A female voice translated the captain’s announcement into Malay but I doubted whether his nicely timed witticisms would be included.
“Every faith,” the woman repeated.
“Attention-grabbing wasn’t it?”
“An understatement,” she said.
“Richard Blythe,” I said smiling.
“Sophie Mackintosh.” We attempted to reach across the aisle and shake hands, but as we both had window seats, our belts wouldn’t let us.
We both laughed.
There was much clicking of seat belts throughout the aircraft. People wouldn’t believe they were really safe until they had their feet on the ground. It looked as though the airport had been significantly modernised since I was last in Brunei and it had been up to the best of Western standards even then.
“I’m not sure you heard me the first time, but my name’s Sophie Mackintosh,” she said, having shuffled into the aisle.
“Richard Blythe,” I replied. We shook hands this time.
She was about five feet eight inches tall, and from the front she was even more attractive than in profile. She was wearing a pale green linen business suit that enhanced her slim but well proportioned figure. Under the suit she wore a yellow silk blouse which made me wonder whether she had been to Brunei before – yellow was the Royal colour and people were discouraged from wearing it. There was a string of pearls round her throat, but I noticed there were no rings on her fingers. I decided I had guessed her age about right - thirty to thirty-five. Her blue-green eyes were smiling at me and her tanned skin gave her a healthy sheen. Considering what we had been through, she looked remarkably cool and calm. I wondered why she was in Brunei and concluded, with no evidence whatsoever, that she probably had something to do with the British High Commission, in which case she should have known about not wearing yellow.
I reached into the overhead locker and extracted what could only be her hand luggage.
“Thank-you,’ she said. “It was good to meet you, Mr Blythe, and I’m sorry we didn’t have the opportunity to have a longer chat.”
“Maybe we’ll bump into each other again. It’s not a big country.”
She smiled at me and her eyes sparkled. Just before saying, “Possibly,” she let the tip of her tongue touch her upper lip. She then moved down the aisle and exited through the front door.
I didn’t see Sophie Mackintosh again.
Whether she was more important than I had thought I don’t know, but I looked out for her at passport control, in the baggage reclaim area and then in customs, but didn’t catch sight of her.
The airport had changed considerably and, fortunately, with it the efficiency. I remembered Brunei as a country that existed in the 1990s but still lived in the 1950s. It had inherited British bureaucracy from that period and had never managed to update it.
Everything was now well organized even to the extent that the bags were waiting for us when we got to the baggage reclaim area. I was impressed. The airport with its marble floors and pillars was fully air-conditioned and everywhere was spotlessly clean. Through the enormous floor to ceiling windows, I could now see the extent of the storm we’d flown through. The sky was grey, the visibility was very poor and it was lashing with rain.
I passed through the arrivals exit pushing a trolley and looked at a sea of local faces, and some European. I couldn’t see Abby anywhere but then I heard my name being called..
“Richard!”
He was wearing a high-necked batik shirt, a black songkok, black linen trousers and black shiny shoes. It was three years since I had seen him but he hadn’t changed at all. At five feet seven he was six inches under my height. He had well-cut short jet-black hair, a black well-trimmed moustache, a happy round face, bright brown eyes and a slim physique. He looked a lot younger than his forty-five years.
“Richard, Richard,” he repeated as he reached me, “how marvellous to see you again, my friend.”
We embraced like the good friends we were but I noticed over his shoulder that it generated a few, and not necessarily approving, looks from other Bruneians in the vicinity.
“Abby,” I said, smiling and holding him at arm’s length, “you haven’t changed at all. If anything, you’re looking even younger.”
He winked, tapped his nose, and at the same time allowed a mischievous grin to cross his face. “Nazira, Richard, she keeps me young and active.”
“Don’t know what she sees in you,” I commented, putting a hand on his shoulder.
He smiled. “And you, Richard, how are you?” His face became serious. His question wasn’t only the polite thing to say, it was from the heart.
“I’m fine, Abby, thanks.”
He didn’t believe me, because although he smiled again, it was a smile of concern. “Perhaps we will discuss that later.” He reached for the handle on my luggage trolley. “Come on, let’s go to the car.”
We began walking across the concourse.
“Good of you to dress up for me, Abby!” I said.
He shook his head but his songkok stayed in place. “Your memory must be going, Richard. It’s Friday and for us Friday in the mosque is like your Sunday at church, we dress up for the occasion. We must respect He who controls our destinies,” he added, still smiling.
“Ah! Of course, sorry, I forgot,” I said.
Regardless of the number of times I had been to the Far East, and in particular to Brunei, I had never prepared myself sufficiently for the wall of gelatinous heat that hit me every time I left the airport building. It was like walking into a brick wall: stifling, airless and muggy. After being relatively dry courtesy of the air-conditioning first at Changi Airport, then on the aircraft and in the terminal, after only seconds the sweat was pouring off me. By the time we had walked the short distance – which fortunately was undercover – to Abby’s car, I was awash, whereas Abby appeared to remain relatively cool. The rain was still falling therefore adding to the humidity.
Relief came as we drove away from the airport in Abby’s air-conditioned four-wheel drive Range Rover, the road bedecked on either side with Brunei’s National flag and many others I didn’t recognise. We went under an ornate yellow, white and black arch with the Sultan of Brunei’s picture prominent. He was smiling down on his subjects and those visiting his country. The elaborate flower and shrubbery beds were interspersed with trimmed plantain grass at the kerbside and everything looked orderly.
Abby saw me looking all about me. “Has it changed much?”
I peered through the windscreen. “The weather certainly hasn’t.”
Abby screwed up his face as he too looked up into the grey sky, the windscreen wipers doing their best to give him a clear view.
“This has been with us for nearly a week now but it’s coming to an end. Hopefully tomorrow you will see the sunshine you are able to enjoy constantly back in England,” he said.
He stole a mischievous look at me and smiled. Abby’s sense of humour wasn’t unique among his fellow Bruneians but where his was different was that he would tell a joke against himself before he told one against somebody else.
Certain circles would not have allowed his earlier and open suggestion that Nazira kept him fit and active – a man’s sexual activities were for the privacy of his home and nowhere else. On the other hand, his remark was not one I would have made about Belinda, or any of my close friends would have made about their wives to anybody else.
“The airport is looking fantastic,” I commented.
He gave me another sideways glance as he negotiated a roundabout under what looked like a motorway. “May I ask whether you thought there was anything wrong with it the last time you were in Brunei?”
“Well, other than the efficiency of the people running it, I must admit, no. It was modern then, but it’s even more so now.”
He nodded his head. “Exactly! I accept the people are more efficient but wasting millions of dollars on continuously updating the airport is not my idea of progress. It�
�s all to impress those from outside, when the money would be better spent elsewhere. Look at this motorway we are about to join – it wasn’t here the last time you visited Brunei, was it?”
“No,” I said.
“It’s unnecessary and another waste of money.”
“Still the rebel, I see,” I said.
He shook his head this time. “It makes me very angry, Richard. You wait until you see Jerudong. You will think you are in Disneyland, but why do we need it?”
Abby’s comments were a little worrying. He had been open with me in the past but he always added the caveat that he remained totally loyal to the Sultan and to the State. I detected no such caveat in his tone on this occasion and wondered whether this was the reason for me to travel ten thousand miles to see him. It would have been impolite for me to ask – it was for him to introduce whatever it was when he was ready.
We pulled up outside the Sheraton Utama hotel, which Abby thought I would prefer for old time’s sake. A young uniformed baggage handler appeared, swung open the rear door of the Range Rover and offloaded my suitcases before I got out of the car. Abby had already cleared the way at Reception and registration was swift. My en-suite room was on the top floor at the front of the five-storey building, which meant it overlooked the Churchill Museum and the main Mosque. I could see many new buildings to the left, changing what I remembered of Bandar Seri Begawan’s skyline. The window had tinted glass to reduce the glare from the sun but, even so, there was no evidence that Abby’s forecasted weather improvements were on the way. I shivered slightly and made a note to adjust the air-conditioning once Abby had gone.
“Richard,” he said, “I will leave you to settle in. I have to be at the Mosque in thirty minutes to show willing.”
I frowned, another unusual remark. “Come off it, Abby, you’d be a fundamentalist if you could.”
He didn’t smile. “No, I don’t think so, Richard.”
Looking over my shoulder, I saw his eyes settle on the Mosque opposite.
“I believe in everything Islam stands for and what the Koran tells us, but when I see my religion and Holy Book being used wrongly, deliberately misinterpreted to defend an unjust decision or action, I get very angry. There is evil out there with crimes being committed in the name of Allah.”
“I think I understand,” I said.
“Do you, Richard? I’m afraid I don’t.” He was silent for a few seconds and then he switched back to the jovial Abby again. “If you want a drink, Richard, I’m afraid we’re going through one of those holier than thou phases again, more hypocrisy. You can consume alcohol in your room as long as you sign a chitty to say it is for personal consumption and needed for medical reasons. I am afraid the bars downstairs are for non-alcoholic drinks only. The swimming pool is where you remember it to be. We still allow non-Muslim females to use it.” He winked. “Other than that I will collect you at about seven o’clock, we would like you to have dinner with us and meet the family. They are all looking forward to seeing you again.”
“Thanks, Abby,” I said, holding out my hand. “Your hospitality knows no bounds, it’s as though time has stood still.”
He clasped my hand with both of his and smiled. “It hasn’t, Richard, but you, like me, probably wish it had.” He bowed slightly and left the room.
His final remark left me standing in the middle of the room frowning and looking at the closed door. There was something troubling him and it had to be the reason why I was there. I shook my head thinking maybe he had misinterpreted what I’d said.
Time would tell.
Going back over to the window, I could hear the Muslim call to prayer and I wished I could gain some strength from it. I remembered the second line from the Adhan (call to prayer) and it always had an impact on me – ‘I bear witness that there is no god except the One God’ – if that were the case and all religions believed it to be the case, the world would be a far better and safer place.
Chapter Fourteen
Nazira looked stunning and the children thoroughly scrubbed. They all greeted me at the front door of Abby’s house, although house is a loose description.
Wealthy Bruneians and high-ranking officials owned colourful and over-elaborate houses with ornate marble pillars supporting equally elaborate entrances. Abby’s house was no exception. Situated on the Tutong road out of Bandar Seri Begawan – Brunei’s capital city – it was on the same road as the Sultan’s palace, which signified Abby’s importance. On a slight rise, it was possible to stand at the front door and see the golden dome of the palace itself.
The walls of the house comprised a white mottled ornate brick with grey mortar. The front door was blue with gold fitments and the blue roof and porch tiles matched the door. There were two flights of scrupulously clean marble front steps leading to the entrance. Supported on eight legs, the underside of the house created an open car park cum basement for their three cars and Abby’s Range Rover. Also under the house was a well-kitted play area for their children.
At the rear of the house, more steps led down to staff quarters. They had three fulltime locals working for them: a cook, a cleaner and a gardener. Abby preferred to drive himself but whenever Nazira wanted to go out she had access to a Government car and driver if she wished.
Nazira looked striking. She had converted to Islam from Christianity before marrying Abby. They had met when he was a junior member of Brunei’s embassy in Kuala Lumpar. Islamic, and therefore Bruneian law did not approve of physical relationships between Muslims and non-Muslims, it was therefore easier for Nazira to convert from Christianity than it was for Abby to give up what wasn’t a religion alone but a life-style.
Seeing her for the first time in many years made it seem as though time had stood still, for her at least. Not unexpectedly, looking at her also made me think of Marie and Ingrid; there were many similarities. Nazira – her Christian name had been Angeline before converting to Islam – was the product of a mixed race marriage. Her father was Indian and her mother Malaysian and Nazira had inherited the best of both cultures.
Although she had embraced Islam out of her love for Abby, she retained independence of thought. When moving with Abby in the higher circles of Bruneian life she adopted the traditional modes of dress and behaved accordingly. However, when at home and mixing with non-Islamic cultures she dressed casually or informally. Abby, when it was appropriate, loved her belief in temporary non-alignment, explaining that he was getting the best of both worlds: a compliant and orthodox wife when the needs warranted them but a freethinking and sometimes quite dominant partner on other occasions. Over what was an illicit beer for him, he once told me he particularly liked sexual subjugation and Nazira willingly obliged his fantasy.
His choice of words had made me smile and his lack of embarrassment had caused the reverse in me.
This evening Nazira was wearing light-blue silk trousers and a white silk top. Her black hair shone with health and she had applied her make-up to perfection. There was a simple gold necklace at her throat, gold rings hanging from her ears and gold bangles on her wrists. She was a little taller than Abby but equally slim. When she smiled, there was a twinkle in her eyes and she literally glowed with vitality. She gave me a peck on the cheek as she welcomed me back to their house. I took off my shoes and stepped into another world.
The children were standing in a height-ordered line inside the door. Nadima and Ibrahim looked quite grown-up in traditional clothes. They smiled politely and proffered their hands as a welcome. However, little Leisha, although equally smart, didn’t know me and I doubted whether the other two remembered me either. The little one clutched her sister’s leg and tried her best to disappear into the folds of Nadima’s clothing. When I bent down to say hello, she turned her face away in embarrassment.
The entire house was air-conditioned and the coolness was very welcome. It had stopped raining but it was still humid. Even the short walk from Abby’s Range Rover to the front door had made me perspire. A maid, w
ho looked as though she was a Filipino, came forward with a tray on which were numerous tall glasses containing a variety of cold drinks.
“We will have a proper drink later on, Richard,” Abby told me with a knowing smile, his eyes indicating the children.
I nodded, returning his smile while selecting a glass of orange juice from the tray. “This will do nicely, thank you,” I replied. From one source or another Abby would have obtained a few cans of Tiger or Anchor beer, not to mention a bottle of excellent malt whisky. They would all be secreted away somewhere.
We chatted but after only a few minutes, the meal was ready. Nazira suggested that the children might like to go to their rooms, and they obediently disappeared with respectful ‘goodnights’. I guessed that each had their moments of disagreeableness or even disobedience – what child doesn’t? – but from an outsider’s perspective, they were children to be proud of.
The living and dining areas were one big room in the centre of the house. There was a bedroom at each corner – three of which had en suite bathrooms – and the kitchen was through swing doors to the rear of the house. The rosewood table and chairs could seat at least ten people. The three of us sat at one end, with Nazira at the head of the table – deference to her being in her non-Muslim mode!
The meal, a mixture of Malaysian and Chinese dishes, was delicious and its aroma even better, but it wasn’t until we were served with an exotic fresh fruit salad that Nazira delicately introduced Belinda’s death into the conversation. They had both offered me their commiserations on arrival but I guessed for the children’s sake, the subject was quickly changed.
“You should have let us know about Belinda,” Nazira scolded, while carefully balancing a piece of a star fruit on her fruit-fork.
Pooh Bridge: conscience stricken Page 15
