The Scottish Banker of Surabaya

by Ian Hamilton

  Everywhere she looked was marble and a mixture of rich woods. Ceiling fans churned overhead, more ornamental than functional, for she could feel the snap of air conditioning. A stairway carpeted in a deep dark blue slashed with bright gold flowers led from the lobby up to the second floor.

  Ava loved hotels that had character, and the Majapahit’s elegant colonial style had as much as she had ever seen. She had a standard garden-terrace suite on the third floor. The room was immense, more than forty square metres, she figured, and there was a marvellous sense of balance between the furnishings, the decorative touches, and the gleaming teak floors. The furniture was made of a mixture of hardwoods, mainly mahogany, she thought. Two large windows framed the far side of the room, their wooden shutters opening onto the gardens below. A ceiling fan turned slowly above a giant bed with a large wooden headboard and a sea of crisp white linens and duvet. She threw herself on the bed and sank deep into the covers.

  From the bed she could see the bathroom’s marble floors, sink, and tub, set off by gold faucets. And tucked in the corner was a modern shower stall with a head that looked as if it could adjust to multiple settings. She glanced across the room at a chest of drawers. On top there was a hot water Thermos, cups and saucers that had to be fine bone china, and an array of teas and instant coffees. No Italian espresso machine.

  Perfect, she was thinking, when she heard her phone ring. She hadn’t even realized it was on. She leapt off the bed, grabbed her bag, and pulled out the phone. The caller ID showed the Indonesian country code. Perkasa?

  “Ava Lee.”

  “Ava, this is John Masterson.”

  “Who?”

  “John Masterson. I’m a friend of Johnny Yan and Henry Pang. Johnny emailed me that you were coming here and that you’re a good friend of his. He gave me this phone number.”

  “Ah, yes.”

  “I didn’t know when you were arriving, so I thought I’d check.”

  “I’m here now. I’ve just arrived, actually.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “The Majapahit.”

  “Great choice.”

  “Yes, I think it is.”

  “Look, have you had dinner?”

  She hesitated and then saw no reason to lie. “No.”

  “Neither have I. I’ve been waiting for my wife to get back from a business trip to Jakarta, but it doesn’t look like she’ll be here for another hour or two. How would you like to get together?”

  “Truthfully, John, I’m not sure I really want to eat.”

  “A drink, then? I don’t get a chance to meet many other Canadians here, and certainly none that are friends of friends.”

  He’s pushy, Ava thought, but polite pushy, Canadian pushy. And he’s a friend of Johnny’s. “Sure, why not?”

  “Good. There’s a very good bar in the lounge at your hotel. Why don’t I meet you there? I only live about ten minutes away.”

  “Call my room when you arrive and I’ll come down. I’m in 313.”

  “See you soon.”

  That was silly of me, Ava thought as she hung up the phone. All she had wanted to do was order room service, have a bath, and then start getting her thoughts into the day ahead. She looked at her clothes. She was still wearing her Adidas training pants and a Giordano T-shirt. I better change, she thought, as much out of respect for the hotel as for Masterson.

  She washed quickly, unpacked her travel bag, and was just putting her cufflinks in when the room phone pealed. He hadn’t been kidding about ten minutes. “Be right down,” she said.

  When Ava exited the elevator, she almost ran into a man who turned out to be John Masterson. He was standing by the doors talking comfortably to someone who looked like security. He was of moderate height and build, with short brown hair and pale blue eyes. He was wearing jeans and a short-sleeved black linen shirt.

  “Are you John?” she asked.

  “And you must be Ava.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” she said, extending a hand.

  “And you,” he said, gently shaking it. “The lounge is right over there.”

  They sat on either side of a small round table. Masterson leaned back in his chair and raised a hand over his head for a waiter. “I’m having beer. What would you like?”

  “White wine — something dry, not too fruity,” Ava said.

  “They have a great burgundy.”

  “That will do fine.”

  The waiter approached the table, his head slightly lowered. “Pak John, what can I get for you?”

  “San Miguel, and a glass of the Boyer Martenot Meursault for Ibu Ava.”

  “They obviously know you here,” Ava said when the waiter left.

  “It’s one of the better places in town to hang out, and to meet girls. Before I was married I was a regular. The restaurant on the second floor, Sarkies, is also one of the best in the city. You’ll have to try it. It’s sort of a combination of Chinese and very good seafood.”

  “He called you Pak, and you referred to me as Ibu.”

  “It’s very common here, a form of respect. I could have referred to you as Bu, so expect to hear that as well. If you’re talking to a female friend or someone like the desk clerk, you’d use the more casual Mbak, and if it’s a man it would be Mas.”

  “Thank you, that’s good to know. You’ve been living here for a while, I gather.”

  “Seven years.”

  “How did that happen?”

  He shrugged and then smiled. “I sort of fell into it. When I graduated from the University of Toronto, I joined the Commonwealth Bank entry program. That’s where I met Johnny and Henry. I’d been with the bank for just about five years when I came to Asia for the first time. My older brother was running a party boat out of Phuket, and my intention was to help him a bit and have a hell of a holiday.” The smile turned into a big grin. “I never went back to the bank. In fact, I didn’t even go back to Canada for three years.”

  “Johnny said you were in the crab business. How did you get from a party boat in Phuket to the crab business in Surabaya?”

  Their drinks arrived; Masterson’s beer in a glistening bottle, a slice of lime wedged in its throat, and Ava’s wine in a glass filled almost to the rim. She took a sip. The waiter hovered, looking down at her. “It’s wonderful,” she said.

  “The twists and turns of my business career in Asia are actually boring. I’m more interested in what you’re doing here,” Masterson said when they were alone again.

  “Business.”

  “We don’t get that many Westerners coming through here, and especially not many Canadians. Despite the city’s size, we are a bit of a backwater that way. Most of the Canucks I see are either on their way to Bali or coming back from Bali. You’re not going to Bali, are you?”

  “I have no plans to.”

  “It is gorgeous, and worth seeing if you can put up with the Australians,” he said, smiling again.

  “Like I said, I have no plans to go to Bali.”

  “Johnny wrote that you’re an accountant, like us.”

  He was going to keep asking questions, Ava knew, and she decided she might as well rehearse the story she intended to spin to the bank. “Yes, I am. I’m here representing a firm out of Hong Kong that has a client who has an interest in expanding his investment portfolio.”

  “In Surabaya?”

  “No, in the Bali area, actually. The client specializes in tourist resorts — three- and four-star mainly, geared towards Hong Kong and Chinese customers. He has several sites in Thailand, one in the Philippines, and now he wants to look at Indonesia.”

  “I thought you said you weren’t going to Bali.”

  “I’m not. I’m here strictly to assess the investment environment and to help find him a local bank if he decides he wants to come here.”

  “Do you have a bank in mind?”

  Ava paused, the question left hanging. “Several,” she finally said.

  “I bank at the East Java.”
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  “That’s not on my list. One that is,” she said, deciding it was time to stick her neck out just a little, “is Bank Linno.”

  “Linno? They don’t have much of a presence here.”

  “Our Hong Kong office said the president is a Brit. They have a weakness for British bankers.”

  “Andy Cameron wouldn’t like being called a Brit.”

  “You know him?”

  “Of course.”

  “Of course?” Ava asked, starting to realize that leaving her room hadn’t been such a bad idea.

  “Like I said, this is a bit of a backwater, and the expatriate community isn’t that large. We tend to run into each other and end up socializing. I mean, who do you think goes to a Robbie Burns dinner in Surabaya? Who do you think celebrates Christmas? Not the ninety-nine point nine percent Muslim population.” He lowered his voice and leaned closer to her. “And before I was married, I did the single-guy thing with Andy.”

  “So Andy — Mr. Cameron — is single?”

  “Forget the ‘Mr. Cameron.’ It doesn’t suit him, and yes, he is single. He wasn’t when he got here, but his wife lasted less than a year before heading back to Scotland with their three daughters. Andy fell into the Asian honey trap, and he’s still in it.”

  “So he likes the girls?”

  “Oh yes, he does indeed, and the girls like Andy. And why wouldn’t they? He’s got money, he’s a Westerner, and he’s single. He can take his pick, and he isn’t shy about enjoying a variety. They come and go about as often as he changes socks. Although I do have to say that his taste leaves something to be desired. In fact he stopped getting invited to some functions because of the girls he was bringing along. Not all cross-cultural encounters are successful, and no matter how badly you want it to work, an Indonesian working girl with her breasts half-hanging out of her dress, her skirt four inches above her knee, and tattoos on her shoulder blades doesn’t quite fit in at the British consulate’s summer fete.”

  “Charming.”

  “Actually he does have charm, in a sly kind of way. He’s quick to smile, Andy is, and the girls love that. And he’s very confident, to the point of being almost over-the-top cocky. He thinks a lot of himself.”

  “How did he end up in Surabaya?”

  “Who really knows? He says he was recruited, that he was working for a Scottish bank in Rome and was hired to come here.”

  Ava had finished her wine. Masterson saw her empty glass and then drained his beer. “Another?”

  “Sure.”

  Masterson held his bottle in the air. The waiter was at the table in a flash, taking the bottle and picking up her glass. “Another round,” Masterson said.

  “How old is Andy?”

  “Late thirties, I would guess, though he’s starting to look older. He isn’t that tall, maybe five six. When he first arrived here, he was whippet thin, or maybe I should say ‘weasel thin,’ because that’s what my wife thinks he looks like. It’s his face — it sort of comes to a point, you know, and it’s a bit long for his body. He’s got a thin nose that sticks out as if he’s perpetually sniffing at something.”

  “That doesn’t sound very attractive.”

  “It wasn’t so bad when he was thin, but his lifestyle has wreaked havoc with his body. He’s developed this rather large, firm, round belly,” he said, patting his own wryly. “I have one too, but I’m tall enough that it gets lost in the shuffle. Andy isn’t so lucky. And what makes it worse is that he still insists on wearing tight shirts. He’s got a bit of an issue with his self-image. During the week he’s in banker suits, but on weekends and party nights he’s in ripped jeans and some damn designer shirt made for someone who’s fit and in his twenties.”

  Another San Miguel and glass of Meursault were placed on the table. Ava felt her tummy rumble, and the idea of having dinner with Masterson suddenly became appealing. Before she could speak, his phone rang.

  “Hi, babe.” He listened intently for a moment and then said, “Okay, see you at home.”

  “Your wife?”

  “Yeah, she’s back.”

  Ava could feel that he was anxious to go. “Is she Indonesian?”

  “Yeah. We’ve been married about three years. She runs an import business. I met her here actually, upstairs at Sarkies. Love at first sight. We were married in Toronto — not that we had a choice. Despite how tolerant this country is, it still wouldn’t have gone down too well, her marrying a Christian.”

  “I’d like to meet her sometime.”

  “You’re here for another day or two?”

  “I think so.”

  “Well, we can have dinner.”

  “Okay. Just let me know where and when.”

  Masterson took a deep swig of his beer, and Ava knew she wouldn’t have his attention for much longer.

  “John, tell me, what would be the best way for me to approach Andy Cameron?”

  “You really want to do business with his bank?”

  “The Hong Kong client will be upset if I don’t at least make the effort to meet with him.”

  “I’ll call him for you.”

  “You would?”

  “Sure.”

  “That would be great. Where are their offices?”

  “Just around the corner from here, near Tunjungan Plaza. No more than a five-minute walk.”

  “What will you tell him?”

  “What do you want me to tell him?”

  “That I’d appreciate a meeting — informal or formal, it makes no difference — and the sooner the better, of course.”

  “Okay, I’ll handle it. I’ll call him first thing in the morning and then get back to you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “My pleasure.”

  Masterson finished his second beer and then raised his hand towards the waiter, making a signing motion.

  “No, please, let me look after the bill,” Ava said.

  “Okay,” he said quickly, and stood, ready to leave.

  Ava wasn’t used to men letting her pick up a cheque without some fuss. She also wasn’t accustomed to their running out on her.

  “So you’ll call me in the morning?” she asked.

  “You got it,” he said as he headed for the exit.

  ( 17 )

  When Ava woke at four thirty, she knew she officially had jet lag. She lay still, her eyes closed, her arms limp by her side, trying to coax herself back to sleep. She tried to think of the cottage, the early morning smell of fresh pine, the snap to the air, the lake lapping gently against the dock. But her mind was too active to be seduced so easily. Andy Cameron, a man she didn’t even know, kept intruding, her image of him in ripped jeans and tight shirt a compliment to John Masterson’s descriptive powers.

  She finally gave up and rolled out of bed. She went to one of the windows and levered open the wooden shutters. The sun was inching over the horizon, the gardens below beginning to glint. She listened for a call to prayer and heard nothing.

  It was late afternoon in Toronto. Ava thought about calling her mother, Maria, Mimi, and then put them aside. She was back at work and they were best kept at a distance — less distraction that way. She made an instant coffee and then sat at the computer. Uncle had emailed her the information she needed on Perkasa and confirmed that he had sent him enough money to pay for a small gang if she needed it. Amanda had written to say she needed Ava’s measurements for her maid-of-honour dress, and was it possible for her to come to Hong Kong for a fitting sometime before Christmas.

  Marian had talked to their mother and been told about Ava’s role at the wedding. Marian had never met Michael or any of the half-brothers and -sisters; her relationship with their father was far more distant, more neutral — an arrangement encouraged by her gweilo civil-servant husband, who had trouble wrapping his head around the complexities of the Lee family. Marian had written, Mummy is over the moon about this. She sees it as a complete validation of her relationship with Daddy. It’s like she’s won some kind of public mora
l victory over Wife Number One. I just hope you aren’t doing this for her sake, and that it won’t be too awkward for you.

  In terms of awkward moments in my life, Ava thought, standing next to Amanda will rank at the bottom of any list. She wrote back, I understand that Mummy is happy about this, but I have my own relationship with Michael and especially Amanda and my presence at the wedding stems from that. I couldn’t be more comfortable with it.

  Ava finished her coffee and immediately made another. She checked the door for a newspaper and found none. Back at the computer she pulled up the Globe and Mail and read the latest Canadian news. The country was still there, somehow still surviving the ruling Conservative Party and its uptight and thuggish leader.

  Light began to stream through the open shutters into the room. Ava went back to the window and saw that the gardens were now fully lit, the grass, leaves, and flowers gleaming with dew that would evaporate in minutes under the full glare of the sun. Traffic was light, with as many street vendors pushing carts loaded with breakfast as there were actual cars.

  The hotel had a gym, and Ava debated between going there for a run or outside onto the streets. She was a park girl, liking nothing better than an early morning run in Hong Kong’s Victoria Park or Bangkok’s Lumpini or New York’s Central. But from her window all she could see was pavement. Still, it was better than running indoors, she thought, and it would give her the chance to orient herself. She pulled on her gear, grabbed a bottle of water, and headed downstairs.

  The lobby was deserted, occupied only by the desk clerk, a security guard, and the doorman. They all nodded to her as she walked past, mouthing the word Bu.

  Ava walked out of the hotel onto Embong Malang Street. She stretched, testing her leg. There was still some pain but it was manageable, and she knew she could run at close to full speed. She turned to the right and began to motor. The downtown had an uncluttered look, with offices and shops set well back from the wide streets. The air was humid, thick with the smell of cooking oil, rotting vegetation, exhaust fumes, and garbage left at the roadside for dogs and rats to root through. She gagged a little at first when the smell became especially pungent, but gradually she became acclimatized. After two kilometres straight west, she turned back and found herself breathing normally.