I knew the number of this one only too well. I had already seen it once that day. It had been standing outside Gedge’s office.
I must have made a startled movement, for Rosalie looked up at me quickly.
“What is it? What’s the matter?”
“Wait here a moment.”
The house with the light was about twenty yards away. I walked towards it. At that moment my intention was to go in and ask what the hell a jeep from the Tangga Valley project was doing down in Selampang. Luckily, by the time I had covered half the distance, I had come to my senses and stopped. It had been about eleven a.m. when I had last seen the jeep in Tangga, and yet here it was just over twelve hours later in Selampang. It could not have come by sea in that time. It could not have come by air. That meant that it had been driven down two hundred miles by road. Which
meant, in turn, that it had been passed quickly and safely through every road block manned by the insurgents in Sanusi’s area, as well as the outposts manned by the Selampang garrison. That meant that the person who had been in it was someone to stay well away from at that moment; and that applied to his friends, too.
I stood there for a second or two with my heart thumping very unpleasantly. I could distinguish the voices inside now. They were speaking Malay. One man was repeating something emphatically. His voice was light and ugly and sounded as if he were trying to speak and swallow at the same time.
“All of them. We must have all,” he was saying.
The voice that replied was certainly Major Suparto’s. It was very calm and controlled. “Then it must be delayed until the second day,” he said. “There must be patience, General.”
I turned quietly and went back to Rosalie. She said nothing and took my arm again as we walked back towards the club.
When we had gone a little way she said: “Is there something wrong?”
I hesitated. I thought she might think that I was being stupid. “That jeep back there,” I said at last. “It was in Tangga this morning. A Sundanese army officer drove it here today—by road. A major. He’s in there now.”
I need not have worried. The implication, when she saw it, made her draw in her breath.
“With Lim Mor Sai?” she said quickly.
“I suppose so. There were others there, one of them a general. I think we’d better forget about it.”
“Yes, we must forget.”
We went on back to the terrace. Mina and Jebb were in the bar and the floor was fairly clear, so we decided to have one more dance before I went.
J
ebb wakened me at seven o’clock the next morning to say goodbye and to introduce me to the cleaning woman, Mrs. Choong.
“There’s a fair amount of stuff in the Frigidaire,” he said; “but if there’s anything else you want, just write out a list and she’ll do the marketing. Isn’t that right, Mrs. Choong?”
Mrs. Choong nodded. “I buy for good prices. I cook, too, if you like. You want eggs for breakfast, mister?”
“Yes, please.”
She was a ball of fat and the seams of her black trousers stretched almost to bursting-point as she bent down to pick up Jebb’s breakfast tray. As she waddled away into the kitchen, Jebb said: “I told her you’d be sleeping in the bedroom. There are two beds there. Tell her to make both of them up if you want to. Liberty Hall, this is.”
“And I’m very grateful. I can’t tell you.”
“Forget it, sport. Like I said, you’re doing me a favour. Let’s see. It’s Tuesday today. I should be back Thursday night or Friday morning. When exactly do you reckon on getting away, Steve?”
“I’m hoping to get the Friday plane to Djakarta.”
“Well, if they try and twist your arm too much over your exit papers, you see Lim Mor Sai and ask him to talk to his pals in the police department.”
“I’ll do that.” It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him that the police department was not the only place where Lim Mor Sai had pals. Then, I decided not to. No doubt there were hundreds of people in Selampang who were secretly in touch with the insurgents in the north. If Lim were one of them, Jebb, as a Government employee, would probably rather not know about it. I said instead: “If you’re not back before I leave, what would you like me to do about the key you lent me?”
“Leave it with Mrs. Choong. You can trust her. She’s got her own anyway. But I hope I’ll see you.”
“So do I.”
He hesitated. “She’s a classy kid, Rosalie, you know,” he said awkwardly.
“Don’t worry. I’ll do right by her. Mina’s not going to be waiting for you with a hatchet.”
He laughed. “Okay, sport. Sorry I spoke. By the way, if you see Lim Mor Sai, tell him I’ll be bringing him some cheroots back with me. He usually asks me when
I go Makassar way. He must have forgotten this time.”
“I’ll tell him. And thanks again.”
“If you’re still here Friday, you can buy me a drink.”
When he had gone, Mrs. Choong brought me a breakfast of fried eggs, coffee and papaya. Later, when I had bathed and shaved, I considered my clothes. Up in Tangga, I had seen myself making do with what I had until I reached Singapore. Now, the situation was different. My ridiculous suit did not matter; I would not be needing a jacket while I was in Selampang; but I would certainly need some more slacks and shirts. I consulted Mrs. Choong. She told me that she could get shirts
dobi-
ed for me in a few hours, but that if I wanted them properly laundered I would have to wait twenty-four. She also gave me the address of a good Chinese tailor.
I went to the tailor first and ordered two pairs of slacks and four shirts for delivery late that afternoon. Then, I paid my first call on the police department.
Sundanese officials are peculiarly difficult to deal with, especially if you are an English-speaking European. The first thing you have to realise is that, although they look very spruce and alert and although their shirt pockets glitter with rows of fancy ball-point pens, they have only the haziest notions of their duties. The language problem is also important. All the forms you have to fill up are printed in English as well as Malay, because English is an official language and the
officials are supposed to be bi-lingual. The trouble is that they will never admit that they are not. If you speak in Malay they feel bound to reply in English. Unfortunately, the few words they have soon run out, and although they may continue to
look
as if they understand what you have said, they are in fact hopelessly at sea. Their technique for dealing with the resulting impasse is to pretend that they have to consult a colleague, and then go away and forget about you. The form you have completed gets lost. Your only chance is to say and write everything very distinctly both in English and Malay, and to keep fingering your wallet as if you are getting ready to pay. You are, indeed, going to have to pay eventually; and not merely the legal fee for the service in question. When the formalities are almost completed, it will suddenly be discovered that you ought to have produced another “clearance,” and that without it you cannot have whatever it is you want. A Kafka-like scene ensues. Nobody can tell you precisely what this mysterious clearance is or how you set about obtaining it. The shifty brown eyes peer at you. It is your move now. You ask what the fee for the clearance would be if one knew where to obtain it. A figure is named. You ask if, as a special favour, you may deposit this sum so that when more is known about it, the clearance may be obtained for you. There is a shrug, then a grudging assent. The eyes watch sullenly as you count the money out. You agreed too quickly. He is
wishing he had asked for more and wondering if it is too late. No, it is not. He made a mistake. He forgot the price of the Government stamp. You smile politely and pay that, too. There is no answering smile. Other brown eyes have observed the transaction and there will be a share-out when you have gone. To get out again into the open air is like emerging from a depression.
The granting of an exit visa to a resident European is a big operation. My first visit to the visa section of the police-department headquarters lasted an hour. In that time I managed to secure the five different forms that had to be completed, and countersigned by various other authorities, before the formal application could be submitted. This was good going. I went next to the agents for the Hongkong and Shanghai Bank, cashed a cheque and had one of the forms countersigned. After I had deposited it, together with another form, at the Internal Revenue Department, I called in at the Indonesian Consulate and applied for a transit visa. By then, it was time for lunch.
I went to the Orient Hotel, where they had an air-conditioned bar. I also hoped to find De Vries, the Sunda-Pacific Airways traffic manager, and thus save myself the trouble of calling in at his office. He was there all right, nursing a de Kuyper’s gin as if it were all that he had left to live for. Sunda-Pacific Airways ran the scheduled passenger services out of Selampang
under a Government franchise that was due to expire later that year. The Government had recently announced that it would not be renewed, and that a new national airline authority would take over. He knew only too well that, while international air safety requirements would necessitate their retaining the Dutch pilots, no such necessity would protect the rest of the Dutch staff. He had been one of the original members of the company. His bitterness was understandable.
After he had promised to see that a seat was held for me on the Friday plane to Djakarta, he asked me how things were up in Tangga. I told him, and asked how things were in Selampang. It was a foolish question; but I had nothing to do until the offices opened again, and I thought, somewhat virtuously, that the least I could do was to listen to him.
I received the answer I deserved.
“You know damn well how things are in this city. I would be pleased if you would stop encouraging me to become a bore. Have another drink.”
Over luncheon, however, he did unburden himself a little.
“I wouldn’t like a Government spy to hear me saying this,” he said; “but people like me have only one chance of survival here.”
“What’s that?”
“A revolution.”
“You mean Sanusi?”
“Why not? Did you know that he’d appointed a representative in New York to lobby the United States, and that for the past six months he’s had agents in Malaya and Pakistan, meeting religious leaders and canvassing support for the movement?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“The censorship has been quite efficient, but in my business news gets around. I can tell you, they’re badly worried down here. Sanusi controls more than half the total area of the country as it is. The Nasjah Government has failed completely. The country’s bankrupt, the elections were a farce and the Communists are getting stronger every day. If Sanusi were to take over tomorrow, the Americans and British would probably sigh with relief.”
“I don’t see how you’d be better off, though.”
“We couldn’t be worse off. At least, we could come to terms with Sanusi.”
“Are you sure of that?”
“Sanusi may be a fanatic in some ways, but in others he is open to reason.”
“You speak as if you knew him.”
“Oh yes, I know him. You forget, he commanded the garrison here.” He paused, then added: “There are lots of people in this place who know Sanusi.”
“I’m sure there are. Has he any weaknesses?”
“Wishful thinking. Same
as
me.”
A waiter was hovering near us. De Vries began to
talk of other things. It was not until we were sitting on the terrace having our coffee that he reverted to the subject. A column of army trucks with troops aboard them went by. The troops were in full marching order, with steel helmets and machine pistols. They were clinging on for dear life as the trucks bounced over the pot holes outside the hotel. I remembered something I had read in the Government newspaper that morning about an important army exercise.
“Sanusi has another weakness,” De Vries remarked sombrely.
“Oh?”
“He does not like to take chances.”
When the Government offices reopened I made another tour, beginning with the Ministry of Public Works, who were required to certify that I was leaving the country with their knowledge and without any of their property in my possession, and ending with the police department, where I deposited the completed forms, together with my passport and a substantial sum to cover “fees.” A sour police lieutenant then agreed reluctantly that, if I returned the following day at about the same time, the exit permit might be stamped in my passport. When I arrived back at the tailor’s it was no surprise to find that the slacks and shirts I had ordered were ready for me; nevertheless, I was pleased. After a day with official Sunda, it was refreshing to deal with the businesslike Chinese.
Back in the apartment, I slept for an hour or so. When I awoke, I found that it had rained heavily and that the air smelt of, and felt like, hot mud. However, the water in the bathhouse was cool, and, after I had showered, I was able to dress without too much discomfort.
I had arranged to meet Rosalie at the New Harmony Club at eight thirty. Soon after eight, I locked up the apartment and set out. The lift was not working, and I had to walk down the stairs past the floors occupied by the radio station. The corridors had sponge-rubber carpets laid along them and there was a lot of external wiring on the walls; but otherwise they looked much like floors in an ordinary office building. On one landing workmen were manhandling a heavy piece of electrical equipment that looked like a meat safe out of the lift. When I reached the ground floor I could hear a big diesel generator set thudding away in the basement. The radio station, Jebb had told me, was independent of the city power supply. The two policemen on the door glanced at me casually, but did not trouble to look at the temporary pass their predecessors had given me earlier in the day.
Mahmud pedalled over grinning when he saw me come out, and soon we were splashing through the rain-filled pot holes along the Telegraf Road towards the racecourse.
I would like to be able to say that I sensed something
strange about the city that evening—an inexplicable tension in the air, a brooding calm that foretold the storm—but I cannot. Most of the drains had overflowed with the rain and added their own special stench to the normal canal smell, but there seemed to be just as many people about as there had been the previous night, and they all seemed to be behaving in the normal way. On one patch of wasteland beside the road, there was even a small fair in progress. A carousel had been set up, and a small stage on which two Indian conjurors were performing. Mahmud slowed down as we went past. One of the conjurors was holding a tin chamber pot, while the other pretended to defecate coins into it. As the coins clattered into the pot, the crowd applauded happily.