563296589345

made cotton shirts and almost incredibly cheap German clocks–comforted her somewhat after the
barbarity of the bazaar. They were about to climb the steps when a slim youth of twenty, damnably
dressed in a longyi, blue cricket blazer and bright yellow shoes, with his hair parted and greased
‘Ingaleik fashion’, detached himself from the crowd and came after them. He greeted Flory with a
small awkward movement as though restraining himself from shikoing.
‘What is it?’ Flory said.
‘Letter, sir.’ He produced a grubby envelope.
‘Would you excuse me?’ Flory said to Elizabeth, opening the letter. It was from Ma Hla May–or
rather, it had been written for her and she had signed it with a cross–and it demanded fifty rupees, in a
vaguely menacing manner.
Flory pulled the youth aside. ‘You speak English? Tell Ma Hla May I’ll see about this later. And
tell her that if she tries blackmailing me she won’t get another pice. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And now go away. Don’t follow me about, or there’ll be trouble.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘A clerk wanting a job,’ Flory explained to Elizabeth as they went up the steps. ‘They come
bothering one at all hours.’ And he reflected that the tone of the letter was curious, for he had not
expected Ma Hla May to begin blackmailing him so soon; however, he had not time at the moment to
wonder what it might mean.
They went into the shop, which seemed dark after the outer air. Li Yeik, who was sitting smoking
among his baskets of merchandise–there was no counter–hobbled eagerly forward when he saw who
had come in. Flory was a friend of his. He was an old bent-kneed man dressed in blue, wearing a
pigtail, with a chinless yellow face, all cheek-bones, like a benevolent skull. He greeted Flory with
nasal honking noises which he intended for Burmese, and at once hobbled to the back of the shop to
call for refreshments. There was a cool sweetish smell of opium. Long strips of red paper with black
lettering were pasted on the walls, and at one side there was a little altar with a portrait of two large,
serene-looking people in embroidered robes, and two sticks of incense smouldering in front of it.
Two Chinese women, one old, one a girl, were sitting on a mat rolling cigarettes with maize straw
and tobacco like chopped horsehair. They wore black silk trousers, and their feet, with bulging,
swollen insteps, were crammed into red-heeled wooden slippers no bigger than a doll’s. A naked
child was crawling slowly about the floor like a large yellow frog.
‘Do look at those women’s feet!’ Elizabeth whispered as soon as Li Yeik’s back was turned. ‘Isn’t
it simply dreadful! How do they get them like that? Surely it isn’t natural?’
‘No, they deform them artificially. It’s going out in China, I believe, but the people here are behind
the times. Old Li Yeik’s pigtail is another anachronism. Those small feet are beautiful according to
Chinese ideas.’
‘Beautiful! They’re so horrible I can hardly look at them. These people must be absolute savages!’
‘Oh no! They’re highly civilised; more civilised man we are, in my opinion. Beauty’s all a matter
of taste. There are a people in this country called the Palaungs who admire long necks in women. The