Saint Jack

by Paul Theroux

  “For Christ’s sake, don’t you understand? My meat’s getting all thawed out!”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “My meat’s in the van,” I said.

  “I won’t argue about it,” he said.

  “So long, then,” I said.

  “Give me a chance,” he said. “Surely the Bandung can spare you for one night.”

  The Bandung was my private funk hole: “What is your name, friend?”

  And: “Eddie Shuck, pleased to meet you,” he said that evening in the floodlit garden of the Adelphi. I had just come from the Strode, where I had spent the whole afternoon on a shady part of the breezy deck playing gin rummy with the chief steward.

  “Hope I haven’t kept you waiting,” I said.

  “Not at all,” said Shuck. “What’ll you have?”

  “I usually have a pink gin about this time of day.”

  “That’s a good navy drink,” he said, and he called out, “Boy!” to the waiter.

  I found that objectionable, but something interested me about this Edwin Shuck. It was his lisp—not an ordinary lisp, the tongue lodged between the teeth, that gives the point to the joke about the doctor who examines the teen-age girl with a stethoscope and says, “Big breaths”; Shuck’s was the parted fishmouth: his folded tongue softened and wetted every sibilant into a spongy drunken buzz. He prolonged “Flowers” with the buzz, and what was endearing was that his lisp prevented him from saying his own name correctly.

  “Got some homework, I see.”

  “This?” I had a thick envelope on my lap, pornography from the Strode, a parting gift from the friendly steward. I said, “Filthy pictures.”

  “Seriously?” Buzz, buzz; he lisped companionably.

  “The real McCoy,” I said.

  “Can I have a look?”

  We were the only ones in the garden. I put the envelope on the table and pulled out the pictures. I said, “If anyone comes out here, turn them over, quick. We could be put in the cooler for these.”

  “You’ve sure got enough of them!”

  “They’re in sets. Get them in sequence. Ah, there we are. Starts off nice, all the folks in their skivvies having a cozy drink in the living room.”

  “What’s the next one?” Shuck was impatient.

  “Now we’re in the bedroom. A few preliminaries, I guess you could call that.”

  “Kind of a group thing, huh? That gal—”

  The waiter came over with our drinks. I flipped the large envelope over the pictures. I wasn’t afraid of being arrested for them, but the thought of that old polite Chinese waiter seeing them embarrassed me. Pornography affected me that way: I could not help thinking that whoever looked at the stuff was responsible for what was happening in the picture. That girl, that dog; those kneeling men and vaulting women; those flying bums. A single look included you in the act and completed it. Until you looked it was unfinished.

  “Down the old canal,” said Shuck, guzzling his fresh lime. “Hey, is that the guy’s arm or what?”

  “No, that’s his bugle.”

  “His what?”

  “Pecker, I think.” I turned it over. “Here are your Japanese ones.”

  “You can’t see their faces,” he said. “How do you know they’re Japs?”

  “By their feet. See? That’s your Japanese foot.”

  “It’s in a damned strange position.”

  “This one’s blurry. Can’t make heads or tails of it.”

  “Wise guy.” Shuck laughed. “What else have you got?”

  “I’ve seen this bunch before,” I said. “From some hamlet in Denmark.”

  “I wonder why that guy’s wearing red socks?”

  “Search me,” I said. “Got some more—here we are. God, I hate these. I really pity those poor animals.”

  “Labrador retriever,” said Shuck. “Foaming at the mouth.”

  “Poor bugger,” I said. “Well, that’s the lot.”

  “Huh?” Shuck was surprised. He didn’t speak at once. He frowned and said thoughtfully, “Haven’t you got any where the guy’s on top and the girl’s on the bottom, and they’re—well, you know, screwing?”

  “Funnily enough,” I said, “no. Not the missionary position.”

  “That’s a riot,” said Shuck.

  “It’s pitiful,” I said. “There’s not much call for that kind. Here, you can have these if you want. My compliments. Strictly for horror interest.”

  “That’s mighty neighborly,” said Shuck. “Shall we eat here?”

  “Up to you,” I said. “What time is your plane leaving?”

  “I’m not taking any plane,” said Shuck. “I live here.”

  “What business are you in? I’ve never seen you around town.”

  “This and that,” he said. “I do a lot of traveling.”

  “Where to?”

  “K.L., Bangkok, Vientiane,” he said. “Sometimes Saigon. How about you? How long do you aim to stay in Singapore?”

  “As long as my citronella holds out,” I said. “What’s Saigon like?”

  “Not much,” said Shuck. “I was there when the balloon went up.”

  I didn’t press him. He was either a spy and wouldn’t admit to it, of course; or he was a businessman who was ashamed to say so and took pleasure in trying to give me the impression he was a spy. In any case, hemming and hawing, a mediocre adventurer.

  We had a meal at the Sikh restaurant on St. Gregory’s Place and then went on to a nightclub, the Eastern Palace, where Hing had taken me in my Allegro days. Shuck fed me questions—about hustling, the fantastic rumors (a new one: was I the feller who appeared in What’s-his-name’s novel?), the “meat run,” Dunroamin, short-time rates, all-nighters. It was the same interview I got from other fellers, the gabbing that was like a substitute for the real thing.

  The Eastern Palace had changed. “Years ago, this place had a bunch of Korean chorus girls, and a little Chinese orchestra. It wasn’t as noisy as this. There was even a dance floor.”

  “Tell me a little bit more about this Madam Lum,” said Shuck. “How does she get away with it in town?”

  “Good question. She—” But I could not be heard over the roaring of a machine offstage. The curtains parted and in the center of the stage a girl crouched on a black motorcycle. The back wall slipped sideways—it was a moving landscape, a film of trees and telephone poles shooting past. By concentrating I could imagine that stationary girl actually speeding along a country road.

  She flung off her goggles and helmet. A fan in the wings started up and blew her long hair straight back. She wriggled out of her leather jacket and let that fly. The music became louder, a pumping rhythm that emphasized the motorcycle roar.

  “I don’t like this,” I said.

  Shuck frowned, as he had when he had said, “Haven’t you got any where the guy’s on top—?”

  The girl stood up on the motorcycle saddle and kicked off her boots and tore off her britches. She was buffeted by the wind from the fan; she undid her bra and squirmed out of her pants—they sailed away. Then she hopped back onto the seat, naked, and pretended to ride, bobbing up and down, chafing herself on the saddle.

  “I’m shocked,” said Shuck.

  I liked him for that. I said, “Isn’t that a Harley-Davidson?”

  The film landscape was moving faster now, the music was frenzied, the engine screamed. The girl started doing little stunts, horsing around on the motorcycle, lifting her legs, throwing her head back.

  She bugged out her eyes and shrieked; she covered her face with her hands. There was a terrific crash. The landscape halted, the motorcycle tipped over, the naked girl took a spill and sprawled across the machine in the posture of an injured rider, her legs spread, her head awry, her arms tangled in the wheels.

  Around us, Chinese businessmen, towkays in immaculate suits, applauded wildly and shouted, “Hen hao!” which meant “very good” and sounded like “And how!”

  “This is
where I draw the line,” I said. “Let’s get out of here.” The act had disturbed me—what fantasy did such violence promote?—and I avoided mentioning it to Shuck. Walking down Orchard Road, past Tang’s, and confounded by what to say, I asked him again about his business.

  “You might say Asian affairs,” said Shuck.

  “Well,” I said, “how do you expect to know anything about Asian affairs if you’ve never had one?”

  Madam Lum greeted me as an old friend, with an affectionate bear hug, and with her arms around me she turned to Shuck and said, “Mr. Jack a very nice boy and he my best brother, no, Jack?”

  “She’s a real sweetie,” I said.

  “You want Mona?” asked Madam Lum. “She free in a coupla minutes—hee hee!”

  “Who’s Mona?” asked Shuck.

  “One of the fruit flies,” I said. “Rather athletic. She’s got a nine-inch tongue and can breathe through her ears.”

  “Just my type,” said Shuck, looking around. “Cripe, look at all the broads.”

  Over by the window, three girls were seated on a sofa, languidly reading Chinese comic books; one in a chair was buffing her fingernails, and another was eating pink prawns off a square of newspaper. No towels, no tea. It would never have happened at Dunroamin: no girls sat down if two fellers had just come through the door. “This is your newer sort of wang house,” I said to Shuck. “Not my style at all.” One of the girls put down her comic and sauntered over to Shuck, smoothing her dress.

  “What your name?” she asked.

  “Shuck.”

  “Twenty-over dollar.”

  “No, no,” said Shuck, wincing, setting his mouth so as not to lisp. “Me Shuck.”

  “Me shuck you,” said the girl, pointing.

  “Forget it,” I said. But I had recorded the exchange; it was ‘material,’ and it bothered me to acknowledge the suspicion that very soon, chewing the fat with an admiring stranger who had looked me up, I would be saying, “Funny thing happened the other day. I know a feller with the unfortunate name of Shuck, and we were goofing off in—”

  “Mona coming,” said Madam Lum.

  “Not tonight,” I said. “But my buddy here might be interested. What do you say, Ed?”

  “I’m just window-shopping,” he said. Buzz, buzz. “What was the name of that other place you mentioned?”

  “Bristol Chambers,” I said. “But, look, they don’t like people barging in and out if they’re not serious about it.”

  “You’re a funny guy,” said Shuck. “I used to know a guy just like you.”

  That annoyed me. It was presumptuous; he didn’t know me at all. I could not be mistaken for anyone else. The half-baked whoremonger in the flowered shirt, with the tattoos on his arms, hamming it up on Orchard Road (“How do you expect to know anything about Asian affairs if you’ve never had one?”)—that was all he saw. I resented comparisons, I hated the fellers who said, “Flowers, you’re as bad as me!” They looked at me and saw a pimp, a pornocrat, an unassertive rascal marooned on a tropical island, but having the time of his life: a character. I said, “I don’t want to hurt their feelings.”

  “That’s what I mean,” said Shuck.

  “Well, what the heck’s wrong with that?”

  “The next thing you’ll be telling me is that they’ve got hearts of gold, like these strippers that say they do algebra in their dressing rooms. They’re better than we are or something.”

  “Not on your life,” I said, and feeling the prickly sensation that his judgment on them was a judgment on me, added, “But they’re no worse.”

  “I guess you’re right. We’re all whores one way or another,” said Shuck, with a hint of self-pity. “I mean, we all sell ourselves, don’t we?”

  “Do we?”

  “Yeah. We all sell our souls.”

  “Those girls don’t sell their souls, pal. There’s no future in that.”

  “You know what I mean. Holding a job, people climbing all over you. It’s a kind of screw. I do it for fifteen grand.”

  “Madam Lum does it for fifty,” I said, trying to wound him. “Tax free.”

  Walking down Mount Elizabeth I said, “Years ago, it was better, with the massage parlors and all that. There are still some in Johore Bahru. Madam Lum’s place always reminds me of a doctor’s office. Did you notice the potted plants and magazines? The only good thing about it is that it’s convenient. The number twelve bus stops here and that supermarket over there is very good, probably cheaper than cold storage. I usually pick up half a pound of hamburg and some frozen peas before I nip over to Madam Lum’s. You can’t beat it for convenience.”

  “You really are a funny guy,” said Shuck.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “I mean it in the good sense,” he said.

  “I’ll take you to the Bristol,” I said. “It’s not far. But you can’t go inside unless you want some action.”

  “If I must,” said Shuck, buzzing. “What’s the attraction?”

  “The guy that runs it isn’t very friendly,” I said. “And the girls are nothing to write home about. It’s a pretty run-of-the-mill sort of place, except for one thing.”

  “Spit it out.”

  “One of the bedrooms—the air-conditioned one—faces the Prime Minister’s house. Some afternoons you can see him on his putting green. At night, around this time, you can get a look at him through the window. While you’re in the saddle, you know? Strictly for laughs. But since you’re interested in Asian affairs—”

  “I think I saw him,” Shuck said later at the Pavilion where we had agreed to meet for a drink. “He was talking to a guy with a goatee and a shirt like yours. That takes the cake,” he said, smiling to himself. “But the hooker kept telling me to hurry up. Is that the usual thing? God, it put me off.”

  “It’s a popular room,” I said.

  “Vientiane,” said Shuck, using the monotone of reminiscence. “That’s a wide-open place. Lu-Lu’s, The White Rose. First-class hookers. They do tricks with cigarettes. ‘Hey, Joe, you wanna see me smoke?’ I had the strangest experience with a broad there—at least I thought it was a broad.”

  “But it wasn’t.”

  “No, but that’s not the whole story,” said Shuck.

  “I have to go,” I said.

  “Wait a minute,” said Shuck. “I’m not finished.”

  “I’ve heard it before.”

  “No, you haven’t.”

  “About the bare-assed waitresses in The White Rose in Vientiane, and the girl that was really a feller, and the nympho you used to know? I’ve heard it before. Now, if you’ll pipe down and excuse me—”

  “Jack,” said Shuck, “sit yourself down. I’ve got some good news for you.” Buzz, buzz.

  10

  SEX I HAD SEEN as a form of exalted impatience, trembling as near to hilarity as to despair—just like love—but so swift, and unlike love, it happily avoided both; that was a relief, grace after risk. And the strangest part of the sex wish: you wore all of it on your face. This assumption had been the basis of my whole enterprise. Paradise Gardens, Shuck’s good news, made me change my mind about this.

  “Here she comes,” I said, and Ganapaty scrambled to his feet. I was standing in bright sunshine at the end of the cinder drive by his sentry box, squinting down Adam Road where, at the junction, the shiny bus had stopped at the lights. I folded my arms. The first fellers were arriving. Behind me, glittering, was Paradise Gardens, known in District Ten as a private hotel.

  It was a new three-story building, long and narrow, white stucco trimmed with blue, and with a blue square balcony and a roaring air conditioner attached to every room. The usual high whorehouse fence, this one strung with morning-glories and supporting a hedge of Pong-Pong trees, concealed it from Dr. B. K. Lim’s bungalow on one side and a row of semidetached houses (each with a barbed-wire fence and a starved whimpering guard dog) on Jalan Kembang Melati on the other side. On our cool lawn there were mimosas and jasmine and the
splendid upright fans of three mature traveler’s palms. In the secluded patio out back we had a small swimming pool.

  The idea of Paradise Gardens was Shuck’s, or perhaps that of the United States Army, who employed him and now me. The design was my own; I had supervised the construction. The catering contract was Hing’s, and the glass-fronted shops in the arcade—the entire ground floor—were run by Hing’s relations: a tailor (I was wearing one of his white linen suits that first day), a photographer, a curio seller (elongated Balinese carvings, wayang puppets, and a selection of Chinese bronzes ingeniously faked in Taiwan), a druggist with a RUBBER GOODS sign taped to his window, a barber, and a news agent. My orders had been to design a place that a guest—Shuck told me ours would be GIs when it was done—would check into and stay for five days without having to leave the grounds. It was an early version of the tropical tourist hotel which, more than a place to sleep, contains the country, a matter of size, food, decor, and entertainment. I had a vision of luxury hotels underpinning the rarest and most exotic features of a people’s culture, the arts and crafts surviving in the Hilton long after they had ceased to be practiced in the villages. Tourism’s demand for atmosphere and authentic folklore would force the hotel to be the country. So I made it happen. We had Malay and Chinese dances every night, and traditional food, and we were scrupulous about observing festivals. It took two days for our Mr. Loy to cook a duck; outside Paradise Gardens the Chinese ate hamburgers standing up at lunch counters or in their parked cars at the A & W drive-in. Once a week we put on a mock wedding in the Malay style. It had been years since anyone had seen something like that in Singapore.

  “The bus coming,” said Ganapaty.

  “She’s full up,” I said.

  Ganapaty came to attention, a crooked derelict figure with a beautiful white caste mark, a finger’s width of ashes between his eyes. It pleased me that at Paradise Gardens I was able to employ everyone I owed a favor to: Yusof tended the big bar, Karim the smaller one; the room Shuck called “your theaterette” was run by Henry Chow, a blue-movie projectionist who had been out of work since the raids; Mr. Khoo, my old boatman, I employed as a mechanic, Gopi picked up the mail—though the post office was only across the street, his limp made what I intended as a sinecure for him a tedious and exhausting job. And the girls; the girls were no problem—fruit flies from Anson Road, floaters and athletes from the shut-down massage parlors, the sweet dozen from Dunroamin, and Betty from Muscat Lane—all my quick and limber daughters.