The Horatio Stubbs Trilogy (78 page)

Now they have no way back. There is no place for them in Indonesia – anymore than there was a place for Sumatra-born Sontrop in Sumatra, except six foot under.

As I slumped with my head and the wooden post feeling practically interchangeable, I became aware of an exceptionally nasty sound hovering behind one or other, or both, of my ears. I prepared myself for death, taking a swig from a bottle I found in my fist. Leopards have been known to pant
before pouncing; the cobra must occasionally clear its throat of venom before striking; the rare white rhino of Sumatra – bound to be on the side of the Indonesians – indubitably gives a few short pants before the fatal charge. In any case, fuck it, I was too fucking shagged to move. Good-bye, Margey, good-bye, Katie Chae, you luscious, syrupy creature!

Someone shook my shoulder. I opened an eye. Two faces were glaring into mine. One had a big white moustache, one a little black one. This struck me as amusing. Internal instability warned me against laughing.

‘Stubbs?'

‘Sgt Stubbs!'

‘Hello. Merdeka.'

The faces belonged to the Dutch major and Captain Boyer, but I didn't see what that had to do with it. The Major tolerated only a little of my idiocy before slapping me on the shoulder and walking away. Boyer settled on the step beside me.

‘Careful … There's animal or something behind us.' Pointing vaguely.

‘Stubbs, you're drunk, you poor stupid uneducated soldier. There's no animal here. Even pets are forbidden in
RAPWI
areas.'

Shaking off what in more amusing circumstances could be called
Weltschmerz
, I heaved myself into a sitting posture and said, ‘Big animal, just behind right ear. Ten paces. Maybe five.'

‘Ah,' said Boyer, brightly, raising and then waving one finger. ‘I'm with you now. Not a real animal. The old two-backed beast. To be precise –
don't look round
– a young Dutch chap with his bags down is enjoying intercourse with a young Dutch lady with her knickers down. They're on a blanket of some description, not more than two metres from where we sit. Judging by the pace, which is pretty fast and furious, they can't last out much – ah, yes, there they go now, by golly!' He clicked his tongue with a mixture of
disgust and envy. ‘Funny thing to do, when you consider it in cold blood.'

‘Where's Raddle?'

‘Sending a cable, if it's any of your business … To her husband, I'm sorry to say.'

My head was clearing. My mood veered wildly, now tipping towards drama and metaphysical speculation. ‘What a hell-hole this is! No offence to your – I really like her, sir, honestly, and wish you could marry her – Miss Raddle or whatever the fuck her name is, but the bloody Dutch in Medan are absolutely depraved, degenerate. You wouldn't catch the British behaving like that. Or the Chinese.'

He put an arm patronisingly round my shoulders and became nonchalant. ‘That's just where you are mistaken, laddy, that's just where you're mistaken. Limited thinking. These folk, men and women, they've been through absolute hell with the Japs. Some day the story will be told. Now, another crisis with the natives. They stand to lose everything, to have their homes burnt, to be shot up and killed.'

A chap and a girl walked past us, laughing together, dragging a blanket behind them.

‘Take those false alarms with the
Van Heutsz
, yesterday and today. Today we could see the damned vessel, stuck out on the sandbank. Think of the psychological effect of that sort of thing. Life's reduced to a wretched series of packings and unpackings. It's okay for
me
, because I see a bit more of my light o' love, but think of the psychological impact on
them.
They can't win. Pure torture, pure torture, the whole set-up. Personally, I feel very badly to think that we are pulling out and leaving them on their own, but you can't argue with the blithering War Office. How can they possibly bear up under such stress, except with escape valves like fornication and inebriation? Speaking of which –'

As he began to rise, I started laughing.

‘What's so funny in what I said?' He glared at me.

‘Nothing, nothing. I just think “inebriation” is a funny word.'

‘For Christ sake, man, pull yourself together.' He looked
round anxiously, but my laughter had not stopped the revelry. ‘Stubbs, you may not realise it, but you too are living on your nerves. You're distracted by love or lust, aren't you? Emotionally torn, isn't that it? Poised on a veritable knife-edge, wouldn't you say?'

‘I don't know what's the matter.'

‘Admit it, you are, aren't you?'

‘I suppose so, yes. Everything's falling apart.' I lit a fag, enjoying myself.

‘I'm telling you what the trouble is. You are essentially a romantic at heart, like me – loving a girl in distant lands, across racial frontiers – never mind if she happens to be a bloody Chink – caring for her, longing to have children by her, longing for a place in the sun – well, the shade – yet the two of you torn apart, ripped asunder … That's not pitching it too strong. You can't pitch it too strong – ripped asunder by the tides of war. The tides of peace – just as bad. Tristan and Iseult all over again.'

‘I'd better go and see her now, sir, now you've reminded me. It's getting a bit late.' I stubbed the fag out in the soil and had a good cough.

He stood up and towered over me, pointing a finger as if in accusation.

‘Stubbs, Stubbs, I'm going to do something for you. I'm perfectly sober, understand. For myself I can do nothing. I'm powerless. I'm a Victim of Circumstance. Destiny, as she says. The bitch is married and there's nothing I can do about that. But I can do something for you. I will do something for you. Jhamboo Singh will back me up – he's a white black man if ever there was one.' He thumped the wooden railing to express his determination.

‘We can ground that plane tomorrow. We can stop your Repat. We can authorise you to marry this Chink girl, if that's what you most want. I believe in it. It's romantic. In a way it's pure, or would be if it was anyone else but you. Above all, it's heroic. Defy your destiny. Defy history. Stay here and marry the Chink girl. I will support you. We can go to
HQ
and and I'll send a signal to
ALFSEA
. We'll remove
your name from the list for the
UK
boat. For once, love shall triumph and the world will be well lost!'

I rose during his speech. By standing on the verandah step and straightening up gradually, I managed to reverse the situation so that I towered over Boyer. He was carrying the matter further than I wanted it taken.

‘Sir, the trouble is …' I hated to spoil his rhetoric. ‘You see, there are two girls …'

‘
Two
Chink girls?' He staggered back in disgust. ‘Don't be so bloody stupid, Stubbs, you know very well that even in Sumatra you are allowed only one wife.'

‘No, no, sir, I didn't mean that. I meant –'

‘I know what you meant. Well, I gave you your chance. I'm going to get myself another drink and see what Raddle's doing. I'll waste no more time on you, you and your filthy Black Wombat and your nests of Chink girls. I'm disappointed, Stubbs, frankly disappointed. I need a drinkies, a blithering big deep drinkies …' He made his way back into the crowded bungalow, where the music was going full blast.

I tried to keep pace with him, blundering over suitcases. ‘Sir, I appreciate what you say. You have me wrong. Your offer – it would be romantic.
Ow
, shit!' That was the edge of a trunk. ‘Like something out of a novel. “To be or not to be …”'

‘That's not a novel, you fool, that happens to be a play.' Boyer's manner was rather off-hand, perhaps because he had just caught sight of Raddle in the far corner, kissing a young blonde lieutenant.

‘I know, sir, but the principle's the same. I mean, what I'm trying to say is – oh, sod it! – that I am having a bit of trouble with two girls – Chink girls, sir – at present. I just have to go into town and sort things out. I'm all confused in my mind – oh,
shit
!' This time I fell against him and we knocked two dancing couples flying. ‘I probably need a drink, too, I wouldn't be surprised. Can we leave your kind offer open while I sort of sort things out a bit?'

He looked grimly at me, with even grimmer side-glances
across at Raddle, pulling his moustache and visibly regretting his earlier generosity.

‘You have got till midnight, Stubbs. Report back to me here without fail. I shall be here enjoying myself until midnight, after which Raddle and I will proceed to bed, and certainly won't wish to be disturbed by the likes of you. Now clear off.'

‘Thanks, sir. Good luck.'

‘Mind your own business, Sergeant.'

I took this as an indication of dismissal and went. As I charged into the dark, I saw Jhamboo standing so close to a mousy little Dutch girl that his cigarette holder was half-way up her left nostril. I waved him a cheery farewell, but he was otherwise engaged.

‘Up the anti-vaginaphobes!' I called encouragingly.

To anyone coming straight from the great cities of the West, Medan must have appeared a poor provincial place – no great architecture, grand vistas, arts, or even vices to rank on an international scale. But there is perspective in all things. To anyone who had spent three years soldiering in places like Burma – and who moreover approached Medan by the overland route from Padang, driving down from Toba and the volcanic chain – it was a city indeed. Every alleyway had its own splendour. Besides, I was young then, young and impressionable. It seemed to me the very arena of life.

The centre was bustling, despite the afternoon alarm at the cemetery. In the paralysis that gripped the city, the non-arrival of the
Van Heutsz
produced fresh currents of activity. The two hundred people who had failed to leave represented two hundred extra visitors, extra customers.

My last fucking night. I could forget all about the girls and have a last booze-up in the mess with my mates. In fact, I hired a local
gharry
and was driven back to the lines. I saw their faces, watched Dickie Payne, Jock, Wally Scubber, and the others through the window. I went to my dark and silent billet next door, walked upstairs without putting on the light. The thirty tins of Players stood in their box on the table. I picked them up and went back to the waiting
gharry.
At least I could pay off my debt to Katie Chae.

She was not in her flat. On the beat, no doubt, thought I, with more resignation than regret. Good-bye, Katie Chae! I gave the tins with a note to an old woman who lived below.

Then I went to pay my debt to Margey.

I was sweating like a beaver. A storm was brewing.

As I dived in the Chinese quarter, heading for Bootha Street, a familiar detachment overcame me. It was familiar
because I had experienced it often enough during my years in the Far East. How could it matter what happened to me, provided I was not wounded or killed, as long as I remained part of that exotic bustle, that great obscure traffic of various businesses? Whatever I suffered was of little account beside the sensation of belonging to a community which I hoped some day to understand. If I was hurt by love or whoring, it didn't matter, it didn't matter, just as long as I was still entangled with the great affair of living. Other people would always be there to embrace.

The clatter of
pakia
, the cry of street-vendors, the nasal whine of Chinese music relayed over a cheap radio, even the silent flash of lightning overhead, such things had entered my heart. They told me that suffering was also part of enjoyment. Better these things by far than isolation and silence. Better jungle than desert.

I still feel that vision. Time since is but a moment.

Every street lamp was surrounded by a nimbus of gold comprising dozens of horrendous and winged shitbags intent on frying themselves to a frizzle. Beneath each lamp lay a pile of expiring bodies. They were gobbled by toads and lizards which lurked in the gutters. Fresh insects perpetually zoomed in to the sphere of light like comets to the sun, only to fall away again angrily, buzzing in a fury of pain.

Poor bloody insects! That was why I had to get out of Medan, however much it attracted me. I was going to get burnt. I had been in danger enough and being killed was too much. My nerve was gone, the toads were waiting. And I had slightly more savvy than the winged shitbags.

Pausing at the top of Margey's alley, I lit a cigar. My stomach churned somewhat. Now I had to face the weaker sex. According to my watches, it could be twenty to nine. Or maybe eight-thirty. Fucking time was catching up with me fast, even by my reckoning.

It had come to the pinch. We looked at each other a bit guardedly. Perhaps she, like me, was uncertain what she really felt.

We went to a restaurant called The Haven, a big rambling wooden place where there was music and dancing. Poor Margey, she was penitent for her previous outburst of anger and grateful – perhaps surprised – that I had shown up again. When I saw that, I experienced a sneaking regret that I had not sought out Katie Chae and let her earn a few more tins of Players.

Yet Margey looked pretty smashing with her sleek jet hair curling inwards about her neck and her kitten-shaped face gleaming. She wore a blue silk dress of a European style and white shoes with buttons. She carried a white handbag. All told, she was a cool and delicious sight.

She appeared as eager as I to give the subject of Katie Chae a miss – but some painful subjects could not be avoided. The waiter brought our dish; tender hunks of an unknown animal were bedded on rice and served with coconut and a peppy brown sauce. As we ate, Margey looked at me askance and said, ‘Horry, you go away 'morrow morning, fry to Singapore.'