Islands of Deception

by Constance Hood

  “I’m fine. Good day – and thanks for the lift.”

  The driver looked at him once more. Fear does not make a man a coward. Doing a job under pressure takes courage, and Hank was eager underneath his pallor. “Come back in one piece, OK?”

  Hank nodded and jumped out.

  Walking down the road toward the house, he became Hans Steen, housewares merchant. A chunky Javanese woman squatted in the gardens, harvesting some greens.

  “Selamat pagi! Good morning! Can you tell me where I might find the big boss?” Hopefully her explanations would not be too detailed. He couldn’t remember much more Malay than that, the opening line of the sales pitches he had made with his father 10 years ago. A broad smile and a gesture pointed him toward a white house with a large veranda, shaded by strange vines.

  He climbed the wide steps and, clearing his throat, knocked on a massive teak door. Someone of importance lived here but it didn’t look like a consulate.

  The door pulled open slowly, revealing a stoop-shouldered man in the shadows. Hans addressed him in Dutch, “Goedemorgen! Good morning. I am looking for the Dutch consul. I need some help.” Hans continued babbling away in Dutch, a long story about his being on a Dutch merchant ship that had left the Noumea harbor without everyone on board.

  The man blinked and furrowed his dark eyebrows, peering at the figure silhouetted by the sun. “Parlez vous Francais?”

  French. Oh God. It was going to be a long day. Hans began his story again in French, then broke it off and interrupted his narrative with an appeal for help. “Voulez vous aidez-moi, s’il vous plais? Can you help me?”

  “Mon plaisir, entrez vous!” The shoulders straightened, and the eyebrows lifted to reveal a gracious smile. It was evident that European guests did not often appear at this door, and that he was welcome to come in.

  Hans joined his host in the foyer, and an indoor servant brought a tray of coffee and fresh fruits. “Bon jour Monsieur, Je suis Henri Chemin. How can I help you?” Hans demurred, just long enough to rethink his story, changing some details to keep the pieces consistent. It was one thing to seek a consul who had left a town that was going to war, and quite another to barge in on an unknown planter. He looked around the room with its heavy carved teak furniture and Indian carpets. Perched near a window was a large black bird with a red tail and a fluffy crest. It was clearly not a raven or a crow. The cockatoo tilted its head and glared at him as he began to make up his story.

  Chemin interrupted the tale. He lit a cigarette and placed it in an ivory holder. He offered Hans a cigarette, and Hans apologetically replied that he did not smoke. The bird flew over and perched on his shoulder, bending its neck for a scratch behind the crest. “Ah, Pluton! Tch –tch–tch.” Pluton picked up a cigarette in his claw and tore it to pieces, bits of tobacco hanging off his beak.

  “So, what kind of ship were you on?”

  “Dutch Merchant Marine, the Amstelkerk.” He deliberately gave the name of a ship that now lay on the bottom of the Indian Ocean. “I had some business in Jakarta and in South Africa. I’m so sorry – I only know French from school and I’m not sure I can explain everything.” He patted the case. “I’m just a housewares salesman, but the war is making it difficult for us to do business. European shops are empty because so many of our trade routes are closed. I’m not finding the sources for new products.”

  Chemin set down his French china cup and saucer. “Dutch Merchant Marine you say? How interesting. I thought that Holland had forfeited her ships.”

  Hans spotted the red flag of conquest immediately, but Chemin continued, “Some come out of England, don’t they?” He ran his hand through his hair. “Where was your ship headed?” Chemin picked up a few pieces of strange fruit, bit the ends off and began to tear out the succulent inner sections. Their red prickly skin covered a soft white inside. He spat out the large seeds. There was no way to eat the lychees politely with a fork and knife. Hans picked up a banana and removed his pocketknife to peel and slice it, carefully stripping off the tough skin.

  He shrugged his shoulders. “You know, that is where it gets interesting. We were going to South Africa to pick up a load of steel. They have huge scrap yards there – every ship that has ever broken up on the reefs.”

  “So you were coming from Java toward South Africa, and…What were you doing on our beach anyway?”

  Hans munched on a piece of banana, and recalled his days on the beaches. “They had a pick-up at Thio, and one over in Noumea. It was going to take them about six hours to unload supplies, so I thought I would take a little break. I met a pretty French girl on the beach.” A guilty laugh was enough to set an impression on his host. He fixed his glance on a small statue behind his host, sitting on a table at the rear of the room. It was an exquisite bronze of a Japanese warrior, probably a souvenir from the opening of Japan to the West. Well, Japan wasn’t open any more

  “I was supervising a few crates of cargo for trade– you know, European housewares for South Africa. People still want feather beds and kitchen knives that cut something more solid than butter.” He reflected on what he wanted Chemin to know. “But a lot of the cargo bays had been converted into bunks.” The man was insatiably curious and the questions were on the wrong side of the conversation.

  Chemin responded, “I never heard of the Amstelkerk. Is it a large ship?”

  “No, I try and travel on the smaller boats. It’s easier to get through customs; people aren’t that interested in them.” Obviously, Chemin knew how to interrogate. Hans would need to make sure his information was accurate.

  “How large a crew does it take to run a cargo ship?” The simple question needed an ingenuous answer.

  “When I was out here as a boy, there were only about a dozen crew members. But now there were soldiers on board, English or American. It seems like everybody wants to get into this damned war. Anyway, I was surprised that Dutch ships would be used to deliver men to the islands.”

  “Ah well, my friend, cargo is cargo. We shall see. I’m afraid we know nothing about ships here. We don’t exactly have passenger lines coming back and forth through this harbor.”

  This was most definitely not a Dutch consulate. The man did not comment at all on the status of Holland, which was now annexed by Germany. The question was, what was he? Either war interfered with the quietude of plantation life, or he had some interests. So far, so good. Maybe this was just a coffee plantation. Hans commented on the coffee. Its mild flavor and exceptional aroma were very pleasing, a far cry from the bitter swill that the soldiers swallowed by the bucket each day.

  “Oh that’s right – in Holland they don’t have tea or coffee, do they? Or sugar or bacon? Good thing we’re out here where plenty of everything grows all year round. I would like to invite you to stay as my guest to dinner. You might enjoy some really excellent French cooking, and I would enjoy European company for a change.” He called for a servant, and then spoke rapidly regarding a menu, wines and cheeses. Even if the visit were uneventful, Hans Steen would leave with a full stomach. Then Chemin suggested, “Shall we take a walk? You can accompany me on my duties and we will figure out how to get you off of this island. There aren’t a lot of choices right now.”

  They stepped out behind the house and an enormous vista opened up, a river spilling out toward the ocean, and an isolated green cove sliced down between layers of rocks. The plateau extended until its vegetation slipped away and was replaced by sand and rock. There was not a footprint in sight. This contrasted sharply with the old hardware resting in the distance. Heavy industrial towers were rooted into the coral reefs by pylons, and ship-loading platforms extended out toward the sea. On the shore, Hans spotted roofs of mining shacks, and piles of ore. “What is that?”

  “Oh, Société Le Nickel – a French mining company. Can you still get nickel steel for your housewares and knives? It doesn’t rust you know.” Chemin peered at him clos
ely. “Do you carry stainless steel?”

  Hans flinched, and hoped that it wasn’t seen. He tried to continue smoothly. “I also carry fine Damascene knives, one of a kind items. Of course, those are carbon steel. Lagouile is probably my favorite for …” He had to think. He didn’t know how to cook, he had never hunted, and he had never fought with a real blade.

  Chemin spoke. “Ah yes, a fine French hunting knife. There is nothing like it for field dressing game meat. I used to have one. Killed a huge razorback with it. It is a challenging beast.” Chemin’s eyes brightened. “And the animal circled around, hunting me. A tiger will charge you, face to face, but the wild boar is the only animal I know of that will hunt the hunter. When the boar starts to hunt you, it is not for sport. He intends to kill. He was too close in for my rifle, so I used a Colt 45 to take him down. The Laguoile finished him.” Chemin then expanded his chest, revealing a powerful back and shoulders. He grasped the imaginary dagger in his left fist and slashed downward. “That bastard must have weighed 100 kilos, and I had to carry him on my back after he was gutted.”

  Hans felt his blood run cold, and then continued his sales pitch. “Yes, each of the custom knives has to be certified by a Master Bladesmith. I can show you one if you would like.” In his mind he reviewed the presentation that he had rehearsed.

  “That would be very interesting I’m sure.”

  Hans looked at Chemin, and realized that he was much smaller and half the strength of a boar. He needed to keep focused on his sales presentation, or he could end up roasted with some yams.

  “So, my young Dutchman, how is it that you can have German and French and English wares in the same case?”

  Nerves made it hard to sustain a silence and the young Hans Steen began to babble. “Oh, we try to get what our customers ask for. It is private trade. Some of the families we work with date to my grandfather’s time. We have known each other all our lives, and we will continue to do business after this war too.”

  “Ah, a profiteer!”

  “Well, I haven’t really paid attention to who is getting what, or from where. Obviously I need to.” The response seemed acceptable to Chemin who could use this to decide that his young salesman wasn’t very knowledgeable about the details. Ah well, Chemin had never actually operated a steam shovel and he owned a significant interest in excavating a nickel mine.

  They took another path back toward a lovely pavilion, with its open sides covered by the branches of several large bushes. Tall pines formed the end wall, with coconut matting hung to shield the sun. Apparently there was electric lighting, because conduit pipe or something similar ran up the side of a tree. There weren’t any light fixtures. Hank smelled chocolate, or did he? Something reminded him of chocolate. Large buds or pods hung from the branches, gold, green, red and even violet. Some were turning brown. What on earth was this? Chemin looked at him, “Ah yes, you are Dutch, and these are cacao trees. It is a delicious scent, non?”

  As a child, Hans remembered weekend visits to a village of windmills. But the dried brown pods that were ground into Dutch cocoa? Of course. They had to come from somewhere. He had always assumed South America, but why not here as well? Chemin rang a bell, and a girl appeared with a bottle of white wine and two glasses. “The wine is from Australia. It’s not French, but it is quite good. A little sweet perhaps, but still refreshing.” He sniffed the wine and poured.

  “Let me have a boy bring out your display.” He clapped his hands, and gave rapid instructions in a dialect that Hans did not understand. The case appeared momentarily. Hans readied his memorized commentary on the Lagouile knives.

  “The Damascus blade is handmade of carbon steel.” Hans pulled a folding knife from the case. “I can demonstrate three of the tests that are used for the highest quality blades. First of all, the blade must be able to cut through a three-centimeter rope. May I show you with one of these vines?” He grasped a heavy vine and tried to pull it straight to slash the blade across.

  “May I?” Chemin took the knife and cut through the vine in one immensely powerful swipe. “What else is this supposed to do?”

  “The blade should be sharp enough to shave the hair off your arm.”

  Chemin laughed and grabbed Hans by the arm as he rolled up the younger man’s shirtsleeve. But Hans had no body hair at all, except for the thick pelt on his head. Chemin held his arm tightly, and turned the wrist over, the soft white flesh an inch from the razor sharp blade. Chemin dropped his captive’s wrist, took the knife and shaved a patch off his own arm.

  “So, I can see you have brought the real items. Let’s talk business after dinner. Don’t plan on hitchhiking back tonight --- we have several rooms. I will even give you a lift tomorrow if you can wait until afternoon.”

  A servant escorted Hans up to a fresh guest room where he enjoyed a good washing up and a short nap before dinner. He could rest his aching feet and sore shoulder, but he must stay vigilant. He had brought no clothes to dress for dinner, but then again, this was an impromptu visit.

  A grilled lobster was offered for the first course, and Hans struggled with the beast. He was highly motivated to extract it from the shell and dip into the real drawn butter on the table, but there weren’t any tools. A platter of coconut rice appeared with a collection of fish, yams and chicken. Hans had almost no experience in eating with his hands. Chemin observed his discomfort, then picked up a claw and bit through the shell. This boy had not spent much time in the islands, no matter what his story. He certainly ate like a Dutchman, afraid to touch his food and lost without a knife and fork.

  “We have come far, have we not?” The bushy eyebrows converged in the center of Chemin’s face. “My grandparents were not traders. They were communards, prison laborers, and I am the son of prisoners. Do you see that stone bridge? I own that. It was built with the blood and sweat of my family. So now I have this lovely plantation, on an island that is overrun with uninvited guests. I have never even seen France.”

  Hans realized at that moment that he had not seen Holland in nearly four years. Europe was so far away that he could actually feel the earth spinning out of control. This island was supposed to be Free French, but known Vichy sympathizers, at least those who had not fled to Indochina, owned many of the large plantations.

  “My dear friend, there is a little business to do tonight. I think we agree that we cannot let this war disrupt our trade. Do you need to get in touch with anyone? They must know you are missing by now. Hopefully, you haven’t missed any important appointments in your misadventure. I have a short wave radio. We can let them know where you are.”

  Hans covered his mouth and then reflected. “I work for myself. Durban can wait.”

  Chemin commented, “Come on, young man. Bring your brandy and we’ll go downstairs. I need to send a message to my brother. Bâtard stupide is in Tonkin.” A simple den with a short wave radio was built into the foundation of the house. The short wave radio was large, more than twice the size of what he had seen in the army offices in Noumea. He wasn’t sure if that meant anything.

  The brandy burned a hole in Hans’s stomach. At the same time, he felt a sense of exhilaration as the puzzle began revealing itself. Chemin pulled out a large sheet of paper – a ledger sheet – and began to type in code. “Beep, bip, bip, bitty, bitty, beep” ran in endless strings. Then more beeps and blips came into the receiver. Damn. Hank could only do code slowly and in English. But his eyes took over for what he could not memorize by ear. Hank was so stunned that he had to remember to keep breathing; the sheet that Chemin was transmitting from looked exactly like the pages from the ledger at Madame Tutau’s establishment. The same drunken scrawls, the same number of columns, line after line of information from inebriated U.S., Anzac and French soldiers.

  “Merde! Must get off this signal – The U.S. has some high powered coding equipment, and I really don’t want them to know we are here.” Chemin tapped furi
ously, and observed his guest. Hans let his eyelids droop and began to stretch and yawn. Good thing he had made this trip with no identification on him except the Dutch passport. He needed to keep his body at rest while he concentrated on the game. Should he spring and try to take Chemin, or might he be better off curling up and going to sleep? He had just awakened to the fact that he really didn’t know much about operating a radio. It was time to end this convivial evening.

  “That’s right – you hitchhiked and walked many kilometers today looking for some help. Well, you have help. It may not be the kind you need, but it’s what I have to offer. Sorry about the confusion over the consul. They left years ago.”

  “Look, I have a quick errand in the morning. Sleep in, and we will have an excellent café au lait after I get back.” He faltered for an uncomfortable few seconds, as if he were trying to make some type of plan to hold Hans at bay until his interrogation was complete. “I’ll even have the kitchen bake up some croissants.”

  ***

  The night was humid and Hans was sleepless. Wariness had turned into fear. A canopy of mosquito netting provided a small shelter, but in his nightmares it transformed first into a snarl of tangled fabric restricting his very breathing, and then became a series of ghosts, which thank God, he did not believe in. His goal now was to get out of here without turning into a ghost, or a piece of tiger bait in the jungle. He checked and rechecked the lock on the door, closing all windows tightly so that not so much as a breeze could enter his room.

  Toward dawn the rustling and shrieks of small parrots disturbed his uneasy rest. Pluton would wake the household if he heard any unusual noise, and the last thing Hans wanted was a trip to the underworld. After dawn broke, he waited to hear Chemin’s car start up. A hunting knife was already strapped into his ankle scabbard, the Leica in his pocket. He picked up his case and quietly stepped off the porch and onto the front path. Turning a corner away from the house, he was grateful for the perimeter walk the previous evening. Now to flee down the road.