by Paul Theroux
during that dry season. The attraction was the monkeys. Apparently, the local sakais - they might have been Laruts - had deported some wild monkeys there. The monkeys got too stroppy around the village, so being peace-loving buggers the sakais just caught them and tied them up and brought them to the island where they wouldn't bother anyone. There were about a dozen of these beasts, surrounded by water. An island of wild monkeys - imagine landing there on a dark night!
'In the meantime, we saw the Parrishes occasionally in the compound during the week and that's where I kept up to date with the story. As I say, his first reaction when she lost things was to be sympathetic. But afterward, it irritated him. She lost her handbag and he shouted at her. She lost her watch - it was one he had given her - and he wouldn't speak to her for days. She mislaid the bathplug, lost some jewelry, his passport disappeared. And that's the way it went - bloody annoying. I don't know what effect this had on her. I suppose she thought she deserved his anger. People who lose things get all knotted up about it, and the fear of losing things makes them do it all the more. That's what I thought then.
'And the things she lost were never found. It was uncanny, as if she just wished them away. He said she didn't miss them.
'Then, on one of these expeditions she lost the paraffin. Doesn't seem like much, but the place was full of leeches and a splash of paraffin was the only thing that'd shake them loose from your arms or legs. They both suffered that weekend and didn't find the island either. Then, the next weekend, she lost the compass, and that's when the real trouble started. Instead of pitying her, or getting angry, or ignoring it, old Parrish laughed. He saw how losing the compass inconvenienced her in her map-reading, and she was so shaken by that horrible laugh of his she was all the more determined to do without it. She succeeded, too. She used a topographical map and somehow found the right landmarks and led them back the way they'd come.
'But Parrish still laughed. I remember the day she lost the car keys - his car keys, mind you, because she'd lost practically everything she owned and now it was his stuff up the spout. You could hear old Parrish halfway to Malacca. Then it was the malaria tablets. Parrish laughed even harder - he said he'd been in the Federation so long he was immune to it, but being young and new to the place she'd get a fever, and he found that screamingly funny.
LOSER WINS
This was too much for her, and when his wedding ring went missing - God only knows how that happened - and Parrish just laughed, that was the last straw. I suppose it didn't help matters when Parrish set off for the courthouse in the morning saying, "What are you going to lose today, my darling?"
'Oh, there was much more. He talked about it at parties, laughing his head off, while she sulked in a corner, and we expected to find him dead the next morning with a knitting-needle jammed through his wig.
'But, to make a long story short, they went off on one of their usual expeditions. No compass, no Paludrine, no torch - she'd lost practically everything. By this time, they knew their way, and they spent all that Saturday bushwhacking through the ulu. They were still headed in that deliberate way of theirs for the monkey island, and now I remember that a lot of people called him "Monkey" Parrish. She claimed it was mythical, didn't exist, except in the crazy fantasies of a lot of sakais; but Monkey said, "I know what you've done with it, my darling - you've lost that island!" And naturally he laughed.
'They were making camp that night in a grove of bamboos when it happened. It was dusk, and looking up they saw one of those enormous clouds of flying foxes in the sky. Ever see them? They're really fruit-bats, four feet from tip to tip, and they beat the air slowly. You get them in the ulu near the coast. Eerie, they are -scare the wits out of you the way they fly, and they're ugly as old boots. You can tell the old ones by the way they move, sort of dropping behind and losing altitude while the younger ones push their noses on ahead. It's one of the weirdest sights in this country, those flying foxes setting off in the twilight, looking so fat and fearsome in the sky. Like a bad dream, a kind of monster film -they come out of nowhere.
'She said, "Look, they're heading for that island."
'He said, "Don't be silly - they're flying east, to the coast."
'"There's the light," he said, "that's west." She claimed the bats preferred islands and would be homing in on one where there was fruit - monkey food. The wild monkeys slept at night, so they wouldn't bother the bats. She said, "I'm going to have a look."
'"There's no torch," he says, and he laughs like hell. "There's a moon," she says. And without another word she's crashing through the bamboos in the direction the foxes are flying.
DIPLOMATIC RELATIONS (i): THE CONSUL'S FILE
Parrish - Monkey Parrish - just laughed and sat down by the fire to have a pipe before bed. Can you see him there, chuckling to himself about this wife of his who loses everything, how he suddenly realizes that she's lost herself and he has a fit of laughter? Great hoots echoing through the jungle as old Parrish sees he's rid of her at last!
'Maybe. But look at it another way. The next morning he wakes up and sees she's not there. She never came back. At first he slaps his thigh and laughs and shouts, "She's lost!" The he looks around. No map, no compass, no torch - only that low dense jungle that stretches for hundreds of miles across the top of the country, dropping leeches on anyone who's silly enough to walk through it. And the more he thinks about it the more it becomes plain to him that he's the one who's lost - she's wished him away, like the wedding ring and the torch and the fifty-dollar bill. Suddenly he's not laughing anymore.
'I'm only guessing. I don't really know what he was thinking. I had the story from her, just before she left the country. She said there were only two monkeys on the island, a male and a female, bickering the whole time, like her and her late husband. Yes, late husband. No one ever found him - certainly not her, but she wouldn't, would she?'
uo
DIPLOMATIC RELATIONS (I): THE CONSUL S FILE
in a sarong - ill-fitting, but it took care of those legs. Within a month she was on the arm of a boy vaguely related to the Sultan, a cousin of a cousin, known locally (but inaccurately) as 'Tunku,' The Prince. He was a charming idle fellow who owed money at every Chinese shop in town.
A hopeless liaison: he wanted to be American, she aimed at being Malay - the racial somersault often mistaken for tolerance. It was usually inverted bigotry, ratting on your own race. I saw their determined effort at affection, strolling hand-in-hand across the maidan, or at the club social evenings - evidently she thought she was teaching us a thing or two about integration; and at City Bar, smooching under the gaze of the Chinese secret society that congregated there. I guessed The Prince was using her money -she looked credulous enough to loan it to him. How pathetic to watch the newcomer, innocent to the deceits of the East, making all the usual mistakes.
I waited for the eventual break-up, but it happened sooner than I expected. One morning she appeared at the Consulate just after we opened. She pushed Peeraswami aside, ignored the secretary's squawk, and flung open my office door.
Tm looking for the Consul,' she said.
'Do you have an appointment?' I asked.
'The secretary already asked me that,' she said. 'Look, this is an emergency.'
She sat down and threw her shoulder bag on a side table. Is it only Americans who treat consulates as their personal property, and diplomatic personnel as their flunkies? 'They move in and walk all over you,' a colleague used to say - he kept his door locked against American nationals demanding service. It earned us, in Aver Hitam, the contemptuous pity of the European consulates.
Miss Clem said, 'I want to report a break-in.'
'I'm afraid that's a matter for the police.'
'This is confidential. 1
'They can keep a secret,' I said.
'You're my consul,' she said rather fiercely. 'I'm not going to any Malay cop. 1 She was silent a moment, then she said, 'A man's been in my room.'
I said nothing. She g
lared at me.
'You don't care, do you?'
'I find it hard to understand your alarm, Miss Clem.'
>32
THE FLOWER OF MALAYA
'So you know my name.' She frowned. They told me you were like that.'
'Let's try to be constructive, shall we?' I said. 'What exactly did the man do?'
'You want details/ she said disgustedly.
'Isn't that why you came here?'
'I told you why I came here.'
'You'll have to be specific. Are you reporting a theft?'
'No.'
'Assault?'
'Kinda.'
'Miss Clem,' I said, and I was on the point of losing my temper, 'I'm very busy. I can't read your mind and I'd rather you didn't waste my time. Now play ball!'
She put her face in her hands and began to blubber, clownish notes of hooted grief. She had that brittle American composure that breaks all at once, like a windshield shattered with a pebble. A fat girl crying is an appalling sight, in any case, all that motion and noise. Finally she spoke up: 'I've been raped!'
I closed the door to the outer office, and said, 'Do you know who did it?'
She nodded sadly and pushed her hair out of her eyes. She said, 'Ibrahim.'
'The Prince?'
'He's no prince,' she said. Then plaintively, 'After all I did for him.'
'You'll have to go to the police and make a statement.'
'What will I say?' she said in a small voice.
'Just tell them what happened.'
'Oh, God, it was really awful,' she said. 'He came through the window with no clothes on - just like that. I was up combing my hair and I saw him in the mirror. He turned off the light and grabbed me by the arm. I tried to push him away, but you know, it was really strange - he was all slippery. His skin was covered by some kind of oil. "Cut it out," I said. But he wouldn't. He didn't say anything. He just lifted me up by the legs like a wheelbarrow, and — I'll never forgive him for this. I was giving him English lessons!'
'Tell that to the police. I'll send you in my car. They'll want to know the times and that sort of thing.'
DIPLOMATIC RELATIONS (i): THE CONSUL'S FILE
'What'll they do?'
'I imagine they'll arrest him, if they can find him.'
'They'll find him,' she said bitterly. 'I just saw him in town.'
So Ibrahim, The Prince, was picked up, and Miss Clem pressed charges. Only the younger members of the Club wondered why The Prince had stayed around. The rest of us knew how Miss Clem had ventured into danger; she had led him on and the poor dumb Malay had misread all her signs. Miss Clem had discovered how easy it was, after all, to be a Malay. It was typical enough for farce.
Squibb said, 'She got just what she deserved. She was asking for it.'
'She doesn't know the first thing about it,' said Strang.
Squibb squinted maliciously: 'She knows now. The Flower of Malaya's been deflowered.'
I said I agreed with them - it was fatal to disagree with anyone in such a small post - but I sympathized with the girl. She knew nothing of the country; she had fallen in headfirst. All you had to do to survive was practice elementary caution. In one sense she deserved what she got, but it was a painful lesson. I had some sympathy for The Prince, too; he was not wholly to blame. He had mistaken her for one of his own. But how was he to know? They were all beginners, that was the worst of these interracial tangles: how infantile they were!
Predictably, Miss Clem stopped wearing her sarong. She tied her hair differently, and she began dropping into the Club alone. The members were kind to her - I noticed she usually had a tennis partner, and that was truly an act of kindness, since she was such a dreadful player. Overnight, she acquired the affectations of a memsahib; a bit sharp with the waiters and ball-boys, a common parody of hauteur in her commands, that odd exaggerated playactor's laugh, and a posture I associate with a woman who is used to being waited on - a straight-backed rigidity with formal, irritated hand signals to the staff, as if her great behind was cemented to a plinth. Then I disliked her, and I saw how she was patronized by the club bores, who rehearsed their ill-natured stories with her. She encouraged them in racial innuendo; the memsahib lapping at the double peg in her glass. A month before she had been sidling up to a Malay and probably planning to take out citizenship; now she
THE FLOWER OF MALAYA
was in a high-backed Malacca chair under a fan calling out, 'Boy!'
There was, so far, no trial. Ibrahim the Prince was languishing in the Central Jail, while the lawyers collected evidence. But they hadn't extracted a confession from him, and that was the most unusual feature of the whole business, since even an innocent man would own up simply to get a night's sleep. The Ayer Hitam police were not noted for their gentleness with suspects.
One night at the Club Miss Clem spoke to me in her new actressy voice. 'I want to thank you for all you've done. I'm glad it's over.'
'You're welcome,' I said, 'but I'm afraid it's not over yet. There's still the trial. You won't like that.'
'I hope you'll be there to give me moral support.'
'I don't like circuses,' I said. 'But if there's anything useful I can do, let me know.'
The following week she had a different story, a different voice. She entered the Consulate as she had that first time, pushing my staff aside and bursting into my office. She had been crying, and I could see she was out of breath.
'You're not going to believe this,' she said. Not the memsahib now, but that other voice of complaint, the innocent surprised. She sat down. 'It happened again.'
'Another break-in?'
'I was raped,' she said softly.
'The Prince is in jail,' I said in gentle contradiction.
'I'm telling you I was raped!' she shouted, and I was sure she could be heard all the way to the Club.
'Well, who do you suppose could have done it?'
She said nothing; she lowered her eyes and sniffed.
'Tell me, Miss Clem,' I said, 'does this sort of thing happen to you often?'
'What do you mean "often"?'
'Do you find that when you're alone, in a strange place, people get it in their heads to rape you? Perhaps you have something that drives men wild, some hidden attraction.'
'You don't believe me. I knew you wouldn't.'
'It seems rather extraordinary.'
'It happened again. I'm not making it up.' Then she pulled the top of her dress across one shoulder and showed me, just below her shoulder bone, a plum-colored bruise. I looked closer and saw circling it were the stitch-marks of a full set of teeth.
DIPLOMATIC RELATIONS (i): THE CONSUL'S FILE
'You should have that seen to,' I said.
'I want that man caught,' she insisted.
i thought we had caught him.'
'So did I.'
'So it wasn't The Prince?'
'I don't know,' she said.
'Was it the same man as before?'
'Yes, just like before. He was terrible - he laughed.'
And her story was the same, even the same image as before, about him picking her legs up 'like a wheelbarrow,' a rather chilling caricature of sexuality. Truth is not a saga of alarming episodes; it is a detail, a small clear one, that gives a fiction life. Hers was that horrible item, unusual enough to be a fact and too bizarre to be made up, about the slippery skin of the rapist. He was greasy, slimy - his whole body gleamed. She couldn't fight against him; she couldn't get a grip on him. He had appeared in her room and pounced on her, and she was helpless. This time she said she had resisted and it was only by biting on her that he held on.
I said, 'You'll have to drop your charges against The Prince.'
'I'm afraid to.'
'But don't you see? He's in jail, and if it was the same man as before then it couldn't have been The Prince.'
'I don't know what to do.'
'I suggest you get a telephone installed in your house. If you hear any suspicious noises, ri
ng me or the police. Obviously it's some local person who fancies you.'
But The Prince was not released. Somehow the police had extracted a confession from him, a date was set for the trial and Miss Clem was scheduled to testify. That was weeks away. In the meantime, Miss Clem had her telephone put in. She rang me one evening shortly afterward.
is there anything wrong?' I asked, hearing her voice.
'Everything's fine,' she said, i was just testing it.'
'From now on only ring me in the event of an emergency/ I said.
i think I'm going to be all right,' she said, and rang off.
For a brief period I forgot about Miss Clem, the Flower of Malaya. I had enough to keep me busy - visa matters were a continual headache. It was about this time that the Strangs got their divorce - which is another story - but the speculation at the
THE FLOWER OF MALAYA
Club, up to then concerned with Miss Clem, was centered on what Milly Strang could possibly be doing in Bali. She had sent a gleeful postcard to Angela, but nothing to Lloyd. Miss Clem dropped from view.
My opposite number came down from Penang on a private visit and we had a little reception for him. The invitation specified 'drinks 6-8 p.m.' but at eleven there were still people on the verandah badgering the waiters for fresh drinks. My reaction was tactical: I went into my study and read the cables. Usually it worked - when the host disappears the guests are at sea; they get worried and invariably they take the hint.
The telephone rang. I was not quick and when I picked up the receiver the line went dead. At first I did nothing; then I remembered and was out the door.
Peeraswami had been helping out at the party. As I rushed out the back door I noticed him at the edge of the courtyard, chatting to the kitchen staff. I called to him and told him to get into the car. On the way I explained where we were going, but I did not say why.
Miss Clem's house was in the teachers' compound of the mission school. It was in darkness. I jammed on the brakes and jumped out. Peeraswami was right behind me. From the bungalow I could hear Miss Clem sobbing.
