by Nigel Barley
It was the same picture of contentment that had been haunting Lauterbach’s thoughts all over Java, the same music played in a dozen different keys, of a simple satiety, the love of a good woman, a life lived fully in the present and secure in its own inherent joy, not one pitching towards some vague and hoped-for future. They sat amidst a mass of hanging, petally flowers whose perfume warred successfully against the outside miasma, drank iced beer, crunched Javanese snacks and reminisced. Lauterbach eased the rest from his limbs by dangling his foot over the rail and staring at the twinkling of the city lights.
“You remember, Lauterbach, that Christmas we got drunk in Hawaii and stole an ornamental turkey from the Iolani royal palace for our dinner?”
“… And it was so tough we had to use a woodsaw to carve it.”
“What about the time in Tsingtao, at that party, we convinced a Taiwanese merchant that the Governor would be prepared to swap his wife for a bicycle, so that he wheeled one round to the front door of the Residence the next day and tried to take her away?”
“… And when he complained to us we explained it was because the bicycle was second-hand.”
“… And the wife nearly new.”
They laughed, clinked glasses, capped one tale with another. Frau Engelhardt sat and smiled and darned ancient socks. She had heard it all before. Let the boys have their fun, their remembrance of what seemed happy only in retrospect. All around them, ships sloshed through the thick, muddy water in darkness. Navigational lights were considered an unnecessary luxury. The gloom hid the tears that had started to Lauterbach’s eyes. Nostalgia made him lonely, more proof, as it was, of the inevitable passing of all things. And in the dark a million frogs came out to mock him, shouting “What? What? What?” like red-faced British colonels.
He moved on. He moved east. He was now Lars Renquist, a Swedish traveller, rendered blond in eyebrows, beard and hair by the tender and tittering application of Frau Engelhardt’s bleach. The transformation had lent an air of charade to his departure but in his cramped suitcase he now had a compass, a package of papers marked unconvincingly “Secret despatches” in big black letters and a small, sinister revolver given by Engelhardt, a sign, after all, that things were getting serious. The plan was to sail to Manado in North Sulawesi, then try to hop a boat through to Manila where he could disappear beneath the surface of the heavy American traffic to the US, changing identity as circumstances required. His name, his appearance had begun to waver, to become unsure and unfixed in his own mind. When he looked in the mirror he no longer knew unthinkingly what face would be looking back at him, goaty Gilbert, moon-faced Blaamo or scraped Renquist.
The little Pynacker Hordyke steamed east in a pall of greasy smoke. The deck-class passengers were fuzzy-haired Ambonese troops bound for New Guinea surrounded by their hushed wives and children together with a mix of Chinese peddlars whose cardboard boxes of merchandise were stacked about them and served as their nightime beds. Cabin-class were British and German with the Dutch and lone Lars Renquist forming an uneasy buffer between them, like mice between two cats.
The food was disgusting, mostly rice and chicken, served day after day in an enduring sameness that robbed meals of their normal shipbound function as markers of time. And at meals the war was an endless source of friction, conversations pitched deliberately loud so that neighbours and enemies should overhear and take offence – rowing by hearsay. It was irresistible.
“Whatever our feelings – as neutrals – about the war,” Renquist ventured, “ It cannot be denied that some of the men of the Emden warrant our respect as sailors.” There was a pause.
“Captain von Mueller is a true gentleman of the sea,” confirmed the Germans. “He brought great honour to our nation through his daring, intelligence and sense of discipline.”
“But wasn’t there another officer, a fine figure of a man if my memory serves me well, who distinguished himself for his extreme bravery … ?”
“Ah,” said one of the Brits. “You mean von Muecke of the Ayesha? A true seadog in the old British tradition, rallying his men in adversity and bringing them safely to port despite the odds. Mark my words, there must be a drop of English blood in those veins somewhere.”
Renquist was nonplussed. “But wasn’t there yet another man who went on and did still greater things. Now let me see, what was his name? He escaped from Singapore, crossed Sumatra, brought his men safely to Batavia in defiance of all obstacles.”
There was another silence.
“Hang on,” said one of the Dutch, stolidly, a pastor. “I know who you mean. I was in Padang when he passed through. It was in all the papers and I actually met the fellow. He was called Diehne. He had the most fantastic tale to tell of having been abandoned by some wretched officer upriver in Sumatra, a man who was running away from prison, I think. Anyway this Diehne was certainly a man of parts. Did you know the British actually put a price on his head? I could see why they wouldn’t want a man like that getting back to the front. I say. It seems we all respect these men as men. Why don’t we drink a toast – all of us regardless of our nation – to their courage?”
There was a grudging, gruffly Adam’s appled, murmur of assent. “Hear, hear.” “Good show.” They scraped back their chairs, rose and chinked glasses solemnly, swallowing each others’ pride. Lauterbach drank, smirking fixedly, to von Mueller – which was all right – von Muecke – which was not – and Diehne. That nearly choked him.
The simmering old port of Makassar where naked boys dived in the water to pluck the tourists’ small coins from the seabed, on to Manado, home of the industrious Minahasa people, Potter-pale and Chinese-featured. Lauterbach landed in the early morning calm, gripping his small luggage. It was a pretty town sheltered behind a volcanic island, ancient Portuguese ruins swamped in hibiscus and bougainvillea, the port still small and crystal-watered. It smelt of tar, salt and the sea. The Dutch lived in cool, old-fashioned thatch houses shaded by willowy palms and everywhere, soft grass was underfoot. In a hut by the water, they tried to feed him fruit bat but he dined, instead, in a cool breeze on fresh-grilled prawns and nut-flavoured bread leavened with the yeast of coconut water. On all sides plantations flourished, dotted with little churches and schools. The other unmistakable sign of the power of the Christian faith here was the universal presence of chubby dogs.
Disorder and squalour are the measure of a port’s importance and by such yardsticks this was a most unimportant port. Still, there was no shortage of loungers and spectators. Lauterbach picked his man and sidled up.
“Mindanao?” he hissed like one offering dirty postcards for sale.
The man laughed, shook his head and repeated the query to those around. They laughed too.
“No Mindanao. All boats here are busy. Anyway, the Dutch do not allow us to go to Mindanao. All traffic has to go to Batavia for control.” He spat onto the decking.
“This is not,” Lauterbach articulated carefully, “a trading journey. I simply wish to travel there for important family reasons.”
“No Mindanao. You ask Master of the Sea, a white man like yourself.” He pointed vaguely to the end of the jetty and there, indeed, stood a white man with his back to him and wearing the Mindanao daytime formal dress of cotton pyjamas. Lauterbach picked his way past nets and small canoes and a pile of trussed crabs who glared at him through their eyestalks and, as he neared his goal, the man turned round and was not a European at all but an albino, pink-eyed Malay beneath a broad-brimmed hat and white lashes.
“Mindanao? We are not permitted to sail to Mindanao. You must go back to Batavia and take a ship there. If we go to Mindanao they call us smugglers and confiscate our vessels.”
Lauterbach knew that such dogmatic, black and white impossibility could only be the first in a long series of negotiating positions. It was hard to have confidence in someone dressed in the striped outfit of a convict. But he knew the ways of the East and hooked up an overturned bucket with one foot, sat, got out his cigarett
es and settled to talk.
He was not Dutch, he stressed. He was Swedish. This was an informal trip, a thing between friends. He merely wished to go across to Mindanao with no merchandise and no great luggage. It was a matter of no great general interest, absolutely of no importance to the Dutch and he had money. The word worked its usual magic. The man seemed to look at him for the first time. There was, it now seemed, one possibility. They could not take him but there was nothing to stop him buying a boat, hiring a crew and doing as he pleased. It just so happened that the Master of the Sea had a friend who …
The boat was about fifteen feet long, old but sound, with classic lines and a single outrigger and a simple sail of some woven plant fibre. The timbers gaped arthritically since the owner had not troubled over much about paint or caulking. It lay on the beach like one of those huge trees washed down from the inner forests, a silver-grey Leviathan, transmuted by the elements into something akin to stone. Lauterbach ran his hand over her bleached and salty flank and thought distractedly of the racehorses he had sent to the bottom in his Emden days.
“No problem,” assured the Master of the Sea. “The Batavia. She has been beached for some weeks. Twenty-four hours in the sea and the timber will swell and she will be as good as new. The old lady will become a young girl.” He mimed curvaceous breasts on his own board-like chest, threw back his head and laughed. They would find him a crew.
Lauterbach paused. It was one of those moments in a man’s life when he is poised on the edge of a cliff and must decide whether to jump or not, knowing he will either fly or plummet to his ruin. The British would by now have boarded and searched the Hong Kong vessel and found no Blaamo. Pale Potter would sooner or later talk, as much from innocence as malice and anyway it was too good a story to keep to himself. It would not take them long to get on his trail and even the Dutch would not want him wandering about where they could not keep an eye on him. Already, they would be checking the sailings from Surabaya and maybe wondering about that very substantial lone Swede, Lars Renquist, who had appeared from thin air. One fear battled with another to create an illusion of courage. He was an experienced sailor and knew the risks of the open sea. But half a dozen islands, dotted in a neat line between Sulawesi and the Philippines would offer some sort of safety net and at this time of the year, the weather should be good. The wind was from the right quarter and the journey would take only a few days. With a bit of luck all would be well. But maybe he had used up all his luck.
As soon as they left the harbour, two large sharks attached themselves to the party and Lauterbach could see at once, from their reaction, that only one of the five crew was a seasoned salt. He pointed at it with his pipe and grinned and giggled as a sailor would. A sign of good fortune, he urged. “Nasib baik. Nasib baik.” Sailors always saw everything as a good omen. They were wrong about that. The two others cowered in the bottom of the boat in terror and cried as much water back in as they bailed out.
The sea rapidly assumed a sullen, leaden aspect and clouds began to boil on the horizon. Soon a furious storm lashed the vessel with buffeting wind and rain and nasty waves that seemed to twist and mangle the creaking boat whose seams still gushed with water. Only with four bailing continuously could they now even keep the vessel afloat. In the flashes of lightning that ripped the black sky, they could see the rubber fins of the cruising sharks, still patrolling around the boat as if impatient for what they knew was already theirs. The wind plucked Lauterbach’s hat from his head and whirled it off into the water. One of the sharks thrashed to the surface, grinned and gobbled it down as an appetizer. Slightly shaky, Lauterbach reached for his hip flask of the finest Javanese brandy. There was no need to do this sober. He unscrewed and splashed the raw spirit down his throat. The balers looked up at him appropriately balefully. He stared emptily back, glugged more. This was white man’s business. At least the little Batavia was flying in the right direction and the seams were tightening. As the wind abated, there came a dreadful calm that left them motionless on a blistering metal sea for one whole day. They sprawled in the wet bottom and groaned and tried to shade their heads and eyes but everywhere was reflected heat and brightness. Sleep was impossible and Lauterbach now regretted the brandy that sucked all moisture from his eyes and mouth. They chewed on cold rice that bound their bowels in a vice-like grip and Lauterbach guarded the water barrel with his revolver, doling out sips with grim egality for them and a slight generosity for himself. He was bigger which gave him both the greater need and the power to enforce it. And that night the storm came on again, dousing them in water, mocking their thirst and heatstroke of the day, till their teeth chattered and their skin cracked open into boils and seeping sores and they clung to any handhold and rode the churning waves miserably. The blow lasted for three more days and when they were so weak and exhausted that they no longer cared to live, an island appeared on the starboard bow and the wind left them, once more, becalmed. Lauterbach cajoled then screamed and threatened so they would take up the paddles but they just stared at him brokenly and hollow-eyed. So he brought out the brandy that was poured out into cupped hands, and cigars that they chewed rather than smoked – and they were revived. At noon they pulled into the port of a small town where a handsome woman of Polynesian appearance and Western self-assurance looked down on them in polite surprise.
“Welcome,” she called. “Have you come far? You must be Captain Lauterbach. Do come and meet my husband.”
Chapter Eleven
Dear Mr and Mrs McCoy,
I should like to thank you once again for your generous hospitality to a humble stranger in Mindanao. It was so kind of you to offer me the chance to enjoy everything that your lovely house had to offer. I will always remember that wonderful English tea you gave me, with its many delicious and civilised constituents that would have tempted any man’s tongue, especially one who had been for so long deprived of the comforts of land. I should particularly like to thank the beautiful Mrs McCoy for serving me with such deep personal attention and showing me the many beauties of the island, especially her lush personal plantation. I still recall with pleasure the fertility of those unploughed soils and the privilege of lying on my back and watching your great, ripe coconuts, bursting with sweetness, swaying above me in the breeze.
Yours sincerely,
Captain Julius Lauterbach
He had perhaps gone a little over the top in his postcard – the entendres were not sufficiently doubles – but it was at one and the same time a denunciation and an act of shared intimacy for she would have to read it out loud to her husband and could adjust the content as she thought fit. The fact was that McCoy was totally blind and knew only what his wife wished him to know.
Their bungalow was a sort of tropical version of a New England house, lots of white-painted clapboard and a wrought-iron terrace buried under luxuriant creeper built out over the sea. On it sat a very old white man with a long, white beard and matching white cataracts in his eyes, before him a table with a glass of beer and an ashtray. Lauterbach stared at the beer. His tongue crinkled and shrivelled at the sight of it.
“Darling,” said the woman touching the man lightly on the shoulder. “We have a guest, Captain Lauterbach. You remember I read to you about him in the paper, the German sailor who escaped from Singapore.”
The man smiled and turned sightless eyes on someone slightly to Lauterbach’s left. “Sit,” he ordered, running his hands through the mass of his white hair, smoothing it down. “Lauterbach is it? America is, as yet, entirely neutral in that little affair of the war so I may extend a hand of judicious welcome.” No hand was extended. “We thought you’d be passing through here. It’s the only way really from the Netherlands East Indies. Bring the man a beer. He must be parched.” The accent was New England too, more of an agreeable twang attached to normal English than something inherently American. Whatever the accent, Lauterbach loved the words. They sat in silence as the woman vanished and swiftly reappeared with a tray. His legs sho
ok as she bore the foaming bottle towards him, condensation trembling on the glass.
“Oohaagh. Oh my God.” As he drank, the shaking reached his hands and he thought he might cry. On the boat, at the worst points, he had dreamed of this moment so often that he could scarcely believe it was real and he feared it would disappear in a puff of smoke before he could get it down.
“Thank you. Oh thank you,” he gasped. “You must forgive my manners. Yes I am Julius Lauterbach. Whom do I have the honour of addressing? Are you an American colonial official?”
The man looked out over the bay, or at least seemed to and chuckled. “No not an official exactly. My name is McCoy and I have a certain influence in these parts. In fact I own most of these parts. You are exhausted I see. Might I suggest you wash and rest yourself and join us for tea a little later? Tea is the only civilised meal. I imagine tigers eat dinner and breakfast. Only white men take tea.” It was said the way requests are made by those used to giving orders. Tea then. Lauterbach would take tea like a white man.
“I first married the sister of Queen Emma of Hawaii,” explained McCoy in a droning voice. “A formidable woman in every particular, part white but still very beautiful and in every way a pagan at heart. The Queen devoted herself to good works, schools, hospitals, that sort of thing. Her sister was more interested in making money and we suited each other very well. In those days that was my own principal preoccupation. It was on her death that things became a little crowded in Hawaii what with all the new people coming in and the Americans taking over everything. Many of them were men of very little breeding or talent. People such as myself, the relics of the old order, were supernumary, so I found a new wife and moved out here where the world has been, on the whole, very kind to us.”
He fed greedily, great manly bites of unmanly fairy cake, sucking up crumbs from his hand with a whooshing noise. The house was all heavy furniture of uncompromising wood but overlaid with flowery female flummery. Every wall had its samplers and macrame, every table doilies and runners, every chair embroidered antimacassars, a mass of congealed labour and empty time. They were in a cluttered, old-maidish parlour, full of china dogs and gee-gaws arranged on a huge and hideous sideboard, sitting round a table like an altar with a great starched linen tablecloth and a caricature of an English tea set out. Matching teapot and cups with saucers, little sandwiches, small fussy cakes, toasted muffins, a big chocolate confection melting slowly into a mess in the centre. McCoy continued to feed. Lauterbach nibbled. It seemed to him that Mrs McCoy was looking at him more than mere politeness required. He had been too long without relief. He appraised and appreciated the long, shining hair that swung with each movement, the full, curvaceous form, the flawless brown skin. Her teeth were very white against her tongue which, itself, was provokingly pink. She dispensed tea with cafeterial efficiency and flashed a smile at him as she pointed sugar tongs.