Banging the Monkey

by Tod A

  “So what’s this big festival everyone’s gearing up for?” I said.

  “Galung Gong,” Monty said. “Madunese New Year. It’s at the end of the month.”

  “What’s with the papier mâché monsters?”

  “Rakasa,” Kubu said.

  “Demons,” Raj said. “Every temple builds their own. Then on the final night of the festival they parade them through the streets with the temple marching band. It’s all very wild and chaotic.”

  “Rakasa wake up dead spirits living underground,” Kubu said. “Spirits fly in the air. Next day is Kum Sati. You must stay in home quietly, or demons will catch you and eat your soul.”

  “Sounds unpleasant,” I said.

  “The Madunese take it very seriously,” Raj said. “No noise, no lights, no music.”

  “Indeed,” Monty said. “If you’re caught outside on Kum Sati you are beaten by the priests.”

  “Reminds me of Catholic school,” I said. “You’d think that having your soul devoured by demons would be punishment enough.”

  “Kum Sati is my favorite Madunese holiday,” Monty said. “You won’t believe how quiet it can be without all the motorbikes. Even the airport is closed. No flights at all. And since it’s new moon, the island is pitch black. Quite eerie. And this year it falls on Christmas Day.”

  “Ja,” Kubu said. “Most auspicious.”

  The sky deepened as the last boats arrived from Joro and back-island, swelling the crowds on the tatty wooden boardwalk. As darkness fell, the buzz of music and voices rose from below us. Lights winked on along the strip. A waiter brought menus. I had no appetite.

  “I believe I’ll have the aloo gajar,” Monty said. “Kubu has convinced me to go vegetarian.”

  “Hitler was a vegetarian,” Cooney said.

  “Why are you always talking about Nazis, man?” I said, irritably.

  “Because they is us.”

  “What ever can you mean?” Monty said.

  “It happened before. It can happen again.”

  “Highly unlikely,” Monty said. “It’s amazing to me that anyone took Hitler seriously in the first place. I mean, really. This nasty little man, with his absurd appearance and his deranged theories, convinces an entire nation to follow him happily toward oblivion? It seems completely far-fetched.”

  “If only they’d admitted him to art school,” Raj said. “In retrospect, Hitler the painter would have been the better choice.”

  “Indeed, his paintings weren’t half bad. A bit dreary perhaps.”

  “You’re fooling yourselves,” Cooney said. He had a weird look in his eye. “That evil is inside us, each and every one.”

  “You certainly know how to liven up an evening, Mr Coons,” Monty sighed.

  He turned to me. “So how’s the masterpiece coming along, Tolstoy? Raj tells us you’re writing a novel.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s coming along.”

  I hadn’t written a paragraph all week.

  “What’s it about? Can you give us the gist?” Monty asked.

  “Yes, do tell, Mark. I’ve been so curious,” Raj said.

  “Yes, do tell, Cowboy,” Cooney mocked.

  “Well, it’s a black comedy, I guess. Or a comic tragedy. I don’t know what it is yet. I’m still feeling my way.”

  “Bold strokes, then,” Monty said.

  “Okay,” I said, warily. I wasn’t sure I was ready to share, but I thought telling the story might clarify some things in my mind. I gave them the skeleton of the narrative: the comedian, the accident, and all the rest.

  “So that’s it?” Cooney said when I had finished. “That’s your book?”

  “Yeah, basically. I’m just not sure how to end it yet.”

  “A comedian who can’t tell a joke?” Cooney laughed. “You’re nuttier than me if you think anyone’s going to lay down cash for that, mate.”

  “The man has just shared his work, Cooney,” Raj said. “Show a little respect.”

  “I think it sounds fascinating, Mark,” Monty said. “I can’t wait to read it.”

  “Fascinating,” Kubu said.

  “I’m only telling it like it is,” Cooney said. “Life’s depressing enough. Nobody wants to be reminded of it. They want fantasy, glamor, exotic locales. Screw the philosophy. What you need is action and blood. A bit of the old in-out.”

  “Perhaps Mark is trying to create something a bit deeper than that,” Monty said.

  “Deeper, my ass,” Cooney snorted. “Why hide behind art? The Odyssey is just a tall tale told by a sailor on a pussy-run. Classic! Sex, drugs, and violence. That’s what the punters want.”

  “What do you know about literature?” Monty said. “I’ve seen your bookshelf.”

  “I think I’ll go for a walk,” I said, placing some rupees on the table.

  “See what you’ve done, Cooney?” Raj said.

  “Nah, I just want a look around,” I said.

  “Don’t be long, Mark,” Monty said. “We don’t want to miss Miss Kala.”

  The boardwalk was packed with revelers jostling shoulder to shoulder. Music blared from the bars, and the bar girls beckoned. It was a flesh parade—grifters and gophers, predators and prey. The marks were already boozed-up and ready to get down. A part of me wanted to join them—give in to my reptile brain, get liquored and loose—but the rest of me wanted nothing to do with it.

  Cooney was right. Nobody in this day and age wanted his nose rubbed in the misery of modern life. Cogitation was a luxury of the rich, and even the rich had no time for it anymore—they were too busy juggling off-shore accounts. The average clown was desperately treading water, trying to keep his head above the surface. Everyone was looking for escape, not existential angst.

  What insights could I offer that hadn’t been better written by bolder and brighter minds than mine? Hadn’t everything worth saying already been said? What I really wanted was recognition, some tangible proof that I wasn’t the loser everyone took me for. Deep down, it wasn’t immortality I craved—it was vindication. What good is immortality? You never live long enough to enjoy it.

  My feet carried me away from the throng and into the sandy back lanes, where the air smelled of cooking fires and coconut oil. Here, there was peace—families eating dinner, grandmothers washing clothes, children laughing. People peered from their houses as I passed. I followed the sound of chanting to a small temple where insects swarmed around florescent lights. A solitary woman, crooked and bent, reached up to place an offering of fruit on the altar. Then she knelt, her head bowed, her hands clasped. I would have given anything at that moment for a fraction of her faith. Smoke rose from a splay of incense toward the stars that wavered in the humid air. I stood, gazing up, watching the bats swoop and dive.

  The show was sold out, but Monty greased the bouncers and the door opened onto a din of raucous music and hysterical laughter.

  “Baksheesh,” Monty grinned at me. “A curse and a blessing.”

  We elbowed our way through the smoky club, inching forward until we made it to the bright catwalk. A gyrating lady-boy lip-synced to a karaoke video projected on the screen behind her. Three others swayed atop the bar where 1970’s portable TVs played vintage gay porn. When the song ended we ordered drinks.

  “Please give it up for Kitten Rodriguez!”

  The crowd whooped as the performer took a quick bow and darted offstage. The screen went black. As a spotlight prowled the room I picked out a few other mayat lurking in the shadows.

  “And now. Ladies and gentlemen. Girls and boys. The TV Bar is proud to present. For the first time ever on Longa. Direct to you from Le Cabaret in Singapore. The Vamp from Vietnam. The Lady in White. Miss Kala Jengking!”

  The spotlight trained right and stopped. A white gloved hand, brandishing a cigarette holder, appeared from behind the screen, to the
haunting first bars of a 60’s torch song. Then came a shapely foot dangling an anklet of bells, a calf, a thigh, a comely hip, a pair of breasts. As the song kicked in, Kala revealed herself in all her skin-tight white-clad splendor, to a murmur of awe. There was nothing of a man about her. She was all silky limbs and racy curves, satin hips and lipsticked lips. She was no cheap fake, but a carefully composed and fully-realized counterfeit.

  “Wow,” I said.

  “I told you!” Monty said. “Isn’t she spectacular?”

  “Spectacular,” Kubu said.

  “She can really sing,” I said. “What’s this song, anyway?”

  “’La Nuit Est Sur La Ville,’” Monty said. “Francoise Hardy, I believe.”

  I didn’t understand the lyrics, but the melody was beautifully melancholic, and Kala didn’t spare the melodrama. By the third chorus even surly old Cooney was swaying along with a misty look in his eye.

  Kala kicked into another French chanson, a down-and-dirty frug. She already had the whole room under her spell, exuding a star quality that Madunese and mayat alike were lapping up. She was more woman than woman. Every tranny there wanted to be her, and every straight man must have been conflicted. She kept it up for five more numbers.

  For her song number Kala chose ‘Is That All There Is?’ The crowd was rapt as she spun through the black-comic verses of disappointment and disillusion. Even the bartenders stopped pouring drinks and stood listening. Her accent was cruel, but it didn’t matter. The notes rang true and she pulled off the song with a fierce bravado. As the last pregnant strains hung in the air, she swiveled and sashayed offstage. The crowd erupted with hoots and whistles like a squadron of sailors.

  “I’m speechless,” Monty shouted.

  “Let’s get some air,” Cooney said.

  “Yeah, I could use a smoke,” I said.

  “We’re going to the bar,” Monty said. “Who wants what?”

  “I’ll come with you,” Raj said.

  Everyone seemed to be on a bender but me.

  I joined Cooney in a small rear courtyard under coconut palms. Imagine my surprise to find none other than Consul Jason Fitch—loafers off—lounging on a pile cushions with three fat foreigners and a clutch of local pretty-boys.

  “Fitch,” I said, walking over. “What a surprise.”

  “Mr O’Kane, isn’t it?” he said, freeing his hand from the grasp of his young friend to shake mine.

  “A consul’s work is never done, eh?” I said. “Any word on my passport?”

  “Yes, well, there’s been a further delay, I’m afraid. They told me it arrived in Jakarta. However, the diplomatic pouch is suspended during Ramadan, and we can’t rely on the general post, you understand. I expect it will be on my desk after the holiday. I trust you don’t have any urgent need to leave Madu?”

  “I’ll be around.”

  “Well, call the consulate week after next and we’ll sort it all out. Nice running into you.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Ta-ta.”

  “Mark! Oh, Mark! There’s someone you need to meet.” It was Monty and Kubu. Draped between them like a shiny bauble was Miss Kala Jenking.

  “Good evening,” Kala intoned, in her thick Vietnamese accent. “I hear we have a mutual friend.”

  “Really? Who’s that?”

  “Why Frank, silly! I know him for years.”

  “Really.” The night was getting more interesting by the minute.

  “Yes, yes, yes,” she said, her brow darkening theatrically. “Now you must tell me. Where is Frank hiding this days? I so love to catch with him. But this man is impossible to find.”

  “That’s a good question. I really haven’t got a clue.”

  “Oh, but you must know. I hear you’re working together,” she said, putting her hand on my arm.

  “I’m working for him.” She was unnerving—this very attractive woman, who was really a man.

  “Don’t be modest, darling. Everyone tells me you’re practically running his business these days.”

  “Nah, just a bit of writing and clerical stuff.”

  She cocked her head. “Well, you see Frank, you tell him his Singapore friends are tired of playing hide and seek. We just want to chat.”

  “I wish I could help.”

  “Oh, we’ll catch him sooner or later,” she said, exhaling smoke into my face. “Must run, darlings. Lovely to meet you.”

  She dismissed us with a royal flip of her wrist, and swept across the patio toward the Consul and his companions.

  “Aren’t you Mister Popular tonight, then,” Cooney said to me. “Let’s go and find some action.”

  He had a crazed look in his eye: the mushrooms had definitely kicked in.

  “But you’ll miss the rest of the show,” Monty pouted.

  “Sod that!” Cooney said. “I want the real thing. Where’s that bloody Hindu?”

  Raj appeared on cue, clutching more drinks. “Oh, there you all are. Here’s your tonic, Mark.”

  “That one mine?” Cooney said, grabbing a bottle. “Come on, Curry. We’re off to the Whammy.” He stalked out into the gang, not waiting for a reply.

  Raj and I looked at each other.

  “We’d better keep an eye on him,” we said in unison.

  “See you tomorrow, boys!” Monty called after us. “Don’t get into too much trouble!”

  We charged off into the sticky night in pursuit of Cooney.

  Longa’s main artery was Bangla Road. Branching off from Bangla were scores of gangs packed with karaoke bars, go-gos, discos and massage parlors. The music blared from all angles—a maelstrom of sound. Here, sex was served up like fast food. Everywhere you looked were girls—leaning in doorways, leering from tables, dancing on stages and bars, swinging from poles, suspended in cages, cajoling from verandas and windows and rooftops.

  We tailed Cooney to the Whammy Bar, a country and western-theme dive, where the dancers dressed as cowboys and Indians, and a Filipino cover band mangled American classic rock standards. Cooney planted himself on a stool and the ladies swarmed in.

  “You need drink, Mister? You want Oh-Cha?”

  “Just keep ‘em coming, yeah?” he yelled. “And make sure they’re cold!”

  The band finished ‘Ghost Riders in the Sky’ and kicked into a Steve Miller song.

  “Fry rike an eager!” Cooney bellowed, mocking the singer.

  I wouldn’t have called Cooney an ugly drunk, but he wasn’t a pretty one, either. At the saloon, he was forced to keep a handle on his intake. On a bender, he was a simmering volcano. With each successive drink the repressed rage bubbled closer to the surface. Normally, the question was whether he would erupt into violence before he passed out. Tonight there were hallucinogens in the mix.

  Raj and I found a table near the street, as far as possible from the band, but where we could still see Cooney. Raj was preoccupied with work lately, less focused on romantic distractions.

  “So what’s the latest on the temple scandal, man?”

  “There are interesting developments. My police contact in Singy confided that some antique pieces looking suspiciously Madunese have turned up in recent stings. All trails now lead to a man named Yow. It’s rumored that Yow is the new head of the Ah Kong.”

  “Ah Kong? The Singapore mafia?”

  “The same. Based out of Singy, Bangkok and Amsterdam. They were supposedly wiped out in the nineties, but are seemingly now in resurgence. They’ve got their hooks into everything—heroin, prostitution, ivory, human trafficking—you name it.”

  “Illegal teak?”

  “No doubt. It’s a commodity like anything else.”

  “What? Sorry, Raj, I can’t hear you.”

  The couples at the next table were screaming with laughter. The men were mayat in their late fifties, sweaty and pitaya-pink from to
o much drink. Their much-younger Madunese dates looked like former bar girls.

  “What’s your feeling about all of these …” I wasn’t sure how to finish.

  “May-December romances?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Doesn’t it make you kind of nauseous?”

  “It’s pure economics, Mark. Money is an aphrodisiac—the same here as anywhere else. The disparity between rich and poor is simply more manifest in Madu.”

  “So, nothing to do with skin color?” I said. “Have you seen all the ads for whitening creams? And these guys aren’t millionaires. They look like bus drivers from Belarus.”

  “Perhaps. But here, they’re the height of glamour. The girls probably hail from the outer islands—poor, illiterate, bored. Be honest—if you had the choice between a bamboo hut with mud floors versus getting out and seeing the world, having some fun, owning a few nice things—what would you do?”

  “If it meant fucking one of those ugly bastards, I would definitely choose the hut.”

  “But you’re lucky!” he laughed. “The average Madunese worker makes three dollars a day. You’ve had the sort of opportunities these girls could never imagine.”

  “Fair enough. But what about brains? Why does everyone have to prostitute themselves to get ahead?”

  “The instinct for self-preservation is strong. People will do what they must to survive. The more desperate they are, the further they will go.”

  “I don’t know, man. After fifteen years slogging it out in New York City, that bamboo hut looks pretty fucking good. I’ve been dreaming of bamboo huts.”

  Mercifully, the band ceased defiling ‘Cinnamon Girl’. Then they segued into ‘Hotel California’. Cooney was lurching around the dance floor with someone half his age. He caught my eye and pointed up at a pole-dancing Pocahontas.

  “There’s one for you, Cowboy! Make you homesick?”

  As I watched the girl balance on the bar I fought feelings of lust and self-loathing.