They drank Anker Bier and ate sapin sapin until well after midnight. During the evening, the door chimes jangled incessantly, men came and went and girls scurried up and down the stairs. Between ten o’clock and one in the morning, Ana seemed to spend most of her time running through the parlour with trays of soup and noodles and bottles of tapoy, and Randolph was amazed at the volume of business the Hotel Pasay was doing at a time when most American hotels would be closed for the night.
‘If you are ever interested in selling a share of this place, you can count me in,’ he told Flora.
Flora laughed. ‘A businessman like you? You could not own the Hotel Pasay or any part of it. What would your shareholders say if they found out that you owned part of a pleasure house?’
Randolph raised his glass to her and Flora bowed her head in return.
‘We should drink this toast in arak,’ said Dr Ambara. Arak was a colourless brandy distilled from palm wine.
Flora clapped her hands gleefully and when Ana appeared, she asked her for three glasses and a bottle of arak.
‘I don’t know what my head is going to feel like in the morning,’ Randolph said slurrily, but he didn’t really care. His family was buried, he was sitting cross-legged on a cushion in Manila in the middle of the night, and what the hell did anything matter?
After they had poured out three glasses of palm brandy, Dr Ambara raised his glass and said, ‘A compliment to the best home stay in Southeast Asia, the Hotel Pasay, and to its alluring proprietor.’
Flora started laughing, a hissing laugh that went on and on and that Randolph found absurdly infectious. Soon they were all laughing, the tears streaming down their cheeks, and Flora clutched Randolph’s arm and buried her face in his shirt.
Randolph at last went upstairs to bed. Flora had given him one of the larger rooms overlooking the backyard. There was a sagging double bed covered with nothing but a fawn-coloured durry, a chest of drawers, a rattan chair and a faded photograph of Djakarta, cut from a magazine and pasted under glass. Randolph opened the loose catch on the balcony windows and stepped outside. The air was warm and smelled of cooking and gasoline fumes. The lights still glowed over downtown Manila as if the city were a carnival. Randolph lit his pipe and smoked for a while, thinking about nothing; he was so tired that his mind refused to function.
At two o’clock in the morning, while he was dozing, his bedroom door opened. A moment later his mosquito net was lifted and a warm, perfumed body slid into the bed next to him.
‘Sssh,’ said Wanda when he raised his head.
He said nothing. He lay back, glad that she was here, but hoping she would not expect anything from him but company.
‘I feel strange,’ she whispered.
‘Me too,’ he told her.
‘I don’t know whether it’s day or night. My watch keeps telling me it’s time to sleep, but my stomach keeps saying it’s lunchtime.’
‘It’ll take a while to get adjusted.’
They lay together in silence for a minute or two. In the darkness Randolph could just make out the shine of her hair, the curve of her naked back. She was wearing only a thong but she lay face down and made no move to touch him.
‘I can’t make love to you,’ he told her.
‘I know,’ she said. ‘I didn’t come here for that. I came only to keep you company.’
‘Well, thank you for that. Not many people seem to realize what it’s like, going home to an empty bed.’
‘It was like that when my engagement was over,’ Wanda said. ‘I don’t know what was worse. The hurt pride or the bed with nobody in it.’
They slept for over an hour. The room was insufferably hot and mosquitoes buzzed around them persistently. Somewhere somebody was playing Beatles records on a worn-out hi-fi, over and over again. ‘She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah.’ Outside, the traffic grumbled and honked until dawn began to smear itself over the sky and the tattered palm trees beyond Randolph’s window were sharply silhouetted by the rising sun.
Wanda opened her eyes and stared at him. ‘I hope you haven’t gotten the wrong idea,’ she said.
‘What’s the right idea?’ he asked.
She propped herself on her elbows. Her breasts were full and rounded, suntanned on top, paler underneath, with a tracery of blue veins.
The right idea is that I’m very fond of you and that I want to give you comfort.’
Randolph smiled, leaned forward and kissed her shoulder. ‘I think the right idea is that you’re a little more special than I ever gave you credit for. And you’re very pretty, and I thank you for a sociable and celibate night.’
Wanda did not take her gaze away. ‘It doesn’t have to be celibate.’
‘I know,’ he replied gently. ‘But I would like it to be, for now at least.’
‘Yes,’ she said, and although it was clear that she wanted him, it was also clear that she understood.
They breakfasted on omelettes and ukoy and bibinga and then Dr Ambara gave them a brief guided tour of Manila before they returned to the airport for the afternoon flight to Djakarta.
As they sat in the lounge drinking basi cocktails and waiting for their flight to be called, Randolph said to Dr Ambara, ‘You wanted to stop over here, didn’t you?’
‘Perhaps “wanted” is the wrong word,’ the doctor replied. He took off his glasses and studiously polished them. There are times for all of us when we have to refer to other people’s experience and other people’s opinions.’
‘Well,’ Randolph asked, ‘what did you learn from Flora?’
Dr Ambara replaced his glasses and said simply, ‘I learned that it is important to distinguish between danger and fear. I learned also that if one is truly dedicated to any particular belief, one must hold fast to one’s dedication regardless of other people’s warnings.’ He paused and then said, ‘Even Flora’s warnings.’ Air Merpati’s flight to Djakarta was called at three o’clock. They flew southwest over Brunei and Borneo, sometimes sleeping, sometimes sitting quietly and thinking. Wanda sat across the aisle from Randolph. For most of the flight she tried to read Mistral’s Daughter, but in the end she tucked it into the pocket of the seat in front of her, folded her arms and closed her eyes. Randolph asked, ‘You’re not too tired?’ She shook her head without opening her eyes. ‘You can still go back if you want to.’ She shook her head again.
‘You heard what Flora said. It could be very dangerous.’ She opened her eyes and looked at him. ‘That’s why I’m coming along. What do you think Marmie would have said if she thought I’d left you to do all this on your own?’
Randolph leaned back in his seat. ‘Maybe we can find out.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Djakarta
I. Made Wartawa sucked on his cigarette and then carefully propped it back on the edge of his Leica ashtray. He snorted noisily, cleared his throat and stood up and looked out the window, peering at the traffic on Jalan M.H. Thamrin as if he had never seen it before, as if it were the sudden and unexpected arrival of an alien spaceship fleet against which all of Djakarta would be powerless.
He was an ugly man, with horn-rimmed glasses, greased-back hair and a white short-sleeved shirt that had obviously been pressed by a commercial laundry. There was very little in his office but grey steel filing cabinets, dust and airline posters.
‘You are talking about something that is totally forbidden,’ he said with a strong Javanese accent. ‘Of course I cannot help you.’
Dr Ambara said, ‘You were recommended very highly.’
I.M. Wartawa shrugged as if indifferent to recommendations.
Randolph looked across at Dr Ambara interrogatively but the doctor gave him a secretive little wave of his hand to indicate that there was still plenty of room for negotiations.
‘I was told that you were the only man in Java who knew where to find a death-trance adept. At least the only reliable man. We know there are many tricksters and thieves.’
I.M. Wartawa came away from the wind
ow and retrieved his cigarette. He drew on it deeply, his face taut with concentration, and then he said, ‘In the old days there were many adepts. But times have changed. We have television now, and videos. The young men are no longer interested in becoming priests and exploring the limits of the Hindu faith. You may complain, you Americans, but you have only yourselves to blame. Your benevolent materialism has destroyed our culture far more thoroughly than the Japanese could ever have done with their guns and their swords.’
Randolph said, ‘If you were to help us, our materialism could be exceedingly benevolent indeed.’
‘You mean you would pay me very well? Of course. I would expect it for conspiring with you to break the law and also for arranging a supernatural feat unattainable anywhere else in the world.’
He sat down and stared at Randolph through the thick magnifying lenses of his glasses. ‘There was a time when I would do almost anything for money. I was one of the greatest entrepreneurs in Djakarta, especially in the early days of Suharto. I could acquire anything that anybody wanted, whether it was narcotic, alcoholic, sexual or spiritual. But I am a little older now. I am not as interested in money as I used to be. Most of my friends are dead or vanished, and I suppose that I have learned to be more careful. I have a shadow on my lung. I want to live out the rest of my life in comparative peace.’
Dr Ambara said, ‘In exchange for your assistance, I could arrange to have you flown to America and treated by a specialist.’
‘America? Why should I want to go to America? No, my friend, there is nothing you can tempt me with.’ He reached into the pocket of his shirt and took out a crumpled pack of Lion cigarettes. ‘These days I manage to get by with whisky money, a bowl of nasi goreng, a few rupiah for playing cards with my cronies. It is not an extravagant life but I manage.’
Randolph sat forward on his chair, his hands clasped tight together, his face drawn and serious. ‘Dr Ambara and I have flown a long way to talk to you today,’ he said gravely.
I.M. Wartawa made a sympathetic face. ‘I did not solicit your visit, I’m afraid. I cannot feel obliged to help you just because you have travelled so far.’
Randolph said, ‘We were prepared to travel such a long distance because we each feel a deep and urgent need to get in touch with the people we lost. I lost my whole family, my wife and my three children. Dr Ambara lost his wife. Both of us left so much unsaid, so much undone. I know that Indonesians set great store in making sure the human spirit is set free from its earthly body after death. But at the moment, Dr Ambara and I are like spirits that can never be free. Our minds dwell constantly on the loved ones we lost, yet we have to remain here, inside our bodies. If you refuse to help us, you are condemning both of us to years of torment, to years of regret.’
I.M. Wartawa listened to this unblinkingly. Then he lit his cigarette and said, ‘You speak very persuasively, sir. But why should it be my responsibility to save you from torment? I am simply a man who does a little business and drinks a little whisky now and again.’
Randolph said, ‘I will pay you fifty thousand dollars in cash. Half now and half later.’
Wanda’s eyes widened but she said nothing. Dr Ambara glanced uneasily from Randolph to I.M. Wartawa and back again. I.M. Wartawa brushed cigarette ash across the surface of his desk with the side of his hand. He blew out smoke.
‘Fifty thousand dollars is a considerable amount of money.’
Randolph nodded. ‘If you invested it wisely, you could live off it very comfortably for the rest of your life.’
‘Well, that is true. You have surprised me. Up until now, my fees for arranging a death trance have not been much more than six or seven thousand dollars. I have to confess that fifty thousand dollars is extremely interesting.’
‘Do you want some time to think about it?’ Randolph asked.
I.M. Wartawa twisted his wrist around and peered at his gleaming gold watch. ‘It is two o’clock now. Let me make some inquiries and call you later this evening. Where are you staying?’
‘At the Hilton,’ said Dr Ambara. ‘Ask for suite nine-oh-eight.’
They shook hands with I.M. Wartawa and went noisily down the uncarpeted stairs to the street. It was an overcast, humid day and the palms rustled over the constant honking and grinding of traffic. Wanda asked, ‘Do you think he will do it?’
‘For fifty thousand dollars, he would be a fool not to,’ replied Dr Ambara.
‘That’s an awful lot of money,’ Wanda said. ‘Are you sure he deserves it? I mean even if he does find you one of these adepts?’
Randolph thrust his hands into the pockets of his lightweight summer trousers.
‘Marmie had stocks and investments totalling three or four million. I can’t think of a better way to use those investments.’
‘Randolph …’ Wanda said gently and took his hand.
‘It’s something I have to do.’
‘But fifty thousand dollars.’
‘It’s only money. And personally I believe it’s worth it.’
They returned to the Hilton to shower and change. Wrapped in a towel, Randolph telephoned Ella, and then Neil Sleaman. There was a distracting echo on the satellite link but he managed to gather from Neil that the Raleigh plant had suffered another setback because of technical problems with the refrigeration unit and that Sun-Taste’s chief marketing manager had been calling all day asking for reassurances that Clare Cottonseed would be able to make up its shortfall in less than a week.
‘Any word from Orbus Greene?’
‘Not a thing.’
‘I’ll call him myself as soon as he’s open for business.’
‘Don’t worry, sir. I’m sure I can handle it.’
Randolph put down the phone. He was convinced now that Clare Cottonseed would get no help from the Margarine Mafia and that Orbus was deliberately delaying his response. Randolph was prepared to pay top prices for Orbus’s cottonseed oil; he was prepared to make wide-ranging concessions on future contracts. He was not prepared, however, to join the Cottonseed Association, and he was deeply concerned that Sun-Taste might take its order elsewhere. It was not as much a question of profits as one of keeping his new factories and his newly hired staff in productive work. If Sun-Taste went, he would have to start devolving and dismantling and he would lose all the expansive impetus of the past three years, not to mention having to pay Federal taxes on last year’s profits out of this year’s sharply reduced income.
That afternoon Dr Ambara took them around Djakarta, through the Chinese district and the old town, and as evening began to thicken, into the pungent street markets and the crowded shanty villages. They sat at a small roadside stall under a hissing pressure lamp and ate bowls of nasi campur, rice mixed with chopped meat and vegetables, and betutu bebek.
All the time, however, they were thinking about I.M. Wartawa, wondering whether he had called them. They had almost completely forgotten about Ecker-Reece and his companions. Randolph had seen no sign of them at Halim airport when they had arrived, and their taxi to the Hilton had certainly not been followed. Dr Ambara had remarked, ‘They were probably nothing more than veterans after all. I think perhaps we were being too sensitive.’
They returned to the Hilton just after nine o’clock. The message light was flashing on Randolph’s telephone. He picked it up and the desk clerk told him that I. Nyoman Sutarja had called, on behalf of I. Made Wartawa. They were to meet I. Made Wartawa at eight o’clock on the following morning at a restaurant on Jalan Sultan Has-anuddin in Kebayoran Baru.
‘Was that all?’ Randolph asked, looking across the room at Dr Ambara.
‘He said to tell you that everything is dandy,’ the desk clerk told him.
Randolph put down the phone. ‘It seems like we’re in business,’ he said. ‘Wartawa wants to meet us at eight o’clock tomorrow morning.’
Randolph scarcely slept that night. He read an old copy of Playboy that he had found in the back of the closet. Then he mixed himself a whisky and ginger o
ut of the refrigerator and sat smoking his pipe until three o’clock had beeped on his traveller’s alarm clock. He lay on his bed and dozed for two hours before getting up at five-fifteen and showering and shaving. He was beginning to understand how holy men experienced strange visions after days without sleep. The hotel floor kept swaying as if shaken by an earthquake and for the first time in years, Randolph realized that he was suffering from severe jet lag.
Wanda had not come into his room during the night, nor had he ventured into hers.
There seemed to have developed an understanding between them that they were strongly attracted to each other and that at the right time and under the right circumstances, they might have become lovers. That right time and those right circumstances might very well coincide one day. But neither of them wanted to jeopardize the possibility of a future relationship by clumsily rushing into anything now. Tensions were too high; nerves were too raw; and the dead were too recently buried.
Nonetheless, when Randolph knocked on Wanda’s door at seven o’clock and she called for him to come in, she was standing in front of the bathroom mirror brushing her hair and wearing nothing but white lace panties. She dressed in front of him as openly as if they were already intimate and both of them knew what she was trying to say to him: I’m yours, when you want me.
Her openness did not upset or offend him. He took it in the way she meant it and was reassured and, in a strange way, comforted.
‘It really looks as if Wartawa might have found us an adept,’ he said, clearing his throat.
‘Are you scared?’
Randolph thought about it briefly and then nodded. ‘I think anybody would be.’
‘Do you actually believe you’re going to see Marmie again?’
‘I don’t know. The nearer I get to it, the more impossible it seems. You know, when Dr Ambara first talked about it in Mount Moriah Clinic, it all sounded so easy. You pay your money and you get to see the loved ones you’ve lost. But now, I don’t know. Now I’m starting to think about how I’m going to feel if I really do see Marmie again, what I’m going to say. And what is she going to feel? Do spirits have the same kind of feelings as mortals? Suppose it upsets her to see me? And what’s going to happen when the trance is over and I have to leave her behind?’
Death Trance Page 22
