from Hotel Asia(Penguin)

‘Hullo Joe.’ I sat with a little Chinese with lizard’s eyes. He seized my wrist. ‘My name Pheu Pong.’ Stumps of yellow teeth littered his mouth.

‘Not Joe,’ I rescued my hand. ‘Me from Australia.’

‘Ahh. O-sea!’ He ran an eye over me. Around us, an assortment of Asians were eating strenuously. They filled the little shed with lapping noises. ‘You want hit, O-sea?’

‘Hit?’

‘You know . . . hit.’ He tapped his nose and raised one eyebrow.

‘Oh yes.’ I did the same. ‘Er, not before dinner.’

His eyes unfolded with surprise. ‘What you want, Joe?’

‘Me just looking.’ I signaled the waiter, who disappeared.

‘Ahh. O-sea tooris. Come, I show you REAL Penang.’

‘Where?’

‘Ah Hooi Hotel.’

‘Well, I, er . . .’

‘Why not?’

‘My bus is waiting.’

‘Sure.’ He sneered and leant forward. His breath could have killed nine out of ten household pests. ‘You run along the nice bus.’

‘All right.’ I stood up. ‘Let’s see this hotel.’

He led me down countless laneways reeking of boiled cabbage. No wonder the locals were so thin. We passed an ancient woman skinning a cat. ‘Nice cat.’ I said. She hissed at me.

The entrance to the Ah Hooi was lined with girls in sleeping attire. Pong grinned. ‘With or without girl, O-sea?’

‘Whichever’s cheaper.’

We entered a room containing three chairs and a huge man. He looked like someone had scribbled on him with biro. His arms were streaked with collapsed veins.

‘My name Ah Ghee,’ he said.

‘You have my sympathy.’

‘I order tea,’ said Pong.

Ghee’s face went tight. ‘We must hurry!’

‘After tea!’ The two men exchanged little domestic glances. We waited in a strained silence.

‘Have you had Chinese tea, O-sea?’

‘Not really.’

‘How you like it?’

‘With water.’ I took the cup.

‘I afraid it not look good old Brittish cuppa,’ said Ghee. ‘You must pardon our ways.’

It was cold, and tasted like ashtray fillings soaked in urine.

‘Good?’

‘Terrible!’

Pong grinned. ‘Of course.’ He gazed out the window. ‘You know, before War I work for Blitish gov’ment. If I give my Blitish boss cup of Chinese tea, he spit it on floor. ‘“That shit!” he shout.’ Pong’s face crumpled into a silent laugh. ‘You know, that only time boss show feeling. Blitish very good men of business. We Chinese. . .’

I looked at my watch. ‘I must go.’

‘We hurry!’ said Ghee.

Pong glared at him. ‘Shut up!’ Ghee blinked and sucked in his lips. ‘One moment, O-sea.’ Pong dug into a huge pocket and produced what could have been fish and chips wrapped in Chinese newspaper. ‘Half-kilo, O-sea.’

‘Oh yes. What is it?’

‘Brown sugar.’

‘Oh great! More tea!’ I slapped my knees and stood up. ‘Well, I’ll show myself out.’

Pong jumped down from his chair and pointed a small knife at my face. I froze. Stainless steel. Made in Taiwan. He’d stopped smiling. I sat slowly, wishing I’d kept with the bus tour.

‘Glad you staying.’ He handed me the fish and chips. ‘Open.’

Inside, wrapped in plastic was a lot of what looked like powdered milk. ‘Five thousand dollar, O-sea. Good stuff!’

‘Er, stuff?’

Pong stiffened in the face. His little black eyes scanned me from their sockets. ‘It smack, O-sea.’

‘Smack?’

Ghee sighed and lumbered to his feet. His body loomed over the room like an odour of boiled cabbage. ‘Bummer, man,’ he said to Pong. ‘He not dealer!’

Pong sneered. ‘Yes! He play dumb! No worry.’

Ghee turned to me. ‘This isn’t your bag, is it, man?’

‘I don’t have a bag. Er, what exactly . . .?’

‘See!’ He shook a streaked fist at Pong. ‘Bummer!’ They began shouting in Chinese. I felt in my pocket for a phrase book.

Suddenly Pong turned his knife on me. Ghee flung open the door. ‘Get going, man!’ I escaped into the street. Neon signs blazed over crowds of evening strollers. I joined them feeling angry and confused. People shouldn’t go around pulling knives, even on tourists. It ruins holidays. The police should be told. I spotted a traffic policeman amongst a squadron of cyclists.

‘Excuse me.’

He was swathed in strings of bullets and gun holsters. A pistol hung from each hip. he stared, chewing gum, through dark glasses. The ugly Malaysian.

‘I’d like to report a knife.’ He sniffed and began directing traffic, waving his arms in a graceful semaphore. ‘Hullo?’ A cyclist skidded around me. I ducked back to the pavement and hailed a rickshaw. ‘To police station!’

‘Hokay!’ He sped away, his bamboo legs going like pistons.

Captain Long sat behind his bare desk. There were sunglasses where his eyes should have been. A negligible chin sloped up to his bulging forehead.

‘You say dese men were at de Ah Hooi, isn’t it?’

‘Isn’t what?’

‘De Ah Hooi.’

‘Oh, yes.’

He tried to dwiddle a pencil moustache. ‘Look, ol man, everting undah control.’ The moustache buckled up at the ends. ‘Dese men vork for us, don’ yu know.’

‘For you?’

He shook out a handkerchief and blew a cool C sharp. ‘Ve ah after some blighters in drug racket.’

‘Drugs?’

He nodded, and two windows flashed in his glasses. I swallowed a small slice of fingernail. ‘Gosh.’

He stood up and offered a bejeweled hand. ‘You may go on your vay vithou’ fuss.’ I shook his rings. A sudden thought rippled across his brow. ‘I trus’ yu vill keep dis to youself?’

‘You can count on me.’ My heels moved instinctively together.

I wandered outside feeling more confused than ever. Worse, I was lost. I took out my map, and wrestled it under control with a few karate chops.

‘Shoeshine, O-sea?!’ cried a little boy built like a stick insect.

I smiled and offered my foot. ‘OK, son.’ He set down a box of tools and got to work. I stood watching the passing traffic and musing. I suppose I’d overreacted. It’s too easy to be suspicious in a strange country. Below me, my shoe was coming apart under a skilled blade.

 

(Published in Hotel Asia; An Anthology of Australian Literary Travelling to the East. Ed. Robin Gerster. Penguin. 1995)