Monkeys in the Dark

by Blanche d'Alpuget

‘I think, Thornton, you are not really a ladies’ man,’ he said. ‘Am I right?’

  Thornton stared at him, his mouth slightly open. ‘Of course I’m not. I’m married.’

  Sutrisno nodded again and pushed a martini across the bar.

  It was not until they had agreed on most of the details for the boat deal that Sutrisno mentioned Alex’s name once more. As she did not have a regular boyfriend, perhaps she would … ? Sutrisno shrugged, ‘Like to come to dinners? Meet some of my friends?’

  ‘I thought, “Alex is a big girl. She can look after herself” ’ Thornton explained later to Julie. ‘So I said, “Of course, Trisno. Bisa diatur. It can be arranged.” He thought that was a great joke—laughed his head off. Actually, it was a revolting sight—he looked like a snake laughing, with his head back and that great crest of hair … But the important thing, darling, was to get him on side.’

  The Australian embassy was an old two-storey plantation bungalow which had been converted, in the early fifties, into an embassy by planting a flag-pole in the front lawn and a guard on the verandah. Over the years cryptograph machines, safes and combination-lock doors had been installed in the back of the house, on the upper storey—the security section.

  For verisimilitude Sinclaire shared what had once been the diningroom with another Second Secretary, an External Affairs officer whose passionate interest was negotiating with the Indonesian government on the border for Papua-New Guinea. In his diningroom office Sinclaire interviewed journalists, diplomats from other embassies and Indonesian students. His real office work was done further down the corridor, in a dingy former bedroom. There were bars on its windows, wall- and floor-bolted safes and a machine which could shred, then mulch, waste paper, typewriter ribbons and sometimes, with coaxing, a condom. Sinclaire had experimented with the machine and found that it could digest a condom in seven minutes, if well fed with paper first. The room was long and narrow: at its far end there was photographic equipment, an emergency cryptograph unit, another machine which could make remarkably accurate copies of documents, and a sledgehammer. The sledgehammer was to be used, in a critical situation, for smashing the machinery. Frank Greaves, who was the room’s permanent occupant, had once already—in Czechoslovakia—committed this act of patriotic vandalism and ever since had looked with relish at sledgehammers.

  He was hunched at his desk, twiddling a fountain pen. Between his fingers, it looked like a wisp of straw.

  ‘It was a Russian .45,’ Sinclaire said. ‘We left the bar and went home to the flat. Around midnight he said to me, “Mr Anthony, you are a gift from God. I wish to make my prayers now.” He washed, and I gave him a sarong and a towel to use as a mat. Then, while he was praying, I went through his clothes. He had the pistol in his jacket … I had the feeling, in the bar when I was getting ready to finger him, that he was wearing one.’

  ‘Any ammunition?‘ Greaves asked.

  ‘Six rounds.’

  ‘Did you tell him he shouldn’t be carrying it? That if he gets picked up—a roadblock or something—he’s gone for a Burton?’

  Sinclaire shook his head. ‘He’s as jumpy as a cat. If the timing is wrong, he might break. Hell! Devout nationalist, Marxist-Leninist and good Moslem boy all in one package …’ Sinclaire looked out the window. There had been a flame-of-the-forest tree there once, but Greaves had had it cut down for security. The office now overlooked a bitumen-paved courtyard where the embassy drivers lolled about and made passes at the embassy coffee and cleaning maids. It was early and the drivers were all still out, bringing the staff to work. Two maids were alone there, one picking lice from the other’s hair. She laughed when she caught a fat one. Sinclaire sighed and swept a hand through his thinning fringe. ‘Preserve me,’ he murmured.

  ‘Save the fainting fairy act,’ Greaves said. ‘Now let’s get it right: he took the cash while you were buying the drinks. Then he swallowed the we’re-really-helping-you-story?’

  ‘Yep. Leapt at it.’

  Greaves’s eyes were almost yellow and he could lock them, unblinking, like a toad willing a fly to keep still until it was ready to pounce. He stared at Sinclaire. ‘Young fella,’ he said, ‘let me tell you something: the good ones don’t leap. They gently fall into your arms. So be careful. Young what’s-s-name may be a plant.’

  ‘Frank, if he’s a plant, I’m a …’

  ‘Daisy,’ Greaves said. ‘You bloody know it all, don’t you? Just let’s stick to the facts. Now, what did he tell you? You can sit down, if you like.’

  Sinclaire accepted a chair. ‘Basically, he suspects something is going on at the Pusat, the cultural centre place where he boards. Right down at the back of the compound there is a large, locked shed …’

  ‘Made of?’

  ‘Brick. Whitewashed.’

  ‘Roof?’

  ‘Tiled roof. One window, with bars on it.’

  ‘Has he looked through the window?’

  ‘There’s no light inside, so he can’t see much, except that there are wooden crates …’

  ‘Any markings?’

  ‘He couldn’t see any. A few times, at night, he has seen people carrying things down there, and taking things away. Really late, after curfew, he said. And they were trying to be as quiet as possible.’

  ‘People? What sort of people—men? women? in uniform?’

  ‘Men. He thinks they were in uniform, but it was too dark to see.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake! What about their boot marks, man? You can tell the difference between jungle boots and a rubber sandal, you know. Did you ask him?’

  ‘I forgot.’

  ‘OK. So what does he think it is?’

  ‘Arms. Or maybe, just maybe, a printing press. One of those hand-run jobs. Sometimes he’s heard a whirring noise at night.’

  ‘Did he go and look?’

  ‘No. He was scared.’

  Greaves tilted his chair backwards and locked his eyes on Sinclaire. ‘I’d say he’s got a right to be scared—if he’s straight. That’s either an arms cache for those sections of the Forces who want the President to make a comeback, or … or, young fella, it’s one of the sources of the black pamphlets. Mostly, the arms are being buried, so I’d bet on the latter.’ He jerked his chair forward and pawed the papers on his desk. ‘Have a look at this American stuff.’

  The CIA paper was a report on the Indonesian Army’s knowledge of left-wing plotting for a military-civilian uprising against the Army that would restore the President’s former power. The Army was well prepared, but was not going to move to crush the conspiracy until all its leaders had been identified.

  ‘You see,’ Greaves continued, ‘there’s nothing there on the underground propaganda campaign. They don’t know where it’s coming from, and that’s bitching them. Those pamphlets with all the piddle about the Army wanting to sell the country out to multi-nationals, generals ready to stuff their pockets with gold from aid money, when it’s forthcoming … that’s getting right up their nostrils.’

  ‘Is this from a delicate source?’ Sinclaire asked.

  Greaves flashed a threatening, plastic smile. ‘Hardly,’ he said, then frowned. ‘Come on, Anthony. Who plays all ends against the middle?’

  ‘Sutrisno?’

  Greaves nodded. As Sinclaire reached the door Greaves called him back. ‘Listen, I don’t like that pistol. I know he’ll say it’s for self-protection against the right-wing kids. But they’re not shooting each other in Djakarta—that’s happening in Bandung and Jogja. So why has he got it?’

  ‘Who can fathom …?’

  ‘Don’t just shrug, sonny. You haven’t joined daddy’s merchant bank yet—you’re doing a job for your country. And you’re not going to balls it up by letting an agent get lumbered for carrying an illegal weapon. Pretty soon you’re going to have to tell young thingummy to get rid of his water pistol. Right?’

  ‘Yes, pet,’ Sinclaire lisped.

  Greaves stared at the closing door with yellow toad-slit eyes. ‘The best y
oung officer the firm has,’ was the reputation that had preceded Sinclaire’s arrival in Djarkarta. Years ago the British, who had trained him, had noted, ‘He is arrogant to a degree which is dangerous in any officer, particularly one on active duty. The source of his self-confidence is, apparently, his private wealth and his upbringing in a small Australian élite. However, set against arrogance, which he will moderate with age and experience, Sinclaire has the qualities of intelligent caution and imagination. During the course he was fond of remarking, “My father told me the world is a giant booby-trap. The old bastard was right!” He has a high tolerance to stress and was able to maintain a cover-story after thirty hours without sleep. In all, he is well fitted for clandestine operations if working under the direction of a strong senior officer.’ Greaves recalled those cherished four days in 1965 when the Western world had known what was happening in Indonesia only through Sinclaire, and how incompetent coots in External Affairs had taken a month to send on to Djarkarta a copy of President Johnson’s cable of thanks to the Prime Minister. He and Sinclaire, the coach and the athlete, were a magnificent team.

  Greaves continued staring at the door, thinking he had never known his boy to make so many small mistakes.

  4

  Sinclaire strolled down the hallway to Alex’s room.

  The Press and Information Office was just a glassed-in section of the verandah, with coloured posters of Bondi Beach in summer, the Paris End of Collins Street, BHP workers pouring molten metal, and some book shelves. There were no safes or locks on the bookcases and the books were stolen at the rate of five a week. On top of the shelves there was a stuffed cobra, dusty about the eyeballs and hood, which had been presented to the Office staff by a grateful local journalist. The cobra was known as ‘Mas Ular’, Brother Snake, and it was said by the consular personnel that every time the Ambassador bought a drink which could not be charged to his entertainment allowance, Mas Ular flicked his blue rubber tongue.

  Alex was seated at her desk, smiling, when Sinclaire sauntered in and dropped into a chair. ‘The Strangler is feeling liverish this morning,’ he said. ‘Christ! I don’t know why I put up with that superannuated Nazi … Last night I did something both clever and brave, and all he could do was criticise. I need sympathy, Alex.’

  ‘Poor Anthony,’ she said.

  Sinclaire looked at her again. Her expression was vague and contented and her eyelids were mauve and slightly puffy, as if she had not had enough sleep. But the give-away was her hair. Sinclaire knew she would have washed it after coming back from the islands, but now it needed washing again. And there were some little knots in it.

  ‘That’s a nice love-bite you’ve got on your neck,’ he said.

  Her hand flew up.

  ‘Wrong side,’ Sinclaire said. He was grinning at her, but his eyes were cold.

  Alex pulled a mirror from her top drawer. ‘You weasel!’

  ‘Obviously, you might have had one. Who’s the lucky fellow?’

  ‘None of your business.’

  ‘Are you, as they say, “in love” with him? Or is it her? One never knows, these days.’

  ‘Yes. It is a him.’

  ‘That’s a relief. Bloody hell, Alex! You’ve only been here six weeks.’ He sat back and stared at her, his long wolf-mouth curling at one corner. ‘My little cousin has a cunt of clay,’ he said.

  ‘Damn you. He’s a beautiful man—intellectual, sensitive and …’

  ‘OK. I’m sorry. He’s obviously doing the right things to you. You look fantastic. Cousin.’ He reached out and stroked her cheek. ‘Is “he” an Indonesian?’ Sinclaire added lightly.

  Alex had collected her wits. ‘That reminds me,’ she said. ‘I must tell you something about that creep, Sutrisno.’

  ‘We shall speak of such matters out of doors,’ Sinclaire said, and rising, beckoned Alex outside.

  They strolled down the front steps and along the gravel drive towards the back of the embassy. As Alex told Sinclaire what Sutrisno had said about his riding habits, her cousin began to laugh.

  ‘Of course he knows about me. They’re bright guys, you know. Contrary to general belief.’

  ‘But …?’

  ‘But nothing. He was putting you on. Brother Trisno is a kind of licensed go-between. He tells the West what a grand job the New Order is doing, how effectively they’ve made nonsense of the Domino Theory, and gets paid, by his side, for doing so. Not straight cash, of course. That would be crass, un-Javanese. He gets an import license here, a mining concession there … But Trisno is smart enough to be ripping it off all round: the Yanks pay him, and probably the Brits. Not straight, either, but favours. So he stays, or can claim he stays, his own man. And then, just to keep everything really friendly and personal, Sutrisno runs a stable of delectable fillies. Again, no cash involved—just favours.’

  ‘Is that Chinese girl, Eileen, one of them?’

  ‘No, as a matter of fact.’ Sinclaire twitched his long, pointed nose at Alex.

  They had reached the doorway of the commissary. ‘Let me buy you a fully-imported tin of Queensland pineapple. Or would you prefer some tinned tropical fruit salad?’ he said. ‘You know the Americans have Uncle Sam’s rice in their PX? Only costs eight times as much as the local variety, and you can’t taste it, but hell, it’s a little bit of home.’ He strolled between the grocery shelves. There were no other shoppers about. ‘Tell you what. You buy me a bottle of …’ He was looking at the rows of shelves filled with alcohol. ‘… Now, here’s a nice Woolworths’ special. Alex, do you realise we are surrounded by second-rate people? Just look at what they eat and drink—they fight to get hold of this stuff. When the icecream consignment was left at the airport for three hours and turned back into a swill of powdered milk and whale oil, they cried. Betty James actually cried tears of rage and deprivation. No wonder they all get dysentery.’ He turned round. ‘Give us a kiss and I’ll tell you the true story of Eileen Wan.’

  ‘Just tell me,’ Alex said.

  Sinclaire shrugged. ‘Since you insist. Miss Wan is the daughter of a towkay who was Sutrisno’s silent partner. He left the country in a big hurry—supposedly with a serious heart complaint that needed treatment abroad—late last year, and Sutrisno inherited the business. Nothing funny about that. Wan had the normal hundred thousand dollars in his suitcase, and twenty carats of diamonds up his bum. But he is worth about ten times that, and the word is that Eileen knows where the rest of the dough is, but she isn’t going to split to Sutrisno until she can get a guarantee that daddy can come back and do what he likes doing best. Which is ripping off the Indonesian import-export laws. So, officially, she is destitute, and officially Sutrisno is supporting her out of the goodness of his heart, but, unofficially, it’s her nerve against his.’

  ‘He could coerce her,’ Alex said.

  ‘Coerce a member of the master race? Come, come, Alex. Anyway, he’s probably got to keep her alive, and with both hands on, to sign the Swiss bank cheques … But speaking of race—your good friend, your new good friend, that is … He doesn’t happen to be one of them, does he?’

  ‘What does it matter?’

  ‘It matters because it could be construed as a security breach.’

  ‘Nonsense!’

  ‘Of course it’s nonsense. But it would be the excuse. This is a town of scared people, sweetheart. The tribal feeling is pretty strong. If you’re consorting with the enemy, they’ll tear you to pieces. Of course it’s all right for the men—their motives are assumed to be dishonourable. But it doesn’t work for women.’

  He was smiling, showing his small, prettily-jagged teeth, but he was very angry. What you mean, Anthony, is that you would tear me to pieces, Alex thought.

  ‘He’s an Arab,’ she said.

  ‘An Ay-rab, eh? Town or desert?’

  ‘Town.’

  Sinclaire sniffed. ‘They’re not the best sort.’

  ‘We first-rate people don’t have to consider those judgments,’ she replied, ‘We
can get our kicks however we like—go out with Ay-rabs, spy …’

  ‘That was unkind, Alex. And naïve,’ Sinclaire said. She had to step back sharply, knocking up against the cold metal shelves to avoid him as he brushed past her, making for the door.

  Alex, back at her desk, yawned and stretched, then submitted to the images that were swimming up into her mind. She heard the muezzin again … he was calling from the mosque when we fell asleep. His song leapt—Allah al’ Akbah! God is Most Great! And then, deep and crooning: Come to God, Come to Security. And leaping up again, God is Most Great! The room was ringing with its joy, and yellow with lights and mirrors. Maruli said to me, ‘I have prayed in your arms. Now, when Moslems start chanting, it’s time for us pagans to sleep.’ That must have been about five o’clock. So I’ve had only about an hour’s sleep; I’m overtired. Still, I should not have lost my temper with Anthony. He never forgets. When he’s angry he becomes pale and ugly. He used to terrify me. I would do whatever he told me, once. But now …

  From the bookshelves Mas Ular was observing her. ‘But now I don’t give a damn what he thinks, do I?’ Alex said aloud to the snake.

  Poppy, a mouse-like Javanese who was Alex’s filing clerk and who worked in a cubby-hole further down the Press Office, had come tiptoeing out and had overheard her. Poppy looked about fourteen, but was in fact thirty, and was given to fainting fits, sick headaches and frequent attacks of the national illness, ‘wind entering’, something worse than a cold but not as bad as influenza. She stopped dead when she heard Alex address the stuffed cobra.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Alex asked.

  ‘Oooh, Miss Alex. It is very bad luck to make an animal your equal by talking to it,’ she said. ‘We are mannsia, human beings. Animals are binatang, that is, animals. They have no soul. Therefore we should not speak to them, or we may become like them—without soul.’

  ‘I see,’ Alex said. They both knew it was a little joke, but even so Alex had to treat Poppy gravely, as if she were an invalid, since even the slightest excitement caused her to curl inwards into a tiny, weeping bundle. ‘I won’t speak to Mas Ular again.’