The Malayan Trilogy

by Anthony Burgess

  “There you are, Adams.” Hood was standing waiting, a high-polished cap shading his flabby clean face. “We’re going to Sawan Lenja.”

  “Sir.” Keir and Vorpal were out on the porch, waiting for transport to the police station. “Anything wrong there, sir?”

  “Too many vehicles off the road. What’s these stories I’ve been hearing about you?”

  “Stories, sir?”

  “Don’t act daft. You know what I mean. You’ve been hitting it again. I thought that was all over. Anyway, I’m getting all sorts of tales up at Timah, and Timah’s a bloody long way from here. What’s going on?”

  “Nothing, sir. I have given it up, sir. It’s a mug’s game. A man in my position can’t afford it, sir.”

  “I should bloody well think not. Anyway, they tell me they couldn’t find you anywhere last week and then they picked you up half-slewed in a shop in Sungai Kajar. Where did that come from?”

  “Enemies, sir. There’s a lot of Chinese on to me, sir. They want me to fiddle the accident reports and I won’t, sir.”

  “I should bloody well think not.” His face creased suddenly in a tight pain. “Christ, I’ll have to use your lavatory.”

  Nabby’s face melted in sympathy. “Dysentery, sir?”

  “Christ. Where is it?”

  When Hood was safely closeted, Nabby Adams wildly hovered between two immediate courses of action—the telephone or the bottle? The bottle would have to wait. He picked up the dusty receiver. Fook Onn was at the other end, and Fook Onn spoke English.

  “Alladad Khan? Where the hell is he? Get him, get the lot of them. Get them lined up. Hood’s on his way.” Normally the Transport Pool began its operations at nine o’clock or thereabouts; this was a convenient arrangement for everybody. Officially it began to function at eight. The Chinese at the other end of the line was maddeningly urbane and slow. “Get a move on,” urged Nabby Adams. “He’s coming now, I tell you.” As he replaced the receiver there was a flushing sound from the water-closet. Nabby recomposed his features as Hood re-entered.

  “Better, sir?”

  “It’s an awful bloody business. Never know when it’s going to come.” Hood sat down gingerly.

  “What you could do with is a nice strong cup of tea, sir. I’ll tell the kuki to make you one.”

  “Does it really do any good, Nabby?” (That was better.) “I’ve tried every damn thing.”

  “Perfect, sir. It always puts me right.”

  Hood looked at his wrist-watch. “We haven’t got much time, you know. I want to go to your place before Sawan Lenja.”

  “That’s all right, sir. I think he’s got the kettle boiling.” Nabby Adams moved to the stairs, the dog following him.

  “I can see your cook out there,” said Hood. “What are you going upstairs for?”

  “Oh. I thought he’d gone up to make the beds, sir.” Nabby Adams went to the kitchen and said, “Make some teh for the tuan besar.”

  Hood said, “Sit down, Nabby. Why are you running through the petrol so bloody fast? You’re fifty-four gallons over and the month isn’t ended yet.”

  “I’ve got the file upstairs, sir. I’ll bring it down.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’ll see it later.”

  “I’d rather you saw it now, sir.” Nabby Adams moved again to the stairs.

  “You’re bloody restless, aren’t you? Have you got a woman upstairs or something?” At that moment a groan of penitence came from an upper room. It was Flaherty, ill. God’s most deep decree bitter would have him taste.

  “That’s Flaherty, sir. He’s got fever. I’ll just go up and see if he wants anything.” Nabby Adams made decisively for the stairs. The dog was waiting for him, her paws on the second tread, rere regardant with a happy lolling tongue. Nabby Adams nearly tripped over her. “God blast you,” he said.

  “That’s no way to speak to an animal,” said Hood. “I’ve got a dog myself. Come on, old boy.” The dog ignored him, following her master with a hasty clank clank clank.

  Up in his room Nabby jerked off the bottle-top with trembling hands. The life-giving beer gurgled down his throat. Too soon the stream dried up. He threw the empty bottle with disgust on the bed. Then he went down again, feeling a little better, but, into the vacuum made by the removal of his immediate need, there nudged a more extensive, blunter anxiety: the long day, no money, Robin Hood tut-tutting like a bloody parson, the lies, the subterfuges, the towkays wanting their money up in Sawan Lenja.

  “So you didn’t bring that file down, Nabby?” said Hood.

  “No, sir. I thought it was upstairs. It must be in the office, sir.”

  The tea came, not very strong but very milky, with a flotsam of leaves on its pale surface. “Aren’t you having any?” said Hood.

  “No, thank you, sir,” said Nabby Adams. “I’ve had my breakfast.”

  Hood was downing the tea too rapidly. Nabby Adams calculated that he would have to give Corporal Alladad Khan at least another fifteen minutes. “Will you have another cup, sir?” he asked.

  “I’ve not finished this one yet. No, I don’t think I will have another. Your boy makes bloody awful tea. How much do you pay him?”

  “Hundred a month, between the four of us, that is.”

  “Too much. Now, when I was in Perak, I got everything done for eighty, including garden and car cleaning.”

  “Did you really, sir? That’s very cheap, sir.”

  “Well, we can’t spend all day talking about the cost of labour.” Hood put down his cup and rose slowly. “Christ,” he said. “The bloody guts-ache. That tea wasn’t much of an idea, Adams.”

  “Give it time, sir. It’ll do you the world of good. Just rest for a few minutes.”

  “Well.” Hood sat down again. “I suppose we’re not worried over a few minutes, are we, Nabby?”

  Nabby Adams breathed thanks to an unknown god. “No, sir. Plenty of time. It’s only an hour’s run.”

  “Hour and a half. Christ.” Hood was off again to the toilet. Nabby Adams wiped sweat off his face with a grey handkerchief. He stole noiselessly to the telephone, whispered the number, whispered:

  “Is he there yet? Well, get hold of him quick. Get the lot of them. For God’s sake get a move on.”

  Hood came out amid the sound of rushing water. “On our way,” he said.

  “Yes, sir,” said Nabby Adams. “I’ll just get my cap.” Slowly he mounted the stairs, passed Flaherty’s door and heard him moaning softly. He was gall, he was heartburn. Nabby Adams looked in the mirror, arranging his cap. He saw a bilious-yellow face, enlivened with a razorcut. The body of this death.

  There was some difficulty in getting the dog out of the car. At last they were off, she gamely running after down the kampong street. They soon lost her.

  “You ought to train that dog properly,” said Hood. “Mine wouldn’t do that. You’ve got to have obedience in animals.”

  His heart beating faster, his throat drying, Nabby whispered to the driver, “Not so bloody fast.”

  “Tuan?”

  “All right, all right.” One of these days he must really get down to the language. There never seemed to be time, somehow.

  They passed the Tamil Vernacular School, the town padang, the Anglo-Chinese School, the Government Girls’ English School, the Iblis Club, the toddy-shop, the Town Board Offices, the Mosque, a row of Asian clerks’ bungalows, and then came the Police Station, and next to it Police Transport, and now Nabby Adams swallowed lump after lump of anxiety, because the place seemed deserted, unopened, desolate, abandoned. … They rounded the corner and entered the vehicle park, and there were, thank God, the whole bloody lot of them lined up, calm, been waiting for hours and, as they left the car Corporal Alladad Khan barked, “Ten Shun!” and they came to attention and Nabby Adams, police-lieutenant in charge of transport for the Police Circle, was proud and happy.

  Relief brought an aching desire to be sitting in a kedai with a large bottle of Tiger or Anchor or Carlsberg in
front of him. That, of course, was impossible. While Robin Hood was using the jamban at the back of the yard, Nabby Adams urgently begged a loan of ten dollars from Corporal Alladad Khan. He spoke clean grammatical Urdu.

  “Your wife is away. When she returns you may tell her that you required a new pair of trousers to be made. And then when I pay you back you can buy the pair of trousers.”

  “But I do not need a pair of trousers.” Alladad Khan’s melting brown eyes were serious over the proud nose, the ample, neat moustache.

  “I shall have repaid you by the time she returns, however. So perhaps there will be no need for any story.”

  “Wait,” said Alladad Khan. He had a long colloquy in Punjabi with a Sikh constable. He returned with ten dollars. “I have borrowed this from Hari Singh. I shall have to open my wife’s saving-box to repay him, because he needs the money to-day. I shall give you this and then you can pay me at the end of the month.”

  “Thank you, Alladad Khan.” Hood was returning, saying, “I’ll have to get some hard-boiled eggs on the way.”

  It was a wearisome, dry morning. They sped along the Timah road, through terrorist country, past regular neat woods of rubber trees. They saw tin-dredgers at work; they saw lorries loaded with latex; they went through villages and one largish town called Sungai Kajar—a wide main street, several drinking-shops, a Cinemascope advertisement—and by the time they got to Sawan Lenja Nabby Adams was near death. But he had to stoop over vehicles, examine engines, castigate inefficient corporal-fitters. At length Robin Hood said it was time for tiffin and they sought the rest house.

  Hood ordered a portion of fried fish, a steak with onions and chipped potatoes, a dish of chopped pineapple and tinned cream. Nabby Adams said he would have a small round of cheese sandwiches.

  “You ought to eat a good tiffin,” said Hood, “because you need it in this climate. Thank God, I think my dysentery’s a bit better. Have a beer if you want it,” he added generously. “I’ll have a small Tiger with you.”

  “No,” said Nabby Adams. “It’s no good starting again. I’ve finished with it, once and for all. It’s better to give it up completely.”

  “I’m glad to hear that from your lips, Nabby. You know, all your confidential reports have said the same thing: ‘A good man, first-class, but hits the bottle.’”

  “Never again,” said Nabby Adams. “It’s a mug’s game.”

  They ate, Hood sipping his small Tiger genteelly, Nabby Adams gloomily toying with a sandwich of tinned white cheese. They were alone in the single room that served as restaurant and lounge. There was little sound: only the sucking noises that made Hood’s every course seem like soup, the slow champing of Nabby’s dry mouth, the whirr of the fan, the hoicking of the Chinese boy in the kitchen.

  Soon Hood belched repletion, picked his teeth and eyed the rattan couch. “It’s only ten-past one,” he said. “I’ll just have a few minutes. It’s been a hard morning.”

  “It has, sir.”

  “You haven’t had this dysentery like I have. It takes it out of you.”

  “You’ve put it back in again, sir.”

  “I’ll just have a few minutes, Nabby.” He stretched his small tubby form on the couch, crossed hands on his full belly. Nabby Adams watched him with great intensity. The eyes were closed, the breathing seemed relaxed and regular. Nabby Adams tiptoed over to the serving-hatch, watching still, narrowly. Hood sighed, turned, said, “Don’t let me oversleep, Nabby.”

  “Not likely, sir.” Nabby Adams beckoned the boy sibilantly, went through the motions of pouring, drinking, indicated a large one with huge hands a cubit apart. The boy said, loudly, cheerfully, “Anchor beer.”

  “Not so bloody loud, man.” Nabby Adams made a hair-tearing gesture with a pair of gorilla arms, his face a devil’s mask. He took the proffered glass and bottle, poured, downed, poured, downed, poured. A sleepy sigh came from the couch. Nabby Adams downed the last of it and tiptoed back, sitting at the table, good as gold.

  Hood opened his eyes and said, “How’s the time going?”

  “Quite all right, sir. Plenty of time. You have a sleep, sir.”

  Hood turned over with his fat bottom towards Nabby Adams. Thank God. Nabby Adams tiptoed over again to the serving-hatch, ordered another, downed it. He began to feel a great deal better. After yet another he felt better still. Poor old Robin Hood wasn’t a bad type. Stupid, didn’t know a gear-box from a spare tyre, but he meant well. The world generally looked better. The sun shone, the palms shook in the faint breeze, a really lovely Malay girl passed by the window. Proud of carriage, in tight baju and rich sarong, she balanced voluptuous haunches. Her blue-black hair had some sort of a flower in it; how delicate the warm brown of her flat flower-like face.

  “What time is it, Nabby?”

  Nabby Adams gulped down his beer nervously. “This clock says quarter to, sir, but I think it’s a bit fast.”

  “We’re not worrying about five minutes, are we, Nabby?”

  “No, sir.” Thank God he didn’t turn over. Another bottle would make six dollars eighty. That meant he could finish the day with a bottle of samsu. He didn’t like the burnt taste of the rice-spirit, but he didn’t worry about the awful tales of the high lead-content. Or he could send the kuki to the toddy-shop, after dark, of course, because it was illegal to consume toddy off the premises. Toddy was cheap enough. The smell of decay was ghastly, but you could always hold your nose. The taste wasn’t so good either: burnt brown paper. Still, it was a drink. Good for you, too. If it wasn’t for the smell and the taste it would be a damn good drink.

  Nabby Adams drank another bottle. At the end of it he heard Hood stirring with deep sighs, yawns, a creaking of rattan. This was it then. Two o’clock. He moved from the serving-hatch to the dining-room-lounge. Hood was sitting on the edge of the couch, rubbing sleepy eyes, then scratching through scant greying hair.

  “On the job again, Nabby.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The Chinese boy came in jauntily with a bill for Nabby Adams. Nabby Adams gave him a look of such malevolence that the boy’s mouth, open to announce the amount of the bill, clapped, like a rat-trap, shut.

  “Here, boy, give me that bill,” said Hood. “I’ll pay, Nabby. Your cheese sandwiches won’t break me.”

  “No, sir.” Nabby Adams grabbed the bill in panic. “On me, sir. I mean, let’s pay for our own.”

  “I’ll pay, Nabby. You deserve something for reforming your bad habits. How much, boy?”

  “On me, sir, please,” begged Nabby Adams.

  “Well.” Hood yawned widely and long, showing back fillings and a softly rising uvula. “You must be rolling in it now, Nabby, giving it up like you said. You must be saving pots of money. All right, I’ll pay next time.”

  Ten dollars was far from enough. Nabby Adams told the boy, while Hood was stretching on the veranda, that he’d give him the rest next time. The boy protested. Nabby Adams asserted six feet eight inches of Caucasian manhood and said he could whistle for the five dollars forty. The boy went for the towkay. Nabby Adams hastened Hood to the waiting car.

  The mean bastard. Nabby Adams felt ill-used. The afternoon stretched, an arid scrubland of carburettors and oil-gaskets. The night? Nabby Adams groaned in his very stomach. Was ever grief like mine?

  2

  VICTOR CRABBE SLEPT through the bilal’s bang (inept Persian word for the faint unheeded call), would sleep till the bangbang (apt Javanese word) of the brontoid dawn brought him tea and bananas. He slept on the second floor of the old Residency, which overlooked the river.

  The river Lanchap gives the state its name. It has its source in deep jungle, where it is a watering-place for a hundred or so little negroid people who worship thunder and can count only up to two. They share it with tigers, hamadryads, bootlace-snakes, leeches, pelandoks and the rest of the bewildering fauna of up-stream Malaya. As the Sungai Lanchap winds on, it encounters outposts of a more complex culture: Malay villages where the Koran is kn
own, where the prophets jostle with nymphs and tree-gods in a pantheon of unimaginable variety. Here a little work in the paddy-fields suffices to maintain a heliotropic, pullulating subsistence. There are fish in the river, guarded, however, by crocodile-gods of fearful malignity; coconuts drop or are hurled down by trained monkeys called beroks; the durian sheds its rich fetid smell in the season of durians. Erotic pantuns and Hindu myths soothe away the depression of an occasional accidia. As the Lanchap approaches the coast a more progressive civilisation appears: the two modem towns of Timah and Tahi Panas, made fat on tin and rubber, supporting large populations of Chinese, Malays, Indians, Eurasians, Arabs, Scots, Christian Brothers, and pale English administrators. The towns echo with trishaw-bells, the horns of smooth, smug American cars, radios blaring sentimental pentatonic Chinese tunes, the morning hawking and spitting of the towkays, the call of the East. Where the Lanchap meets the Sungai Hantu stands the royal town, dominated by an Istana designed by a Los Angeles architect, blessed by a mosque as bulbous as a clutch of onions, cursed by a lowering sky and high humidity. This is Kuala Hantu.

  Victor Crabbe slept soundly, drawn into that dark world where history melts into myth.

  The history of the state differs little from that of its great neighbours, Johore and Pahang. A prince of Malacca settled on its river at the time of the Portuguese invasions. He had known the old days of quiet and leisure, the silken girls bringing sherbet, the long, subtle theological debates with visiting Islamic philosophers. The Portuguese, sweating in trunk-hose, brought a niggling concern with commerce and the salvation of pagan souls. Francis Xavier preached about the love of an alien God, tried to fracture the indivisible numen and establish a crude triune structure, set up schools where dreary hymns were sung, and finally condoned the rack and the thumbscrew. Now the royal house of Malacca began to substantiate its old hypothetical claim to overlordship of the entire peninsula. Bendahara Yusuf set up a meagre palace on the swampy shore of the Lanchap and tried to divert the outrageous revenues collected by the chiefs into his own coffers. He bequeathed to his successors an arduous task, made no easier by the bullyings of the Achinese and the ubiquitous Bugis, exacerbated by the ruthless greed of the trumpeting Dutch. The rulers themselves lived unedifying lives. Yahya never moved out of an opium trance; Ahmad died of a surfeit of Persian sweetmeats; Mohammed lashed at least one slave to death every day; Aziz had syphilis and died at the age of eighteen; Hussain had a hundred wives.