AFTER CALLING AT Hong Kong and Singapore we turned south toward Bali. It is a magical place, Ford. Step off your ship and you walk into a dream of pagodas, sloe-eyed women and handsome men, the scent of spices, palms jutting like feather dusters into a perfect sky. Come to a crossroads in a European city and you find lampposts, the ugliness of cobblestones. In Bali, you encounter plaited offerings of leaves garnished with flowers to appease the powers, each expressing the idea that “I give with the intention that thou mayest retire and not harm us.” And that is only a single charm of the island.
I took a betjak from the port to the Hotel Dykinck, where I stayed whenever I was in Denpasar. From the street it looks rather like a tribal lodge house with peak roofs supported by bamboo walls but the rooms are as comfortable as the better pensions one finds on the Continent. The owner, Henri Dykinck, was the scion of an old Dutch family that had made money in Java coffee before decamping to Bali, where everyone but Henri promptly had died of fever. Despite the tragedy, Henri had the greatest affection for all things Balinese. He dressed in native clothes and had a native wife who produced, year in and year out, perfectly delightful children. There had been five on my previous visit, and I expected more.
Dykinck was bent over a ledger behind the desk, where two lamps reflected off his bald head. I had written ahead and he was not surprised when he looked up.
“Monsieur Malone! You look well.”
He always greeted his old guests with a compliment no matter if they showed up stooped or even dragging a leg. I’d even seen a few perk up at his words.
“Full of lies, as usual,” I said as we shook hands.
He laughed. As soon as I signed the register he turned it around and looked at my signature as if he were gloating.
“How was I to know that my old friend would one day be famous? But everything is mysterious. When you were here three years ago your name was only that of a welcomed guest. Now you are a celebrity.”
I won’t credit the insight that leapt out of my tired brain to a sudden influx of genius. No, it was simple cause and effect. One of the Marlow books had put the gleam in Dykinck’s eyes. Nothing odd about it in the least. Men read out there in the South China Sea, certainly more and with greater relish than they do at home. No hotel worth the name lacked a good-sized library of well-thumbed books. Dykinck’s guests often passed an entire day devouring books out on the veranda. In fact, as I was trying to get my wits about me, I saw a young chap turning the page of one with a blue cover.
“Last year an Englishman came to stay,” Dykinck said by way of explanation, “just to see the country, you know. Unfortunately, he was of a weak constitution and had a large bag of books to beguile the times when he wasn’t up to going about. That seemed very sad to me. I mean, here was a man who wanted to see things but carried his entertainment with him. Well, he only got out once, and then for just a few hours. He exhausted his supply, read everything. We were attentive to him. In appreciation, he left all the books for the library. A fine gesture. One was Lord Jim. Imagine my surprise when, during the rains, I settled down with it and recognized your voice, not to say some of your adventures. You must be acquainted with the author.”
“What’s this all about?”
Dykinck described the plot and said what I already knew, that the news of Jim’s successes and failures had circulated like wildfire among the islands. Anyone who learned of a book dealing with them would be more than a bit eager to read it.
“Do you have a copy?”
“Look over there, near the bottom.”
I went to the bookshelves, trying hard to appear nonchalant. The book was in pristine condition, which meant that only a few people had read it.
“I’ll just borrow it a few days, if that’s all right.”
“Of course. Read. You’ll see what I mean.”
Dykinck clearly wanted to talk about the book but it was the last thing I was interested in doing. I glanced at the pigeonholes where he kept the mail.
“I don’t suppose there’s anything for me?”
“Yes,” he said and handed over some letters with a decidedly wry expression. “A famous man must deal with his public, no?”
There was one from the company’s Amsterdam office, one from my aunt, and a note from Viereck insisting that I come out the next day.
I went up to my room on the second floor, Number 28, the one I always stayed in. The hotel is situated on a canal and, after unpacking, I went out on the veranda that overlooked the placid water. Punts piled high with foodstuffs and other goods went back and forth, the traffic that would continue well into the evening. A boy came by and I ordered a drink. For the next hour I scribbled replies to my aunt and the company, then wrote a note to Viereck, which the boy assured me he would deliver before dark.
On the ground floor there was a decent bar but as it was still light I stayed put, leaning back in the rattan chair and propping my feet up on the lower rung of the railing. Below, in the courtyard filled with tables shaded by bright batik umbrellas, Dykinck was surveying his empire, on the lookout for the slightest discrepancy in service, something he never had to worry about. His employees were always thoughtful and attentive and they stayed for years because he cared about them. I’d watched half a dozen grow from mere boys into men with families. As a converted Hindu, Dykinck was happy to let them off whenever one or another of their gods demanded attention.
I dozed and woke to the sound of a gong announcing dinner. By the time I had cleaned up and gone downstairs someone was playing the gamelan. I had the house curry and half a bottle of a good Bordeaux. Afterward I walked along the canal, something I used to do with Ayu, a woman who had meant a great deal to me, a sort of ritual that required no conversation, just wandering hand in hand. I reached the bridge where we had often stopped to watch the punts during festivals when they were decorated with multitudes of flowers. Lights from the bankside reflected on the still water. Putting my hands on the rail, I looked down as we once had done and saw her long blue-black hair falling forward, framing her face like a cowl. A moment later a punt came by and its wake broke the image into undulating shards of light; Ayu’s eyes, lips, forehead taken back by the water that had given them to me.
I suppose this is as good a place as any to tell you about her, Ford. We met while I was working for Viereck. I was in a bazaar for no reason I can remember, probably just killing time, when a display of silver jewelry caught my eye; rings, necklaces, earrings worked into interesting, fanciful shapes. Two women attended the stall, both quite beautiful. It was not Ayu’s beauty that struck me at first but a sense of self-possession, a quality that is usually muted among women in these parts and therefore all the more notable. When I asked where the jewelry came from she smiled and told me she had made everything. This butterfly, I said, picking up a pin, how did you make this? As she explained her fingers mimed the process. I had no woman in my life but I bought the butterfly anyway. She wrapped it and our hands touched when she gave it to me, the sort of thing you are aware of at the moment and usually forget within minutes. I did not forget.
I returned three or four weeks in a row, always stopping to chat with her. After a month things changed. One day I found her alone and she was quite withdrawn when I spoke to her. The man in the stall next to hers was staring at me. I asked if I had done something wrong and she said no. What is it, then? You are a white man, she answered. Am I not supposed to talk to you? I asked. Not like this, she said. I asked if she wanted me to stop coming and she said yes.
I stayed away for a month. When I went back I spoke to her just long enough to say I would be waiting at the far end of the square at the end of the day and left, not sure if she would come. She did. That was the beginning. She had to be careful as her family were strict and her brothers kept a close eye on her. I did not take her anxiety seriously. If anything, it added an element of intrigue. I lived in a house some distance from town. At first we met by the canal but she was afraid of being seen and we agre
ed that from then on we would meet at my place. She would arrive breathless after taking a circuitous route and climbing a steep hill. I was moved that she would go against tradition and religious dogma to be with me. When she asked if I understood that it was dangerous for us to be together I said yes. I said yes because she wanted me to say yes, not because I really believed it.
I was in love, Ford, young and so deeply in love it was very hard to concentrate on my work. When I told Viereck about Ayu he advised me to be careful. After his warning I was. For Viereck to confirm something was to give it authority. Ayu and I found alternate routes. I made her promise never to take the same one twice in a row. Sometimes, rather than meeting at the house we went to a clearing in the jungle. Palm trees made a bower of translucent green light that shimmered on her skin. Or we took a punt downriver and tied it to deadfall in a tributary. Ayu felt safe and I was proud of protecting her.
One afternoon she was two hours late arriving at the house. She was crying when she came in, convinced that she had been followed. When I asked if she had seen anyone or heard anything, she said no, it was a feeling, an awareness. I went outside. It was very hot, no trace of wind, good weather to see movement, birds suddenly taking wing. There was only stillness. I watched awhile and went back inside. Nothing, I said.
An hour later we were lying side by side, content, half-asleep, when the door burst open. Three bearded men, her father and brothers, rushed in shouting. Ayu screamed. I saw a club descending and went down from the blow, still conscious but dizzy, the men black shapes in the whirling lights. When I tried to get up I was struck again. I woke some time later with a terrible pain in my head, not knowing where I was until I saw Ayu.
In these parts such things are called honor killings. A perceived disgrace of the family can only be paid for in blood at the hand of a father, brother, or uncle, a filthy aspect of a religion sanctioned by the culture, including the courts. I pressed charges, there was a trial, her father and brothers went free, walking down the steps of the courthouse to the cheers of the crowd.
They had stabbed her to death. As I cradled her body in my arms I remembered seeing the glint of a knife in her brother’s hand. I should have searched the valley, should have gone downhill and flushed them out. I knew the jungle better than they did. I traced my acts back to Ayu warning me off at the bazaar. Even so, I had gone back, courted her recklessly, irresponsibly. I plunged into the abyss of guilt and would never have come out without Viereck. He made me move in with him and would not let me out of his sight. He abandoned other business interests to be with me on the boat, doing practically all the work of which I was incapable. What I remember best of those days is that his voice was always in the air with explanations of the way things are, advice on how to be. He acknowledged that I had taken a risk not knowing the consequences and had come up against the immovable heart of a culture that demanded blood. How could I blame myself for such primitivism, he asked, when I had never been near it?
He let me see my foolishness, my naivete, revealed my limits and my innocence without forgiving me or letting me forgive myself. It was hard instruction, Ford—hard, stark, profound, an act of friendship of the truest kind—since he knew I would never be the same. Years later, I went to see him hoping that he could help Conrad through me, hoping I could be a conduit.
WHEN I WOKE, a brown monkey was sitting on my windowsill, nibbling a mango. We eyed each other—my curiosity no match for his—and he continued eating while I dressed and ordered breakfast on the antique phone. A boy arrived with a tray of fruit and a pot of coffee. The monkey dropped the mango rind and jumped down on the floor. The boy wouldn’t have it. He clapped his hands and ran toward the creature shouting in a dialect I didn’t recognize but the monkey did. I daresay, it seemed to think it was being nominated for a stew that the Balinese prize because it leapt up to the sill while the boy was halfway across the room and then into the overhanging branches of a tree well out of reach.
The boy salaamed and apologized, explaining that they did their best to keep the creatures off, but when guests left windows open it . . . I told him that I understood and it didn’t matter as I liked monkeys. I gave him a coin and as soon as the boy had closed the door shared my breakfast with the monkey, who had returned, venturing within a few feet of the table, close enough to take pieces of papaya, which he ate quickly without taking his eyes off me. They were yellow as I recall, startlingly alert. As I doubted he would be interested in coffee, I shooed him away and, after closing the window, took the pot and cup out to the veranda.
Though it was only a little after seven o’clock, heat waves were already shimmering on the path that ran parallel to the canal. The water was glassy and when a punt came along its wake rolled undisturbed to the bank and was lost among the reeds. The shimmering brought back the image of Ayu and I averted my eyes but it was too late. I saw her again as I watched a bird flying low over the water, a wide vein of scarlet the length of its body. Soon people appeared on the path. There were more punts loaded with fruit and occasionally a caged chicken or a pig, the men in the prows dipping their poles in a steady ancient rhythm. This is very good, I thought, despite the pain of seeing Ayu. I had been in Bali scarcely twelve hours and was alive to its moods. If it were not for Viereck, I would have been happy to stay put in my outpost the rest of the morning.
Dykinck was behind the desk when I reached the lobby, talking to his eldest daughter, who had her mother’s almond eyes and his broad forehead. She was in training to be a dancer. I imagined she looked quite beautiful in her elaborate costumes, her neck crooked at an angle, fingers splayed and curved, a two-armed Shiva. I asked him about her progress and learned that she had mastered all but the most difficult movements.
“You must be proud,” I said.
“As a peacock. You’re off?”
“To see Hans Viereck.”
“Give him my best,” he said. “The heat’s bad today. Already people are complaining.”
“Well, a little sweat never hurt anyone.”
With that, I walked rather quickly outside, grateful that I’d brought along an old conical straw hat, the kind everyone wears in that part of the world.
The road, scarcely more than a dirt track just wide enough for a cart and bullocks, ran between rice fields that rose to terraces conforming to the curve of the hills that stretched far down the valley. At that time of the year the terraces were flooded and shone like silver bands in the morning sun. Along the way bamboo platforms shaped like street lamps held offerings to the rice goddess to ensure bountiful crops. I passed the visage of the goddess Durga carved in stone, there to protect travelers from Kala, the God of Evil, who takes the midday for his hunting time. I can’t say I ever thought those forces would whisk me away, but I liked the idea because it proclaimed a more complex world than ours in the West, a feeling Conrad shared. Think of all his stories set out here that derive their richness from the powers that brood in the jungle shadows. For both of us the East had always suggested new ways of seeing.
At the end of the valley, the fields and terraces gave way to jungle. Before long I came across a large stone statue with terrible eyes but a lovable expression that reminded me of the fat cook on the Korimatsu. In a while I was in the hills again and from the top of a rise I could see the valley where Viereck lived, the place as distant from my world as Saturn making his silent rounds out at the edge of the galaxy. When Viereck’s house came into view, the peak of his thatched roof rising like a pagoda above the trees, I recalled Conrad’s line in Lord Jim about Marlow’s desire “to confide my difficulty to Stein because he was one of the most trustworthy men I have ever known, an eminently suitable person to receive my confidences about Jim’s difficulties as well as my own.”
It was a powerful moment, Ford, past and present joined together in what seemed like another dimension than the ones we know. There I was on the same path I had followed years before when I had hoped that Viereck might be able to enlighten me about what co
uld be done for Jim, help me deal with the confounded sense of obligation his romantic dreams had placed upon me. Our conversation had been one of the most intense of my life and Conrad had made it even more pointed in his novel, bringing out complexities I hadn’t seen, adding new elements that were entirely his own invention, most notably Stein’s famous advice about how to be: “Very funny this terrible thing is. A man that is born falls into a dream like a man who falls into the sea. If he tries to climb out in to the air as inexperienced people endeavour to do, he drowns—nicht war? . . . No! I tell you the way is to the destructive element submit yourself, and with the exertions of your hands and feet in the water make the deep, deep sea keep you up. So you ask me—how to be?” Now I was returning to tell Viereck that I had gotten tangled up again with a man who’d painted himself into a corner. As I went up the path leading to the house I felt a bit like Alice walking through the looking glass.
Sailors on the Inward Sea Page 16
