Island of Demons (55 page)

***

Manxi's was slowly creeping back to muted but still scandalous life. The airboys were glad to have it back as an informal – no ties required – extension to their messroom and doubtless patriotic motives had been invoked to justify the granting of a licence. For legalistic reasons, local “ladies” seemed now to patrol exclusively outside on the beach with Manxi's as a sort of terminus to which they periodically returned to retouch, refuel and debrief. There was, I noted with relief, no musical signature tune of bagpipes to mark my entrance. A new, large radio of many valves was tuned to a Surabaya dance-music station, cheap music that sighed and faded over the mountains. Perhaps, like with religious offerings, the gods there were sucking the essence from it. There came just a flutter of fingers from the barman and a screech of greeting from Manxi. Walter executed a courtly bow in return. She was garbed in an extraordinary outfit, clearly of her own devising, half sarong, half plaid.

“For God's sake don't encourage her, Walter. Oh Jesus, she's coming over.” She was badly in need of a tidy up, herself, fierce red roots showing in the black, pudding-basin haircut, makeup thickly applied like slapdash plaster over structural faults. We sat hurriedly.

“'Ow's my boys?” she asked, thrusting out a Macsaronged leg. Then, not waiting for an answer, “I 'eard as 'ow you'd bin in a bit of trouble, Walt.” Her tone suggested that, in her career, many of her friends had encountered a bit of trouble. “Several of me gentlemen 'ad to leg it sharpish and – if you know what I mean – several of the ladies 'ad to become gentlemen again, for a bit anyway.”

“For a bit of what, Manxi?”

She screeched. “Oh Walt, you are a caution. Inne? Inne a caution, Rudi? I 'ad to 'ave a little 'oliday myself, draw me 'orns in. Up in the 'ills, you know.” That would be the boyfriend in Bangli. “Did some luvverly paintings. You must come round and see.” I felt Walter shrink a little beside me. “Now dearie, what'll it be? One of me friends brought in a nice drop of Canadian scotch the other day. Two? Yes?” She clomped off in big, black shoes and passed the order to the barman in muscular articulations.

“Cheers,” I offered, holding out one of the chipped glasses delivered to the table. He made a donkey face. I coaxed. “At least you are winning the war – Poland, Czechoslovakia, Denmark, Norway conquered, Britain and France all but beaten. All part of your glorious Reich. You are now a member of the master race, Walter. That must be nice, especially at breakfast. Thank God the political gymnastics will soon be over with minimum bloodshed and we can all get back to normal.” Over by the bar, Manxi let out a shriek and pinched the cheeks of a well-fleshed airboy.

“Normal. Yes. I suppose so. Was there ever such an insane time to live in? War is even more stupid and moronic than football. I hope Kasimura breaks his neck on that bicycle and the Balinese never learn to play football. Charlie is wrong. Vicki is wrong. The Covarrubiases are most wrong of all. Real artists cannot be
engagiert
. It dulls the mind. Like your Holland, I am neutral. I am,” he brightened, “a hotly disputed no-man's land in the battle of the sexes.” Where had he got that from? We clinked glasses. The whisky was terrible. Two of the airboys had begun to dance, Manxi shouting about her licence and seeking to interpose herself and push them apart, like a referee at a boxing match. “Lieftinck,” he said as though it were a natural progression, “from the botanical garden in Bogor, is very excited by my pictures of dragonflies and fish. Fish pictures are important because the specimens change colour when they are taken from the water and pickled, but my dragonflies are even more special. Those I found in the remote forests, they already know but those taken from the valley right outside the house are new species, totally unknown to science. They plan to name one of them after me in the taxonomical index. In German, we call dragonflies Jungfern, “maids”, “virgins”. So, in a few months is my forty-fifth birthday and the Dutch state, having put me in jail for sex, is about to name me an official virgin with a letter of thanks from Queen Wilhelmina.”

Manxi appeared at his elbow, hot and tousled, blowing air, visibly refreshed by the scrum, and dispensed more drink, despite our protests. “Don't talk to me about being a virgin,” she opined. “With me, it gets truer every day. Oi! I told you …” The airboys were at grips again. Her grasp on the bottle switched instinctively to the neck as she hurried over, making it a weapon of offence, then – repenting of her aggression – using it merely to poke and provoke giggles. They, backing away from intimate prodding, knocked into the table of two tall Buginese “ladies”, turned over glasses, screams, wiping off of splashes – oh dear let me – grasping and clutching, general mêlée that merged into a sort of joint quickstep as a cheery tune – one of Noel's – struck up on the wireless. I realised how irrevocably inappropriate it would be for me and Walter to dance, which also – according to some befuddled but inexorable logic – meant that I would also never paint him. Then, Manxi was there, hand appropriately reaching for the great knob to cut off the excuse for joy, when a voice like that of a headmaster walking in on a schoolboy brawl rang out and everyone froze.

“This is His Excellency Jonkeer Alidius Warmoldus Lambertus Tjarda van Starkenborgh Stachouwer, Governor General of the Netherlands East Indies, speaking to you all from Batavia. It is with the deepest sadness that I have to tell you the gravest news from the motherland. At 3.55 this morning, German forces launched a brutal and premeditated attack on the Royal Dutch Airforce base at Waalhaven, south of Rotterdam, but, encountering fierce and heroic resistance, were successfully driven off. Paratroopers are reported to have attempted landings in various parts of the country but have been contained and are being wiped up by victorious Dutch forces. A state of war henceforth exists between our nation and the German Reich. Naval and land forces have engaged the enemy and inflicted heavy losses. It is for us to remain calm and support the motherland in its time of need. We face a shameless and cowardly foe with steadfast courage and determination and our victory is certain. Further announcements will follow. God save the Queen!”

The airboys gawped and attempted a belated weak cheer. Manxi's jaw dropped. “Cripes!” Walter did not react. He had possibly not followed the aristocratic haw-hawing Dutch.

“Out!” I hissed, head down. “Do nothing. Say nothing. Stand up and just walk out. Now!”

***

“If I may say so,” said Walter, saying so, “you look well in uniform.” He was sitting on the ground, leaning against a tree, looking up at me. “Those with no dress sense always look their best when decisions are made for them. It is one of the few arguments that convince for marriage.” This from a man wearing a collapsed straw hat, torn khaki shorts and a shirt, once red, now an indeterminate shade of pink, far too tight in the chest and revealing bare midriff, feet clad in worn sandals, the face fringed by a ratty blond beard – the sort that is born of neglect, not cultivation. He had lost weight, acquired deep lines at the sides of his mouth and the eyes had sunk to Rasputin-like profundity. He seemed bleached and shrivelled. Three plates of army stodge a day were filling me out while the military were obsessed with my regular depilation and the sharpness of my creases. We were in Ngawi, a couple of hours' drive from Solo, in Java's dry season, than which few things are drier. The regular cone of volcanic Mount Lawu towered over us like a pale imitation of Mount Fuji. I sat down reluctantly in the dust beside him.

“It is not the real army,” I hastened to reassure. “Just a sort of militia, mostly aircraft-spotting and a bit of ack-ack but there was no chance of getting through the gate without a uniform. It seems everyone needs one these days. Since Holland fell, people have changed. There's more patriotism about – the call of a lost cause, perhaps. A white face is no longer enough. I am supposed to be on a gas familiarisation course in Solo. It seemed like a golden opportunity.” It had not been as easy as I pretended. Visits were not encouraged. This was not a bad billet. But then internment was not supposed to be a prison. There was the inevitable tired barbed wire and bored guards, they not real army either but militia like myself. I had a swift fantasy that I would get myself posted here, become Walter's guard, protect him. Accommodation was in flimsy wooden huts but there was an adequacy of shade from trees. This had once been a teak plantation and the huge trees were everywhere. The main problem seemed to be sheer lack of space, with some five hundred men crowded into four small compounds. A skinny, buck-toothed man came, stood over us and stared silently with mad eyes, his glottis working furiously.

“Things are better than they were.” Walter's own eyes were tired, red. “They took all the real Nazis and shut them up together. They used to drive us crazy, spent all their time being blond beasts, shouting slogans, drilling, marching up and down – just like bad
janger
. Finally, they paid me the compliment of putting me in the ‘traitors' section with all the Jews, anti-Nazis, pro-Dutch and communists.” He smiled. “The Neuhaus brothers are here. You remember them? They are very kind and sort of look after me.” I offered a cigarette. Jealousy flared with the flame. I dumped several more packets, with matches, from under my shirt, down on the ground between us where the guards could not see. It was forbidden but they did not seem to mind. Still, one had to show respect. The madman laughed, pointed and danced on the spot. Walter gave him a cigarette and sent him gently away. “Did you know that this place is otherwise famous for the discovery of the remains of southeast Asia's great evolutionary leap, down there by the river – when there is a river –
homo erectus
?” He slumped in counter-illustration of erectness. “A Frenchman, Eugene Dubois. I understand there is a decent little museum somewhere if they would only let me take a look.”

“The house, the animals, the servants are all being looked after till you get back. You have so many friends, you know. We are getting up a petition to have you released.” He patted my knee absently and sighed and shrugged. I was the one who needed comfort. He seemed remote, like a painting behind glass. To formally visit like this, was moving us apart. This was not how I had expected him to take to internment. I had thought he would have seduced all the guards with his charm and proffered portraits, be sleeping with the handsomest of them, having his food sent in. But, of course, these were not lissom locals but implacably Dutch and of the clerkish class.

Then, it slipped out. “Oh, Walter, why didn't you take Dutch nationality years ago when it would have been so easy?”

“It seemed so stupid, Bonnetchen. Why should I applicate to be Dutch to stay in the Indies? It would be like becoming Greek to stay in Japan. Which reminds me. Kasimura is here, though in a different compound of course. Why are Japanese here?” Some men were playing football, irritatingly close, like louts on a beach. Kasimura would, perhaps, be pleased. Through the gate, a long, dry road stretched away to fade out in a blue haze. Very Van Gogh.

“I don't suppose they give you any news?” I dropped my voice and polished my glasses to confuse spies. “I'm afraid the Japanese are on their way, six months at best before the war starts. They've joined up with the Nazis and overrun the French and the British Asian colonies and now they're leaning on the government here to let them take over – the Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere. Your friend, H.E. the G.G., has resisted their blandishments and told them that if they want the Indies, they will have to fight for them. We're pouring millions of tons of concrete into defences at Surabaya. I shouldn't be telling you this, I suppose. But neither of us ever seemed very much representatives of our nations. If they win, you will be free and you can come and visit me in a camp just like this, maybe the same camp. The Japanese will like Mount Lawu, just like Fuji. If we survive, that is but – look on the bright side – I expect they'd be too busy raping women and killing Chinese to care much about us.”

Walter gulped smoke and stared down the road, seeming not to have heard. He said: “The oddest thing is that little priest, Father Scruple, you remember? The one who turned up at Conrad's funeral? He's chaplain here. I think he has designs on my immortal soul but actually I think I am turning him into a pagan. I am working on that Balinese dictionary you once helped me with and we discuss the more religious concepts. Little by little, he is being undermined. He plays an excellent game of chess.”

Scruple? I wondered about Dion. Everyone was getting lost or, rather, they were still there, like the pieces of glass in a kaleidoscope, but with occasional twists so that they formed ever new and more unlikely patterns.

“I brought you stuff from the art circle in Surabaya, paint, paper, canvas, brushes and pencils. Life must be terribly boring here. No dragonflies.” He smiled. I had pictured this so differently, myself showering bounty down on him. He happy, warmly grateful, relaxed. But the spontaneity had been stolen, the goods seized in the guardhouse, quarantined to be unwrapped, searched, probed at the guards' leisure. It was like getting your Christmas presents on Boxing Day when they no longer counted and it was anyway as if Walter had purged himself of the need for artistic supplies. Perhaps he was painting on the canvas inside his head as I had that time in Denpasar.

“I have learnt a lot from this experience,” Walter confided. “How very little a man requires. Yet we constantly educate ourselves to find the one thing that is wrong, that is lacking. When I get out of here, I shall be less driven, more ready to take life as it comes.”

I gaped. I could not imagine who this rejected Prometheus of Walter's imagination, might be. If Walter became less driven, he would be comatose.