Monkeys in the Dark

by Blanche d'Alpuget

  Poppy was still standing rigid. She tittered from behind her hand. ‘The communists had no souls, either,’ she said suddenly. Alex remembered stories of how villagers had hunted down the communists, like wild beasts, and killed them. Perhaps one of Poppy’s family had been captured; perhaps she had seen the hunt.

  ‘Yes, Poppy,’ she said soothingly. ‘No souls.’

  Alex went home early. Except on Thursdays, bag day, when the dispatches had to be prepared for an escorted aeroplane trip in the diplomatic bag, the embassy closed at two-fifteen. Staff went home for lunch and a siesta during the hottest part of the afternoon. At five the city rose and bathed, and the devout prayed, while the foreign community braced itself for the evening’s parties.

  Alex left the embassy at noon. It was already very hot and the car had no air-conditioning. Sweat prickled under her legs and on her shoulder blades as she lay, half asleep, in the back seat. She hoped Maruli would not come to see her for another day: she wanted to recover in the cool dimness of her house, where everything was green and white and where the rattan blinds, let down at midday, turned the rooms into the chambers of a cave, an asylum from the heat. She wanted time to think about Maruli.

  He was seated on a bamboo armchair on her front verandah, wearing the pale blue shirt and blue trousers she now considered as significantly his: the clothes were simple and their colour intensified the darkness of his skin.

  Her guard, Bagong, was sprawled at Maruli’s feet.

  As the car swept along the driveway Bagong leapt up, then resumed his normal langor. He drifted forward to open the rear door for Alex. He was grinning nervously, but Alex barely noticed his presence. Her body felt as light as a leaf; she was gazing at Maruli.

  ‘I want to kiss you,’ she said, but he held her back with his eyes.

  ‘It is not our custom,’ he murmured in English, then switched to Indonesian. ‘I had some business in this part of town. Perhaps you can come to lunch with me? We shall go to a stall and drink goat’s foot soup. It is heating food—good for tiredness.’

  The embassy car took them to the spot: a piece of open land, half-paved, half-dirt, at the back of which were some dilapidated shops. On its northern edge there was a rubbish dump twelve feet high in which cats and rag pickers scavenged, the men sunk to their knees in refuse. At the front of the wasteland, near the roadway, were a row of grey canvas tents, one of them advertising goat’s foot soup. Inside the tent there were trestle tables and benches, and the soup, boiling on a charcoal bucket fire which was pumped with bellows by a little girl. A few dirt-hazed glass jars of peanut wafers were on the counter. The stall-holder was a fat woman who tucked Maruli’s money into her brassière. Her lips were red with betel. She laughed and flirted with the men customers, occasionally spitting scarlet saliva on the ground.

  ‘You don’t mind this place?’ Maruli asked. He was concerned not to alarm her. Personally, he preferred the eating places of the masses: if alone, he would have talked to the betjak boys, picked up some gossip. He was uncertain how far he could lead Alex to his own habits—she could suddenly shiver with disgust and bolt, like a half-trained animal.

  ‘Not with you.’

  The softness in her face, her submissiveness, filled him with pity. These were bad times. That morning the cell had discussed strategy for Bandung: he had to get up there, but travelling was a difficulty—trains and private cars were being searched. A diplomatic car would be safe.

  He broached the subject of a cultural exchange, of paintings and dances, before the woman brought their soup. ‘There is a large school of painters in Bandung,’ he said. ‘I know all of them. I can introduce you … It would be an excuse for us to spend the weekend together.’

  He added, ‘You must see more than just Djakarta—our cities are mere trading posts. Our real buildings are in the countryside—the rice terraces. They are the grand architecture of the people. The cities rot, but the carved mountains are works of genius, hundreds of years in the making.’

  Alex nodded eagerly.

  The soup woman slapped down their bowls, and Maruli abruptly stopped talking. As he sucked up the hot soup, which had a strong smell, like lamb stew, Alex felt slightly queasy: his bowl was cracked; the porcelain spoon she had been given was chipped. She began to sip gingerly, sitting upright, while Maruli’s head was bent forward, his face hidden, a stranger to her. Anthony had said, ‘Their obsession with food is touching: one realises they’ve been without it, from time to time’. Alex forced her head forward and began to drink. The flavour of the soup was good, but when she came to a piece of the promised foot, a lump of grey gristle, she put down her spoon and looked around.

  As usual in any public eating place, there were beggars. A crippled boy had accosted them on the way in, and a gypsy girl with a baby covered in sores had demanded money while they were waiting for their food.

  Another beggar was now standing at the entrance to the tent, a tall man in faded khaki. One of his arms was missing. As Alex squinted at his silhouette in the doorway she saw that his left leg also was gone—his trousers on that side were pinned up and hanging hollow. He held a rough crutch in his left armpit, while jerking forward the stump of his right arm as if it still had a hand attachéd to it. Strangely, he made no wail for money as beggars normally did.

  As she continued to look at him she realised that his face was beautifully structured: a long, noble nose and full, chiselled mouth. Flesh had wasted from him and his pointed cheekbones seemed about to break through the skin. Two men eating in the stall had quickly glanced away and the fat soup woman had begun cursing to herself, groping in her brassière for money.

  Maruli looked up. He made a noise in his throat, a sigh of pain. The beggar was gazing at him directly.

  Maruli began pulling notes from his pocket, then went forward to the tent door and handed them to the man. The beggar bowed to him, turned and slowly limped off in the direction of the rubbish heap. The two men still looked away from where he had stood. The stall was quiet. They’re pretending he doesn’t exist, Alex thought. Something very unlucky has happened.

  Maruli’s expression was haggard as he returned to sit opposite Alex.

  ‘Who is he?’ she whispered.

  He shook his head. Even Maruli is frightened of it, she thought.

  When he spoke his voice was matter-of-fact, but low. ‘His commanding officer is sentenced to death. But he, and some others, merely had their right arms and left legs struck off.’ Alex continued to frown and Maruli added, ‘His commanding officer was Colonel Untung’. Colonel Untung, head of the élite corps, the Palace Guard, had launched the coup.

  Maruli leant forward and stroked Alex’s hand. ‘It was a kind of madness,’ he said. ‘But it’s over now. Don’t look so pale. That man is just an advertisement—a warning to others.’ He thought, What will they do to me, if I am discovered? A man of forty-three, who can think and talk and write? They will kill me. They must kill me. He supposed he had realised this before, and before, as now, it seemed quite unimportant.

  He insisted that they drink a glass of coffee and eat some peanut wafers before they left the stall. ‘Bandung will be our honeymoon,’ he said. ‘How will we go? By aeroplane? By elephant? Ah! My grandfather had an elephant. We used to take it swimming in the lake.’ A lover’s gaiety had returned to him, the gaiety he had had the night before in the yellow-mirrored room, when he had laughed out loud and cried, ‘I’m flying.’

  It was Alex who suggested they should go to Bandung by embassy car. Maruli seemed unwilling at first. ‘Is it all right? Will people not ask with whom you travel? What about the chauffeur?’

  Alex began to smile. ‘Cultural exchange, as you said, is part of my job. The largest school of painters is in Bandung … I give you a lift there in return for introductions to them. If anyone asks, I’ll tell them that. It’s the truth, after all.’

  Maruli nodded.

  ‘And I won’t even have to pay for the car—it will be official business.’
>
  Maruli nodded again. He was thinking how little she loved her country. She could steal from it at any moment—small thefts like a car ride. She probably cheated on taxation. But then, she was the daughter of a robber, and had been reared in ignorance. His expression was composed, almost blank, as he observed Alex. In the dirty tent, surrounded by pirate-faced betjak boys whose pungent sweat-smell was barely disguised by the aroma of the soup, she looked particularly luscious and delicate, like an orchid. It was a bitter amusement that she had fallen into his palm so easily, now, when he had no time for her, when he was no longer free. A year ago he could have told her that he loved her; he could have educated her. Now he had to say, ‘I will arrange my own surat djalan. You arrange your travel document through the embassy. It would be good if it stated “official business”. There will then be no questions at roadblocks—we won’t waste time.’

  As they were emerging from the tent Maruli said, ‘I have business. See you soon.’ He walked quickly away. In a few minutes he was lost in the crowd of office and shop workers who were coming out for lunch.

  The car had waited for Alex and she rode home, feeling torpid and uneasy. It was terribly hot. ‘I’m tired,’ she thought. ‘I’m imagining things.’

  She was sure Maruli had seen somebody in the street whom he had wanted to avoid, and she suddenly recalled last night … ‘Madame has gone to the Palace … It is better if you don’t know whose house this is … the guards are loyal.’

  ‘I’m overtired,’ she thought again. ‘I’m getting paranoid.’

  5

  Maruli returned to her house at dusk.

  ‘I have my surat djalan,’ he said. ‘I went straight to the police station after lunch.’

  That night they went again to the beautiful house with the yellow-mirrored bedroom. The men on guard were friendly and called greetings to them; the toothless crone squatted on the floor when she brought their coffee and told them everything that had happened to her grandchildren. Mostly, they were producing great-grandchildren.

  Alex and Maruli fell asleep before ten o’clock. In the morning the old woman brought them steaming bowls of rice-and-chicken porridge. She stood by the bed and stroked Maruli’s neck, saying, ‘God has blessed you. God protects you.’

  Alex went to work singing, and decided to recatalogue the film library.

  At nine o’clock Thornton poked his head through the Press Office door.

  ‘Meredith’s old man won’t recognise this place when he gets back. What are you and Poppy trying to do, Alex? Show everybody how lazy he is?’ He jerked his eyebrows up and glanced at Poppy. ‘Actually, there’s something I’d like to discuss.’

  As Alex followed him outside Thornton said, ‘Can’t talk in front of her. Or any of the local staff—however dumb they seem.’

  They went through the security doors, the point past which nobody but Australian staff could go unaccompanied, and down the hallway to Thornton’s office. He had locked his room, as he always did. As usual, too, he had difficulty opening the lock.

  ‘I heard you’ve applied to go to Bandung this weekend. Damned inconvenient of you,’ he said. ‘It’s Julie’s birthday and I’m taking her and a few close friends to the Nirwana Room. I particularly wanted you to come. The thought of dancing with Meredith! I think I’ll leave her to Sutrisno.’

  ‘Is he going with you?’

  ‘Well, yairs,’ Thornton said. He had succeeded in opening his door, and turned to usher Alex in. ‘I must say, you are looking nice. You’ve acclimatised.’

  ‘I’ve been eating more local food—I think it’s better in this climate.’

  Thornton pursed his lips. ‘Funny you should say that. Colonel James saw you emerging from a filthy road stall yesterday. He almost went over and demanded to know what you were doing there, he says. My dear, I know Frensham girls believe they can do anything, but eating with betjak drivers is not on the list. Bad for the image.’

  ‘You’re not serious.’

  ‘Colonel James is.’ Thornton tittered suddenly. ‘He has a fetish about such things. And others … Have you heard about his little weakness?’

  Alex looked vague. Anthony had said, ‘We were in the back of a Chinese restaurant in Kota—my house-guests wanted to see blue movies. Around ten o’clock James sidled in. He was frightfully embarrassed to see me, but he was so fascinated by the film show he forgot … A fat Mexican lady was having congress with a donkey. James cried out, as if he’d discovered the meaning of life, “He’s wagging his tail! Look at him wagging his tail!” … Later he said, “I feel absolutely grubby, Sinclaire. Really kotor. Makes me wonder about the mind, about chaps like Freud”.’

  ‘Anthony did mention something,’ Alex said to Thornton.

  ‘He would! Spying on people.’ Thornton had gone red behind the ears. ‘You know he and Greaves keep dossiers on all of us? Every last detail—who we know, what we eat …’

  Alex squinted at him: he meant what he said. There was something more than ambition and personality clash in his hatred for Sinclaire—he was frightened of her cousin.

  ‘That’s not true,’ she said. ‘I disagree with a lot of things Anthony does, including his job, but I know that is something he wouldn’t do. It wouldn’t be …’

  ‘Gentlemanly?’ Thornton sniffed. ‘Of course, I can’t prove it, but…’

  The telephone rang. It was Julie. Alex gazed around, trying not to listen as the details of Amanda’s bowel movements were discussed.

  The office had probably been a dressing room in the old plantation house. It was very small and dutifully neat. Thornton’s desk was bare except for a Chinese crackle-glaze vase containing a spray of orchids and a silver-framed photograph of Julie as a bride. Alex was shocked to see how pretty she had been two years earlier.

  At length Thornton said, ‘Darling, I’m sure Dr Spock will tell you what to do. I’m just rushing to see the Ambassador,’ and hung up.

  His expression changed as he returned his attention to Alex. His voice, as usual, was arch, but he looked vulnerable.

  ‘I’ve virtually committed the Boss to buying a yacht through Sutrisno,’ he said. ‘I told the Boss I could assess its soundness. Alex, I’ve never owned a boat. I wouldn’t know if it had dry-rot or worm or if the keel were going to fall off. If the Boss buys it and it falls to pieces out there in the Java Sea … I thought that as you know a bit about yachts, you might come with me and Sutrisno to give a second opinion. It’s suspiciously cheap.’

  As they walked back down the hallway Thornton said, ‘I should tell you that Sutrisno is dotty about you. He’s been pestering me to meet you again.’ His eyebrows flicked up. ‘Killing two birds with one stone, really: You’re going to tell me if the yacht is a rust-bucket and at the same time Trisno can make eyes at you. Have I said something wrong?’

  ‘Candour doesn’t suit you,’ Alex said. ‘But all right, I’ll look at the boat.’

  ‘Thanks ever so.’ Thornton squeezed her shoulder. ‘Well, Bapak, you are looking smart!’

  Sutrisno, in a red-striped shirt and red bow-tie was standing in the foyer. ‘Miss Wheatfield, are we to have the pleasure of your company?’ His thin mouth was stretched into a smile; even his small, observant eyes were smiling. ‘What a coincidence to see you today.’

  ‘Why?’ Alex asked coolly.

  ‘Yesterday lunchtime I was with my good friend, Colonel James, who I had taken down to KOPKAMTIB headquarters to introduce to a few friends. We were driving along Tjikini Raja, there was a traffic jam just near some warungs, and there …’ Sutrisno spread his hands. He was wearing a large diamond ring, Alex noticed. It was Sutrisno whom Maruli had seen and wanted to avoid, she thought suddenly. ‘… I was sure it was you. I said to Colonel James, “There is the beautiful Miss Wheatfield eating goats’ feet with betjak drivers. She is a real good advertisement for your country. She is getting to know the true people”.’

  Alex laughed. ‘I went there with some students.’

  ‘Students, eh?
’ Sutrisno said, nodding slowly. ‘Well, now we will see some more students.’

  His Mercedes was parked at the base of the steps leading down from the foyer. Thornton insisted on sitting in the front seat, beside the driver, so that Alex and Sutrisno could occupy the back.

  ‘I am sorry I forgot about this demonstration the students are making today,’ Sutrisno said. ‘It will hold us up for a few minutes. But I think, Miss Wheatfield, you will be interested to see your friends making a demonstration?’

  Traffic was halted at roadblocks around Freedom Square. The demonstration was not yet in sight, but even with the car’s windows rolled up and its air-conditioning purring, they could hear the noise of the approaching throng. The Mercedes had to stop about fifty yards from the intersection through which the procession would pass. There were large shady trees on the roadside. Sutrisno pointed to them, saying, ‘Let us walk up and watch.’ Thornton elected to stay in the car.

  The sound of thousands of yelling, chanting voices assaulted them as soon as Sutrisno opened the car door. He and Alex picked their way over the broken pavement towards the intersection, where onlookers were lined up five deep. Sutrisno pushed people roughly. When they saw it was a foreigner trying to go to the front they stood aside, smiling and saying, ‘Please look.’

  The whole length of Djalan Thamrin was jammed with spectators. Soldiers with bayonets fixed to their rifles were spaced out at four-yard intervals in front of the crowd. People watched quietly as the throng approached—thousands of boys and girls in orange jackets, marching ten abreast and waving banners that demanded a solution to economic problems. Behind the marchers were trucks carrying tableaux vivants depicting The Suffering of the People. The atmosphere was tense, but controlled. Suddenly Alex heard a sharp indrawn breath behind her ear. At the same time the crowd immediately surrounding her fell silent.

  Another truck had come into view and standing on its apron was the figure of the President in Field Marshal’s uniform, glinting with medals. His eyes were hidden by black sunglasses and he was gesturing with a swagger stick and leering at the crowd. Behind him, on makeshift couches, half a dozen girls lay in seductive poses. Students walking beside the truck were yelling up at the figure, pointing to their mouths. It ignored them, continuing the grandiose mime. Alex heard a man close to her mutter, ‘Babe!’ the diminutive for Sukarno. Turning, she saw he was an ordinary little man in a neat white shirt. Tears were rolling down his cheeks as he looked at the fool on the back of the truck. Beside her Sutrisno was laughing silently, the muscles around his eyes and mouth jerking and twitching.