They napped.
Not the way Chew napped, with one eye on the till, one ear on the door, one hand on White Horse cigarettes even in sleep, because if he smokes during nap he might set mynah bird on fire. Not the way Ah Lan napped, head on chopping board, fly swatter in hand even in sleep.
The kind of nap that only happens after a confession, when the weight you have been carrying for years is finally on another person's floor, not just yours.
Arjun and Lina — Arun to her, always Arun, because Lina said Arjun is name boss calls, Arun is name she calls when no one listening — lay on the cot that was pushed near the big low window. The afternoon heat of Georgetown had turned to that soft, gold-dust hour where the light comes in sideways through the louvers and makes everything look older than it is, like photo.
In 1970, when Arjun first got this room behind bar, ground floor, behind kitchen, same cot, same mirror cracked same corner, same calendar 1972 pretty girl faded pink, same fan clicking every seventh turn since 1941, window was small, high, like prison. Chew, in 1977, after Arjun came back second time, after Lina came February 1977 from Kuala Ketil with canvas bag address sweated off palm, moved cot near big low window that faced back lane and sundry shop pink tube light, because Chew said, "Small room needs big window, otherwise you think you still in paddy field or spare parts shop."
Gold-dust hour light came in sideways, through green louvers that never quite shut, making stripes on floor still damp in corner where monsoon found way every year, on cot that was made for one but made for two, on Nasi Kandar plates empty, washed and shining only to be returned tomorrow for lunch at 2:15 to Muthu who saved last ladle darkest bottom and extra cabbage for Lina without asking.
1977 calendar didn't move. May 1977, Miss Malaysia in swimsuit, faded pink, smile that had seen too many inventories. Antique mirror didn't judge. Mirror cracked same corner where Arjun dropped it 1971 leaving for KL and 1977 coming back, same crack, same place, like mirror remembered to crack same place, like bar remembered. Mirror showed them now, not boy who left twice and girl who ran once, but two kids from nowhere who had found room that was actually neat and clean, because Lina cleaned it that morning while Arjun carried ice.
He slept with arm over eyes, because light even gold-dust light was too bright after confession about Bagan Jermal and Mak Mandin and mother and shop and photo face-down face-up. She slept curled on side, long hair spread over his pillow that smelled of lime peel because he kept lime peel in cupboard to keep ants away, breathing finally even. No rain girl. No bar boy. Just two kids from nowhere.
Her hand, crescent moon scar on wrist from zinc table edge when she fought father in Kuala Ketil, not from Ah Man, different scar same wrist, rested on his chest, where Seiko watch stopped at 3:15 would be if he wore it, but he didn't wear while napping because ticking kept her awake.
His hand, small scar under thumb from bicycle chain age twelve, rested on her waist, not grabbing, just resting, open, invitation not claim, same hand he left open on floor between them when he said here you don't need rain to come in.
Fan clicked every seventh turn. Outside, Georgetown afternoon soft, trishaws creaking past with newspapers, mosque on Acheh Street sweeping steps, cats in back lane not fighting because too hot even for cats.
When Arjun woke, skyline had changed.
Outside that big low window, Weld Quay was no longer white and sweating. White is morning color, noon color, 2:15 Nasi Kandar queue color. Evening color is gold then pink then neon. Sun had slipped behind godowns that were built in 1900 for rice and now held nothing but memories and rats.
Neon started to flick everywhere, Red Lion, Carlsberg, Lucky Beer, Anchor, the pink tube light of Ah Hock sundry shop next door buzzing like tired mosquito, same pink that made Lina's room wall sweaty look pink at night.
Saturday night.
Downstairs, Chew's bar was already alive, even though it was only 7 PM. Saturday was night bar didn't need to wake, it woke itself.
Saturday was night the night-creepers came. Not regulars in singlets and slippers who drank Tiger at room temperature because cold beer gave headache, who came at 5 PM and left at 7 PM to go home to wife. Night-creepers.
Well-dressed ones — clerks from Beach Street who had changed into batik shirts that were too tight because they bought them when they were thinner, Chinese towkays with mistresses who were younger and looked bored, sailors who had money for one night because ship leaves tomorrow, nurses from GH who laughed too loud because they dealt with blood all day and needed loud laugh at night, teachers from St. Xavier's who came without wives.
Shoes shined. Hair oiled with Brylcreem that smelled like lime and gasoline. Perfume that could not cover sweat, but tried, like tamarind whiskey tries to cover cheap spirit but makes it more honest.
Chew loved Saturday because till heavy. Chew hated Saturday because floor sticky and mynah bird shouted No rooms! Too much and had to be covered with cloth and still shouted.
And Saturday was night of guest singer.
She arrived at eight, in sparkling Chinese cheongsam — emerald red, Chew called it emerald red even though emerald is green, but this was red that was green in some light, sequins catching fan light that clicked every seventh turn. Not young, not old. Kind of woman who had sung in three countries — Penang, Singapore, Ipoh, which counts as three countries if you sang in them — and knew all words to all sad songs and knew which table tipped for sad songs and which tipped for happy.
Behind her, 3-piece band — Ah Keat on keys, keyboard that was missing C sharp and he played around it so you didn't notice unless you knew, Mat on drums, old, deaf in one ear, so he played loud, little Steven with his guitar that was missing one string, low E, so he tuned everything higher and it sounded sad even when happy.
Chew paid them $50 a night, plus two beers each, plus extra if they played until 12. He said, "You play Casablanca, you get extra beer, because that song makes people drink more."
When she opened her mouth and sang Casablanca, whole bar stopped breathing for second.
I fell in love with you watching Casablanca...
Song from 1942 film, but in 1978 Georgetown, it was 1977 song, because Bertie Higgins sang it and every bar in Penang sang it, because Penang loves song about place that is far and love that is gone, because Penang is place built on leaving.
Her voice was not young, not old, like cheongsam, like woman who had sung in three countries, like tamarind whiskey bitter then sweet at end if you waited. She sang, "Back row at the show, lights go low..." and towkays with mistresses looked at mistresses and mistresses looked away, because mistresses don't like songs about love that stays.
Arjun was behind counter now. Chew had gone to his mahjong table in back room behind kitchen, where Ah Lan shouted about wind and where money changed hands faster than beer. That meant bar was his. Arjun's bar, same bar Whitby built as lie in 1936 as WHITBY HOUSE EST. 1936, same Chengal bar supposed to be teak, same bar Muthu taught tamarind whiskey to kill bite, same bar Chew kept through Japanese, British, Emergency, same bar that remembered.
Three part-time waitresses — Ah Mei, Sheila, and Rosie — in tight black skirts, not uniform white like Lina, but Saturday uniform, darting between tables with Tiger and Anchor and whisky soda, shouting orders in Hokkien and Malay and English all at once, because Saturday orders are not orders, they are emergencies.
It was going to be one long night. Non-stop flowing of drinks. Till would be heavy. Floor would be sticky. Fan would click every seventh turn and still lose seven minutes every day and Chew would never fix it.
Lina played smart.
She wore her cleanest blouse, not white uniform, but light yellow blouse with small flowers that she kept in biro where all other clothes kept, paper under leg, that she saved for Saturday because Saturday is night you can be not waitress who never asks for help but girl who can be looked at. Lipstick just a little redder than afternoon, not red like cheongsam singer, but red enough that when she drank water, glass had mark.
She was supposed to be helping Sheila, who was new and spilled Anchor on towkay's shoes and towkay shouted. But every time orders overwhelmed, which was every three minutes on Saturday, she slipped into counter, that narrow space behind wood where only one person supposed to fit, where Chew said only one person fit because Chengal bar built in 1936 for one bartender, not two, especially not one bartender and one girl in clean blouse.
"Arun, three Tiger, one stout," she would say, too close, hip finding his as she reached for bottle opener that was always on his side, not hers, because he put it there on purpose that afternoon after nap, after confession, after gold-dust light.
He would not move away. He couldn't. If he moved, he would spill, and also he didn't want.
Behind was word they used. Behind means I am behind you, move. But on Saturday, behind meant I am behind you, don't move.
"Behind," she would whisper later, and brush past him to get to ice box, body grazing his back, hair smelling of rain even though dry, because she washed hair with rainwater she collected in bucket in back lane, because rainwater makes hair soft, she told him once, fact not complaint.
It was game only they knew. In bar full of men looking at woman in sparkling cheongsam emerald red slit to knee sequins catching fan light, only one man was looking at girl in cheap blouse light yellow small flowers, and only one girl was dancing without moving, behind counter where only one person supposed to fit.
To be continued
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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