‘But you said you were an enemy …’
Maruli spread his hands. ‘My ideas haven’t changed with the wind. I was a Sukarnoist, I am a Sukarnoist, I will be a Sukarnoist. That fact is enough.’ He was smiling. As he stopped speaking a silence, like a palpable object, seemed to thicken and condense. Alex heard her own voice, reedy, asking,
‘But why did you run away from the warung when you saw Sutrisno?’
The house, the city and the night were in dense silence. Maruli’s face was impassive once more. He shrugged. ‘We were friends, once, during the Revolution …’
‘But then?’ She could feel him telling her silently not to ask. ‘But then?’ she repeated.
Maruli was silent; the past was flowing back to him. Trisno …
Trisno was a real farm boy when he joined our gang. He’d never been to school but he was clever and very strong, from hoeing. He wore his hair long, down past his shoulders, and he was daring—a good thief. One night he stole twenty rifles from a Dutch barracks. He kept on going back for more, until we had to stop him. He could climb like a cat. And he was always humorous: girls liked him. It started to go to his head. He had only known village girls before, but everything was changing. Upper-class girls who would never have spoken to him were calling him ‘Brother’ and flirting with him because he was a pemuda and stole rifles from the Dutch. He started to go crazy with his success. He believed he could have any girl. He became mad for our captain’s girl. She was a prijaji, pale and very beautiful. She worked in the Red Cross in Jogja and she used to smuggle messages between Djakarta and Jogja. She was so refined that the Dutch never tried to search her. She would say, ‘I am a Red Cross worker, Sergeant,’ and they would bow to her and let her through … One night Trisno climbed into her bedroom.
‘But then he broke a code of honour,’ Maruli said. The memories were rushing in his head: ‘Bung Sudewo, our captain, offered Trisno a choice. It was almost a joke. Either he would kill him, or … We were in a buffalo shed, in a field. The shed stank of the animals; Trisno squatted on the floor in front of Bung Sudewo, squatted down like a farm boy and thought about it, just like a peasant thinking over the price he would accept for his goat. He squatted there for a long time, with his black pyjamas and his hair falling over his shoulders, and we all hoped he would ask to be shot. None of us could speak, because we loved him, and we didn’t want to be the one to do it … Then after a long while he said ‘Just them, eh?’ and Bung Sudewo said ‘Yes.’ And he said ‘Will you look after me if I get sick?’ and Bung Sudewo said ‘Yes.’ And Trisno said, ‘OK. Do it now.’ And some of the boys started to cry and beat their heads with their fists. Bung Sudewo said, ‘We will get herbs and will wait until the proper time—until dawn, when the good spirits are coming back after night—so that you won’t get too sick. Dawn is the proper time for it.’
‘What happened to him?’ Alex asked.
Maruli had closed his eyes. We took him home to his mother. She said, ‘I had ten children—he was the strongest baby and he is the only son left to me. Is this how you fight the Dutch?’ And we were all ashamed, and said, ‘It was his wish. He broke the code.’ A few weeks later he rejoined the gang, but it was not the same. We were shamed. The first night we went stealing again we were all caught. The others were shot, but Trisno and I climbed out. He said to me, ‘You’re the last one alive who knows. After Independence I will pay you back. One day I will pay you back, God willing.’
Maruli opened his eyes. ‘He was castrated,’ he said.
‘Oh, God.’ She thought, his eyes were telling me not to ask. I should have heeded them. ‘I’m sorry I asked you.’ She had begun to tremble.
‘Don’t cry.’ Maruli said. ‘It happened a long time ago, when people were confused.’
At night Djalan Pattimura, one of the main streets in the new suburb Kebajoran Baru, was a favourite spot for foreigners to take tourist friends. There were few roadblocks in the area, as most important people lived in the older suburb, Menteng, and there were no shops. Pattimura was planted with large trees and ill-lit even at the best of times, but it was the area chosen by the night butterflies. Many of them were village girls in their early teens, too inexperienced in social graces and too uneducated to get jobs as servants. They charged the equivalent of fifty cents, although one had to bargain first. Many of the butterflies had gonorrhea, but syphillis and the penicillin-resistant virus, The Black Rose of Saigon, were virtually unknown, so a condom and a pee afterwards made the adventure fairly safe. They were jolly girls, full of good humour and dirty jokes. For the rowdier type of bachelor party, the sort of thing the GIs and the embassy NCOs gave, a dozen butterflies were hired for a whole evening of fun. They entered through the servants’ quarters and were expected to leave the same way, and before broad daylight.
Sinclaire had chosen Pattimura as his first clandestine pick-up spot for Usman, about five hundred yards past the stretch of road where the girls gathered. He drove slowly past the whores, who waved and yelled at him, then accelerated until he reached a street light. He stopped under it and studied a street map, then drove on again, slowly, close to the gutter. He had drunk three brandies before setting out but he had the strange, still feeling of being cold sober and unnaturally alert—it was the adrenalin fighting down the alcohol. Everything was in electric-sharp focus. He could see Usman along the pavement, fifty yards in front of him.
As Sinclaire drew level with Usman he called out ‘Permisi, Mas, dimana Djalan … ? Excuse me, where is … ?’ And as Usman approached the car Sinclaire said quietly, ‘Stand there and look at this map, point to something, then say, “I’ll show you” and get in. Keep your head down.’
‘There’s a roadblock up further,’ Usman said.
‘I know. I’ve checked the area. Get in!’ Sinclaire had opened the passenger door. ‘Good boy. Now, you can start talking and I’ll listen while I drive. Here’s your envelope—would you just sign for it?’ Sinclaire had restarted the car. As Usman pocketed the envelope of cash Sinclaire asked ‘What else have you got in that pocket?’
‘He had the pistol with him,’ Sinclaire told Greaves next morning. ‘I told him we didn’t like it—that we never carried guns.’
‘Jesus, man. You’re not thinking!’ Greaves thumped his desk, making his coffee glass dance on its saucer. ‘That is bad, bad, bad. So he knows you’re unarmed—and he’s dodgy. What if he tries a kidnap on you?’
‘Oh, shit.’ Sinclaire turned from Greaves’s desk and strolled towards the window. In the courtyard below one of the drivers was showing off his new baby to the other staff. It was wrapped in a pink rug and wearing gold earrings, a pink woollen bonnet and booties: babies were considered to be sensitive to cold and were, therefore, dressed for alpine conditions.
‘You haven’t been thinking straight all week,’ Greaves added. He squinted at Sinclaire. ‘What’s on your mind? It’s not that piece of Sumatran fluff, is it?’
‘No. I gave her the sack.’
‘Well? Have you got the clap? Got somebody up the duff …? What is it?’
‘Christ, Frank. I’m running five agents—I’m like a bloody taxi driver. And it’s not easy breaking in a new one—you don’t know how good their concentration is, if they’re going to stuff up the meeting times, or walk on the wrong side of the street…’
‘OK. So young Thingummy says the shed is being used to hide black propaganda, and that there is a printing press there.’
‘Yes. And when I asked him about Hutabarat, the guru there, he balked. He suddenly turned Javanese on me. He said, “Mr Maruli is a very good poet and a very great patriot—the President himself said he was a flower of our nation,” I said, “But, Usman, he runs the cultural centre. He must know what happens in the compound. Perhaps he is writing the pamphlets himself?”, and he looked out the window and said, “I don’t think so.” I asked why, and he said, “We Indonesians can feel these things,” and then he told me about the student cell structure in Bandung.’
> Greaves hummed. ‘We Indonesians, eh? Xenophobic bastards. I don’t like that.’
‘Neither did I. I promised him an extra five thousand rups next time if he could find out what Hutabarat was doing.’
Greaves blinked. It was an elementary mistake to allow an agent to know the value of his information … The danger is always that the officer gets soft on the agent: to turn a man into a traitor gives the most seductive sense of power. The shared danger they go through makes it magical. Anthony is much softer on this boy than he admits, Greaves realised. If young Usman is half-smart he will be running Anthony, rather than the reverse, pretty soon.
‘That’s a good start,’ Greaves said aloud, then added, ‘The heat will be off in another few weeks—the crisis will come sometime between Independence Day and before the coup anniversary. After 17 August and before 30 September. Then you can pass young Thingummy over to me and have a rest … How many hours have you worked this week?’
‘About sixty—ten of them on car pick-ups.’
Greaves nodded. ‘The car work is killing—it takes too much emotional energy. Have the rest of the day off, son. Go and have a fuck,’ he added kindly.
Sinclaire sighed. ‘I couldn’t get it up. Even if I wanted to.’
6
A persistent, drilling noise woke Alex. Maruli was lying beside her, curled on the bed like a large black cat. She lay gasping for a minute, then shook herself awake and went to the ringing telephone. It was two o’clock in the morning.
Julie Ashby’s voice was high and breathless: Amanda was seriously ill; Thornton had not come home after the Moroccan party … Juhe had to repeat the story before Alex could understand what she was trying to convey. It was that Thornton had gone to teach English to a group of students after the Moroccan party, and had rung at eleven o’clock to say he might be late—he was having an interesting political discussion with the students. He had left Julie a telephone number where she could ring him if Amanda’s fever seemed worse. Julie had rung a few minutes earlier and the telephone had been answered by a stupid man who could not understand English, and who had hung up in Julie’s ear.
‘Not a very good advertisement for Thornton’s teaching,’ Julie said. She tried to sound arch, like Thornton, but she was on the verge of hysterics. ‘Alex, ring that number for me and find out if Thornton has left already. I think he’s got caught in the curfew. It happened to him before, a few weeks ago, and he couldn’t get home till five in the morning.’
An Indonesian male voice answered Alex’s telephone call. It did not sound sleepy; in fact, nobody could have slept with a Frank Sinatra record playing so loudly in the room. The voice crooned ‘Ullo?’ When Alex spoke there was some muffled giggling, then a click. Alex rang again. A different Indonesian male voice answered. ‘Ullo, my darling,’ it said. There was more muffled giggling. Alex asked if Thornton were there, then added, in an inspiration of anger, ‘It’s the Australian Ambassador’s wife calling.’ The disembodied voice said, in Djakarta slang, ‘Heavens!’ then shouted, ‘It’s a front bum from the embassy, Uncle.’ There were screams of laughter and Frank Sinatra was turned down. In the hush Alex heard Thornton saying clearly in Indonesian, ‘Shut up, dumb-head. It’s my wife.’
‘Hullo, darling. How is Amanda?’ Thornton spoke soothingly into the receiver. He sounded fairly drunk.
‘It’s not darling,’ Alex said. She heard Thornton gasp. The rest of their conversation was crisp, but Alex was grinning madly as she recounted Julie’s fears to Thornton. She was wondering if he were dressed up in a picture hat, or in the pink tutu which he claimed Baron von Bloomstein affected for special parties with special friends. Thornton’s long legs, with their long black hairs, would look striking beneath a tutu.
When she returned to bed Maruli was lying awake. Alex was still grinning. Her immediate inclination was to tell him the news about Thornton, but to do so would be a security breach. The rules were specific: one must not discuss the foibles of other staff members with people outside the embassy for this could pave the way for blackmail.
‘Something funny happened,’ she said. ‘I can’t tell you what.’
Maruli smiled. ‘Your eyes are shining,’ was all he said.
He left at dawn, before Itji could discover him.
Alex was first to be picked up on the morning car run. The driver arrived at her house at six-thirty and took coffee with Itji in the kitchen; Alex was not usually ready to leave until six forty-five or seven o’clock. This morning she was ready earlier. After Maruli had left she had dozed, swept by the hallucinations of her dreams. She had turned off the air-conditioning, which became too cold in the early morning, and without its noise she could hear the sound of gamelan music playing outside on the guard’s radio. He, at least, liked Maruli. His hypnotised Javanese eyes had come alive when he had unlocked the front gate to allow Maruli to leave. The lulling, repetitive rhythms of the gamelan interwove with her dreams. Tonight she and Maruli would set out for Bandung and there they would not have to worry about Itji’s disapproval or drunken Americans or Sutrisno, or Anthony. Or Thornton. It was the thought of Thornton that made Alex get up and be ready to leave at six-thirty.
‘To Tuan Ashby’s house,’ she told the driver. ‘His baby was sick last night—I want to see if I can help,’ she added. Offering assistance was her major reason for visiting Thornton before work, but there was another, niggling and unformed.
Thornton’s house, like Thornton’s office, was virginal in décor: white walls, cream tiled floors, off-white rugs and lampshades. The armchairs were covered with bone-coloured fabric, somewhat discoloured by the natural functions of Amanda Ashby. The baby, who was plump and had a head of dark curls and a small, petulant mouth, was a female miniature of her father. She was sitting on his knee at the breakfast table, rosy-cheeked and gurgling. Thornton was bouncing her up and down, singing Sur Ie Pont d’ Avignon out of tune when Alex walked in. He stopped jigging abruptly and pursed his lips.
‘That’s a relief,’ Alex said. ‘She looks like an advertisement for Farex.’
‘Just cutting some teeth,’ Thornton sniffed.
‘Julie was very worried.’
Thornton sniffed again, then tickled Amanda under the chin. ‘Julie is lying down. She has a headache,’ he said coolly. He looked away from Alex and continued to address his daughter. ‘Mum-mum’s got a heady-weddy-ache,’ he crooned. He had not yet invited Alex to sit down; she could feel her temper rising.
‘I just wanted to see if Amanda were all right—one does get rather alarmed at two a.m. I wondered if there was anything I could do.’
‘I don’t think so. Thank you.’ His brown eyes were hostile. Suddenly his eyebrows snapped up. ‘You realise, Alex, that I will have to report to the Ambassador that you are having an affair with Hutabarat?’ he said. ‘Your affair with him constitutes one of the worst potential security breaches I’ve ever heard of.’
Alex thought, That’s what I expected. You’re the security danger, not me. You’re the one who could be blackmailed. I had the suspicion you’d be thrown into a panic and turn nasty.
She also now realised why Thornton was so frightened of Anthony.
‘That will be interesting, Thornton,’ she said. ‘I’m sure the Ambassador will want to hear about your friends, too.’
‘I thought you’d say that.’ He looked down at Amanda and flexed his eyebrows, making the baby laugh and drool milky filaments on to his trousers. ‘Isn’t she a bitch, Baby Doll? Can’t prove anything, though. Silly bitch.’ He clicked his tongue and began bouncing his knee again. ‘Alex loves a communist.’ he sang, then said, ‘You wouldn’t dare go to the Boss. He’d laugh at you. What would you tell him? That I’d stayed out late … Silly bitchy-witchy, isn’t she, Little Doll? Twitchy-bitchy-witchy …’
Alex had begun walking towards the back door. She was so angry she wanted to say, ‘The Boss might not believe me, but Anthony would, and Anthony would find a way of proving it.’ Instead she replied, ‘Just
try me, Thornton. I don’t like being pushed around,’ and slammed the door. It was only a wooden frame enclosing fly-wire. She glanced back and through it she could see Thornton watching her. His lips were clamped together and he looked alarmed, holding Amanda tightly.
Alex flung herself on to the back seat of the car. ‘OK. Go,’ she muttered at the driver.
He was a young part-Arab, bigger-boned than pure-blood Javanese and he carried himself with a slow, rolling walk. One day when he had taken Alex shopping, the street boys had begun to harass her. He had lifted himself from the car, strolled up to one of them and put his hands around the throat of the leader.
‘Leave the lady alone,’ he had said quietly and had added something in street slang which Alex could not understand but which made the louts stop grinning.
Alex saw him watching her now in the rear-vision mirror; his expression was puzzled
‘I’ve got a headache,’ she said suddenly.
‘Poor Non.’ He reached into the top pocket of his uniform and pulled out a waxed paper containing two aspirins which he passed back to her. Alex accepted them with a small, tight smile.
David, the pig-faced vice-consul, was the next person to be picked up on the car run. David was a hearty drinker and most mornings he was late; he would emerge from his house with his eyes shut, holding his forehead.
The day was still pleasantly cool, about eighty degrees, and there was a jasmine bush in abundant flower growing beside the driveway where the car had parked. Alex’s temper began to pass as she and the driver waited for David. At last he came out of the house, striding purposefully and followed by a pretty, young servant who had been crying and who was still rubbing her nose with the back of her hand. He entered the car without looking back at her. The girl broke into a frenzy of tears, then abruptly squatted down on the concrete driveway as the car backed out.
Monkeys in the Dark Page 8