“All these sandflies. And you’ve certainly got a good line in mosquitoes up here.” He smacked his neck. “That’s another one less.”
“But I couldn’t get that driver to go away. He’d have stayed all afternoon if I hadn’t given him five dollars. And he gave me this.”
Hardman opened the large crested envelope and translated slowly to himself:
From the Abang, Scourge of the Wicked, Medicine of the Sick, Comforter of the Afflicted, Money of the Poor, Hope of the Impotent, etc., etc., Greetings.
It has graciously pleased the Abang to be desirous of adding your motor-car to his collection, the which is known to be a wonder and a prodigy in the whole of the Eastern world. A fair price will be given. Be so good as to deliver the vehicle at your earliest convenience, together with all relevant documents, so that transference of ownership may be officially effected in due pursuance of the regulations.
From the Istana, Kenching, the 12th day of the month Shaaban, in the year of the Hijrah, 1374.
“What do they want of us?” said Crabbe. “They work us to death, and they also want our wives and our chattels. It’s a bit thick, to say the least. What’s the legal position?”
“As far as your wife’s having lunch with him is concerned? That, of course, is entirely up to you, or her. She knows what will happen, of course?”
“I’ve told her. But all women say that they can take care of themselves. She says he’s got nice eyes and he wouldn’t do anything he shouldn’t.”
“Yes. As far as the car’s concerned, that’s entirely up to you again. He’s merely inviting you to sell him your car.”
“He’s not. He’s ordering me to sell it. And there’s no reference to an actual price.”
“It says ‘a fair price’. That means presumably what any reputable garage would give you for it. Of course, you’d have to wait for your money.”
“How long?”
“Indefinitely.”
“And if I refuse to sell?”
“They find some excuse for throwing you out of the State.”
“I see.” They both drank whisky. Insect activity went merrily, indifferently, on over the crass bourdon of the drums. Ah Wing filed the last of his plates and went singing away to the mysteries of his own quarters. A Malay elder crawled on to the veranda, greeted Crabbe with an edentulous “Tabek!” and then crouched in a dark corner, chewing a quid of sireh with hard gums.
“It’s a hard life,” said Crabbe, “to say the least of it.”
“Oh, it is.”
“Is there nothing I can do?”
“Don’t let him get your wife alone. He’ll exercise his droit de seigneur with as much ceremony as an orangoutang.”
“That means keeping her in purdah.”
“In a sense, that’s true. If she joined Islam she’d be safe, of course. The Abang is deeply religious.”
“Then I’d have to become a Muslim, too?”
“Quite right. You’d be in a better position all round if you did. You’d be in the family.”
“And how do you like being in the family?”
“As far as the car is concerned, I’d just temporise. Reply courteously to this letter, tell him you’re only too delighted to sell him the car, but there are one or two things that have to be put right first, because you wouldn’t like him to receive it in a condition unbefitting his exalted position and his known connoisseurship. That kind of thing.”
“And how long can I do that for?”
“Till your transfer comes through.”
“But I can’t apply for a transfer after being here only a couple of months.”
“Who said anything about applying?”
“Have you been hearing something?”
The squeal of the wheels of a trishaw outside, and then Father Laforgue was mounting the steps of the veranda. He apologised volubly for being late. The creaking engine of Crabbe’s French was cranked up slowly while Hardman gurgled away with a wealth of easy idiom.
“Whisky, mon père?”
“Thank you.”
“How is the work, Georges?”
“Not bad. I have finished Wang Ch’ung. It is interesting to compare with Han Fei. There is much research to do there.”
“And the parish?”
“It goes. You, I believe, monsieur, have an old parishioner of mine in your school. Mahalingam is his name. I lost him when he married a Malay girl. He was an indifferent Catholic. He is perhaps now an indifferent Muslim.”
“Je ne sais pas. Il est malade.”
“Oh, yes?” Father Laforgue showed little interest: Mahalingam was no longer one of his patients.
Conversation did not go well. Father Laforgue tried to speak English and Crabbe tried to speak French. He brought up the topic of birth control and the need to enforce it in the pullulating East.
“Saya ingat, I mean, je pense qu’il faut l’introduire …”
“Church say it not O.K. God say it not O.K.” But he was not very interested. Nor did Hardman and he have much to say to each other. It was as though religion had shut a door between them. Crabbe called for more ice. When Ah Wing toddled in, bow-legged, a mummy, all wrinkles and tendons, Father Laforgue greeted him with enthusiasm in words that sounded to Crabbe like vibraphone strokes. Ah Wing replied in an old man’s happy lunatic sing-song. Father Laforgue was delighted.
“It is very, very close, his dialect, to that of my old province.” He pinged away and Ah Wing, shading his deaf ear with a hollowed hand, listened avidly, half-comprehending, and pinged back. “Is it in order,” asked Father Laforgue, “if I ask him to sit down?”
“Well …”
“It might give him ideas above his station,” said Hardman.
“I understand. The English are very particular on these matters. Perhaps we could go away to his kitchen for a short while and talk there?” Father Laforgue, arm round Ah Wing’s shoulders, went off happily, leaving his full glass of whisky and water to the flying ants.
“What have you heard?” resumed Crabbe.
“Oh, I haven’t heard anything. But I’ve just got a feeling you won’t last long out here.”
“Why not?”
“Enemies. You have enemies.”
“Oh, that.” Crabbe sat back in relief. “I thought you meant real enemies. I mean, Jaganathan’s nothing. …”
“All your enemies are real enough.” said Hardman. “They’re out to get you, every one of you. The white man’s day is coming to an end. Götterdämmerung. You’ve had it.”
“You talk as though you’re no longer a white man.” Crabbe looked at the bloodless face, pale hair, rabbit’s eyes.
“I’m not. I have a stake in the country. I can never be thrown out. I shall retire some day, having made my pile out of honest practice, and perhaps go and live in the south of France. Till then, and it may not be all that far off, I shall be respected as a Malayan, a good son of Islam, a hard worker who keeps his money in the country. You know what they call you expatriates? White leeches.”
“And are you making much money?”
Hardman moved his thin shoulders. “Not yet. I haven’t had much of a chance yet. There’s a bit of competition, you know. There’s this new Chinese lawyer with the Balliol accent. But I shall win through. It’s something to look as though you’re making money. I’ve got a Jaguar. I’ve got some decent clothes. I don’t have to worry too much about dunning people for fees. All that inspires confidence.” He poured himself more whisky, his mended mouth set complacently. Crabbe felt a slight stir of distaste.
“Has it been worth it?”
“Has what been worth it?”
“Your marrying a Malay widow, your giving up the European way of life, your complete deracination.”
“I’m digging in here. I shall have roots.”
“But think of European architecture, and the art galleries, and London on a wet day, river fog, the country in autumn, pubs decorated for Christmas, book-shops, a live symphony orchestra …”
“The exile’s dream of home,” grinned Hardman. “My dear Victor, what a sea-change. Is this our old ruthless dialectician, our hard-as-nails pillar of pure reason? You must be getting fat, you know.”
‘God,’ thought Crabbe, ‘I’m talking like Fenella. What devil made me do that?’
“There speaks the old Empire-builder,” said Hardman. “You’re a bit late, old man. You’ve only got to the third drama of the cycle. After the grubbing for Rhinegold come the thundering hoofs. And then Rhodes and Raffles, Siegfrieds in armour and bad verse. And always this ghastly ‘What do they know of England?’ Why did you come out here?”
“I told you before,” said Crabbe wearily.
“I know. You spouted some nonsense about heliotropism and applying for a job when you were tight. How about the metaphysical level, the level of ideas? I mean, knowing you, unless you’ve changed all that much. …”
“Well,” Crabbe puffed at a cigarette that was damp with the night air, “I suppose part of me thought that England was all television and strikes and nobody giving a damn about culture. I thought they needed me more out here.”
“They didn’t need you. They needed somebody else, and only long enough to teach them how to manage a strike and erect a television transmitter. And that’s not your line, Victor.”
“I can teach them how to think. I can inculcate some idea of values.”
“You’ll never teach them how to think. And you know damn well they’ve got their own values, and they’re not going to change those for any high-minded, pink-kneed colonial officer. They’re ready to take over now. It’s probably going to be a hell of a mess, but that’s not the point. Whether the fruit’s going to be good or rotten, the time is ripe.”
It was Crabbe’s turn to sneer. “And of course there’s always the army of unalterable law.”
“Not such an army. That’s why I’m in a good position. But you can’t deny that law is part of the machine. They can do without you, but not without me.”
“What do you want me to do then? Go home?”
“Oh, they’ll find something for you, for a time, anyway. But not in the history seminar with bright-eyed brown-skins eagerly lapping the milk of culture. You’ll become part of the executive engine, easily replaceable when the time comes, and translate nationalist politics into directives for the new leaders of youth. And I shall find that my work is not so ignoble after all. Certainly it’ll be rather more creative than yours.”
“You’ve changed, Rupert. Changed a hell of a lot.”
“Yes, I’ve changed. I had a crash at the end of the war, remember, and before that a few years of always expecting to crash. God gave me one face and the war gave me another.” He had had four large whiskies and it was beginning to show. “That’s why I’m all for Justice. For Law, anyway.” He took more whisky. Father Laforgue walked cheerfully back into the silence, a silence loud enough with the busy factory jungle-noise, the hunting cries of the house-lizards, the crack of the beetles against the wall, and still the kampong drum.
“He has some remarkable things,” he said. “Some remarkable medicines.” He held up an aspirin-bottle of vomit-coloured liquid. “He gave me this for the toothache.” He sat down and picked up his warm whisky, its surface autumn-littered with ant-wings, and looked at his host and friend contentedly. “He is a very remarkable old man. He lives completely in the past. And he is very kind, he has many of the old Chinese virtues. The Chinese will never let their friends down, and they always help those in need. They always help poor relatives, for instance.”
“Doucement,” said Crabbe, “s’il vous plaît. He speaks too fast for me,” he said, turning to Hardman.
“Your servant here,” said Father Laforgue, at the same speed but rather more loudly, “sends money regularly to his sister in China, and he is very good even to his son-in-law, who lives in the jungle.”
“I still don’t quite get that,” said Crabbe.
“He helps his son-in-law,” said Hardman. “In the jungle.”
“His son-in-law is a soldier,” said Father Laforgue. “He has a gun and he spends his time shooting in the jungle. But he gets very little food, and your servant sends it to him. That is very strange, of course, because I always understood that soldiers had good rations.”
Crabbe began to feel slightly sick.
“He says the aborigines are very helpful because they take the food into the jungle and they give it to your servant’s son-in-law and he shares it with his comrades. The Chinese are very generous. Even though I was in one of their prisons for a long time, I can still say that. They are the most generous people in the world. And loyal too.” He beamed, not noticing, perhaps because of the shadows, perhaps because of his absorption in the Chinese dream-world, Crabbe’s increasing pallor. “I could you tell many stories of how the Chinese have been generous to me. There was, for example, the time when the great wind blew down my small church …”
“Now,” said Hardman to Crabbe, “you really do need legal advice.”
11
VICTOR CRABBE WENT to bed very late, very weary. He, Hardman and Father Laforgue had spent a stuffy hour in Ah Wing’s quarters, where the guileless old man had been harangued and cross-examined, all to little purpose. The session had been a linguistic nightmare—English to French to Chinese or just French to Chinese and then all the way back again, with reproaches and threats in Malay from Crabbe, the cries of a wounded bird. Neither priest nor servant could be convinced that one of the most ghastly offences against the Emergency Regulations had been committed. Crabbe’s head reeled. As in a cotton-wool-padded world of ’flu delirium, they threw the ball of question and answer from hand to hand, watching it change shape and colour, dropping it, losing it, all against a fœtid background of preserved lizards, tiger’s teeth and whiskers, ancient eggs, fat cats, a picture of Sun Yat Sen. At the end of it all Ah Wing remained unshaken. He sat tailor-wise on his bed, picking the horny soles of his feet, a fixed smile on his mouth empty of teeth, now and again nodding delightedly, often misunderstanding, mishearing. The ball was lost frequently in the hazards of his deafness. His logic was simple: if his daughter’s husband needed the odd handful of rice was it not his plain family duty to provide it? Solidarity. The concept of the State had never even had a chance to wither away in his mind; the holy Family stood solid. But, said Crabbe, the Communists were evil, cruel, they wanted to overthrow established order and rule with the rubber truncheon and the firing squad. He even began to tell stories about eviscerations and decapitations. It made no difference. Ah Wing seemed rather pleased than otherwise at the prospect of Red Chinese ruling Malaya. Blood was thicker than ideology. The son-in-law, moreover, was a young man who had always worked hard and had fought bravely against the Japanese. He was a good boy. He the Enemy of Mankind? Nonsense.
It was genuine innocence, the most dangerous thing in the world. Crabbe shook when he considered his own position. He always paid the food bills himself—Fenella was no housekeeper—and he had never troubled to check the invoices. Fenella had, admittedly, once commented on the amount of waste that went on, but Crabbe had taken no notice. Now he had visions of terrorists sitting down to the kippers he sent back uneaten, large joints ravaged by only a few cuttings, cold fried eggs in newspaper, mounds of cooked rice taken back to the kitchen on curry evenings. Ah Wing had not even stolen anything: he had used only the servant’s privilege of appropriating rinds, crumbs and tail-ends. None of the orthodox measures seemed to fit the situation. Ah Wing should be handed over to the police, but then so should Crabbe himself. The Security Forces should be tipped off, and then Crabbe would have some awkward explaining to do. Ah Wing should at least be dismissed, but in his senile innocence he would sooner or later let out his story to a Chinese ear, and there were people, not necessarily Chinese, who would be pleased to see Crabbe convicted of consorting with the enemy. It was not wise to send Ah Wing away from this isolated Eden. He never went to town, he met only Malays with no strong
interest in the Emergency, odd Sakais with blow-pipes and the drivers of tradesman’s vans. How about the tradesmen themselves? It was unlikely that they would be suspicious, especially as more than one general dealer was patronised by the Crabbes. And even if, in some kedai off-duty, shopkeepers spoke of the mountains of meat consumed by the new headmaster, they might well remember the days of lavish dinner-parties and glory that the past had returned. And there was Talbot’s great diseased appetite to corroborate a belief that expatriate educationists ate hoggishly. The future could be made safe for Ah Wing’s master—reduce the orders at once—but Ah Wing would have to paddle his own sampan. It was the past that worried Crabbe—‘EXPAT TEACHER SENT SUPPLIES TO C.T. HIDEOUT’. Presumably Hardman and Father Laforgue could be trusted. But the whole business had been most unfortunate. Only one issue was good: food-bills would be smaller, and Crabbe would lose weight and save money.
Still, he woke to the last of the giant breakfasts with the sour taste of foreboding in his mouth. The morning’s work and its many cigarettes helped to confuse the source of the sourness. The term was coming to an end with the approach of the Muslim fasting month, and examination marks were being handed in. One master called (Crabbe could never get over this) Mr. Gunga Din came hotly to state that he had it on unimpeachable evidence that Abdul Kadir had sold examination questions to his class—two dollars a question—and that Crabbe would find this confirmed in the astronomical marks of Abdul Kadir’s wealthier pupils. Also Crabbe had read some history answers which glorified a mythical Indian rule in nineteenth-century Malaya and vilified the depraved British who crushed it out:
“Sir Raffles kill many Malays for not paying cruel taxes and build big prison for Malays and Indians and Chinese to be tortured and children have heads cut off by soldiers as cruel joke to laughing English.”
Five minutes after the final bell of the morning he was at his desk with a full ash-tray and a sheaf of unintelligible estimates. Mr. Jaganathan, polished and grave, walked in.
“I wish to speak with you, Mr. Crabbe. I think it better we go out to talk, for these Malay clerks know much English. What I have to say is very serious.”
The Malayan Trilogy Page 30
