Read Online Rising Abruptly by Gisèle Villeneuve - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Gisèle Villeneuve
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distraught housekeeper.
Instead, I duck into the heat of the afternoon. In three minutes, my T-shirt is soaked. Walk along the waterfront. South China Sea. The romance of the tropics. Fish being off-loaded and processed. Offal and other garbage thrown into the sea. Amines, Sab once told me, are a class of compounds found in rotting fish, which accounts for that characteristic smell. Amines prosper here.
Kids swim in a lagoon. I would join the sea urchins if the water appeared less polluted. But I drag my soaked ass back to the hotel. Guzzle a beer in the bar. Go back to my cooler. Wrap a towel around my head, slip under the sheet and have a snooze to catch up from the previous sleepless nights.
In the evening, I eat laksa, fried squid and curried prawn. Nurse four beers. Watch the locals at their lives. Friendly, helpful, always smiling, nobody hassles you, nobody seems to quarrel. Malays, Chinese, tribespeople. A large Muslim population; the men wearing black felt caps and the women colourful hijab-like scarves.
Still hot and humid. The unbearable country of the single season. Youâre dripping wet within minutes of walking. Men in impeccably laundered white clothes are resting beside dilapidated houses. At the night market, I buy a pineapple and a durian. The pineapple, because itâs so perfectly ripe, the scent as never I have smelled it, I had to have it. The durian, because of its reputation. A scary-looking fruit, durian, the size of a honeydew melon. This one specimen weighs five pounds on the scale.
Native to Malaysia, the vendor proudly reveals. A dozen species available. Tonight, only this one kind. He further impresses me with the fact that it is the only fruit tigerly enough for tigers to crave. And he stresses that I must hide Tigerâs favourite in my small pack. Not allowed in hotels, airports or airplanes. Because of the fruitâs foul odour once opened. Or because, I tell him, wielded as a weapon, the hard spiky shell could cause serious bodily harm. In turn, he quips that anyone unfortunate enough to fall asleep under a durian tree wakes up with a sorry tale to tell. With a twinkle in his eye, the vendor hands me the original forbidden fruit.
At the speed of a West Coast slug, swollen groin making walking uncomfortable, I ambulate back to the hotel taking in the pleasant side of the city. Broken sidewalks and open sewers. From everything rise effluvia of vegetation rot, rendered so very sharp in the infernal heat. Sab walking by my side. Cool, uncomplicated. Cerebral Sab not hampered by emotional baggage. She may speak brusquely, but she also knows how to listen. And always ready to share knowledge. To many, her exact logical mind pegs her as a cold fish. Those people fail to appreciate how low-maintenance she is. And that, above all, is so refreshing. And at the moment, I could use a large dose of Sabâs coolness. In this suffocating country, where could she be?
In the hotel lobby, several whorish-looking girls are loitering. Ah, the Sultry Woman of the tropics. This hotel either moonlights as a brothel in the evening or a wedding reception is in progress in the ballroom.
Up at seven A.M. to take advantage of cool morning. Cool? Not a chance! Two steps from the equator, the country has but one season of sameness.
I should phone the bungalow again. Sab may be back from collecting, slouched in one of the big chairs on her veranda, pahit in hand, watching the molasses river flow by, wondering where I might be. At least I have good news. The red welts are more subdued after the night in my air-conditioned room. And my dick is pale again. Though unfortunately, the growth on my groin is not abating.
Eat dim sun in a small Chinese shop around the corner from the hotel. The only coolness provided by the ceiling fan. More like churning river water to fool you into believing itâs drinkable. On the wall, posters warn about a cholera epidemic.
Stroll to a square lined with minibuses.
Instead, I duck into the heat of the afternoon. In three minutes, my T-shirt is soaked. Walk along the waterfront. South China Sea. The romance of the tropics. Fish being off-loaded and processed. Offal and other garbage thrown into the sea. Amines, Sab once told me, are a class of compounds found in rotting fish, which accounts for that characteristic smell. Amines prosper here.
Kids swim in a lagoon. I would join the sea urchins if the water appeared less polluted. But I drag my soaked ass back to the hotel. Guzzle a beer in the bar. Go back to my cooler. Wrap a towel around my head, slip under the sheet and have a snooze to catch up from the previous sleepless nights.
In the evening, I eat laksa, fried squid and curried prawn. Nurse four beers. Watch the locals at their lives. Friendly, helpful, always smiling, nobody hassles you, nobody seems to quarrel. Malays, Chinese, tribespeople. A large Muslim population; the men wearing black felt caps and the women colourful hijab-like scarves.
Still hot and humid. The unbearable country of the single season. Youâre dripping wet within minutes of walking. Men in impeccably laundered white clothes are resting beside dilapidated houses. At the night market, I buy a pineapple and a durian. The pineapple, because itâs so perfectly ripe, the scent as never I have smelled it, I had to have it. The durian, because of its reputation. A scary-looking fruit, durian, the size of a honeydew melon. This one specimen weighs five pounds on the scale.
Native to Malaysia, the vendor proudly reveals. A dozen species available. Tonight, only this one kind. He further impresses me with the fact that it is the only fruit tigerly enough for tigers to crave. And he stresses that I must hide Tigerâs favourite in my small pack. Not allowed in hotels, airports or airplanes. Because of the fruitâs foul odour once opened. Or because, I tell him, wielded as a weapon, the hard spiky shell could cause serious bodily harm. In turn, he quips that anyone unfortunate enough to fall asleep under a durian tree wakes up with a sorry tale to tell. With a twinkle in his eye, the vendor hands me the original forbidden fruit.
At the speed of a West Coast slug, swollen groin making walking uncomfortable, I ambulate back to the hotel taking in the pleasant side of the city. Broken sidewalks and open sewers. From everything rise effluvia of vegetation rot, rendered so very sharp in the infernal heat. Sab walking by my side. Cool, uncomplicated. Cerebral Sab not hampered by emotional baggage. She may speak brusquely, but she also knows how to listen. And always ready to share knowledge. To many, her exact logical mind pegs her as a cold fish. Those people fail to appreciate how low-maintenance she is. And that, above all, is so refreshing. And at the moment, I could use a large dose of Sabâs coolness. In this suffocating country, where could she be?
In the hotel lobby, several whorish-looking girls are loitering. Ah, the Sultry Woman of the tropics. This hotel either moonlights as a brothel in the evening or a wedding reception is in progress in the ballroom.
Up at seven A.M. to take advantage of cool morning. Cool? Not a chance! Two steps from the equator, the country has but one season of sameness.
I should phone the bungalow again. Sab may be back from collecting, slouched in one of the big chairs on her veranda, pahit in hand, watching the molasses river flow by, wondering where I might be. At least I have good news. The red welts are more subdued after the night in my air-conditioned room. And my dick is pale again. Though unfortunately, the growth on my groin is not abating.
Eat dim sun in a small Chinese shop around the corner from the hotel. The only coolness provided by the ceiling fan. More like churning river water to fool you into believing itâs drinkable. On the wall, posters warn about a cholera epidemic.
Stroll to a square lined with minibuses.
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