This person would no doubt be an interesting acquaintance. Perhaps this person would also be a
sinkeh
, unable to speak either Malay or Dutch, let alone Javanese.
I had an address for a house located in one of the small alleys of Betawi. I was just entering the filthy and dirty alley when a Chinese girl emerged out of the alleyway’s mouth. She was slim, almost skinny, pretty, slit-eyed, and pale. She walked quickly without looking about. She looked straight ahead as she went along. My own neck also suddenly became stiff.
My eyes reached out to grasp her beauty. I climbed down off my bike. I stopped. She passed me and my head swiveled around to watch her. The hinge hadn’t rusted. God and all creation seemed to whisper to me—admire her beauty, her eyes, the way she walks. And once again I became enthralled by the allure of a woman! Why were her lips so pale? And how silken and clear was her skin, as if you could see right through it!
I wanted to chase after her and introduce myself. No! I knew that her people generally looked down upon Natives. We just passed in the lane, that’s all.
I walked my bicycle through the lane. I felt like a horse suddenly burdened with a fully loaded cart. That woman was so pretty, so interesting. Her strange narrow eyes just made her more exciting.
I found the address. It was a tiny bamboo place, stuck tightly in between two others. Did she come from this place? Her beauty was such a frail beauty. Could such a disgusting environment as this produce someone so lovely? Ah, why won’t that image of the white-gowned Chinese girl disappear from my mind?
A Chinese woman, wearing black pants, a black blouse, and tiny black shoes, shuffled out to greet me. Her Malay was strange and barely understandable. Her voice was loud and jarring.
“Mr. Ang San Mei?” she repeated my question. “There is no Mr. Ang San Mei here.”
“Do you know where I can find him?”
“Don’t know. There is Ang San Mei here, but not Mister. She Mistress Ang.” She looked at me with suspicious eyes, obviously wishing that I had never arrived. And obviously hoping that the conversation would end there.
So Ang San Mei was a woman. Mistress Ang.
The old woman didn’t invite me inside, let alone offer a chair. And she didn’t ask any questions either. I tried to find a way to continue the conversation. She didn’t understand. And when she spoke, I didn’t understand. Because I never thought I would become a mute, I hadn’t studied sign language. Neither had she. So all we could do was stand there and stare at each other. Good God! She’d been here who knows how many years and still couldn’t speak Malay!
I took out the envelope, which had a message written in Chinese on the outside. For Ang San Mei. She couldn’t read. Illiterate to the marrow of her bones. She took the letter from my hand and went inside and didn’t come out again. Oh, no! And what about me? Was I supposed just to turn around and leave without a good-bye or anything?
I was still stunned as I stood there holding my beautiful bike. The foul stench from the drains was already starting to make its presence felt. I picked up my bike and started to maneuver it around in the narrow alley. It scraped a fence. When I turned around, the pretty narrow-eyed girl was there in front of me. Now it wasn’t my neck but hers that seemed fixed in its place by a rusted hinge. I nodded as I left the front yard. I glanced back and saw her go inside. So she was Ang San Mei. I had no reason to go back. I kept walking my bike. I slowed down. Surely something would happen.
Yes, from behind me came shouts.
“Mista, Mista, kum beck, pliiiiiiiis!”
I stopped. I wasn’t wrong. English! I turned around and she waved to me to come. As if hypnotized, I picked up my bike and walked toward her, step by step. Her slender arm was held outto greet me. Her voice sounded so beautiful as she spoke in English: “I’m Ang San Mei. I’ve been waiting for you for so
sinkeh
, unable to speak either Malay or Dutch, let alone Javanese.
I had an address for a house located in one of the small alleys of Betawi. I was just entering the filthy and dirty alley when a Chinese girl emerged out of the alleyway’s mouth. She was slim, almost skinny, pretty, slit-eyed, and pale. She walked quickly without looking about. She looked straight ahead as she went along. My own neck also suddenly became stiff.
My eyes reached out to grasp her beauty. I climbed down off my bike. I stopped. She passed me and my head swiveled around to watch her. The hinge hadn’t rusted. God and all creation seemed to whisper to me—admire her beauty, her eyes, the way she walks. And once again I became enthralled by the allure of a woman! Why were her lips so pale? And how silken and clear was her skin, as if you could see right through it!
I wanted to chase after her and introduce myself. No! I knew that her people generally looked down upon Natives. We just passed in the lane, that’s all.
I walked my bicycle through the lane. I felt like a horse suddenly burdened with a fully loaded cart. That woman was so pretty, so interesting. Her strange narrow eyes just made her more exciting.
I found the address. It was a tiny bamboo place, stuck tightly in between two others. Did she come from this place? Her beauty was such a frail beauty. Could such a disgusting environment as this produce someone so lovely? Ah, why won’t that image of the white-gowned Chinese girl disappear from my mind?
A Chinese woman, wearing black pants, a black blouse, and tiny black shoes, shuffled out to greet me. Her Malay was strange and barely understandable. Her voice was loud and jarring.
“Mr. Ang San Mei?” she repeated my question. “There is no Mr. Ang San Mei here.”
“Do you know where I can find him?”
“Don’t know. There is Ang San Mei here, but not Mister. She Mistress Ang.” She looked at me with suspicious eyes, obviously wishing that I had never arrived. And obviously hoping that the conversation would end there.
So Ang San Mei was a woman. Mistress Ang.
The old woman didn’t invite me inside, let alone offer a chair. And she didn’t ask any questions either. I tried to find a way to continue the conversation. She didn’t understand. And when she spoke, I didn’t understand. Because I never thought I would become a mute, I hadn’t studied sign language. Neither had she. So all we could do was stand there and stare at each other. Good God! She’d been here who knows how many years and still couldn’t speak Malay!
I took out the envelope, which had a message written in Chinese on the outside. For Ang San Mei. She couldn’t read. Illiterate to the marrow of her bones. She took the letter from my hand and went inside and didn’t come out again. Oh, no! And what about me? Was I supposed just to turn around and leave without a good-bye or anything?
I was still stunned as I stood there holding my beautiful bike. The foul stench from the drains was already starting to make its presence felt. I picked up my bike and started to maneuver it around in the narrow alley. It scraped a fence. When I turned around, the pretty narrow-eyed girl was there in front of me. Now it wasn’t my neck but hers that seemed fixed in its place by a rusted hinge. I nodded as I left the front yard. I glanced back and saw her go inside. So she was Ang San Mei. I had no reason to go back. I kept walking my bike. I slowed down. Surely something would happen.
Yes, from behind me came shouts.
“Mista, Mista, kum beck, pliiiiiiiis!”
I stopped. I wasn’t wrong. English! I turned around and she waved to me to come. As if hypnotized, I picked up my bike and walked toward her, step by step. Her slender arm was held outto greet me. Her voice sounded so beautiful as she spoke in English: “I’m Ang San Mei. I’ve been waiting for you for so
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