Lunch with the Generals

by Derek Hansen

  ‘Perhaps the issue is not one of discipline, but lack of organisation. I have to work on the plane because I can never seem to finish my work before I leave.’

  ‘No, I cannot believe that. You are far too methodical. But tell me, what is your interest in antiques?’

  ‘Largely commercial, but not entirely. I collect French glass. Late nineteenth century and early twentieth. However my main interest is that of publisher of The Collector. You say you advertise in it. I am always delighted to meet a client. What is your specialisation?’

  ‘Primitive art from Indonesia. I deal in Indonesian art and antiquities. Not as a retailer, you understand, but as an importer. A lot of my customers also advertise in your magazine.’

  ‘Have you ever thought of opening a retail outlet yourself?’ Eduardo’s mind began to tick over with possibilities. After all, given his connections, it could turn out to be a very lucrative little business.

  ‘Of course. Every time I see the mark-up my clients put on my pieces.’

  ‘Then perhaps one day we should discuss this.’

  Jan turned around in his chair. He appraised Eduardo slowly.

  ‘Perhaps, when we have known each other for longer than ten minutes.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Eduardo, not put off in the least. ‘You already know all about me. You have told me so yourself.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Perhaps there are one or two things you don’t know about me.’ Eduardo smiled at his bland understatement. ‘My business is printing and related industries. I have two partners but I am the senior partner and major shareholder. Our latest venture is publishing. We have set up an operation in the Pulogadung Industrial Estate. We print magazines for Singapore, Europe and Australasia. We have two titles of our own: The Collector, which you know about, and a glossy society rag called Fashion House. It seems that Australia’s finest like nothing better than to have their faces or their homes splashed around the pages of magazines, and so I oblige. It makes me popular, provides me with priceless contacts, and we make a little money out of it as well. The reason for my earlier comment is that I feel these people are just waiting for an opportunity to divert some of their enormous wealth towards the purchase of primitive art, provided it is suitably expensive of course.’

  This time it was Jan’s turn to laugh, and the chairs shook and his voice bounced around the tiny cabin. People turned to look for the source of the disturbance but Jan seemed not to notice.

  Their rapport was established. The computer lay idle beneath the seat for the duration of the journey. They tripped over one another in their eagerness to reveal their interests. Jan told Eduardo about his little shop in Amsterdam and his life among the tea bushes on Tangkuban Perahu.

  ‘Once I made my living selling tea and a little on the side selling antiques. Now I sell my tea exclusively to the two major Australian tea packagers. I grow exactly what they want and only need to meet them twice a year. They are happy to deal with an Australian who is the major partner in an Indonesian tea plantation. So now I spend my time selling antiques.’

  Eduardo was intrigued by Jan, and impressed with his knowledge of Indonesia and his fluency in the language. He realised that Jan could be valuable to him, not just in Sydney, but in Jakarta as well. So he sat back, happy to listen to Jan talk. They talked through lunch and they talked through the in-flight movie, and they ignored the passengers who objected. In turn, Eduardo told Jan of his plans to open a typesetting studio to service advertising agencies and clients in Jakarta.

  By the time they landed in Jakarta, they’d talked for nine hours. But still that wasn’t enough. Eduardo offered Jan a lift in his company Mercedes and persuaded him to forsake the Hilton for the Hyatt Aryaduta. They checked in and arranged to meet for dinner.

  ‘When do you leave for Kalimantan?’ Eduardo asked over the spicy Soto Madura.

  ‘Day after tomorrow,’ Jan replied. ‘First I must have words with my shipping agent. His fees have become outrageous. He has an exaggerated opinion of my willingness to pay.’

  ‘Will you fire him?’

  ‘No. That is not the way things are done here. Face is also important in Indonesia. We will sit down together like old friends and we will negotiate. We will lie to one another and he will soften me up with little delicacies, and we will try to understand each other’s position. Finally, we will agree on a price neither of us is happy with which, as you know, is the only fair result.’

  Eduardo laughed. This man obviously knew his way around in negotiations with Indonesians. Where Eduardo had struggled, Jan would glide. Eduardo needed his knowledge and acumen. Once more he backed his intuition. Jan was a man he could trust, and Eduardo was never one to let an opportunity slip by.

  ‘I have two propositions to put to you,’ he said. ‘We can work the details out later. But in my experience, where there is willingness on the part of both parties to make something work, the details become insignificant. I mentioned to you that we intended to set up a type studio and print shop within Jakarta proper. You have the knowledge to help me do this properly. I will need a local partner, and I will need staff. I will also need to import equipment. I would like you to be our consultant, for a suitable fee, naturally.

  ‘Secondly, I would like the opportunity to become the sole outlet for your antiquities in Sydney or, to be more precise, I would like us to be partners in a sole outlet. We should have a formal partnership. You know yourself that retail is where the serious money is, and money doesn’t come more serious than it does among my contacts. Why, the purchase of a piece or two virtually guarantees the new owners a double-page spread in Fashion House. Who could resist? Both propositions need some thought. But I believe we could prosper, both of us.’

  It was Jan’s turn to laugh.

  ‘I’m flattered, of course, but you hardly know me.’

  ‘I have spent the past twelve hours getting to know you. When did you last devote twelve hours to getting to know someone?’

  ‘You have a point,’ Jan conceded. ‘In principle, I agree. I am more conservative, however. My Dutch heritage perhaps. I will need references.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Eduardo smoothly. ‘Now let us celebrate. We are about to become Siamese twins, joined in the most binding place possible. At the wallet. Now, where is our waiter? Even in this Muslim country, a good Burgundy cannot be too expensive.’

  It was, but they bought a bottle anyway.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Eduardo arrived home from Jakarta at seven-thirty on a bleak Monday morning. He went directly to his apartment in Rose Bay, as was his custom. It didn’t matter how much he travelled, he never tired of coming home to his view, and not even a grey day could entirely dull its welcome. He showered, then lay down on his bed. He had never cracked the secret to sleeping on an aircraft, and the night flight from Jakarta was definitely best spent asleep.

  He pressed the playback button on his answerphone and smiled when he recognised his first caller. He hadn’t spoken to Estelle for nearly three weeks. He’d rung and she’d rung, but they’d missed each other. Estelle liked to leave teasing messages for him. But this time her message gave him nothing to smile about. There was an edge to her voice, a distress she was trying hard to conceal. She gave a new number to ring and hung up. Eduardo was about to jot down the number when he heard Estelle’s voice leaving a second message. Once again it gave the number. He listened to his tape right through. Estelle had rung three more times. And each time her voice grew in urgency. He listed his callers and rang Estelle first.

  As soon as Estelle heard Eduardo’s voice she became tearful. She began to apologise, but Eduardo wouldn’t hear of it.

  ‘Get in a cab,’ he said. ‘I’ll put on the coffee.’

  At that time of the morning, it is difficult to get a cab going in to the city, but easy to get one going out. Estelle was ringing Eduardo’s doorbell before the coffee was properly brewed. He met her at the door, and she immediately burst into tears again. Eduardo to
ok her in his arms and let her cry herself out. Despite his curiosity, he wouldn’t press her to speak until she had calmed down and was ready.

  He sat her on the sofa and brought her coffee and microwaved croissants. He mentally prepared himself for a tale of lost love. What else could it be? What else could possibly upset her this way?

  ‘Now tell me,’ he said gently, as if he didn’t know.

  To his surprise she simply stood and began to undress before him. She removed her jacket and began to take off her blouse. She unbuttoned it slowly but not in a way calculated to arouse. Eduardo was caught off guard. She pulled her blouse open wide. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Eduardo saw the angry red line that ran like an equator around her breasts. He looked up at her face in horror. She wouldn’t meet his look. She gazed past him at a spot halfway up the wall.

  ‘Who did this to you?’ His voice was still soft but menace had usurped sympathy. Whoever had done this terrible thing would not be allowed to get away with it.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Slowly she began to button up her blouse. ‘I really don’t know. That’s the trouble.’

  ‘Tell me what happened.’

  So she told him and she told him about the police afterwards.

  ‘At first they were very nice. It didn’t matter when I told them I was a prostitute. But then they questioned me about who I worked for. When I didn’t tell them, they got angry. They thought I knew who had attacked me, or who had sent the man on the bike to attack me. They wanted a reason. They didn’t want to believe that there was a maniac out there with a razor attacking women at random. They asked about my clients, if one of them might have a grudge against me. I told them that was impossible. Then they said that it was likely a weirdo had an obsession with me. That he was probably watching me. And he’d try to attack me again. They said they weren’t prepared to keep an eye on me unless I helped them more with their enquiries to eliminate other possibilities. They’re convinced someone I know is responsible. But I know that’s impossible. So either the attack really was random, or there is a madman out there somewhere watching me.’

  She began to sob again.

  ‘I went to the agency and told them what had happened. I told them how I’d kept their name out of it, and also my clients. They were so sympathetic and appreciative. When they asked to see what the razor had done, I showed them without any hesitation. That’s when they told me I couldn’t work for them any more. I was damaged goods. Their clients wouldn’t like it. I was bad for the image of the agency. Oh, Eduardo! I can’t go back to freelancing. I can’t go back to being a five-minute fuck!’

  Tears flowed and there was no stopping them. Eduardo held her close while his mind went to work on her problem. She needed his help and he would not let her down.

  ‘Where are you staying?’ he asked.

  ‘The agency has an apartment which they are letting me use for two weeks. I won’t go back to mine. After that I don’t know.’

  ‘I do. You will stay here. With me. I’ll move my work things out of the second bedroom and it can be your room.’

  ‘Oh, Eduardo!’ She threw her arms around him and held him tight.

  ‘We will sell your apartment and buy you another. You can stay here till then. Now, there is another issue. Your career. It is time you had a change of career anyway. Always quit at the top, right?’

  ‘Right,’ she said hesitantly, not knowing what else she was qualified to do.

  ‘Now tell me, because I need to know. What do you know about primitive art and artifacts?’

  Estelle looked at him blankly.

  ‘It doesn’t matter. We have plenty of time and we will teach you. In the meantime, I’d like you to get your hands dirty. Like mine. I’m sure my partner Phil Breedlaw has a place for you at Hot Ink Press. The pay will not be quite what you’re used to, but it’s only temporary, and meanwhile the rent is free.’

  ‘Eduardo, you are the best friend anyone could ever have. I don’t know how to thank you.’

  She made a movement as if she intended to thank him anyway, in the best way she knew how. Eduardo laughed and stood up.

  ‘No thanks are necessary between friends. You make yourself some breakfast. These croissants have died on us. I must get some sleep. We can discuss these things later. Oh, perhaps this will get you started.’

  He pulled the large, glossy book which he had bought in Jakarta out of his cabin bag. It touched on everything there was to know about Indonesian art and artifacts, and was as good an introduction as anyone was ever likely to find. He’d studied it himself during the flight home.

  Estelle was speechless. She was down and out and he’d picked her up. She was homeless and he’d given her a home, jobless and he’d found her a job. She was lonely and alone, and he’d enveloped her in the warmth of true friendship. Once more her life had point, purpose and security. He’d done all this for her in less than an hour. She watched him close his bedroom door behind him, then picked up the book and did exactly as she was told.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  It was six weeks before Jan returned from his travels around the Indonesian archipelago. He visited the Dayaks in Kalimantan, remote villages in Irian Jaya, the Minangkabau and Bataks in Sumatra, bargained and haggled with dealers throughout the length and breadth of Java, spent a small fortune on the Portuguese influenced artifacts on the island of Flores, and bought Balinese paintings from Ubud and Batuan. He worked hard, sniffing out ancient objects and bargains. He also pushed his contacts for the special pieces they held back to sell to others with more willing wallets and surprised them by paying their price.

  Eduardo’s proposition had intrigued him, yet he was still reluctant to accept it. He wrestled with his innate conservatism. In truth, he didn’t need the hassle or risk of starting up a shop. He was well enough off, and there had been times when he and Lita had talked about his retirement. Also, he hardly knew this man Eduardo. He might be a conman or he may have lost interest. Despite the conflict within him, Jan drove himself to the point of exhaustion, on the off chance that it all might come together.

  Nevertheless, he still found time to visit his old friend in Ujung Pandang. Andi Sose, the old Bugis captain, had given up the sea and returned to his home port. Jan had met up with him once more on a buying expedition to Sulawesi eight years earlier. Jan’s driver had taken him to Perahu Harbour and Pautere Anchorage in the hope of finding him. There, he had seen the old sea captain sitting patiently on an ancient wooden seat, watching the pinisi sail off to Kalimantan. Andi had not recognised him until he sat alongside him and slyly introduced himself.

  ‘Do you still carry my knife, captain?’ Jan asked.

  A slow, incredulous smile of recognition spread over the old man’s face. They had exchanged stories and rolled back the years, but it had not taken Jan long to come to the sad realisation that Andi no longer had anything to live for. He had returned to captain another pinisi but once more the owners had sold his ship from beneath him. At his age, he had little hope of finding another.

  Jan saw him infrequently, but every visit gladdened the old captain’s heart and caused great celebration. Andi lived comfortably enough, but there were few luxuries. Every time Jan visited him, he brought a small suitcase crammed with chocolate, cream biscuits and cartons of cigarettes. And he always gave money, in secret, to the woman who looked after Andi.

  They would sit together at the dockside, and Andi would fill Jan’s head with the comings and goings of the Bugis fleet. How many ships went down in the last typhoon. Who had got caught smuggling contraband or drugs. How many pinisi had been superseded by the big Japanese-built freighters which had moved in on their monopoly. In this way, Jan learned of the fate of One-Eye.

  ‘He was too old to still be sailing,’ said Andi matter of factly. ‘But the sea was his home. Dry land was the only thing that man feared in this world. He was a good man, and there was always a pinisi that would find a place for him. He worked only for his bed and food, for he was no longer
worthy of wages. He was swept overboard in a storm. We were all happy that he died at sea.’

  There was sadness in the old man’s voice, not for his lost comrade, Jan realised, but because he had been denied the same opportunity. Andi’s face hid his age well, but his eighty year old body had lost its strength.

  ‘It is a bad thing,’ he said finally, with resignation rather than bitterness, ‘to force a man to give up the sea before he is ready.’ He took hold of both of Jan’s hands.

  ‘Promise me this,’ he said. ‘Promise me you will never give up the sea.’

  ‘I promise.’ Any lingering doubts Jan had of starting up a new business at this stage of his life now vanished. ‘I promise I will never give up the sea. In fact when I get back to Australia, I think I will build myself a new boat.’

  The old man beamed and for a brief instant he was a young man again. The two friends sat together and watched the sun arc towards the horizon.

  ‘You never told me how Daeng came to be so badly scarred and lost his eye.’

  ‘It was nothing out of the ordinary.’ Andi’s eyes glazed over as he thought of the time so long ago. ‘We sailed into a typhoon. The mast split. The top half fell and struck his face. He must have heard it splitting and looked up. He should have known better. His face split wide open and we could see inside his head. We each of us took turns to sit behind him, to rest his body up against ours so that we could hold the two parts of his head together. We did this all the way to Singapore. We thought he would die but he didn’t.’

  ‘He never spoke?’

  ‘He couldn’t. When the mast hit him, he bit off his own tongue. But when we sang our songs he would join in. The noises he made were nonsense, of course, but it didn’t matter. His friends understood him.’

  ‘Dear God. It’s a hard life you chose to lead, Andi.’