mother, younger, stern, beautiful in way Butterworth mothers beautiful, hair oiled, sari crisp, eyes that could see through any lie, like she knew son would leave and come back and leave and come back.
He never asked for another room. He liked small. Small is safe. Small is like cot made for one that you make for two, negotiation of elbows and knees.
That afternoon, after confession on floor, after open hand, after yellow and brown making new color, they sat until 6 PM, when Ah Lan shouted Hokkien mee ready and Mr. Chew knocked three sharp raps on kitchen door, not counting what missing, but saying dinner ready.
They went downstairs, hands washed, but smell of kuah campur still faint, like memory that stays after you wash three times, like tamarind whiskey that lingers bitter then sweet at end if you wait.
And that is how bar remembers confession. Not in ledger. In extra cabbage. In last ladle. In open hand. In two empty rooms that are not empty.
End of Part 5 Next Part 6
DISCLAIMER
This work is a work of pure fiction. All characters, names, incidents, dialogues, and locations including Hotel Malaya Bar, Mr. Chew, Lina, Arun, Shankar and all its regulars, staff and patrons are entirely fictitious and products of the author's imagination.
Any resemblance or connection to any actual place, whether still standing today, renovated, demolished, or bombed and destroyed during the Second World War, is purely coincidental.
Any resemblance to any person, whether alive, dead, buried, cremated, or committed to the sea, is also purely coincidental and unintentional.
No identification with actual persons, living or deceased, or with any existing establishment, is intended or should be inferred.
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