Balinese Books

“How much for books?” Tom asked the old lady, figuring it best to start negotiations with a general inquiry.

“Not all books the same,” replied the Indonesian used bookstore owner, sitting perpendicularly to him on the floor with her back against a bookshelf.

“Um, okay, what about this one?” He lowered the book to her eyes, already having seen the 75,000 Rupiah price tag on the inside page. Looking the book over, checking for any pricing marks, she repeated back what he already knew.

“Whoa. Why so much? In Cambodia, it might cost 20,000 Rupiah!” Tom was always one to stretch a vendor to her limits, pushing emotional buttons, going for bottom dollar on everything. Short of flat out theft, nothing was off limits to him, and he plainly enjoyed the dynamic interactions.

“Oh no!” she answered, obviously caught off guard by such a low initial offering. “This book is very nice. It says 75,000 Rupiah, and the U.S. price is 13 dollars,” she continued, looking over the back cover.

“Well, we’re not in the U.S., and the book is not new.”

“Where are you from?” she lightened the conversation.

“America.”

“Oh, America,” she said contemplatively. Tom was always hesitant to say his nationality during negotiations, believing that some would charge him more.

“Where are you from?” he politely followed.

“Bali!” she nearly yelled, turning her whole body towards him, her mellow demeanor quickly awakened. Tom pounced on the opportunity to build rapport.

“OK!” he laughed. “Many people here are from Java and Timor.”

“I’m from Singaraja.”

“Sure, I know Singaraja. Up North, by Lovina? I never made it there. Too far on motorcycle. So how long have you lived in Kuta?”

“Only 8 years.”

“Why did you move to Kuta?”

“Oh, I met my husband. I have 5 children, 15 grandchildren,” she lit up, shifting to her favorite topic, after picking up on Tom’s engaging, pleasant tone.

“Wow, that’s a lot! How old are you?” Tom had learned that in Asia, many people appreciated such direct personal questions. Elderly women in particular seemed to be without the vanity that makes them bashful about age. In fact, many old women he’d met were boastful, as if to brag about their accomplishments.

“74! I could be your grandma!” she said.

“Yes, you can be my grandma! Maybe I can get special discount on book?” Tom unabashedly asked.

“Okay, I give you a discount. 60,000 Rupiah.”

“That’s the discount everyone pays. You’re my grandma! I want a special discount!” Tom pleaded. “Look at the book. It has grease all over it,” he said with a mildly disgusted countenance, as he wiped the cover with his thumb. As with all his favorite negotiations, a game was played where he talked about the poor quality of a product and the vendor built it up to be a wonderful purchase.

“60,000 is good price. I have tissue.” She pulled from her purse a square cloth, very soft and of fine material like that used to clean eyeglasses. Tom cleaned the book cover with the cloth, then handed it back to the old lady, while calculatingly staring at the book as if deliberating its worth.

“What is this, Vagabonding?” she continued the discussion, pointing all her fingers at the book’s title. Tom noticed her hand was very bony, with the loose, inflexible skin of age. Her fingernails were thick and yellow. Most noticeable of all was a deep concave trapezoidal shape that formed on the back her hand between the bones leading from the wrist up to her two end fingers. He nearly asked her what was wrong with her hand before thinking it rude. She curled her fingers, retracted her hand, and the trapezoid went away.

“Vagabonding isn’t really a word, but vagabond is,” he said, covering the book title’s last three letters with his thumb. “It’s somebody who travels for a long time, all over, living and enjoying different places, sometimes working all over the world. Not a regular tourist,” he defined, thinking of romantic notions of his own travels.

“My grandchildren!” she proudly showed him a picture of two young women, turning the conversation back to herself. Presently, it was almost as if she and Tom were each locked in their own little distinct amusements, Tom daydreaming of his adventurous travels, and the old lady beaming with pride in her grandchildren.

“They are really beautiful!” Tom immediately snapped out of it, back to the task of buttering up the woman for a good deal on the book. “How old are they? Maybe I marry one!”

The old lady laughed at his playfulness and said their ages were 20 and 21.

“Perfect!” said Tom. “I make you very special offer since you’re my grandma. I pay 35,000 Rupiah for the book and I marry one of them!” He was sure this would tug at her heart enough to get a lower price from her. He was hoping for 40,000 as her counter offer.

Suddenly, and quite unexpectedly (to Tom, that is), the old woman’s face turned serious. Her eyes, before bright and lively, were now narrowed and cold. Her body stiffened, as if she were readying herself to stand up. She wasn’t looking directly at Tom, but he could see her sudden shift in mind and body, almost like when a school kid gets pushed by the bully one too many times and readies for a fight. Tom wasn’t sure what was wrong, but he was positive he must have breached some Balinese protocol. Maybe he took things too far, crossing a line of business and familiarity. Maybe mentioning money and marrying the granddaughter in the same sentence was the most insensitive, arrogant, and offensive thing he could have said at that moment.

Tom, still standing near her, put the book on the nearest shelf, keeping his eyes on her the whole time. He tried his best to show a respectful look, but his embarrassment was evident. Suppressing a nervous laugh, he could feel the blood rush to his cheeks, even though he had no idea if he should be embarrassed or fearful. His mind was racing. Subconsciously Tom moved one foot back, widening his stance, not knowing if he was about to get pummeled. He thought of running out of the small bookstore right then. Maybe he could put his hands on her shoulders to keep her sitting on the floor. No that wouldn’t be an appropriate response either.

At that moment, with a thousand thoughts and scenarios flashing across his mind, his adrenaline widening his pupils, the old lady uprighted herself an<ErrorDocument 504 /index.php?error=504>