Monkeys in the Dark

by Blanche d'Alpuget

  This, at least, was the normal decor. As Alex walked in she saw there was an addition: standing on the bookshelves there was a natural still life—a chamber orchestra of cane toads, each inflated and varnished toad holding a small, carved instrument.

  ‘That’s nice, Colonel,’ she said.

  ‘Yairs. Clever, isn’t it? Amazing what they can do with their hands … clever little chaps. I often wonder how they got all the frogs’ insides out without breaking the skin. Amazing, really.’ He grunted a few times, then offered Alex a chair. She had begun to take a cigarette from the packet she was carrying, but James held up a hand to stop her.

  ‘Can’t have a lady smoking her own,’ he said and pushed across the table a teak box embossed with green elephants. Inside there were some mould-stained cigarettes. ‘You know what I’m going to say?’

  She nodded.

  The Colonel folded his hands on his desk and waited. ‘Well?’

  ‘Well what?’

  ‘Well, what have you got to say for yourself, my girl?’

  ‘I have nothing to say for myself. I am the acting press and information officer. My job is public relations. I have been doing my job. That’s all, Colonel.’

  There was a nest of wrinkles around James’s eyes, which became deeper as he squinted at Alex. ‘And I’ve been doing mine, young lady. This Hutabarat chap is a dangerous man—he’s been three times to Peking, he’s been to Hanoi, to Yugoslavia … He’s a com, Alex.’

  ‘He is not. In fact, he told me that in his opinion the communists’ attempted coup was a national disaster.’

  James chuckled. ‘Of course he did. Because they went off half-cocked and got done like dinners. For which we can all be thankful. He’s a crypto-com.’

  ‘He is not a communist, crypto or otherwise. He’s a Sukarnoist and makes no secret of it.’

  ‘Same difference.’ The Colonel was no longer jovial. ‘I suppose you and he talk politics quite a lot?’

  ‘Only sometimes. I disagree with many of his ideas.’

  ‘I see. But you still go on meeting him. Eating in disgusting street stalls together, going to Bandung …’

  ‘I was interviewing painters there. He introduced me to them.’

  ‘I bet he did.’ Colonel James’s eye swept over Alex, from her head to as much of the rest of her as he could see from the other side of the desk, lingering in the vicinity of her nipples. He leant forward and said quickly, ‘What is it you see in him, Alex? It’s not as if he were a Javanese. They’re sophisticates, civilised. This chap is a Batak! They’re only one jump ahead of the New Guinea mob. Eating people until a few years ago. Probably still do. Is that what you like? Do you like the feeling of being with a real savage, a real blackfella, black skin and … ?’ He was almost breathless. ‘It’s your Id, Alex. You’ve let your Id run away with you. It happens to a lot of people here.’

  She thought, You’re raving. You’re as mad as a hatter. ‘You’d know more about that than I do, Colonel. I’ve never been to a blue movie,’ she said evenly.

  James’s face collapsed into lines and jowls. He placed a hand over his forehead.

  ‘Yairs, yairs,’ he said at last.

  ‘Your imagination is running away with you, Colonel,’ she said. ‘I told you—it’s a professional relationship.’

  He nodded, but he was not listening. ‘The trouble is, Alex, strange things happen to us in this place. It’s the …’ He stirred the air with his hand. ‘Atmosphere. The lack of law. We live on privilege, outside the law. They treat the law as a joke. Dangerous thing, lack of law. You do things here you’d never dream of doing, back home. Couldn’t do, back home.’ He nodded again to himself, then added, ‘Everybody here makes compromises with their consciences. Did you know that, Alex?’

  ‘No,’ she said. She was wilfully looking as poisonous as she could. It was a mistake: the Colonel rallied.

  ‘You don’t, eh? I’ll tell you, my girl, it’s a fact. Now,’ he smiled: he obviously had something unpleasant stored up. ‘Now, our conversation will go no further than this room, but bear it in mind that I don’t believe you. You’ve had your warning. It’s up to you not to force me to go to the Ambassador. And here’s something else for you. Things are hotting up. Security is being tightened throughout the country. Here in the embassy we must also be vigilant. We’ve got Hari Merdeka coming up this week; then it’s only another six weeks to the anniversary of the coup. We can expect a twenty-four-hour curfew then, and house-to-house checks on identity papers. We don’t want any embarrassments with the Indonesian government, so we must do our own checks in the meantime. Your servants: check their ID cards and make sure they’re in order. They could be corns. You never know.’ He was grunting with satisfaction.

  ‘Have you ever seen my servants, Colonel? I have a sixty-year-old half-blind washerwoman, illiterate. A forty-five-year-old-cook, also illiterate, and a guard-gardener who is literate but lives in a state of trance. The worst thing he’s ever done is to steal my neighbour’s cat for company at night.’

  ‘Druggie?’

  ‘I think he’s just very relaxed. He likes cats and music.’

  ‘Check them out, please. Here is a form for you to fill in and sign. I shall require it besok pagi. Tomorrow morning.’ He opened the door for her; his mood had softened. ‘Alex, we are all heir to the frailties of our flesh. We cannot control what goes on in the unconscious mind.’ He leant forward to add hoarsely, ‘Did you know that part of our brain comes from reptile ancestors?’

  Alex was looking at him with round eyes. The Colonel began to grunt. ‘Well, little lady, if you ever feel you need to have a chat …’

  He paced up and down his room when she had left, wondering about life.

  The fit of uncontrollable giggling that had overtaken Alex as soon as the Colonel had closed his door wore off as she reached her own desk again. She had been swept by an urge to rush into Anthony’s room and tell him about the cane toad orchestra and the run-away Id. And the reptile brain. They would have elaborated the story together, until Colonel James had turned scaly and ended up scuttling under his desk, pursued by a mongoose. But she couldn’t do it. Because it would involve telling about Maruli. She could tell Maruli, of course, but he would not see how funny Colonel James was.

  Her elation after the weekend and then the crazy interview began to dissipate. It was more than a week since she and Anthony had stopped speaking to each other; she was beginning to miss him. They had nodded politely in the corridor and had once suddenly come face to face between the grocery shelves in the commissary, and had smiled involuntarily. Alex had noticed that Anthony was looking awful, as if he’d been drinking too much. He seemed tired and strained, and his suntan was turning yellow. Deflating Colonel James about the blue movies was the sort of trick she had learnt from Anthony, she suddenly realised, and felt ashamed and resentful.

  It was dispiriting to think how spiteful Anthony would be to her about Maruli. If the two ever met Anthony would afterwards repeat to her everything Maruli had said, just slightly twisted, so that it all sounded ridiculous. He’d done it before, with other boyfriends: the parody had made a room full of their relatives helpless with laughter.

  She was still feeling miserable by the time she went home. Maruli had not come for his suitcase, or for lunch. She felt too inert to go through the task of checking the servants’ ID cards, and took a long siesta. When she woke it was already dark and this made her feel worse—disoriented and heavy. There was the usual six o’clock blackout; the night felt unusually hot and jumpy.

  Sinclaire had told Usman to meet him that night in a small street in Menteng, although Menteng was not normally considered a safe area for clandestine work if one were using a non-diplomatic car: an old Peugeot, with ordinary number plates and no number on its engine, registered in the name of a Chinese who lived only on paper, was the car Sinclaire used for rendezvous with Usman. Menteng was crowded with old, expensive houses and encircled by kampongs, where most of the populat
ion lived. Since few of the kampong houses had running water, electricity or sewerage, many of their inhabitants strolled at night in the more pleasant surroundings of Menteng’s tree-lined streets, where there were plenty of coffee and noodle stalls and big private gardens lit up with coloured lights for parties. Menteng had two special disadvantages for Sinclaire. First, there were too many people, both local and foreign, in the area who knew him and would wonder why he was driving an unknown car. Second, its distinguished residents required guards for their persons and property, so police and military security there was heavy.

  Still. Sinclaire had been forced to choose Menteng because he had been using the old car so much in Kebajoran—the only other part of the city where foreigners could go driving at night without exciting curiosity—that he feared its number plates would by now have been noted. He also had a second reason, inchoate but dominant, for choosing a more crowded area: he felt he was losing control of Usman. From that, anything might follow. Instinct told Sinclaire he would be safest if surrounded by people.

  As he drove up the street in which, in another ten minutes they were to meet, he spotted Usman’s motor scooter parked in the gutter. It was their signal to abort the meeting. He continued driving up the street, slowly, to see if there were any local trouble. If there were just some temporary embarrassment the arrangement was that they were to meet again in two hours, in a different street. Otherwise, in two days, in Kebajoran.

  Thirty yards ahead there was a stall which specialised in drinks for betjak drivers—concoctions of herbs, palm wine and eggs, which the drivers needed to keep up their strength. Several of them were drinking at the stall, which was lit by a Petromax lamp. As Sinclaire cruised past he saw that Usman, too, was drinking there. It was a hot night and Sinclaire was already sweating profusely, but Usman was still dressed in his fake-leather jacket, hunched up by himself on an end of the bench seat. Sinclaire thought for a minute that the boy had been injured and was nursing a wound. He slowed down to look. The car stalled.

  He turned the ignition key and jerked back into gear, but there was a loud, metallic clash. Wrong gear. People were looking.

  He had just slipped the car properly into first gear when he heard the shout, ‘Hey, Mister!’ and saw Usman running towards him. Usman grabbed the door handle. The betjak drivers and strollers were staring at them. Sinclaire stopped the car, leaned over and opened the door.

  ‘Hi! Nice to see you,’ he said loudly as Usman got in. Lots of people were staring; some had started to walk towards the car.

  ‘What’s going on? The meeting’s off. I saw your scooter.’ Sinclaire was driving fast up the street.

  Usman began to giggle. He was quite drunk. ‘I was confused,’ he said.

  Sinclaire slowed down again, so he could look at the boy. From the corner of his eye he saw Usman reach into his jacket. There were no cars behind them, just a few betjaks. He’s gone mad, Sinclaire thought. I can open my door and fall sideways on to the road; he’s sure to miss me—at least my head and chest—he might get my legs. He glanced at Usman’s hand again. The boy had taken a black Moslem cap out of his jacket.

  ‘Good disguise, eh?’ Usman said, putting it on.

  ‘Yes. Very good.’ Sinclaire began to accelerate. He was sure that any minute Usman was going to pull the gun on him. He had to make only three quick left turns to get to Blora, which would be blazing with street lights and encumbered with people going to the local sate and Chinese restaurants.

  ‘How are things at the Pusat?’ he asked. He had made the first left turn.

  Usman was silent. His manic fit had passed, temporarily. At last he said, ‘I am an outlaw. Mr Maruli has thrown me out.’

  ‘Really? That’s terrible, Usman. Why would he do that?’ Sinclaire had made the second turn. In another thousand yards he would be turning into Blora.

  ‘Yes,’ Usman continued. ‘On Saturday I went to talk to him in Bandung. He got very angry with me and said I was an idiot, that I had been seduced … And since then I’ve had nothing to eat. Just fasting and praying, trying to know what to do.’

  ‘Did you tell him about me? About the things we talk about?’ They had reached the last corner.

  ‘Yes. He said it wasn’t true that you were helping us. He said you were a lackey of international capitalism and neo-colonialism.’

  ‘Dear me,’ Sinclaire said. If I keep him talking I’ll be able to walk him gently out of the car, without causing any fuss, then get back in and drive away. Forever. ‘What did he say you should do?’ he asked lightly. Ahead of them were the bright lights of Djalan Blora and the boys in their spike heels and garish make-up. Usman was silent again. ‘Let’s go and have a glass of coffee,’ Sinclaire added. He had slowed the car almost to a stop. Some transvestites were looking at them. One of them waved and made a gesture of invitation.

  ‘Not here,’ Usman said. ‘I don’t like bantjis. Their practice is forbidden to us by the Holy Koran.’

  There were two policemen ahead on the footpath, standing beside their Harley Davidson bikes. As Sinclaire edged past them over the pot-holes they ducked their heads to look into the car, then turned to each other and laughed. They think we’re queens, Sinclaire thought. He turned the corner at the end of Djalan Blora and stopped the car. Directly behind them was the underpass bridge and a few yards away, on the corner, the coffee stall where the bantjis and the other male prostitutes drank. The street was well lit. There were people everywhere. He won’t try it here. He’s OK now he’s got that off his chest. But I must get rid of him soon, Sinclaire thought. He switched off the car lights and laid his arm along the back of the seat.

  ‘Now, Usman, we have to have a serious talk about Mr Maruli. Does he know about the black pamphlets? Does he write them?’ In the rear vision mirror Sinclaire could see the policemen. They had rounded the corner and were strolling together towards the car.

  Usman began to giggle. His hand was back in his jacket, in the pocket in which he had carried the pistol. ‘Give me my money,’ he said.

  ‘Of course.’ Sinclaire began fumbling in his top pocket. The policemen were only a yard behind the car. He thought, I should not have stopped. They’re going to question us. I’ll buy them off.

  Sinclaire pulled out the cash and dropped it into Usman’s lap. ‘Usman, don’t panic,’ he said. He leant forward and placed his open mouth over the boy’s. The policemen were beside the car now. Their laughing faces were at the window, behind Usman’s head.

  ‘Bantji! Bantji!’ they yelled through the glass. Usman’s eyes were staring into Sinclaire’s, bulging with horror.

  Sinclaire drew back from him a fraction. ‘Don’t panic. They only want a bribe,’ he muttered.

  The policemen’s black moustaches were stretched over wide, white grins. They were looking down at the thousands of rupiah scattered in Usman’s lap. ‘You’re paying him too much, sir,’ they shouted at Sinclaire. Usman had reared back from his embrace. He shrank to the side of the car, then suddenly opened the door. The police stepped back. They were laughing still, their hands resting easily on their hips, above their gun holsters. ‘Isn’t he paying you enough?’ one said.

  Usman jumped from the car and started to run up the street. The policemen were still laughing, but their hands were reaching for their pistol butts as they started to run after him. ‘Bantji! Don’t run, bantji!’ they shouted.

  Suddenly Usman stopped and turned. His eyes were wide, his mouth wide agape. His pistol was in his hand.

  ‘Amok! Amok!’ the police shouted to each other.

  There were two shots.

  People were running. ‘Amok! There is an amok!’ they cried. There were three more shots. Usman was still alive, but he had fired wild. One of the policemen was aiming for his head; the other knocked his arm up and shot Usman through the hand. His pistol went skittering across the broken pavement.

  A crowd was gathering.

  I’ve done this, Sinclaire thought. I should start the car and go right now. I’
ll get through the crowd if I go right now.

  His hands were shaking as he bent to gather up the money; he felt mad exhilaration, realising what he was going to do, how he was going to save Usman, save his own self-respect.

  Sinclaire shuffled up the money, opened the car door and sprinted up to the crowd. He knocked his way through. Usman’s legs were shattered but he was still alive. What was left of his hand was too revolting to look at.

  The policemen seemed surprised as Sinclaire elbowed his way through to them, but their expressions became more sympathetic as he handed each man Rp 2000, saying ‘Please allow me to drive this poor young man to hospital.’ He thought, Thank God all foreigners look alike to them, and was startled to realise that he no longer cared if he were recognised, if he were blown. I’ve found my limit, Sinclaire thought: I can’t be a coward to save my own neck. The idea was so novel that he grinned.

  The policemen also grinned, uneasily. The albino was crazy, his face was shining as if he had seen a vision.

  ‘Careful,’ one muttered to the other.

  Sinclaire caught their exchange of glances and gave a bark of laughter. ‘Good heavens, I didn’t realise I had this,’ he said, pressing on each an additional Rp 1000.

  The police relaxed.

  ‘Do you know this boy’s name?’ one asked.

  ‘Actually, I just met him a few minutes ago … you know how it is in a big city.’

  They were already picking Usman up, jerking their heads at the crowd to move back.

  As they reached the car with him, Sinclaire indicated Usman should be placed in the front seat.

  ‘Is this your car?’