King Rat (16 page)

He sat quietly and men passed by, hardly noticing him. There was nothing strange in seeing a man sitting thus in the heat of the noon sun, cinder-burned, in a sarong. Nothing strange at all.

Now I know what has to be obtained. Somehow. There’s bound to be a wireless in the village. Villages are like magpies — they collect all sorts of things; and he laughed, remembering his village in Java.

He had found it, stumbling in the jungle, exhausted and lost, more dead than alive, far from the threads of road that crisscrossed Java. He had run many miles and the date was March 11. The island forces had capitulated on March 8, and the year was 1942. For three days he had wandered the jungle, eaten by bugs and flies and ripped by thorns and bloodsucked by leeches and soaked by rains. He had seen no one, heard no one since he had left the airfield north, the fighter drome at Bandung. He had left his squadron, what remained of it,, and left his Hurricane. But before he had run away, he had made his dead airplane — twisted, broken by bomb and tracer — a funeral pyre. A man could do no less than cremate his friend.

When he came upon the village it was sunset. The Javanese who surrounded him were hostile. They did not touch him, but the anger in their faces was clear to see. They stared at him silently, and no one made a move to succor him. “Can I have some food and water?” he had asked.

No answer.

Then he had seen the well and gone over to it, followed by angry eyes, and had drunk deep from it. Then he had sat down and had begun to wait.

The village was small, well hidden. It seemed quite rich. The houses, built around a square, were on stilts and made of bamboo and atap. And under the houses were many pigs and chickens. Near a larger house was a corral and in it were five water buffalo. That meant the village was well-to-do. At length he was led to the house of the headman. The silent natives followed up the steps but did not enter the house. They sat on the veranda and listened and waited.

The headman was old, nut-brown and withered. And hostile. The house, like all their houses, was one large room partitioned by atap screens into small sections.

In the center of the section devoted to eating, talking, and thinking was a porcelain toilet bowl, complete with a seat and lid. There were no water connections and the toilet sat in a place of honor on a woven carpet. In front of the toilet bowl on another mat the headman sat on his haunches. His eyes were piercing.

“What do you want? Tuan!” and the “Tuan” was an accusation.

“I just wanted some food and water, sir, and perhaps I could stay for a little while until I’ve caught up with myself.”

“You call me sir, when three days ago you and the rest of the whites were calling us Wogs and were spitting upon us?”

“I never called you Wogs. I was sent here to try to protect your country from the Japanese.”

“They have liberated us from the pestilential Dutch! As they will liberate the whole of the Far East from the white imperialists!”

“Perhaps. But I think you’ll regret the day they came!”

“Get out of my village. Go with the rest of the imperialists. Go before I call the Japanese themselves.”

“It is written, ‘If a stranger comes to thee and asks for hospitality, give it to him that thou find favor in the sight of Allah.’”

The headman had looked at him aghast. Nut-brown skin, short baju coat, multicolored sarong and the decorating head cloth in the gathering darkness.

“What do you know of the Koran and the words of the Prophet?”

“On whose name be praise,” Peter Marlowe said. “The Koran had been translated into English for many years by many men.” He was fighting for his life. He knew that if he could stay in the village he might be able to get a boat to sail to Australia. Not that he knew how to sail a boat, but the risk was worthwhile. Captivity was death.

“Are you one of the Faithful?” the astonished headman asked.

Peter Marlowe hesitated. He could easily pretend to be a Mohammedan. Part of his training had been to study the Book of Islam. Officers of His Majesty’s forces had to serve in many lands. Hereditary officers are trained in many things over and apart from formal schooling.

If he said yes, he knew he would be safe, for Java was mostly the domain of Mohammed.

“No. I am not one of the Faithful.” He was tired and at the end of his run. “At least I don’t know. I was taught to believe in God. My father used to tell us, my sisters and I, that God has many names. Even Christians say that there is a Holy Trinity — that there are parts of God.

“I don’t think it matters what you call God. God won’t mind if he is recognized as Jesus or Allah, or Buddha or Jehovah, or even You! — because if he is God, then he knows that we are only finite and don’t know too much about anything.”

“I believe Mohammed was a man of God, a Prophet of God. I think Jesus was of God, as Mohammed calls him in the Koran, the ‘most blameless of the Prophets.’ That Mohammed is the last of the Prophets as he claimed, I don’t know. I don’t think that we, humans, can be certain about anything to do with God.”

“But I do not believe that God is an old man with a long white beard who sits on a golden throne far up in the sky. I do not believe, as Mohammed promised, that the Faithful will go to a paradise where they will lie on silken couches and drink wine and have many beautiful maids to serve them, or that Paradise will be a garden with an abundance of green foliage and pure streams and fruit trees. I do not believe that angels have wings growing from their backs.”

Night swooped over the village. A baby cried and was gentled back to sleep.

“One day I will know for certain by what name to call God. The day I die.” The silence gathered. “I think it would be very depressing to discover there was no God.” The headman motioned for Peter Marlowe to sit.

“You may stay. But there are conditions. You will swear to obey our laws and be one of us. You will work in the paddy and work in the village, the work of a man. No more and no less than any man. You will learn our language and speak only our language and wear our dress and dye the color of your skin. Your height and the color of your eyes will shout that you are a white man, but perhaps color, dress and language may protect you for a time; perhaps it can be said that you are half Javanese, half white. You will touch no woman here without permission. And you will obey me without question.”

“Agreed.”

“There is one other thing. To hide an enemy of the Japanese is dangerous. You must know that when the time comes for me to choose between you and my people to protect my village, I will choose my village.”

“I understand. Thank you, sir.”

“Swear by your God —“ a nicker of a smile swept the features of the old man, “swear by God that you will obey and agree to these conditions.”

“I swear by God I agree and will obey. And I’ll do nothing to harm you while I’m here.”

“You harm us by your very presence, my son,” the old man replied.

After Peter Marlowe had had the food and drink, the headman said, “Now you will speak no more English. Only Malay. From this moment on. It is the only way for you to learn quickly.”

“All right. But first may I ask you one thing?”

“Yes.”

“What is the significance of the toilet bowl? I mean, it hasn’t any pipes attached to it.”

“It has no significance, other than that it pleases me to watch the faces of my guests and hear them thinking, ‘What a ridiculous thing to have an as ornament in a house.’”

And huge waves of laughter engulfed the old man and the tears ran down his cheeks and his whole household was in an uproar and his wives came in to succor him and rub his back and stomach, and then they too were shrieking and so was Peter Marlowe.

Peter Marlowe smiled again, remembering. Now that was a man! Tuan Abu. But I won’t think any more today about my village, or my friends of the village, or N’ai, the daughter of the village they gave me to touch. Today I’ll think about the wireless and how I’m going to get the condenser and sharpen my wits for the village tonight.

He unwound himself from the lotus seat, then waited patiently till the blood began to flow in his veins once more. Around him was the sweet gasoline smell, carried by a breeze. Also on the breeze came voices raised in hymn. They came from the open air theater, which today was the Church of England. Last week it was a Catholic Church, the week before the Seventh-day Adventist, the week before another denomination. They were tolerant in Changi.

There were many parishioners crowding the rough seats. Some were there because of a faith, some were there for lack of a faith. Some were there for something to do, some were there because there was nothing else to do. Today Chaplain Drinkwater was conducting the service.

Chaplain Drinkwater’s voice was rich and round. His sincerity poured from him and the words of the Bible sprang to life, and gave you hope, and made you forget that Changi was fact, that there was no food in your belly.

Rotten hypocrite, Peter Marlowe thought, despising Drinkwater, remembering once again…

“Hey, Peter,” Dave Daven had whispered that day, “look over there.”

Peter Marlowe saw Drinkwater talking with a withered RAF corporal called Blodger. Drinkwater’s bunk had a favored spot near the door of Hut Sixteen.

“That must be his new batman,” Daven said. Even in the camp the age-old tradition was kept.

“What happened to the other one?”

“Lyles? My man told me he was up in hospital. Ward Six.”

Peter Marlowe got to his feet. “Drinkwater can do what he likes with Army types, but he’s not getting one of mine.”

He walked the four bunk lengths. “Blodger!”

“What do you want, Marlowe?” Drinkwater said.

Peter Marlowe ignored him. “What’re you doing here, Blodger?”

“I was just seeing the chaplain, sir. I’m sorry, sir,” he said moving closer, “I don’t see you too well.”

“Flight Lieutenant Marlowe.”

“Oh. How’re you, sir? I’m the chaplain’s new batman, sir.”

“You get out of here, and before you take a job as a batman, you come and ask me first!”

“But sir —“

“Who do you think you are, Marlowe?” Drinkwater snapped. “You’ve no jurisdiction over him.”

“He’s not going to be your batman.”

“Why?”

“Because I say so. You’re dismissed, Blodger.”

“But sir, I’ll look after the chaplain fine, I really will. I’ll work hard —“

“Where’d you get that cigarette?”

“Now look here, Marlowe —“ Drinkwater began.

Peter Marlowe whirled on him. “Shut up!” Others in the hut stopped what they were doing and began to collect.

“Where did you get that cigarette, Blodger?”

“The chaplain gave it to me,” whimpered Blodger, backing away, frightened by the edge to Peter Marlowe’s voice. “I gave him my egg. He promised me tobacco in exchange for my daily egg. I want the tobacco and he can have the egg.”

“There’s no harm in that,” Drinkwater blustered, “no harm in giving the boy some tobacco. He asked me for it. In exchange for an egg.”

“You been up to Ward Six recently?” Peter Marlowe asked. “Did you help them admit Lyles? Your last batman? He’s got no eyes now.”

“That’s not my fault. I didn’t do anything about him.”

“How many of his eggs did you have?”

“None. I had none.”

Peter Marlowe snatched a Bible and thrust it into Drinkwater’s hands. “Swear it, then I’ll believe you. Swear it or by God I’ll do you!”

“I swear it!” Drinkwater moaned.

“You lying bastard,” Daven shouted, “I’ve seen you take Lyles’ eggs. We all have.”

Peter Marlowe grabbed Drinkwater’s mess can and found the egg. Then he smashed it against Drinkwater’s face, cramming the egg shell into his mouth. Drinkwater fainted.

Peter Marlowe dashed a bowl of water in his face, and he came to.

“Bless you, Marlowe,” he had whispered. “Bless you for showing me the error of my ways.” He had knelt beside the bunk. “Oh God, forgive this unworthy sinner. Forgive me my sins…”

Now, on this sun-kissed Sunday, Peter Marlowe listened as Drinkwater finished the sermon. Blodger had long since gone to Ward Six, but whether Drinkwater had helped him there, Peter Marlowe could never prove. Drinkwater still got many eggs from somewhere.

Peter Marlowe’s stomach told him it was time for lunch.

When he got back to his hut, the men were already waiting, mess cans in hands, impatient. The extra was not going to arrive today. Or tomorrow according to rumor. Ewart had already checked the cookhouse. Just the usual. That was all right too, but why the hell don’t they hurry up?

Grey was sitting on the end of his bed.

“Well, Marlowe,” he said, “you eating with us these days? Such a pleasant surprise.”

“Yes, Grey, I’m still eating here. Why don’t you just run along and play cops and robbers? You know, pick on someone who can’t hit back!”

“Not a chance, old man. Got my eye on bigger game.”

“Jolly good luck.” Peter Marlowe got his mess cans ready. Across the way from him Brough, kibitzing a game of bridge, winked.

“Cops!” he whispered. “They’re all the same.”

“That’s right.”

He joined Peter Marlowe. “Hear you’ve a new buddy.”

“That’s right.” Peter Marlowe was on his guard.

“It’s a free country. But sometimes a guy’s got to get out on a limb and make a point.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Fast company can sometimes get out of hand.”

“That’s true in any country.”

“Maybe,” Brough grinned, “maybe you’d like to have a cuppa Joe sometime and chew the fat.”

“I’d like that. How about tomorrow? After chow —“ Involuntarily he used the King’s word. But he didn’t correct himself. He smiled and Brough smiled back.

“Hey, grub’s up!” Ewart called out.

“Thank God for that,” Phil groaned. “How about a deal, Peter? Your rice for my stew?”

“You’ve got a hope!”

“No harm in trying.”

Peter Marlowe went outside and joined the mess line. Raylins was serving out the rice. Good, he thought, no need to worry today.

Raylins was middle-aged and bald. He had been a junior manager in the Bank of Singapore and, like Ewart, one of the Malayan Regiment. In peacetime it was a great organization to belong to. Lots of parties, cricket, polo. A man had to be in the Regiment to be anyone. Raylins also looked after the mess fund, and banqueting was his specialty. When they gave him a gun and told him he was in the war and ordered him to take his platoon across the causeway and fight the Japanese, he had looked at the colonel and laughed. His job was accounts. But it hadn’t helped him, and he had had to take twenty men, as untrained as himself, and march up the road. He had marched, then suddenly his twenty men were three. Thirteen had been killed instantly in the ambush. Four were only wounded. They were lying in the middle of the road screaming. One had his hand blown off and he was staring at the stump stupidly, catching his blood in his only hand, trying to pour it back into his arm. Another was laughing, laughing as he crammed his entrails back into the gaping hole.