The Malayan Trilogy

by Anthony Burgess

  “Three, three, the Comintern.

  Two, two, the opposites,

  Interpenetrating though.

  One is Workers’ Unity

  And evermore shall be so.”

  Those memories now had the smell of old apples, they were a dried pressed flower. Were these boys the same as he had been, fired with an adolescent desire really to reform the world, as little to be taken seriously? Shiu Hung was a good student of History. Crabbe wanted him to go to England, to read for a degree there. He had a future before him. Did he really see the ambushes, the eviscerations, the beheadings of the innocent as a wholesome and necessary step to the fulfilment of a freer and happier East? Or did he, young as he was, know what power was and desire it?

  Crabbe heard a car singing in a rising scale round the bend of the long drive. His watch said nearly twelve. The car stopped in the porch, he heard brief words and a slammed door, then the car was off again, singing down the riverside road that led to the town. He heard Fenella mounting the stairs. He went to the door to meet her.

  “Hallo, darling,” he said. She seemed flushed and happy, the afternoon’s quarrel forgotten. “Here I am,” she said. They kissed.

  “Was it a good film?”

  “Well.” She went ahead of him into the living-room. “Let me have a drink first. Wake up Ibrahim and ask him to fetch some ice.”

  “Ibrahim’s not back yet. He too went to the cinema.”

  “Never mind. This water seems cold enough.” She sat down with a flop of languor and drank some diluted gin.

  “Well,” she said. “It’s rather a long story. We never got to Timah.”

  “Never got there?”

  “Do you know anything about this driver, What’s-his-name Khan?”

  “Nothing. Why?”

  “Well, we broke down on the road. At least, he said we’d broken down. He managed to drive the car into one of the estates—conveniently near, I thought, a bit too convenient. Admittedly the car was coughing a bit, but I think we could have got to Timah. He said he knew some of the Special Constables there and also the estate driver. He said he could get the car repaired.”

  “He spoke in English?”

  “No, Malay. But I could follow him. I really must get down to learning the language, Vic. It’s silly not to know Malay when you’re living in Malaya.”

  “Really, my dear. This is quite a new note.”

  “Well, actually, there was a lot I wanted to find out tonight, but nobody spoke English. Everybody knew some Malay.”

  “What did you want to find out?”

  “Oh, it’s a long, long story. We went to this estate and there was a sort of party going on. It was mostly Tamils. There seemed to be some sort of religious ceremony, but it wasn’t really religious either. The most incredible things. You’ve no idea.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, some of them walked in their bare feet on broken glass and others stuck knives into their cheeks, and one man swallowed a sword. And they sang songs. And we had a foul-smelling drink called toddy.”

  “Ah.”

  “Have you ever drunk it?”

  “Yes, a little.”

  “Well, it’s all right if you hold your nose. It’s quite intoxicating in a gentle sort of way.”

  “That’s true.”

  “I had quite a lot of that. They kept handing it round. Really, the whole evening was most interesting. Like something out of The Golden Bough.”

  “But you missed the film.”

  “Yes, I missed the film. Still, I never much fancied The Battleship Potemkin, really. But I mustn’t miss the next one.”

  Just before she went to sleep Fenella said, “You know, that Khan man, the driver, is rather nice really. Very attentive. I only wish I could understand what he’s saying to me. It all sounds quite complimentary. This is like something in a novel, isn’t it?” she added. “Like one of those cheap novels about Cairo and what-not.” She giggled a little and then swam off into sleep, snoring very faintly.

  While she slept happily two men were happily awake. One was Alladad Khan. He swelled with pride as he took off his shirt before the mirror. He flexed his muscles and examined his teeth. He tried various facial poses, ending with a lascivious leer which, he realised, did not really suit him. He recomposed his face to a quiet dignity much more becoming a Khan. Then to the mirror he spoke some words of English. “Beautiful,” he said. He sought for an adverb to go with it. “Bloody beautiful,” he said. Tomorrow he must borrow that little book from Hari Singh. Then he turned to his wife’s photograph and sneered dramatically at the strong long nose and the confident arm leaning on his own new-married image. “Silly bastard,” he said. “Bloody liar.” Then, satisfied, he got into bed.

  He lay smoking a last cigarette. Smoking in bed was forbidden by his wife, because once he had burnt the sheet. His wife was not here to enforce the law, but, Allah, she would soon be back, complete with a squalling baby. When she returned he would assert his manhood a bit more. Any further mention of her brother and he would use rude language. He might even strike her gently, though hitting a woman was not conduct befitting a Khan.

  Tida’ apa.

  Mrs. Crabbe had, he thought, been given a very good evening, and it had cost nothing. At first she had been frightened, but a pint or so of fresh toddy had soon made that pass. His friends, he thought, had behaved very well. They had neither belched nor spat excessively. They had smiled frequently and encouragingly. She had obviously been interested in the things she had seen. It was a good thing she had not been able to understand the songs she had heard.

  Next time he would make the car break down near a kedai, one of the more refined kedais where ice was obtainable. There they could have a good long talk. By then he should know a little English.

  “Bloody good,” he said. Then, content, he turned towards the wall and addressed himself to sleep.

  The other happy man was Nabby Adams. Old Robin Hood had brought him to Penang. There was to be a conference of Contingent Transport Officers at Butterworth the next day, and Hood needed Nabby Adams’s technical advice. Nabby Adams was now sitting in a rather high-class kedai, doing very nicely indeed.

  Nabby Adams had arrived in Penang with two dollars. Hood had given him the money for a hotel room but nothing for expenses. The two dollars had to be husbanded carefully. First, a bottle for breakfast had to be bought. This bottle had been bought and then stored carefully in the same cupboard as the chamber-pot. This left one dollar for the evening, one dollar to taste the varied pleasures of a civilised city that has been called the Pearl of the Orient.

  Nabby Adams had entered a kedai and ordered himself a small bottle of Anchor. Now, it normally happens that when one has much money in one’s pockets that is the time when other drinkers, even strangers, are at their most generous. When one has nothing nothing will come of nothing. On this occasion things went differently. A Chinese jeweller had said, “A drink for the police-lieutenant. It is they who are clearing this country of Communist scum.” Nabby Adams had been bought a large bottle of Tiger. He protested that he had no money to return this generosity. He had been told that that was no matter, that nothing was too good for police-lieutenants. Soon friends of the Chinese jeweller came in and were greeted warmly by the Chinese jeweller. They too were appreciative of expatriate police-lieutenants and they too bought him large bottles of Tiger. It was not long before Nabby Adams had eight unopened large bottles of Tiger on the table before him. Then somebody had said, “The police-lieutenant is drinking very slowly.”

  Somebody had said, “Too slowly.”

  Somebody had suggested, “Perhaps if the police-lieutenant had a brandy before each bottle of beer it would help him to get them down.”

  This was thought to be a good idea. Soon eight glasses of brandy appeared on the table. They helped the beer down considerably. And now Nabby Adams was speaking rapid Urdu to a couple of Bengali business-men who frequently nodded gravely in agreement. Occasionally
the Chinese jeweller would sway over to the table and shout:

  “More drink for the police-lieutenant. It is only fitting that they should be repaid for their bravery.”

  It was, joking on one side, the best bloody evening that Nabby Adams had had for a long time.

  Meanwhile Victor Crabbe was dreaming. He was in Boothby’s office. This office expanded and contracted like a huge yawning mouth. Boothby was sitting in his chair with Rahimah on his knee. Rahimah was evidently very fond of Boothby for she kissed him frequently, even when he was yawning. Boothby was glancing through a Chinese pamphlet, saying, “If you’d been in this Federation as long as me you’d be able to read this language. All it says is that terrorist activities must be intensified, especially in this School. That’s your trouble, Crabbe, you’re inexperienced. You can’t take orders, you can’t exercise discipline, the boys laugh at you behind your back.”

  On a ledge, high up near the ceiling, Fenella lay languidly, saying, “Oh, darling, I’m so happy, so happy.” Boothby said, “All right, boys, give him a joy-ride.” The Chief Clerk and the two peons came in, wearing caps marked with the bintang tiga, the three stars. They bundled him into a smart Abelard, into the driving-seat, and said, “You’re on your own.” But he was not on his own. The muffled figure in the passenger-seat said, “Oh, darling, I’m so happy, so happy.” Over the bridge-fence they went. “Who ever heard of ice in Malaya?” yawned Boothby. Nabby Adams said, “I can’t abide it cold.” Over they went, into the dark January waters.

  6

  “SO I THOUGHT you might like to go there,” said Nabby Adams.

  “Yes,” said Crabbe. “Let’s go and have a few beers.” He was smarting from the day’s failures. “Do sit down, Alladad Khan. I mean, sila dudok.”

  “Shukria, sahib.” Alladad Khan sat gingerly on one of the four chairs ranged about the table, under the spinning fan, and stroked his moustache, glancing shyly round. So this was where she lived. Fine P.W.D. furniture, and many books in an unknown language, and on the walls coloured pictures. And there on a small table ice in a jug and gin. But where was she?

  “I think my wife might quite like it,” said Crabbe. “Have some gin, Nabby.”

  “No, thanks,” said Nabby Adams. “No water. I like to taste it as it is.” He drank with no grimace a bulging mouthful of the raw spirit. Alladad Khan accepted shyly the same and burst into a shock of coughing.

  “That’s his bloody trouble,” said Nabby Adams evenly. “Thinks he can drink and he can’t. Go on,” he added, “get it up even if it’s only a bucketful.”

  It was unfortunate that she should enter just then. He, Alladad Khan, red with coughing under his brown, eyes full of tears, fire in his gullet. He had meant to be calm, gentlemanly, saying in careful English, “Good evening, memsahib. Thank you, memsahib.” She entered, graceful in thin flowery stuff, gracious and solicitous.

  “Don’t mind about him, Mrs. Crabbe,” said Nabby Adams, remaining calmly seated. “He’s only coughing his art up.”

  Fenella heard this with appreciation. Coughing his art up. That could apply to any of the tubercular poets. She must use it sometime.

  “There’s a big fair up at the Istana,” said Crabbe. “Sideshows, dancing.”

  “And two beer-tents,” said Nabby Adams. “It’s the Sultan’s birthday, you see. To-morrow, that is. And I thought you might like to go to it. You’ll be safe with two men. And him,” he added.

  “Yes,” said Fenella. “I should like that.”

  “There’s no hurry,” said Nabby Adams. “Doesn’t start till nine.” He looked appreciatively at the bottles on the sideboard. That had been a bloody good idea of Alladad Khan’s, to come up here like that with the suggestion. He must come here again. Crabbe probably had beer in the kitchen as well.

  Alladad Khan had stopped coughing. Now he said, with careful articulation, “Good evening, memsahib.”

  “Oh,” said Fenella. “Good evening.”

  “Bit late in the day, aren’t you?” said Nabby Adams with contempt. He then launched into long Urdu. Alladad Khan replied in long Urdu, his eyes flashing and melting. Nabby Adams grunted and said, “I’ll take one of your cigarettes, if you don’t mind, Mr. Crabbe.”

  “What was all that about?” asked Fenella.

  “He says his heart is heavy that he made a bloody fool of himself like that,” said Nabby Adams. Then he gaped in horror. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Crabbe. It just slipped out, that did, I didn’t mean to say that, not before a lady, I do beg your pardon, really I do.”

  Nabby Adams, forgiven, drank more neat gin. Alladad Khan was soothed with some sherry. Allah, that was a good drink. He smacked his lips. Rich, aromatic, sustaining. Allah, he must buy some of that.

  “You don’t mind me coming in these clothes, do you?” announced Nabby Adams. “I didn’t go back to the mess, you see. Me and him had to go out on a job.” He looked down at the stained shirt and long, long crumpled trousers. “I didn’t get a bath, neither. But I think you can bath too much. No, joking on one side, I think you can. Now, I know some people who bath as much as twice a day. Honest. Keir does. You wouldn’t know him, Mrs. Crabbe. Not that you’d want to. Mean? Mean as bl … Mean as dirt. It doesn’t cost him any money to have a bath. That’s how he passes the time.” Nabby Adams now risked one of his little jokes. “I had a damn good wash on the boat coming over,” he said.

  “Really?” said Fenella.

  “That’ll do me till the end of the tour.”

  Crabbe brooded on the day’s humiliations. The Chinese pamphlet had been a catechism on the teaching of Karl Marx. He had taken it in to Boothby, and Boothby had yawned. He had then said:

  “I know all about it. This lad—what’s his name?—came in to tell me that he was trying to show these younger kids where Communism goes wrong. He said that you weren’t very sympathetic about it and that he understood it was the job of the staff to try and teach the youth of Malaya the truth about Communism. Well, now, I don’t see what you’re bellyaching about. It’s down in your syllabus here. Just a minute.” He leafed through a file. “Here. ‘Nineteenth-century political ideas. Utilitarianism. Bentham and Mill. The Co-operative Movement and Robert Owen.’ Here it is. ‘Socialism. Karl Marx and the Economic Interpretation of History.’ Well, he was only trying to do what you don’t seem to have done.”

  “We haven’t got as far as that yet.”

  “All right. But don’t blame this lad for trying to do your work for you. He’s a good lad anyway. You say so yourself in that report I asked for. You said his scholarship should most certainly be renewed.”

  “I tell you I don’t like it. There was too much of the air of a secret society about it. Late at night. Breaking the lights-out rule as well.”

  “Internal discipline is your own affair. Don’t bring it to me.”

  “Unless it happens to relate to offences of an erotic nature?”

  “I don’t quite get you.”

  “Young men talking to girls in a house-boy’s room.”

  “Yes,” said Boothby with vigour. “Yes. That reminds me. Mahmud bin What’s-his-name in your House. He was seen with a girl in the grounds, arm in arm, love’s young dream. You didn’t do anything about that, did you?”

  “I didn’t know anything about it.”

  “There you are,” said Boothby in heavy triumph. “But I did. If these lads want to work late for exams and out of general interest and what-not, then you start interfering. Fornication goes on under your nose and you don’t see that, oh no. Perhaps because you don’t want to see it.”

  “And what exactly do you mean by that?”

  “What I say.”

  “Look here, Boothby,” said Victor Crabbe. “How would you like a nice sharp jab on the nose?”

  Boothby looked in astonishment, open-mouthed. Then he grinned, and, as his mouth was already half-way there, thought he might as well yawn. He yawned. “Go on,” he said. “I’ll say no more about it. You’re new, that’s your troubl
e. You can get away with a lot in this country if you keep it quiet. You’ll learn.”

  Back in Light House, in the yawning afternoon, Crabbe had had a quiet talk with Shiu Hung. On the veranda the boy had listened politely, responded politely, sipping orange-crush.

  “I want you to be honest with me.”

  “About what, sir?”

  “I want to know what was really going on last night. I promise you that whatever you tell me won’t go any further.”

  “I told you what was going on, sir.”

  “Yes, yes, but you didn’t tell me the whole story. I want to know what’s really going on in the minds of these boys.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Would it surprise you,” Crabbe had leaned forward conspiratorially, “surprise you to know that I myself am something of a radical in politics?”

  “No, sir. You have talked in class of a free Malaya.”

  Ah. Crabbe said, “How are we to get a free Malaya?”

  “Through representation, sir. Through free elections and a party system.”

  “What parties?”

  “Parties that represent the people, sir.”

  “Does the Malayan Communist Party represent the people?”

  “Certainly not, sir. It represents Red China.”

  “Have you any feelings about Red China?”

  “I am a Malayan, sir. I was born here.”

  “Shall I tell you, in confidence, what I think? I think that in a free country there should be room for all shades of political opinion, for all political creeds. To make it an offence to belong to a particular party does not seem to me to be consistent with the much-vaunted principle of freedom.”