The Jade Figurine (12 page)

I propped myself up on the settee, wrapped in the goddam towel, and thought about Wong Sot.

A shriveled Straits Chinese with a face like a yellow prune, he was the owner of a small godown on Singapore River; and for seventy-five or a hundred dollars—depending on how well you bargained—he would hide you among the cargo on one of the small junks he serviced, bound up the coast of Malaya, or across the Straits of Malacca to Kundur Island or Rangsang Island or the coast of Sumatra. That was the extent of his aid; you were on your own once the junk put you ashore. But Wong Sot was a careful man—the inscrutable Chinese—and his operation was unknown to the Singapore authorities; they would have closed him down immediately if they had been aware of his lucrative sideline. And Wong Sot didn’t ask questions. If you had his price, he would smuggle you out. Period.

There was nothing in Sumatra for me, and yet, what was there anywhere else? In any place I would be an alien without valid identification. But I could get by in Sumatra; there are ways. Construction or road crews working the jungle hire men regularly, without demanding background or identification. I could get by—and I could live with myself, knowing that, essentially, Inspector Tiong had been wrong about me all the way down the line.

I got up after a while and had another of Tina’s cigarettes, then slowly paced the hot and silent room to keep the weakness from settling in my body. What I really wanted to do was to lie down, to sleep; my wounds and infirmities needed more time to heal. But time was something I didn’t have just now. Time was something I had not had in the past eighteen hours. I kept on pacing the room in slow cadence. You can endure a considerable amount of pain and discomfort if the situation warrants it; it’s surprising just how much you can endure . . .

Tina returned twenty minutes later carrying a large shopping bag. She had bought an ostentatious yellow-and-red batik shirt, the kind of white jungle helmet I had asked for, white duck trousers, and a pair of dark wraparound sunglasses. I went into the bedroom to change. The shirt had medium-length sleeves, and as long as I didn’t stretch my arms the bandaged wound above my right elbow was covered. The helmet, cocked low to one side, hid the patch above my temple.

“You really do look like a tourist,” Tina said when I came out again.

“I hope so.”

“Are you still feeling all right?”

“Sure. I’m fine.”

“Do you have to leave now? Wouldn’t it be better if you waited until dark?”

“It would be, but I can’t. I’ve got to make a telephone call as soon as possible.”

“Then—I guess you have to go.”

“The quicker I’m out of here, the better it is for you.”

“I suppose so.”

We went to the door. “Be careful,” she said, and it was one of those trite old lines that seem humorous seen in films or read in books but which are something else again said in earnest parting.

“Sure.”

“We won’t see each other again, will we?”

“No.”

“I’m sorry for that,” she said, and she moved up against me, with her hands gently on my shoulders, and kissed me —soft, moist, warm. “Goodbye, Dan.”

“Goodbye, little girl. Take care of yourself.”

I turned away from her and went out and down the stairs. All the way down I felt an odd sense of regret at the finality of our parting—and a feeling of having used Tina Kellogg without giving anything of substance or importance in return, the way you feel after spending the night making love to a nice girl you care nothing about at all . . .

T
HE CITY lay within an enfolding canopy of heat, like stones and sand dabs imprisoned under the smothering weight of a transparent jellyfish. As soon as I stepped from the vestibule of Tina’s building, into the glare of the sun, sweat formed and ran on my face and under my arms, and the weakness made my legs begin to ache again.

I walked slowly, west toward Geylang Road. I felt conspicuous in the bright sports shirt, even though I knew that I wasn’t, and I wondered if passers-by could detect enervation in the way I moved. But no one seemed to look at me. Recogition was still a definite threat; I knew Tiong would have a picture of me on the front page of the morning edition of the
Straits Times
under one of those scare heads—and while apathy and disinterest are prevalent in Singapore, there are always those who read and observe. Even dressed as I was, I could be spotted at any time, by anybody from an old Chinese
nona
to a fat British tourist from Liverpool.

The thing I had to do, and quickly, was to get off the streets and into a safe house somewhere. Going to Wong Sot directly and immediately seemed like the answer, but it wasn’t. Tiong would have regular patrols along the river, for one thing, and for another, Wong Sot’s godown was a place which saw hundreds of people in and out every day, rendering it useless as a safe house. Too, he dealt only in the relatively uncomplicated service of smuggling human cargo in a cheap and efficient manner, and for the prices he charged, you couldn’t expect much more than a hollowed-out burrow beneath sacks of rice in the hold of an ancient junk.

No, Wong Sot was out as an immediate destination—but I would have to call him as soon as possible so that he could make arrangements. There was never any waiting period. You called him and told him you wanted passage to Sumatra or Kundur or Bintan or Mersing; then you haggled over the price and settled on a figure, and he gave you a time and a place the same night. Assembly-line smuggling. Guaranteed only as long as it lasts.

A safe house in which to spend the remainder of the day was no real problem. Both North Bridge Road and Victoria Street were lined with movie theaters, showing British imports, American imports, West German imports, Japanese imports. Air-conditioned anonymity. And most of the houses had public telephones, which meant I could make the call from one of them without running additional risk.

I reached Geylang Road, crossed it with a stream of pedestrians at the corner light, and entered Andrews Road; Geylang was too well-traveled, and I thought that my safest course would be to take one of the narrower parallel streets. As I approached the first of these, Merapoh, one of the sleek new city buses pulled to the curb and discharged a clot of passengers. I slowed to make my way through them. In the outside lane on the street a car bearing the insignia of the Singapore Police appeared around the bus, moving without haste. There were four helmeted constables in the car, and they were watching the ebb and flow of foot traffic on both sides of the street.

I turned abruptly, instinctively, and pushed my way into a small store advertising Malay arts and crafts. The police car stopped for the light at the corner. I moved deeper into the store and pretended to examine a display of silver trinkets, watching instead Andrews Road through the shop’s long front window. The light changed finally and the car pulled ahead, still without hurry, and then disappeared from my view.

My mouth was dry, and I worked saliva through it. It could have been nothing more than a random patrol; and then again, it could be that Dinessen’s body had been found and Tiong had made a connection between the Swede and me, and a bulletin on Dinessen’s Citröen had located the car farther along Geylang Road, where I had parked it the night before. If the latter was the case, the city vehicle I had just seen wouldn’t be the only one patrolling the area. I would have to be more careful—very careful; if it had not been for that bus . . .

A smiling Malayan girl in a brightly colored sarong walked toward me from across the shop. I made a negative gesture with my head and moved to the door. Plenty of vehicular and pedestrian traffic, but no one and no machine with official markings. I wiped oily moisture from my forehead and went out to join the throng on the sidewalk.

Up to the corner and across Andrews Road and west on Merapoh, past the southern greensward of the block-square Royal Palms Hotel. Two blocks, three, four. My head began to ache pulsingly again, and the garish sports shirt was matted to the bare skin on my back and stomach; rancid perspiration burned in my crotch. Heat blurred the edges of my vision. I felt as if I were shambling like a drunk, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to make it all the way to Victoria Street on foot.

I stopped under a corner awning to rest, keeping my back to the street. A bus, I thought; I’ve got to take a chance on a bus. I waited there until one came along, and boarded it, and stood among the sweating bodies of the natives and the tourists crowded at the rear. It was oppressive, stifling in there. Nausea churned in my belly. I held onto the overhead strap and kept my eyes shut and my head down, enduring the lethargic lurch and sway of the bus.

A long time later we crossed the Kallang River and entered Victoria Street. I got off at Rochore Road, a block from Bugis Street and the teeming open-air food stalls. The thought of food increased the nausea. I bypassed Bugis Street and went along Victoria for another half-block, and there was a small theater with a huge multicolored marquee shading the sidewalk in front.

I stepped under it and up to the box office, averting my face from the old man inside the cage without being furtive about it. But I needn’t have bothered; he was a sleepy-eyed Oriental who spoke and acted like an android on low charge. He told me in a by-rote voice that there was a telephone in the restrooms, and I bought a ticket. The lobby was air-conditioned, all right. I sucked hungrily at the refrigerated air as I crossed the deserted expanse to a door marked with a Chinese character and with the Malay word
Laki
and the English word Men. At one of the basins I doused my head with cold water and drank a little to ease the rawness in my throat. The nausea receded. Better now, a little better. The bus ride, in my memory, seemed almost as dim and half-real as last night’s dreams.

The wall phone was just that: a wall phone, with no facilities for privacy. But the toilet was empty. I found one of the coins the old man had given me in change, and then fumbled through the Singapore directory hanging from the bottom of the telephone unit until I located the number of Wong Sot’s godown.

A voice answered in Chinese on the fourth ring. I said, “Wong Sot?”

The voice said, “Yayss?” in sibilant English. If a reptile born in China had the power of speech, it would sound just like that, I thought.

“I’m a sailor looking for a ship,” I said. Catch-phrase.

Pause. Then, “Yayss?”

“I want to go to Sumatra.”

“Yayss?”

“Tonight.”

“You ’Melican?”

“What difference does that make?”

“No diff-lence. Plice one hund-ed fifty dollah.”

“The hell it is.” Americans are prime in Southeast Asia, all through the Orient; when the natives see one coming, the price doubles. Wong Sot was no different from his more legitimate counterparts. “I know the going rate. I can pay seventy-five.”

“One hund-ed.”

“All right.” I would need a few dollars when I arrived in Sumatra, and I had no intention of giving Wong Sot all my money; but this was not the time for haggling. I could talk him down to seventy-five, I was certain, when I met him vis-à-vis. “When and where?”

“Nine o’clock. You come round heah.”

“On the river?”

“Yayss.”

I put the receiver down and went out into the lobby and bought a half-package of cigarettes from the machine there. Then I entered the darkened screening area, and there weren’t many customers. When I glanced up at the screen I saw why: Japanese Samurai warriors, in full color, swinging red-stained swords at one another in ritualistic slow-motion. I found a seat along the near wall next to one of the exit doors, slumped down, and laid the helmet and sunglasses on the empty chair beside me.

The first two hours were interminable. I watched every second of them pass on the luminescent green face of the clock recessed into the support pillar next to the screen. But it was cool in there and I was sedentary, and I began to feel as well as I had earlier. I needed to gather as much strength as I could for the crossing to Sumatra; once we were into the Straits, the crew of whatever junk Wong Sot stowed me aboard would allow me out of the hold and I could ride the decks; but twelve hours’ time hidden belowdecks was a fair estimate, and twelve hours in the stench and darkness and airlessness that constituted the bowels of a Chinese junk was no picnic for a man in the best of health, and a taste of hell for one in my condition.

The clock said 5:50.

Sleep a little, I thought, unwind a little. But it was no good. I would half-doze and then jerk out of it. I tried watching the screen, but that was no good either. I couldn’t concentrate on the bright, flickering movements of the characters—this was another Japanese film, one of those supernatural-detective things—and the English subtitles seemed to come and go so quickly that they were like subliminal messages registering in the subconscious but not the conscious mind.

A small gnawing began under my breastbone, and I remembered that I hadn’t eaten anything except for a few bites of the scorched eggs Tina had prepared; nothing of substance since the previous afternoon. The gnawing persisted, in spite of a half-hearted effort to drive it away with cigarette smoke. Hunger. Well, that was a healthy sign. A dying man is never hungry, somebody had told me once. I couldn’t remember who or where. The words had remained, but the source had been swallowed and digested by Time. I wondered if he had been a wise man or a fool. I wondered the same about myself and what I was about to do.

The hell with it. The choice hadn’t been mine to make, not in the beginning, not at all. Circumstance piling on circumstance, fate manipulating the invisible strings that bind every man to the worldly puppet stage. I hadn’t wanted any part of Van Rijk or Marla King or Dinessen or Tiong or the
Burong Chabak
—I had gone out of my way to free myself of entanglements—and now I was everybody’s favorite scapegoat. So you run, or they find you and pen you up a few yards from the chute leading to the slaughterhouse. No, you don’t have a choice and you never had one. Fate had this one all set up from the start. No choices at all.

Buggered by destiny.

The bitterest pain in the ass of all . . .

I sat up and shook myself mentally. The kind of thinking I had just been doing—the malignant, self-pitying cry of “Why me”—was pointless and ultimately self-destructive. I couldn’t afford it, not now, not if I wanted to get out of Singapore alive and a free man. This was my home, sure, but I had no real ties here, no family, no woman, no steady work—and one part of Southeast Asia is pretty much like another. Singapore or Sumatra or Jogjakarta—a matter of degree, not of kind. And I would be alive. And free. And my conscience would remain as clean as it had been the past two years.

The Samurai thing had come back on, and the clock said 6:50. An hour and a half. Not bad now. I smoked and watched the warriors battle to a bloody conclusion, and the clock said 7:30. I watched the opening and disorganized segments of the supernatural detective film, and the clock said 8:00. On the screen a Japanese cop began chasing some poor bastard through the streets of Tokyo, and the irony was virulent. But I had managed to shut out the devils of self-pity; I had no time for the indulgence any longer.

When the clock said 8: 15, I got up and went through the lobby and out to Victoria Street. It was dark now and the sidewalks were slick with wetness from another early evening thundershower; headlamps on passing cars glistened in fragmented points of light in the multitude of rain puddles, and tires made hissing sounds on the wet pavement. As usual the early evening crowds were heavy, and I blended with the westward stream on the Victoria Street artery leading into the heart of the city.

We crossed Stamford Road and passed Fort Canning, approaching the river. The gnawing was persistent under my breastbone now, and I decided it would be a wise idea to eat something before keeping my appointment with Wong Sot; there was no telling when or where I would be getting my next meal. I stopped at a Malaysian food stall and hurriedly ate mutton
satay
and rice cakes and peanut curry from a paper container. Cheap and filling, and no one paid any attention to me in the milling crowds. More importantly, I saw no police constables in the vicinity.

I walked to the river and followed its northwesterly course to where it widened considerably just prior to the bridge at Clemenceau Avenue. The same odors lingered in the darkness that lingered in the sunlight: garbage and salt water and gasoline and burning rubber and raw spices and a dozen subtler, less immediately definable smells. Most of the lighters and motorized barges lay silent at their moorings under canvas coverings or bamboo awnings, and there was little activity along the waterfront itself. Most of the godowns were closed for the night, and darkness formed thick pockets in the area.

I located Wong Sot’s godown and moved along the side of the small, iron-roofed building toward the rear. There did not seem to be any light burning inside, and I wondered if Wong Sot was going to be late—or if he conducted his business in total darkness. Well, maybe he was just being careful; I knew about him by word of mouth, not personal experience.