long
unwashed that it looked as if it had been coated with candle wax,
and she was wearing a thin cotton dress that stopped just short of
her bare feet, which even in the dark he could see were incredibly
dirty. It was a cool night for the time of year, but she didn’t
seem to notice. Guinness wondered how long it had been since she
had noticed anything.
Finally he found the street—really, not much
more than an alley; you could almost have stretched your arms out
and touched the buildings on either side—and kept going right on
past. He didn’t want to make his approach until he was a little
clearer about what he would come up against down there. After all,
he couldn’t even be sure he’d find anybody home. Another two
blocks, and he would double back and have a look from the other
side.
When he got that far, he discovered himself
in what, anywhere else, probably would have been called
“Chinatown,” except that the few yellowish brown faces in evidence
looked more Polynesian than Chinese—in all likelihood they were
Moluccans, political refugees from the Dutch surrender of the Spice
Islands. Guinness went into an open food shop occupying one corner
of his street; the walls in front and to the outside were simply
notched out, so he had an unobscured view.
He sat down at the tiny five chair counter
and ordered a plate of something, which turned out to be mainly
saffron rice with a few pieces of unidentifiable meat on top, and
pretended to listen to a couple of ancient gentlemen who were
arguing violently in a language that sounded like nothing he had
ever heard before. They paid no attention to him. Even the
proprietor seemed to be deliberately ignoring him. That was
fine.
The food shop had a “146” painted in yellow
overhead on the side street, so Number 23 would be across. A couple
of women were standing in the middle of the passage, their arms
folded across their breasts, talking. Only one window on that side
showed any illumination, and it was approximately where he would
have expected Number 23 to be. The woman with her back to it was
small, almost frail looking, and her hair was cut very short,
forming a little cap around her head. At that distance, and in the
decidedly poor light, there was no more you could say with any
conviction. The other one was taller, but even more obscured.
Guinness discovered that he had finished his
rice and what was apparently chicken. He ordered a glass of tea,
poured a teaspoon of sugar into it, and drank it off. The food had
been a mistake—he was beginning to feel sleepy again.
He paid, counting out the amount from his
slender supply of florins, and took a final look around to prove to
himself for perhaps the twentieth time since leaving the hotel that
there were no familiar faces in evidence. He stepped into the side
street and started walking slowly toward the small woman with the
pixie haircut. No one seemed to pay any attention.
“Yes?” She came up to him as he stood in
front of her doorway, staring up at the yellow numbers painted on
the brickwork overhead. “I can help you, maybe?”
He diverted his attention to her, curious
about her rather nasal accent and the fact that she had thought to
address him in English, and noticed that she didn’t automatically
smile the moment his eyes touched her. He regarded that as a point
in her favor and smiled himself.
“I hope so. Is this your place?”
“Yes. Would you like to come inside?”
She opened the door for him, and he stepped
into a tiny room that was nicer than he had expected. There was a
carpet on the floor, a chest of drawers, a mirror, and a small bed
covered with a bright Madras spread. Another door led to a
bathroom, hardly larger than a phone booth—there were even a few
chairs. Perhaps this was something else that the Europeans did
better. He stood by the chest of drawers while the woman drew an
outside pair of drapes; the big picture window and the bar stool
were, in any case, hidden behind a
unwashed that it looked as if it had been coated with candle wax,
and she was wearing a thin cotton dress that stopped just short of
her bare feet, which even in the dark he could see were incredibly
dirty. It was a cool night for the time of year, but she didn’t
seem to notice. Guinness wondered how long it had been since she
had noticed anything.
Finally he found the street—really, not much
more than an alley; you could almost have stretched your arms out
and touched the buildings on either side—and kept going right on
past. He didn’t want to make his approach until he was a little
clearer about what he would come up against down there. After all,
he couldn’t even be sure he’d find anybody home. Another two
blocks, and he would double back and have a look from the other
side.
When he got that far, he discovered himself
in what, anywhere else, probably would have been called
“Chinatown,” except that the few yellowish brown faces in evidence
looked more Polynesian than Chinese—in all likelihood they were
Moluccans, political refugees from the Dutch surrender of the Spice
Islands. Guinness went into an open food shop occupying one corner
of his street; the walls in front and to the outside were simply
notched out, so he had an unobscured view.
He sat down at the tiny five chair counter
and ordered a plate of something, which turned out to be mainly
saffron rice with a few pieces of unidentifiable meat on top, and
pretended to listen to a couple of ancient gentlemen who were
arguing violently in a language that sounded like nothing he had
ever heard before. They paid no attention to him. Even the
proprietor seemed to be deliberately ignoring him. That was
fine.
The food shop had a “146” painted in yellow
overhead on the side street, so Number 23 would be across. A couple
of women were standing in the middle of the passage, their arms
folded across their breasts, talking. Only one window on that side
showed any illumination, and it was approximately where he would
have expected Number 23 to be. The woman with her back to it was
small, almost frail looking, and her hair was cut very short,
forming a little cap around her head. At that distance, and in the
decidedly poor light, there was no more you could say with any
conviction. The other one was taller, but even more obscured.
Guinness discovered that he had finished his
rice and what was apparently chicken. He ordered a glass of tea,
poured a teaspoon of sugar into it, and drank it off. The food had
been a mistake—he was beginning to feel sleepy again.
He paid, counting out the amount from his
slender supply of florins, and took a final look around to prove to
himself for perhaps the twentieth time since leaving the hotel that
there were no familiar faces in evidence. He stepped into the side
street and started walking slowly toward the small woman with the
pixie haircut. No one seemed to pay any attention.
“Yes?” She came up to him as he stood in
front of her doorway, staring up at the yellow numbers painted on
the brickwork overhead. “I can help you, maybe?”
He diverted his attention to her, curious
about her rather nasal accent and the fact that she had thought to
address him in English, and noticed that she didn’t automatically
smile the moment his eyes touched her. He regarded that as a point
in her favor and smiled himself.
“I hope so. Is this your place?”
“Yes. Would you like to come inside?”
She opened the door for him, and he stepped
into a tiny room that was nicer than he had expected. There was a
carpet on the floor, a chest of drawers, a mirror, and a small bed
covered with a bright Madras spread. Another door led to a
bathroom, hardly larger than a phone booth—there were even a few
chairs. Perhaps this was something else that the Europeans did
better. He stood by the chest of drawers while the woman drew an
outside pair of drapes; the big picture window and the bar stool
were, in any case, hidden behind a
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