One-On-One

by Philip Spires

  I have no idea how many times I had watched that shared minute of silence when I stood to take a rest from the concentration. I had not only boiled the kettle and made my tea, but also buttered bread, added honey and taken a bite before I realised what I had seen. The effect was dramatic. I simply stood there in my kitchen, as if poleaxed and petrified, the half-chewed bread still between my teeth, the rest dripping its soft coating down my chin and onto the floor. I went back to my machine and re-ran the section again to confirm what I had inexplicably missed. By this time Christine had woken, consulted her laptop and wandered into her couch inside, but the reality was still there as I re-ran the older material and watched it alongside the new time and again as she dozed on the sofa.

  She had removed her prosthesis. Her stump was uncovered, open to the air, for all to see. In over thirty years of married life, this was the first time I had ever known her not put it on the very moment she needed to move. And, sure enough, when she woke again an hour later - it was mid-morning and obviously very hot by then - she hopped to the back balcony to find water to drink. Her progress was slow, and she needed constant support from the walls along the way, but her progress was consistent and determined.

  The more I think about that morning, a time when nothing happened, when I analysed no words, when there was no interaction with the subject, I am filled with a sense of irretrievable change. Something fundamental had shifted by the time Cartwright returned. It wasn’t a change in Chris, and equally there was no tangible difference in the way the two of them related to each other. Certainly Cartwright continued as before, in his inimitable, non-communicative way. But it was clear the ground rules had changed. There was now much that could be left unsaid.

  Christine woke and, as I have said, conducted a hop to the balcony to make a snack of water and fruit. She took several pieces of melon, and ate them as she stood at the balcony rail, to survey the morning from a new angle. There was an occasional gentle plop in the water below whenever she spat out a mouthful of the fruit’s many seeds. To my surprise, she went back for more and even took a third helping. For years, Christine’s breakfast had been coffee and coffee alone. I was surprised further that my normally fastidious wife appeared to have no qualms about the fruit’s freshness or safety to consume, in spite of its lack of overnight refrigeration.

  She had called Cartwright’s name soon after rising, so she knew she was alone in the house. Clearly she was scanning the horizon towards the town for evidence of Cartwright’s boat, it being obvious that he wasn’t close by, attending to his lines and pots. But, since he had long before disappeared from view, all she saw was the regular crossing of a couple of long jet-boats between the island and the Borneo coast, plus the usual and apparently random, rasping criss-cross of the water taxis.

  Unusually, she elected to sit inside after rinsing her hands of the obviously sticky juice, and again took up her notes to prepare for another attempt at interview number two. It was not long, however, before she lay the papers aside and took up her laptop to compose her considered reply to my message, a process that took well over an hour. She read it through before hitting the send button, and read it with a deep and intense concentration of the kind I have rarely encountered from her in decades. For Christine, having six jobs on the go at once would be the norm, total absorption in just one thus being somewhat uncharacteristic, almost an admission of defeat. I was again sorely tempted to make direct contact. After all, with Cartwright out of the way and unable to return without at least twenty minutes’ warning, I could have called Christine and talked things over. But good sense prevailed this time and I kept my silence, since we still could not be sure if Cartwright had monitoring systems installed.

  He was away almost all day. By the time he reappeared, the sun was already sinking fast. His boat was at full throttle and bounced over the now white-tipped waves that had grown as the wind whipped up through the afternoon, his progress thus rendered apparently reckless. The boat’s bow cut sharp angles as it bounced around the buffets and the hull’s crashing noises grew as he approached, each pitch and bounce mirrored by a race of the engine whenever the screw momentarily attacked only air. He was not quite flying, but his approach was fully audible at considerable distance. He was certainly not trying to sneak back.

  Christine, of course, had heard him when he was still distant from the house, and had risen from her nap to stand at the rail along the front balcony, still balancing on her one leg, her own stump looking both white and red, at the same time. But of course there was no sense of sunlight or weathering of her skin, as in the case of Cartwright’s scars, which had very much the same appearance and colour as the rest of his body. In Christine’s case, the pink impression was one of the closeted newly exposed. Her prosthesis now hung like a hunting trophy from a nail by the door.

  Before tying up, which of course he could accomplish this time without leaving the boat, since he had left his guy ropes attached to the house above, he paused to check his lines and pots, an activity that had now taken on an air of the routine. As Christine watched him secure the boat, she and I could see that he had arrived with a number of items, several bags of provisions and some items of hardware, including a pan and a bucket. Obtaining what was on show, however, for surely a show is what it was, could never have filled a whole day in the port.

  “You’ve been a long time,” said Chris, as he re-secured the hanging ropes to the bow and stern.

  “Things to do,” he replied, cryptically.

  I could sense that Chris was thinking exactly the same thing as myself, that the unexpected concentration she had afforded to his relationship with his wife’s family had prompted him to inform them, to warn them off contact and to beware of unexpected callers. There had been enough time, of course, for him to have made a trip to the mainland to deliver the message personally, and therefore with complete security, but then that would have been obvious, would it not? I will make a formal request at this point that the family’s mobile phone data be trawled for evidence of contact from the island on this date.

  “I’m sorry about yesterday and last night,” said Christine.

  “Took the words out of my mouth...” he replied.

  “I went over the top.”

  “No more than I did,” said Cartwright, without even a pause in his activity, the rocking of the boat reflected rather comically in the rise and fall of his voice. Christine smiled, perhaps at this strange intonation, perhaps for some other reason. “I have things to bring up. It’s easier if I throw them. Can you catch?” He was already stooping to grasp a bag from the interior of the hull. “Nothing is very heavy, but there’s a couple of awkward shapes,” he said, as he tied together the handles of a blue plastic bag. “...and there’s a few things that are still alive,” he continued as he made ready to toss up the first item.

  “Wait! Don’t throw it yet... I can’t...” Christine had only then realised that she was still standing on one leg and needed a hand to help her balance. “Wait a moment,” she said as she turned to retrieve her prosthesis from its nail on the wall behind her. It took her only a minute to put it in place. “I’ll need two hands,” she said, flustered.

  The first bag contained a small melon, so it was almost perfectly spherical. But it was clearly quite heavy and Christine fumbled. A second grab caught it before it hit the floor, however.

  “Well done,” he said from below. “That would have written it off.”

  Another three bags arrived, with Cartwright offering a commentary to identify their contents. “Green mangoes.... Corn... Onions...” Christine caught them all, but also dropped them as she panicked.

  “The next one is tricky and a bit dangerous,” he shouted from below above the noise of the waves, which was growing all the time. “I’ll send up a line. Here, catch this...” He cast up a looped light rope, which Christine caught easily and then tied the end through the handles of dou
bled plastic bags. “Pull it up, Chris, but don’t touch the bag. Just lay it down on the floor using the string. There are spikes sticking through...”

  Christine pulled. “What on earth is it?” she asked, her voice quickly straining, since she had not expected such weight.

  “It’s a cempedak,” said Cartwright, apparently still in cryptic mode.

  “What on earth is a... a chem paddock?” her voice strained more, indicating that the weight was sufficient for the string to cut into her fingers. Her false leg gave a loud creak as she widened her stance, and the resulting short slide of the foot across the smooth cut bamboo almost caused her to fall. She gave a little scream as she sensed a loss of control.

  “Are you all right?” Cartwright’s voice was full of concern.

  “No problem,” she replied immediately. “Just a little unsteady on the pin.”

  “It’s a fruit. Now untie the string and drop the end back down. The next bag will be a bit frisky.”

  And so Christine hoisted the last bag of fish and live crabs that were trying very hard indeed to get out, their energetic scrambling resulting in a couple of claws breaking through the plastic, as she placed the writhing mass onto the balcony floor.

  “That’s the lot,” Cartwright said, as he began to climb the ladder, one arm pushed through the handle of his bucket, inside which other contents rattled. And thus up he clambered, as usual using only the pull of his powerful arms, his body gyrating snake-like, apparently in pursuit.

  It was specifically at that point, watching the amazing shoulders heave as the arms lifted his stone-solid body up the ladder, that I began to fear for Christine’s safety. We had, of course, considered the issue during the consultation stages, only to reject the possibility of danger every time it was raised. Cartwright had no history of violence, not even the slightest suggestion, and after all he and Christine knew one another, had been close friends at one time, acquaintances at least, in their adolescence.

  But Cartwright’s muscular power, clearly developed over years of dedicated activity in the gym, quite suddenly raised the fear in my mind that he would be capable of violence, if pushed. I again found myself wanting to communicate directly with Christine, but again thought better of it. I knew these fears would start to nag, however.

  “I’d like to do the second interview again, from scratch,” said Christine as Cartwright stood beside the plastic-wrapped congeries at his feet. The living bag still writhed a little.

  “All right. When?”

  “Tomorrow morning, early...”

  “Fine by me. I’ll make some food, and then I have to work. Give me a hand...” He was already on his hopping way along the balcony towards his store at the back before the end of the phrase. Christine followed, struggling with the weight of the fruit, despite her two points of contact with the floor. Cartwright had passed her on his way back to the front and overtaken her again with his load before she had even reached the cooker. “Just leave everything...” he said, and she did, returning to her chair to contemplate the view that had now become commonplace. It was changing this evening, however, because there were giant clouds to the north, the hint of a stronger breeze, and a crash of real waves between the stilts.

  Cartwright busied himself setting rice to cook and then emptied the bags of their contents. Within minutes he had lit the gas and dealt with fish and crabs in the now familiar way he had used before. An hour later, an hour during which Cartwright worked in his study, they ate and then followed their rice and seafood with some handfuls of cempedak segments, whose taste came as quite a surprise to Christine, who mentioned blue cheese and ice cream in the same breath.

  But that was the extent of their interaction that evening. Immediately after clearing away the pots, Cartwright again shut himself away with his work. He busied himself as previously described, still mulling over the same few unintelligible pages of hand-written gibberish. He added a few lines of new material, apparently deliberating for several minutes over each symbol, again with his work apparently angled towards my camera. I could not decide if this was a ploy or merely a reflection of an habitual pose. I remain undecided. But this time I recognised enough of what went onto the paper to know it would be fruitless to copy it and send it for analysis. It was the same rubbish as before. Christine, meanwhile, busied herself with her papers, but, just half an hour after Cartwright had gone to work, she again removed her prosthesis and spent almost an hour getting around the house at hop.

  1 Both details are, of course, classified. Actual names are available to authorised readers via the usual channels.

  One-On-One

  Christine Gardiner on Haji Salleh Abdullah (aka Thomas Cartwright)

  Programme two of three (version 2)

  Awaiting transmission

  Awaiting edit and possible inter-cut with other material

  [Standard title sequence and credits; cut to specific caption for this edition, as above; fade to continuity shot of host and subject sitting in bamboo chairs, host on the right, subject left; both two-thirds facing the camera but looking at each other; host holds clipboard and pen; there is a strong wind blowing from the right, occasionally lifting the sheets from the interviewer’s clipboard, requiring her to sit with her left hand permanently and firmly holding them down, cut to host full face for introduction]

  C Hello. My name is Christine Gardiner. Thank you for joining me again for the second One-On-One interview with the world’s richest man, Haji Salleh Abdullah, aka Thomas Cartwright. In this programme, I hope to probe behind the headlines to find out a little more about the man who has achieved celebrity at sixty. Haji Salleh...

  [Shot widens to show both participants. CG turns to face TC and momentarily looks down at the clipboard on her knee.

  C ...when exactly did you convert to Islam?

  T [pauses and smiles] I don’t have a date... It was fifteen years ago. Somewhere around mid-October of ninety-eight...

  C When you married...

  T Precisely. Well... just before I married.

  C Your wife was a member of a prestigious family, I believe?

  T Indeed, my wife is a member of a prestigious family, Christine. She is still very much with us.

  C But you are separated. You don’t live together.

  T We do from time to time, but when I am working, I need quiet. I work much better in the silence and solitude I can get here. I need to concentrate, and I have never been good at coping with distractions.

  C So you don’t live here full time. I was under the impression that...

  T Your impressions were wrong. I come here when I need to. I can go back to my soft beds, hot and cold showers, food on the table and my family whenever I choose. It’s just over there and I don’t need to go through immigration. I can ride the boat right up to the house whenever I want.

  C But your life is now your work...

  T It takes a lot of my time.

  C An increasing amount?

  T Probably...

  C But you and your wife are still married?

  T Of course we are... Have I ever suggested we are not? Or has she?

  C How did you meet?

  T We were on the same flight.

  [CG gives a loud and surprised laugh]

  C You were a passenger and she was actually one of the cabin crew, I understand...

  T Correct.

  C There would be many people who might ask why it was that the daughter of such a prestigious individual as your wife’s father should be working as an air hostess. After all, it’s no longer the prestigious job it might once have been.

  T You make it sound like a form of prostitution.

  C No, just unexpected.

  T Noraya is from a prestigious family, it’s true. But they are also quite an enlightened family. They are of the op
inion that everyone should experience the world as it is, so, despite the family’s wealth, Noraya went to a state school...

  C ...which is, of course where you first met...

  T Yes. She was a student of mine as a teenager, many years ago. It might even have been during my first contract. No, it was early in the second, the last year I taught in secondary schools.

  C And Noraya would have been around thirteen or fourteen?

  T That’s right. The family was keen that all the children should attend a state school. They were more interested, if truth be told, that the students received the formal, public religious training that came with the state school curriculum. That was their prime goal. But they were also keen that the children should study for conventional qualifications like everyone else, so that at least they could feel they had made some of their own way in life.

  C ...and you fell in love and married.

  [Laughing]

  T Not while she was still at school, no. When we met on the flight, a decade later, after she had been through college and got her diploma, of course. And it was not quite as simple and straightforward as you make it sound.