King Rat

by James Clavell

  Peter Marlowe was still watching Sutra and Cheng San down by the shore. Cheng San bowed and got into the boat and Sutra helped shove the boat into the phosphorescent sea. Then Sutra returned to the hut.

  “Tabe-lah!” Peter Marlowe said.

  “Would thou eat more?”

  “No thank you, Tuan Sutra.”

  My word, thought Peter Marlowe, it’s a change to be able to turn down food. But he had eaten his fill, and to eat more would have been impolite. It was obvious that the village was poor and the food would not be wasted.

  “I have heard,” he said tentatively, “that the news, the war news, is good.”

  “Thus too I have heard, but nothing that a man could repeat. Vague rumors.”

  “It is a pity that times are not like those in former years. When a man could have a wireless and hear news or read a newspaper.”

  “True. It is a pity.”

  Sutra made no sign of understanding. He squatted down on his mat and rolled a cigarette, funnel-like, and began to smoke through his fist, sucking the smoke deep within him.

  “We hear bad tales from the camp,” he said at last.

  “It is not so bad, Tuan Sutra. We manage, somehow. But not to know how the world is, that is surely bad.”

  “I have heard it told that there was a wireless in the camp and the men who owned the wireless were caught. And that they are now in Utram Road Jail.”

  “Hast thou news of them? One was a friend of mine.”

  “No. We only heard that they had been taken there.”

  “I would dearly like to know how they are.”

  “Thou knowest the place, and the manner of all men taken there, so thou already knowest that which is done.”

  “True. But one hopes that some may be lucky.”

  “We are in the hands of Allah, said the Prophet.”

  “On whose name be praise.”

  Sutra glanced at him again; then, calmly puffing his cigarette, he asked, “Where didst thou learn the Malay?”

  Peter Marlowe told him of his life in the village. How he had worked the paddy fields and lived as a Javanese, which is almost the same as living as a Malay. The customs are the same and the language the same, except for the common Western words—wireless in Malaya, radio in Java, motor in Malaya, auto in Java. But the rest was the same. Love, hate, sickness and the words that a man will speak to a man or a man to a woman were the same. The important things were always the same.

  “What was the name of thy woman in the village, my son?” Sutra asked. It would have been impolite to ask before, but now, when they had talked of things of the spirit and the world and philosophy and Allah and certain of the sayings of the Prophet, on whose name be praise, now it was not rude to ask.

  “Her name was N’ai Jahan.”

  The old man sighed contentedly, remembering his youth. “And she loved thee much and long.”

  “Yes.” Peter Marlowe could see her clearly.

  She had come to his hut one night when he was preparing for bed. Her sarong was red and gold, and tiny sandals peeped from beneath its hem. There was a thin necklace of flowers around her neck and the fragrance of the flowers filled the hut and all his universe.

  She had laid her bed roll beside her feet and bowed low before him.

  “My name is N’ai Jahan,” she had said. “Tuan Abu, my father, has chosen me to share thy life, for it is not good for a man to be alone. And thou hast been alone for three months now.”

  N’ai was perhaps fourteen, but in the sun-rain lands a girl of fourteen is already a woman with the desires of a woman and should be married, or at least with the man of her father’s choice.

  The darkness of her skin had a milk sheen to it and her eyes were jewels of topaz and her hands were petals of the fire orchid and her feet slim and her child-woman body was satin and held within it the happiness of a hummingbird. She was a child of the sun and a child of the rain. Her nose was slender and fine and the nostrils delicate.

  N’ai was all satin, liquid satin. Firm where it should be firm. Soft where it should be soft. Strong where it should be strong. And weak where it should be weak.

  Her hair was raven. Long. A gossamer net to cover her.

  Peter Marlowe had smiled at her. He had tried to hide his embarrassment and be like her, free and happy and without shame. She had taken off her sarong and stood proudly before him, and she had said, “I pray that I shall be worthy to make thee happy and make thee soft-sleep. And I beg thee to teach me all the things that thy woman should know to make thee ‘close to God.’”

  Close to God, how wonderful, Peter Marlowe thought; how wonderful to describe love as being close to God.

  He looked up at Sutra. “Yes. We loved much and long. I thank Allah that I have lived and loved unto eternity. How glorious are the ways of Allah.”

  A cloud reached out and grappled with the moon for possession of the night.

  “It is good to be a man,” Peter Marlowe said.

  “Does thy lack trouble thee tonight?”

  “No. In truth. Not tonight.” Peter Marlowe studied the old Malay, liking him for the offer, smoothed by his gentleness.

  “Listen, Tuan Sutra. I will open my mind to thee, for I believe that in time we could be friends. Thou couldst in time have time to weigh my friendship and the ‘I’ of me. But war is an assassin of time. Therefore I would speak to thee as a friend of thine, which I am not yet.”

  The old man did not reply. He puffed his cigarette and waited for him to continue.

  “I have need of a little part of a wireless. Is there a wireless in the village, an old one? Perhaps if it is broken, I could take one such little piece from it.”

  “Thou knowest that wirelesses are forbidden by the Japanese.”

  “True, but sometimes there are secret places to hide that which is forbidden.”

  Sutra pondered. A wireless lay in his hut. Perhaps Allah had sent Tuan Marlowe to remove it. He felt he could trust him because Tuan Abu had trusted him before. But if Tuan Marlowe was caught outside camp with the wireless, inevitably the village would be involved.

  To leave the wireless in the village was also dangerous. Certainly a man could bury it deep in the jungle, but that had not been done. It should have been done but had not been done, for the temptation to listen was always too great. The temptation of the women to hear the “sway-music” was too great. The temptation to know when others did not know was great. Truly it is written, Vanity, all is vanity.

  Better, he decided, to let the things that are the pink man’s remain with the pink man.

  He got up and beckoned Peter Marlowe and led the way through the bead curtains into the darker recesses of the hut. He stopped at the doorway to Sulina’s bedroom. She was lying on the bed, her sarong loose and full around her, her eyes liquid.

  “Sulina,” Sutra said, “go onto the veranda and watch.”

  “Yes, Father.” Sulina slipped off the bed and retied the sarong and adjusted her little baju jacket. Adjusted it, thought Sutra, perhaps a little too much, so the promise of her breasts showed clearly. Yes, it is surely time that the girl married. But whom? There are no eligible men.

  He stood aside as the girl brushed past, her eyes low and demure. But there was nothing demure in the sway of her hips, and Peter Marlowe noticed them too. I should take a stick to her, Sutra thought. But he knew that he should not be angry. She was but a girl on the threshold of womanhood. To tempt is but a woman’s way—to be desired is but a woman’s need.

  Perhaps I should give thee to the Englishman. Maybe that would lessen thy appetite. He looks more than man enough! Sutra sighed. Ah, to be so young again.

  From under the bed he brought out the small radio.

  “I will trust thee. This wireless is good. It works well. You may take it.”

  Peter Marlowe almost dropped it in his excitement. “But what about thee? Surely this is beyond price.”

  “It has no price. Take it with thee.”

  Peter Mar
lowe turned the radio over. It was a main set. In good condition. The back was off and the tubes glinted in the oil light. There were many condensers. Many. He held the set nearer the light and carefully examined the guts of it, inch by inch.

  The sweat began dripping off his face. Then he found the one, three hundred microfarads.

  Now what do I do? he asked himself. Do I just take the condenser? Mac had said he was almost sure. Better to take the whole thing, then if the condenser doesn’t fit ours, we’ve got another. We can cache it somewhere. Yes. It will be good to have a spare.

  “I thank thee, Tuan Sutra. It is a gift that I cannot thank thee enough for. I am the thousands of Changi.”

  “I beg thee protect us here. If a guard sees thee, bury it in the jungle. My village is in thy hands.”

  “Do not fear. I will guard it with my life.”

  “I believe thee. But perhaps this is a foolish thing to do.”

  “There are times, Tuan Sutra, when I truly believe men are only fools.”

  “Thou art wise beyond thy years.”

  Sutra gave him a piece of material to cover it, then they returned to the main room. Sulina was in the shadows on the veranda. As they entered she got up.

  “May I get thee food or drink, Father?”

  Wah-lah, thought Sutra grumpily, she asks me but she means him. “No. Get thee to bed.”

  Sulina tossed her head prettily but obeyed.

  “My daughter deserves a whipping, I think.”

  “It would be a pity to blemish such a delicate thing,” Peter Marlowe said. “Tuan Abu used to say, ‘Beat a woman at least once a week and thou wilt have peace in thy house. But do not beat her too hard, lest thou anger her, for then she will surely beat thee back and hurt thee greatly!’”

  “I know the saying. It is surely true. Women are beyond comprehension.”

  They talked about many things, squatting on the veranda looking at the sea. The surf was very slight, and Peter Marlowe asked permission to swim.

  “There are no currents,” the old Malay told him, “but sometimes there are sharks.”

  “I will take care.”

  “Swim only in the shadows near the boats. There have been times when Japanese walk along the shore. There is a gun emplacement three miles down the beach. Keep thy eyes open.”

  “I will take care.”

  Peter Marlowe kept to the shadows as he made for the boats. The moon was lowering in the sky. Not too much time, he thought.

  By the boats some men and women were preparing and repairing nets, chatting and laughing one to another. They paid no attention to Peter Marlowe as he undressed and walked into the sea.

  The water was warm, but there were cold pockets, as in all the Eastern seas, and he found one and tried to stay in it. The feeling of freedom was glorious, and it was almost as though he was a small boy again taking a midnight swim in the Southsea with his father nearby shouting, “Don’t go out too far, Peter! Remember the currents!”

  He swam underwater and his skin drank the salt-chemic. When he surfaced, he spouted water like a whale and swam lazily for the shallows, where he lay on his back, washed by the surf, and exulted in his freedom.

  As he kicked his legs at the surf half swirling his loins, it suddenly struck him that he was quite naked and there were men and women within twenty yards of him. But he felt no embarrassment.

  Nakedness had become a way of life in the camp. And the months that he had spent in the village in Java had taught him that there was no shame in being a human being with wants and needs.

  The sensual warmth of the sea playing on him, and the rich warmth of the food within him, fired his loins into sudden heat. He turned over abruptly on his belly and pushed himself back into the sea, hiding.

  He stood on the sandy bottom, the water up to his neck, and looked back at the shore and the village. The men and women were still busy repairing their nets. He could see Sutra on the veranda of his hut, smoking in the shadows. Then, to one side, he saw Sulina, caught in the light from the oil lamp, leaning on the window frame. Her sarong was half held against her and she was looking out to sea.

  He knew she was looking at him and he wondered, shamed, if she had seen. He watched her and she watched him. Then he saw her take away the sarong and lay it down and pick up a clean white towel to dry the sweat that sheened her body.

  She was a child of the sun and a child of the rain. Her long dark hair hid most of her, but she moved it until it caressed her back and she began to braid it. And all the time she watched him, smiling.

  Then, suddenly, every flicker of current was a caress, every touch of breeze a caress, every thread of seaweed a caress—fingers of courtesans, crafty with centuries of learning.

  I’m going to take you, Sulina.

  I’m going to take you, whatever the cost.

  He tried to will Sutra to leave the veranda. Sulina watched. And waited. Impatient as he.

  I’m going to take her, Sutra. Don’t get in my way! Don’t. Or by God…

  He did not see the King approaching the shadows or notice him stop with surprise when he saw him lying on his belly in the shallows.

  “Hey, Peter. Peter!”

  Hearing the voice through the fog, Peter Marlowe turned his head slowly and saw the King beckoning to him.

  “Peter, c’mon. It’s time to beat it.”

  Seeing the King, he remembered the camp and the wire and the radio and the diamond and the camp and the war and the camp and the radio and the guard they had to pass and would they get back in time and what was the news and how happy Mac would be with the three hundred microfarads and the spare radio that worked. The man-heat vanished. But the pain remained.

  He stood up and walked for his clothes.

  “You got a nerve,” the King said.

  “Why?”

  “Walking about like that. Can’t you see Sutra’s girl looking at you?”

  “She’s seen plenty of men without clothes and there’s nothing wrong with that.” Without the heat there was no nakedness.

  “Sometimes I don’t understand you. Where’s your modesty?”

  “Lost that a long time ago.” He dressed quickly and joined the King in the shadows. His loins ached violently. “I’m glad you came along when you did. Thanks.”

  “Why?”

  “Oh, nothing.”

  “You scared I’d forgotten you?”

  Peter Marlowe shook his head. “No. Forget it. But thanks.”

  The King studied him, then shrugged. “C’mon. We can make it easy now.” He led the way past Sutra’s hut and waved. “Salamat.”

  “Wait, Rajah. Won’t be a second!”

  Peter Marlowe ran up the stairs and into the hut. The radio was still there. Holding it under his arm, wrapped in the cloth, he bowed to Sutra.

  “I thank thee. It is in good hands.”

  “Go with God.” Sutra hesitated, then smiled. “Guard thy eyes, my son. Lest when there is food for them, thou canst not eat.”

  “I will remember.” Peter Marlowe felt suddenly hot. I wonder if the stories are true, that the ancients can read thoughts from time to time. “I thank thee. Peace be upon thee.”

  “Peace be upon thee until our next meeting.”

  Peter Marlowe turned and left. Sulina was at her window as they passed underneath it. Her sarong covered her now. Their eyes met and caught and a compact was given and received and returned. She watched as they shadowed up the rise towards the jungle and she sent her safe wishes on them until they disappeared.

  Sutra sighed, then noiselessly went into Sulina’s room. She was standing at the window dreamily, her sarong around her shoulders. Sutra had a thin bamboo in his hands and he cut her neatly and hard, but not too hard, across her bare buttocks.

  “That is for tempting the Englishman when I had not told thee to tempt him,” he said, trying to sound very angry.

  “Yes, Father,” she whimpered, and each sob was a knife in his heart. But when she was alone, she curled luxur
iously on the mattress and let the tears roll a little, enjoying them. And the heat spread through her, helped by the sting of the blow.

  It was a kind night, and the Java skies swam with stars, huge sparks of light in a carpet of ravened sea. The village was sparse with light. A fire flickered sleepily in the dusty campong. Around the doorways and verandas the men and women sat and talked or listened or contemplated. The children were mostly in bed asleep.

  But over the men and over the women there was a waiting, a somberness. Their minds reached towards one hut, and they prayed, each in his own way.

  N’ai writhed on the sleeping mat in agony. The pain was centered in her loins, and the fire of it spread through her entrails and through her veins and through her nerve channels, into her brain and eyes and hands and feet and into every molecule of her.

  Now the pain was like an ocean within and over her, a placid sameness to the depth of it; though far beneath the surface there were peaks and valleys, plains and chasms, the surface stretched smooth the agony.

  This pain was bearable, when the pain itself was part of the whole, the life of the body, the essence of it. But no ocean stays forever placid, storms come, winds claw the surface and tear the seas to highs and lows, tormenting. Storms are birthed in the bowels of wind and sky and cold and heat, and then, full-fledged, the storm takes the sea and shakes it and makes it monstrous. Thus was her pain, for now her pain moved jagged. It moved from ocean into storm, and the agony built from her loins and raced the paths of her and she twisted, ripped by its violence, spread by its violence. Her cries broke from her mouth and sped through the space of the stilted hut, over the hut and village quiet, out into the night, into the jungle, to mix delicately with sibilance of wind and hum of cricket and drone of mosquito, to rest at last in the sigh of surf pounding reefs of Java coast, south but a little way.

  The sweat poured from her body and wet the mat, and she lay naked, her legs clawed wide by the pain, and she cursed men and all men and most the man who had done this to her, hating men with a hatred of monumental size, but most the one who had hurt her so, hurt her to this teetering death that took so long, so long.