King Rat

by James Clavell

  “I’m right, Mac,” Larkin said, but he didn’t like the smug expression on the American’s face. “What makes you so sure you’re right?”

  “Is it a bet?” asked Brough.

  Larkin thought a moment. He liked a gamble—but tomorrow’s rice was too high stakes. “No. I’ll lay my rice ration on the card table, but I’ll be damned if I’ll lay it on Shakespeare.”

  “Pity,” Brough said. “I could’ve used an extra ration. It’s Act Four, Scene One, line ten.”

  “How the hell can you be that exact?”

  “Nothing to it,” Brough said. “I was majoring in the arts at USC, with a big emphasis on journalism and playwriting. I’m going to be a writer when I get out.”

  Mac leaned forward and peered into the pot. “I envy you, laddie. Writing can be just about the most important job in the whole world. If it’s any good.”

  “That’s a lot of nonsense, Mac,” said Peter Marlowe. “There are a million things more important.”

  “That just goes to show how little you know.”

  “Business is much more important,” interjected the King. “Without business, the world’d stop—and without money and a stable economy there’d be no one to buy any books.”

  “To hell with business and economy,” Brough said. “They’re just material things. It’s just like Mac says.”

  “Mac,” said Peter Marlowe. “What makes it so important?”

  “Well, laddie, first it’s something I’ve always wanted to do and can’t. I tried many times, but I could never finish anything. That’s the hardest part—to finish. But the most important thing is that writers are the only people who can do something about this planet. A businessman can’t do anything—”

  “That’s crap,” said the King. “What about Rockefeller? And Morgan and Ford and Du Pont? And all the others? It’s their philanthropy that finances a helluva lot of research and libraries and hospitals and art. Why, without their dough—”

  “But they made their money at someone’s expense,” Brough said crisply. “They could easily plow some of their billions back to the men who made it for them. Those bloodsuckers—”

  “I suppose you’re a Democrat?” said the King heatedly.

  “You betcha sweet life I am. Look at Roosevelt. Look what he’s doing for the country. He dragged it up by its bootstrings when the goddam Republicans—”

  “That’s crap and you know it. Nothing to do with the Republicans. It was an economic cycle—”

  “Crapdoodle on economic cycles. The Republicans—”

  “Hey, you fellows,” said Larkin mildly. “No politics until after we’ve eaten, what do you say?”

  “Well, all right,” Brough said grimly, “but this guy’s from Christmas.”

  “Mac, why is it so important? I still don’t see.”

  “Well. A writer can put down on a piece of paper an idea—or a point of view. If he’s any good he can sway people, even if it’s written on toilet paper. And he’s the only one in our modern economy who can do it—who can change the world. A businessman can’t—without substantial money. A politician can’t—without substantial position or power. A planter can’t, certainly. An accountant can’t, right, Larkin?”

  “Sure.”

  “But you’re talking about propaganda,” Brough said. “I don’t want to write propaganda.”

  “You ever written for movies, Don?” asked the King.

  “I’ve never sold anything to anyone. Guy’s not a writer until he sells something. But movies are goddam important. You know that Lenin said the movies were the most important propaganda medium ever invented?” He saw the King readying an assault. “And I’m not a Commie, you son of a bitch, just because I’m a Democrat.” He turned to Mac. “Jesus, if you read Lenin or Stalin or Trotsky you’re called a Commie.”

  “Well, you gotta admit, Don,” said the King, “a lotta Democrats are pinks.”

  “Since when has being pro-Russian meant that a guy’s a Communist? They are our allies, you know!”

  “I’m sorry about that—in a historical way,” said Mac.

  “Why?”

  “We’re going to have a lot of trouble afterwards. Particularly in the Orient. Those folk were stirring up a lot of trouble, even before the war.”

  “Television’s going to be the coming thing,” said Peter Marlowe, watching a thread of vapor dance the surface of the stew. “You know, I saw a demonstration from Alexandra Palace in London. Baird is sending out a program once a week.”

  “I heard about television,” said Brough. “Never seen any.”

  The King nodded. “I haven’t either, but that could make one hell of a business.”

  “Not in the States, that’s for sure,” Brough grunted. “Think of the distances! Hell, that might be all right for one of the little countries, like England, but not a real country like the States.”

  “What do you mean by that?” asked Peter Marlowe, stiffening.

  “I mean that if it wasn’t for us, this war’d go on forever. Why, it’s our money and our weapons and our power—”

  “Listen, old man, we did all right alone—giving you buggers the time to get off your arse. It is your war just as much as ours.” Peter Marlowe glared at Brough, who glared back.

  “Crap! Why the hell you Europeans can’t go and kill yourselves off like you’ve been doing for centuries and let us alone, I don’t know. We had to bail you out before—”

  And in no time at all they were arguing and swearing and no one was listening and each had a very firm opinion and each opinion was right.

  The King was angrily shaking his fist at Brough, who shook his fist back, and Peter Marlowe was shouting at Mac, when suddenly there was a crashing on the door.

  Immediate silence.

  “Wot’s all the bleedin’ row about?” a voice said.

  “That you, Griffiths?”

  “Who d’ja fink it was, Adolf bloody ’Itler? Yer want’a get us jailed or somefink?”

  “No. Sorry.”

  “Keep tha bleedin’ noise down!”

  “Who’s that?” said Mac.

  “Griffiths. He owns the cell.”

  “What?”

  “Sure. I hired it for five hours. Three bucks an hour. You don’t get nothing for nothing.”

  “You hired the cell?” repeated Larkin incredulously.

  “That’s right. This Griffiths is a smart businessman,” the King explained. “There are thousands of men around, right? No peace and quiet, right? Well, this Limey hires the cell out to anyone who wants to be alone. Not my idea of a sanctuary, but Griffiths does quite a business.”

  “I’ll bet it wasn’t his idea,” said Brough.

  “Cap’n I cannot tell a lie.” The King smiled. “I must confess the idea was mine. But Griffiths makes enough to keep him and his unit going very well.”

  “How much do you make on it?”

  “Just ten percent.”

  “If it’s only ten percent, that’s fair,” said Brough.

  “It is,” the King said. The King would never lie to Brough, not that it was any of his business what the hell he did.

  Brough leaned over and stirred the stew. “Hey, you guys, it’s boiling.”

  They all crowded around. Yes, it was really boiling.

  “We’d better fix the window. The stuff’ll start smelling in a minute.”

  They put a blanket over the barred outlet, and soon the cell was all perfume.

  Mac, Larkin, and Tex squatted against the wall, eyes on the stewpan. Peter Marlowe sat on the other side of the bed, and as he was nearest, from time to time he stirred the pot.

  The water simmered gently, making the delicate little beans soar crescentlike to the surface, then cascade back into the depths of the liquid. A puff of steam effervesced, bringing with it the true richness of the meat-buds. The King leaned forward and threw in a handful of native herbs, turmeric, kajang, huan, taka and cloves and garlic, and this added to the perfume.

 
When the stew had been bubbling ten minutes, the King put the green papaya into the pot.

  “Crazy,” he said. “A feller could make a fortune after the war if he could figure a way to dehydrate papaya. Now that’d tenderize a buffalo!”

  “The Malays’ve always used it,” Mac answered, but no one was really listening to him and he wasn’t listening to himself really, for the steamrichsweet surrounded them.

  The sweat dribbled down their chests and chins and legs and arms. But they hardly noticed the sweat or the closeness. They only knew that this was not a dream, that meat was cooking—there before their eyes, and soon, very soon they would eat.

  “Where’d you get it?” asked Peter Marlowe, not really caring. He just had to say something to break the suffocating spell.

  “It’s Hawkins’ dog,” answered the King, not thinking about anything except my God does that smell good or does that smell good!

  “Hawkins’ dog?”

  “You mean Rover?”

  “His dog?”

  “I thought it was a small pig!”

  “Hawkins’ dog?”

  “Oh my word!”

  “You mean that’s the hindquarters of Rover?” said Peter Marlowe, appalled.

  “Sure,” the King said. Now that the secret was out he didn’t mind. “I was going to tell you afterwards, but what the hell? Now you know.”

  They looked at one another aghast.

  Then Peter Marlowe said, “Mother of God. Hawkins’ dog!”

  “Now look,” said the King reasonably. “What’s the difference? It was certainly the cleanest-eatingest dog I’ve ever seen. Much cleaner’n any pig. Or chicken for that matter. Meat’s meat. Simple as that!”

  Mac said testily, “Quite right. Nothing wrong with eating dog. The Chinese eat them all the time. A delicacy. Yes. Certainly.”

  “Yeah,” said Brough, half nauseated. “But we’re not Chinese and this’s Hawkins’ dog!”

  “I feel like a cannibal,” said Peter Marlowe.

  “Look,” the King said. “It’s just like Mac said. Nothing wrong with dog. Smell it, for Chrissake.”

  “Smell it!” said Larkin for all of them. It was hard to talk, his saliva almost choking him. “I can’t smell anything but that stew and it’s the greatest smell I’ve ever smelled and I don’t care whether it’s Rover or not, I want to eat.” He rubbed his stomach, almost painfully. “I don’t know about you bastards, but I’m so hungry I’ve got cramps. That smell’s doing something to my metabolism that’s just not ordinary.”

  “I feel sick, too. And it’s got nothing to do with the fact that the meat’s dog,” said Peter Marlowe. Then he added almost plaintively, “I just don’t want to eat Rover.” He glanced at Mac. “How are we going to face Hawkins afterwards?”

  “I don’t know, laddie. I’ll look the other way. Yes, I don’t think I could face him.” Mac’s nostrils quivered and he looked at the stew. “That smells so good.”

  “Of course,” the King said blandly, “anyone don’t want to eat can leave.”

  No one moved. Then they all leaned back, lost in their own thoughts. Listening to the bubble. Drinking in the fragrance. Magnificence.

  “It’s not shocking when you think of it,” said Larkin, more to persuade himself than the others. “Look how affectionate we get with our hens. We don’t mind eating them—or their eggs.”

  “That’s right, laddie. And you remember that cat we caught and ate. We didn’t mind that, did we, Peter?”

  “No, but that was a stray. This is Rover!”

  “It was! Now it’s just meat.”

  “Are you the guys that got the cat?” Brough asked, angry in spite of himself. “The one about six months ago?”

  “No. This was in Java.”

  Brough said, “Oh.” Then he happened to glance at the King. “I might have guessed it,” he exploded. “You, you bastard. And we scavenged for four hours.”

  “You shouldn’t get pissed off, Don. We got it. It was still an American victory.”

  “My Aussies’re losing their touch,” Larkin said.

  The King lifted the spoon and his hand shook as he sampled the brew. “Tastes good.” Then he prodded the meat. It was still tight to the bone. “Be another hour yet.”

  Another ten minutes and he tested again. “Maybe a little more salt. What do you think, Peter?”

  Peter Marlowe tasted. It was so good, so good. “A dash, just a dash!”

  They all tasted, in turn. A touch of salt, a fraction more huan, a little dab of sugar, a breath more turmeric. And they settled back to wait in the exquisite torture cell, almost asphyxiated.

  From time to time they pulled the blanket from the window and let some of the perfume out and some new air in.

  And outside of Changi, the perfume swam on the breeze. And inside the jail along the corridor, wisps of perfume leaked through the door and permeated the atmosphere.

  “Christ, Smithy, can you smell it?”

  “’Course I can smell it. You think I’ve got no nose? Where’s it coming from?”

  “Wait a second! Somewhere up by the jail, somewhere up there!”

  “Bet those yellow bastards are having a cook-up just outside the bleeding wire.”

  “That’s right. Bastards.”

  “I don’t think it’s them. It seems to be coming from the jail.”

  “Oh Christ, listen to Smithy. Look at him pointing, just like a bloody dog.”

  “I tell you I can smell it coming from the jail.”

  “It’s just the wind. The wind’s coming from that direction.”

  “Winds never smelled like that before. It’s meat cooking, I tell you. It’s beef. I’d bet my life. Stewing beef.”

  “New Jap torture. Bastards! What a dirty trick!”

  “Maybe we’re just imagining it. They say you can imagine a smell.”

  “How in hell can we all imagine it? Look at all the men, they’ve all stopped.”

  “Who says so?”

  “What?”

  “You said, ‘They say you can imagine a smell.’ Who’s ‘they’?”

  “Oh God, Smithy. It’s just a saying.”

  “But who’re ‘they’?”

  “How the hell do I know!”

  “Then stop saying ‘they’ said this or ‘they’ said that. Enough to drive a man crazy.”

  The men in the cell, the chosen of the King, watched him ladle a portion into a mess can and hand it to Larkin. Their eyes left Larkin’s plate and went back to the ladle and then to Mac and back to the ladle and then to Brough and back to the ladle and then to Tex and back to the ladle and then to Peter Marlowe and back to the ladle and then to the King’s portion. And when all were served, they fell to eating, and there was enough left over for at least two portions more per man.

  It was agony to eat so well.

  The katchang idju beans had broken down and were almost part of the thick soup now. The papaya had tenderized the meat and caused it to fall off the bones, and the meat came apart into chunks, dark brown from the herbs and the tenderizer and beans. The stew had the thickness of a real stew, an Irish stew, with flecks of honey oil globules staining the surface of their mess cans.

  The King looked up from his bowl, dry and clean. He beckoned to Larkin.

  Larkin just passed his mess can, and silently each one of them accepted another helping. This too disappeared. And then a last portion.

  Finally the King put his plate away. “Son of a bitch.”

  “Perfection!” Larkin said.

  “Superb,” said Peter Marlowe. “I’d forgotten what it’s like to chew. My jaws ache.”

  Mac carefully scooped the last bean and belched. It was a wondrous belch. “I’ll tell ye, laddies, I’ve had some meals in my time, from roast beef at Simpson’s in Piccadilly to rijsttafel in the Hotel des Indes in Java, and nothing, no one meal, has ever approached this. Never.”

  “I agree,” Larkin said, settling himself more comfortably. “Even in the best place in S
ydney—well, the steaks’re great—but I’ve never enjoyed anything more.”

  The King belched and passed around a pack of Kooas. Then he opened the bottle of sake and drank deeply. The wine was rough and strong, but it took away the over-rich taste in his mouth.

  “Here,” he said, handing it to Peter Marlowe.

  They all drank and they all smoked.

  “Hey, Tex, what about some Java?” yawned the King.

  “Better give it a few more minutes before we open the door,” Brough said, not caring whether or not the door was opened just so long as he was left to relax. “Oh God, I feel great!”

  “I’m so full I think I’ll bust,” Peter Marlowe said. “That was without a doubt the finest—”

  “For God’s sake, Peter. We’ve all just said that. We all know it.”

  “Well, I had to say it.”

  “How’d you manage it?” Brough said to the King, stifling a yawn.

  “Max told me about the dog killing the hen. I sent Dino to see Hawkins. He gave it to him. We got Kurt to butcher it. My share was the hindquarters.”

  “Why should Hawkins give it to Dino?” asked Peter Marlowe.

  “He’s a veterinarian.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “The hell he is,” Brough said. “He’s a merchant seaman.”

  The King shrugged. “So today he was a vet. Quit bitching!”

  “I gotta hand it to you. Sure as hell I gotta hand it to you.”

  “Thanks, Don.”

  “How—how did Kurt kill it?” Brough asked.

  “I didn’t ask him.”

  “Quite right, laddie,” said Mac. “Now I think let’s drop the subject, huh?”

  “Good idea.”

  Peter Marlowe got up and stretched. “What about the bones?” he asked.

  “We’ll smuggle them out when we leave.”

  “How about a little poker?” Larkin said.

  “Good idea,” the King said crisply. “Tex, you get the coffee going. Peter, you clean up a bit. Grant, you fix the door. Don, how about piling the dishes?”

  Brough got up heavily. “What the hell are you going to do?”

  “Me?” The King raised his eyebrows. “I’m just gonna sit.”

  Brough looked at him. They all looked at him. Then Brough said, “I’ve got a good mind to make you an officer—just so as I can have the pleasure of busting you.”