Monkeys in the Dark
Page 21
The servant lit smoke coils to keep the mosquitoes away when her mistress made no move to come inside the house.
That night Alex was aware of feeling very calm. She despised herself for having been so naive; all afternoon and evening she had been coming to terms with the knowledge of her foolishness and before she went to sleep she promised herself never to be caught like that again. In the night she woke up crying. But next morning she was, she told herself, ‘over it’.
During the following week Patrick remarked that Alex was allowing herself to lose too much weight; privately, he thought how quickly the climate had aged her—she already seemed drawn and tired, like foreign women looked usually only after a year or more in the city. Clearly too, for her, the mystique of the place, of the Indonesians, had worn off quickly: Alex had abruptly stopped indulging Poppy’s frequent absences and on Tuesday afternoon refused to allow Poppy time off to attend the first hair-cutting ceremony of her youngest nephew. On Wednesday Alex came to Patrick’s office and said, ‘Poppy’s got to go. If you won’t sack her, I will.’
Patrick put up a half-hearted plea for Poppy to which Alex replied, ‘That’s sentimental. She wants Western pay but she won’t accept Western rules. She’s conning us.’
‘You’re a hard-headed woman, Alex,’ Patrick replied, laughing. He was then alarmed to see how strung out Alex was, for she suddenly turned red and her eyes filled with tears.
‘I’ll survive,’ she told herself each morning, and in the evenings when she dressed for cocktail parties.
Sinclaire had done no more than nod to her through the glass door of the Press Office, at first. Then on Thursday he waved, and on Friday morning he stopped and opened the door.
‘How about dinner tonight?’ he asked.
Alex made the slightest movement of her shoulders to indicate her independence, her indifference to the proposal.
‘That would be nice.’
After the siesta she bathed and put on her Pucci dress, thinking, ‘There’s no need now to save it for a special occasion.’ She had lost three kilos during the past week and the dress looked even more elegant over her leaner body. She eyed it with an impersonal satisfaction—whether she looked attractive or not was no longer very interesting. She had just finished brushing her hair when there was a tap at the door.
‘Tuan Anthony, Non,’ Itji called.
He was standing with his hands resting on his hips, smiling crookedly. His eyes ran over her. ‘I’ve always savoured that dress. I think I’ll buy you another one like it this Christmas. But black. You should wear more black.’
‘For widowhood?’ Alex asked. She had tried to be flippant, but unexpectedly tears were drenching her eyes again.
Sinclaire stepped forward and took her by the arm. ‘Come on. I’m going to take you to the Bar. There are some new journalists in town, down from Saigon and Bangkok. They’ve got the funniest stories I’ve ever heard.’
The Ramayana Bar was, as ever, a babble of voices issuing from the dark. In the far corner a group of oil men were silhouetted against the piano, taking it in turns to sing. As Alex entered she saw that the old crew was there—David the vice-consul, and Baron von Bloomstein and the Moroccan boys, and Juan with the halitosis, and Naida.
Naida was with a huge American officer who had a terracotta face and perfect teeth.
‘Alex, this is Colonel Kellog,’ Naida said.
‘Chip Kellog. To your lovely eyes, ma’am,’ he said. ‘This town is better than Hue, eh, Naida?’
Naida simpered and held her left hand out for Alex and Sinclaire to see. She was wearing a diamond engagement ring.
‘This little girl and I will be Stateside in another six weeks. But I’d like you to look after her for me in the meantime, Alex,’ Colonel Chip Kellog added. ‘And you promise me to come over and stay with us in Washington …’
There was giggling from Naida and handshaking between the men. Alex thought dimly, Naida will wither away in Washington, pushing a trolley around a supermarket, with no servants to pick up her clothes, massage her, cook her curries.
‘That’s wonderful,’ she said.
‘Chip’s been coming down every three months to see me, but he had to get a divorce,’ Naida whispered to her. ‘His house in Washington has a dishwasher …’
‘That’s wonderful,’ Alex said again.
She and Sinclaire joined the war correspondents and heard all the latest jokes from Saigon, and about Prince Sihanouk and President Johnson. Alex knew she was drinking too much, too fast, but she did not care. She had not laughed so much for months. After an hour or so the correspondents and others went off in search of food and she and Sinclaire moved to a small side table and he ordered champagne. Around the room only a few invisible hands were now waving the red table lamps to call the waiters. The bar was nearly quiet again; the pianist was playing Moon River but nobody was singing. To Alex it all seemed a long way off, in another room.
She watched the shadows on Sinclaire’s face, cast up by their own little table lamp. The light played tricks with his features—he looked younger and softer. He looks just like me, Alex thought, and she became sad again. She had the feeling something had happened to her, that there had been some self-deception, a collapse of will, perhaps. But it was only a vague uneasiness. Before it could become a thought it flitted from her into the dark, like a bat.
Sinclaire was offering her a glass of champagne.
‘Thank you, Anthony. For looking after me.’ She spoke slowly because speaking, almost everything, seemed difficult.
His pointed eyes were smiling. She saw his lips open as he bent towards her mouth. She hesitated, then leant forward also.