The Bridge at Gang Pinggir

The cart’s handles fit Tan Ah Kow’s palms the way his father’s tools had—worn smooth where hands pressed. He’d oiled them last night while his eldest son swept the workshop floor. The buffalo stood patient in her traces. The camphor-wood cabinet in the cart was his best work this month: dovetailed corners, brass hinges from the Javanese metalsmith, the wood rubbed until it caught light. Tuesday. Market day. The harbor would be full by seven. Tan checked the ropes, tested each knot. His son appeared in the doorway, barefoot. “Beh khì chhut-chhī?“ “Before the Dutch buyers arrive.” He switched to Malay. “Open the workshop at eight. If Lim Ah Seng comes for his altar table, tell him Thursday.” His son nodded, solemn with the responsibility. Tan clicked his tongue. The buffalo leaned into her harness. The cart wheels found the stone of Gang Pinggir. Smoke rose from kitchen fires. Tan smelled ginger, shrimp paste, burnt sugar. Mrs. Lim sat outside her provisions shop, grinding something in…