A Pair of Jeans and other stories by Qaisra Shahraz Read Free Book Online Page B

privacy to enjoy both the sun and the breeze. Also it is safe here, away from the snakes from the jungle. Oh don’t worry, Madam, there are no snakes in this house!” He hastened to explain, seeing the look of horror on her face. “My mother always sat here – her favourite spot in the house and told us stories in the afternoons whilst preparing vegetables for the dinner- you see - there is always a cool breeze up here – Madam, come and sit on this stool, close your eyes and imagine that you are in my mother’s days. Is my English ok? Come Madam. You won’t fall!” he patted the stool. “It’s strong. Don’t worry - it will not break – women of all sizes have sat on it.” He chuckled, this time his body doubled over. “There was this big American lady …” he stopped himself, drawing in his cheeks filled with silent laughter, remembering his manners.
    Margery politely looked away not relishing hearing about the incident of the unfortunate American woman and instead gazed at the huge flapper-like leaves of the tall trees. Robert placed his arm protectively around her shoulders.
    Aziza tiptoed back into the room, watched them for a few seconds –praying that they would not dawdle too long in the house. Abdul Hamat did not see her pull a small parcel tied in an old rag from under the mattress of the bed and then scurry to stand outside the other door, softly calling. “Ibrahim - Soon! I will get the key.”
    Still on tiptoe she went down to the kitchen and dropped the two small parcels containing money and jewellery into a small aluminium pot and propped it near the door.
    Hand trembling, she waited listening to their footsteps.
    On the balcony, Margery wrinkled her nose. “I can smell wood burning, Robert.”
    “That Madam Wales - is our Aziza cooking the dinner down below.” Their host was quick to explain.” Come and see our lovely kitchen. I am sure it’s different from yours. We still like to use wood like the old days- In this house we don’t like modern cookers. You can taste our special stew later.”
    Margery reluctantly got up from the stool, “I could sit here all day, Bob,” She mourned, wanting to savour the scene for a few more minutes.
    They followed their host to the kitchen on a lower level, gingerly standing on the wooden steps. Margery wondered whether they could have strangers inspecting their house in Bangor like this. The thought horrified her.
    From the steps, their eyes skirted over the sooty paintwork, the kitchen items dangling from the walls and the open fire with its aluminium cooking pot on top. Kitchen furniture consisted of two wall cabinets crammed with crockery, a stool and one old wooden chair.
    Aziza stepped into the kitchen from the other little door - her face paling at the two visitors staring curiously down at the piece of burning wood in her hand. Her face breaking into a polite smile and eyes steady she put the burning log back under the cooking pot.
    Abdul Hamat addressed Aziza in Malay. Keeping her eyes on the fire, she muttered something back. Margery and Robert looked away, unable to understand but feeling the tension in the air.
    Their amiable host turned to them, pinning a bright smile to his face.
    “Here, Sir, take a picture. You can show your friends back home what an old-fashioned Malay kitchen looks like.”
    Margery now wished to be gone. The body language, the expression, and the look in the woman’s eyes spelt to even the dimmest that they were intruders and had no right to be patronisingly surveying her kitchen and taking snaps!
    Margery caught her breath. “We have stepped into a domestic volcano!” flashed the alarming thought. Immediately, she dismissed it as her imagination running away with her.
    Aziza was puffing air into the hearth to fan the flames.
    “Does it take a long time to light?” Margery asked, now disliking the host. It wasn’t he who had to cook this way!
    “Oh no, Madam Wales. Only a few seconds.” Abdul Hamat breezily