Short Walks in Sumatra / 4

(fourth in a series of ten)

Nights at the hotel were lucky. When it was quiet the proprietress would sit with whoever was there and talk. She never drank alcohol, only coffee. “I’d give the place away,” she said.

The proprietress, as she spoke, pressed frangipani blooms rapturously against her face as though to eat them. Later, I picked up one of the flowers: it was entirely scentless.

In America she’d been a waitress. In Sumatra her foreign birth prohibited her from officially running the province.

Well, perhaps her sphere of influence was not really so large--but the queen of a small nation is not necessarily less grand.

She wore vintage cat’s eye glasses. With rhinestones. She had the expression of an accountant and the body of a goddess.

On those lucky quiet nights the proprietress told us tales of perfectly evil people, of reprobates utterly debauched, of downright snakes. Then the doorbell would ring and—speak of the devil! The proprietress rose with a cry of joy to greet the evildoer, who promptly accepted our warm invitation for a beer and a chat.

How respectfully we listened as they discussed their charity work with the indigenous population and we sat thinking, “He does kind of look like a pedophile” or “She should have known better than to attempt such a complicated sexual position on a public staircase!”

All this was a good reminder for me, since generally I think I’m the only liar.