by Eric Ambler
Lim looked bored with her. “As this is your first visit to the club,” he said to me, “you must have a drink on the house.”
“That’s what we’ve been waiting to hear,” said Jebb. “We’re drinking brandy.”
“You’ll find it on the bill,” said Mrs. Lim sardonically and moved away.
Lim snapped his fingers for the barman and gave the order. Jebb nudged me. I glanced across the room and saw Mrs. Lim snatch a glass out of a man’s hand and swallow the drink at a gulp. The man laughed.
Lim saw it, too. The moment our drinks came, he excused himself and went over to where she was standing.
“I ought to have warned you about our Molly,” Jebb said. “Don’t buy her a drink, whatever you do.”
“It doesn’t look as if she waits to be bought one.”
“Yes, you have to hold on to your glass when she’s around. That bastard should know better. He’ll be unpopular with Lim if he’s not careful.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“It’s as well to keep on the right side of him. Lim’s got friends in the police department. You know the time they take over exit papers? A week sometimes if they feel bloody-minded. Last time I went on leave, Lim got everything for me in a couple of hours, and I bet you…” At that moment he broke off, grinned over my shoulder and said: “Hi, Mina baby!”
I looked round.
Eurasian women are difficult to describe accurately. One’s first impression is always dominated by one set of racial characteristics to the virtual exclusion of the other; but closer acquaintance always seems to reverse that first impression. It is not just a matter of clothes; a European dress can make the same woman look both more Asian and less; the change is as unpredictable as it is with those optical illusions with which you may make a pyramid of solid cubes become a pyramid of empty boxes, merely by blinking.
At first sight Mina looked completely European. She was a slim, attractive brunette with the sort of aquiline bone structure that you find mostly in the Eastern Mediterranean; Greek, you might have guessed. Her friend, Rosalie, on the other hand, looked like a Filipino girl of good family who had learned to wear her clothes at an American university. Yet, after ten minutes, Mina’s features had become for me unmistakably Sundanese, while Rosalie looked like a European girl who was modelling her appearance on that of her favourite ballerina. Their voices had something to do with it. Both spoke good English with Dutch accents; but in Mina’s voice you could hear the Sundanese gutturals as well. She was tense and emphatic. Rosalie was quieter and more self-assured.
Jebb had explained that they both taught Western dancing at a school run by a Chinese, and that we would be expected to pay them for spending the evening with us at the club. After midnight, further negotiations would become necessary; but I would have to conduct those myself. With Mina, he had a more or less permanent arrangement. Rosalie was known to be very choosey; if she did not like you, there was nothing doing, even if you were a millionaire. It was up to me.
I was resigned, then, to a dull and probably squalid evening. It turned out to be neither. I think that the thing which broke the ice for me was the realisation that, unsentimental though it might be, the relationship between Mina and Jebb had at the same time a basis of genuine affection. I don’t think I was being ingenuous. You can be deceived about loving, but not so easily about liking.
Mina talked a great deal at first. Most of the time she was playing a favourite Sundanese game. If you owe a man money, or if he has caused you to lose face in any way, or if he is someone in authority whom you dislike, you invent a scandal about him, preferably with a wealth of scatological detail, suggesting that he is impotent, cuckolded or perverse. Nobody believes the story, but the more circumstantial you make it, and the more carefully your audience listens, the more superior to your enemy do you become. Mina’s scandals were pungent and outrageous and she told them like a good comedienne, with a sort of bland amazement at their strangeness. Jebb’s part was to refuse to believe a word she said. If, for example, the story was about the Chief of Police, Jebb would declare that he knew the man personally and that her story was impossible. This in turn would lead to a further extravaganza in order to prove the first.
It could have been boring, but for some reason it wasn’t. Once or twice, when I laughed outright, she would laugh too, and then hasten to persuade me that what she had said was no laughing matter. Rosalie only smiled. Her attitude towards Mina was that of an adult towards a precocious child who may become overexcited; amused but guarded. Now and again I saw her out of the corner of my eye watching me shrewdly and weighing me up. I was surprised to discover that I did not mind. Once, she realised that I was examining her. She was saying something to Jebb at the time, and the realisation made her hesitate for a word; but otherwise she seemed completely self-possessed.
The dinner was Vietnamese and very good. After it we moved out on to the terrace and drank tea. Then, Lim switched on a record-player and we danced for a while; but the small floor soon became too crowded for comfort and we wandered out into the compound.
Once there had been a garden neatly laid out with stone walks and flower beds and ornamental fish pools; now, it was all overgrown, the crotons and banana trees had run wild, and the pools were choked with Java weed. But the air was pleasantly scented and I was glad to get away from the noise of the record-player. I lit a cigarette and for a minute or so we walked along a path that had been roughly cleared to one side of the compound. Then a bat fluttered close to my head and I swore. The moon was very bright and I saw the girl look up at me.
“You do not have to be polite to me,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“It is eleven o’clock. Mina and Roy will not leave for two hours yet. You have had a long journey today. I think you must be very tired.”
“I’ve enjoyed this evening, but now, yes, I am tired.”
“Then you should go and sleep.” She smiled as I hesitated. “We can meet again tomorrow if you wish.”
“Yes, I’d like to do that. Roy’s going to Makassar tomorrow morning and I know no one else in this place. No one, that is, that I want to see.” I hesitated again. We had stopped and she was looking up at me.
“What is it you wish to say?”
“There is my side of the bargain too.”
“I do not think we need to talk about that. You will be here for two, three days. When you leave you will give me a present of money. If we have not liked each other, you will give it in contempt. If we have liked each other, it will make the parting easier. In any case you will be generous.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Yes, I am sure.”
That was all that was said. She took my arm and, in silence, we continued the circuit of the compound. It was a fine night and I suddenly felt peaceful.
We were walking along the path that ran parallel to the lane beyond the boundary fence, when I saw a light flickering through the bamboo thicket ahead of us.
“What’s that light?” I asked.
“There are some old kampong houses there. When the Dutch people were in the bungalow, that is where the servants lived. But I did not think that they were used now.”
The stone surface of the path had ended and we were walking on soft earth that deadened the sound of our footsteps. Then we heard voices ahead, and our pace became slower. One of the voices was Mrs. Lim’s and neither of us, I think, wanted to encounter her just at that moment. I was about to suggest that we turn back, when she began to shout at the top of her voice.
“And I say they can’t! Do you want us all murdered? You’re out of your bloody mind!”
A man said something quickly. Mrs. Lim uttered a sort of gasp, as if she had been hit, and then began to weep.
Rosalie’s hand tightened on my arm. Suddenly, there was a faint clatter of feet on wooden steps and then the sound of someone, Mrs. Lim presumably, hurrying back towards the bungalow.
For a moment we st
ood there uncertainly. We had half turned to go back; but the shortest way back to the bungalow was straight ahead, and there seemed no point now in retracing our footsteps. We walked on.
The servants’ houses were among some palm trees on the far side of a rough track that led from a gateway on to the lane. It was wide enough for a bullock cart and had probably been used as a sort of tradesmen’s entrance. The houses were built on teak piles, and the frames were substantial enough, but the attap walls had suffered in the monsoons and both places looked derelict. The light, which looked as if it came from a kerosene vapour lamp, was in the house farthest away from the track, and it shone through the tattered walls. A low murmur of men’s voices came from within. There seemed to be four of them. By the steps up to the verandah of the nearer house stood a jeep.
Jeeps are common enough in that part of the world. It was a bracket welded on to the side that made me stop and look at it. Quite a number of the ex-army jeeps had that bracket; it had been fitted originally to support a vertical exhaust pipe when the jeep was water-proofed for driving out of a landing-craft; but this one was bent in a vaguely familiar way. I glanced down at the number.
In a place where you depend on mechanical transport for practically every move you make, even a highly standardised vehicle like a jeep acquires character, has its own subtle peculiarities, its special feel. You prefer some to others, and because they all look the same you learn to differentiate between them by their numbers.
I knew the number of this one only too well. I had already seen it once that day. It had been standing outside Gedge’s office.
I must have made a startled movement, for Rosalie looked up at me quickly.
“What is it? What’s the matter?”
“Wait here a moment.”
The house with the light was about twenty yards away. I walked towards it. At that moment my intention was to go in and ask what the hell a jeep from the Tangga Valley project was doing down in Selampang. Luckily, by the time I had covered half the distance, I had come to my senses and stopped. It had been about eleven a.m. when I had last seen the jeep in Tangga, and yet here it was just over twelve hours later in Selampang. It could not have come by sea in that time. It could not have come by air. That meant that it had been driven down two hundred miles by road. Which meant, in turn, that it had been passed quickly and safely through every road block manned by the insurgents in Sanusi’s area, as well as the outposts manned by the Selampang garrison. That meant that the person who had been in it was someone to stay well away from at that moment; and that applied to his friends, too.
I stood there for a second or two with my heart thumping very unpleasantly. I could distinguish the voices inside now. They were speaking Malay. One man was repeating something emphatically. His voice was light and ugly and sounded as if he were trying to speak and swallow at the same time.
“All of them. We must have all,” he was saying.
The voice that replied was certainly Major Suparto’s. It was very calm and controlled. “Then it must be delayed until the second day,” he said. “There must be patience, General.”
I turned quietly and went back to Rosalie. She said nothing and took my arm again as we walked back towards the club.
When we had gone a little way she said: “Is there something wrong?”
I hesitated. I thought she might think that I was being stupid. “That jeep back there,” I said at last. “It was in Tangga this morning. A Sundanese army officer drove it here today-by road. A major. He’s in there now.”
I need not have worried. The implication, when she saw it, made her draw in her breath.
“With Lim Mor Sai?” she said quickly.
“I suppose so. There were others there, one of them a general. I think we’d better forget about it.”
“Yes, we must forget.”
We went on back to the terrace. Mina and Jebb were in the bar and the floor was fairly clear, so we decided to have one more dance before I went.
3
Jebb wakened me at seven o’clock the next morning to say goodbye and to introduce me to the cleaning woman, Mrs. Choong.
“There’s a fair amount of stuff in the Frigidaire,” he said; “but if there’s anything else you want, just write out a list and she’ll do the marketing. Isn’t that right, Mrs. Choong?”
Mrs. Choong nodded. “I buy for good prices. I cook, too, if you like. You want eggs for breakfast, mister?”
“Yes, please.”
She was a ball of fat and the seams of her black trousers stretched almost to bursting-point as she bent down to pick up Jebb’s breakfast tray. As she waddled away into the kitchen, Jebb said: “I told her you’d be sleeping in the bedroom. There are two beds there. Tell her to make both of them up if you want to. Liberty Hall, this is.”
“And I’m very grateful. I can’t tell you.”
“Forget it, sport. Like I said, you’re doing me a favour. Let’s see. It’s Tuesday today. I should be back Thursday night or Friday morning. When exactly do you reckon on getting away, Steve?”
“I’m hoping to get the Friday plane to Djakarta.”
“Well, if they try and twist your arm too much over your exit papers, you see Lim Mor Sai and ask him to talk to his pals in the police department.”
“I’ll do that.” It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him that the police department was not the only place where Lim Mor Sai had pals. Then, I decided not to. No doubt there were hundreds of people in Selampang who were secretly in touch with the insurgents in the north. If Lim were one of them, Jebb, as a Government employee, would probably rather not know about it. I said instead: “If you’re not back before I leave, what would you like me to do about the key you lent me?”
“Leave it with Mrs. Choong. You can trust her. She’s got her own anyway. But I hope I’ll see you.”
“So do I.”
He hesitated. “She’s a classy kid, Rosalie, you know,” he said awkwardly.
“Don’t worry. I’ll do right by her. Mina’s not going to be waiting for you with a hatchet.”
He laughed. “Okay, sport. Sorry I spoke. By the way, if you see Lim Mor Sai, tell him I’ll be bringing him some cheroots back with me. He usually asks me when I go Makassar way. He must have forgotten this time.”
“I’ll tell him. And thanks again.”
“If you’re still here Friday, you can buy me a drink.”
When he had gone, Mrs. Choong brought me a breakfast of fried eggs, coffee and papaya. Later, when I had bathed and shaved, I considered my clothes. Up in Tangga, I had seen myself making do with what I had until I reached Singapore. Now, the situation was different. My ridiculous suit did not matter; I would not be needing a jacket while I was in Selampang; but I would certainly need some more slacks and shirts. I consulted Mrs. Choong. She told me that she could get shirts dobi- ed for me in a few hours, but that if I wanted them properly laundered I would have to wait twenty-four. She also gave me the address of a good Chinese tailor.
I went to the tailor first and ordered two pairs of slacks and four shirts for delivery late that afternoon. Then, I paid my first call on the police department.
Sundanese officials are peculiarly difficult to deal with, especially if you are an English-speaking European. The first thing you have to realise is that, although they look very spruce and alert and although their shirt pockets glitter with rows of fancy ball-point pens, they have only the haziest notions of their duties. The language problem is also important. All the forms you have to fill up are printed in English as well as Malay, because English is an official language and the officials are supposed to be bi-lingual. The trouble is that they will never admit that they are not. If you speak in Malay they feel bound to reply in English. Unfortunately, the few words they have soon run out, and although they may continue to look as if they understand what you have said, they are in fact hopelessly at sea. Their technique for dealing with the resulting impasse is to pretend that they have to consult a colleague
, and then go away and forget about you. The form you have completed gets lost. Your only chance is to say and write everything very distinctly both in English and Malay, and to keep fingering your wallet as if you are getting ready to pay. You are, indeed, going to have to pay eventually; and not merely the legal fee for the service in question. When the formalities are almost completed, it will suddenly be discovered that you ought to have produced another “clearance,” and that without it you cannot have whatever it is you want. A Kafka-like scene ensues. Nobody can tell you precisely what this mysterious clearance is or how you set about obtaining it. The shifty brown eyes peer at you. It is your move now. You ask what the fee for the clearance would be if one knew where to obtain it. A figure is named. You ask if, as a special favour, you may deposit this sum so that when more is known about it, the clearance may be obtained for you. There is a shrug, then a grudging assent. The eyes watch sullenly as you count the money out. You agreed too quickly. He is wishing he had asked for more and wondering if it is too late. No, it is not. He made a mistake. He forgot the price of the Government stamp. You smile politely and pay that, too. There is no answering smile. Other brown eyes have observed the transaction and there will be a share-out when you have gone. To get out again into the open air is like emerging from a depression.
The granting of an exit visa to a resident European is a big operation. My first visit to the visa section of the police-department headquarters lasted an hour. In that time I managed to secure the five different forms that had to be completed, and countersigned by various other authorities, before the formal application could be submitted. This was good going. I went next to the agents for the Hongkong and Shanghai Bank, cashed a cheque and had one of the forms countersigned. After I had deposited it, together with another form, at the Internal Revenue Department, I called in at the Indonesian Consulate and applied for a transit visa. By then, it was time for lunch.
I went to the Orient Hotel, where they had an air-conditioned bar. I also hoped to find De Vries, the Sunda-Pacific Airways traffic manager, and thus save myself the trouble of calling in at his office. He was there all right, nursing a de Kuyper’s gin as if it were all that he had left to live for. Sunda-Pacific Airways ran the scheduled passenger services out of Selampang under a Government franchise that was due to expire later that year. The Government had recently announced that it would not be renewed, and that a new national airline authority would take over. He knew only too well that, while international air safety requirements would necessitate their retaining the Dutch pilots, no such necessity would protect the rest of the Dutch staff. He had been one of the original members of the company. His bitterness was understandable.