‘Oh.’ Claire gazed hard at her hands.
‘I’m sorry. But I have to go and see her.’
It was very warm and humid, but she began to shiver. ‘You’re still in love with your wife. I didn’t know that.’
Drew spoke sharply. ‘Christ, no! I’m not in love with her.’
‘Then why are you running back to Australia the moment she summons you?’
‘How the hell should I know? But I feel I have to go, to make sure. Sort things out.’ He was staring out of the window, not looking at her.
‘But you’re divorced. Deborah told me you were divorced.’
‘No, only separated. Legally separated.’
‘For God’s sake, why didn’t you tell me? I had a right to know,’ she said angrily. She was on the verge of tears but determined not to show it.
‘I thought you did know.’
‘No, I didn’t.’ Claire was silent for a moment and then said suddenly, ‘Was it her on the phone the other night very late, the call you answered?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you didn’t tell me. Oh God, you were probably thinking about her all the time we made love.’
‘No, I was thinking of you, only you. You must know that.’ He took hold of her arm roughly. She pulled away. ‘Then why are you going back to her?’
‘I just have to sort it out finally. And then . . .’
‘Then what?’
‘I’ll come back.’
‘But you might decide to stay in Australia.’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
Her voice grew higher. ‘You don’t think so. You’re not sure.’
‘I’m almost ninety per cent sure I won’t stay. But I guess I can’t ask you wait here for me, Claire. I can’t ask you to give me time.’
‘You’re damn right. I’m not going to wait around in case you should deign to show up again. You didn’t level with me. You weren’t honest. You strung me along – your wife, Liana, everything.’
‘You’re wrong. I was straight with you. Wait, I thought—’
But Claire opened the door of the Land Rover and slammed it behind her. Without looking back, she ran up the stairs to her apartment.
Twenty-One
Six weeks after, Lucy began to fear that Jazzer’s visit had born unwelcome fruit. Every morning she became more and more convinced that she must be pregnant. And it wasn’t the joyful happy sensation it should have been. It was all very wrong. She tried drinking gin in a hot bath and then jumping off the bed – and all the other tricks she had read about in Victorian novels – but to no avail.
At times she considered the option of pretending that the child was Martin’s. It wasn’t impossible that he was responsible for her pregnancy. But she had taken the spirit medicine on the evening she had slept with her ministerial guest and Lucy believed in the potions. In her heart of hearts, she knew the child was Jazzer’s and the thought of long-term deception was repugnant to her. She loved Martin and could not envisage living such a lie.
Nor could she tell him what she perceived to be the truth. It would, she was certain, spoil everything. She understood instinctively that Martin had been attracted by her sensible country-girl naivety, that he liked to guide and instruct her, and for their marriage to be her whole world. If she told him about Jazzer, he would never trust her again and their relationship would be irrevocably damaged. She was very unhappy.
In desperation, she decided to telephone Meng. If there were potions to encourage pregnancy, there must surely be medicine to dislodge it. Not wanting to discuss such matters on the telephone, she told him she was thinking of doing a course on archaeology and wished to ask his advice. They agreed to meet at an obscure cafe, which was ‘redolent with local colour’, according to Meng. She had some difficulty in finding the way, but eventually she arrived at the large outdoor cafe where he was waiting at a small table discreetly situated behind a screen of potted palms. Meng’s good looks seemed suddenly ultra-conspicuous in these simple surroundings and she looked around, fearful that someone she knew would see them and wrongly suspect a romantic rendezvous. But the place was almost empty and the only colourful aspect was the rather garish sunshade painted with huge red and yellow flowers.
All through the long afternoon, Meng talked about archaeology. As Lucy sat and listened, she managed to forget her own problems for a time. The fact that an interesting and well-informed man like Meng was prepared to spend so much time on her was flattering and soothing to her ego. He actually talked to her as if she were an equal, an intelligent person in her own right, someone worthy of serious attention. But he wasn’t overfamiliar or flirtatious, that’s what made him more comfortable to be with than most men, she thought.
He told her stories about his work. He told her of the craftsmen of former times and of the love and reverence which inspired their creations. He explained how the Buddha images were cast using ‘lost wax’: how a rough figure of the desired measurements was made from clay, how a covering layer of wax was shaped to form the finished image, then how a layer of clay was put on top. Then the wax was melted and the clay baked until it turned into a brick mould. He explained how each craftsman was in charge of a different aspect of the process.
His descriptions were so vivid that Lucy could see the men moulding the wax, she could even see the stamp which created the formal curls of the Buddha’s hair. She could visualize the care with which they mixed the metals and the pouring of the molten bronze – and the joy they felt when their creation was complete.
Then he talked about how the islanders melded Buddhism with their animistic beliefs and how the older country peasants worshipped a series of gods and how their lives were influenced by fear of the spirits.
‘They believe that even the trees have spirits. For instance, if they gather cloves, then they must be careful to appease the spirits of the clove tree by making gifts to them. I suppose the parallel in England is the corn dolly. I believe they were made to give thanks for the harvest.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Lucy doubtfully. She had barely heard of corn dollies, but she felt she must contribute something to the conversation. ‘But no one believes in spirits in England these days.’
‘I wonder. But of course you are probably right. Here it is a much more serious matter. Sometimes agricultural experts go and talk to the peasants, but they’re afraid to try new crops or new strains of rice for fear of offending the spirits of the fields. They say new crops won’t grow and, even if they did, no one would eat them.’
Lucy smiled.
‘In the same way,’ he went on, ‘they ignore the medical workers who try to teach them elementary hygiene. If a member of the family is ill, they consider it more effective to sacrifice a chicken than to visit the rural health centre.’
‘But what about Spirit Woman’s medicines, aren’t they sometimes effective?’
‘Yes, of course, but that is because of the herbs they contain and also I think there is an element of faith in most healing. . . That reminds me, how did you get on with the little blue phial?’ he asked delicately. ‘Did it work? I forgot to tell you that you mustn’t drink alcohol with any of the spirit medicines for they are very powerful. Indeed, the fertility drug is reputed to have aphrodisiac effects if taken in the wrong measure or with the wrong foods.’
‘I haven’t actually used the phial yet,’ lied Lucy, uncomfortable that she seemed to have embarked on a new strange life of deceit. ‘Er, have you still got any medicines left?’
‘What kind are you looking for this time?’
‘Any kind. I was thinking I’d like to learn about this sort of thing.’
‘I don’t have much left, just a few potions for indigestion, but I’ll be visiting the Spirit Woman tomorrow, if you would like to come. It is a special evening at the village where they give thanks to the rain gods that have visited them – a most interesting ceremony to watch.’
‘Oh, I’d love to come,’ said Lucy, before she could stop herself.
*
Fortunately Martin was away at a regional conference in Bangkok, but for the benefit of her maids Lucy felt she had to invent an excuse to go out in the evening. She mentioned casually to Somjit that she would not be in for dinner as she was attending a Ladies’ Club meeting and so all the staff could go off-duty as soon as they liked.
Even as she stepped into Meng’s car, she began to have misgivings about embarking on such an expedition. She had the feeling that Helena would not think this appropriate behaviour for a diplomatic wife, however safe and celibate Meng might be.
Away from the city lights, it was growing dark when they arrived at the Ravi ruins. The rickety poles of the Maising electricity company did not extend much further than the hamlets on the edge of the main road, but Meng was equipped with a powerful torch and seemed to know where he was going. Beyond the glow of the torch she could see nothing, but she could hear loud croaking and grating noises, as if they were surrounded by giant frogs and mammoth grasshoppers. Jumping at every rustle, every jungle sound, she held tightly on to Meng’s arm as they walked down the narrow path to the village.
‘Don’t be afraid, Lucy. These are good people,’ he said.
‘I know.’
‘They won’t harm you.’
‘I know,’ she repeated. But more and more she felt she should never have come. It wasn’t right to be wandering round the edge of the jungle at nightfall with Meng.
To her relief, they soon came to the village, which looked welcoming enough in the light of the fires glowing outside every dwelling. Most of the villages were seated on the ground eating their evening meal. Obviously delighted to see their visitors, they drew Lucy towards them and offered her food. When she whispered to Meng that she was not hungry, he told her she must eat what was offered or mortally offend her hosts.
They gave her a small round bowl and a spoon. Then a fat, grey-haired woman served her some rice from a large aluminium pan and a helping of what looked like fish bones and green string. When Lucy had eaten what she could, she was pressed to have some more. Meng said something to the fat woman, and Lucy was given a second bowl of rice.
‘Take that to Girah the Spirit Woman,’ he said.
Girah’s dark slanted eyes stared at Lucy in the flickering light of the innumerable yellow candles that surrounded her. Instinctively Lucy knelt down on a small rush prayer mat at her feet. They remained in silence for several minutes.
Then Girah spoke. Her voice was harsh and guttural.
‘She says give her your hand,’ whispered Meng, who was standing in the shadows.
Lucy did as she was told. Girah placed a small, sharp green stone in the palm of Lucy’s hand and squeezed until Lucy almost cried out with pain. Then Girah took the stone and dropped it first into a jar of colourless liquid and then into a small fire burning at the feet of Queen Victoria’s statue. Eventually she spoke.
‘She wants me to go away,’ said Meng. ‘She says that you will understand better if I am not here.’
He backed away into the darkness.
Lucy stared into the glittering eyes as if hypnotized. With a stick, Girah drew a picture on the ground of a woman with bulging stomach. Then she took a blue phial and placed it on the stomach. The phial looked very similar to the one that Lucy had used already. With her toothless grin, Girah picked up the phial and handed it to Lucy, holding out her fingers to indicate a price of ten rads. Lucy took it and paid. She dared not do otherwise.
Next the Spirit Woman picked up a sharp stick, red at one end as if it had been dipped in paint. She jabbed it into the stomach of the figure she had drawn.
Lucy drew in her breath. Smiling just as broadly, the old woman opened a dark rush basket and took out a bamboo leaf folded into a parcel. She opened up the leaf a little so that Lucy could see it contained a brown paste. She indicated that this time the cost would be twenty rads. As if to demonstrate her point all the more clearly, she pretended to eat some of the paste and then she stabbed the ground again moving the stick about, so that the stomach of ghostly illustration disappeared into the dust.
It seemed to Lucy an age before Meng returned to collect her. He told her the villagers were now ready for the ceremony. They had dressed themselves in bright red and blue costumes, and braided their hair with beads. Three musicians played a mournful, monotonous rhythm on strange percussion instruments. Six dancers made slow stylized steps, hopping from one leg to the other and gazing up at their hands, which they weaved about their heads.
‘They use their hands to indicate the rain clouds,’ said Meng earnestly. He passed her a drink in a pink plastic cup.
‘Wow, this tastes strong, but shouldn’t we be drinking out of coconut shells?’ she asked smiling.
‘All these villagers love plastic. I fear the jungle will soon be covered in it.’
‘What is this drink? It’s rather nice.’
‘Rice whisky,’ he said, ‘And coconut milk and some secret ingredient. They say it’s very good for you. Have some more.’
Lucy had some more and some more.
*
She was not aware of how she came to be in Meng’s house, reclining on a chair, half-naked, covered in a thin silk shawl. In horror she sat up, her head reeling. In the dim light she could see her bra and shirt hanging on the chair. She put them on quickly. As her eyes became accustomed to the gloom, she noticed a dark form lying fully clothed on the sofa on the opposite side of the room.
She gulped. ‘Meng, what happened?’
He opened his eyes and smiled. ‘Hello, Lucy.’
‘What happened? Why am I here?’
‘Nothing happened. I just thought you were too, well a little too merry to go straight back to the Embassy. I should have warned you that that drink is rather strong.’
‘Yes, you should have, but I mean what happened here? You didn’t – did I? I mean why, why didn’t I have a shirt on?’ Lucy blushed deeply as she spoke.
‘I don’t know. You said you had to take your top off because you were too hot, but I persuaded you to keep the rest of your clothes on. And I covered you with a shawl, even though you looked so very beautiful lying there.’ He smiled sweetly at her. ‘I thought it right to cover you in case I was tempted to break my vows of celibacy.’
‘But you didn’t . . . didn’t break them?’
‘Of course not. Besides, you were in my charge.’
Lucy smiled in relief, but she felt that she had been tricked into drinking too much, that her drink had been spiked. With Meng around, strange things seemed to happen to her.
‘I must go home now. Quick, it’s very late,’ she said. On her way to the door she tripped over Meng’s tripod. His camera was on the bookcase nearby.
‘What’s this doing here?’ she asked, suddenly suspicious.
He smiled. ‘You were so peaceful – I had to take a photograph of you. I wanted you in my collection.’
‘What do you mean in your “collection”?’ She reddened again. ‘You didn’t photograph me without . . . when I was undressed, did you?’
‘Only your bosom, not your face,’ he said seriously. ‘Your face was in shadow. But I have never seen such magnificence, such generous beauty before. No one but me will ever look at the photographs. I will keep them secret and just take them out now and then.’
His manner was sincere and not in any way suggestive, but she felt sick with shock. ‘Meng, you can’t do this to me. I thought we were friends.’
‘Of course we are. I just wanted something to remember you by. Don’t worry. I repeat, no one else will see them and anyway no one could tell who it was – your face is hidden.’
‘Please, please, you absolutely must delete the photos’
Ignoring her, he said, ‘Surely you are aware that artists often paint or photograph nudes?’
‘Yes, but the sitters know they’re being painted. I didn’t consent to be photographed. What you did was awful, almost like stealing. Don’t you see that?’
He se
emed momentarily contrite. ‘I’m sorry but you were relaxed and at peace. And so lovely. I had to take the opportunity. When a perfect, wonderful shot presents itself, perfect subject, perfect light, an artist has to seize the moment or it is lost for ever.’
‘You’re mad.’ Her voice grew higher and higher. ‘Don’t you see, don’t you see, I hate the idea of being a sort of girlie model!’ She made a grab at the camera, but he held her back.
‘There is nothing girlie about my photography. It is a work of art. You insult me. Now it is late. Let me take you home.’
Though she wept and pleaded further, he was unmoved, even angry as if she had insulted his artistic integrity. They were both silent as he drove her back through the night streets.
*
Naturally she told Martin nothing about these events when he returned from Bangkok. For some reason she had never mentioned her acquaintance with Meng, and now it was impossible to speak of him. She brooded about the photographs for several days and then decided there was nothing she could do for the time being. She would just have to trust Meng’s word.
An even more serious and pressing problem was her pregnancy. At first she could not summon up enough courage to take the paste, then she caught sight of a photograph of Jazzer in The Times. Just the sight of him made her feel ill. She clasped and unclasped her hands time and time again, rubbing them together. The dislike she felt for him had grown to deep hatred. She wanted no connection with him. She’d hate his child. It would look just like him, and worse, would grow up to behave like him.
With the copy of the newspaper in front of her, she took out a little silver spoon from the sideboard and ate some of the paste which she had concealed in her desk with the other spirit potions. It tasted quite sweet, like almonds and honey, but with a tinge of chilli that left a hot, sharp feeling on her tongue.
It was several hours before the pain started, followed by the blood. When Martin came back from the office, she was sitting curled up on the bathroom floor, moaning quietly. He immediately called the doctor.
A Chinese gynaecologist with a round face and gentle hands came to examine her. After an injection of morphine, events passed in a sort of dream. Lucy felt as if she were an observer watching some other woman being placed in an ambulance, then a hospital bed, examined, re-examined, she heard the words ‘routine curettage’, and she was taken down to the operating theatre where a smiling American nurse held her hand. Then there was the anaesthetic.
Tropical Connections Page 17