Lunch with the Generals

by Derek Hansen

  ‘Maybe … but I’m inclined to give Ramon the benefit of the doubt. The story so far rings true and the way he’s telling it suggests he was pretty close to what happened. Uncomfortably close, in fact. Close enough to feel some distress in reliving it. I don’t think you’re playing a game with us, Ramon. Not yet anyway. If you are, it’s unforgivable.’

  ‘Two-one against. Okay, everybody, the story is true. If so, why did you base Jorge on yourself, Ramon?’

  ‘Jesus, Neil. Give him a break.’

  ‘What’s the problem? If you and Milos are right, Lucio, and I’m wrong, then it’s a fair question.’

  ‘It’s not the question, it’s your attitude.’

  ‘Look, the man Ramon has described sounds very much like how I imagine he would have been as a young man. Impeccably mannered and a snappy dresser.’

  ‘With or without the stain on his tie?’ Humour is all a question of timing and Lucio had timed his interjection perfectly. The moment Milos and Ramon laughed, Neil lost the momentum he’d been gathering. The mood around the table lightened considerably.

  ‘Coffee,’ called Milos. ‘And grappa. And do us all a favour, Neil. Back off a bit.’

  Gancio was there with the tray, seemingly in seconds. He looked hard at Ramon and was relieved to see the colour back in his face.

  ‘I don’t understand why Carlos set Jorge up.’ Neil was nothing if not persistent. ‘Jorge’s father was a powerful man. Someone who could harm Carlos’ career. Why would he go out of his way to provoke him? He must have known that one day Jorge’s father would want revenge.’

  ‘I will answer that.’ Ramon had recovered some of his poise. ‘I have not quite finished telling the story for today. There could be several reasons. Perhaps Carlos had no choice. Perhaps the people he worked for wanted to undermine Jorge’s father. Think about it. He would be publicly exposed for having a son involved with leftist revolutionaries. You can imagine how well that would go down with the Generals. Then again, Carlos might simply have resented Jorge and his privileges. If that’s the case, Carlos probably thought the people he worked for were powerful enough to protect him. Without knowing all the facts, how could anyone be certain of his motives? Not having lived through it, you’d find it hard to comprehend how arrogant the military were in those days, how absolute their power. Of course Carlos, a dirt-poor, peasant mestizo, was the antithesis of Jorge. Imagine how much he must have hated and envied the privilege Jorge was born into. Perhaps it’s as simple as that. Perhaps he betrayed Jorge and his father out of sheer spite and arrogance. Why not? The irony is, of all the characters I have introduced to you, Carlos had the best credentials to be the true revolutionary. Yet he found himself on the other side.’

  ‘He also had the credentials to be a true fascist, no? A man in his position might easily prefer to wear the boot than bear the brunt of it. That’s clearly the decision Carlos made. Don’t give me any bleeding-heart philosophy, please.’

  ‘Milos, I have to believe there is more to it than that. Sure, Carlos had a choice, but what were the influences on his choice? You condemn him too readily. Isn’t it fate that determines whether people act for or against humanity? Victor was a martyr, Carlos a murderer. If they’d swapped mothers wouldn’t their subsequent roles also be reversed?’

  Milos shrugged. He felt he’d made his point.

  ‘Now, Neil, have I answered your question adequately?’

  ‘No, but that’ll do for now. There’ll be other opportunities.’

  ‘What happened to Jorge?’ asked Lucio. ‘You know, after he ran from the house.’

  ‘That’s too big a question to answer now.’ Ramon smiled despite his tiredness. ‘You will find that out over the next few weeks. But I will tell you this much. Like I said, I have yet to finish today’s story. Just make sure Neil keeps his mouth closed for the next couple of minutes.’

  Jorge ran. He ran to his father’s office. He had nowhere else to go. He told his father what had happened.

  ‘Jorge Luis Masot is dead,’ his father said. ‘Carlos has seen to that. By tomorrow everyone in Buenos Aires will know the name of the man who betrayed La Voz del Pueblo. Our plane will fly you to Chile. After that you are on your own.’ He handed Jorge a packet containing his new life.

  Jorge looked at his father. ‘I have failed you. I am sorry.’

  ‘I regret I had to involve you. Under the circumstances I had no alternative. Carlos was not my choice. Indeed I had no choice.’ This admission left Jorge wondering what his father could possibly have done that others could exert their will over his. ‘Esther Teresa informs me that you have funds. Goodbye, my son. Do not contact me again. Even I cannot guarantee loyalties.’

  ‘And Carlos?’

  ‘It seems Carlos has begun to believe his own reputation,’ his father said grimly. ‘I don’t know why he chose to destroy you as well. Perhaps someone also wants to discredit me. These men we deal with are without honour. Your name was never to be mentioned. I had agreement on that. He has betrayed me in betraying you. He will become a powerful man as a result of capturing La Voz. But he will not be beyond my reach.’

  His father kissed him perfunctorily. Jorge turned and walked away. He paused as he passed Esther Teresa but she did not bother to look up. Why should she? Jorge Luis Masot had ceased to exist.

  SECOND THURSDAY

  Gancio had risen early and gone himself to Flemington Markets instead of sending the woman who helped him in the kitchen. He liked to joke and trade insults with his fellow Italians who were the growers. They’d look at his spreading waistline and accuse him of eating half the food he cooked. Still, they liked the big restaurateur and went out of their way to point out the best produce. The four friends were the main beneficiaries of Gancio’s dawn labours, though none who dined at his restaurant that day would have cause to complain. He went with an open mind and returned with baskets full of aubergines and zucchini, big red capsicums and rockmelons.

  Gancio liked to serve a variety of little dishes even though it kept him running to and from the kitchen. He brought the four friends prosciutto on melon. Then strips of capsicum, which he had roasted, peeled and marinated in olive oil, garlic, vinegar and ground black pepper. It was a favourite of Ramon’s. Salami and olives followed. Then thinly sliced bocconcini with tomato and basil to cleanse the palate before his speciality, frittata a la verdura, which transformed the aubergines and zucchini into a dish Lucio claimed was worth dying for. They declined second helpings but could not say no to the tiramasu which Gancio had made specially for their dessert.

  ‘After such a meal, I cannot take you back to Argentina,’ Ramon began. ‘It would depress me and perhaps you as well. It would not do justice to the mood Gancio has created with his culinary masterpieces. I think it is time I introduced you to Jan Van der Meer. He is a delightful man. However, you will meet him first as a nineteen year old, on the verge of the greatest adventure of his life. The year is 1949 and, like many young men in those post-war years—like Milos here—he could find no reason to stay on in Europe.’

  ‘Already I miss Rosa,’ said Lucio. ‘Tell me, will there be other women like her?’

  ‘Sometimes, Lucio, you are a perfect arse.’ Milos was angry. Storytelling was a serious matter to him, not just its content but also its style and technique. Ramon had begun to build a mood and set the scene for a change of pace. Now he would have to do it all over again and it was never the same.

  But Ramon did not seem to mind.

  Chapter Nine

  Jan Van der Meer was nineteen years old and a touch under two metres tall. His body had not yet filled out to fit his frame, and he still had the raw-boned look of the adolescent as he picked his way along the steaming Singapore docks.

  A blast from a ship’s horn caused him to pause and look out to sea, searching for its origin. He found it quickly enough, and the empty feeling of loss washed back over him. It was the Shaw Saville liner Arawa, his home for the past four weeks, now steadily gaining s
peed as it turned for the voyage to distant Europe. On board were the only friends he had for a thousand kilometres. Perhaps for ten thousand kilometres.

  He swallowed nervously. What had begun as a great adventure in Amsterdam had now taken on an entirely different complexion, its conclusion uncertain to say the least.

  Would he still be welcome? He had asked himself this question a thousand times and was still no closer to an answer. Would they accept him? Could they begin again, as before? Or was the whole escapade the childish folly his mother had said it was?

  The hard part of his journey had begun. There were no friendly booking agents here to get him where he wanted to go. At least, not for the money he was prepared to pay.

  He looked around the bustling quay at the Chinese, as they shouted and cursed each other in Hokkien, pausing only to clear their nose or throats onto the timber decking. There was not another white face to be seen. Yet it was not a situation he felt uncomfortable with. In fact he felt a sense of belonging in this chaotic and alien world.

  His eyes registered the flat, bland faces of the Chinese, but they were not who he was looking for. He could not speak a word of their language nor they his. He took a long swallow of tepid water from his army surplus canteen. That was one of the few good things to come from the war. There was plenty of cheap gear for a young man bent on adventure. His khaki shirts and shorts were army surplus, as was his rucksack, sleeping bag and tin cup, plate and eating utensils. He also carried a rather brutal commando knife, for no other reason than the reassurance it gave him. The broad-brimmed hat that covered his closely cropped blond hair, and the sturdy sandals on his feet, had been his father’s.

  He walked on, taking care not to block the way of the coolies, bent double under their loads. In this part of the docks there were no cranes or slings, and the contents of boats were carried out on the backs of men. He politely gave them right of way even though he knew they would have deferred to him. Their job was hard enough. He would not make it any harder.

  He saw a group of men who weren’t working and knew he’d found what he was looking for. The men squatted patiently, back on their heels, protected from the hot August sun by an ancient canvas sheet which they’d strung up between two poles. They were smoking cigarettes they’d rolled themselves using strips of newspaper.

  ‘Selamat pagi,’ Jan said. ‘Good morning.’

  ‘Pagi,’ the Malays replied, surprised to find this tall young Dutchman among them. And doubly surprised to find he spoke Bahasa.

  ‘The day is very warm. You are wise men to make this shelter.’

  The men nodded and smiled. Jan knew it was bad manners to get straight down to business. Besides he was in no great hurry, and his Bahasa was more than a little rusty. He welcomed the chance to get some practice.

  ‘I am Abdul Malik,’ said the man who was their leader. ‘These men are my crew. There is room. Please sit with us.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Jan. ‘I am Jan Van der Meer.’ He extended his hand and shook hands with each man in turn.

  ‘Would you like a cigarette?’ asked the leader.

  ‘No, thank you, You are very kind. But my mother insists I am too young to smoke.’

  The men laughed and rocked back on their heels. As if this giant would take notice of his mother.

  ‘So why has this young man—who may not yet smoke—come to Singapore?’

  ‘I have come for two reasons,’ said Jan. ‘The first is to find the grave of my father. He was shot by the Japanese.’

  The Malays all turned their eyes to the ground. In sympathy? Or in memory of their own losses suffered during those bitter years? Jan didn’t know and it didn’t matter. But he found their simple gesture touching.

  ‘The second reason is to return to the place of my birth. The island of Java.’

  The men looked at him. They wondered what twists of fate could have made Java the birthplace of this blond giant. They also wondered if that made him their enemy.

  ‘Java!’ Abdul Malik spat onto the dusty ground. ‘How will you go there?’

  ‘I don’t know. I seek advice. Perhaps you can help?’

  ‘Your country has abandoned the East Indies. Do you not know this? East Indies is now the United States of Indonesia. Sukarno is President. We hear this on the wireless. Sukarno is a bad man. You see. Soon he throw out all the Dutchmen. Soon he steal all your property. Soon he make trouble for us. He try to make Malaya belong to Indonesia. And Singapore. No Malay boat will take you there.’

  The crew murmured agreement.

  Jan was stunned. He was aware of Sukarno’s ambitions, and had known what the political situation would be before he left Amsterdam. At least he thought he’d known. He knew one day Holland would have to relinquish sovereignty, but he’d thought that day was years off. What would happen now? Would this change things? Would he still have friends there? Sitting with these Malay seamen, he was assailed by doubts. Perhaps the past was lost forever, gone with his childhood.

  The Malays watched him, wondering whether their leader’s words had changed the young man’s mind. Finally the leader sought the answer to the question they all wanted to hear.

  ‘Why do you go there? Why take any boat there? You will not be welcome any more. They have fought your people and they have beaten them. They are arrogant with victory and their new independence. They have no love for you. Why go?’

  ‘In truth I don’t know. I hear your words and I am grateful for them. But there is only one way I can find out if I am still welcome. I must go there.’

  The Malays rolled their eyes and accepted that it was his fate to pursue his journey.

  ‘Then go with God,’ said the captain kindly. ‘We cannot help you. Perhaps you can find another boat that will take you.’

  ‘I have one thought,’ said Jan. ‘Again, you may be able to help me. When I was a child my father spoke of the Bugis men and their powerful schooners …’

  ‘Ha!’ spat the captain once more. ‘Bugis men are pirates.’

  The Buginese had settled in South Sulawesi more than a thousand years earlier. They were legendary seafarers and shipbuilders, and there was not a stretch of shore for a thousand kilometres that had not been subject to their influence.

  ‘But if there are Bugis schooners in port, perhaps one of them will take me to Java.’

  Abdul Malik looked over the boy-man carefully, taking stock of his clothes and his rucksack.

  ‘My young friend,’ he said, ‘be warned. There are none so poor that the Bugis men will not rob them. A man with nothing at all to steal they rob of his life. But if that is your choice …?’

  Jan nodded.

  ‘Then yes, there are Bugis schooners in port. They bring timber from Kalimantan. Keep walking this way and you will find them. Good luck, my friend.’

  Jan stood and shook hands once more with Abdul Malik.

  ‘You are a good man, Abdul Malik. Selamat tinggal.’

  ‘Selamat jalan,’ they responded. ‘Goodbye and have a safe journey.’

  They watched the young man until he was out of sight.

  ‘Rather him than me,’ said Abdul Malik, and they all laughed.

  ‘Selamat siang,’ Jan called from the foot of the plank that linked the schooner with the shore. ‘May I come aboard?’

  ‘Selamat siang,’ the skipper called back. ‘Yes, Tuan, you are welcome aboard my boat.’ He held his hand flat, palm down, and gestured with his fingers. Jan smiled. It was a way of beckoning he had not seen for years.

  The Bugis schooner was banana-shaped and more like a Chinese junk than a schooner. Its massive high prow swept down to a broad-beamed waist, then back up to a high, overhanging stern. The wheelhouse was not much more than a two-roomed shack in which the crew ate, slept and lived together. Behind it was a weathered timber awning beneath which the crew sat on their haunches, awaiting their visitor. There were five of them, all tough and weathered like their boat.

  The captain introduced himself as Andi Sose, an
d invited Jan to squat down with them. Jan felt the ache and soreness of muscles that had grown unaccustomed to this position. It had never troubled him as a child.

  He looked around the circle of men as calmly as he could, trying to divine their true nature. He would never describe their expressions as friendly but, with only one exception, they lacked hostility. The exception was the largest of the Bugis men, a man whose arms had the girth of other men’s legs. At least that is how it seemed to Jan. A scar as thick as rope divided his face into two uneven parts, and whatever had caused it had also robbed him of his right eye. Jan hoped the malice he read in this man’s face was a result of his disfigurement, and not a reflection of the mind behind it.

  He exchanged cautious pleasantries while the Bugis men wondered what fates had brought this man to them. In due course, the captain politely enquired as to the reason for the visit. He picked the reason most likely.

  ‘Do you have cargo for us?’ he asked.

  ‘In a manner of speaking, yes.’

  The crew smiled. Cargo meant wages.

  ‘But it is an insignificant cargo which will not bring you riches. The cargo is myself. Can you take me to Java?’

  The Bugis men looked at Jan in amazement.

  ‘Has no one told you, young man? Bugis men are thieves and pirates. They cannot be trusted. This man here,’ the captain pointed to the man with one eye, ‘he is the biggest pirate of all.’

  The crew laughed. Jan joined in. He thought that was the best thing to do.

  ‘Yes. I was told that Bugis men are pirates. But the men who told me were Malays. Perhaps they envy the power of your boats and the skills of your crew.’