The Timor Man (72 page)

and phoned the police. The Vietnamese gendarmes would arrive immediately and take the girl down to the station and throw her into the prostitutes cells where, more often than not, they would be raped by the very men who had carried out the arrest.

Vietnam
was still a cruel country, he knew. He had been there briefly before. In Nha Trang he had been terribly disappointed with what could have been one of the finest destinations in Asia. The scenic mountains rolled down to the white sandy beach and the offshore islands were almost within swimming distance. The beautiful ocean colours were magnificent except where the filth suddenly poured down from the city's river, polluting the coastline with ugly brown substances, plastic bags and other unmentionable effluent. He remembered being able to see a distinct line separating the brown polluted water from the ocean's blue as the filth encroached upon the beach.

Coleman remembered how he had left Nha Trang the following day after being revolted at an altercation he had seen near the beach when a policeman had shot a young boy dead for no apparent reason.

A police officer had been with his friends amongst the coconut trees drinking hot beer. Two cans had been enough and the red faced official grabbed at a young fourteen-year-old street urchin, who had gone to the beach to bathe under the watchful eyes of her brother. The policeman knocked the girl to the ground.

The others crowded around and urged him on. He ripped at her dress and tore the worn clothing to her waist. His friends had laughed at the girl's brother who had tried desperately to pull the attacker off his sister. Drunk and angry, the young policeman had pulled his revolver and shot the boy dead.

Then they all raped the girl.

It had all happened so suddenly. Coleman didn't understand the language and before he could do anything, the girl too was dead.

 

Yes, it was a cruel country all right. Coleman reflectively sipped a fresh whisky which George had obligingly just supplied. His thoughts returned to the incident he had witnessed on his second night at the Rex.

Voices had become raised as an argument developed. One of the foreigners was obviously showing the effects of an earlier session in one of the many bars in this quarter of the city. Suddenly there was a scuffle and both the men were thrown to the ground. The two girls panicked and hit the ‘down' button on the lift indicator panel in a desperate attempt to leave the scene before they too became embroiled in the dispute.

Moments later the lift doors closed and both the young women quickly disappeared, leaving their dates lying on the hard concrete floor with looks of disbelief that the relatively small security man had downed both of them with just one swift movement of his arms and legs.

The manager appeared and the guests, whose only injury was their pride, moved towards the bar as the security officer simply crossed his arms and waited for the next altercation to occur.

Drinks were poured while one of the men rubbed his now bruised hip and elbow still glaring at the person responsible for their losing the women. Stephen could see now that the man was quite intoxicated, almost belligerently so. He appeared to ignore the dangers of carrying on the dispute with the well-trained and disciplined Vietnamese who simply ignored the angry stares.

Stephen recalled he had observed the men for a few more minutes. It was then that he admitted that he, too, had behaved just as badly when on an alcoholic binge. He'd made a resolve at the time, he remembered with a self-mocking smile, to stop drinking - or at least slow consumption to an acceptable level. He knew that his heart, liver and kidneys would soon succumb if he did not adjust his habits. He'd retired, that day, pleased with himself that this had been his first alcohol-free day for some time.

Stephen had managed to repeat his success the following day. Feeling somewhat recovered he ventured out of the Rex and down to the Saigon River's edge.

The beggars had irritated him. Although the temptation to give them a few dollars to be left in peace was great, his experience dictated that he shouldn't as once you gave to one, others would immediately appear. The street urchins followed, tapping their target's legs with an empty can, following the distinct whistled instructions of their team leader, who positioned himself at one of the main intersections directing the dozen or so poorly clad youngsters towards likely marks among the tourists. Shades of early days in Jakarta, he'd thought, remembering similar problems that city had suffered when thousands of beggars, mainly lepers, lay across the footpaths, desperate for food.

Stephen swirled the ice around the bottom of the glass and stared moodily into the dregs of his drink. It was on his fourth day in Saigon that he had an unwelcome encounter with his past. A man had almost knocked him over in his haste, hurrying out of the Bong Sen Hotel.

It was Greg Hart.

Startled, Coleman attempted to follow the man but was unable to catch him before he jumped into a
cyclo
and disappeared into the congested traffic. Similar to the
becak
in speed the
cyclo
was peddled away quickly by the wiry legged driver and he soon lost sight of it. Stephen looked around for another cyclo but by the time one had managed to venture across the busy intersection it was too late. Twenty or thirty other similar drivers moved in the same direction with the traffic flow, making it almost impossible to distinguish one from the other.

Furious at not having identified Hart immediately outside the hotel lobby, Stephen rode the three-wheeled machine around for two hours on the off chance that he would sight Hart again. He returned to the Bong Sen and checked with the reception to see if he had registered at that hotel only to discover that Hart wasn't known to them.

He wandered around District One, checking the bars on the chance that he could locate the man whom he believed had been partly responsible for his downfall. Stephen really wanted to sit down with Hart and find out why the man had created so many stories about his business activities and spread so many filthy lies concerning Stephen's relationship with his Wanti.

 

It was during his quest to find Hart that Stephen came to be in The Shakes Pub at the same time as Brindley and company. Having broken his pledge already once that day he commenced with beer to quench his thirst, then went on to whisky when his still-tender stomach had started to rebel against the gaseous liquid.

John Brindley had, by this time, also consumed a considerable number of drinks although, unlike the man at the end of the bar, he was not feeling the effects; he was accustomed to drinking for hours on end, without the benefit of food, each and every day of the year.

Casually he approached Stephen and extended his hand.

“Don't know if you remember me or not. Stephen Coleman, are you not?”

“Correct. Do I know you?”

“John Brindley. Jakarta.”

Stephen thought for a moment and slowly his memory produced a vague recollection of the man.

“Sorry. Not thinking too clearly today. A severe case of the trots, too many pills, some foul tasting medicine and the walk up those bloody stairs have succeeded in impairing my ability to think straight.”

“Well, I wouldn't have expected you to remember. It's been a few years and we didn't have a great deal of business together.” Stephen felt Brindley's gaze take in the ravages of his countenance. “Would you care to join us?”

Coleman hesitated. It was no longer his form to drink in company but obviously these men had been around the scene long enough to assist him with a little information.

“Yes. Thanks. I'd enjoy that,” he lied.

John Brindley took Coleman back to introduce him to the others.

The conversation was a little stiff to begin with so Stephen attempted to lessen the tension. He encouraged the tubby New Zealander to discuss the timber industry in Vietnam, the man's obvious area of expertise, and after exchanging views on other relatively unimportant subjects, Coleman popped his question.

“Thought I recognized someone I used to know bouncing around in one of those bloody
cyclos
. I don't suppose any of you know a Greg Hart by chance?”

The response was immediate.

“Shit yes!” one of the group answered. “He's been in and out of the city like a bloody yo-yo doing some promotional work for the Australian Government's Communication's Program.”

“Not that it's done much to improve the phones around here,” the tubby drinker added.

He was pleased. Stephen encouraged them to talk on and within a few minutes he'd been able to drag out enough information from them all to satisfy his needs.

So, he thought, half listening to the men discuss the day's exchange rate, Hart had been in Saigon for some time working with the Australian communications group which had established itself in Vietnam several years earlier. That was interesting. As it appeared that they had been relatively successful, he wondered just what role Hart had played or still played with the company which now employed him.

An hour later Coleman left the bar, in his pocket he carried his former assistant's address and telephone number. He would visit the man. But not until he was stone cold sober. At least he would have the satisfaction of telling him where to get off about the filth that he had been spreading. He could just about forgive the rumours Hart had started about Coleman's business activities, although even those were damaging enough. But he would not be satisfied until he made the bastard apologize for the lies he'd told which, in turn, had become the substance of the stories that had been repeated back to him from time to time by some of his dwindling group of friends. He had to confront Hart about the provocative statements he had made regarding Wanti's collapse which had indeed made him a pariah in Jakarta circles. Although the years had lessened the pain Coleman was determined to at least rid himself of that slander and now he had the opportunity. He returned to the Rex and ceased drinking for the rest of the day.

That evening, after bathing and resting for a few hours, Stephen felt refreshed and elected to dine in the hotel dining room located on the same level as his room. The atmosphere was excellent. A pianist softly accompanied the female violinist. The cuisine was an assortment of French and Vietnamese. He ate sparingly, still sensitive to his condition. He knew that the spicy rolls and seafood dishes could be too much of a challenge to his stomach as yet.

Relaxed, Coleman gazed around at the decor, the artefacts which were positioned around the hall, and the various foreign groups dining quietly. The staff glided from table to table efficiently and effectively serving and removing dishes as the soft dinner chatter continued. He was pleased to see that the majority were dressed for the occasion in an almost old worldly, colonial style. The women wore elegant dresses while some of the older men sported white dinner jackets and black tie.

The
maitre d'hotel
offered Stephen coffee which he asked to have served on the terraced garden. He sat at the glass-topped wire garden table alongside the well manicured hedge. This partly enclosed section had been raised slightly, permitting guests to remain comfortably seated while overlooking the avenue with its uninterrupted view down to the river. The strong Vietnamese coffee was not unlike the old familiar Javanese brew he had consumed in great quantities during happier times.

As he sat, unwinding, Coleman permitted his thoughts to float as he had so many times before during these long, lonely years. His thoughts drifted aimlessly, taking him back through his past and the deep rooted memories of lost love and disillusionment; to times when he was content with his life, even happy; to times when he enjoyed the success and accolades which accompanied his achievements; to times when he had the satisfaction of the company of many, and to the times and events which finally precipitated his hasty departure from the Republic of Indonesia.

And from General Seda.

Jakarta
— Macau

 

The General had been difficult to contact. Conditions had deteriorated dramatically for the separatist forces and FRETILIN had suffered tremendous losses. The war between Indonesia's invasion army and the defending East Timorese groups, often overwhelmed by the superior forces, had resulted in the deaths of more than two hundred thousand Timorese men, women and children.