Leila

by Robin Jenkins

  Would they nevertheless produce a child to replace the one killed? She would want to, but would he want to be a father? It was said he had been devastated by the death of the little girl, though she had really been nothing to him, but then the people who had said it, the Robinsons, had themselves been devastated at the time and therefore not reliable judges. They had since cancelled their contract and returned home.

  Many of the expatriates couldn’t understand what the fuss was about. They had served, happily and lucratively, in countries run by dictators with reputations for brutality. It had been their experience that those imprisoned and tortured – though perhaps torture was going a bit too far – had brought it upon themselves. Those who gave no trouble were left in peace, more or less. But in Savu it wasn’t like that at all. It was rumoured that underneath the magnificent palace were well-equipped dungeons, with blood on the walls; and the penalty for rebellion was hanging, but so it bloody well ought to be. The Ministers of State, most of them relatives of His Highness, weren’t what you would call diligent and efficient, but they didn’t have to be, their work was done for them by top-class civil servants, most of them British, and behind the throne was the Resident, offering advice that was always heeded. This was surely the best set-up for a small rich country with envious neighbours, like Savu. It was reassuring to see, every Sunday, on the padang besar, the big grassy square at the heart of the town, the Gurkha pipe band playing Scottish tunes. Also, if they were ever needed, reinforcements were only a day’s flight away.

  Perhaps a little more of the Sultan’s vast wealth could be spent on the poorer natives, but as it was there were no better equipped schools or hospitals or more palatial government offices in all Asia, or in all Europe for that matter. Savu was damned near a paradise. Trust a woman to want to spoil it.

  Two

  THE ELECTIONS were well under way, Leila having made at least two dozen speeches in different parts of the country, when an invitation came to Sandilands from the Sultan, to play a game of golf.

  ‘Please do not go, Andrew,’ she said, shyly.

  She was a little hoarse, a little haggard, and more than a little depressed. She was still missing Christina sorely and every day was becoming more aware of the futility of her arduous and passionate electioneering.

  ‘Why shouldn’t I go?’ he asked. ‘We won’t talk politics, I assure you.’

  ‘They will say that while I am making speeches against him or against what he represents, you are playing golf with him.’

  ‘What about it? Let them say what they like. Golf’s just a game.’

  ‘Have you ever considered why he, the Sultan, one of the richest men in the world, should want to play golf with you, a teacher?’

  He frowned. What was she insinuating? ‘He likes golf, that’s all. He’s fanatical about it. He’d give a million dollars to play well.’

  ‘I do not expect you to help me, for you are not interested, but I do expect you not to make things more difficult for me.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Leila, be reasonable. I’m not making things more difficult for you. I’m simply playing a game of golf.’

  ‘You know what I mean, Andrew. You are not being honest with me. And, please, do not blaspheme. You do not believe in God. Do not use His name.’

  He felt angry with her and yet at the same time sorry for her. Her father had lost heart. So surely had she, though she would never admit it. He had heard her weeping in the middle of the night. So, because he loved her, he pitied her. But he still had these mad vicious moods when he wished to hurt her, to make her suffer even more. Usually he resisted them and tore them from him as he would have poisonous leeches, but sometimes he gave way to them. This happened when she seemed most vulnerable, and it was then that he loved her most.

  ‘I gave my word,’ he said. ‘I’ll have to keep it.’

  She recovered her pride as a woman but kept her humility as a wife. ‘Yes, Andrew, I understand.’

  He sneered. ‘I’m sorry if I’m a disappointment as a husband.’

  ‘No, no. You have been very patient.’

  ‘Too patient perhaps. I’ve watched you grow thinner. I’ve seen you being humiliated. When you suffer, I suffer. You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Then why do you make me suffer?’

  He ignored that. ‘I won’t say I’ve not been tempted to ask you to give it up. You once said you’d do it if I asked you.’

  ‘Yes, I did say it.’

  ‘But did you mean it?’

  ‘Yes, I meant it. You are my husband.’

  He almost cried: ‘Then give it up!’ But said instead: ‘Just don’t ask me to give up what pleases me.’

  ‘No, Andrew, I won’t, ever again.’ She approached him, her eyes sad and anxious. ‘We haven’t fallen out, have we?’

  He should have said that at that moment he loved her more than ever, more indeed than he could bear, but he did not say it. He took a perverse and evil satisfaction in not saying it. He wanted to break her heart and his own at the same time.

  If little Christina had lived it would have been different. They would have been a happy family together. What was good and positive in him would have shown, what was malevolent and perverse would have been subdued.

  This perversity of his was childish. Like a vindictive child indeed he looked in a drawer for one of the Sultan’s badges. He found one and held it up. ‘Do you think I should wear this?’

  Her reaction too was like a child’s. She stared at him in horror.

  ‘Most people are wearing them,’ he said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But it doesn’t necessarily mean that they’re going to vote for him.’

  He wasn’t being honest. He did believe that those servile badge-wearers would vote for their master.

  Suddenly he felt sick with shame. He threw the badge back into the drawer. The fit of viciousness was past.

  He took her in his arms, with his face turned away so that she could not see his tears of contrition and self-disgust. She was trembling, and it was he who had made her tremble. He loved her more than anything else in the world and yet he had never been as cruel to anyone as he had been to her. Love gave him that power.

  Love also gave him the power to make her confident and happy. It was for him to choose.

  Three

  HIS HIGHNESS sent a car for him, a white Rolls Royce with royal flags on the bonnet. Students watched it from the verandahs of the classroom block. Previously they would have cheered and waved, pleased that their Principal was being honoured by their Sultan. This morning, however, they were silent. He knew what they were thinking: he was being disloyal to his wife, their heroine. They obeyed his order that politics were not to be discussed in College, but of course he did not know what they said in their dormitories. He had no spies or clypes. There was little irony in them, but some of them must be remembering how he used to taunt them because of their lack of youthful idealism, just as he himself remembered how, though they had seemed to like him well enough, they had always stopped short of confiding in him. Whatever his private qualities he was a man from the deceitful West. Albert Lo and Richard Chia, now exiles in the interior, wrote to Leila regularly and sometimes telephoned, telling her of their experiences and asking her for advice; to him they sent polite regards.

  From what he himself had observed and overheard, and from hints dropped by members of his staff, he had become aware that the students, though some of them had attended the wedding, did not approve of his marriage. They thought he had done Leila a great wrong by marrying her. So he had, but for profounder reasons than they would ever know.

  His Highness was waiting for him, practising putting with his gold-headed putter. He looked very much at ease. The elections were less of a worry to him than his missing a two-foot putt.

  He greeted Sandilands cheerfully and proudly showed him a new set of clubs specially made for him in America. They had shafts made of a new alloy, guaranteed to enable him to hit the ball
an extra thirty or so yards.

  ‘But can there be such a guarantee, Andrew?’ he asked, wistfully. ‘It’s not the clubs that matter so much as the way they are used. Is that not so?’

  ‘Yes, but I suppose good clubs do make a difference.’

  ‘But they cannot make a poor player into a good one?’

  ‘No, I don’t think they can do that.’

  ‘But they might help a fairly good player to become a better one?’

  ‘Yes, they might do that.’

  Sandilands was invited to take a few swings with the new clubs. They were certainly a pleasure to use. They must have cost thousands of pounds.

  ‘You swing beautifully, Andrew, but then so do I, when I am only practising. It is when I have a ball at my feet that my swing becomes – shall we say, erratic?’

  That, reflected Sandilands, was the case with millions of golfers.

  ‘They were made specially for me, Andrew, so they do not quite suit you. You are much taller than I.’

  And stronger. And more athletic. And not so fat. But it was the small, stout plump-faced man that these soldiers were guarding. If he gave the word they would shoot anyone on the spot, Sandilands included. In that country he was God, even if he did miss two-foot putts.

  ‘Well, shall we start?’ he asked. ‘Your honour, Andrew. You won last time.’ He laughed. ‘But then you always win. Tell me, are you never tempted to let me win, once in a while?’

  ‘You would know it, Your Highness, and be insulted.’

  ‘Yes, so I would. If you had ever played badly to let me win I would never have played with you again. Victory must be honourably won. It cannot be given or bought.’

  Did he think, Sandilands wondered, that that applied to politics too?

  ‘Perhaps I should give you more strokes, Your Highness,’ he said.

  ‘Certainly not. I get the strokes I am entitled to, according to our respective handicaps.’

  Sandilands’ drive had the usual satisfactory result.

  ‘Fine shot,’ said His Highness. ‘You make it look so easy.’

  Whether it was because of the new clubs or because he had been practising a good deal, he hit the ball more confidently than usual and had the satisfaction of seeing it alight in the middle of the fairway, not so very far behind Sandilands’.

  Every golfer who has hit a good shot feels virtuous and magnanimous.

  ‘I have been hearing good reports about the College since you took over,’ said His Highness, as they walked along the fairways towards their balls.

  On either side were flame-of-the-forest trees, bougainvilleas, frangipanis, and magnolias. The air was warm and perfumed. Butterflies as big as birds and birds as bright as butterflies flew past. The sky was deep blue.

  This was how golf in heaven would be played, though perhaps the air would be a little less hot and the players would have in their minds only benign thoughts.

  They spoke in Malay, a gentle language fit for the mouths of angels.

  ‘Mr Anderson of course was old,’ said His Highness, dabbing his brow with a silk handkerchief, ‘and too soft-hearted. Students, and staff, took advantage.’

  ‘He was very well liked,’ said Sandilands. ‘Not many took advantage.’

  ‘Odd how he never forgave the Japanese. But then they did put out his eye. My father never forgave them either. They killed many of his people.’

  The Sultan’s father himself had been safe in New York.

  ‘Still, I’m sure we agree, Andrew, that a college should have firm but fair control. It’s the same with a country.’ His Highness laughed. ‘But I do not think you and I are tyrants, Andrew.’

  The Sultan, then, reaching his ball, prepared to strike it. He swung slowly, as he should. The ball flew far and straight, almost reaching the green. He had never hit a better shot. He gazed in awe. If Sandilands then had asked him for a million dollars he might have got them.

  They walked on towards Sandilands’ ball.

  ‘How is the lovely Leila?’ asked His Highness.

  ‘Very tired. She still misses her daughter.’

  ‘Yes. It was a terrible thing that happened to her daughter. But she should not over-exert herself. Why is she defending this creature who has committed murder?’

  Then His Highness was silent as Sandilands prepared to hit his ball.

  He hit it very well. The ball landed on the green, only a yard or two from the hole.

  He must have been thinking only of his shot, as golfers were advised to do. Did it mean that golf mattered more to him than his wife?

  ‘Magnificent,’ cried His Highness. ‘We both seem to be in good form. By the way, I have a message for Leila. I shall tell you about it later, after the game.’

  From then on the conversation was about various subjects. Politics wasn’t among them. His Highness showed an interest in and knowledge of orchids. He talked about a visit he had paid to Saudi Arabia. He spoke nostalgically of Edinburgh where he had been made to feel at home; not because he was the son and heir of the richest man in the world but because the Scots were a hospitable, warm-hearted, and fair-minded people.

  At last the game was over. Sandilands had again won the dollar but not so easily as before. His Highness had played well. He was very pleased with himself.

  Before stepping into his car he turned to Sandilands. ‘The message for Leila. It is this. After the elections I would like her to accept a position in my government. Why not Minister for Women’s Affairs? It is time we had a woman and none could be more competent than she. Please tell her that I have no ill feelings towards her and her father. They are doing what they think is right. They will accept the verdict of the people. You would have no objection to your wife becoming one of my Ministers?’

  I would have objections, thought Sandilands, but I would try to keep them to myself. Leila was ambitious, like all politicians. Their marriage was already in danger. It would be destroyed if he stood in her way.

  ‘We must move forward in Savu, Andrew, but not too fast. That is the advice that Sir Hugo keeps pressing on me.’

  Laughing, he got into his car and it drove off, closely followed by the two Land Rovers carrying the caddies and bodyguards.

  Sandilands’ own driver dared not look up at him. This Tuan was too great a man to be stared at or even smiled at by a mere chauffeur. Had he not played golf with His Highness and had not His Highness spoken to him like a friend?

  Four

  LEILA CAME home that evening, hours later than usual, looking tired and unhappy, which was customary these days, but also despondent, as if she was at last on the point of giving in. Her beauty was quite blighted. There was a coarseness he had not noticed before. What extra burden, he wondered, had been placed on her? Would the Sultan’s offer give her hope or would it depress her more? Should he withhold it?

  In the sitting-room after dinner he was reading that day’s issue of the Savu Times, or rather was pretending to: Leila’s face was really what he was studying. She lay back in her chair, her eyes closed, as if she did not want to reveal her thoughts. She was wearing European dress, a white blouse and short skirt. She often wore it nowadays, thinking that he preferred her to. She was wrong, he liked her better in native dress, but could not bring himself to tell her so. She was not wearing stockings or tights: few women did in the tropical heat. Her legs were long and shapely and not any darker than Jean Hislops’ which the sun had tanned. She was his lovely and dutiful wife. When he wanted to make love she never refused. Instead she co-operated with a passion and willingness that did not altogether please him. He wanted her to be passionate and willing, but he also wanted her to be shy and modest. He kept raising the standards that he expected from her. It was as if he wanted her to fail.

  Just as he had decided to mention the Sultan’s offer she spoke, still with her eyes closed. That day, she said, she had acquired a new client: a woman, middle-aged, wife of a fisherman, had killed the new bride, a girl of seventeen, that he had brought into the h
ouse. She had hacked off the girl’s head with a parang. She would be found guilty and hanged.

  For Christ’s sake, he thought. He did not believe in Christ’s divinity, but how else to express horror and pity, and love?

  From behind a picture on the wall a chichak darted out and took a bite out of the wing of an unwary moth.

  His voice was harsh. Yet he felt an overwhelming love for her. ‘Must you defend her? Can’t somebody else do it?’

  But why should anyone bother, if she was sure to be hanged?

  There was a gain here though; Leila was again being made to see that in the end politics were of little importance. She had seen it before when Christina was killed. This time surely she would be convinced.

  ‘I have to do it. She asked for me.’

  ‘I’d have thought you were too busy.’ That was a sneer, though he did not want it to be. He was so ashamed of it that he followed it with another. ‘You’ll ruin any chance you ever had of being elected. There’s not a man in Savu who won’t want her hanged.’

  ‘That is why I must defend her.’

  ‘What good can you do? Has she confessed? Was she caught red-handed?’

  He imagined the bloodstained parang in the bloodstained hands.

  ‘I can try to comfort her.’

  He wanted then to rush across and take her in his arms, and tell her that whatever she chose to do he would support her.

  Instead he sat where he was, sneering, hating himself. Because he knew it was the worst time to give her the Sultan’s message he gave it to her, not seriously, but as if it were a joke. ‘Minister for Women’s Affairs, was what he said.’