At nine o’clock Nabby Adams was fully awake and very thirsty. He lay for a while wondering how to raise the dollar he needed. Vorpal wouldn’t lend him one, Keir wouldn’t, Flaherty couldn’t, not just now. The kuki? No, not again. Nabby Adams put on his trousers and slippers and went downstairs. A week ago he had paid off ten dollars of his debt to the old towkay across the road. Crabbe had lent him the ten dollars. Surely one small bottle was not too much to ask?
In the living-room the cloth had been laid and two bottles of sauce stood near three egg-cups. Nobody had had breakfast yet. The cook-boy stood anxiously by.
“Saya t’ada wang, tuan.”
“I know you’ve got no bloody money. I wouldn’t ask you even if you had.” Proudly man and dog went out and crossed the road.
In the kampong street Sunday was just another day. The kedais had been long open and the Malay children had long since departed for school. Nabby Adams grimly sought the shop of Guan Moh Chan, Cough clanking after him, his upper body’s crumpled pyjama stripes proclaiming to all the world the urgency of his quest. The dark shop was full of family. The old man scolded a young shapeless woman who carried one baby and led another by the hand into the black depths of the living quarters. Three sons quacked to each other, sprawled about the single table, one probing his golden mouth with a toothpick. Nabby Adams spoke:
“Satu botol.”
The old wrinkled man chortled regretfully, sorting out the account books.
“I know all about that,” said Nabby Adams. “I’ll bring some money next time.”
“Dua latus linggit,” began the old man.
“Dua ratus ringgit. Two hundred bloody dollars. Look here,” said Nabby Adams, “if you give me one bottle now it’s not going to make all that difference, is it?” The family listened, uncomprehending, inscrutable. “I mean, if I owe all that bloody much already, one dollar’s not going to break anybody’s heart.”
The old man said, “Satu botol, satu linggit.”
“But I haven’t got a bloody dollar. Look.” Nabby Adams pulled from his trouser-pocket an old wallet, made in India long ago, torn at the seams, holding only an identity-card, a folded letter and a lottery ticket. He looked at the lottery ticket. Not a bloody chance. “Here,” he said, “take this. It cost a dollar. It might be worth three hundred thousand. I’ll risk it. A bloody good chance like that for one bottle of Anchor.”
The old man looked carefully at the number of the ticket. His sons came over to look also. One son foolishly registered mild excitement but was quelled with a quack from his father. ‘Something about the bloody number,’ thought Nabby Adams. The Chinese went in a lot for lucky numbers.
Nabby Adams was given a small dusty bottle of Anchor beer to hide in his hand. He went off with it, hearing quacking from the whole bloody family. Bloody fools. As though there was anything in the lucky number idea. A lucky number for him, Nabby Adams, anyway. He had got a small bottle of beer out of it. That was the most he had ever got out of a lottery ticket.
The Chinese shopkeeper and his family watched the stiff retreating form of Nabby Adams and the wagging rump of his dog. Then they looked again at the number, quacking with great excitement. Ostensibly Christian, they were all profound Taoists in fact, and what excited them now was an arrangement of nine numbers which could easily be resolved into the Magic Square:
4 9 2 3 5 7 8 1 6
The Noah of China, Emperor Yu, walked along the banks of a tributary of the Yellow River one day after the Great Flood. He saw a tortoise rising from the river with a strange pattern on its back. Miraculously, this pattern resolved itself in his eyes into the Magic Square, the ideal arrangement of the yin-yang digits. Out of this came a plan for reconstructing the world and devising the perfect system of government.
Slowly the third son wrote out the number on Nabby Adams’ lottery ticket in the form of a square:
4 9 2
3 5 7
8 1 6
Yes, yes, it was! Whichever way you added up, across or down or diagonally, you got the number 15, symbol of Man Perfected. Their dancing excitement was succeeded by a feeling of awe. Perhaps this huge yellow man was really a sort of god, perhaps it was their duty to feed him with all the beer he wanted. See how that dog follows him everywhere; he has power over animals. He is bigger than the common run of men; he speaks a strange tongue. And now he gives a piece of paper with the Magic Square telescoped on it.
“We must wait till the result is put in the newspaper. Then when we win we can give him perhaps a chicken or perhaps even a small pig.”
“He does not eat.”
“Then perhaps six bottles of beer.”
“And his bill?”
“He does not know it, but his bill has been paid already. There is a man he has helped with his car which was in a bad accident and he would not take a bribe so this man came to me and said I must send the bills to him. This I have done, but he, the big man, does not know that yet. Nor shall he ever be told by me.”
The sons chortled at their old father’s cunning. Then one son said:
“Surely to-day is the day of the lottery draw?”
“Find out moonshine.” They went to their Chinese calendar. “Yes, it is to-day that the winning numbers are published. The English papers are out now, but the Chinese paper will arrive at noon.”
“It is but a short time to wait. How providential that we should be given the winning ticket but three hours before the result is announced. This big man shall most certainly be rewarded with a gift of beer.”
The big man had entered the shabby living-room of the mess. Keir was sneering over his Sunday paper, while Vorpal cracked a boiled egg.
“Can’t beat a bit of the old egg-fruit-lah. Though this one’s a bit on the high side. Seen better days-lah.”
Keir said, “Somebody in Lanchap’s got the winning number. Not me, anyway. It’s a mug’s game. Million-to-one chance. If you don’t spend a dollar you know you’ve got a dollar. That’s two-and-fourpence back home, and you can do a lot with two-and-fourpence.”
“Somebody in Lanchap?” said Nabby Adams.
“Yes,” sneered Keir. “Are you the lucky man?”
But Nabby Adams was off, the bottle still hidden in his vast paw. Breathless, the dog followed after.
In the kedai Nabby Adams said, “Here’s your bottle back. Let’s have a look at that bloody ticket.”
The towkay indicated deep regret. A transaction had been completed, could not be revoked. Nabby Adams was now bloody sure that that was one of the winning tickets, that they had seen the blasted results already, that was why that young bastard had got so bloody excited and the old man had tried to shut his bloody trap for him.
“Look here,” said Nabby Adams. “I want that ticket. Here’s your beer. You get your beer back; I get my ticket back. You savvy?”
The old man offered Nabby Adams a dollar note. Nabby Adams went wild and his dog barked. “If I don’t get that bloody ticket back I’ll break the bloody shop up.” He threatened, huge, angry. The Chinese family realised that the anger of even a minor god was a thing to be reckoned with. The towkay took down from a shelf a small bundle of lottery tickets and offered a ticket to Nabby Adams. Nabby Adams looked at it suspiciously.
“Can take beer too,” said the old man.
“This isn’t the right ticket,” said Nabby Adams. “You’re trying it on. Why are you so bloody eager to give me the bottle of beer as well?”
“Is ticket,” said the towkay.
“Is bloody not,” said Nabby Adams. “Give me the right one or I’ll smash it all up, all the bloody lot, beginning with that bloody shelf of condensed milk there.” A huge flailing arm was ready. The dog barked. The towkay tut-tutted and clucked and, searching carefully through the sheaf of tickets, chose another one which he gave to Nabby Adams.
“Come to your bloody senses,” said Nabby Adams. “That’s more like it.” He scanned the number—112673225—and wished to God he could remember whether it
was the right one.
“And I’ll keep the beer,” said Nabby Adams.
Ten minutes later Nabby Adams sat dumbfounded, the bottle still unopened, over the front page of the Sunday paper. It couldn’t be true. It was all a bloody practical joke.
112673225.
Vorpal drank a fourth cup of tea and said, “Something wrong with old Nabby-lah. First time I ever seen him not want any breakfast-lah. Crying out for beer and when he’s got it he won’t touch it-lah.” Keir sneered and went to suck his empty teeth on the veranda. Nabby Adams closed one eye, opened it, closed the other, and quizzed the number again. There were so many bloody numbers and he couldn’t keep the paper steady. Clamped to the paper with his thumb was the ticket.
112673225.
Such a bloody long number. He tried again slowly. 1126. 1126. That was all right. He trembled and blood sang in his ears so that he couldn’t hear what Vorpal was saying. Steady now. He breathed in deeply and tried the number from the end. 5223. 5223. Christ, that was all right too. He began to feel very sick. Now the bloody figure in the middle, if he could get that far. But which way to go? From the beginning or the end? He almost closed his eyes and tried to focus on the heart of the trembling number, almost praying that it wouldn’t be 7, that there would be no need for palpitations and perhaps fainting and all the new life that this would mean. He wanted to be left alone, in debt, always thirsty. He took a shot at the core of the long number and nearly reeled over.
7.
Oh Christ, it was true.
“You don’t look so good, Nabby,” said Vorpal with anxiety. Then he moved forward, staring at the prodigy, and Keir came in from the veranda too, as Nabby Adams crumpled and crashed off his chair. The house rumbled seismically at the heavy fall. The dog barked. The two men tried to lift the huge dead weight.
“Leave him there-lah,” ordered Vorpal. “Get some bloody brandy, quick.”
“There isn’t any,” said Keir. “It wouldn’t last two minutes if there was, not with him about.”
“Well, get that bloody beer-bottle open,” urged Vorpal. “Pour it down his throat-lah. Come on, man.”
“It’s caught up with him at last,” sneered Keir.
Vorpal tipped beer down Nabby Adams’s gullet, and the frothy brew spilled over stubbly chin and faded pyjama jacket. All the time the dog danced and barked.
“He’s coming round-lah,” said Vorpal. “Speak to me, Nabby. How do you feel now-lah? Christ, you gave us a turn-lah.”
“I’ve won,” groaned Nabby Adams. “I’ve won. I’ve bloody won. I’ve won, I tell you. I’ve won the bloody first prize. The first bloody prize. I’ve won. Oh.” And he passed out again.
The two men, awed as in the presence of imminent death, could only look down on the huge wreck which the dog, whimpering, ranged over, looking for places to lick. The lavish cold tongue, laving his frothy lips, brought Nabby Adams back to life. He groaned.
“I’ve bloody well won. I’ve won. The first bloody prize.”
“And, by Christ, he has too.” Vorpal held paper and ticket, scanning, checking, re-checking, confirming.
“There must be a mistake,” said Keir, pale, forgetting to sneer.
“There’s no mistake. It’s there in black and white. Look, man.”
“I’ve won. I’ve won. Oh Christ, I’ve won.”
“There, there, Nabby,” soothed Vorpal. “You’re with friends-lah. You’ll feel a bit better in a minute. I’ll send the kuki out for some beer.”
“I’ve won, I’ve won, I tell you. Oh God.”
“Three hundred and fifty thousand bucks,” said Vorpal. “Settling day one week from now-lah.”
“Three hundred and fifty thou …” Keir sat down, limp as a leaf.
“I’ve won.” Nabby Adams was calmer now, resigned, pale as death, reconciled to the dread sentence. He sat, wretched, on a chair, and absently patted the dog.
“You’ve won, boy,” said Vorpal. “Kuki!” he called. “We’re going to celebrate-lah. A case of Tiger.”
“Carlsberg,” said Nabby Adams. “It’s a bit dearer, but it’s a better beer.”
“Carlsberg,” said Vorpal. “Brandy. Champagne-lah. Any bloody thing you like.”
Nabby Adams gloomily scanned the winning ticket, his hands still hardly able to hold it.
‘For God’s sake don’t lose that,” said Vorpal. “I’ll look after it for you.”
“No,” said Nabby Adams. “He’ll look after it. It’s safer with him.”
“Who?”
“Crabbe. Crabbe’ll look after it. I’ll give it to Crabbe. It’ll be all right with him.”
The kuki, staggering back with a clanking case of beer, said that this was a present for the big tuan. On top of the bottles was a skinny chicken, glistening with refrigerator-ice.
“It’s always the bloody same,” said Nabby Adams gloomily. “When you’ve got it you go on getting it. I wish I was bloody dead.”
“You will be,” sneered Keir. “You soon will be.”
Then a strange thing happened. The dog Cough bared her teeth at Keir and with a profound belly-growl advanced on him.
“Take her away! Call her off!” Keir backed on to the porch, Cough’s naked teeth ready to lunge. “Bloody dog!” Then Keir ran into the street, Cough, out for blood, after him. Man and dog disappeared, gaining speed. Nabby Adams could see astonished faces of Malays looking off-stage. He decapitated a bottle of Carlsberg.
“I’ve won,” he said, before drinking.
15
THE RIVER WAS rising steadily when term ended. It was still possible to drive through the streets of Kuala Hantu, but dwellers near the river’s edge had taken to the roofs and the bazaar had had to close down. Up-stream the rain thundered and soon, in time for Christmas—the birthday of the Prophet Isa—Kuala Hantu would resound to the whip-lashings of the frenzied sky. Then there would be cosy isolation for those who lived up the hill, the boats would ply between the stone and wood islands, and the prices of foodstuffs would mount drunkenly. Meantime there was Crabbe’s farewell party at Kong Huat’s—five dollars a head for all members of the staff, drink extra, no pork in deference to the Muslims.
It was a tradition in the Mansor School that a departing master should be given a Chinese dinner. Though wives were barred, there was no roystering, no doubtful jokes, little inebriation. It was just another staff-meeting, with Boothby yawning at the head of the table, the agenda consisting of equivocal dishes which were served in no special order, just dumped on the table as they were ready. Thus one could never be sure when the meal had ended. On one occasion chicken legs had appeared during the speeches, on another the ice-cream had come first. Tida’ apa.
The staff was very pleased at some news that had just come through, on the very day of the dinner in fact. Boothby also was leaving. He was being transferred to an obscure school somewhere in Pahang. It was providential that the news should have come through when it did, for now one farewell dinner could serve for two people, and everybody had thus saved five dollars.
In the dingy upper room of Kong Huat’s Crabbe looked round for the last time at his colleagues: Mr. Raj’s sad jowl; the golden sullen Adonis Mr. Roper, looking bitterly at Boothby as though Boothby had fathered him; Gervase Michael, the black Catholic Tamil; Lee, the Chinese mathematician, fingering peanut-shells as though they were the balls of an abacus; Inche Jamaluddin, quizzing over shy spectacles; Tuan Haji Mohamed Noor, who spoke no English and smiled benevolently now, like one who knows he is saved; Crichton, with Australian apple cheeks like a Pommie; MacNeice the Ulsterman; the squirming four Malay probationers; Hung the geographer; Wallis the art man; Inche Abu Zakaria, skilled in woodwork; Solomons the scientist; Gora Singh, huge-bellied, grey-bearded, his turban almost meeting steel spectacles.
“Awwwwwwwww!” And, of course, Boothby.
“You do not like shark’s fin soup, Mr. Boothby?” said Gora Singh. “It is very rich and glutinous. It is good for the stomach.”
�
�Can’t stand fish of any kind,” said Boothby. “It brings me out in spots.”
“I have a sister,” said Inche Jamaluddin, “who similarly cannot eat mushrooms. She swells like one who is pregnant almost at the very smell of them. That is one of the reasons why she was married at the age of twelve. The other reason was because of the Japanese. They had some little decency. They would not put married girls into the common soldiers’ brothels.”
“Shark’s fin soup is aphrodisiacal in its effects,” said Mr. Raj. “The Taoists believe that the duality of yin and yang functions even in diet. Steamed fish and chicken and vegetable soup and even mushrooms are considered to be cooling foods, edible materialisations of the yang, the pure primal air. The yin, or earth element, inheres in fried dishes and especially in shark’s fin soup. Am I right, Mr. Lee?”
“You may well be. As an empiricist I am concerned only with the external accidents of the things I eat. And I know nothing of metaphysics.”
“Plenty of jaw-brykers flying around,” said Crichton. “Aphro whatsits and whatnots.”
“You will perceive that Mr. Boothby has no need of aphrodisiacs,” said Gora Singh with heavy humour. “He will not eat his soup. He is a better man than any of us, ha ha.” Gora Singh spooned more of the almost solid soup into his own bowl, poured in soya sauce and added sliced chillis, and then ate with much relish and sucking. His great paunch intervened between him and the table, and fishy gouts kept bespattering beard and shirt on the spoon’s long journeys.
After the soup came sweet-and-sour prawns. “A yin dish,” said Mr. Raj. “A heat food.”
“This is most unfortunate for Mr. Boothby,” said Gora Singh with a large smile. “Here is more fish, and fish brings him out in spots. He is, so far, not having a very good dinner.”
The Malayan Trilogy Page 18
