Detective Fruit Seller

Most of these things have either been renovated, moved or changed into something else. I admit that I pretty much had a hate-hate relationship with the bank, but at least it was literally at the gate of my building. Now it is a micro-hotel, a new trend that sees small hotels being placed in communities. I didn’t know that it was being built, but it seems the homeowners in my community have been up in arms and blocked it for over a year. However, now it’s open, it doesn’t appear to have caused any disruption. The hotel complex also includes a new fruit and veg store, a takeout counter (which is quite good), and an alcohol shop. The influx of money has seen the management of my fairly anarchic community undertake “improvements.” Mostly this involves chopping down a lot of trees, though they are still unable to buy litter bins for the garden as they are “inappropriate.”　

I had mixed feelings about the new fruit shop. Sure, it had refrigeration and air con, but since the days of the pandemic, I had been going to a crazy late-night (at some points, it was open 24 hours) fruit and vegetable store. It was the only place you could go to without scanning a health app, mostly, I suspect, because the main patrons were elderly and not likely to have a smartphone.　

The store across the street was wedged in at the front of a Sports Lottery counter in the back room, though I don’t think I saw anyone buying tickets. In fine weather, they spread their wares outside, which I was glad of, since despite my constant complaints that they were selling fresh food, no one could stop the boss from smoking inside.　

One evening, I went over to find the boss sporting a new navy-blue jacket. It had the word “convict” in English on the outside pocket on a removable Velcro tab. I asked him if he knew what it meant, suggesting that perhaps the word wasn’t suitable for someone in the retail trade. He grinned and removed it, turning it around to reveal the word for convict in Chinese. He thought it was cool, he said.　

But the relationship between me and him was decidedly cool (mostly due to the smoking), until one cold Saturday winter evening, on a veg-buying mission, the boss grabbed me. He showed me a small plastic card wallet full of important ID cards, belonging to a foreigner. Did I know this person, he asked? I did not. It’s like a foreigner you just met saying they have a cousin in London, and do you know them?　

But among the cards, which included an ATM card, an international school parent ID and a diplomatic ID card for the Spanish Embassy, was an entry card for my community. There was no phone number or address. Thus we set off an Odyssey to track down the foreigner. First we tried the door card to find out which building it was (luckily there are only three).　

Then we tried asking the security guards if they knew who they were, and where they lived. There are quite a few foreign residents in this compound, as it is comparatively cheap and has a decent location. Usually they are into everyone’s business. He replied with confidence that it was someone on the 14th floor. We knocked on a few doors, to much suspicion, and explained the undertaking. Eventually, a lady, much older than the one in the photo, answered. She was Italian, and the wrong person.　

But she directed us to the 10th floor, where again, we tried a few doors. Eventually, I spied a door with what looked like Spanish elements adorning it. It was the right one, and we returned the crucial ID cards to the owner, who if I’m honest, didn’t seem quite as grateful as I think they should have been, given the trouble and time we had gone to in our detective work.　

The fruit boss and me were thus forever bonded. So I was sad to return after the October holidays to find them gone, only bare shelves left. Back to the hometown due to “issues,” I was told.　

But in good news, it has reopened under new ownership. It’s less chaotic, but the new boss still smokes.