Soeliram,
Anak manis djanganlah ditjioem;
Kalaoe ditjioem merahlah pipinja.

“Sweet child, let her not be kissed,” she sings in her native tongue, “or ruddy will her cheeks turn: soeliram...” Her voice tinkles and her spirit soars, as the bundle in her arms latches onto her full brown breast. The child’s eyes are wide and sincere, sparkling like burnished bronze under candlelight, as mother and baby commune through song and shared body-being. “Anak manis,” she warbles again, “sweet child...” Her own eyes gleam happily, as baby’s slowly close, softly urged into slumber by the stroking of a maternal finger. She gently places him in the cot, folds over the blankets, stows her breast back into her bra, and buttons up her faded floral-print dress.

She looks around, the fading moment of shared beauty belied by the tawdry reality of her bedsit. Black mould adorns the corner of the ceiling above the sink, and the curtains are not quite large enough to keep out the fading summer light and the view of the grey smoke-stacked city outside.

Soeliram,
Kalaoe toean dapat kawan baroe,
Kawan jang lama ditinggalkan djangan.

She sighs at the irony of the words: “If you find a new friend, let not the former be forgotten: soeliram...” And, as if on cue, a sharp whistle outside the window summons her. Checking baby one last time, she lets herself out the door, tiptoes barefoot down two flights of rough stairs, into the bin yard by the rear alleyway.

Ignoring the stink of refuse, their lips mash desperately together. “Emiel,” she mutters into his bearded face. “Snel – quick. Maybe baby no long sleep,” she stumbles in a language not her own. She grasps at the erection already straining at his breeches, which they release with a joint fumble. There is a brief glimpse of his tumescent penis, before he yanks the front of her dress upwards, pushes her panty gusset to one side with a gnarled hand, and slams his shaft into her.

She squeals at the unprepared penetration, wrapping her arms tightly around his buttocks so as to hold him fast inside till the pain fades. “What a hot fucking pussy, godverdomme!” marvels Emiel, as his penis begins to burrow in and out of her nascent wetness. “Dirty filthy immigrant cunt, desperate to get fucked while your bloke’s off God-knows-where trying to scrape together a living. That’s it, isn’t it?”

She understands little of what he is saying, but latches onto the few words which seem to bring him pleasure: “Fuck my pussy, Emiel,” she echoes, “neuk m’n poesje, good like that, ja?” Emiel’s member seems to appreciate her linguistic efforts, stiffening as it pounds harder into her, his glans beating brutally against her cervix, balls slapping noisily against her skin. She is not sure why she does this: the money helps keep the baby, to be sure; but perhaps also, the physical touch, though hardly tenderness, is some consolation for her lost, lonely, foreign soul.