by Brian Aldiss
I rose during his speech. By standing on the verandah step and straightening up gradually, I managed to reverse the situation so that I towered over Boyer. He was carrying the matter further than I wanted it taken.
‘Sir, the trouble is …’ I hated to spoil his rhetoric. ‘You see, there are two girls …’
‘Two Chink girls?’ He staggered back in disgust. ‘Don’t be so bloody stupid, Stubbs, you know very well that even in Sumatra you are allowed only one wife.’
‘No, no, sir, I didn’t mean that. I meant –’
‘I know what you meant. Well, I gave you your chance. I’m going to get myself another drink and see what Raddle’s doing. I’ll waste no more time on you, you and your filthy Black Wombat and your nests of Chink girls. I’m disappointed, Stubbs, frankly disappointed. I need a drinkies, a blithering big deep drinkies …’ He made his way back into the crowded bungalow, where the music was going full blast.
I tried to keep pace with him, blundering over suitcases. ‘Sir, I appreciate what you say. You have me wrong. Your offer – it would be romantic. Ow, shit!’ That was the edge of a trunk. ‘Like something out of a novel. “To be or not to be …”’
‘That’s not a novel, you fool, that happens to be a play.’ Boyer’s manner was rather off-hand, perhaps because he had just caught sight of Raddle in the far corner, kissing a young blonde lieutenant.
‘I know, sir, but the principle’s the same. I mean, what I’m trying to say is – oh, sod it! – that I am having a bit of trouble with two girls – Chink girls, sir – at present. I just have to go into town and sort things out. I’m all confused in my mind – oh, shit!’ This time I fell against him and we knocked two dancing couples flying. ‘I probably need a drink, too, I wouldn’t be surprised. Can we leave your kind offer open while I sort of sort things out a bit?’
He looked grimly at me, with even grimmer side-glances across at Raddle, pulling his moustache and visibly regretting his earlier generosity.
‘You have got till midnight, Stubbs. Report back to me here without fail. I shall be here enjoying myself until midnight, after which Raddle and I will proceed to bed, and certainly won’t wish to be disturbed by the likes of you. Now clear off.’
‘Thanks, sir. Good luck.’
‘Mind your own business, Sergeant.’
I took this as an indication of dismissal and went. As I charged into the dark, I saw Jhamboo standing so close to a mousy little Dutch girl that his cigarette holder was half-way up her left nostril. I waved him a cheery farewell, but he was otherwise engaged.
‘Up the anti-vaginaphobes!’ I called encouragingly.
CHAPTER TEN
To anyone coming straight from the great cities of the West, Medan must have appeared a poor provincial place – no great architecture, grand vistas, arts, or even vices to rank on an international scale. But there is perspective in all things. To anyone who had spent three years soldiering in places like Burma – and who moreover approached Medan by the overland route from Padang, driving down from Toba and the volcanic chain – it was a city indeed. Every alleyway had its own splendour. Besides, I was young then, young and impressionable. It seemed to me the very arena of life.
The centre was bustling, despite the afternoon alarm at the cemetery. In the paralysis that gripped the city, the non-arrival of the Van Heutsz produced fresh currents of activity. The two hundred people who had failed to leave represented two hundred extra visitors, extra customers.
My last fucking night. I could forget all about the girls and have a last booze-up in the mess with my mates. In fact, I hired a local gharry and was driven back to the lines. I saw their faces, watched Dickie Payne, Jock, Wally Scubber, and the others through the window. I went to my dark and silent billet next door, walked upstairs without putting on the light. The thirty tins of Players stood in their box on the table. I picked them up and went back to the waiting gharry. At least I could pay off my debt to Katie Chae.
She was not in her flat. On the beat, no doubt, thought I, with more resignation than regret. Good-bye, Katie Chae! I gave the tins with a note to an old woman who lived below.
Then I went to pay my debt to Margey.
I was sweating like a beaver. A storm was brewing.
As I dived in the Chinese quarter, heading for Bootha Street, a familiar detachment overcame me. It was familiar because I had experienced it often enough during my years in the Far East. How could it matter what happened to me, provided I was not wounded or killed, as long as I remained part of that exotic bustle, that great obscure traffic of various businesses? Whatever I suffered was of little account beside the sensation of belonging to a community which I hoped some day to understand. If I was hurt by love or whoring, it didn’t matter, it didn’t matter, just as long as I was still entangled with the great affair of living. Other people would always be there to embrace.
The clatter of pakia, the cry of street-vendors, the nasal whine of Chinese music relayed over a cheap radio, even the silent flash of lightning overhead, such things had entered my heart. They told me that suffering was also part of enjoyment. Better these things by far than isolation and silence. Better jungle than desert.
I still feel that vision. Time since is but a moment.
Every street lamp was surrounded by a nimbus of gold comprising dozens of horrendous and winged shitbags intent on frying themselves to a frizzle. Beneath each lamp lay a pile of expiring bodies. They were gobbled by toads and lizards which lurked in the gutters. Fresh insects perpetually zoomed in to the sphere of light like comets to the sun, only to fall away again angrily, buzzing in a fury of pain.
Poor bloody insects! That was why I had to get out of Medan, however much it attracted me. I was going to get burnt. I had been in danger enough and being killed was too much. My nerve was gone, the toads were waiting. And I had slightly more savvy than the winged shitbags.
Pausing at the top of Margey’s alley, I lit a cigar. My stomach churned somewhat. Now I had to face the weaker sex. According to my watches, it could be twenty to nine. Or maybe eight-thirty. Fucking time was catching up with me fast, even by my reckoning.
It had come to the pinch. We looked at each other a bit guardedly. Perhaps she, like me, was uncertain what she really felt.
We went to a restaurant called The Haven, a big rambling wooden place where there was music and dancing. Poor Margey, she was penitent for her previous outburst of anger and grateful – perhaps surprised – that I had shown up again. When I saw that, I experienced a sneaking regret that I had not sought out Katie Chae and let her earn a few more tins of Players.
Yet Margey looked pretty smashing with her sleek jet hair curling inwards about her neck and her kitten-shaped face gleaming. She wore a blue silk dress of a European style and white shoes with buttons. She carried a white handbag. All told, she was a cool and delicious sight.
She appeared as eager as I to give the subject of Katie Chae a miss – but some painful subjects could not be avoided. The waiter brought our dish; tender hunks of an unknown animal were bedded on rice and served with coconut and a peppy brown sauce. As we ate, Margey looked at me askance and said, ‘Horry, you go away ’morrow morning, fry to Singapore.’
‘That’s right.’
‘You never come back Medan.’
‘Afraid not.’
‘Our little time was so short, Horry.’
Silence. They were playing ruddy ‘Terang Boelan’ again. Mouthfuls of meat found their way between the lumps in our throats. It was nine-fifteen, or maybe somewhat later.
‘Horry.’
‘What?’
‘Maybe we go back my place. We pretend be husband and little wife one last time.’
‘I don’t know, Margey – we’ve come to the end of the road …’
‘No, no, one last time. I tell you what I do when I see that terrible thing stick up at me.’ She began a soft and erotic recital of what I might expect in the circumstances. My spirits sank lower.
Everyon
e else in the restaurant seemed to be enjoying themselves. A squaddy I knew was dancing with a ravishing Indonesian woman with her hair coiled in a bun at the back of her sleek head. Was it Che Jah? I felt as if I had wasted my weeks in Medan. Why had I not had an Indonesian woman with her hair coiled in a bun at the back of her sleek head? She would have made no impossible claims on me. I drank down my beer and angrily ordered another.
Almost as soon as we had entered The Haven, the heavens had opened. Such a flood was coming down outside that it looked as if our windows gave on to gigantic aquaria. Flashes of lightning revealed, in frozen gesture, denizens of this submarine world in flight from puddle to puddle. A batch of these denizens landed themselves at the restaurant door, shedding laughter and water everywhere. They were squaddies I knew, among them the prognathous Wallace and ‘Jesus’ Price.
As they passed our table, Wallace gave me a simian wink. ‘Cushy for some,’ he said.
Price said, ‘Still at it then, Horry? We held a party for you last night but you never turned up. Crème de menthe by the gallon, lovely grub!’
‘I tried to make it but I was busy.’
‘I can see that,’ Price said, and he and Wallace went into peals of scabrous laughter. ‘We’ll be having a few again tonight if you care to look in the billet, Horry. You’re not a bad bloke, despite them three stripes.’
‘Thik-hai,’ I said.
They paused and gave Margey an insulting look of evaluation. As they moved on, shedding water, Wallace began to sing, in a high nasal tone representing Cantonese song,
One night down in old Wanchai,
Some dirty bastard spat in my eye …
It was intended as an insult to the Chinese, and to me. I jumped up, red in the face, longing to plant a bunch of fives right in Wallace’s mush, but Margey dragged me back into my chair.
‘No make scene. He no good man, singing silly song. You just listen your Margey.’
The Red Fox reinforcement arrived, temptingly warm, and I flung it down my throat. Margey continued with her erotic recital, to which I was able to pay little attention.
Where had my affection for her gone?
I was ashamed. During my time in India, I had found sex and looked for love, pined, moped for it. Now was I so much older, so much eroded by experience, that when I had found love I wanted only sex? These were questions I formulated without attempting to answer. Whilst feeling that I had betrayed Margey, I was myself betrayed by circumstances, by the whole impossible situation.
‘Horry, you no listen your poor Margey. I really want we play that disgusting husband and wife game one more time – I really stick my savage little red hole out at you – because I know you never marry Margey, her heart and her body.’
It had to be said. I felt myself speaking in slow-motion as I formulated the words. ‘Margey, you are a lovely rare girl, but the husband and wife thing is not on. It’s not possible for me to stay in Medan. That’s the way things are, understand. It’s the system. I’m only a bloody soldier. My time’s up. As a matter of fact, I nearly got bumped off this afternoon.’
Silence.
She was so fragile. Her bones were so dainty. Her flesh was so smooth and pure. I stared down at her downcast face, which the cataract of time was about to sweep away. Margey would still live, so would I; but we would live far apart.
‘Well, say something, go on.’
‘I no speak.’ Her face puckered up as if she had been hit.
‘Bloody cheerful evening this is turning out to be!’
‘Horry, please understand, I very sad and no want cry. What Margey can do when you leave her? You never intend you marry Margey. You just want jig-jig and make joke of poor Margey for her body.’
I put my knife and fork down and tackled a fresh Red Fox. I patted her leg under the table until she withdrew it.
‘Margey, please don’t say or believe that, ever. I did, I do love you. You are marvellous and I can’t think how I would have been without you – really. But I’m too mixed up … it’s not you, it’s me, and this place, and what the hell happens to me back in England. What in God’s name am I going to bloody well do there? I just can’t visualise the future for myself, never mind the two of us. I’m not putting this very well, but I don’t want to hurt you and I can’t find it in myself to – well, to commit myself. You might hate England – God knows, I think I might.’
‘Is not so worse as this dump, that I know.’
‘Well, it’s not a paradise like bloody Tsingtao.’
I dared not look at her. Some squaddies over the far side of the room were getting hilariously drunk, Wallace among them.
‘You no want me in England because I China girl.’ She looked up, and anger made her eyes sparkle. ‘Why you not say so for a change? You no understand China girl best girl in world for marriage – better than your sexy French mistress. China girl cook and fuck and be faithful her man. Always smell nice, too.’ She lifted her faultless arm so that I could see one faultless armpit, like the inside of a peach when the peach stone is removed. ‘She just more good as Europe girl all ways, and teeth and legs better, too.’
‘I know, Margey, I accept all that.’
She leant forward, speaking into my face; bucket-hurling time was coming round again. ‘Then why we no go Singapore, set up house like we plan? Why you say such thing if you don’t mean? Aei-ya, I know why! You meet up that damn sex-cat Miss Katie Chae, you jig-jig with her, so now you really gone bad in the head, I know. How much you pay her, I like to know, what I give you free? That girl run like poison in the artillery of a man, that’s what, that’s what! ’
‘For fuck’s sake, Margey, don’t start working yourself up into a rage. Leave Katie Chae out of this, will you? I’m going to have a piss. Calm down while I’m gone and order me another beer.’
It was somewhere in the region of a quarter to ten, according to my watches. Or thereabouts. In Blighty, I’d at least be able to get someone to fix the bloody instruments so that they kept proper time. I had to report back to Boyer before midnight. If only Margey would let me off the hook – that whole affair had been a disaster from the start.
Round between the tables, behind a potted palm, through a rattan door. Another door, solid wood. Standing behind it, gasping, I tried to piss against the filthy wall provided, angry with the world and with myself. One hundred degrees Fahrenheit. I understood nothing. What was I? A puppet of the stars, as Raddle put it. I was tempted to nip out of the back of the restaurant – but I’d left my bush-hat at the table with Margey. Cowardly shit. Rain still belted down outside, like the liquid pouring out of me. Dogs howled.
Army boots sounded on the step outside the jakes. The door was flung violently open, catching me between the shoulder-blades. It slammed me against the tacky wall. Pee flew everywhere.
‘Haaaah!’ The intruder marched forward, giving a stretch and a bellow as he went.
‘You clumsy bastard!’ I said.
He turned. It was Corporal Steve Kyle. I planted one smack in his ribs, my prick still hanging out. It was a real good blow with my right fist, my right shoulder behind it. ‘One for you, you mutinous turd!’
Kyle was drunk, or half-way. Though he buckled a bit, he hit back. I went for him. Unfortunately, I tripped on some anonymous slimes and fell. While I was down on my hands and knees, he delivered a hell of a kick on my thigh.
‘A parting present, you bleeding Führer!’ he shouted, and tried to escape, but I grabbed his leg.
‘I’ll teach you to get some service in, you cunt!’
‘Fuck off, you’re bloody puggle!’
I hauled myself up on him and gave him a pasting. He caught me a stray blow on the nose. Something rang like an alarm bell in my head and all my filthy temper exploded. I was beyond anyone’s control as I struck out at him, driving my fists and the side of my palms into his arms and body. If there had been a golf club handy, I would have used it on him.
I feared that foul temper of mine, and still do. For s
ome years, I have managed to suppress it because I know how it takes control: under its spell, I experience no pain, know no fear. It’s like intoxication. Kyle escaped from me only when some of his muckers, including Wallace and Price, happened to barge in and haul him away. They had to fight me to do so.
When they were gone, I spent a long while hanging over a tap in the corner of the squalid room, splashing cold water over my face. Sick. Sick as a dog. Dab the blood away. Sick. Hot. Every sodding thing falling apart. Nothing to hold on to. Sick. Fucking life – take it away and bring me something more my kind of thing …
Other people entered the bog. I didn’t look up, couldn’t face them. Margey’s arm came round my waist. She mopped at my face with a tiny handkerchief.
‘Poor Horry, Margey look after you. You so worry, poor man, you drink too much drink.’ Her tone became wheedling and coaxing. ‘You come home your little Margey last time. I no mad you, Horry, I very sorry all trouble. Margey understand. This very difficult year for all concerned. Astrologers say it.’
Still feeling reasonably bad-tempered, I looked round. My vision was poor, but I made out the restaurant manager standing by the door. With him was someone I recognised – Katie Chae’s brother, Tiger Balm, his spectacles gleaming efficiently. The manager started to address me at length in Malay, but Tiger Balm interrupted and said, in his colourless English, ‘Possibly I can help here. This is the manager of this establishment. He requests you to settle your bill and leave the premises as soon as possible. He says that fighting is sternly forbidden and he threatens to summon the Red Caps if you will not go quietly.’
‘I’ll go when I’m ready. I’m not drunk, if that’s what he thinks.’