King Rat

by James Clavell

  Lying in her bunk thinking, she came to a decision. She decided to do something about Sammy and the Kirk girl. Yes. She’d adopt them and they would live happily together, two boys and two girls. Both children had lost their mothers, their shields, this last week but they were good children and good thieves. Yes, that will be very nice. They can move their bunks next to ours and we’ll eat together and live together, the five of us. And if, when we get out, their fathers are lost too and they have no one to care for them, then Sammy and Linda can live with us always. There will always be enough to feed the family.

  She turned over and slept happily. It was so good to have a family to care for.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Getting out of the camp was too simple. Just a short dash to a shadowed part of the six-wire fence, then easily through and a quick run into the jungle. When they stopped to catch their breath, Peter Marlowe wished he were safely back talking to Mac or Larkin or even Grey.

  All this time, he told himself, I’ve been wanting to be out, and now when I am, I’m frightened to death.

  It was weird—on the outside, looking in. From where they were they could see into the camp. The American hut was a hundred yards away. Men were walking up and down. Hawkins was walking his dog. A Korean guard was strolling the camp. Lights were off in the various huts and the evening check had long since been made. Yet the camp was alive with the sleepless. It was always thus.

  “C’mon Peter,” the King whispered and led the way deeper into the foliage.

  The planning had been good. So far. When he had arrived at the hut, the King was already prepared. “Got to have tools to do a job right,” he had said, showing him a well-oiled pair of Jap boots—crepe soles and soft noiseless leather—and the “outfit,” a pair of black Chinese pants and short blouse.

  Only Dino was in the know about the trip. He had bundled up the two kits and dumped them secretly in the jumping-off point. Then he had returned, and when all was clear Peter Marlowe and the King had walked out casually, saying that they were playing bridge with Larkin and another Aussie. They had had to wait a nerve-wracking half hour before the way was clear for them to run into the storm drain beside the wire and change into their outfits and mud their faces and hands. Another quarter hour before they could run to the fence unobserved. Once they were through and in position, Dino had collected their discarded clothes.

  Jungle at night. Eerie. But Peter Marlowe felt at home. It was just like Java, just like the surrounds of his own village, so his nervousness subsided a little.

  The King led the way unerringly. He had made the trip five times before. He walked along, every sense alert. There was one guard to pass. This guard had no fixed beat, just a wandering patrol. But the King knew that most times the guard found a clearing somewhere and went to sleep.

  After an anxious time, a time when every rotten stick or leaf seemed to shout their passing, and every living branch seemed to want to hold them back, they came to the path. They were past the guard. The path led to the sea. And then the village.

  They crossed the path and began to circle. Above the heavy ceiling of foliage, a half-moon stuck in the cloudless sky. Just the right amount of light for safety.

  Freedom. No circling wire and no people. Privacy at last. And it was a sudden nightmare to Peter Marlowe.

  “What’s up, Peter?” the King whispered, feeling something wrong.

  “Nothing … it’s just—well, being outside is such a shock.”

  “You’ll get used to it.” The King glanced at his watch. “Got about a mile to go. We’re ahead of schedule, so we’d better wait.”

  He found an overgrowth of twisted vine and fallen trees and leaned against it. “We can take it easy here.”

  They waited and listened to the jungle. Crickets, frogs, sudden twitters. Sudden silences. The rustle of an unknown beast.

  “I could use a smoke.”

  “Me too.”

  “Not here though.” The King’s mind was alive. Half was listening to the jungle. The other was racing and rehashing the pattern of the deal to be. Yes, he told himself, it’s a good plan.

  He checked the time. The minute hand went slowly. But it gave him more time to plan. The more time you plan before a deal, the better it is. No slip-ups and a bigger profit. Thank God for profit! The guy who thought of business was the real genius. Buy for a little and sell for more. Use your mind. Take a chance and money pours in. And with money all things are possible. Most of all, power.

  When I get out, the King thought, I’m going to be a millionaire. I’m going to make so much money that it’s going to make Fort Knox look like a piggy-bank. I’ll build an organization. The organization’ll be fitted with guys, loyal but sheep. Brains you can always buy. And once you know a guy’s price you can use him or abuse him at will. That’s what makes the world go round. There are the elite, and the rest. I’m the elite. I’m going to stay that way.

  No more being kicked around or shoved from town to town. That’s past. I was a kid then. Tied to Pa—tied to a man who waited tables or jerked gas or delivered phone books or trucked junk or whined handouts to get a bottle. Then cleaning up the mess. Never again. Now others are going to clean up my mess.

  All I need is the dough.

  “All men are created equal … certain inalienable rights.”

  Thank God for America, the King told himself for the billionth time. Thank God I was born American.

  “It’s God’s country,” he said, half to himself.

  “What?”

  “The States.”

  “Why?”

  “Only place in the world where you can buy anything, where you got a chance to make it. That’s important if you’re not born into it, Peter, and only a goddam few are. But if you’re not—and you want to work—why, there’re so many goddam opportunities, they make your hair curl. An’ if a guy doesn’t work and help himself, then he’s no goddam good, and no goddam American, and—”

  “Listen!” Peter Marlowe warned, suddenly on guard.

  From the distance came the faint tread of approaching footsteps.

  “It’s a man” whispered Peter Marlowe, sliding deeper into the protection of the foliage. “A native.”

  “How the hell d’you know?”

  “Wearing native clogs. I’d say he was old. He’s shuffling. Listen, you can hear his breath now.”

  Moments later the native appeared from the gloaming and walked the path unconcerned. He was an old man and on his shoulders was a dead wild pig. They watched him pass and disappear.

  “He noticed us,” said Peter Marlowe, concerned.

  “The hell he did.”

  “No, I’m sure he did. Maybe he thought it was a Jap guard, but I was watching his feet. You can always tell if you’re spotted that way. He missed a beat in his stride.”

  “Maybe it was a crack in the path or a stick.”

  Peter Marlowe shook his head.

  Friend or enemy? thought the King feverishly. If he’s from the village then we’re okay. The whole village knew when the King was coming, for they got their share from Cheng San, his contact. I didn’t recognize him, but that’s not surprising, for a lot of the natives were out night-fishing when I went before. What to do?

  “We’ll wait, then make a quick reccy. If he’s hostile, he’ll go to the village, then report to the elder. The elder’ll give us a sign to get the hell out.”

  “You think you can trust them?”

  “I can, Peter. “He started off again. “Keep twenty yards in back of me.”

  They found the village easily. Almost too easily, Peter Marlowe thought to himself suspiciously. From their position, on the rise, they surveyed it. A few Malays were squatting smoking on a veranda. A pig grunted here and there. Surrounding the village were coconut palm trees, and beyond it, the phosphorescent surf. A few boats, sails furled, fishing nets hanging still. No feel of danger.

  “Seems all right to me,” Peter Marlowe whispered.

  The King
nudged him abruptly. On the veranda of the headman’s hut was the headman and the man they had seen. The two Malays were deep in conversation, then a distant laugh broke the stillness and the man came down the steps.

  They heard him call out. In a moment a woman came running. She took the pig from his shoulders, carried it to the fire-coals and put it on the spit. In a moment there were other Malays, joking, laughing, grouped around.

  “There he is!” exclaimed the King.

  Walking up the shore was a tall Chinese. Behind him a native furled the sails of the small fishing craft. He joined the headman and they made their soft salutations and they squatted down to wait.

  “Okay,” grinned the King, “here we go.”

  He got up and, keeping to the shadows, circled carefully. On the back of the headman’s hut a ladder soared to the veranda, high off the ground. The King was up it, Peter Marlowe close behind. Almost immediately they heard the ladder scrape away.

  “Tabe,” smiled the King as Cheng San and Sutra, the headman, entered.

  “Good you see, tuan,” said the headman, groping for English words. “You makan-eat yes?” His smile showed betelnut-stained teeth.

  “Trima kassih-thanks.” The King put out his hand to Cheng San. “How you been, Cheng San?”

  “Me good or’ time. You see I—” Cheng San sought the word and then it came. “Here, good time maybe or’ same.”

  The King indicated Peter Marlowe. “Ichi-bon friend. Peter, say something to them, you know, greetings and all that jazz. Get to work, boy.” He smiled and pulled out a pack of Kooas, offering them around.

  “My friend and I thank thee for thy welcome,” Peter Marlowe began. “We appreciate thy kindness to ask if we will eat with thee, knowing that in these times there is a lack. Surely only a snake in the jungle would refuse to accept the kindness of thy offer.”

  Both Cheng San and the headman broke into huge smiles.

  “Wah-lah,” Cheng San said. “It will be good to be able to talk through thee to my friend Rajah all the words that are in my miserable mouth. Many times have I wanted to say that which neither I nor my good friend Sutra here could find the words to say. Tell the Rajah that he is a wise and clever man to find such a fluent interpreter.”

  “He says I make a good mouthpiece,” said Peter Marlowe happily, now calm and safe. “And he’s glad he can now give you the straight stuff.”

  “For the love of God stick to your well-bred Limey talk. That mouthpiece mishmash makes you look like a bum yet.”

  “Oh, and I’ve been studying Max assiduously,” Peter Marlowe said, crestfallen.

  “Well, don’t.”

  “He also called you Rajah! That’s your nickname from here on. I mean ‘here on in’.”

  “Crap off, Peter!”

  “Up yours, brother!”

  “C’mon, Peter, we haven’t much time. Tell Cheng San this. About this deal. I’m gonna—”

  “You can’t talk business yet, old man,” said Peter Marlowe, shocked. “You’ll hurt everything. First we’ll have to have some coffee and something to eat, then we can start.”

  “Tell ’em now.”

  “If I do, they’ll be very offended. Very. You can take my word for it.”

  The King thought for a moment. Well, he told himself, if you buy brains, it’s bad business not to use them—unless you’ve got a hunch. That’s where the smart businessman makes or breaks—when he plays a hunch over the so-called brains. But in this case he didn’t have a hunch, so he just nodded. “Okay, have it your way.”

  He puffed his cigarette, listening to Peter Marlowe speak to them. He studied Cheng San obliquely. His clothes were better than the last time. He wore a new ring that looked like a sapphire, maybe five carats. His neat, clean, hairless face was honey-toned and his hair well-groomed. Yep, Cheng San was doing all right for himself. Now old Sutra, he’s not doing so good. His sarong’s old and tattered at the hem. No jewelry. Last time he had a gold ring. Now he hasn’t, and the crease mark where his ring had been worn was almost unnoticeable. That meant he hadn’t just taken it off for tonight’s show.

  He heard the women off in the other part of the hut chattering softly, and outside, the quietness of the village by night. Through the glassless window came the smell of roasting pig. That meant the village was really in need of Cheng San—their black-market outlet for the fish the village was supposed to sell directly to the Japs—and were making him a gift of the pig. Or perhaps the old man who had just trapped a wild pig was having a party for his friends. But the crowd around the fire was waiting anxiously, just as anxiously as us. Sure, they’re hungry too. That means that things must be tough in Singapore. The village should be well stocked with food and drink and everything. Cheng San couldn’t be doing too well smuggling their fish to the markets. Maybe the Japs had their eye on him. Maybe he’s not long for this earth!

  So maybe he needs the village more than the village needs him. And is putting on a show for them—clothes and jewelry. Maybe Sutra’s getting pissed off with lack of business and is ready to dump him for another blackmarketeer.

  “Hey, Peter,” he said. “Ask Cheng San how’s the fish biz in Singapore.” Peter Marlowe translated the question.

  “He says that business is fine. Food shortages are such that he is able to obtain the best prices on the island. But he says the Japs are clamping down heavily. It’s becoming harder to trade every day. And to break the market laws is becoming more and more expensive.”

  Aha! Got you. The King exulted. So Cheng hasn’t come just for my deal! It is fish and the village. Now how can I turn this to my advantage? Betcha Cheng San’s having trouble delivering the merchandise. Maybe the Japs intercepted some boats and got tough. Old Sutra’s no fool. No money, no deal, and Cheng San knows it. No makee tradee, no makee business and old Sutra’ll sell to another. Yes, sir. So the King knew he could trade tough and mentally upped his asking price.

  Then food arrived. Baked sweet potatoes, fried eggplant, coconut milk, thick slices of roasted pork, heavy with oil. Bananas. Papayas. The King marked that there was no millionaire’s cabbage or lamb or saté of beef and no sweetmeats the Malays loved so much. Yeah, things were tough all right.

  The food was served by the headman’s chief wife, a wrinkled old woman. Helping her was Sulina, one of his daughters. Beautiful, soft, curved, honeyed skin. Sweet-smelling. Fresh sarong in their honor.

  “Tabe, Sam,” winked the King at Sulina.

  The girl bubbled with laughter and shyly tried to cover her embarrassment.

  “Sam?” winced Peter Marlowe.

  “Sure,” answered the King dryly. “She reminds me of my brother.”

  “Brother?” Peter Marlowe stared at him astonished.

  “Joke. I haven’t got a brother.”

  “Oh!” Peter Marlowe thought a moment, then asked “Why Sam?”

  “The old guy wouldn’t introduce me,” said the King, not looking at the girl, “so I just gave her the name. I think it suits her.”

  Sutra knew that what they said had something to do with his daughter. He knew he had made a mistake to let her in here. Perhaps, in other times, he would have liked one of the tuan-tuan to notice her and take her back to his bungalow to be his mistress for a year or two. Then she would come back to the village well versed in the ways of men, with a nice dowry in her hands, and it would be easy for him to find the right husband for her. That’s how it would have been in the past. But now romance led only to a haphazard time in the bushes, and Sutra did not want that for his daughter even though it was time she became a woman.

  He leaned forward and offered Peter Marlowe a choice piece of pig. “Perhaps this would tempt thy appetite?”

  “I thank thee.”

  “You may leave, Sulina.”

  Peter Marlowe detected the note of finality in the old man’s voice and noticed the shadow of dismay that painted the girl’s face. But she bowed low and took her leave. The old wife remained to serve the men.

&
nbsp; Sulina, thought Peter Marlowe, feeling a long-forgotten urge. She’s not as pretty as N’ai, who was without blemish, but she is the same age and pretty. Fourteen perhaps and ripe. My God, how ripe.

  “The food is not to thy taste?” Cheng San asked, amused by Peter Marlowe’s obvious attraction to the girl. Perhaps this could be used to advantage.

  “On the contrary. It is perhaps too good, for my palate is not used to fine food, eating as we do.” Peter Marlowe remembered that for the protection of good taste, the Javanese spoke only in parables about women. He turned to Sutra. “Once upon a time a wise guru said that there are many kinds of food. Some for the stomach, some for the eye and some for the spirit. Tonight, I have had food for the stomach. And the sayings of thee and Tuan Cheng San have been food for the spirit. I am replete. Even so, I have also—we have also—been offered food for the eye. How can I thank thee for thy hospitality?”

  Sutra’s face wrinkled. Well put. So he bowed to the compliment and said simply, “It was a wise saying. Perhaps, in time, the eye may be hungry again. We must discuss the wisdom of the ancient another time.”

  “What’re you looking so smug about, Peter?”

  “I’m not looking smug, just pleased with myself. I was just telling him we thought his girl was pretty.”

  “Yes! She’s a doll! How about asking her to join us for coffee?”

  “For the love of God.” Peter tried to keep his voice calm. “You don’t come out and make a date just like that. You’ve got to take time, build up to it.”

  “Hell, that’s not the American way. You meet a broad, you like her and she likes you, you hit the sack.”

  “You’ve no finesse.”

  “Maybe. But I’ve a lot of broads.”

  They laughed and Cheng San asked what the joke was and Peter Marlowe told them that the King had said, “We should set up shop in the village and not bother to go back to camp.”