by Brian Aldiss
They called me back to the table. Coffee had arrived, bitter and black. I smoked a cigar while the others talked. I was trying to work out how bad I felt, and whether I felt bad because I’d been nearly shot, or because I’d not been shot.
The woman and her husband were coaxing us to go behind the shop and eat with them. Johnny was all for it and wanted my company; but restlessness forced me to excuse myself. It was a good moment to leave the café – the rain had suddenly tapered away and died.
In the street, compulsive anxiety took over. Supposing Lieutenant Hamil appeared, walking casually down the road, should I shoot him? Would he perhaps shoot me? And why in hell had I not told Johnny what had happened? I hated the vein of self-protective secrecy in my character.
De Zwaan lay dead before my eyes, slumped in his ridiculous helmet, while ants investigated the liquids draining from his body. Shooting people is like shooting crocodiles.
Tertis went roaring by on his motor-bike. He called to me, a savage shout whose meaning I could not determine.
It was the hottest time of day. Evidence of the recent downpour was vanishing rapidly and the streets steamed. Red and green lights danced across my retinas. When nausea moved in my throat and stomach, I tried to amuse myself by thinking of Raddle being sick, but the exercise was too dangerous. There was a shop to my right. I lurched through its open door and sat down on a wicker stool inside. Weakness made me rest my head on the counter. Although I became aware of shuffling noises near me, I was unable to look up.
The dizziness slowly cleared. Still I kept my head down. Fear of death, fear of fear, fear of spewing – they gradually gave way to a fear of social embarrassment. I felt a right cunt sitting there.
At last I lifted my head and tipped my bush-hat straight. A thin old man with a little fat lady beside him stood regarding me perplexedly. The shop contained so little stock that it was hard to decide what kind of a shop it was. A cardboard box shop, judging by the evidence. On the other hand, a few hats – six or seven – lay in his small window, together with a bolt of cloth and a bowl containing yellow beads. It was a bead shop. Or a hat shop. Or a bolt shop.
The old man said something excitedly in Malay, pointing to the door.
‘Thik-hai, thik-hai’ I said, ‘I’m going, don’t worry. I’m not going to hurt you or your girl friend.’
He still kept pointing, first at me, then at the street, letting off a stream of Malay. The little fat lady joined in.
‘Relax, will you, fuck it? Tida bagoose. How do you know I don’t want to buy one of your sodding hats?’
‘Has? Sodding has?’ he asked. I made a putting-on-head gesture, which he imitated. Fetching a blue felt thing from his window, he attempted to fit it on my head.
‘It’s not for me, you old cunt! Blue isn’t my colour!’ I started laughing.
The little old man joined in without looking any less anxious. It occurred to me that I ought to buy the hat for Margey, just to please him. She had said she wanted one. But the bitch was in Brastagi – probably plying her trade, for all I knew, flogging her flesh, hawking her hole.
A desultory haggle began from which I could not see how to extricate myself. The old man was writing down prices in Dutch guilders (absurd), Jap guilders (possible), and cigarettes (reasonable), when a shadow fell across the threshold and a young lad entered, leading Katie Chae. She looked as if she had changed only a minute earlier into crisp new pyjamas.
‘Oh, Miss Chae, hello.’ I was as sweaty as she was damp-proof.
‘Hello, big boy. This shopkeeper send along his son fetch me, case you die in his shop. He know you fren’ of me.’
‘I thought he was trying to tell me to get out of his shop.’
‘Why you should think that? This is very nice old man, I know long time since before war. He send along his son fetch me. Son he say you no well, so I come along lend a hand.’
I stood holding the blue hat, feeling more than somewhat of a prick. ‘I’m fine, thanks, just a touch of the sun. Please thank the old man and tell him that I do not want to buy the hat.’
She and the old man exchanged short bursts of Malay. Miss Chae stood there very calm and collected; the old man appeared somewhat apologetic. She turned back to me, arching her eyebrows.
‘This shobkeeper he say you to take the hat as presen’. If you no can afford to buy, he give.’
‘Christ, I don’t want him to give it to me. I’ve got no use for the fucking hat.’
She rapped something at the old man and he replied.
‘He say it very good hat, made special in Paris. He like give to you.’
‘Fuck it, look, Miss Chae, tell him I’m very grateful but –’
‘Why you not call me Katie? That my name. All people call me Katie. I call you Horry, same your fren’ Rosey, okay? All be friends till the las’ moment. You take the hat.’
‘Look, I don’t want the fucking hat.’
‘You no say “fucking” too much, is rude, Horry, be kind boy. Please take the hat, is pretty, this kind old man be plenty insult.’ Quick exchange of Malay with the old man again.
‘All right, Katie, tell the old man I will buy the hat at his price. Jap guilders, okay?’
More Malay.
‘Okay, Horry, he say four hun’red Jap guilders.’
‘He say three hundred before.’
‘I tell you is a bargain at four hun’red.’
‘Not for something I don’t shagging well want, it isn’t.’
‘Please you no say that again, Horry. You plen’y difficult guy.’
As I paid up, the old man, smiling now – as well he might – produced cigarettes for Katie Chae and me. His fat little wife parcelled up the hat in sheets of newspaper. Finally, I bowed my way out of the shop, with hat and Katie Chae, who strolled elegantly beside me.
‘Jesus, do you wonder I feel ill …’
She gave me a look of concern down her long nose. ‘Honnes’ to god, you look plen’y ill. My place just round the next corner. You better come in and take the weight off your feet. I give you a cup of cool tea, okay?’
‘No, I’ll get back to the billet. I need a beer.’ I took a last drag at my cigarette, which had been made of used coffee grounds, and flung the stub into a gutter.
She tutted and waved a finger at me. ‘Is no good for you drinking beer when sun is up. I take charge of you just one hour, make you feel plen’y better.’
Relishing the implications of the conversation, through my exhaustion I said, ‘You really are a lovely girl, Katie, and don’t think I think otherwise, but it’s better if I don’t come to your place, not even for an hour.’
She looked hurt. A frown creased that beautiful forehead.
‘I come to see if you sick, I help you buy hat, now you no trus’ me anyhow! You must be awful man, Horry, to hate me like that when I only want help you.’
‘No, I don’t hate you. I admire you, if you want to know. I just think I should be getting back to the billet.’
She stopped, so that I had to stop as well.
‘Why you no come my place one hour, take weight off your feet? Maybe you afraid Rosey?’
‘Margey.’
‘Maybe you afraid Margey find out you come my place, eh? I no tell Margey, honnis’ to god. Anyway, that girl go away Medan this morning.’
‘I know, Katie, but that’s not the reason …’
‘Okay, you tell me reason.’
Katie Chae’s place was grander than Margey’s. She had two rooms over a small shop, and a lavatory and washing-cooking place behind the shop on the ground floor. Of her two rooms, the front one was a lounge with sofas and tables, the rear a bedroom with a big bed, a mirror, and a desk used as a dressing-table.
She watched me as I prowled about.
I sat down on one of the sofas, still clutching the blue hat, while she went to pour us some tea. As soon as I began to drink it, I felt desperately ill.
Excusing myself, I staggered downstairs to have a shit, shuttin
g myself in Katie’s little earth closet. As I crouched there with my trousers round my ankles, arms wrapped round the cold sweating flanks of my belly, the murders came rushing back. Blood leaked irretrievably on a concrete floor. My bowels fell out of my body. Shaking violently, I had to crouch there for a while before I summoned enough strength to use the paper provided.
As I wiped my arse, good feelings poured into me. Fuck it, not being shot was more fun than being shot; England held all sorts of excitements I knew not of; and so on. Even world peace can’t stop hope from springing eternal. The massive bowel movement had literally taken a weight off my mind.
Christ, here I was with the mysterious Katie Chae. This was hardly a moment for grief. Even illness could be fended off awhile. Whatever her game was, two could profitably play it. I dragged my trousers up and buckled my belt, reflecting on the mystical aspects of a good crap.
Tottering out of the crapper, I almost collided with Katie. She had followed me downstairs. I was embarrassed by the ripe old stink that followed me out of the closet, but she took my arm and said, ‘You kinda sick, big boy. Come, I give China bath, then you feel much better. This punk climate no good. No, no, don’t worry, your Katie plenty useful girl, one time work as nurse, know how take care soldiers …’
I did not protest much. If there was one thing I already guessed about Katie Chae, it was that she knew how to take care of soldiers. Once again, she got her way.
Well, I was feeling weak.
In no time, she stripped my clothes off and I was squatting in a stone stoup, trying to look like walking wounded. She ladled water over me with a bowl and, when I climbed out, she dried my flesh from head to foot. Then we went back upstairs. I lay on the bed while Katie painted me with potassium permanganate – a favourite whore’s trick.
At this point, I was all anticipation, and showed it, yet I let Katie play her little game. She arranged a light cover over me. Lying beside me, she began to massage my neck and temples with supple fingers. How innocent, even childlike, she looked, that long face on a level with mine, her almond eyes serious upon me. She whispered gently in an alien tongue. Against my own intentions, drowsiness descended upon me like a fog. My lids would not stay open. Lazily, I put an arm about her and sank into deep sleep.
It was not at all an ordinary awakening. It seemed as if I was taking up some old favourite conversation. Katie Chae was naked against me and I was already screwing her. God knows what witchcraft it was, but I swear that for the one and only time in my life I had begun to fuck someone whilst in a complete sleep. Not only that, but I was about to come, the first faint foghorns of orgasm were already sounding through the mist, and her unprecedented body was telling me that it was high time I came. It gathered from my scalp and from the purple-painted soles of my feet, and tossed us, yards up the beach from the ocean, at the very moment when I believed myself drowning.
‘Oh, oh … oh, oh, Katie, Katie, you incredible … oh …’
She held me. I held her. I drifted back into sleep, smiling as blissfully, as perpetually, as a dolphin.
When I roused again, Katie appeared to be lightly asleep in my arms. A few beads of sweat lay on her upper lip. I gazed at that loaded oriental face with gratitude and delight; as I gazed, I felt with joy that my prick was rising up again. She sensed it against her, stirred, opened her eyes. For a moment, while we stared at each other, her expression did not change. Then she gave me a conspiratorial smile, slipped her hand down the bed, took my prick, and guided it into her luscious body.
Well, there’s no use going on about it after all these years. After all, enough good things have happened since. But, oh my darling Katie Chae, there really was something you had that nobody else ever did. You really were some sort of a witch, one of those delicious succubi that men are not supposed to go with if they are to retain their souls, or keep any of the marrow in their spinal cords. That really was communication of a high order.
We finally staggered out of bed and got dressed. I felt pretty delirious – fit but delirious. Because of a kind of awe of her, I found little to say. She brought beer. We sat and drank it as the world grew dark outside. Beyond all the changes of the light is something permanent, rarely glimpsed.
In no time, I imagined myself in love with Katie Chae, and presented her with the felt hat.
If you have ever seen an Englishwoman lumping about in a cheongsam, you will know how silly Katie looked in a blue felt hat. Silly but cute. She herself was amused, but she held both sides of the brim and bent almost double, laughing – with delight as well as amusement – so that I saw the ridges on the roof of her mouth and felt lustful all over again. Again that primaeval stirring in the trousers, reminiscent of a conger eel preparing to belt back to the Sargasso Sea where it belongs.
There was a call from the bottom of the stairs, and Katie leaned over the banister to answer. The spell was broken. I thought back over the events of the day. Again the three figures appeared on the concrete floor of the go-down. Poor old Sontrop – but after all, he was only a fucking queer, and they were soldiers the same as I was, and it’s a soldier’s duty to get himself shot occasionally. It was none of my business. I’d come through the incident, just as I’d come through all the hell of Kohima and Burma. That was war – now here were the spoils of war, in the shape of Katie Chae.
I sidled up behind her and ran a hand lightly across her thigh. Katie Chae took firm hold of my wrist, and continued shouting angrily at the man below. Looking down, I admired her slender arm, the beautiful line of her breast. Margey had always said Katie was a whore. Of course. It was natural to think of Katie as a whore; with her talents, what else could she be? War, with its scuttling morals, was her natural element.
Grateful thoughts of Captain Jhamboo Singh arose. There was a way in which I could show gratitude: I could introduce Jhamboo to Katie Chae. He could enjoy himself before returning to India and the scrap heap.
Katie got rid of the intruder and turned her miraculous laughing face into mine, still wearing the silly hat. ‘Oh, you lovely sexy Briddish boy, do you have a Briddish cigarette for your o’ fren’ Katie?’
I produced cigarettes and we lit up. I grasped her bottom.
‘Katie, you are the most gorgeous bit of goods I ever came across. Just fantastic.’
She looked at me with almost closed eyes, very Chinese, very sexy, blowing smoke from her lungs.
‘Mm, your little Margey warn you ’bout me, I think. She know the genuine hunnerd per cent quality item, take my word.’
This was not a moment at which I particularly wished to discuss Margey. I said, ‘I’m feeling better. Let’s get back on the bed, Katie. Astonish me again.’
‘You give me present. This hat not enough.’
‘Anything.’
‘Oh, you bring me five hunnerd Player cigarette.’
I was dismayed at the demand but dared not argue. I said I would deliver as soon as possible if we could get back to bed.
‘No, I must smoke now, rest. Cigarettes first, then more bed. You unnerstand?’
‘Um.’
That subject was dismissed. She stood up. ‘Now you not feel punk. You like something to eat?’
With visions of the way Margey cooked for me, I thought, if she cooks like she fucks … and agreed it would be a good idea. Judging by my watches, I estimated that it must be seven o’clock.
‘You take me somewhere? I know good place we go. You strong enough? Oh, you so strong man, Horry, you take me good place eat!’ She clapped her hands and looked very pleasantly at me.
She deflected a further attempt to return to bed. Almost before I knew what was what, we were going down her stairs, with Katie Chae clutching my arm in the friendliest way. At least she left the felt hat behind.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Dear Addy, ‘It’s been too long since I wrote to you last, but I suppose you recall all too well how days pass in the tropics, how unable you feel to sit down and write letters, so I will not make too many excu
ses. Anyhow, thanks very much for your last letter. Leiden sounds like a very nice place and I was glad you had got a good office job and were feeling that you could settle down in the cold European climate. Soon you can think of me doing the same sort of thing, somehow or other, and I will write to you next from England.
‘Meanwhile, I have to give you some awful news. I hardly know how to tell you. You will have heard officially, but I must also drop you a line. At least you understand how bad things are out here in Sumatra.’
Still clutching my fountain pen, I began to examine my left foot. I caught sight of it, lying on the carpet, moderately close to my right foot. I rested it on the edge of the chair and picked at the callouses on the side of the big toe. It smelt all right; I had just had a shower and was clad only in a towel, knotted round my waist. There was still a trace of foot rot. Foot rot had followed me all the way from Kohima, almost two years ago: a little bit of Assam carried as indelibly on my body as in my heart.
‘This is Sunday morning here in Medan. Only yesterday morning your brother Ernst took me out on a crocodile shoot with two of his friends.’
Only yesterday, but two weeks would pass before Addy got the letter. Yesterday would gradually sink back into the past like a dead log in a swamp, but Addy was always going to stub her foot on it. My foot was still resting on the chair. Next to it, fat and complacent, slept my prick. The towel had fallen back to reveal it. It took no notice of me. I tried to take no notice of it. But, Christ, it did look a bit red. Could be just natural soreness, only to be expected. Five hundred Players.
I padded over to a drawer in the bookcase and brought out a magnifying glass I had bought in Padang. Under the glass, my knob definitely looked spotty. Beneath the innocuous-seeming surface lay a virulent scarlet rash, just waiting to break out. I inspected carefully round the rim. Nothing definite – but that too was worrying in its way.