Jalan Jalan by Mike Stoner

Author:Mike Stoner
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-8048-4629-5
Publisher: Tuttle Publishing

WALNUT

T he new club is right next door to Iguana. We stand there looking at it, nodding at the appearance of this new neon-signed place. The sun drizzles its heat over us. Charles is in a dark suit with a dark tie shot through with bright red swirls. His hair is slicked back. Sunglasses hide his personality. On the other side of him is a short old man whose face is made up of wrinkles joined together by peaks of leathery flesh. He reminds me of a walnut. One of his eyes is misted over milky white. He is wearing a plain brown short-sleeved shirt over a beige-and-black sarong which hangs just above sandaled leather feet. His toes are adorned with long, dirt-encrusted toenails. Over his shoulder hangs a multicoloured woven bag. I’m guessing he’s the dukun. There is also a group of men in business suits and sunglasses behind us. Beautiful girls in short skirts and T-shirts with the name of the club on them mingle and walk up and down the street, handing out flyers and free packets of Davidoff cigarettes.

We are standing, looking up at the sign which slants up the side of the doorway, flashing its name in red, white and blue:

MEMPHIS.

‘Elvis. My tribute,’ says Charles to no one and everyone.

One of the suited men pats him on the back and says something in Chinese. They shake hands and Charles invites everyone to follow him into the club, which we do. The girls in short skirts are left outside to carry on promoting the chic of lung cancer and the promises of the club.

Two of Charles’ armed guards from the house are acting as bouncers and push open the double doors. We gather in a small entrance foyer and Charles holds his hand up, signalling for us to wait. All sunglasses are removed and placed inside suit jackets. Charles then looks to the dukun and nods at him, his hand ushering the old man towards another set of double doors. Walnut Face steps forward and the bodyguards open them for him. Inside, red and green laser lights twirl, move up and down the walls and reflect and refract off mirrors and spinning glass balls hanging over a large polished and shining dance floor. Music plays quietly in the background.

Before the old man enters he pulls his shoulder bag to his front and his hand gropes around in it. Out comes a little leather pouch, as worn as his face. He pulls it open, turns it upside down and shakes sand over the threshold of the main room. While he does this he mutters some sort of chant and then he burps. I look to Charles and the others in suits to see if we’re all going to smile and wink knowingly at each other and have a secret joke at the crazy old boy’s expense. All I get is a wall of furrowed brows and serious expressions and some nodding of approval.

Fuck, it wasn’t even an impressive burp.

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