H.H. The Abang,
The Istana,
Kenching.
This is to inform Your Highness that I have instructed Messrs. Tan Cheong Po, Motor-Car Agents and Garage, Kenching, to deliver my Abelard car to the Istana, so that it may form part of Your Highness’s collection. I am afraid that the car is not in first-class condition and I hope Your Highness will pardon this. However, it is perhaps appropriate that one of the last of the Western expatriates should bequeath to an Oriental potentate all that the West seems now to be able to offer to the East, namely, a burnt-out machine.
Your Highness’s to Command,
Victor Crabbe.
Hardman walked quietly down the dusty corridor and peered over the half-doors of the main bedroom. There, at high noon, Crabbe lay in bed, unshaven, hair too long, smoking and reading Toynbee. Crabbe looked up blearily. On the bedside table were a bottle of gin, a jug of water, and a glass.
“Who is it? What the hell are you doing here?”
“A friendly visit. And an apology, if you’ll take it.” Hardman came into the room. A toad hopped out of his way.
“Come in. Sit down on the other bed. Pour yourself a drink.”
Hardman sat on the cold unused twin bed. “Have you heard from your wife?” he asked.
“A letter yesterday.”
“I’m sorry about that business, Victor. It was sheer carelessness on my part. I ask you to believe there was nothing malicious in it.”
“That? Oh, that doesn’t matter any more. See, she sent me quite a long letter. I’d forgotten how well she can write.” Crabbe took up thin blue sheets from the floor beside his bed. “She said it was quite a good trip. Everything was a bit of a shambles at Karachi, but Beirut, she says, is a fine place. They stop off at Beirut now, since the Cyprus trouble.”
“Trouble everywhere.”
“Yes. Do you remember a chap called Raffles?”
Was Crabbe going off his head? Was history becoming a timeless dream for him? “You don’t mean Stamford?”
“No, it’s definitely Raffles. A rather nice little Jew at the Technical College.”
“Oh, that Raffles.”
“Yes. Fenella met him at Beirut airport. Apparently he’s running a small air service of his own now. A couple of Beavers, and he’s going to get another. He does a trip from Jiddah up to the Lebanon and now he’s extending it as far as Marseilles.”
“Where’s Jiddah?”
“Oh, that’s near Mecca. You should know, being a good Muslim. That’s the port that serves the cradle of your faith.”
“Victor, I want to go home.”
“But you’ve only just come,” said Crabbe, pouring out gin for himself, handing the bottle to Hardman.
“No, real home. I’ve been offered a job at the university. Lecturer in the Law Faculty.”
“Well, congratulations. But I thought things were going all right here, from the financial point of view, I mean. I thought you were settling down.”
“I’ve got to get away,” said Hardman with passion. “She’s killing me.”
“Really?” Crabbe rested on his elbow, looking at Hardman with bleary interest. “You mean, that’s what she’s trying to do? I must say you’re not looking at all well. You’ve lost weight. Are they making wax images of you and burning them over a slow fire? I’m sure that’s what’s happening with me. I feel lousy.”
“Is that why you stay in bed?”
“Oh, there’s just nothing to get up for.”
“Look here, Victor,” plunged Hardman, “can you lend me two thousand dollars? I can pay you back when I get home. I can send you monthly instalments.”
“Two thousand? That’s a lot of money. Have you tried any of these money-lenders in the town?”
“I daren’t,” said Hardman. “Everybody would know about it. She’d know.”
“It’s a lot of money.”
“You could do it, Victor. You’re the only man I can come to. You’re the only one I can trust.”
Crabbe lay on his bed, hands folded as in death, and gazed at the cobwebbed ceiling. “You don’t trust me all that much. Any more than I trust you.”
“Oh, that’s all over. But, don’t you see, I’ve got to raise the fare home. You’ve got the money, I know you have. You told me.”
“Did I?”
“Yes. You got part of a lottery prize. You told me. That friend of yours won the first prize and he gave you a cut.”
“Nabby Adams. Yes. And now he’s in Bombay. We’re all leaving. We’re all deserting Malaya. It doesn’t want us any more.”
“Come on, Victor, for old times’ sake. Your money will be as safe as houses. You’ll get it back. With interest, if you like.”
“I haven’t got it. I gave it to Fenella. It was hers as much as it was mine.”
“All of it?” asked Hardman.
“All of it. I don’t need much money.” Crabbe continued to lie, eyes slowly following the questing flight of a masonwasp, flat on his back, hands folded.
“Well,” sulked Hardman, “if you won’t help …”
“I can’t help, old boy. I wish I could. I just can’t, that’s all. Do have some more gin.”
“I haven’t had any. I don’t see how I can very well have more.”
“Yes. Like Alice. Alice, where art thou?” Crabbe lay on his side, his face turned away from Hardman.
“Are you tight, Victor?”
“Not tight. Just lousy. Just not very well. Do come and see me again. Call any time. Always glad to see an old friend.” His voice faded out on the last two words.
At two in the afternoon, the house silent again, the spiders busy, a toad still flopping about the room, the masonwasp still seeking a suitable building site, Crabbe lay awake, thinking: ‘Am I really such a swine? The insurance money’s there, doing nothing. It would have been a friendly act.’
He raised himself up stiffly, looking for a cigarette, and thought: ‘He’s made his bed; he’s got to lie on it. Which reminds me that this bed needs making. I’d better get up.’ But he lay there still, hearing the clock march jauntily on to three o’clock, four o’clock, having nothing to get up for.
At nightfall Hardman returned, righteously indignant. He had spent part of the afternoon in the Field Force mess, hidden from the sharp eyes of Islam, drinking gloomy beer. There he had met Inche Mat bin Anjing, also hiding from the sharp eyes of Islam, drinking beer not so gloomy. Inche Mat was a local insurance agent. He informed Hardman that Crabbe had a cheque for two thousand dollars waiting for him in the office, this being the amount for which Crabbe’s car had been insured, and that Crabbe had not yet troubled to come and collect it.
Hardman stumbled into the dark house, switching on lights, surprising chichaks scurrying over the walls. He went down to Crabbe’s bedroom and assaulted his eyes with a harsh flood of light, showing up tossed bedclothes, scattered books and papers, hopping toads, Crabbe wide awake, his beard darker, his hair wilder.
“What the hell?”
“Aren’t you ever going to get up? Come on, out of it.”
“I’ll stay in bed if I want to.”
“You lied to me.”
“What do you mean, lied?”
“You’ve got two thousand dollars. I know. Insurance money on your car. I was told this afternoon.”
“What’s that got to do with you?”
“Lend it me. Damn it all, you said you would if you could.”
“And so you whizz around in your big Jaguar, lord of the earth, and I’m expected to go about on foot, is that it? Damn it, man, I’ve got to buy a new car.”
“You could hire a car, you could use trishaws. In any case, you don’t seem so very anxious to do any getting about. In bed all day.”
“That’s my business.”
Hardman sat on the bed, saying, “I daren’t go home.”
“That’s all right, then. You don’t need two thousand dollars.”
“No, no. I daren’t go back to her, to her house
.”
“‘Home’ is an equivocal term. Fenella was always saying that. Spend the night here if you like.’”
“Have you eaten anything?”
“No.”
But soon Talbot came, making sure that no man should starve. Into the bedroom he brought the meagre stocks of the store-cupboard—tinned cheese, sardines, cocktail sausages, Brand’s Chicken Essence, a ragged loaf, a basin of dripping, a cold leg of lamb, H.P. sauce and the salt-cellar.
“What’s happened to your cook?” asked Talbot, munching, spilling crumbs on the bed.
“I don’t need a cook any more.”
“And your amah?”
“She’s a lazy little bitch.”
Later that evening Police Constable Kartar Singh came, accompanied by two Sikh friends. Crabbe protested that he didn’t need police protection any more, that there was nothing to protect any more. Kartar Singh said that, if he did not mind, he would continue to protect the sahib, helped now by his friend Teja Singh who had lost his job as night-watchman and might as well sleep here as anywhere else. This was, if the sahib did not mind him saying so, a cushy billet, and he would be obliged if the sahib would say nothing to the Officer Commanding Police District about no longer requiring police protection. Mohinder Singh sat gloomy, seeing in vision his life-blood dripping away as the shop’s trade worsened, as the Bengalis and Tamils and Chinese counted fat takings and no man came to the shop of Mohinder Singh.
So, round the bed of Victor Crabbe, beer was drunk and cheese eaten, and more beer was sent out for. Finally Hardman lay down on the other bed, saying to Crabbe:
“Think about it, Victor. Think how much it means to me. I’ll pay you back, every cent of it.”
Crabbe pretended to be asleep.
18
THEY WERE ROASTING him over a slow fire, a human barbecue. Jaganathan supervised the turning and the basting, saying often: “They are good peoples. You are good peoples and I am good peoples. We are all good peoples.” Talbot dripped fat over his spitted carcase, expressing worry, finally bringing in a doctor who smelled deliciously of spirits and talked of pyrexia of unknown origin. The word ‘pyrexia’ began to turn and topple like a snowball going downhill, smashing itself on a black winter tree to reveal a core of stone which meant ‘fire’. It also meant her putting the casserole in the oven to cook slowly while they went to hear the violinist playing the César Franck sonata. She talked animatedly about the canon in the last movement, the cyclical form, deploring the romantic treacle which glued up the neo-classicism. Talbot showed interest in the treacle and recited a passage from Piers Plowman about the treacle of heaven. He ate this with a spoon, waiting till the Pyrex dish be drawn from the oven. In the dish was a baked crab.
The cannon in the last movement boomed the end of the fasting month, because one spied the little crescent all were seeking. Jaganathan came to weep tears of basting fat and to say that the fight was on. There was a list of names of angry parents who had signed the petition that had not yet been written, an anthology of Oriental scripts. The amah, frightened, came in to sweep the room. Toads hopped in front of her.
When Crabbe felt cooler he heard the voice of Abdul Kadir saying, “For fuck’s sake, take your finger out. That was a bloody good article about the revolution in the East. It’s the truth, and I told him it’s the truth. People starving and not enough rice to go round. Unfortunately they know all about you in Kuala Lumpur, going to a hotel with another man’s wife. Otherwise they’d let you bring in the revolution.”
Revolution of a cycle of Cathay. Where was Hardman? Hardman never came.
The fire returned, the eternal basting, the sheet soaked in hot fat. The man who smelled of whisky talked about hospitals. Talbot said leave it till tomorrow.
In the hot night the light was switched on. Crabbe heard the voice of an old man, happily chirping. The old man was giving him something to drink, something red-hot. Crabbe lay exhausted. The room was full of people, but this was no surprise; for a long time now the room had been full of people, some dead, some alive, some here, some eight thousand miles away. Crabbe tried to focus. One man spoke good English with a Chinese high school accent.
“I don’t quite understand,” said Crabbe.
“It is the amnesty. It was in the newspaper wrapped round the rice. The Government will ask no more questions. They will pay fares to China.”
“I will pay his fare to England,” said Crabbe. “I always meant to. But I couldn’t get up. And he’s not been round to see me. Look here, you’re all Chinese.”
“We are all Chinese. We want to go back to China. So Ah Wing brings us to you.”
“But I can’t raise all that much money. I can only find enough for the fare to England. And only for him.”
“Perhaps you are ill. I cannot quite understand what you’re saying.”
“Wait,” said Crabbe. He tried to sit up. Ah Wing came round to support him. “Just give me a minute. What’s going on, anyway?”
“We have come out of the jungle. It was no good staying there. It was difficult to get food. You helped us for a long time. Then you could not help us any more. But we thank you for the help you gave us while you could.”
“No, no,” said Crabbe. He saw the young man more clearly. “I didn’t give any help. I wouldn’t. You’re a lot of … A lot of …”
“So now we come to give ourselves up. You have a telephone here. But they must keep their promise.”
“Who?”
“The police. The Government. They must not play tricks on us.”
Whatever Ah Wing had given him had induced clarity, even a sort of drunken cotton-wool euphoria. Crabbe looked round the room at some ten or twelve Chinese, some in ragged uniform, some in old shirts and faded grey trousers. One or two had rifles.
“That’s a woman,” said Crabbe.
“Yes, that is Rose. And I am Boo Eng. Ah Wing is the father of my wife. My wife died under the Japanese.”
“What do you want me to do?” asked Crabbe.
“You can telephone the police and say that we give ourselves up if the Government will play fair.”
“Play fair?” said Crabbe. “Where did you learn that expression?”
“I used to play basketball at school.”
“Surely,” said Crabbe, “there’s a policeman round here somewhere. I seem to remember that there was a police guard round the house or something. I’ve been ill, you see. It was all Jaganathan’s fault. He was sticking pins in me. Or burning me. I am not sure which.”
“There is a fat Sikh outside the house. He is asleep. He has a friend who is also asleep.”
Crabbe tried to get up. He felt very weak. He was supported by Ah Wing and a grim young man with long black hair. It seemed somehow wrong for a Chinese to have long hair.
“Take your time, Mr. Crabbe. There is no great hurry.”
Crabbe was assisted down the corridor to the sitting-room. Dust lay everywhere, and on a table was a pile of newspapers, delivered punctually but unread, a calendar of his illness. “What a mess,” he said. Then, “Who do I ask for?”
“This is a matter for the C.P.O. It is a big matter.”
Crabbe heard voices from the kitchen. “Are there others in there?” he said.
“Oh, yes. There are perhaps thirty of us. You will not mind if some of them have a little food. Ah Wing has boiled rice for them and we found some tins of meat in your store-room.”
Shakily Crabbe made for the telephone. “Look here,” he said. “What time is it? I’ve just no idea.”
Boo Eng consulted a Rolex wrist-watch. “It is now one o’clock in the morning. You had best contact the C.P.O. at his house. There will only be fools at the police station now.”
Obediently Crabbe asked for the C.P.O.’s house. His voice sounded drunk and the C.P.O., sleepy and annoyed, was inclined to slam the telephone down. But when Crabbe mentioned the name Boo Eng the C.P.O.’s voice became alert, as though it had put on a uniform.
“Boo Eng
, you say?”
“That’s the name.”
“Good God, man, hang on. Don’t do a thing. Keep them there. Have you got a gun?”
“Not at the moment. But I think I can get one.”
Obligingly one of the Communist terrorists handed to Crabbe a small automatic pistol. It contained no ammuntion. Obligingly another woke up Kartar Singh and his companion. It seemed only fair to let them share in the glory.
“You know,” said Crabbe, “that stuff of Ah Wing’s is pretty good. I feel a good deal better. Weak, of course, but that’s inevitable. I wonder if Ah Wing would be good enough to make some tea?”
“He is still your servant. You did not give him notice, he did not give you notice. Of course he will make you tea.”
“And what was in that medicine?”
“It is very powerful. It is tiger’s liver stewed in brandy. It is better than all the European medicines.”
Crabbe made the headlines. And, when the headlines were forgotten, the story still ran around the kampogns, of how the white man, though dying of fever, had captured single-handed thirty dangerous Communist terrorists. As, convalescing, he sat on his veranda in the cool dusk, the Malays began to gather round him once more, forgetting the time when they had their doubts about him, the stories they had languidly listened to about his being the enemy of mankind.
Crabbe told them his story, much-embroidered, for pure truth is not relished in the East. Some day, he knew, the tale would pass into timeless legend, and Crabbe’s heroic feat would become one of the exploits of Hang Tuah, the brave Laksamana of Malacca, or, in lighter vein, be transmuted to a cunning trick played by the fabulous Mouse-deer on a whole herd of elephants.
When Crabbe returned to his sweltering office in Haji Ali College, Jaganathan looked up from the loaded important desk with surprise and pleasure.
“Mr. Crabbe, I knew all the time that you were good peoples.”
“Thank you, Mr. Jaganathan.” Jaganathan did not get up. Crabbe, weak still, took a chair from one of the Malay clerks.
The Malayan Trilogy Page 37
