She shook her head, caring for nothing except to see her child properly buried. Marjorie too.
He thought quickly as he spoke. ‘We have to hide. They’ll check with the local village – if there is one.’
Even though her body quaked beneath his hands, he could tell that she understood, but still he was desperate for confirmation. He shook her.
‘Understand?’
She nodded miserably.
Devastated by what had happened, he let down his guard. From the corner of his eye he glimpsed a figure.
Had the soldiers come back?
Drawing his sword half out of his scabbard, he turned to face the threat.
He heard a baby’s cry before he saw the native woman, a child in her arms. She looked startled, turned and disappeared. Within seconds she was replaced by three dark-skinned men, their torsos bare above native sarongs. Their expressions were hard to read.
Genda reminded himself that some natives were in the pay of the Japanese. Hadn’t he paid some himself?
Nadine had noticed the woman and child. ‘Her baby has a strong cry,’ she said.
Genda knew she had understood.
Palms together, he bowed respectfully and addressed the men in their own language.
‘Greetings to thee. Please forgive our intrusion into thy domain. Our boat was driven ashore in the storm. It has drifted somewhere and we cannot find it. Our honourable old one and the baby are dead at the hands of the invaders. We beg leave to bury them in a respectful manner.’
The three men looked at each other. Wordlessly, they seemed to come to an instant decision. The tallest and eldest of them stepped forward, his palms together and bowing as Genda had done.
‘We greet thee to our home, but advise you do not linger. Thy boat has come to rest in a small cove where the current is strongest.’
Genda straightened. Amazing, he thought, how full the stomach feels when it isn’t sick with anxiety.
‘They know where our boat is,’ he translated to Nadine, hardly able to control his childish relief.
He addressed the personage who he presumed to be the headman of the village.
‘I beg thee take pity on a destitute traveller. I have little to give but this sword in exchange for water, fish and coconuts. We need these things for sustenance on the rest of our journey.’
The three men conversed for a short time. They spoke quickly and softly. Genda strained to hear. He thought he heard contempt in their voices. They did not want his sword. His hope faltered. If they couldn’t get supplies they would not survive the rest of the journey.
The headman turned back and bowed to him. ‘We have no need of thy sword. Thou hast lost the oldest and the youngest of thy family. The compassion of Allah be upon thee. We will provide thee with everything thou needest.’
The Sumatran’s quick eyes glanced tellingly at Nadine. She was standing as wooden as a tree trunk, her features frozen and fixed on the dead Shanti.
The headman’s voice softened as he gently bowed his head. ‘Despair not over the last resting site of your loved ones. They will be buried with respect in our own cemetery. Allah grant them peace everlasting.’
Genda bowed and thanked them. ‘May Allah bless thy compassion, thy house and thy village.’
That night they hid whilst the villagers loaded the boat with fresh water and provisions. A crescent moon hung low in the sky, giving just enough light to see by, but too little for them to be seen.
Numbly, Nadine watched the proceedings. She’d barely spoken to Genda since the killings. Something inside her blamed him for its happening. Logically he’d had nothing to do with it, but her emotions were in turmoil. Everything Japanese was suddenly extremely hateful and that included him. Her dear little baby was dead. She could only guess as to how and why. Inside she was numb.
She felt his eyes on her, knew they were filled with sorrow, but couldn’t bring herself to face him. She wandered off and found a high spot far up the beach among the palms. She didn’t know how long she sat there staring out over the sea. Her loss was like the deepest hunger, a hole in her stomach that threatened to suck in her heart. Strange that I can’t cry, she thought, but at least the sickness is gone.
Genda’s shadow and that of the headman suddenly fell over her.
‘Come,’ said Genda, and held out his hand.
She looked at it as though she’d never seen such a thing before and declined to take it.
The headman said something. Genda replied. She understood none of it.
Genda crouched low. He smelled different. She saw it was due to the fact that he had fresh clothes. He must have seen her flicker of interest because he went on to explain why he was wearing a fresh uniform.
‘An officer left it with one of their women. He never came back for it and my clothes were in rags.’ He chanced a wry smile. ‘Couldn’t arrive in Australia half-dressed now, could I?’ He explained further. ‘When we come across an Allied patrol they will arrest me as a prisoner of war if I’m wearing a uniform. If I’m discovered to be Japanese and wearing civilian clothes they will shoot me as a spy.’
She found it impossible to return his smile. Her gaze continually strayed in the direction of the village and the thought of Shanti buried in the sandy earth. The headman said something else. She didn’t know what and didn’t care.
Genda touched her arm. ‘Suleiman asks if you would like to see the last resting place of your child and your grandmother.’
‘She isn’t my…’
Genda’s smile was touchingly sad. His voice was soft. ‘Deep down we are all family.’
He stepped back from her, knowing without her saying that of course she wanted to see her daughter’s grave.
The village was in almost total darkness except for the faint glow of a kerosene lamp in the headman’s lodge. The smell of cooking fires lay pungently sweet on the air, and in the shadows dogs snarled over scraps.
Keeping to the very edge of the village, they came to a cleared plot. Grass and flowers grew on longer-established graves. A new one had been added.
‘Together,’ Genda said before she had a chance to ask. ‘I think they’ll be less lonely. I hope that’s OK with you.’ He passed her some wild blossom he’d plucked from a tree along the path.
‘It doesn’t smell particularly special, but it looks pretty,’ he said apologetically.
‘It doesn’t matter. They won’t smell it.’
She took it and laid it on the freshly turned earth.
He reached out to touch her shoulder but stopped himself. Perhaps not, he thought. His fingers curled into his palm. His hand dropped to his side. Her sorrow was like a great open wound. He had to give her time to recover – even if she remained silent all the way from here to Australia.
Chapter Thirty-Three
The immensity of the sea was clouded in darkness when they left the island. Within an hour of daybreak both of them were staring dumbly at its infinite expanse.
Needing mutual comfort, they’d lain together, cramped but desperate in the bottom of the boat. Neither of them voiced words of love or cried tears; this was sexual contact born of deep emotional need. They had lost a child and were dealing with it as best they could.
Genda asked himself why he’d ever entertained the idea that they could possibly make it to Australia. The sea was so big.
Nadine’s thoughts were still back on the island and the last resting place of her daughter. She’d laid flowers on the grave along with the imprints of her knees. Genda had had to drag her away.
He attempted to show her their position on the tatty map that he kept wrapped in tarpaper and tucked into his waistband. She eyed it vaguely as he told her the coordinates.
‘I’m going to come back here when the war’s over and put flowers on their grave.’
‘Yes. Yes. Of course you are. I’ve marked it on the map. See?’ The ragged edges of the map quivered when he looked at her. ‘And you’ll remember the longitude and latitude?’
>
She nodded wearily. ‘I’ve got a good memory. I’ll never forget where that island is. Never.’
She didn’t return his look but narrowed her eyes. It was true that she had a good memory, especially for maps; her geography teacher back in India had commended her on it. No, she would not forget.
A string of islands trailed westwards from the one they’d left. Each drifted past on their left; on their right there was only sea.
Day after day she spent staring at it, feeling empty of emotion and even of hatred.
On those days when the sky was totally devoid of clouds and the sea of waves, there seemed no delineation between water and sky.
‘It’s like living in a great blue bowl,’ Genda remarked.
Nadine did not respond.
Genda was exasperated and deeply worried for the woman he loved. He forced himself to sound cheerful – anything to raise her spirits. Inside he was choked with sadness. The look in her eyes was impenetrable, like sea fog, and her thoughts impossible to read. Not that he needed to. He knew it would take her some time to recover.
In the meantime, he talked and rowed, and rowed and talked, his muscles protesting at the continuous torture.
He never asked her to take over and she never offered. Gritting his teeth he kept going, punishing himself for everything: for leaving America, for joining the army, for setting out on this crazy journey.
The uniform given to him by the villagers was in good condition but he’d kept the civilian clothes, the shirt of which he attached to the puny mast for use as a rudimentary sail, sometimes merely for shade.
Nadine remained silent even when he made notes on the back of the map and told her what he had done. He kept the map inside his shirt and wrapped in tarred paper. ‘I’ve made notes about what happened at the camp. There’ll be a debriefing once we’re in Australia. They’ll want to know what was happening there.’
‘Of course.’ She looked away. It was the first time for days that he’d had a reasonable response.
He looked down at her well-shaped feet and remembered watching them as she’d danced for Yamamuchi. Suddenly, he felt her eyes upon him. Her features were rigid. Her eyes glowed the way they used to.
‘I had to do it.’
It was hot, midday, and he rested on his oars. His voice was gentle. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Yamamuchi! I had to do it.’
He tried not to stare at her, but there was precious little else to look at: just the sea.
It came to him then just how deeply she’d buried her true feelings. She’d always seemed so stoical about what had happened, but now…
‘You were forced to do it. There was no dishonour. Life is precious, no matter what it is.’
Nadine was momentarily stunned to silence. Although he did not know it, Genda had repeated the words her mother had so often said to her.
‘My mother used to say that.’
‘Your mother was a very wise woman.’
She nodded.
‘You killed Yamamuchi.’
He nodded.
‘Not the She-Dragon?’
‘No. Yamamuchi did that.’
On the journey Nadine told him more about India and the woman with two children selling her body for sex in order to survive. ‘That is what I did, but I bought comfort with my body. I had more food than the others, and lived in far better conditions. Plus I only had one man abusing my body. I wish now I had stayed with the others.’
Genda didn’t understand. ‘Why?’
‘Because I am one of them. Now I am heading for Australia.’ She shook her head forlornly. ‘They won’t understand, Genda. They will just not understand.’
‘You don’t need to tell them,’ he ventured earnestly, beaming because it was such an obvious conclusion. ‘Hell, they’ll be none the wiser as long as you keep shtum!’
At some time during the night he fell asleep at the oars, barely feeling someone lift off his arms and slide into his place.
He fell gently backwards and started snoring the instant he laid his head against the prow of the boat.
Up until then he’d only managed to catnap. Now he dozed more deeply, but the respite didn’t last.
* * *
Nadine was getting weaker. He woke up one morning to find her slumped across the oars, and yet they were still moving.
‘Nadine! Wake up!’
She was sluggish.
‘You promised you would stay awake,’ he said angrily. ‘I need some sleep, damn you! Are you listening to me?’
She wiped her forehead with a backward sweep of her hand.
‘I’m sorry. It’s just that I feel so hot and…’
Genda stood up in the boat. ‘What about me? Don’t you think I’m hot too, sweating my ass off, rowing morning, noon and night?’
Shaking her head, she buried her face in her folded arms. Her knees were bent and her toes poked out from beneath her sarong.
She continued to shake her head as though she were kneading it into her arms.
‘I can’t help it. I feel so tired.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’ Genda buried his face in his hands, wiping away the sweat which he rubbed into his trousers.
He shook the water barrel. There was enough to get them to the next island whose outline he could see rising from the sea.
‘I’m sorry.’
She didn’t seem to hear him. Her head was thrown back and her eyes were closed. Her lips were cracked and split at the corners.
He judged she hadn’t done that much harm. Luckily the current was carrying them in a south-easterly direction.
Miles and miles of rowing. She took over when she could and he avoided sleeping as long as possible.
They lost count of the days as each one drifted into night and back into daylight.
Nadine stirred in her sleep. ‘I’ll take over later…’ Her voice drifted into a sigh.
‘Sleep. I can manage,’ he said to her, all the anger gone from his voice.
Hours later he was still rowing.
He nudged her toes with his boot. ‘Hey. Want some coconut milk?’
She opened her eyes. They were red-rimmed. He knew she’d been crying again. How long, he wondered, until she could cope with the death of her baby?
‘Go on. Drink.’ He passed her a coconut in which he’d already made a hole. ‘Drink,’ he said again.
She looked at him blearily.
He touched her hand. Her flesh burned with fever. He frowned. ‘You’re sick. Why didn’t you tell me?’
She shook her head, curled up and buried herself back down in the boat.
Genda looked at the water barrel. They’d need more – a lot more if they were to continue their journey. He ripped off a piece of his shirt, opened the barrel and poured water over the ripped rag. Gently he dabbed it on her face. ‘We need to cool you down.’
‘Water,’ she said softly, her tongue licking at the dryness of her lips.
He allowed her to drink her fill. Up until now he’d rationed the water to one cup per day, and then not all at once.
‘More,’ she said, swallowing and still licking her lips.
He shook the barrel and heard the dismal sound telling him it was less than a tenth full.
‘Milk,’ he said, offering her the coconut again. ‘Drink some milk.’
She drank the entire contents. He shook other coconuts. All of them were empty.
‘Shit,’ he muttered and put the one she’d emptied with the others. They were only fit for food now, not drinking.
Tendrils of wet hair clung to the dampness of her face. Her eyes sometimes flickered, but never opened. At times she wept in her sleep and when she did he let his own tears flow.
It was days later that Genda eyed the island he had seen initially as a pale mauve blob. He rowed with superhuman strength, praying that there was a village on the island and someone to help them.
The force of the sea against the oars was formidable, but still he persisted. Every so often
he glanced at her, willing her to wake.
The current was favourable, but the surf crashing onto the only beach he could see looked too powerful for such a tiny craft.
The boat began to prance up and down like a mettlesome horse. Waves rose and curled over into themselves; most over four feet high and strong enough to tear the boat apart.
If there’d been an alternative, a smaller beach, or more supplies to chance journeying on, he would have done that. But there was nothing else and he had Nadine to think of.
Feathering one oar and rowing frantically with the other, he manoeuvred the tiny craft so that the bow faced the beach.
‘Here goes,’ he muttered to himself, his eyes fixed on the strip of sand beyond the surf.
The boat crashed on, held aloft by an avalanche of foaming surf.
Despite his best attempts, it veered sideways on, the left side facing the beach.
Genda attempted to turn the little craft, but it was no more than a soap bubble tossing on a heaving mass of water.
One last wave tossed the boat skywards, until with a breathless sigh it surged onto the sand. Although it filled with water, it journeyed far enough up the beach for Genda to jump out, take a rope at the front, and pull it further.
Every muscle in his body begged for rest, and his eyes for sleep, but he forced himself onwards. Remembering the last occasion he’d pulled the boat onto the beach, he secured the rope around a rock, using it like a winch to pull the craft even further up the beach.
Drenched in sweat and burning with fever, Nadine was only vaguely aware that she was no longer being pitched around. She welcomed the respite, though soon fell back into a fitful sleep.
Gently he took her from the boat and laid her on the sand. She needed more water, but for now there were coconuts lying around. Although tired beyond belief, he gathered up a few and laid them next to her head.
He searched in his pocket for the penknife with which he’d made holes in the other coconuts. He found it empty and swore. Out there somewhere, he thought, eyeing the sea with undisguised malice.
East of India Page 31
