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‘Not so many will come this year,’ the guests said to each other. They were gathered in the palace forecourt, looking out across Freedom Square which, at this early hour, was still almost empty—except for soldiers on guard, armoured cars and a couple of anti-aircraft guns around its perimeter. A million citizens had come to the square the year before on Independence Day. Everyone then had been proud of the National Monument in the middle of the square, and had remarked with awe that the gold leaf on the flame at the monument’s peak had cost three million American dollars. They had talked, too, about the four bronze forest bulls, symbols of the Nationalist Party and of virility, that were going to be placed on pedestals around the base of the torch. Now people knew that the bronze bulls would not be made.
‘Perhaps there will be only half a million this time,’ the guests suggested to each other.
Sutrisno, who was wearing a new red and white striped shirt and a new red bow-tie, for today was the day for national colours, made a sour face. ‘Half a million. Ha! One, two hundred thousand only will come. He is becoming weaker and weaker.’
People nodded, some with sadness. They were his guests for this great occasion: soon they would see again the heirloom flag, the first Red and White, that Sukarno’s wife had made by hand twenty years ago, pieces of cloth that had symbolised a new nation. He had not yet come out of the palace. As they waited, the guests became quiet and the sharp glances exchanged by representatives of the Old Order and representatives of the New softened. It was Independence Day, after all.
A Sumatran lady, a well-known crypto-communist, whose lace jacket was buttoned with ruby and diamond pins, had raised an eyebrow and turned her face away when she had seen Sutrisno arrive.
‘Any capitalist lackey can come to the Palace Flag Raising these days,’ she remarked to a man from Sulawesi, an Old cabinet minister. The minister shuffled his feet.
‘Sutrisno fought in the Revolution,’ he said at last. ‘People say he was tortured.’
The lady sighed. ‘Who among us has not suffered?’ she replied, and when she next caught Sutrisno’s eye, she smiled faintly. Sutrisno, taken by surprise, for the lady was an aristocrat who normally treated him with extremely polite contempt, grinned at her and a tender phrase came to his mind.
‘We are not born communist or capitalist. We are born Indonesian,’ he said.
The general in full dress uniform to whom he addressed this remark agreed. He was a tall, handsome and slow-thinking man who liked, as Sutrisno knew, to hear nice sentiments.
‘We must live in harmony,’ he said. ‘The colours of our national flag are the symbols of harmony, of male and female, of cosmic peace. Our flag shows us how to live.’
The President, still the Great Leader of the Revolution, still the Saviour of the Nation, the Champion of Islam and Freedom, still the Father of the Farmers, the Prime Minister, the Supreme Scout and much else besides, was ten minutes late.
Then suddenly a figure in white stepped through the doorway and he was among them, a magical presence. He moved quickly, like a soft breeze, touching people’s cheeks and laughing. He called guests by name and they lowered their eyes, smiling. As the flag was raised, the Red and White, that had flown on captured buildings and sometimes been hidden to save it from the Dutch, people let tears run down their faces, remembering how once everyone in that gathering would have been proud to die for those pieces of cloth stitched together by hand, or for the man in the white uniform who stood out in front of them, saluting it He had drawn power out of their inner beings, mystically, and had given them in return the courage of his own mighty spirit. He looked old and sick now. But village people still believed he could cure leprosy with his spittle.
The band played and tears flowed on and the guests wondered why they had ever felt any divisions in their ranks, for at this moment there were none. Sutrisno called a man ‘Brother’, a banker who, he had heard with delight the day before, would soon be put on trial and sentenced to death.
Refreshments were to be served inside the palace. Sutrisno rejoined his friend, the handsome General Djaya, and they walked in together.
‘His last 17 August,’ Sutrisno said. The general said nothing: the President was still supreme Commander of the Armed Forces, and Djaya was a man who believed in a soldier’s duty to his superiors, as he believed in man’s duty to obey Almighty God. General Djaya cared for his soul; he felt distaste for Sutrisno whose soul was trapped by the lower forces of the material world. And yet, even a Sutrisno was necessary to the State.
There was a spiritual after-glow from the Flag Raising, but it was wearing off many of the guests as they walked past the white marble columns of the terrace into the palace.
‘I once loved him more than any other human being,’ Sutrisno said. ‘Now he must be crushed.’
The processions through the streets had already started and in one hour the citizens would begin arriving in Freedom Square to hear Sukarno’s speech to the nation for Independence Day, 1966. The speech had been censored in advance, but even so, it would undoubtedly insult the New Order.
‘Crushed,’ General Djaya agreed. He looked melancholy, which displeased Sutrisno. He wished his friend in a good mood, for he needed to raise again the question of a forestry concession. He approached the subject obliquely as they ate little cakes and sipped orange crush.
‘I have invited an Australian girl to the speech. She is anxious to get to know our country,’ Sutrisno said. ‘She is not of bad morals, but not of good morals, either.’
The general nodded. He did not deny the animal forces; indeed, they were a necessary part of man.
‘She is tall, of course,’ Sutrisno added. ‘But for you, Djaya, that is no problem.’ The men smiled at each other.
‘What sort of things should I talk about?’ he asked slowly.
Sutrisno shrugged. ‘Yachts. Horses. I believe she is fond of riding.’
‘Should I offer to buy her a horse?’
‘Unnecessary. Western women are sex-mad, you know … they fall in love and don’t care about presents.’
General Djaya found the latter part of the explanation more to his taste: he did not care to think of ladies he might like as being ruled by animal forces, but rather that they had the intuition, the desire, to submit to a man as a man had the desire to submit to God.
‘They are very romantic,’ General Djaya said. ‘But I will feel wrong if I don’t buy a present.’ They considered this in silence for some minutes, then Sutrisno said, ‘I will find you the right present in Singapore tomorrow. You know, while I am there I will be meeting with the Japanese Hardwood Importers Association?’ And the conversation moved on to forestry concessions, of which General Djaya was now in charge.
Thornton arrived at Alex’s house at nine o’clock to take her to the Independence Day speech. It was already very hot and the sky was becoming pale. Thornton tugged at his shirt collar.
‘We’ll have to leave right away or we’ll be late,’ he said. ‘The traffic is frightful and there are big hold-ups with roadblocks near the square. I told Trisno we’d meet him at ten, just outside the palace gates. We won’t be allowed inside, of course, but there are seats reserved for us quite near the podium.’
As they reached the car Alex asked, ‘Where’s Julie?’
‘Trisno mentioned something about going to a restaurant for lunch after the speech, and as Julie can’t bear local food, or listening to speeches, she decided to go swimming with Meredith.’ He made a prim face. ‘I suppose you’ve heard Meredith has acquired a chocolate-coated admirer? Filipino businessman, about fifty. My dear, he’s so greasy that if you trod on his foot you’d skid. But Meredith’s in seventh heaven. I’m sure she’s putting a hex on poor Patrick to make his hepatitis get worse, so he’ll have to stay in Singapore for another month’. As they drove off towards Freedom Square Thornton added, ‘You know, if Patrick doesn’t get better soon, a strong case could be made for your becoming the press attaché. You�
��ve been doing his job better than he has been, anyway. Even the Boss has noticed how much Press Office stuff is getting into the local papers. I’d support you if you wanted to put up a submission about it.’
Alex shook her head. ‘I couldn’t do that to Patrick—we’re old friends. And anyway, I’m not even sure I’ll finish my tour here. I’m thinking of going to Paris.’
‘Oh! Does Anthony know? He’ll be furious.’
‘He does, and he is.’
Thornton stopped himself from asking if Maruli were connected with Alex’s plans. He had the strong impression that Sutrisno, who had suddenly delayed on the boat deal, had plans of his own for Alex. ‘There is somebody I want her to meet,’ Sutrisno had said to Thornton on the telephone the night before, indicating that the boat sale could progress more quickly if Alex met his friend.
‘I’ll help you brush up your French,’ Thornton said brightly, then added, ‘Just promise to be nice to Sutrisno for me. Lord, here we go. Roadblocks.’
They had reached the south-west corner of Freedom Square. Ahead of them, across the square, stood the white presidential palace, with the Red and White and the President’s golden flag flying. Tens of thousands of other red and whites were already fluttering in the square, in the hands of spectators. Peanut-sellers pushed carts around with red and white balloons tied to them; squads of scouts and guides held aloft huge red and white banners; even the armoured cars and anti-aircraft guns were decorated with flags.
‘I’ve never known the city feel so nice,’ Alex said. ‘People look really happy.’
‘They’re the audience for one of the greatest shows on earth,’ Thornton said. ‘You just wait until you hear him—he’s a genius. I’ve seen people who didn’t understand a word of Indonesian burst into tears at Sukarno’s speeches. It’s a pity the crowd’s not bigger. The bigger the crowd, the better he is.’
The last quarter mile, along the edge of Freedom Square, took the car half an hour to negotiate through the throngs of pedestrians. Alex kept watch out the window, hoping she might see Maruli. They had not talked about it, but she was sure that he was there somewhere in the ocean of smiling people. And he, most likely, would be able to see her, for there would be few foreigners sitting on the tiered seats outside the palace gates. She was still scanning the crowd when Sutrisno’s face appeared at the window.
As he handed her out of the car Alex noticed again how strong he was, and thought to herself: ‘He’s got garotter’s wrists,’ and then. ‘Poor man.’
‘Beautiful dress. Did you buy that in Singapore?’ he asked. Alex was wearing a white silk Pucci.
‘I’m not sure where it was bought. It was a present,’ she replied and added, because Sutrisno looked so put out, ‘From my cousin, Anthony.’
Sutrisno shoved people aside to lead Alex and Thornton up the tiers of wooden seats to a spot where they would have the best view of the podium and the square. As they pushed their way up they saw Naida and Eileen seated below them. Eileen was wearing a huge white sunhat and was holding a newspaper in front of her face. She was complaining shrilly to Naida about getting sunburnt. People around them were glaring at her and somebody muttered, ‘Typical Chink.’ The crowd on the steps fell quiet and Eileen went on to exclaim in her high, courtesan voice, ‘My poor derrière! This wood is bruising my derrière!’ while Naida hissed at her to shut up. Then Eileen spotted Alex and called, ‘I wish they’d hurry up. This terrible sun! You and I will be as red as chillis.’
Alex and Thornton were almost the only foreigners, and people were staring at them.
‘Bloody Eileen,’ Thornton muttered. ‘She’s the type of Chinese who drives the locals beserk.’ He and Alex accepted, rather ungraciously, paper hats which Eileen made for them and passed up through the crowd.
Sutrisno had left them, saying, ‘You will be safe here. I will meet you again when the speech is over.’ He strutted off towards the palace, where velvet-covered chairs were set out for dignitaries; ambassadors were arriving in black limousines and joining the Indonesian military and civilian VIPS on the marble terrace. The crowd in the square below was waiting patiently, waving flags and posters of the President. Alex stared, searching for the dash of Maruli’s blue shirt, but it was an impossible search: there were a quarter of a million people in the square.
Suddenly there was a murmur. Then a roar.
A small rotund figure in white, wearing a black Moslem hat, had appeared on the terrace.
Sukarno! Bung Karno! Babe!
Waves of power roared up from the crowd.
He smiled as he trotted forward, past the dignitaries, his enemies, towards the podium where he would be king. The roaring was deafening. But suddenly he stumbled and aides had to grab his elbows. The roar sank.
Alex glanced sideways at the Javanese seated next to her. He blinked and his face was expressionless. A bad omen. She felt so overexcited that tears sprang to her eyes.
Then he reached the microphone.
‘Brothers and Sisters!’ His greeting rang out in the portentous boom of technically-enlarged sound, the sound of control, of power. ‘Brothers and Sisters!’ he shouted again, and he gathered them up, the tens of thousands, and carried them off … he gestured, he whispered, he shouted, he joked, he skipped into English, into French, into Dutch, into American slang … he could sky-dive, he could fly, he could do anything. The man whom the Dutch had sworn to behead, the villager who had united to one cause a people more disparate than the nations of Europe, who had insulted the mightiest powers—the old magician was unrepentant, and dancing in the air.
On the terrace, seated among the rows of dignitaries, was his Japanese wife, whom Sukarno had renamed ‘Goddess’. She sat as demurely as a piece of porcelain, wearing a yellow silk dress from the house of Balmain.
‘She’s up to her neck in politics—you should see the cables,’ Thornton whispered. Beside her, smiling amiably, listening to himself and his ministers being insulted, was General Soeharto, the king-in-waiting.
He listened benignly as Sukarno shouted, addressing the country’s newly-courted ally: ‘America, leave Vietnam! Please, America, please get out of Vietnam! It is you who will get battered and torn!’ He smiled when later Sukarno whispered to the crowd, ‘Oh, my people, if you abandon our history you will face a vacuum. You will stand on emptiness, confused. Your continuing struggle will become meaningless and undirected. Life for you will be no more than running amok. Running amok—like monkeys trapped in the dark!’
When Alex wished to rest her eyes from staring at the multitude in the square and at the small, brilliant figure of the President, she looked at Soeharto. Blandly enigmatic, he appeared to watch Sukarno with a filial devotion—and yet, Soeharto was Sukarno’s gaoler.
‘Soeharto doesn’t want to be President,’ Thornton whispered. ‘But he’s got no choice.’
The President’s speech lasted almost two hours. At the end of it he clasped his hands above him and, vitalised by the cheering, stepped lightly back to the palace terrace. His performance had left Alex exhausted. Thornton was shaking his head in disbelief, droplets of sweat falling from his chin and forehead.
‘That’s it,’ he said to Alex. ‘Sukarno has rejected everything the New Order stands for. They can’t run the country with that sort of challenge. They’ve got no option now but to stamp on his power base, stamp on the National Party.’
Alex felt faint from the heat, and sick. ‘Really? What’s that mean, Thornton? What will they do?’
Thornton was about to answer when he spotted Sutrisno and General Djaya waiting for them at the base of the tiered seats, with Naida and Eileen. The general’s chest was glinting with medals, he was smiling and his big round eyes were fixed on Alex.
‘Be nice to the big number and he’ll tell you,’ Thornton said, and hurried down the steps.
Sutrisno made the introductions. To Alex he said, his hard little eyes alert, ‘Djaya, you know, means great. It also means successful. General Djaya is a successful man. H
e enjoys success in many fields,’ and he began to laugh.
Eileen gave Alex an encouraging look. ‘My papa used to say, “To control the forests is to control a money printing press”,’ she said. General Djaya looked modestly down at his shoes. These people shamed him—they were so coarse.
‘I was wondering if you would all join me for lunch?’ he asked.
I must get home and contact Maruli, Alex thought. She began to demur, but Thornton said quickly, ‘We’d love to, General.’
‘Somewhere air-conditioned,’ Eileen cried. ‘And I want to eat pigeons.’
‘I must have a lime drink,’ Naida said.
‘No pork. Please, no pork,’ the general was saying. They were all talking at once. Alex looked around desperately. She depended on Thornton for transport; it would take perhaps half an hour to struggle through the crowd to the edge of the square and there look for a betjak. She felt panicked and dizzy. I must get away from them. She saw the general sway forward above her, and his eyes staring into her face. He was extraordinarily handsome, with a square jaw and pale skin, the colour of an almond kernel. Then the torch of freedom revolved in the sky and went black.
She heard the general saying, ‘It is very romantic.’
She was seated between him and Thornton in the back of an air-conditioned car with smoked-glass windows.
‘You fainted,’ Thornton said.
The general was smiling at her with huge cow-eyes, lovingly, as if she were some delicate object he owned which had been saved from damage.
‘You must have a cool drink,’ he said. ‘We will be at the place in a moment.’ His chauffeur was driving mercilessly, blaring his horn at pedestrians and other motorists.
Alex began to feel properly conscious as she sipped the iced lime juice they gave her. They were in a private, air-conditioned room in a Chinese restaurant just behind the palace. She was lying on a wicker chaise longue while the others—Naida, Eileen, Sutrisno, Thornton and the general—watched her and talked quietly.
Monkeys in the Dark Page 14