hates. “The big deal is that this is my juice.” That night, as I lay in bed, Julia asleep next to me, it occurred to me that I did not even know whether the juice had come with sugar or without.
The following Saturday, Julia and I encountered Shah on the footbridge. I was surprised to see him there though not surprised at what his presence meant. He was wearing a pair of large white pants that flapped like sails in the evening breeze and, as usual, a purple shirt. As we passed him, he looked away, thus acknowledging my presence, and I, in deference to his wishes as well as bridge etiquette, said nothing.
“Poor fellow,” Julia remarked as we descended the steps at the other end.
“It does not justify his behavior,” I said vehemently, for I sensedsomething in her tone, particularly in her use of the word fellow , which made Shah seem hapless, free of guile.
The next morning, Sunday, we were awakened early by the sounds of screaming, and when we dressed quickly and stepped out of our apartment, we found our neighbors gathered on the walkway outside, pressed against the railing that curved around the courtyard like theater patrons looking down from their box seats. As we wiggled our way in next to them, we saw that all around Nine-Story Building, the tenants stood in similar rows, everyone peering downward, at where a body lay in the courtyard below, face down, arms out, like a doll flung aside by a bored child.
“But this is becoming too much,” complained our neighbor Prahkash. “Why must they always come here to do themselves in? I pay the rent, not they. We should begin charging admission.” He spit over the rail, and I watched the drop fall and disappear.
The next day, we read in the newspaper that the victim was a Chinese man in his late forties who had just returned from a gambling trip to Australia, where he had lost the equivalent of fifty thousand U.S. dollars, a sum of money that it had taken his family five years to save. They were preparing to start a business, a karaoke restaurant, and the man, impatient to begin, had flown to Sydney, lost everything at the blackjack tables, and returned to Malaysia broke, taking a taxi from the airport in Kuala Lumpur back to Malacca. He was dropped at the night market, where he drank a cup of coffee at one of the stalls, leaving the suitcase behind when he departed. After seeing the man’s picture in the paper the next day, the stall owner had announced that he had the man’s suitcase, the suitcase that had, presumably, been used to tote the fifty thousand dollars on its one-way journey. The story of the abandoned suitcase had appeared as a separate article, next to a picture of the stall owner holding it aloft.
“Did you see the suitcase in the newspaper?” a neighbor inquired several days later as Julia and I passed her in the hall.
“Yes. The poor man,” I replied sourly. “Misplaced his suitcase as well.”
She paused and then, not unkindly, said, “Ours is the only building tall enough. It can’t be helped, you see.” She was trying to prepare me, letting me know that this was not an anomaly, but perhaps I looked puzzled or in need of further convincing, for she said it again, with the same air of resignation that tenants used to discuss the smell of urine in the elevator: ours was the only building tall enough—she paused—tall enough to ensure success. That was the word she used— success —from which I understood that somebody who jumped and lived would also have to suffer the humiliation of failure.
Julia said nothing during this exchange, but after we closed our door, she turned to me angrily and said, “Why do you have to act that way?”
“What way?” I asked, feigning innocence.
“Like you’re the only one who cares what happened to that man. Like she’s a jerk for even talking about him.”
“She was not talking about him,” I replied. “She was talking about his suitcase.”
“People are never just talking about a
The following Saturday, Julia and I encountered Shah on the footbridge. I was surprised to see him there though not surprised at what his presence meant. He was wearing a pair of large white pants that flapped like sails in the evening breeze and, as usual, a purple shirt. As we passed him, he looked away, thus acknowledging my presence, and I, in deference to his wishes as well as bridge etiquette, said nothing.
“Poor fellow,” Julia remarked as we descended the steps at the other end.
“It does not justify his behavior,” I said vehemently, for I sensedsomething in her tone, particularly in her use of the word fellow , which made Shah seem hapless, free of guile.
The next morning, Sunday, we were awakened early by the sounds of screaming, and when we dressed quickly and stepped out of our apartment, we found our neighbors gathered on the walkway outside, pressed against the railing that curved around the courtyard like theater patrons looking down from their box seats. As we wiggled our way in next to them, we saw that all around Nine-Story Building, the tenants stood in similar rows, everyone peering downward, at where a body lay in the courtyard below, face down, arms out, like a doll flung aside by a bored child.
“But this is becoming too much,” complained our neighbor Prahkash. “Why must they always come here to do themselves in? I pay the rent, not they. We should begin charging admission.” He spit over the rail, and I watched the drop fall and disappear.
The next day, we read in the newspaper that the victim was a Chinese man in his late forties who had just returned from a gambling trip to Australia, where he had lost the equivalent of fifty thousand U.S. dollars, a sum of money that it had taken his family five years to save. They were preparing to start a business, a karaoke restaurant, and the man, impatient to begin, had flown to Sydney, lost everything at the blackjack tables, and returned to Malaysia broke, taking a taxi from the airport in Kuala Lumpur back to Malacca. He was dropped at the night market, where he drank a cup of coffee at one of the stalls, leaving the suitcase behind when he departed. After seeing the man’s picture in the paper the next day, the stall owner had announced that he had the man’s suitcase, the suitcase that had, presumably, been used to tote the fifty thousand dollars on its one-way journey. The story of the abandoned suitcase had appeared as a separate article, next to a picture of the stall owner holding it aloft.
“Did you see the suitcase in the newspaper?” a neighbor inquired several days later as Julia and I passed her in the hall.
“Yes. The poor man,” I replied sourly. “Misplaced his suitcase as well.”
She paused and then, not unkindly, said, “Ours is the only building tall enough. It can’t be helped, you see.” She was trying to prepare me, letting me know that this was not an anomaly, but perhaps I looked puzzled or in need of further convincing, for she said it again, with the same air of resignation that tenants used to discuss the smell of urine in the elevator: ours was the only building tall enough—she paused—tall enough to ensure success. That was the word she used— success —from which I understood that somebody who jumped and lived would also have to suffer the humiliation of failure.
Julia said nothing during this exchange, but after we closed our door, she turned to me angrily and said, “Why do you have to act that way?”
“What way?” I asked, feigning innocence.
“Like you’re the only one who cares what happened to that man. Like she’s a jerk for even talking about him.”
“She was not talking about him,” I replied. “She was talking about his suitcase.”
“People are never just talking about a
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