Monkeys in the Dark

by Blanche d'Alpuget

  The procession swept past; the crowd turned away. Sutrisno was still smiling.

  ‘That is the first time the New Order has allowed a direct joke about the President,’ he said. ‘You have seen the beginning of the end of Sukarnoism.’ He began to laugh again. ‘Now the generals are brave. Now they are brave enough to crush him!’

  ‘A lot of the crowd didn’t like it,’ Alex said.

  ‘The crowd! What does the crowd know? Sukarno taught them to live on beautiful words, on ideas. On air. The New Order will fill their bellies with rice and they’ll forget him.’

  As they walked back to the car Sutrisno became composed and wooden-Indian. ‘Did you see your friend?’ he asked. ‘Did you see your friend who took you to the warung?’

  Fits of panic overtook Alex in the next hour, as they inspected the yacht. Inside it, below decks, where they had to crouch to move about, Sutrisno’s intimate presence unnerved her. He had removed his jacket and tie and his open shirt revealed a neck like a bull’s, deliberately strengthened through exercise. There was something vicious in his obsession with his body, she thought.

  Later she said to Thornton, ‘I never want to see Sutrisno again. He makes me feel physically ill. He is the most horrible person I’ve ever met.’

  Thornton tut-tutted. ‘He’s a power in the land. You might want him to do you a favour one day. Actually, I thought you played up to him very nicely—you were quite fluttery.’

  Alex fell silent. At length she said, ‘I was furious with myself. But I had to do something to stop him interrogating me. He must have asked me fourteen times with whom I was having lunch in that stall.’

  ‘Yes. And why didn’t you tell him?’

  ‘I felt stubborn.’

  Thornton twitched his eyebrows. ‘Stubborn?’

  ‘As a matter of fact I’ve invited the chap to the Moroccan party tonight. He’s a cultural expert. I have the feeling that Sutrisno knows him and doesn’t like him. If he goes pouring poison into Anthony’s ear about my friends, it’s all going to get complicated and boring.’

  ‘I know exactly how you feel!’

  Thornton leant forward across Alex’s desk. ‘Don’t mention the yacht until it’s all settled. Anthony is going to be livid when he finds out! He probably won’t speak to you if he discovers you helped.’

  ‘We’re not speaking to each other at the moment,’ Alex said.

  The look of intense curiosity that lit Thornton’s face made her regret the remark. She added, ‘We’re always having fights. We have since we were kids. Well, I really must write a press release now, Thornton.’

  He was not listening. His little pink mouth was pursed up as he puzzled. ‘I wonder why you and Anthony fight?’ he said.

  The city, which had been built to accommodate a quarter of a million citizens, had a population of four million by 1966. Of these, about a thousand were foreigners. There were priests, half a dozen Scandinavian shipping men, a few West European business people, some American oil industry managers and technicians, journalists, a large group of Mitsubishi Japanese who kept to themselves, the Swiss manager and the pastry cook at Ha Ee, about five academics, airline personnel, one Australian businessman who was awarded the MBE for hanging on in Indonesia during the bad days of Confrontation, and one representative of the Viet Cong, a small, shy man who was very fond of icecream. The rest of the foreign community was embassy. Competition in showing the flag, that is, in giving parties, was intense. In the younger set the acknowledged kings were two Moroccan boys, Rasjid and Abdullah. Their source of income for the frequent and lavish parties they gave was a subject of speculation: it was generally believed that they smuggled gold. They went often to Singapore and always returned with beautiful presents for their many friends, in particular for the tiny group of Indonesian girls of good family who had become depraved and went out with foreign men. Rasjid and Abdullah shared a house in Menteng which had been built to the whimsy of a Dutch shipowner. The house looked odd in daylight, but at night its alley ways, decks and port-hole windows gave an air of anticipation. Guests sometimes sprained their ankles when trying to descend the gangway from the upper deck to the front garden.

  For the party that night the ship had been converted into an Arabian tent. When Alex and Maruli arrived they were greeted by goats tethered at the base of the gangway stairs. The goats bleated emotionally.

  About forty guests had already gathered in the upstairs tent, many of them dressed à l’Arabe, with burnouses, turbans and sequinned slippers. Baron Freddie von Bloomstein, of the West German embassy, was wearing a desert head-dress, a dagger and green eyeshadow. Even without eyeshadow he was the handsomest man in the city. His friends called him ‘Fabulous Freddie’. Thornton Ashby usually referred to him as ‘Baron von Frou-frou’ or ‘Freddie the Fruit’.

  Alex knew that Anthony was not attending the party; still, she was nervous about going with Maruli. When she had mentioned it to him Maruli had said, ‘Why not? I used to be forced to go to such things often, but it’s been a long time …’ As they reached the top of the gangplank and the other guests came properly into view, her self-consciousness mounted.

  Maruli was wearing his pale blue shirt, blue trousers and sandals. When they had set out he had had a look of low-key chic. But as Baron von Bloomstein rushed forward and kissed Alex, shouting ‘Darling! Where haf you bin?’ she saw how small and tough and poor Maruli seemed, like a blackbird caged with great, feathery peacocks. She introduced him to the Baron and heard her own voice come out diffident and off-hand as she spoke Maruli’s name. A small betrayal, she thought. Her cheeks felt hot. But Maruli seemed not to have heard the disloyalty to him in her voice and the Baron’s mouth was open in surprise.

  ‘Maruli Hutabarat! The Maruli? My dear, I adore your Songs of the Revolution. And of course, your new book, The Volcano. You know, we haf a small group which appreciates … excuse me, Alex, this is important,’ and he led Maruli away.

  A person in a loincloth gave Alex a drink and she rejoined them. The group now included some real Arabs, Italians and the French cultural attaché. Maruli was speaking French, his hands were gesturing deftly and emphatically as he spoke; the men standing around him nodded. He was talking of writers whose names Alex barely knew; nor could she easily follow French. She was about to back off when she noticed that Thornton Ashby was standing beside her. He was listening attentively, his eyebrows slightly raised. He suddenly put in, ‘But what of political commitment now? What, for example are you, a member of the PNI-left, going to do?’

  Maruli turned to him. ‘It is clear. As a political writer I can do nothing. Volcano has been banned since March. I have been silenced.’ For a second his eye caught Alex’s, then he continued smoothly, ‘Of course, one can still be useful. There are our basic cultural traditions—the performing arts, mysticism …’ The talk flowed on and turned to the symbolic attributes of Hindu kings, a subject on which the French cultural attaché was a recognised expert.

  Alex moved away and Thornton followed her.

  ‘“As a political writer I can do nothing”. Pigs!’ Thornton said. ‘Do you know who he is?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s thanks to him that all Western films were banned, and most books. It was communist pressure, of course, but he signed the orders. I remember reading it about four years ago, when I was on the Indonesian desk in Canberra.’

  Alex remembered what Maruli had said to her, earlier that night: ‘There are two ways of keeping the Republic together—by armed force, or by ideas. For the latter the people must be fooled much of the time. But I prefer the latter.’ She thought, a month ago I would have thought that cynical, but how else does one organise a hundred and twenty million semi-literates?

  ‘Really?’ she said to Thornton.

  ‘Yes. He’s a jolly good poet, but hardly the despairing type. He was in one of those youth gangs during the Revolution. The Dutch caught him once and put him in gaol, but he escaped before they could shoot him. Of course, e
verybody who’s anybody here has been in the clink at one time or another. Even good old Trisno did a spot of time. For graft, I suppose.’ Thornton looked around. There were half a dozen other Indonesians in the tent, three of them women. ‘Which one is your cultural expert?’ he added.

  ‘It’s Hutabarat.’

  ‘Oh!’ Malice and amusement were caught in Thornton’s features. ‘You’re blushing, Alex. No wonder you didn’t want Sutrisno to know … or Anthony. I don’t think the Ambassador would be very amused, either.’

  ‘Maruli had nothing to do with the coup. The New Order doesn’t like him. So what? I don’t feel obliged to accept them as arbiters, just because they’ve got guns—and neither should you. The grovelling to power here makes me sick.’

  ‘Fascinating! I wish I could flout government policy and national interest—go and get drunk with the Russians, or the Chinese … I’m just a grovelling diplomat. I don’t have that freedom of choice.’ Thornton turned to go, then added over his shoulder, ‘And neither, in fact, do you, Alex.’ He stalked off.

  Alex wandered to the bar where the Indonesian girl, Naida, whom Sutrisno had brought to Meredith’s party and who ran his office, was seated next to a steadily-drinking American. Alex knew Naida only by sight, but the girl flashed her a dazzling smile. ‘Hi! Come and chat,’ she said.

  They made promises to go shopping together, to try out a new dressmaker and, on Naida’s urging, to visit an astrologist. The American stared sourly into his glass and burped.

  ‘You see that man over there?’ Naida asked, looking at Maruli. ‘He’s from Sumatra, like me. We studied his poetry at school. He came once to talk to our class and said something I’ve never forgotten. He said, “Little sisters, when you finish school don’t take scholarships to foreign universities. Go to our own universities. Have the courage to be Indonesians”.’ Her eyes flashed with tears. ‘He said, “Don’t be a slave to foreign things”. And here I am at this crazy party … well, see you soon,’ she said to Alex, and after a word of excuse to the American, she walked away.

  The man, who was weedy, with a turned-up nose, leant across to Alex.

  ‘That kid’s got problems,’ he said.

  ‘What are they?’

  ‘How would you ever know with them? They never give you a straight answer.’ He lurched forward on his stool to peer at Alex’s face. ‘Hey, you English?’ he asked. He went on to say he was from Alaska and had been living in the Hotel Indonesia for three months while trying to establish a shoe-polish company. Then he blinked and fell silent. Alex looked round to find Maruli standing behind her.

  ‘Come. We shall dance,’ he said.

  The Alaskan got off his stool and stood swaying beside Alex. ‘I asked the lady to dance already, buster,’ he said. He was squinting as he tried to focus on Maruli. ‘Who is this dude, anyway?’ he demanded.

  Maruli’s face was blank. He seemed to see neither of them.

  ‘He’s a friend of mine and I’m going to dance with him,’ Alex said. As she turned the Alaskan leant forward and shoved her, making her stumble.

  ‘Go on, hooker! Dance with your nigger dude.’

  Alex felt Maruli take her sharply by the wrist. ‘He pushed me! You saw him push me!’ She was breathless with anger. Maruli’s voice seemed to come from a long way off.

  ‘It doesn’t matter. He is ignorant.’ His face was quite impassive. Alex thought, he’s not going to do anything or say anything. He’s just going to pretend it didn’t happen, the way the betjak drivers pretended they couldn’t see that maimed soldier …

  She was walking forward, somehow. Maruli was far away, still.

  ‘Alex,’ he was saying, ‘I could not make a fight with that man. It is not our way. That is an argument you have with your own people. I cannot solve it.’ He turned to look at her, touching her face with his eyes. ‘Will you dance with me?’ he said softly.

  ‘Yes. I’m sorry.’ They moved on to the dance floor and the gulf between them disappeared. After a while Alex noticed that Thornton was standing on the edge of the dance floor, watching them.

  ‘I love you,’ she whispered to Maruli, who smiled and made no reply.

  By nine o’clock the tents were crowded. Abdullah and Rasjid moved among their guests murmuring, ‘Please make the honour of eating.’ There were two whole roast sheep kneeling on brass platters, a lot of grilled pigeons, stuffed vine leaves, salads and a selection of Rhine wines.

  ‘Just Arab, just simple,’ Abdullah and Rasjid murmured.

  As coffee was being served the Schubert recording that had played during dinner unexpectedly groaned, then died; Rasjid walked forward leading an Indonesian girl in lime-green harem trousers and a pink veil. ‘My good friends,’ he announced, ‘we have Rosa, a beautiful lady, who will dance for us.’

  Baron von Bloomstein, who was seated next to Maruli on a rug on the floor, threw back his head and laughed. ‘Ach! Rasjid is naughty.’

  Arab music began; Rosa ran daintily forward and started to dance. She pouted kisses at the audience and ran her hands over her thighs and hips. She was not a skilful belly-dancer, but she was explicit. Suddenly, she removed her brassière, to reveal hard little breasts. ‘Charming!’ people cried and a jangle of languages demanded that Rosa remove more clothing. She made bigger pouts and began fiddling, while she danced, with the catch in her trousers. ‘The veil will be last!’ Rasjid shouted. Suddenly, Rosa’s trousers were off, her hands were covering her crotch: between her fingers there protruded for an instant, over the top of a gee-string, the tip of a tiny penis. Rosa raised her arms and ripped off the veil, the scarf and a wig—she was square-jawed and short-haired.

  ‘Magnifique!’ they roared. Rosa’s little silicone breasts bobbed, people were clapping and laughing. There was another noise, a loud bellow.

  The Alaskan had smashed a bottle and was staggering forward towards the dance floor. His eyes were bulging out and spittle was flying from his mouth. He was holding the broken bottle tightly, knocking people away with his free arm, screaming at Rosa. Some women cried out and a man shouted ‘Stop him!’ Rosa had grabbed his clothes and was running for the doorway. The Alaskan was moving forward more quickly, treading on people’s hands and smashing glasses. Rasjid was standing with his arms outstretched, ‘Please, please,’ he was saying. As the Alaskan raised the broken bottle Baron von Bloomstein chopped him across the side of the neck.

  The Alaskan fell down and began to weep. ‘Incroyable,’ people said.

  Von Bloomstein patted his golden hair back into place under his head-dress and he and Rasjid carried the crumpled man outside. ‘Ach! The culture shock,’ he said when he returned. ‘Silly man thought Rosa was a girl—three times already he’s bin in bed with Rosa and didn’t know.’

  Alex and Maruli left soon afterwards.

  ‘I cannot take you to my friend’s house tonight,’ Maruli said. His other voice said to her, ‘Do not ask why.’ He was seated beside her in the back of the car, his hand resting on her thigh, but suddenly, again, he was far away and unreal: the warmth of his hand was of her imagining.

  You don’t trust me enough to tell me anything, Alex thought. ‘Would you like to come to my house for … coffee?’ she said.

  ‘Of course.’

  Itji insisted on sleeping on the floor inside the wrought-iron front door when Alex was out at night. On several occasions Alex had told her not to; Itji had replied ‘Yes, Non,’ and had continued the habit. She scrambled up, rubbing her eyes, and blinked solemnly at Maruli.

  ‘We would like coffee,’ Alex said.

  Itji received the instruction as if it were a piece of bad news.

  ‘And cognac,’ Alex added.

  ‘And cognac,’ Itji repeated, looking injured. She gave Maruli a baleful glance as she padded off towards the kitchen. Alex had begun to smile.

  ‘She’s protecting my virtue,’ she explained to Maruli. Her servant’s displeasure with him had broken the bad spell: he was close again, and desirable. ‘The only man s
he approves of is my cousin—he is lord here, Tuan Anthony.’

  Itji hovered around them as they drank; she emptied Maruli’s ashtray twice and looked reproachfully at his packet of kretek: foreigners rarely smoked kretek—to do so was considered a sign of ‘going troppo’, and, more practically, the clove cigarettes crackled with sparks which often caused small burns. At last Alex spoke firmly to her servant, ordering her to bed. It was eleven o’clock, the time when hawkers vanished and soldiers began pulling barbed-wire barricades into place across the entrances to streets where generals lived. The night was quiet, but not peaceful. Alex jumped suddenly when, from the road outside, stones were rattled inside a tin. It was only an old, blind masseuse passing, the rattling stones were her call sign.

  ‘Why are you so nervous?’ Maruli asked.

  Her fears were incoherent and when she tried to formulate them before answering him they sounded, in her head, a confused jangle. She hesitated, then spoke quickly: ‘I don’t know why, but I’m telling lies about you all the time. I don’t like telling lies, but I have the feeling that I’ve got to, that I’ve got to protect you from people because you’re doing something that’s going to get you into trouble … There are so many hints and suspicions …’

  Maruli was grinning. ‘Of course there are. The New Order is quaking. They have usurped the throne, but the king is still alive. They cannot move against him with confidence because the people, and their own consciences, won’t allow it. So they shiver and make up stories. They are using the techniques of social engineers, making people frightened and uncertain, encouraging the students to run wild in the streets and say the things they don’t dare say themselves.’