Waite. She missed his charm and warmth and loving. She missed his
arms around her and the feeling of her head on his chest. Without
love life seemed so empty. Sometimes she'd find herself staring at the
painting, seeing nothing but his face and all she wanted to do was
sink to the floor and cry her eyes out.
She wondered sometimes if coming to Pelangi Island had been a
good idea. She was alone too much. There was too much time to
think, too much loneliness that easily filled itself with doubts and
uneasy thoughts. She began to doubt herself and her motivations. If
she truly loved Waite, should she not forgive him? Had she really
done enough to help him? Should she not stand by him? He was a
man in trouble and he needed her. The questions churned inside her
and at night she lay awake for hours at a time arguing with herself.
She was not happy with her work. It had lost its characteristic glow
and liveliness, and seemed to reflect more and more her inner gloom
and restlessness. She hated the colours, but somehow they found their
way on to the canvas as if she had no control over them. She thought
of Waite and his gloomy paintings and wondered fearfully what was
happening to her.
Sometimes, in angry frustration, she'd throw down her brush and go
for a walk on the beach. She'd climb the rocks and stare out over the
water or watch the little crabs that scuttled between the rocks.
Now and then Justin would stop by, usually in the late afternoon,
when the shadows were growing long and the light was softening to
gold. She would offer tea and curry puffs or some other snack,
delivered every day by a boy on a bicycle, and they'd talk for a while
about nothing in particular, the conversation wandering here and
there, never touching personal or intimate issues. Maybe that first day
too much had been said too soon. Keeping distance was easier.
Sometimes they'd go for a swim in the late afternoon when the heat
of day had faded. They'd watch the sun sink like a red ball of fire
behind the horizon, streaking the sky lavender and violet and pale
peach. The colours of water and sand and rock lost their brilliance in
the waning light, became softer and subdued.
She was not always comfortable with him on the beach. His eyes
were on her more than seemed necessary. A swimsuit or bikini hid
very little and under his regard she felt less than adequately covered.
He was not offensive, not in any way she could say, but she was
aware of the desire in his eyes and it made her uneasy.
Now and then he'd ask her to go with him in his boat and she enjoyed
that more than anything. She liked the sea at the end of the afternoon.
The cool breeze felt good against her skin and she experienced a
sense of peace and freedom out on the open water.
'May I see your paintings?' he asked one afternoon as they were
drinking glasses of chrysanthemum tea on her verandah.
She hesitated. She'd purposely hidden her paintings in the empty
bedroom, not wanting him to see them. 'I've not been very happy
with what I've done lately. I don't know what's wrong.'
'Don't you?' he asked, looking into her eyes. 'Of course you do.'
It was the closest they'd come in mentioning the reason for her stay
here since the day she'd arrived. She looked down into her glass. 'I
wish I knew what to do about it. I love painting, but lately I've been
so frustrated, I feel like giving it up.'
'You can't, and you won't. You know that. You just have to keep
going. Get it all out of your system.'
'I suppose you're right. I can't really imagine not painting ever again.'
She stood up. 'I'll show you if you like. Just don't be too critical. My
ego has been a little shaky lately.'
He came to his feet and stood very close, almost touching, and there
was a strange light in his eyes. 'You're not blaming yourself, are
you?' he asked, and there was quiet anger in his voice.
Blaming herself for Waite's violence? She shook her head. 'No.' She
stepped back, uneasy with his nearness, and he followed her into the
bedroom where she kept her supplies and finished work.
'I'm not an expert on painting,' he said, as he studied the canvasses,
'but I see what you mean.'
'What do you see?'
'Sadness. Frustration. Anger. I see it in the lines and especially in the
colour.' He turned to look at her. 'But the work is good. Not an
amateur by a long shot, are you?'
She gave a doubtful smile and turned to leave the room. He was nice
to have around, undemanding. She liked talking with him.
'Come and have dinner with me tonight,' he said. 'I invited one of my
renters; the old jogger. An interesting character. I think you'll enjoy
him.'
'Oh, yes, I saw him on the beach yesterday.' He was an Englishman
in his sixties, ramrod straight and tall, with a long grey moustache
and a sharp, aristocratic nose. Apparently he jogged every morning to
keep in condition, along with doing calisthenics before he went out.
He'd been on the island for a week now and Linden had seen him
around a few times.
She arrived early, wearing a long, green cotton skirt and a black, V-
necked top. There was nothing fancy or expensive about her clothes,
but they fit well and- the colours looked good. She'd left her hair
loose, the left side swept away from her face and fastened with an old
tortoise-shell comb that had belonged to her grandmother. Justin's
eyes ran over her quickly as he let her in, but in the dim shadows of
the doorway she could not see his expression.
'Sit down, have a drink,' Justin invited. He looked trim and fit in his
khaki pants and dark blue shirt. He was good to look at; she liked the
way he moved, with the calm, easy movements of someone who's at
peace with himself and the world. 'What would you like? Nothing
sophisticated though—the bar is limited.' He gave a lopsided smile.
'How about a gin and tonic?'
'Can do.'
There was a batek painting on the wall and she crossed the room to
stand in front of it. A scene of fishing boats—trawlers and smaller,
brightly painted prahus. 'It's a Teng,' she said in delighted surprise.
She'd once met the old man, a batek painter of international fame,
trained in China. Exhibitions all over the world, a birthday card for
Unicef, murals in Canberra and Kuala Lumpur, works hanging in
private and public collections in many places.
'Yes.' He handed her the glass and stood next to her. 'Have you ever
been to the Yahong Gallery at Batu Ferringhi?'
'Oh yes, many times. I met him there once. Talked to him for a quite
a while. What's his full name again? Chuah something Teng.'
'Chuah Thean Teng.'
'Yes. He has a fantastic colour range, have you noticed? And I like
his versatility. There was something different every time I went there.
There's so much life and excitement in his work.' She sighed. 'He
must be old by now?'
'Seventy, I think.'
She peered closer at the painting, examining the detail of colour and
line. 'The intricacy always amazes me when you consider he works
with wax and dye. I don't think I could ever learn.'
There was a knock on the door and they both looked up.
'Good evening.' Mr Courtney stood in the open door, tall, straight and
smiling. He was dressed in white slacks, white socks, white leather
shoes and a dark shirt. His grey hair and his bright blue eyes
contrasted sharply with his tanned face. He entered on Justin's
invitation and shook hands with Linden, eyes twinkling with delight
at the sight of her.
Justin poured him a drink. Mr Courtney settled himself in a chair,
shifting a little until he was perfectly comfortable, ready for the
evening. He smoothed his long grey moustache.
'How is the writing going?' he asked Justin. 'Any more problems with
the Bangkok connection?'
Justin handed him a Scotch. 'No. Your idea worked very well.' He
turned to Linden. 'I was having trouble with a character and Mr
Courtney gave me some advice.'
The old man laughed. 'That character reminded me of a RAF colonel
I used to fly with in World War Two when I was stationed in
Ceylon—Sri Lanka nowadays.' He put his drink down, smoothed his
moustache again and leaned back, eager to tell the story.
Out came a hair-raising tale about a plane crash above the Indian
Ocean in a driving rainstorm, of Mr Courtney and two others floating
around for three days in a leaky rubber raft, each taking a turn
keeping a finger over the hissing valve to prevent the air from
escaping. A tale full of disasters, of the raft capsizing in the seething
waves, of Mr Courtney's cigarettes and matches—stashed under his
hat for safekeeping— getting soaked by sea water, of finally coming
ashore and being greeted by police pointing 1895 rifles because
fishermen had told them the Japanese were landing.
Linden watched him as he talked, seeing the laughter in his eyes,
marvelling at his sense of humour as he spoke about his frightening
adventures. He gestured as he spoke, shaking his head now and then
as if he couldn't quite believe he had survived the ordeal. He must
have told the story a hundred times, but his enthusiasm for telling it
seemed not to have waned.
It took a long time to eat dinner. Garrulous Mr Courtney had more
than one story. 'That reminds me,' he'd say, putting down his fork and
smoothing his moustache, and another story would follow.
Linden asked him what he had done after the war. He had stayed on
in Ceylon, running a coconut estate, work for which the RAF had not
prepared him. He had married and raised a family. His children were
grown now and his wife had died. He was alone now and it was easy
to see how he enjoyed reminiscing about his past.
Over after-dinner coffee he entertained them with a story about the
ghost of an old man that appeared in his bedroom one night when he
stayed in the house of a friend in the hills in Ceylon.
'The next morning at breakfast, my friend said, "Oh, by the way, did
you meet Harry?" And I said, "Harry? Who's Harry?" "Harry's the
old man that comes into your room at night. I forgot to tell you about
him. He's quite harmless you know. He's done it for years."' Mr
Courtney laughed. 'I didn't sleep in that room again. I might be
English, but I don't like to mix with ghosts.' He finished his coffee
and came to his feet. 'Well, young people, I must go. Thank you very
much for a delightful evening.'
'I enjoyed that,' said Linden after Mr Courtney had gone and sighed
with contentment. 'The food almost as much as the company. He's a
great old goat, as my friend Liz would say. Well, I should be going
too.' She stood up.
'What's your hurry? There's some wine left. Why don't we finish it?'
Well, why not? There was nothing but an empty house to go back to,
and she didn't feel particularly sleepy. She sat down again. 'All right,
thanks.'
She watched him as he poured the wine. 'You seem so serious all the
time,' she said off the top of her head, her tongue loosened by the
good food and wine. 'I remember you as a joker and a laugher. But
then, that was ten years ago.'
'Ten years is a long time.'
He said no more and she didn't want to pry. 'Are you planning to
settle down here? For a long time, I mean.'
'I don't think so. It's about time to think about going back home
again.'
'You seem to like it here.'
'It's peaceful. The people are happy. They don't go hungry and there
is no war.' Something flickered in his eyes as he spoke, and she felt a
tightening of her chest.
'What did you do before you came to Pelangi?'
'I was a war correspondent in Beirut, hanging out in the Commodore
Hotel in the Hamra waiting for the next car bomb to go off.'
It was not at all what she had expected and it started all manner of
thoughts and ideas in her mind. Calm quiet Justin in a war-ridden
country doing dangerous work—it seemed so out of character. Or
was it? She'd known there had been more to him than his quiet, aloof
manner gave away, something hidden behind that impassive face.
'Not such a peaceful place, Lebanon.'
'No. And I was young and stupid. I wandered the streets and was in
places I shouldn't have been. It's a jungle out there. Everybody is
everybody's enemy. To make a long story short, I got caught in cross
fire and got shot in the back. I was lucky I didn't die. They patched
me up and shipped me back to the States. I spent months in the
hospital. Lying there I decided I'd had enough and to recuperate I was
going to find the most peaceful place I could think of.'
'And you thought of Pelangi.'
'At first it seemed a crazy idea, but the more I thought about it the
more I wanted to come here. I'd wanted for a long time to try my
hand on fiction writing, and this seemed like the ideal opportunity. I
decided to write a spy novel and see what happened after that.'
He had stayed and written another one. And here he was, writing his
fourth, with a New York editor eager for more. He'd spent some time
in Bangkok, Hong Kong and Singapore, doing research. For the rest
of the time he stayed on Pelangi with the exception of a trip to
Penang now and then.
Several times friends had come to stay with him on the island, and
the idea of building one or two more small fishermen's houses for
other peace-seekers was born. It gave him something to do besides
staring at the typewriter all day, and the colourful characters that
came and visited were a welcome diversion and sometimes good
writing material.
'Like Mr Courtney,' he said. 'I've been squeezing him like a mop,
only he doesn't know it. At least I think not.' His lips curled down in
something that resembled a smile.
'You don't actually write about real people, do you?'
'No, of course not. I use them for raw material only, using bits and
pieces in different places. It's never recognisable. You have to make
the characters fit the story, so usually it's quite impos
sible to use a
ready- made person.'
'I'd like to read one of your books, if you don't mind. I don't usually
read spy stories, so I don't know much about the genre, but...'
He got up out of his chair and took a book off the shelf. 'Here, try this
one. It's the latest.'
The cover was black with a picture of a Chinese temple in red and
gold, and a long-haired blonde with a gun in her hand in the
foreground. She wore a minimum of clothes and had a desperate look
in her eyes.
'Some picture,' Linden commented, and he groaned.
'The covers are terrible, in my opinion, but I assume the publisher
knows what the public wants.'
'Half-naked blondes and guns,' she countered drily. 'Well, I must be
going.' She stood up. 'Oh, by the way, how gory is this? If I start
reading it now, win it keep me awake?'
He gave a crooked little grin. 'I hope so.'
She grimaced in embarrassment. 'Sorry, I didn't mean it that way. I
wasn't referring to its entertainment value. But blood and gore gives
me nightmares.'
'No blood and gore. Just a couple of nice clean killings. That's all.'
'Oh, well, I can handle a couple of clean killings.'
They were standing near the door, smiling at each other and suddenly
something was different—the atmosphere seemed strangely charged
and he looked at her in a way he had not done before. In slow motion
his hand moved up and touched her hair and the breath caught in her
throat. For an endless moment their eyes were locked and time stood
still. She saw his face coming closer, and she backed away, not
knowing why, just moved away from him. Her heart was like a wild
thing trapped in her chest and breathing was difficult.
'I have to go. Good night, Justin.' She had to force out the words. She
turned, took a step down the stairs and almost stumbled. He grabbed
her arm to steady her.
'I'll walk you home.' He stood behind her, still holding on to her arm.
Let go of me! Don't touch me! The words screamed in her head, but
her tongue made no sound. Moving away from his touch, she rushed
down the remaining few steps, her heart thundering and her breathing
fast. He followed her into the night and silently they walked the short
distance to her house. The air was warm and fragrant. The sky clear
and speckled with stars. It had rained earlier in the afternoon and the
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