For a man must
go somewhere in thirty-five years. Or do something. There is a story then,
in Sing Lee. Not a particularly long story. Life stories are sometimes no
longer than a single line--a sentence, even a phrase. So if one could find
out where Sing Lee lives one would have a story perhaps a whole sentence
long.
"Mukee kai, Sing Lee."
A nod of the thin head.
"Business good?"
Another nod.
"Pretty tired, washing, ironing all day, eh?"
A nod.
"When are you going to put in a laundry machine?"
A shake of the thin head.
"When are you going to quit, Sing Lee?"
Another shake of the thin head.
"You're not very gabby tonight, Sing."
A dignified answer to this: "I thinking."
"What about, Sing Lee?"
A faint smile. The smile seems to set Sing Lee in motion. It comes from
behind the automaton. It is perhaps Sing Lee's first gesture of life in
weeks.
"You don't mind my sitting here and smoking a pipe, eh?"
* * * * *
The minutes pass. Sing Lee stands up. He turns on a small electric light.
This is a concession. This done, he opens a drawer behind the counter and
removes a little bronze casket. The casket is placed on the counter.
Slowly as if in a deep dream Sing Lee lights a match and holds it inside
the casket.
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