Pelangi Haven

by Karen Van Der Zee

  room.' It had been wrong in the first place to accept his offer. She

  valued her independence. Always before she'd paid her own way, or

  her fair share. Having a job and a paycheque, there seemed to be no

  reason not to.

  There was a silence as they looked at each other—a challenge of

  wills.

  'All right,' Justin said at last. 'I'll make you a deal. I'll pay for our

  Christmas expenses and you give me one of your paintings in return.'

  She thought about it for a moment. 'Do you actually want one of my

  paintings? You said yourself, the price of art is worth it only if you

  find it worth it.'

  'Why are you so suspicious? I like what I've seen of your work, you

  know that. Especially the last two. I'd like very much to have one.'

  'All right, then. It's a deal.'

  He refilled their glasses with wine. 'I saw Mr Marinozzi before I

  came here. He said he's buying your temple picture.'

  Anger swelled inside her. 'I told him it wasn't for sale. I don't like the

  man. I don't want him to have it.'

  'He seems to think he's getting it.'

  'He seems to think if he offers me enough money I'll cave in. He said

  there's a price for everything.'

  'There is.'

  'Not for that painting! Not from him, anyway!' The plate slid off her

  lap and dropped on the floor, breaking in two. 'Oh damn,' she

  muttered, going down on her knees to pick up the pieces. He

  followed her into the kitchen where she dumped the broken plate into

  the garbage pail.

  'Don't let him upset you. He's not worth it.'

  'I'm not upset. I'm mad. How long is he staying here, anyway?'

  'Two more weeks. You think you'll survive it?' He smiled good-

  humouredly.

  She sighed, then laughed. 'Oh, I guess so. Shall I make some coffee?'

  She was still a little fuzzy-headed from the wine when he stood up to

  leave an hour later. It was dark in the house, but she hadn't yet lit the

  lamps.

  'Thanks again for the cheese,' she said. 'That was one of the nicest

  presents I've ever had.'

  She thought of. the many presents Waite had given her over the past

  two years. Every time he'd had one of his foul moods he came,

  penitent, with something else. Large bunches of red roses. Gold

  earrings. Huge boxes of imported chocolates. Silk scarves. Crystal

  wine glasses. Until in the end she'd wanted to throw them back into

  his face. The presents were given to appease his own guilt, a plea to

  her not to stop loving him.

  Justin had given her the cheese to please her. Not out of guilt, not to

  impress her with his generosity or his money. Just to please her.

  He stood close to her near the door and the look in his eyes made her

  heart flutter uneasily. His hands reached out and slid down the length

  of her hair.

  'You have beautiful hair,' he said softly. 'I like it when it's loose like

  this.' He took a handful and tugged at it gently and she moved a little

  closer, keeping her eyes trained on the buttons of his shirt, pale

  glimmers in the dark. He let her hair slide through his fingers, putting

  his hands on both sides of her face, lifting it to his.

  She stood very still, her heart throbbing, and she looked into his eyes

  and she knew she wanted him to kiss her. But he did not move, just

  looked at her, caressing her with his eyes. The hands at the side of

  her face were cool against her .warm skin. She ached to touch him

  too—feel his hair and his face and the strong muscles of his back.

  Slowly she lifted her arms, sliding them around his back and

  flattened her hands against it.

  His breathing was as shallow as hers. She noticed it with a strange

  excitement. 'Justin,' she whispered, 'please kiss me.'

  He bent his head to hers and she closed her eyes and for an agonising

  moment she felt nothing. Then his mouth covered hers and fire

  leaped up inside her, spreading hot through her limbs. His hands slid

  down from her face, down her arms and sides and around her back.

  She moved her own around his neck and they clung together as they

  kissed.

  Her head swam. He was holding her so tightly she couldn't breathe.

  She broke away, gasping, stunned by the sudden unleashing of

  passion. He stepped back, raking his hand through his hair, breathing

  hard. They stared at each other in the darkness, seeing only shapes

  and shadows, feeling the electric heat surrounding them.

  She couldn't think of what to say. Her knees were shaking and with

  her hands she searched for the wall behind her and leaned against it.

  'I think I'd better go,' he said at last, opening the door. With one foot

  on the top step of the stairs, he looked back at her.

  She swallowed hard. 'Go, Justin. Please, go.'

  The next morning Linden went back to the temple and worked on the

  painting, applying herself with so much concentration that there was

  no thought of anything else.

  The dragons were giving her trouble, as were the intricate black

  Chinese characters on the big gold sign above the door. Although

  generally she didn't copy photographically, it seemed important that

  at least the characters should have some authenticity. Also, if she

  didn't get the strokes right, who knows what blasphemous meaning

  they could take on. The smaller characters along the door frame

  caused no problem. Just some faint gold smudges would do. Nobody

  would be able to read anything in them, at least she hoped not. Better

  check it out with a friendly soul, she decided.

  When Faisal and his bicycle came again to help her with the transport

  of her equipment, she asked him to stop at Mak Long Teh's cart. She

  was busy serving a customer, a skinny old man in shirt and sarong.

  When he had finished eating his mee and had returned his bowl,

  Linden took the painting off the bike and showed it to the woman.

  'What do you think, Mak Long Teh?'

  A look of surprise passed over the woman's face. 'You are a painter?'

  Linden nodded. 'Do you like it?'

  Mak Long Teh scrutinised the picture. 'It's very beautiful.' Then she

  shook her head and pointed at the church spire. 'I don't think the

  church is there.'

  'I know. I thought it looked nice. What about the Chinese words? Did

  I paint them right?'

  Mak Long Teh laughed. 'A little bit.'

  'It doesn't say something bad?'

  The woman shook her head. 'No, no, it's beautiful.'

  'But a little bit funny?' She had the horrible suspicion she wasn't

  getting a straight answer. It wouldn't be good manners to say

  something negative.

  'No, no, it's beautiful.'

  They were surrounded by people, young ones and old ones, all

  looking and pointing at the picture. An old man's spindly finger

  almost touched the canvas, pointing at the church spire. 'It isn't there,'

  he said in Malay.

  'I know, I know.' Why were they all so interested in the church spire?

  She wanted to know about the Chinese characters. She glanced

  around the circle of on-lookers, searching for Chinese faces. There

  were a number of them. She pointed at the bla
ck characters.

  'I am a dumb foreigner,' she said in English, repeating it in her best

  Malay. The crowd burst out laughing. 'I don't know Chinese writing,'

  she continued. 'You tell me, is this bad?' They all laughed again. She

  wasn't sure what the joke was, but they certainly thought it was

  funny.

  I'm a stand-up comic, she thought. I might as well give up. The

  Malay don't know Chinese characters and the Chinese aren't telling.

  'It is not bad!' said Mak Long Teh next to her. 'It is beautiful!'

  Justin stood in her living room, looking at the painting. She hadn't

  seen him in two days and she felt a slight unease. Trying to shrug it

  off, she moved next to him and pointed at the sign above the temple

  entrance.

  'I'm having trouble with the Chinese characters.'

  'They look fine to me.'

  'You're not Chinese.'

  He glanced at her. 'You have a point there.'

  She told him what had happened when she'd shown Mak Long Teh

  the painting. 'I suppose I should have known I wasn't going to get a

  straight answer.' She shrugged. 'I'll just have to hope for the best.'

  'Don't worry about it. I was thinking, how about painting in the

  mosque minarette on the other side?' His eyes were laughing at her.

  'Good idea. And while I'm at it, maybe a Hindu temple as well.'

  'Well, why not?'

  'You have no artistic sense, do you?' she asked. 'Overkill won't do. I

  think I'll just keep it simple.' She smiled. 'Besides, the people would

  have a fit. They were already wondering what the church spire was

  doing there.'

  A bicycle bell rang outside.

  'Here's Faisal with my curry buns. How about some coffee or tea?'

  'Coffee, thanks.'

  Fast feet stomped on the wooden stairs and Faisal appeared in the

  open door with a paper package in his hand. His black hair was

  ruffled from riding the bike. He wore shorts and a shirt and thongs on

  his feet. He was a handsome boy with dark intelligent eyes. He

  thanked her politely when she paid him, then rushed down the stairs

  in a hurry for his next errand.

  'He's quite an entrepreneur, that kid. He helps me carry my easel and

  stool around sometimes.'

  'Shouldn't he be in school?'

  'I asked him. He said it was not necessary. He doesn't like school. He

  wants to make money and get rich.'

  'Did you inform him of the fact that in order to get rich you need to

  make a lot of money, and that to make a lot of money it helps to be

  educated?'

  'I most certainly did! He said he knows how to read and write and he

  knows his maths, and as far as he is concerned that's all that's

  necessary.' She paused, frowning. 'And what is this? Are you

  accusing me? He's not out of school because of me, you know. I saw

  him riding around on his bike for weeks before I even asked him.'

  'I'm not accusing you of anything. I'm just wondering why the kid

  isn't in school when the law says he should be.'

  'Well, ask the law, not me.' She marched off to the kitchen in

  righteous indignation.

  'Hey!' he called out, following her. 'You wanna pick a fight?'

  She looked at him wide-eyed. 'Pick a fight? Me? I never pick a fight.'

  From the big container on the counter she ladled water into the kettle

  and put it on the gas ring.

  'No,' he said blandly, 'you're not the type. Even- tempered, easy-

  going . ..'

  'Right. Hand me the sugar bowl, will you?'

  He gave it to her. 'About tomorrow. I want to leave early. Go to

  George Town to spend the day and come back to the hotel in the

  evening. How does that suit you?'

  'I'd like that.'

  'By the way,' he said carefully, as they sat on the verandah drinking

  their coffee. 'I have another letter for you.' He took it from his pocket

  and tossed it on the table.

  Linden put the curry bun down. Her heart was beating nervously as

  she picked the envelope up. It was Liz's neat round handwriting. She

  put it back down.

  'Thanks. I wonder why they can't deliver it here. This is the third time

  they've given my mail to you.'

  'Life is full of mysteries. Especially in the Far East.'

  'Yeah, tell me about it.'

  He stood up to go a short time later. He bent over her, kissed her

  quickly on the mouth, then straightened up again. 'Don't let that letter

  upset you. And if it does, I live right over there.' He thumbed at his

  house, then turned and was off.

  She ripped open the envelope. There was a Christmas card inside—a

  snowy winter scene with children skating on a frozen pond

  surrounded by naked trees whose branches stuck up dark and stark

  against the grey sky.

  There was no news at all, Liz wrote. It was freezing cold and she still

  had no man to warm her bed. 'Where are they all?' she asked. 'I am

  not ugly, poor, dumb, or neurotic (well, maybe a little, but aren't we

  all?). All I want is a man who is also not ugly, poor, dumb or

  neurotic (at least not too much).' She was so desperate, she wrote,

  that she'd accepted an invitation from a co-worker who sported day-

  glo ties and a Watusi hair-do.

  It was with some relief that Linden noticed that Liz did not mention

  Waite. Maybe he had given up visiting her to squeeze her for

  information.

  She went into the village to buy some toothpaste and had her dinner

  in a small restaurant, sitting outside at a wobbly table on a collapsible

  metal chair. A Chinese woman in green flowered polyester pyjamas

  and wooden sandals took her order of fried rice and chicken satay.

  Her sandals went clip-clop on the stones as she retreated to the

  kitchen.

  An Indian girl brought her the food. She was very dark with long

  black hair in a braid down her back, just like her own. The girl wore

  a sarong and a tunic with long sleeves.

  Linden slid the satay from the wooden skewers with her fork. The

  plate had a border of pink roses and was heaped high with rice. A lot

  of food for very little money, more than she could possibly eat. She

  looked around as she ate, taking in the busy street scene. It was dark

  and kerosene lamps burned everywhere. Shops were open doing

  business. People were laughing and talking, and children were still

  playing in the streets. Somewhere a radio played loudly, emitting

  Malay pop songs.

  'Good evening.'

  Julio Marinozzi. All dressed up in Givenchy shirt and expensive-

  looking pants that nonetheless did not hide his pot belly. She looked

  at the man with dread. Oh, no, she thought. I don't need him now. He

  ruins my appetite.

  'Good evening,' she said coolly.

  'Eating alone?'

  'Yes.'

  'Do you mind if I join you?'

  Yes, I do, she thought, but good manners got the best of her. 'Please

  do.' She hoped he'd fall through the chair. Which, of course, he

  didn't.

  'I stopped by your house,' he said, 'but you were not there. But I had

  not expected to find you here.'

  'Why not?' She took a forkful of rice and brought it to her mouth.

  'A lady alone at
night?' he asked silkily.

  It took a moment to chew and swallow her food.

  'It's only seven o'clock. And this isn't Rome. Or Sydney, or New

  York, for that matter. I'm perfectly safe here.' As long you and your

  sickening smile stay away from me, she added silently.

  The woman in the pyjama outfit clip-clopped to the table. Julio

  Marinozzi ordered a cup of tea. When the Indian girl brought it to the

  table he gave her a lascivious look and Linden nearly kicked him

  under the table. Instead she applied herself with more fervour to her

  meal, hoping to finish it before he could drink his tea.

  'Have you finished the painting?' he asked pleasantly.

  She shook her head. 'Not yet,' she said after she had swallowed.

  'I should like to see it again, if you don't mind.'

  'There's no point, Mr Marinozzi.'

  'Please call me Julio.' His voice dripped seduction. Under the table

  she felt his hand on her knee. She moved sideways, out of his reach.

  'Oh, I couldn't!' she said with exaggerated surprise. 'It is so

  disrespectful! I mean, you're as old as my father!'

  The smile stayed fixed on his face. .'What is 'age among friends?'

  Friends. Oh, God. She put more rice in her mouth. It had lost all its

  taste and was dry as sand. She'd better stop eating before she choked

  to death. Her bill was on the table. She took the amount from her

  shirt pocket, put it on top of the slip of paper and pushed her chair

  back.

  'I have to go now. Good evening, Mr Marinozzi.'

  'One moment please, Miss Mitchell.' He reached in his pocket, put

  some coins on the table and stood up. 'Let me escort you home.'

  Linden moaned inwardly. 'It's not necessary. Please finish your tea.'

  It was useless, of course, Mr Seductiano wasn't interested in tea.

  They walked along the busy shopping street towards the wharf, then

  left. It was obvious he intended to take the short cut along the beach,

  but she determinedly turned into the village street that led into the

  general direction of her house. It was a roundabout way, quite a bit

  longer, but at least there were houses and people.

  He put his hand on her shoulder. She stopped, shrugging the hand

  off.

  'Mr Marinozzi, please do not touch me.'

  He feigned surprise. 'I was only trying to be friendly. Please do not

  be offended!'

  Without answering she kept on walking, swinging the little plastic