He moved deeper into chaos: street-market stalls topped by brightly coloured canvas parasols; masses of tiny Chinese women in brightly patterned trouser suits, each more brilliant than its successor; Tamil traders in turbans and white shirts and baggy trousers offering rattan bowls of spices and sweetmeats; Malays with tiny portable charcoal stoves on which stood sizzling woks full of rice and seafood; hundreds of ramshackle cabins made of plywood and corrugated iron, offering a bewildering array of merchandise, clothes, toys, pencils, dolls, incense, soap, razor blades, candy, battery-operated fans to cool down a perspiring face. But Harry headed for a certain area, where a row of Chinese merchants operated stores that specialized in watches, cameras, and radios. As he struggled through a crowded market, he felt a sharp tugging at his sleeve and glancing down he saw that a Tamil beggar was standing beside him. At first, he thought the man was very short, because he stood no higher than Harry’s elbow.
“Please, Tuan, please!” He gazed imploringly up, one hand extended for coins.
“No, I’m sorry, I haven’t any…” The excuse died in Harry’s throat, for, glancing down, he saw that the man was suffering from elephantiasis. His body was perfectly normal but his legs had degenerated into two vividly coloured stumps of bloated, clublike flesh, spreading out at the base into wide formless trunks from each of which a single yellow toenail protruded. Harry felt nauseated, humbled. He glanced back at the man’s face which was a portrait of suffering.
“Please, Tuan…”
“Yes … yes, of course.” Harry fumbled in his pocket and pulled out what change there was, and thrust it into the man’s hand. Then he moved on, not wanting to see those hideous legs again. From behind him came the man’s profuse thanks.
“Terima Kasih, Tuan! Terima kasih.…”
His head down, Harry hurried onwards. Lord, this country of mixed experiences. Just when a man was beginning to think that he was inured to shock, along came something like that to put him firmly in his place again. Sometimes he wondered if the white man really had any place out here. Perhaps it was a good thing that the colonial system was finally falling apart … and yet, from his middle youth onwards, it was the only life that Harry had known. He would stay on now. He would have to.
He climbed up the steps by the monsoon drain and onto a raised pavement. This was the area he had been heading for. After a few moments, he came to the particular shop he wanted. He had long ago learned that it was good policy to frequent one particular shop. After a while, the trader got to know you and recognizing that regular trade was a good thing, he would start his bartering at a much more realistic level than he would with the average passing tourist. The shop was packed tight with electrical goods and ranks of glittering watches were displayed beneath glass counters. It was on this selection that Harry fixed his gaze.
In an instant, the proprietor, a tubby bespectacled little Chinese man called Hong, had bustled over to greet him.
“Hello sir! You look for something special?” His English was very good and for some reason, he always referred to Harry as “sir,” perhaps believing that all Englishmen talked to each other in this way. He indicated the watches. “Good watches, sir. Best in Trengganu. Best in Malaya!”
Harry smiled. The man was evidently very proud of his shop.
“Well, let me see now,…” Harry knew that it was best to make the transaction slow. A man who bought on impulse was likely to end up with a bad deal. “I am looking for a watch. A good watch, you understand. A gift for a very good friend.”
“Ah! You want special watch! I show!” He indicated some beautiful Japanese chronometers. “These best in world,” he announced. “Fine made, got two-year guarantee.…” He was already removing them from the glass case, but Harry shook his head.
“These are indeed, very good watches. But not what I’m looking for.”
“No?” The man looked quite amazed by this revelation. “Ah! You want good Swiss watch?”
“How about an English watch?” ventured Harry.
Hong grimaced. “The English not make good watch,” he said sorrowfully. “Go wrong all time. I not sell English watch. But Swiss very good! See here, twenty-one jewel, shock-proof, waterproof, anti-magnetic.…”
“Hmm.” Harry rubbed his chin, scanned the ranks of glittering merchandise. “It’s still not right. I want something simple, easy to understand. It’s for a young boy, you see.…”
“Ah! Young boy! I got good watch for young boy. This one! Shock-proof, dust-proof, water-proof, anti-magnetic, one-year guarantee.…”
“No. It’s still not quite … ah, now that looks the sort of thing!” He pointed to a simple silver pocket-watch on a leather fob. “Let me see that one,” he said.
“This watch, sir?” Hong could scarcely believe his eyes. “You want this one? But this one not show date! This one not carry guarantee, not dust-proof, water-proof…”
“Yes, well, I’d like to see it anyway.”
“OK, sir.” Hong bobbed down behind the counter, extracted the watch, and as Harry had expected, reemerged with a whole new point of view. “Here you are, sir. This very fine watch, very rare. Swiss mechanism. Twenty-one jewel, shock-proof, waterproof, two-year guarantee…”
Harry suppressed a smile.
“I thought you just said it didn’t have any of those things.”
Hong spread his hands and smiled sheepishly. “But sir, that was when I didn’t want you to buy this watch.”
In spite of himself, Harry had to laugh. It was an outlandish explanation, but it held good for all the merchants in this town. He picked up the watch and examined it critically. It looked robust enough, a simple silver pocket-watch that showed the time clearly and looked like it could take some rough handling. “Alright,” murmured Harry. “How much?”
Hong gazed at him for a moment with an inscrutable smile on his face.
“This watch, sir. I sell you for … twenty-five dollars.”
“Twenty-five!” Harry registered disgust and made as if to walk off. “Hong, it’s time I started going to some of the other shops,” he said.
“Just a minute, just a minute!” Hong smiled again, broader than before. “You good man … I good man. I make you special price. Twenty dollars.”
“Twenty? That’s still robbery. I’ll give you … six dollars for it.”
Now it was Hong’s turn to be outraged.
“Six? You want watch for six? If I sell for that much, I go out of business. Six … you give me fifteen dollar, I can not go less.”
“Eight dollars!”
“Twelve!”
“Well … alright, ten dollars, my last offer.”
“Ten dollars! Madness! Twelve my lowest price!”
“You said that about fifteen. I’ll give you ten.”
Hong shook his head adamantly.
“Sorry, sir. Twelve. Cannot go lower.”
“Then I don’t want the watch.” Again, he made as if to walk away.
“Alright, alright, alright!” Hong was tearing at his hair. “I give you for ten.”
“Eight?” ventured Harry with a grin, but Hong’s look of horror told him that this was clearly not playing the game. “Alright, only joking.” He counted out the notes and put the watch into his pocket.
“Now sir, you want anything else? Binocular? Got very nice, very cheap. Radio, pick up all English station? Record player, new from Japan? Good. Identity bracelet? Cassette recorder…?”
Harry retreated from the onslaught with a brief wave and set out again into the crowds. News of his kindness to the deformed cripple had evidently got around, for suddenly there seemed to be an awful lot of beggars in evidence—lame men, people missing limbs, women with tiny howling babies. Harry slipped smartly around the corner and strode quickly away in the other direction. When he was in Kuala Trengganu, he usually sought one little luxury that was not readily available at home. He went to a small barber shop where he had a haircut and a beautifully close shave that was administered with a h
orrifying looking cutthroat razor. As he sat back in his chair, he brought out the silver watch and examined it carefully.
“Nice watch,” observed the barber. “How much you pay?”
“Ten dollars.”
“I can get watch like that for six dollar.”
Harry nodded.
“This shave is costing me one dollar,” he said. “If I were a Malay, I could get it for twenty-five cents.”
And the barber threw back his head and laughed merrily, his dark eyes twinkling. Harry laughed along with him. No further explanation was necessary.
* * *
THE AFTERNOON SUN was still fierce. Bob Beresford felt the heat of it on his neck as he brought the Land Rover to an abrupt, squealing halt on the stretch of road that ran alongside Kampong Panjang. He clambered out of the vehicle, collected his rifle from the back seat, and slinging the weapon carelessly over his shoulder, he headed into the village. The kampong was a jumble of rattan and corrugated iron dwellings, all of them supported three or four feet above the ground on a series of stout posts, a practical necessity in a land that swarmed with venomous snakes, scorpions, and centipedes. The village seemed to have been constructed with no particular sense of order, one building encroaching close upon the next, with just a well-trampled muddy walkway in between. As Bob approached, he was quickly spotted by groups of children who flocked around him excitedly, pointing to his gun, and jabbering in Malay. As soon as they divined that he had some purpose in coming here, they fell in behind him like a platoon of miniature troops. Bob could barely speak their language and could only gaze at them enquiringly and repeat over and over, “Penghulu?” Somebody had told him that this was the Malay word for the village headman. Perhaps his pronunciation was bad, because it took some considerable time to make his wishes known. At last, with wild exclamations, the laughing children took the lead and drew him deeper and deeper into the village. Finally, they deposited him outside a dwelling that looked no grander than the others and the children began to shout and yell, until a little, wizened monkey of a man, dressed in a red sarong, emerged from the interior of the house and clambered down the stairs. He growled something at the children and their noise subsided abruptly. Then the penghulu smiled apologetically at Bob and lowered his head in a polite bow.
“Good day, Tuan. Can I be a help?” His English was surprisingly fluent. The children began to giggle. The penghulu gave a shout and stepped menacingly towards them, at which point the children scattered in every direction, leaving the two men to their own devices. The penghulu turned back and raised his eyes briefly heavenwards, an expression that said, “Ah, these children! What can a man do with them?” Then he enquired politely, “Will the Tuan take some tea?”
“Ah … no, thanks very much. But I could use some help. I came about the tiger.…”
The penghulu looked puzzled. Evidently, he had not come across the word before.
“Harimau,” prompted Bob, who had taken the trouble of finding out a few easy terms from some of his pupils.
“Ah!” The penghulu nodded gravely. He eyed Bob’s rifle curiously. “You want shoot him?” he murmured.
“If I can. Can you show me the place where he took the cow?”
The penghulu smiled, nodded. He turned back to the house and shouted something in his native tongue. After a moment’s silence, the sound of a scolding woman’s voice emerged from within, a long stream of words that seemed to contain not one pause for breath. The penghulu grimaced, winked slyly at Bob, and then chuckled.
“Women,” he murmured. “Why do we marry them? Come!” He led Bob away from the house, ignoring the barrage of invective that was still emerging from there. They could hear the woman’s complaining voice for some distance.
Bob took out a packet of English cigarettes, offered one to the old man, who accepted it gratefully, and then put one between his own lips. He lit both cigarettes with his silver Ronson. The penghulu gazed at this admiringly and then strolled happily beside the Australian, puffing ostentatiously on his cigarette, aware that people in the surrounding houses were observing him. He was a curious-looking fellow. No more than five feet, three inches high, his legs were quite short in proportion to his body and rather bandy, emphasizing the apishness of his appearance. As well as the sarong, he was wearing a grubby white short-sleeved shirt and a pair of blue rubber flip-flops. His large, rather discoloured teeth were liberally dotted with bright gold fillings that tended to reflect the sunlight whenever he grinned. It was impossible to guess at his age. His tiny, excessively lined face suggested an octogenarian but he was as agile and wiry as a gibbon as he trotted along through the village.
“Is it far away?” enquired Bob.
“Not far, Tuan. Si-Pudong take cow on road, out by kampong. Then he carry ’way. No man know where to. Herd-boy very frighted, but Si-Pudong not touch him. He read words on boy here!” The penghulu tapped his own forehead and smiled. “So, Si-Pudong ’fraid to eat boy. Take cow ’stead.”
Bob did not understand this at all and resolved to ask somebody else to explain it to him in the near future. The two of them moved out of the outskirts of the village and onto the road. Several children ventured to follow them, but the penghulu shouted for them to stay put, which they did, rather reluctantly, staring glumly after the two men as they strode away.
They walked for some distance in silence, glancing occasionally into the thick jungle that flanked the road. It was oppressively silent at the moment, and Bob felt the tickle of sweat as it ran down his back, beneath his khaki shirt. After a surprisingly short distance, the penghulu announced, “Cow killed here!” He pointed to some scrapemarks in the hard dirt surface of the road and peering closer, Bob could see some patches of dried blood. Now the penghulu pointed to the right, where behind a screen of ferns and scrub, the ground declined sharply into a monsoon ditch. “Ha—Si-Pudong, he come up out of ditch, attack from behind,” explained the penghulu. Bob glanced at him suspiciously. He had the distinct impression that the old man had been about to say harimau, the normal Malay word for tiger, but he had stopped himself, almost as though he was afraid to say it. Just exactly what Si-Pudong meant, he would have to check up later. Bob moved over to the ditch and slid down into it, closely followed by the penghulu. The ground was comparatively moist here and after some searching about, they found a series of pugmarks.
“Ai!” exclaimed the penghulu, pointing. “There were two of them! See, Tuan.” He indicated a pair of large, squarish prints. “Man-cat stand here. Go up bank to kill.” Now he pointed out some smaller tracks, a little distance back. “His woman wait here, while he do all work.” He thought to himself for a moment, then added. “Just like my wife.”
Bob smiled, scratched his head. He certainly hadn’t expected two tigers. He moved along the ditch a little way until he reached the place where the cow had been dropped down the bank. The grass was visibly crushed and flattened and there was a long deep furrow, presumably where one of the creature’s horns had gouged deep into the soil. There was a little dried blood matted into some tufts of grass and from here, a distinct trail led off through the undergrowth. Bob gazed after it for a moment, then turned to the penghulu and indicated that he intended to follow. The old man looked far from eager, so Bob took out his cigarettes and lighter, handed them to the penghulu and suggested that he should wait up on the road. With a grateful nod, the penghulu scrambled up over the bank and Bob set off into the jungle.
It was as though somebody had switched off the sun.
The instant he passed into the shadow of the trees, it seemed that the heat had simply evaporated, and he was immersed in a chilly world of green-dappled mystery. As he moved further onwards, the trees high above his head formed a thick dark canopy through which the rays of sunlight could only occasionally stab. But the trail he was following was easy enough to find. The drag marks led through the midst of lush ferns and tangled vines, around the gnarled roots of balau trees, along winding cattle trails, and deep through the hea
rt of seemingly impenetrable bamboo thickets. Bob followed silently, glancing nervously this way and that. It was his first experience of entering real jungle and the dank humidity of it made him feel very claustrophobic. He started once when a pig-tailed monkey scuttled away from his advance with a shrill shriek of alarm, but he kept doggedly onwards, even when the trail stretched on much further than he would have believed possible. He marvelled at the sheer brute strength of the tiger. From time to time, he came across the chafed roots of trees and bushes, where the horns of the cow had evidently lodged for a time. The torn shredded bark suggested that the cat had exercised prodigious power in pulling the carcass free, and Bob began to wonder if the penghulu had been right about the second tiger. Surely it must have taken two strong animals to move the body this far.
Bob had no impression of time. He had forgotten to put on his wristwatch that morning and now it seemed like hours that he had been walking in this way. The trail led on through green shadow. Bob’s nerves began to get the better of him. On two distinct occasions, he had the vivid impression that something was gliding intently along behind him. Each time, he snapped fearfully around, his rifle ready to fire, only to find nothing but the empty jungle mocking him. He was on the very verge of giving up and retracing his steps, when unexpectedly, the trail culminated at the edge of a sluggish-looking stream of water. It was a disappointing end to his search, for there was nothing here but a sorry-looking pile of bones and offal. It was obvious that no tiger would bother to return to this particular meal.
Bob came to a halt, mopped at his brow, which was sweating profusely despite the comparative cool of the jungle. Instinctively, he reached into his pocket for cigarettes and then remembered that he had given them to the penghulu. He swore vividly, glanced around for a few moments and finding little to interest him, he shrugged his broad shoulders and turned back, retracing his steps.
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