The guard was lying in his chair by the gate, playing the gamelan programme on his transistor radio. His eyes were half-closed and his plywood-thin body seemed almost without breath; a ginger kitten that belonged to the Haji who lived up the street was dozing in his lap.
‘Don’t go to sleep,’ she called to him as her driver drew the car level with his chair. She reached out to give the guard some notes. ‘Buy a glass of coffee.’ He accepted the money politely, although it was too little: prices had increased again over the weekend.
The confidence Alex had felt that morning and that had sustained her during the afternoon at work disappeared as the car cleared her lighted driveway. Nothing was visible in the blacked-out streets, and the night was jittery with noises: the street vendors’ calls sounded like the barking of animals; there was an outburst of dinging on a warning bell as a betjak swerved past them and once, from the direction of Freedom Square, a cough of gunfire. Some people said the blackouts were deliberate, that the city’s lights were turned off by the New Order as an inconvenience to conspirators. There was still a one o’clock-to-dawn curfew.
As the car lurched over the broken roads it filled up with the smell of the city, a hot sweetish aroma of decay that was seductive and repellent. It breathed, Alex felt, all Asia into her face. In the early morning, when the chicken porridge men were calling people out to the street to buy breakfast, the air held a light fragrance. But as the day wore on it became heavy with the stink of the canals and of the coconut oil that poor people used for cooking. By dusk it was an oppressive stench of poverty.
To reach Meredith’s house the car had to pass a small park where, two weeks earlier, a girl had been shot. The street dwellers who used to sleep there had moved out because, Itji said, the girl’s ghost troubled them. The bullet marks were still raw on a tree trunk with smashed bark, and there was a brown stain where the girl had fallen against it. Alex felt a knot forming in her stomach as the car crept past the spot, negotiating pot-holes. She snatched suddenly at the front seat to brace herself as the car jerked to a halt. Soldiers with steel helmets and rifles came up out of the dark. They surrounded the car, flashing torches over the number plates and into the driver’s face. Light slid along a bayonet blade, then was aimed into her eyes.
Alex smiled with relief at them: this was the guard post at the entrance to Meredith’s street. In a few minutes she would be safe and with friends.
The house was festive with lights, and Meredith had pinned a sign—GRASS WIDOW, BEWARE—to the front door. She had sent out the invitations before her husband’s illness had been diagnosed and had seen no reason to cancel the party. In fact, she had extended the invitation list.
Houseboys, borrowed from other embassy households, were circulating with trays of drinks. All were in white uniforms, with the Australian coat of arms embossed on their nickel buttons. Some, whose employers were meticulous, wore canvas shoes. The rest had bare feet. Their trays bore glasses of spirits and beer and Pepsi, but no cocktails.
‘Of course, since the war no one has had time to teach servants how to mix drinks,’ somebody, who had been given a brandy and soda, was saying. ‘My God, it took me a year to find a koki who could make an omelet. Back in the Dutch period …’
Thornton Ashby shot up his eyebrows. ‘Lucky there are no Indonesians here tonight. As usual.’ His voice was light and arch. ‘Alex, do let me get you a drink.’ He drew her aside. ‘I’m sorry Julie was a bit overwrought today on the boat. Actually, she was awfully worried about Amanda and about being on the island all weekend. And your dear cousin didn’t help matters by telling her that there were anopheles mosquitoes breeding in the water tanks. I had a look and I couldn’t see any wrigglers at all. I’m sure he made it up, on purpose.’ Alex was sure, too.
Thornton suddenly leaned down to her ear. ‘As you’re a friend, I’ll tell you something. Julie had some post-natal depression a few months back. She’s not over it yet.’
The week Alex had arrived Meredith had dropped a hint about this. Meredith, who had been a young mother in Egypt—in the days when her husband had been a good reporter—had no time for women who tried to breast-feed in hot climates. ‘The heat dries their milk and the baby ruins their boobs’, she used to say. Meredith was proud of hers and had them on display tonight, to the satisfaction of the British military attaché. He was staring with one eye down the front of her dress. His other eye was glass. ‘I’ve heard he takes it out and juggles with it when he’s in a really good mood,’ Thornton whispered to Alex. He choked a giggle and moved off.
A man with the face of a sly pig nosed up to her. He was the Australian vice-consul, David. ‘I’ve been doing some checking on your house, dearie. We’ve got it for free,’ he said. ‘Y’ remember that little Javanese bastard who owned it?’ He winked. ‘Enemy of the People.’
‘What! Has he been arrested?’
‘Yep. The boys in jungle green came round last week. We’ll put in a new dunny for you with what we save on the rent.’
Alex was frowning. ‘Isn’t that illegal? I mean, we’re just stealing the house.’
‘Stealing from the Indons? Dearie, they invented stealing.’
She was still frowning. David added, ‘When you’ve been here six months you’ll understand this town. You’ll sort the place out.’
‘I’m beginning to already,’ she said.
The full complement of eighty guests had arrived and had segregated according to sex and local custom. Alex looked around. They were, she thought again, already so ugly and so familiar. She knew the female conversations by rote: servants, bargains and going home. The men appeared to discuss politics. One or two of them were willing to talk sensibly with her at work, but they were so used to women being either somebody’s wife or somebody’s secretary that on social occasions they would lapse into a sort of twittering gallantry when she approached. Anthony said that in fact masculine conversation at parties was not about politics at all, but was confined to relating the plots of blue movies and swapping addresses for shirt tailors.
It was already eight o’clock and there had been no message about Maruli. Alex stood frowning, trying to decide if she could live through another half-hour in sobriety, or if she should have a brandy, stay for Meredith’s buffet supper and resign herself to the attentions of the Spanish chargé d’affaires. A week ago he had danced on the Ramayana Bar and had limp-fallen off backwards into the bottle racks, somehow escaping injury. He owned an orangutan, which was illegal, and had taught the animal to do rude tricks. ‘It’s not a party without Juan,’ the old hands used to say. His halitosis was so bad Alex sometimes thought she could see it.
‘Here’s a turn-up,’ Thornton’s voice said behind her.
A Javanese man accompanied by two beautiful young women, one Indonesian, the other Chinese, had come in through the french doors. The man looked to be in his early forties, and was short, but had the torso of a much taller, much bigger man. He carried his chest jutting out so far that his walk was a stiff strut. He had a thin mouth and small, observant eyes. From his forehead rose a pompadour of black hair from which no strand dislodged as he bowed to Meredith.
‘Hairspray,’ Thornton whispered. ‘He’d be quite handsome if he weren’t so vain.’
He was quite handsome, Alex found; his advertised sexuality was too harsh to be merely comic. His strong-man walk was so deliberately unnatural as to be both quaint and grim, like a shrunken head. The walk, the hair, the gallantry, all signalled an obsession. ‘Who is he?’ Alex asked.
‘Sutrisno. Officially he’s a businessman. He’s got his finger up to the wrist in every New Order pie. He knows everything and everybody. I can’t think why he’d bother coming to this party.’
When the trio had entered conversation had died down a little, and as they moved forward and more people noticed their presence, the room became even quieter. Thornton had to whisper. ‘The Sumatran girl is Naida. She runs Trisno’s office. She’s from a very pukkah family, progressive; bu
t she’s gone a bit far in her identification with the West. Your dear cousin took her to bed, then dumped her a few months back. She’s got no hope of marrying an Indonesian now—you know what they think about girls who go out with foreigners. She’ll have to find a whitey.’ Alex clicked her tongue. She knew how ruthless Anthony was when any of his girlfriends got ideas about marriage. ‘I’m far too rich to get married,’ he used to say.
‘As for Plum Blossom,’ Thornton was saying, ‘her old man was a millionaire who got out just before they started rounding up the Chinks and sending them home to Chairman Mao. There’s something fishy about her staying on here. Her name is Eileen—wouldn’t you know.’
Eileen had a double fringe of black hair beneath which her tightly-slotted eyes gleamed coquettishly. She waved a jewelled hand towards somebody in the almost silent crowd. ‘Hi, Sexy!’ she cried. Her voice was shrill; it broke the spell and conversation restarted at a roar. An American correspondent down from Vietnam said loudly to Naida, ‘I want to become an expert on Asian affairs.’ Naida had the face of a large-eyed, slightly irritated panther; she had evidently heard the line before. ‘You’re crazy,’ she replied.
Sutrisno shook hands with Alex with a strong, cool grip. ‘Miss Alexandra Wheatfield? The cousin of my good friend, Mr Anthony Sinclaire? He warned me you were beautiful. Ah.’ Sutrisno looked her carefully up and down, nodding slowly. ‘Tell me, do you ride also, like Mr Anthony?’
‘Yes. At least, I used to, at home. My mother breeds quarter-horses.’
‘Very fashionable.’ Sutrisno nodded again, indicating he found no interest in Alex’s digression. ‘Mr Anthony rides early in the morning. He goes to a certain, rather deserted area close to the naval academy. I think he meets someone there … It seems so mysterious.’ He began to smile.
Anthony’s cover is blown, Alex thought in a panic. Thornton began talking quickly, explaining that he, too, and the Ambassador, and practically everyone else, liked riding in that area. There was nothing odd about it. Sutrisno’s smile lost its pleasure; he was bored by the explanation and now smiled at them coldly, like a wooden Indian.
On the buffet behind them the servants had laid out most of the food. Sutrisno glanced at it then looked away. In the centre of the table sat a large, glazed ham. Alex noticed that Thornton, too, was discomfited by the sight.
‘That ham was flown in from Singapore. Meredith must have thought you wouldn’t come, Sutrisno,’ he said.
‘I have already eaten,’ he replied. His face was now expressionless.
As Thornton steered Alex away he muttered, ‘God, why was Meredith allowed out of Dover Heights? Ham! Sutrisno was absolutely furious. He’s modern, of course, and will have a drink. But he is a Haji.’
As they drew more safely away Thornton regained his composure. He pursed his lips. ‘Anthony’s in trouble,’ he said. ‘Either you tell him that the Indonesians are on to him, or I’ll go to the Ambassador. Anthony’ll get himself shot if he’s not careful.’
‘Are you sure Sutrisno knows?’ Alex asked.
‘Positive. Our spooks are getting a terrific lot of intelligence out of the Navy—you aren’t allowed to see the cables, but I am. Sutrisno was politely telling us that the Indonesian government knows. The penalty for espionage is death, you realise—though they’d never dare even arrest one of ours. Bloody gentlemen’s agreements.’ Thornton’s expression brightened suddenly. ‘Still, I suppose Anthony will have to resign. In a couple of months, of course, so that we don’t appear to be bowing to pressure. Oh, God. Look at Meredith. Her wig is coming adrift.’
‘I’m going,’ Alex said. ‘This is not my scene.’
Thornton’s eyebrows shot up. ‘My! You are peculiar when you’re sober. I suppose you’re off to the Ramayana Bar now to join the jet-set? Oh, I say, there goes Her Majesty’s Consul! Hand up Lou-Ellen’s dress.’
Sutrisno was barring Alex’s way. ‘You are not going, Miss Wheatfield, when people are just beginning to enjoy themselves?’
‘I am.’
He made a gesture of resignation. ‘For me, a poor village boy, just somebody who looked after a buffalo and didn’t go to school, these parties are most interesting,’ he said. ‘When I am here I forget I am in Indonesia and that we are a free country. I imagine I am in South Africa, or back in the Dutch days, when this was the Indies, and we were the natives, or the brownies—as they used to call us.’ He switched abruptly to Indonesian. ‘Saudara senang dengan pesta matjam ini? Do you like this type of party?’
‘Tidak senang. I don’t.’
‘I am glad to hear it,’ Sutrisno said. ‘I thought you would be different from most foreigners, from the bulek.’ His tone was humorous, but only the street boys called foreigners ‘albinos’ to their faces.
Alex slumped into the back seat of the car. She felt as ill as if he had abused her directly. All sophisticated Indonesians expressed themselves obliquely—‘The Javanese don’t talk, they vibrate’, as Anthony said. She rode home feeling alarmed for him, and angry with herself. She had been wrong about Maruli: no message had been telephoned.
The blackout had ended and she was able to watch the street dwellers and the soldiers and the peddlars touting their pitiful junk. The party seemed less distasteful now she had left it. If her friends were racist and foolish it was, as Anthony said, because outside their gates were the badlands.
By the time she had reached her own street Alex was relieved that Maruli had not come.
He was seated on a sofa in her livingroom, smoking a kretek.
‘But I told Itji that if you came they were to ring me!’
Maruli shrugged. ‘Surely you have been here long enough to know that our telephones do not work?’
3
‘Come,’ Maruli said. ‘I have not eaten. Your driver can take us.’
The sate restaurant was in Blora, an area of Chinese shops and other sate restaurants not far from the Hotel Indonesia. Around midnight foreigners could often be seen driving slowly along the road that ran in front of the sate restaurants and then passed under the city’s one highway, leading south. It was in this underpass area, where some poor families lived and cats scrabbled in the restaurant garbage, that the wadams, transvestites, congregated at night. At times the cars would stop and one of the neon-painted boys would get in; mostly the car passengers came only to stare, and the transvestites jiggled their false breasts at them or screamed obscenities. Other male whores, bantjis, who worked the Hotel Indonesia beat wearing well-ironed white shirts and tight trousers, came to a stall near the underpass to take their evening coffee. Most were village boys, but a few of them were university graduates. Unemployment was very high.
The sate restaurant had a concrete floor, a corrugated iron roof and chipped metal tables and chairs. Although there were tin spoons and forks on the tables most people were eating with their hands. A dirty basin and a grey towel were provided for them to use afterwards. As local restaurants went, it was expensive. Its patrons, Maruli said, were senior civil servants and those Chinese whose families had lived for generations in the Indies and who had developed a taste for Indonesian food. As Alex and Maruli entered, every diner turned to stare at them. She could hear people saying, ‘Look at her hair!’
Maruli was well known in the place. A number of the diners greeted him and the waiters called him ‘Bapak’ reverently when they brought the food.
Alex’s appetite had vanished. She was able to eat only three sticks of goat sate and barely a spoonful of rice. Maruli ate hungrily, tearing the meat off the sticks with quick, animal movements. As before, she was repulsed by his way of eating. The sense of panic that had overtaken her when she had seen him seated on the sofa would not abate; for a moment she thought she would get up and run, but she felt too weak.
He glanced up. ‘Don’t look so frightened,’ he said. ‘It spoils your expression.’
When he had washed he returned to the table and placed his hand over hers. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘we will discuter. But fi
rst, you tell me about yourself.’
Alex began to relax as she talked. He listened attentively, smiling. ‘Even more than I imagined,’ he said once or twice. When she told him her father was a company director he laughed out loud. ‘A defender of the faith! You were born out of the essence of capitalism,’ he said.
‘Well, what does your father do?’
Maruli shrugged. ‘He is chief of our tribe. But we are not so numerous …’ He added without irony, ‘… fewer than a million souls. Tell me, you are twenty-five: have you never married?’
Alex shook her head.
‘At twenty-five my marriage had been arranged and I already had three sons.’
‘Oh!’ For a moment Alex could not think of anything to say. ‘How many …’
‘How many now? Five sons, three daughters. Some of them are back in Sumatra, some of them live with their mother. She and I do not see the world in the same way—she is not a political person. She would like me to go back to Sumatra, to be a chieftain, to kill the buffalos for feasts … We have a saying, “To live like a frog under a coconut shell”. I can’t do it.’
‘But what can you do now?’ Alex asked. ‘You have no position. You are forbidden to write.’
‘Yes. I am forbidden to write.’ His expression had lost its edge of alert mockery. In repose his features were beautiful; his eyes were large and soft. Like an African’s, Alex thought. In tribal dress, with the indigo-dyed robes and beaten-gold bracelets, he would look magnificent.
‘Alex, will you come with me?’
She nodded. He began to smile. ‘Before, you were frightened of me. Now I will tell you clearly: I am still politically active. I am an enemy to the New Order, and therefore to your government. You don’t care? Think.’
‘I don’t care.’ She was barely listening to him, but was staring at his lips, which were dark, purplish brown, everting outwards. Her hand reached out of its own accord and her fingers brushed his mouth. She was startled as she watched herself doing it, but there was a sense of triumph in the wantonness of the action—an intense, female instinct had been satisfied: she had actively chosen him, moved by a subconscious force.
Monkeys in the Dark Page 3
