The American brick problem

My father learned about Malaysian rubber from me, and began burning it to make bricks

By Tash Aw   122

A few days ago, when the storms were at their worst and the rains fell in heavy silken sheets, my father came home very late in the evening. His scooter snaked its way across the yard, carving patterns in the mud until it came to a halt outside the front door. He kicked off his sodden Batas and shuffled into the house, padding softly across the floorboards. Over the rich sour odour of his damp clothes I could smell the perfume of liquor, and I knew he had been drinking at the samsu stall again. He placed a parcel on…

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