by Brian Aldiss
The incipient sores on my prick were nothing to the sores on my conscience. I had spent the night with Margey’s enemy, the hated Katie Chae. Margey would be bound to find out, or Katie would see to it that she found out. The sooner I got away from Medan the better.
That was the other worry. I had to tell Margey properly that marriage was off, had never been on the cards, that I’d been mad. Maybe she already knew – as scores of girls in her position had found out – that necessity rules, despite all protestations of love. Yesterday’s killings had persuaded me – working on my cowardice and my age – that Sumatra was no place for Europeans. Ernst’s and Jan’s fate would be mine if I stayed. Medan was under the curse of change.
So I should steel myself to inform Margey that I was yellow. No, that was the wrong expression in the circumstances. That I was scared. That way, she would keep her self-respect. She would survive.
Bloody Margey, what a pain in the neck she was, making me feel so bad, just because we went to bed together. And separately. All the things I had given her … Guilt, guilt …
If I got rid of her smartly enough today, then maybe I could have another look in at Katie Chae. Christ, what a fantastic gift Katie Chae had! Her gift was no less than the gift of being a poet, musician, or philosopher. While that radiance shone on me, I must bloody well bask in it. Margey could go to hell if it allowed me one more session with Katie Chae, that slender, elegant creature.
Older now and wiser, I can see that there was something in Katie’s make-up which encouraged full response. Everywhere, there are women like that, who instinctively fan the great masculine fire – just as there are women who instinctively quell it.
I fell into an intense erotic daze. Tomorrow, the plane … There were things to be done, if I could exert myself to do them. Somehow or other, I must face Margey this morning; she would be back from Brastagi. Then this afternoon was the funeral of Sontrop, de Zwaan, and Nieuwenhuis, to which I had volunteered to go. After that, Katie Chae.
From the canteen I bought fifteen hundred Players in thirty round tins of fifty each.
Katie, you understand. You want no promises, you utter no promises. You would never regret that I was leaving tomorrow; you are always on good terms with men, and so another man will always come along to treat you well, to worship your gift. You are truly fortunate, Katie – even war only brings you more profit. You don’t piss around with marriage and security arrangements. You’re a priestess of the world’s oldest religion …
Or maybe I should shoot myself.
I took my revolver out and placed it on my little green table next to the envelope addressed to Leiden. My gaze went to it as I dressed, as I sat and put on my boots and puttees. A compact, business-like machine. I weighed it in my hand, pressed the muzzle against my temple, holstered it, and went downstairs into the bright, the burning sunshine.
‘Cushy for some,’ said a deep voice, and Wallace from the orderly room, mess tins dangling at the end of his simian arm, ambled by.
‘That man,’ I shouted in my sergeant’s voice. ‘Get your back up! Walk like a man, not a ruptured fucking dromedary!’
He looked back, grinned, offered me two fingers. One of bloody Corporal Kyle’s men, of course.
The sergeants’ mess was regularly full of walking wounded at breakfast time. I was late. Five bods remained there – Ron Dyer, sitting alone on one side of the table, resting his hairy belly on its edge, and RSM Payne, Jock Ferguson, Scubber, and Charlie Meadows in a desolate huddle at the top end.
‘Watch your vehicles,’ Dyer called as I entered. The others just twitched.
‘Get knotted,’ I responded pleasantly, taking a seat opposite Dyer.
Our dining room was undistinguished, painted in a pale lime green calculated to make anyone entering with a hangover feel ten times worse. Only a year before, Jap officers had lodged here. They had filled the room with grotesquely heavy gothic furniture looted from the Dutch. Eagles, bears, and corpulent rosettes studded this menacing woodwork. There was also a large coloured print of Fujiyama, which Dickie Payne had insisted should not be removed.
The Chinese orderly appeared to tell me that breakfast was all pinnish. I cut him off with a request for coffee. A neglected piece of toast lay on the table. As I scoffed it, I inspected the quartet on my right. Payne had eyes like pissholes in the snow; Jock was no better; Charlie somewhat worse. Wally Scubber looked like a ghost.
‘Ever tried Black Tartan Wombat?’ I asked.
Charlie answered in a frail husk of a voice, conveying as much information as possible in as few words as possible. ‘Malacca Refined Palm Spirit. Death.’
‘You lads never learn.’
Dyer belched. ‘Looking pale yourself, Stubbs. What have you been up to?’
I contemplated one of the eagles, perched stiffly high behind his head. ‘I’ve been wondering whether to shoot myself, if you must know.’
‘Don’t waste the ammunition. We might need it for a better cause. I suppose you realise that the BORS held a party for you last night, only you didn’t show up. Discourtesy. Bad for relationships between NCOS and Other Ranks, wouldn’t you say? Or I suppose you couldn’t care less, like everyone else in this shower.’
‘Fuck the BORS. I’ve no doubt they managed to get blind drunk without me, as on every other Saturday night.’
The orderly brought coffee and poured me a cup. Dyer reluctantly pushed the sugar across and relaxed his inquisitorial act as he lit a cigarette.
‘Ah, first of the day – always the best! Yes, they were really going at it last night. A bacchanalia. Disgusting.’
‘Don’t mention drink,’ Payne whispered, clutching his head. ‘Never again …’
Ron Dyer blew smoke into the air and continued as if he had not heard. ‘Mind you, they had provocation, give them that. The Jap stores delivered them a whole crate of crème de menthe yesterday afternoon. You know crème de menthe? That green muck Windmill Street whores drink in the bar of the Regent Palace.’
‘You’d know more about that than I would.’
The coffee was almost cold. I swigged it with distaste, watching Charlie light a fag with trembling hand and half listening to Dyer. The Jap officers must have indulged in similar conversations, while the same waiters served the same lousy coffee. I had a sad feeling that here I was involved in this sordid affair of drink, spunk, and shoot-ups, and all the while there was another Horatio – a saner, kinder man – who had become lost amid the machinery of alternatives which proliferate in time of war; I wondered if I would ever find him again.
‘But a whole crate. That’s forty-eight bottles! The silly so-and-so’s were going at it like nobody’s business, all clutching pint glasses full of the stuff. How’d you fancy a nice fresh pint of crème de menthe right now, Jock?’
‘Away with ye,’ husked Jock Ferguson, coughing fruitily into a handkerchief.
‘I looked in on them at curfew and they were going full blast. Like savages. Throwing up everywhere. You never saw such a night.’
‘Ah, well, Ron, brutal and licentious soldiery … as Shakespeare has it, “Not once or twice in our fair island story Has the road to ruin proved the path to glory.”’ I thought that was fairly bright for a man in the throes of terminal syphilis, but Dyer ploughed on unmoved, shaking ash into the remains of marmalade on his plate.
‘At two in the morning you could hear their gramophone still going. They debagged Corporal Kyle, so I heard. Raving drunk. Bad soldiering. There will be some thick heads round there this morning.’
I poured myself another cup of coffee. Undrinkable, if truth be told.
‘Good news about that cunt Kyle, anyway.’ I had completely forgotten the BORS’ party. Happy though I was to have missed total immersion in crème de menthe, appearing to snub the Other Ranks was just one more thing to feel bad about. I rose from the table, nodded to the RSM, and clapped Ron Dyer on his bare shoulder as I went by.
‘Cheero, Ron, see you in the bar of the Regent Pal
ace some time. Merdeka!’
Outside the mess, three swart members of the Indian Pioneer Corps were pulling planks and tarpaulins about, trying to repair the cover of the cesspit. Their sluggish movements suggested that they were not optimistic about the outcome.
Medan on a Sunday morning was quieter than usual. All the shops were shut. The Dutch, and such of the local population as had been converted to Protestantism, were at church singing European hymns to a European god. This might be one of the chief cities of the new Indonesian Republic, but it chugged along still under the mores of a Netherlands provincial town. One of my watches said five to ten and the other nearly a quarter to eleven, so I reckoned it must be at least eleven-twenty. When I wound them both vigorously, I was making the loudest noise in the street.
My last days in Sumatra return vividly as I write, although they have been stored away forgotten for years. Yet I cannot remember any part of the way from our lines to the Kesawan, except for the railway crossing – a point of danger. Only an old faded photograph reminds me of what the de Boer club looked like. This must be because, whenever I walked that way, my head was pleasantly filled with thoughts of women; my surroundings scarcely registered. Which suggests a new reason why people recall the days of their childhood so clearly: childhood is the only time of life when one’s brain is not preoccupied with hopes, regrets, recollections, lecherous anticipations, of the other sex …
Naturally, the story of Katie’s adventures was stuffed with lies. All those rape fantasies, for instance. She gloried in sex. I asked her where she acquired her knowledge of the art of love; she replied that it all came from the Spanish nun. That could have been said in order to titillate me. You would never get to the bottom of all the mysteries about Katie Chae.
Tomorrow, my flight to Singapore. There I would have to hang about in Nee Soon Transit Camp until the old Otranto arrived for the voyage home – which could mean a wait of up to a fortnight. Would Katie come over and visit me for that period if I paid her? We could probably get a room in Nee Soon village; there were some quite striking houses where the Arabs sold rugs and pouffes. I had plenty of back-pay. But how many cigarettes would it take?
What a swine I was to even think of such a thing! Above all – first – I must get things straight with Margey.
In the Chinese quarter, the Ambonese were taking over the pavement, strolling and stretching and calling to each other. Big amiable black men sat at the open windows of their billet, tuning guitars or cleaning machine-guns. Christ, Amboina must be some place! Shite-hawks swooped above the street, hoping that the guns would go off. On the corner of Bootha Street, the restaurant was open and doing no business. Two waiters lolled outside, smoking; we exchanged greetings.
I made an effort to quicken my pace.
The signs of mourning were still on Margey’s weather-beaten door. The exotic characters had curled up in the sun like flabby hedgehogs. An overnight rainstorm had caused the red dye of the paper to run down the door, where it resembled the blood of a leukaemia victim. The white flowers had died and were infested with small flies.
A paper casket stood on the table in the middle of the room, surrounded by fresh flowers. It was an emblem of the real coffin, now decently buried: the processes of corruption are fast on the equator – maggots burst out of eyes not closed twenty-four hours since. Several old people, with the wrinkled walnut faces age etches on the Chinese, were shuffling round the room. The Brastagi relations, no doubt.
Inevitably, boring old Fat was there, sitting in one corner smoking watchfully on a bamboo chair tipped back against the wall. He called to me, beckoning with a languid paw.
‘Ha, so, Missa Stuss, you so kine come bag this house ’gain after rong ti’. I no ’spec’ you come bag this house any more ti’ – you go fry bag Ingrant.’ He made plane noises and zoomed his hand around to help convey his meaning. I didn’t think much of the standard of imitation.
All the same, he deflected me enough to try and solve a minor mystery. I asked Fat how it was that Tiger Balm, Katie Chae’s brother, came here when Margey so hated Katie Chae. As far as I could understand his answer, the Tiger Balms of this world were lofty pillars of the local Chinese community, while the Hwan Fat Sians of this world were lowly worms. The Tiger Balms had established the Hwans in accommodation in their hour of need. Money also changed hands – but from whom to whom, and exactly why, or how earned, I could not determine.
Cutting short a rambling socio-economic survey in pidgin, I said, ‘Where’s Margey, Fat? Upstairs?’
‘You priss no worry Margey.’ He jerked his thumb towards the back yard. ‘Margey busy do prenty wor’.’ He spoke feelingly, as if suffering from the same complaint.
Going moodily to the rear, I caught sight of Margey through the glass door. She was in her working pyjamas, bent double over an old bucket. Sunshine hit the wall behind her. As I pushed the door open, I saw that she was doing something vigorous with water – washing a pair of Fat’s winter trousers or drowning a turkey were two possibilities that sprang to mind.
‘Hello, Margey!’ Spoken rather coolly. This could be my last meeting with her, and I wished everything to be dignified and decent.
She looked up from the bucket, smiling and frowning as she straightened. I saw how small she was, how lost she would look on Number One Platform, Kings Cross. Or in the bar of the Regent Palace.
Then she flicked her head, scowled, and went back to the washing/drowning operations, turning her back on me. If anything, this response made me feel worse than the terminal syphilis did.
Entering the yard, I circled her in order to get a look at her face.
‘Missed you yesterday, Margey.’
Furious scrubbing was her answer.
‘You didn’t tell me you were going to Brastagi, Margey.’
Savage scrubbing. The turkey was getting hell.
‘Stop that, Margey, and pay attention. I’ve got a present for you.’ (I had brought along a tin of Euthymol tooth powder, a packet of frizette mixture, a jar of red currant jelly, a box of liquorice allsorts, a comb, and two tins of Portuguese sardines.)
Without ceasing operations, she said, ‘I no want your beastly present. You give to one your other girls.’
This was going to be tricky.
‘Sounds as if you had a bad time in Brastagi. I’m off if you won’t speak to me properly.’
She gave a grunt. Her face was red with anger. Like a little fury, she whirled round, swinging the turkey/trousers above her head. I was trapped in a corner of the yard. As I instituted the first impulses of retreat, Margey struck me with the sopping object squarely across the head and shoulders. Caught off balance, I fell backwards and sprawled in the filthy yard. The bag with the presents broke, scattering goods across the flagstones.
Margey leapt upon me, still beating me with the lethal object and screaming as she did so. Water drops flew up into the air, sparkling as they dropped again.
‘Why I speak you properly, hog-pizzle? What you do deserve I speak you properly? You low thing, I go Brastagi only for family duty. First I watch for you like proper faithful China girl. You no come here yes’erday like you promise. Why you no come here like you promise? Aei-ya, you dirty disease soldier, you no care where Margey am, if I live or dead!’
Protecting my face with my arms, I struggled to my feet. She continued to beat me. By now I was drenched from head to foot, and the turkey hurt.
‘Pack it in, you stupid bitch! I’m soaked! I had to go crocodile-shooting. How did I know you were suddenly going to disappear? Why didn’t you leave me a note – you’re so bloody educated, aren’t you?’
She stopped beating me as she gathered what I had said. We stood staring at each other, panting heavily. Even flecked with suds, she looked immaculate. Dirty water poured from my shoulders. I heard a scuffle behind me; Fat and the Brastagi relations were jostling for a good view of the quarrel. In fury, I grabbed up the jar of red currant jelly, which lay by my foot, and hurled it at Fat’s
face. Fortunately, I missed the window. The jar struck the stone wall and broke. Enormous wasps the size of carrots descended on the red chunks of goo as they hit the flagstones.
‘You call it crocodile-shooting now, hey, you man-pig? I know what you get up direct moment my back is turn. You same like all men, no sense only for that stinking thing in your pants.’ She kicked one of the tins of sardines flying. ‘Why you not have more respec’, go and stick that – that hairy bloodsausage – up any dirty disease hole comes along, you foreign monster, pig, shit, pizzle, bumhole!’
She shook her head as she spat the words out. With a scream, she began to larrup me with the drowned object again. I grabbed it and wrenched it from her.
‘Cut out this bloody senseless useless yelling, for Christ’s sake! What the hell are you going on about? I did go crocodile-shooting yesterday, and nearly got myself killed, while you were pissing about in Brastagi.’
Instead of showing any remorse, she jumped at me and grabbed back the drowned thing. There she stood, silent and dramatic, regarding me with haunted eyes, clutching her elbows as I had seen Ida Lupino do. She held the pose long enough to strike terror into my heart, ignoring the wasps which zoomed about us. Then she lifted an accusing finger and began on a new tack, speaking slowly at first.
‘I see, I understand all what you say, Horatio, you shit-sergeant. You go crocodile-shooting yes’erday. And that’s why today in the bazaar Katie Chae wear new blue felt hat with matching silk ribbon, is it?’ On the last words, her voice rose to a blood-curdling scream of triumph; even the onlookers flinched. She knew I was undone.
I was undone. Pointless to try and argue that there was, in fact, no casual connection between the crocodile-shoot and the hat-bestowal. After one or two false starts, during which I was screamed down, I tried the red-herring tactic of explaining that the hat in no way represented payment for services rendered, or at least had not been obtained originally as an object intended for presentation in exchange for services rendered, and indeed had been procured only with extreme reluctance by the accused, who had regarded himself as rooked at the time of the transaction and who, furthermore, had not, in his innocence, anticipated any services whatsoever being offered, never mind rendered; and moreover who, had he had the wit to anticipate the full, generous, delicious and oft-repeated nature of those services, would probably have procured, not one, but half a dozen fucking blue felt hats.