They had another bottle. Nabby Adams looked round the little dance-hall, empty save for their own party and a couple of fat Chinese business-men in crumpled white. “A nice little place,” he said unconvincingly. “I think I’ll open an account here.”
When the three men were outside, having said good-night to Rahimah, the girl waving her wrist ruefully about, crushed in the bear-hug of Nabby Adams’s handshake, Crabbe felt his betrayal of her was complete. There stood the car, gleaming as with blue butter under the fairy-lights in the little garden. A recrudescence of the past, the victory of Fenella over one already long-vanquished, a means of getting out of the Malaya he wanted to know. He climbed into the back of the car.
“You’d better try it yourself,” said Nabby Adams.
“No. I’ll never drive again. I’ll have to employ a driver.”
“There is your chance,” said Nabby Adams to Alladad Khan. “You can drive for this gentleman and his wife when you are off-duty. Undoubtedly they will pay you.”
“Thank you. I am a Khan. I am no man’s servant. But the memsahib I will gladly drive anywhere.”
“I’ve got a driver for you,” said Nabby Adams to Crabbe.
A bargain was eventually concluded in a little kedai on the Timah road. Here the beer was sun-warmed day-long, and the tepid froth soothed Nabby Adams’, bad teeth. Alladad Khan was happy, his eyes shining in the dim light of the oil-lamps. Crabbe, resigned, promised to go to the Treasury the next day, draw out two thousand dollars in cash and hand this over to Nabby Adams in a little kedai near the Mansor School. Nabby Adams would see to everything.
Later in the evening, Nabby Adams and Alladad Khan brought a maimed and coughing car into the Club porch. Alladad Khan was singing softly Punjabi folk-songs about young love in the hay.
“Quiet now,” said Nabby Adams. “I am going in to fetch this man Rivers. He will undoubtedly be astonished by the state of his engine, not realising that all we have done is to adjust a few little wires and things of that sort.”
Rivers was now very drunk. He tottered about the Club shouting, “Lash them, beat them, nail them to the door, pepper them with hot lead, ha ha. Treat them as they deserve to be treated. Speak to them in the only language they understand. Go through them like a dose of salts, ha ha.” Raja Ahmad, the Sultan’s A.D.C., was performing a Spanish jota. At the worn grand piano sat Hart, playing old songs in N.A.A.F.I. style. Raja Azman sat placidly with his latest wife, smiling at vacancy, drinking gin and tonic water. He was very old.
Nabby Adams said, “I’ve brought it back, Mr. Rivers.”
Rivers said, “Major Rivers to you. I insist on my rights. I insist on my rank being respected. We shall have discipline if it’s the last thing we do.” He writhed against the bar as if it were a scratching-post. “One thousand eight hundred. Not a penny less.”
Nabby Adams said, “Come out and see it.”
The warm night air made Rivers sway and clutch a porch-pillar for support. “Take me home this instant,” he said. “I insist on my rights. There’s no discipline round here.”
“Get in,” said Nabby Adams, “and just you listen to that bloody engine.”
Rivers fell in, sprawling on the cushions, shouting, “Discipline, sir. There is no discipline in this battalion.” At the wheel Alladad Khan sang happily.
“For Christ’s sake,” said Nabby Adams. “Like a bloody loony-bin. Here, let me drive.” He snatched the wheel from Alladad Khan, pushing him rudely into the front passenger-seat. Alladad Khan sang of the fulfilment of love, of the spring moon riding like a huge pearl above the marriage-bed. They drove off down the Tahi Panas road.
“You saw what it was like starting,” said Nabby Adams. “Now listen to that knock. Hear it? Tearing its guts out. One thousand five hundred, and that’s a fair offer.”
The only response was a loud snore from the back. Rivers was out like a light. Nabby Adams pleaded, “Wake up, listen to that bloody engine. Please listen to that bloody engine.” Rivers snored on.
About half a mile from Jagut Estate they ran out of petrol. Nabby Adams quarrelled petulantly with Alladad Khan.
“It was your responsibility to check the petrol. That is why you carry two stripes. You obviously cannot be trusted to do your work efficiently.”
“This car is no responsibility of mine, sahib.”
“Yes, it is. You’re going to drive it, aren’t you? It’s no good. We’ll have to leave it here by the roadside.”
“But the sahib is sleeping inside. The terrorists will get him.”
“That’s his bloody funeral.”
“Sahib?”
“All right. We’ll push it.”
And so they pushed it, their snoring freight oblivious, stretched on the back cushions in deep rest. Nabby Adams grumbled and cursed and reviled Alladad Khan. Alladad Khan sang in rapture an old ploughing song. Under the glowing moon they laboured up the road. The demons of the half-tamed jungle watched them impassively; a snake reared its head from the grass; the fireflies wove their mocking lights about them. From afar a tiger called. Nabby Adams raged with thirst.
“Fourteen fifty,” he panted. “And not a bloody penny more. And lucky to get that. The bastard,” he added. “The drunken bastard. Not a penny more.”
5
“HE HE HE,” said Inche Kamaruddin, showing his small teeth in a gay smile. “If you make dose stupid mistakes den you cannot hope to pass de examination. If you do dat den you must fail.” He smiled brilliantly, encouragingly.
“Yes,” said Victor Crabbe. “But there don’t seem to be any rules.” On the table lay his exercise, a piece of transliteration into Arabic script. The words sprawled, from right to left, in clumsy unco-ordinated curves, sprinkled with dots. It was a warm night, despite the rain that had fallen, and busy with insect life. All around them flying ants were landing, ready to copulate, shed their wings, and die. Flying beetles sang fretfully in the rafters of the veranda, and little bugs and pallid moths had been drinking the sweat from his neck. The hand that held the pen dripped sweat on to the paper. His face, he knew, must look wet and greasy and callow to his Malay teacher. Inche Kamaruddin smiled and smiled, deploring his stupidity in a look of ineffable happiness.
“Dere are no rules,” smiled Inche Kamaruddin. “Dat is de first ting dat you must learn. Every word is different from every oder word. De words must be learnt separately. De English look for rules all de time. But in de East dere are no rules. He he he.” He chortled, rubbing his hands in joy.
“All right,” said Crabbe. “Now let’s have a look at these special words for Malay royalty. Though why the hell they should have words different from other people …”
“He he he. Dey have always had dat. Dat is de custom. When de ordinary people go to sleep you must say dat dey tidor. But de sultans always beradu. De root of dat word means dat dere was a singing contest among de concubines. And de one dat won slept wid de sultan. He he he.” He rubbed his groin in a transport of vicarious concupiscence.
“And does the Sultan of Lanchap have these talent competitions?”
“De present Sultan? Now it is different.” Eagerly Inche Kamaruddin picked up a copy of a Malay newspaper from a pile of books and other teaching aids. “Dere is to-day’s news, you see.” Crabbe squinted at the Arabic letters, deciphering slowly. “If you read Jawi fluently den you keep up to date wid de latest scandal. He he he.”
“He’s going to marry again? A Chinese?”
“De Sultan lost a lot of money at de Singapore races and de Penang races and de races at Kuala Lumpur. De Sultan owes a lot of money.”
“My amah says he owes some to her father.”
“Dat is quite possible. He he he. Dis Chinese girl is de daughter of a tin miner, de richest tin miner in de State. Dis will be de Sultan’s tent wife. He he he.” This was a rich joke. Inche Kamaruddin rocked with glee.
“How you love a bit of scandal.” Crabbe smiled at his teacher tolerantly. Inche Kamaruddin was ecstatic. Soon he becam
e a little more serious and said:
“Dere is more trouble at de Mansor School, I see. De Headmaster had his motor-car scratched and his tyres slashed de oder day.”
“I didn’t know that,” said Crabbe. “He didn’t mention it to anybody.”
“Of course he did not mention it,” smiled Inche Kamaruddin. “Dat would be to lose face. But he beat tree prefects wid a stick, and now dis is revenge. Dere is worse to come. Dere is going to be a rebellion.”
“They can’t do that, you know. That only happens in school stories.”
“Dey will try. Dey are becoming politically-minded. Dey are talking about de white oppressors.” Inche Kamaruddin grinned widely and shook with joy.
“How do you manage to hear these things?”
“He he he. Dere are ways and means. Dere will be big trouble at de Mansor School, noting is more certain dan dat.”
“So. And what do your spies in Kuala Lumpur say about the official attitude to the present régime?”
“In de Mansor School? Dey know noting about it. De autorities are very pleased wid de way dat Mr. Boodby is running de School. But dey are not very pleased wid you.” Inche Kamaruddin grinned and shook and sang “He he he he” down the scale.
“Oh?” said Crabbe in disquiet. “And why not?”
“Dey are getting reports about you not doing de tings Mr. Boodby asks you to do. And dere is a story about you being friendly wid de Malay women. But you must not worry about dese tings. U.M.N.O. is quite pleased wid you and when U.M.N.O. is running de country dere will be no difficulty about you getting one of de good jobs. But first,” Inche Kamaruddin tried for a moment to look very grave, “first,” his face gradually lightened, “you must get your examination. Dey will want Englishmen who can speak de language.” Inche Kamaruddin banged the rattan table with his neat brown fist. “Misti lulus. Misti lulus. You must pass de examination. But you will not pass de examination if you make dese stupid mistakes.” He grinned widely and engagingly and then collapsed into quiet mirth.
“All right,” said Crabbe. “Let’s read some more of the Hikayat Abdullah.” Inwardly he was disturbed, but it was a cardinal rule in the East not to show one’s true feelings. The truth about anything had to be wrapped up and could only be seen and handled after the patient untying of much string and paper. The truth about one’s feelings must be masked in a show of indifference or even the lineaments of a very different emotion. Calmly now he translated the sophisticated Malay of the munshi who had been the protégé and friend of Stamford Raffles.
“‘One day Tuan Raffles said to me, “Tuan, I intend to go home by ship in three days’ time, so get together all my books in Malay.” When I heard this my heart beat strongly and my soul had lost its courage. When he told me that he was sailing back to Europe, I could not stand it any longer. I felt that I had lost my father and my mother, and my eyes swam with tears.’”
“Yes, yes.” Inche Kamaruddin danced up and down on his chair. “You have got de meaning of dat.”
“They felt differently about us then,” said Crabbe. “They felt that we had something to give.”
“You still have someting to give,” insisted Inche Kamaruddin, “but in a free Malaya dat shall be ruled by de Malays.”
“And the Chinese? And the Indians, the Eurasians?”
“Dey do not count,” grinned Inche Kamaruddin. “Dey are not de friends of de Malays. Malaya is a country for de Malays.”
The work of translation stopped, and the old political wrangle began again. Crabbe was reasonable, pointing out that the Chinese had made the country economically rich, that the British had brought rule and justice, that the majority of the Malays were Indonesian immigrants. Inche Kamaruddin grew heated, waving excited arms, grinning passionately, finally shouting, “Merdeka! Merdeka! Freedom, independence, self-determination for de Malays!”
“Merdeka itself is a Sanskrit word,” said Crabbe, “a foreign importation.”
From the nearest dormitory a young boy, wakened by the noise, could be heard crying. “We’d better stop now,” said Crabbe. “I’ve got to do my little prowl round the dormitories.”
Inche Kamaruddin went downstairs to his bicycle, waving his hand in farewell, showing all his teeth in the last big grin of the evening. “On Tursday, den,” he called quietly.
“Thursday,” said Crabbe. “Terima kaseh, inche. Selamat jalan.”
Crabbe began to wander round the still, dark dormitories, thinking of what his teacher had told him. There were few secrets to be kept in Malaya. What he had thought to be a discreet liaison was obviously already stale knowledge round the town, stale knowledge to Boothby. The side had been let down. He had broken the unwritten laws of the white man. He had rejected the world of the Club, the week-end golf, the dinner invitations, the tennis parties. He did not drive a car. He walked round the town, sweating, waving his hand to his Asian friends. He had had an affair with a Malay divorcee. And of course Fenella was no better. She had rejected the white woman’s world—mah jong and bridge and coffee parties—for different reasons.
He felt suddenly a stab of anxiety about Fenella. Tonight was the night of the first meeting of the Film Society in Timah. He had refused to go, saying that he could not cancel his Malay lesson. She had said it was pointless taking Malay lessons, pointless taking Government examinations when they did not intend to stay in the country. He had said that he did not see why they should not stay in the country. He liked the country and, if she wished to be a dutiful wife, she should try to like it too. It was up to her to go wherever her husband went. If he had determined on a career in this country, well, her duty was plain. If she did not wish to be a dutiful wife, then she had better not be a wife at all, she had better leave him. He would not have said so much if his nerves had not been on edge with a trying morning in the School. She had cried, said he did not love her, and all the rest of it. He had tried to retract, but she had burst out with the inevitable reference to his first wife. Then he had become hard, cold and stupid. At seven o’clock Alladad Khan had brought round the car and she had gone off to Timah alone; alone, that is, save for Alladad Khan’s respectful and discreet presence. He did not expect her back for another hour. Now he worried a little about the possibility of an ambush, the car breaking down miles from anywhere, Fenella afraid in the black night. This, he supposed, was a sort of love. He shrugged it away, refused to think about it further, walking soft-footed between the rows of boys’ beds.
From the prefects’ room came the light hissing of talk. A blue glow, as of a shaded lamp, showed under the door. Crabbe walked stealthily towards it, stood outside, hardly breathing, listening. He could not understand what was being said; he knew hardly any Chinese. It was evident, however, that this was no ordinary conversation, apt for a dorm-feast; there was too much of one voice. Then came the hint of catechism: the question, the quiet chorused answer. Crabbe opened the door and entered.
Shiu Hung opened a surprised mouth, raising his eyebrows above spectacles which had slipped down his nose. The other boys, all Chinese, looked up from the floors and beds where they sat. All were wearing pyjamas.
“What’s going on?” said Crabbe.
“We are having a meeting, sir,” said Shiu Hung. “We have formed a Chinese society.”
“Where are the other prefects, Narayanasamy and the rest of them?”
“They lent us the room, sir. They are down below reading in the lavatories.”
“You know about the lights-out rule?”
No answer. Crabbe looked at the boys. Two or three were prefects, the rest merely seniors.
“What kind of society is this?” asked Crabbe.
“It is a Chinese society, sir.”
“You said that. What does the society propose to do?”
“To discuss things, sir, things of world interest.”
“What’s that book?” asked Crabbe.
“This, sir?” Shiu Hung handed the thick pamphlet to him. “It is a book on economic theory, sir
.”
Crabbe looked at the fantastic columns of ideograms. He only knew one or two: the symbols for ‘man’, ‘field’, ‘light’, ‘tree’, ‘house’—pictograms really, straightforward drawings of straightforward things. He suddenly shot a question at one of the crouching boys:
“You. State the doctrine of Surplus Value.”
The boy, bewildered, shook his head. Shiu Hung remained suave, impassive.
“Shiu Hung,” said Crabbe, “how shall the revolution be accomplished in Malaya?”
“What revolution, sir?”
“Look here,” said Crabbe. “I suspect the worst. I suspect that this is an indoctrination class.”
“I do not know the word, sir,” said Shiu Hung.
“Watch your step,” said Crabbe. “I’m taking this book away. I’ll find out what’s in it.”
“It is a good book, sir, on economic theory. We are interested in these things and we have a right, sir, to discuss them in our own language. We are given no other opportunity to meet for this purpose. It is either prep, or games or debates in English.”
“You’re here to get an English education,” said Crabbe. “Whether that’s a good or bad thing is not for me to say. If you want to form a discussion-group ask me about it. And you’re breaking the rules by not being in bed by lights-out. I’ll have to report this. Now get to bed, all of you.”
Crabbe went back to his flat, much disturbed. He poured himself a large whisky and sat for a time, smoking, looking at the pamphlet. The big garish ideograms on the cover meant nothing to him. He would ask Lee, the mathematics master, what the contents were. But he was certain that Boothby would do nothing. He was also certain that other indoctrination sessions were being held in the other houses. Indoctrination meant victimisation. Also there was the big public school tradition of not sneaking.
He strolled restlessly about the big living-room, stopping at last to examine the titles of books behind the smeared glass of the standard-pattern bookcase. Some of the books dated from his university days—poets like Auden and Spender, novels by Upward, Dos Passos, André Malraux. In those days he had himself for a time been a Communist; it was the thing to be, especially at the time of the Spanish War. He remembered the loose-mouthed student of engineering who had the complete works of Lenin and was glib in his application of Dialectical Materialism to all human functions—drinking, lovemaking, films, literature. He remembered the girls who swore and chain-smoked and cultivated a deliberate lack of allure, the parties where he met them, the songs they sang at the parties:
The Malayan Trilogy Page 9