Monkeys in the Dark

by Blanche d'Alpuget

  ‘It’s the end of the dry season, dearie. Gets on everybody’s nerves. Starving mosquitoes and stinkin’ canals. And the cholera. It starts around now in those kampongs near Tjiliwung; then the wet season comes and it gets worse. My old cook was promoted to glory with it last year. Nothing in the newspapers, of course, until there’s no room left in the hospitals. Then there’s a little paragraph saying, “Five hundred cases of cholera have been confirmed in the Greater Djakarta area, the Director-General of Health said on Thursday.” And that’s it. Aw, cheer up.’

  At morning coffee time Alex dialled the Pusat, but the line was engaged. She tried it again, off and on, whenever she had time during the day, but it remained constantly engaged. Just before the close of business she rang Service Difficulties.

  ‘That number is disconnected,’ the operator said.

  ‘It can’t be.’

  There was some consultation at the other end of the line. ‘That number is engaged,’ the operator said.

  ‘I know it gives the engaged signal, but you just said it was disconnected. Is it disconnected or only engaged?’

  ‘Please make a written enquiry,’ the operator said. He meant ‘Please offer me some money.’

  ‘I’ll bring a letter tomorrow,’ Alex said, and the operator became chatty and invited her to come to his house and meet his family.

  The heat outside the office was an assault which momentarily gave the feeling that one could not breathe. The sky was like a white lid on a simmering pot. As Alex was driven home for lunch she noticed, for the first time, how rotten the city was smelling: the sweet clove smoke could no longer mask the stench of the canals in which water had now ceased to flow. The canals had turned into witches’ brews, in which faeces floated, but the city’s poor had nowhere else to wash or defecate. Alex began to feel angry on their account as she watched a child of about ten carefully pushing some floating muck aside, before lowering himself into the water. The Old Order had allowed this affront to happen and the New Order was too busy politicking to do anything about it. There were enough soldiers in the city to clean the silt from the canals so they would flow and the poor would not catch cholera; instead the soldiers swanked around with their sub-machine-guns and rifles, lolling in the shade or shouting at girls. And as for beggars … Islam said one gained virtue by giving alms to beggars. A devout Moslem gentleman had explained to Alex that, therefore, it was good to have beggars. ‘We must understand that there is a cruel face and a smiling face to everything,’ he had added. At the time she had found that an agreeably mystical statement of the way of the world. Now it only made her angry.

  As the car approached her front gate she saw Itji on the verandah serving someone a drink. Maruli! Her whole body was suddenly light.

  Then the car turned in the gate and she saw her guest was Naida.

  The girl jumped up and clapped her hands. ‘Hi.’ She had the same strong vitality that Maruli had, and she was dark-skinned, too, the colour people called ‘sweet black’.

  ‘Come to the pool. I’ll shout you,’ she said.

  ‘What about lunch?’

  Naida spoke a language known locally as ‘American’. ‘We’ll get a burger at the pool. Or a club sandwich,’ she said. She was jumpy, Alex thought. She chattered constantly in the betjak on the way to the Hotel Indonesia pool. Naida was always talkative, but normally she was coherent; today she conducted a monologue that flicked from one subject to another in mid-sentence.

  ‘What have you been doing today?’ Alex asked, to try to slow her down.

  ‘You know, this and that, here and there, never a dull moment,’ Naida replied, then went on to propose that Alex accompany her on a holiday to Bali. ‘The Balinese are real characters, you know. Dancing, playing music. Life’s just a ball for them. But they eat pork, you know. Pigs everywhere. I don’t look at the pigs. You can get nice carvings in Bah. Here, let me give him a tip.’ They had reached the hotel and Naida, who had bargained ferociously with the betjak driver over less than a cent before she engaged him, suddenly tipped him five cents.

  ‘I’m crazy,’ she said. ‘This town would drive anyone crazy.’

  The swimming complex was set in gardens of ornamental trees and shrubs; there were bronze statues of naked girls pouring water from pitchers into some of the pools. Nannies in white uniforms crouched on the edge of the toddlers’ pools while the children’s parents sat in an umbrella-shaded area, sipping drinks that waiters in black bow-ties brought from the pool bar. Entry to the complex cost the equivalent of a betjak driver’s earnings for one week; a drink would double this. And for something more again gentlemen swimmers could engage the services of the young men and women who paraded themselves there, usually on Saturday afternoons. Today was a Friday; there was no evident trade, though Baron von Bloomstein was lying on a sun couch, having his back massaged with oil by somebody new.

  ‘Iwan will stick a knife in that boy,’ Naida said. Iwan was the Baron’s constant companion.

  Naida and Alex swam while waiting for lunch to be prepared, but within a few minutes of drying themselves they were wet again, with perspiration. It was a pleasure to lie on a damp towel.

  ‘I needed a swim. I was feeling terrible,’ Alex said.

  Naida turned down the corners of her mouth. ‘There are so many problems at the moment,’ she burst out and was then silent again.

  Alex frowned. ‘What sort of things do you mean?’

  But Naida had become chattery. ‘You know, Eileen has disappeared,’ she said. ‘Yesterday, after you and Thornton left, and Djaya left, she got really mad with Trisno. They had a terrific argument, standing right there in the street. She wagged her finger in Trisno’s face and called him a thief, and a man one could not trust. That’s almost the worst thing a Chinese can say. She just screamed at him—you know how Eileen can scream. Trisno got really mad himself and slapped her face and called her a Chinese pig and daughter of a Chinese pig. Today I went to her house and her maid told me Eileen had gone to buy a train ticket for Jogja. Eileen hates Jogja. Crazy. This town is crazy,’ Naida had temporarily run out of conversation and glared about her like a small, cross jungle cat. ‘Just look at that,’ she added.

  Two foreign women, one plump and wearing a one-piece bathing suit, the other younger and bony, in a bikini of generous proportions, were lying on their stomachs on sun couches in a secluded area of the garden. An Asian man was tickling the older woman, making her shriek. She sat up. It was Meredith. The other woman, Alex saw, was Julie Ashby, whose mouse-coloured hair had turned golden blonde.

  ‘How long has that been going on?’ Alex asked.

  Naida clicked her tongue. ‘I’ve been at the pool every afternoon for the past week, and so have they. Julie’s the chaperon. Two days ago the three of them were playing chasings—they ran round and round on the lawn and knocked over a waiter.’

  Although both sets of women had seen each other, neither side made any sign of recognition, except indirectly: Meredith whispered to Julie, then gave a guffaw of laughter. The action made Alex feel intensely miserable. She stared down into her lap; there were no thoughts in her mind, but she felt coated with doom. She knew in a moment she would begin to cry. Her hangover, the robbery, the heat, Meredith laughing at her … She took a deep breath to try to control it, but tears were already stinging in her eyes.

  ‘Ali,’ Naida said softly. She was stroking Alex’s arm. ‘Ali, I have to tell you something.’ Alex glanced at her: Naida’s eyes were bulging and her face was set tight. Alex knew what Naida was going to say, she had felt it for minutes, as one feels a storm coming. Maruli has been arrested.

  ‘Maruli has been arrested,’ Naida said. ‘Sutrisno rang me this morning, before he went to Singapore. He especially asked me to tell you quickly, because …’ Naida gasped and began to cry. ‘Because he knows Maruli was your patjar.’

  Alex closed her eyes and let her head fall back on the sun-couch. A wave of ineffable happiness swept through her, joy which made her float.
She was rid of him; of the spell he’d cast over her, of the constant anxiety, of the lust that was like a disease. I’m free, she thought. I’m free.

  Naida was sniffing into a handkerchief. ‘When we were kids at school Maruli was our idol—a Sumatran poet who was translated all over the world, and who’s been in the Revolution. For one whole term we all wrote poetry … Alex, why don’t you come to Bali? Djaya can borrow an aeroplane for us—you and I could fly down tomorrow morning. We could stay just for the weekend, or a week if you could get some leave. Djaya wouldn’t come. You wouldn’t be obliged to him—he’s not like that. He’s a kind man.’

  Alex shook her head violently. ‘No. No. I don’t want to.’ She thought for a moment in silence. ‘I must try to help Maruli,’ she said.

  Naida was watching her anxiously. ‘I think we’d better hire a taxi to go home. You’re very pale. Quick, I’ll take you.’

  She hurried Alex past the naked bronze girls and the nannies watching the toddlers, into the changing-room where she vomited.

  ‘It was that club sandwich,’ Naida said. ‘You should have told them to leave out the bacon.’

  Alex leant her head on hard white porcelain that felt as comforting as a pillow. Her stomach heaved uncontrollably and droplets of sweat ran into her eyes. It is self-disgust, she thought. How could I have been delighted when at this moment they’re probably beating him up, with belts or pistol butts, just as a matter of course, just a casual brutality?

  12

  At dusk Alex rang Sinclaire. He had a telephone extension in his bedroom and lay with the handpiece cradled on the pillow, smiling as he listened to her saying she wanted to talk to him.

  ‘Of course. Come round immediately. Have dinner with me.’ He replaced the handset. ‘Get your clothes on, sweetheart,’ he said to Jodie. ‘The siesta is over.’

  Jodie stood up on the bed and put her hands on her hips.

  ‘You’ve got the longest legs I’ve ever seen—they go right up to your armpits,’ he added. He let his mouth hang open as he stared up at her tightly-frizzed black crotch.

  ‘You’re a bastard,’ Jodie said.

  ‘And you’ve got a lovely cunt.’

  ‘You swine.’

  Sinclaire sat up and got out of bed. ‘I want to give you a present,’ he said. He kept a drawer full of emergency presents and stood for a moment studying the selection, then pulled out a Dior scarf. It was rather too expensive for the relationship, but he was in a hurry and the brilliant green would look pleasing on her. He flicked open the scarf and tied it around her hips. ‘Wow,’ he said. Jodie smiled uncertainly.

  ‘You want to see me again?’

  ‘Of course. I’m mad about you.’

  He did not accompany her for a wash in the bathroom: such intimacy would be unseemly, in the circumstances. She returned to the bedroom, already dressed in her bright red trousers and white blouse. Like a gollywog, Sinclaire thought.

  ‘Well, I’m going now.’

  Sinclaire stood on tip-toe to kiss her. ‘Goodbye,’ he said, and added softly, ‘I’ll miss you.’

  As soon as the door had closed he dashed into the bathroom and began to wash. He washed his hair, he shaved, he washed each toe and behind his ears. He was chuckling as he drew water from the Shanghai jar and threw it over himself. Looking in the mirror he carefully combed his wet hair over the thinning area. ‘The homing instinct. Come to cry on Anthony’s shoulder. Poor little Alex,’ he said to his reflection. Pointed green eyes smiled at him.

  Sinclaire’s house was in an unsalubrious part of Menteng, close to the railway lines. Rolling stock was in a bad state and trains were few and slow; many passengers who could not afford the train fare rode on the roof of the carriages, in relative safety. Many other people lived right on the railway lines, near Sinclaire’s house. The train drivers would drive slowly towards the area of track where the several hundred people lived, blowing the whistle and giving them time to pick up their cooking pots and move to the side. This sort of co-operation was essential to the city, and part of its charm. There were many other examples of tolerance. For instance, near Sinclaire’s house there was a mad woman known to local residents as Mother Plastic. She lived on a small area of grass outside Sinclaire’s house and had attacks of raving madness, when she shouted all night and kept the residents awake. But in her sane moods she was pleasant and would run little messages—to buy a packet of cigarettes, or call a food hawker—for which the householders jointly supported her with food and money so she would not have to beg. None of the housewives or their servants ever embarrassed Mother Plastic by pointing out to her that they could see through the plastic raincoat, which was her normal dress, and that she appeared to the world naked. Hawkers and betjak drivers new to the area often stared at Mother Plastic, throwing her into a temper.

  As Alex alighted from her betjak and opened Sinclaire’s gate she heard Mother Plastic shouting at the betjak driver, ‘How dare you say you can see my arse. I’ll show you an arse!’ and the man pedalled frantically away up the street.

  Normally Alex would have been enlivened by this exchange. Instead she thought, ‘We lock up mad people. They gaol intellectuals,’ and walked up the path with her head bent.

  Sinclaire was lolling on a settee listening to the second Branden-berg concerto.

  ‘Darling girl, let me get you a drink.’

  ‘Please turn the record player down, I’m not feeling well,’ Alex said.

  ‘Of course. Would you like an aspirin? Now, what’s wrong?’

  Sinclaire had heard in the afternoon, from the Americans, that Hutabarat had been picked up late on the eve of Independence Day and that the Pusat Kesenian had been raided the following morning. On the basis of personal friendship he had requested a copy of the reports of the arrest and interrogation of Hutabarat, The Americans had promised to get hold of these reports in a few days. For the moment he knew no details: it was even possible that Hutabarat, who was no fool and who had been tipped off by Usman, had got rid of the printing press, incriminating documents and whatever arms he had. If he, and any students who had also been arrested, did not crack under interrogation, he could be released. The internal security forces were in a hell of a mess, spread too thinly for thorough investigations.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Sinclaire repeated.

  ‘Maruli’s been arrested,’ she blurted out.

  ‘Alex!’ Sinclaire stood up and paced the sitting room, ‘I’m frightfully sorry. On your account.’

  ‘Everybody warned me it would happen. More or less, I just refused to believe them. I didn’t want to believe …’

  ‘Of course not. People only ever believe the things they want to believe.’ That’s banal, but she’ll think it’s cynical, he thought, ‘I’m devastated for you,’ he added.

  He turned round and saw that tears were running down her cheeks, He slid on to the settee beside her, ‘Don’t cry, angel.’ She made an effort at smiling; Sinclaire bent forward and with his long tongue licked the tears off her face, ‘Nicer than salted almonds,’ he said, then drew back and looked into her eyes, ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘That’s it,’ Alex said, ‘I want to help him, but first I must find out, somehow, why he’s been arrested, what he’s charged with, all of that.’ She explained how the news had come to her from Sutrisno, via Naida.

  Sinclaire had expected that Alex would want to help Maruli, that she would be loyal. He thought, Like you were loyal to me then and had your trust income cut in half and had the whole family against you, just to save my skin. And you didn’t even know how much I loved you.

  He was pacing up and down the room again. ‘I feel you’ve got two options,’ he said. ‘First, you should go to Sutrisno.’ That will occupy her mind for a few days, and Trisno will give her a damned good lecture, Sinclaire thought. He continued, ‘He’ll be back from Singapore on Monday. See what you can wheedle out of him. In the meantime, I’ll go round the traps and find out what I can. But it will take me a week
, at least. You know how one hand never tells the other hand what it’s doing here.’

  Alex nodded.

  ‘Then, we’ll work something out. How’s that?’

  ‘Thank you, Anthony. I was totally at a loss.’

  Sinclaire had to pace another length of the room to hide his smile from Alex. He returned to her and looked at his watch. ‘There is a rather splendid entertainment on this evening. Something you really ought not to miss. The hairdressers will be open until 7.30. Why don’t I drive you round to Salon Kiki and you get your hair done, and we’ll go out on the town?’

  ‘Not to the Ramayana Bar. I can’t stand that place.’

  ‘Not to the Bar. This is something quite different, quite “special”, as Wagimin says. Min!’ Sinclaire shouted. Wagimin, who had hidden around a corner as soon as he saw Alex arrive, emerged. ‘Get the car out of the garage, Min.’

  The only good thing about Miss Alex, in Wagimin’s view, was that when she came he was allowed to drive the car out of the garage. Tuan made all the other ladies walk into the garage, which was dark and narrow and smelt of oil.

  While Alex was having her hair shampooed in Salon Kiki and Sinclaire, in a near-by paper goods shop was picking over the merchandise, searching for a mask for her to wear to the Balle Masque that night, Eileen Wan was packing her bags for Hong Kong.

  As was fitting for a Chinese girl, in times when Chinese were disliked, she rented a small, shabby pavilion in the grounds of a house belonging to a Javanese family. She paid too much rent for the pavilion, but she did not complain; nor did she complain when her landlady’s children played their electric guitars at night, nor when somebody from that household stole a blue brocade dress from Eileen’s wardrobe. Eileen wore ear plugs, ordered a new dress from her tailor and continued to live in the pavilion. On Sundays she went to the Methodist church, carrying a white leather-covered hymn book, and in the churchyard, which was well screened from the road, talked to her Chinese friends. To them she complained about the landlady and her noisy children and her thieving servants, and particularly about Sutrisno, who had stolen her father’s business and who was now becoming such a millionaire that he was a danger to all Chinese. He called them ‘Chinks’ and ‘Slant Eyes’ and ‘Eaters of Pig Flesh’, although it was Eileen’s Papa who had taught Sutrisno everything about business and the law. Papa had a saying ‘When they make a law, they made a loophole. Find the loophole, find gold.’ The congregation stood in the shade of the churchyard, protected in Christ for a while, and chewing water melon seeds. Men who had done business with Towkay Wan gave Eileen good advice. And now Eileen was singing as she packed her bags for Hong Kong, because in three hours Sutrisno would be dead.