“HE HE HE,” said Inche Kamaruddin, showing his small teeth in a gay smile. “If you make dose stupid mistakes den you cannot hope to pass de examination. If you do dat den you must fail.” He smiled brilliantly, encouragingly.
“Yes,” said Victor Crabbe. “But there don’t seem to be any rules.” On the table lay his exercise, a piece of transliteration into Arabic script. The words sprawled, from right to left, in clumsy unco-ordinated curves, sprinkled with dots. It was a warm night, despite the rain that had fallen, and busy with insect life. All around them flying ants were landing, ready to copulate, shed their wings, and die. Flying beetles sang fretfully in the rafters of the veranda, and little bugs and pallid moths had been drinking the sweat from his neck. The hand that held the pen dripped sweat on to the paper. His face, he knew, must look wet and greasy and callow to his Malay teacher. Inche Kamaruddin smiled and smiled, deploring his stupidity in a look of ineffable happiness.
“Dere are no rules,” smiled Inche Kamaruddin. “Dat is de first ting dat you must learn. Every word is different from every oder word. De words must be learnt separately. De English look for rules all de time. But in de East dere are no rules. He he he.” He chortled, rubbing his hands in joy.
“All right,” said Crabbe. “Now let’s have a look at these special words for Malay royalty. Though why the hell they should have words different from other people …”
“He he he. Dey have always had dat. Dat is de custom. When de ordinary people go to sleep you must say dat dey tidor. But de sultans always beradu. De root of dat word means dat dere was a singing contest among de concubines. And de one dat won slept wid de sultan. He he he.” He rubbed his groin in a transport of vicarious concupiscence.
“And does the Sultan of Lanchap have these talent competitions?”
“De present Sultan? Now it is different.” Eagerly Inche Kamaruddin picked up a copy of a Malay newspaper from a pile of books and other teaching aids. “Dere is to-day’s news, you see.” Crabbe squinted at the Arabic letters, deciphering slowly. “If you read Jawi fluently den you keep up to date wid de latest scandal. He he he.”
“He’s going to marry again? A Chinese?”
“De Sultan lost a lot of money at de Singapore races and de Penang races and de races at Kuala Lumpur. De Sultan owes a lot of money.”
“My amah says he owes some to her father.”
“Dat is quite possible. He he he. Dis Chinese girl is de daughter of a tin miner, de richest tin miner in de State. Dis will be de Sultan’s tent wife. He he he.” This was a rich joke. Inche Kamaruddin rocked with glee.
“How you love a bit of scandal.” Crabbe smiled at his teacher tolerantly. Inche Kamaruddin was ecstatic. Soon he became a little more serious and said:
“Dere is more trouble at de Mansor School, I see. De Headmaster had his motor-car scratched and his tyres slashed de oder day.”
“I didn’t know that,” said Crabbe. “He didn’t mention it to anybody.”
“Of course he did not mention it,” smiled Inche Kamaruddin. “Dat would be to lose face. But he beat tree prefects wid a stick, and now dis is revenge. Dere is worse to come. Dere is going to be a rebellion.”
“They can’t do that, you know. That only happens in school stories.”
“Dey will try. Dey are becoming politically-minded. Dey are talking about de white oppressors.” Inche Kamaruddin grinned widely and shook with joy.
“How do you manage to hear these things?”
“He he he. Dere are ways and means. Dere will be big trouble at de Mansor School, noting is more certain dan dat.”
“So. And what do your spies in Kuala Lumpur say about the official attitude to the present régime?”
“In de Mansor School? Dey know noting about it. De autorities are very pleased wid de way dat Mr. Boodby is running de School. But dey are not very pleased wid you.” Inche Kamaruddin grinned and shook and sang “He he he he” down the scale.
“Oh?” said Crabbe in disquiet. “And why not?”
“Dey are getting reports about you not doing de tings Mr. Boodby asks you to do. And dere is a story about you being friendly wid de Malay women. But you must not worry about dese tings. U.M.N.O. is quite pleased wid you and when U.M.N.O. is running de country dere will be no difficulty about you getting one of de good jobs. But first,” Inche Kamaruddin tried for a moment to look very grave, “first,” his face gradually lightened, “you must get your examination. Dey will want Englishmen who can speak de language.” Inche Kamaruddin banged the rattan table with his neat brown fist. “Misti lulus. Misti lulus. You must pass de examination. But you will not pass de examination if you make dese stupid mistakes.” He grinned widely and engagingly and then collapsed into quiet mirth.
“All right,” said Crabbe. “Let’s read some more of the Hikayat Abdullah.” Inwardly he was disturbed, but it was a cardinal rule in the East not to show one’s true feelings. The truth about anything had to be wrapped up and could only be seen and handled after the patient untying of much string and paper. The truth about one’s feelings must be masked in a show of indifference or even the lineaments of a very different emotion. Calmly now he translated the sophisticated Malay of the munshi who had been the protégé and friend of Stamford Raffles.
“‘One day Tuan Raffles said to me, “Tuan, I intend to go home by ship in three days’ time, so get together all my books in Malay.” When I heard this my heart beat strongly and my soul had lost its courage. When he told me that he was sailing back to Europe, I could not stand it any longer. I felt that I had lost my father and my mother, and my eyes swam with tears.’”
“Yes, yes.” Inche Kamaruddin danced up and down on his chair. “You have got de meaning of dat.”
“They felt differently about us then,” said Crabbe. “They felt that we had something to give.”
“You still have someting to give,” insisted Inche Kamaruddin, “but in a free Malaya dat shall be ruled by de Malays.”
“And the Chinese? And the Indians, the Eurasians?”
“Dey do not count,” grinned Inche Kamaruddin. “Dey are not de friends of de Malays. Malaya is a country for de Malays.”
The work of translation stopped, and the old political wrangle began again. Crabbe was reasonable, pointing out that the Chinese had made the country economically rich, that the British had brought rule and justice, that the majority of the Malays were Indonesian immigrants. Inche Kamaruddin grew heated, waving excited arms, grinning passionately, finally shouting, “Merdeka! Merdeka! Freedom, independence, self-determination for de Malays!”
“Merdeka itself is a Sanskrit word,” said Crabbe, “a foreign importation.”
From the nearest dormitory a young boy, wakened by the noise, could be heard crying. “We’d better stop now,” said Crabbe. “I’ve got to do my little prowl round the dormitories.”
Inche Kamaruddin went downstairs to his bicycle, waving his hand in farewell, showing all his teeth in the last big grin of the evening. “On Tursday, den,” he called quietly.
“Thursday,” said Crabbe. “Terima kaseh, inche. Selamat jalan.”
Crabbe began to wander round the still, dark dormitories, thinking of what his teacher had told him. There were few secrets to be kept in Malaya. What he had thought to be a discreet liaison was obviously already stale knowledge round the town, stale knowledge to Boothby. The side had been let down. He had broken the unwritten laws of the white man. He had rejected the world of the Club, the week-end golf, the dinner invitations, the tennis parties. He did not drive a car. He walked round the town, sweating, waving his hand to his Asian friends. He had had an affair with a Malay divorcee. And of course Fenella was no better. She had rejected the white woman’s world—mah jong and bridge and coffee parties—for different reasons.
He felt suddenly a stab of anxiety about Fenella. Tonight was the night of the first meeting of the Film Society in Timah. He had refused to go, saying that he could not cancel his Malay lesson. She had said it was pointless taking Malay lessons, pointless taking Government examinations when they did not intend to stay in the country. He had said that he did not see why they should not stay in the country. He liked the country and, if she wished to be a dutiful wife, she should try to like it too. It was up to her to go wherever her husband went. If he had determined on a career in this country, well, her duty was plain. If she did not wish to be a dutiful wife, then she had better not be a wife at all, she had better leave him. He would not have said so much if his nerves had not been on edge with a trying morning in the School. She had cried, said he did not love her, and all the rest of it. He had tried to retract, but she had burst out with the inevitable reference to his first wife. Then he had become hard, cold and stupid. At seven o’clock Alladad Khan had brought round the car and she had gone off to Timah alone; alone, that is, save for Alladad Khan’s respectful and discreet presence. He did not expect her back for another hour. Now he worried a little about the possibility of an ambush, the car breaking down miles from anywhere, Fenella afraid in the black night. This, he supposed, was a sort of love. He shrugged it away, refused to think about it further, walking soft-footed between the rows of boys’ beds.
From the prefects’ room came the light hissing of talk. A blue glow, as of a shaded lamp, showed under the door. Crabbe walked stealthily towards it, stood outside, hardly breathing, listening. He could not understand what was being said; he knew hardly any Chinese. It was evident, however, that this was no ordinary conversation, apt for a dorm-feast; there was too much of one voice. Then came the hint of catechism: the question, the quiet chorused answer. Crabbe opened the door and entered.
Shiu Hung opened a surprised mouth, raising his eyebrows above spectacles which had slipped down his nose. The other boys, all Chinese, looked up from the floors and beds where they sat. All were wearing pyjamas.
“What’s going on?” said Crabbe.
“We are having a meeting, sir,” said Shiu Hung. “We have formed a Chinese society.”
“Where are the other prefects, Narayanasamy and the rest of them?”
“They lent us the room, sir. They are down below reading in the lavatories.”
“You know about the lights-out rule?”
No answer. Crabbe looked at the boys. Two or three were prefects, the rest merely seniors.
“What kind of society is this?” asked Crabbe.
“It is a Chinese society, sir.”
“You said that. What does the society propose to do?”
“To discuss things, sir, things of world interest.”
“What’s that book?” asked Crabbe.
“This, sir?” Shiu Hung handed the thick pamphlet to him. “It is a book on economic theory, sir.”
Crabbe looked at the fantastic columns of ideograms. He only knew one or two: the symbols for ‘man’, ‘field’, ‘light’, ‘tree’, ‘house’—pictograms really, straightforward drawings of straightforward things. He suddenly shot a question at one of the crouching boys:
“You. State the doctrine of Surplus Value.”
The boy, bewildered, shook his head. Shiu Hung remained suave, impassive.
“Shiu Hung,” said Crabbe, “how shall the revolution be accomplished in Malaya?”
“What revolution, sir?”
“Look here,” said Crabbe. “I suspect the worst. I suspect that this is an indoctrination class.”
“I do not know the word, sir,” said Shiu Hung.
“Watch your step,” said Crabbe. “I’m taking this book away. I’ll find out what’s in it.”
“It is a good book, sir, on economic theory. We are interested in these things and we have a right, sir, to discuss them in our own language. We are given no other opportunity to meet for this purpose. It is either prep, or games or debates in English.”
“You’re here to get an English education,” said Crabbe. “Whether that’s a good or bad thing is not for me to say. If you want to form a discussion-group ask me about it. And you’re breaking the rules by not being in bed by lights-out. I’ll have to report this. Now get to bed, all of you.”
Crabbe went back to his flat, much disturbed. He poured himself a large whisky and sat for a time, smoking, looking at the pamphlet. The big garish ideograms on the cover meant nothing to him. He would ask Lee, the mathematics master, what the contents were. But he was certain that Boothby would do nothing. He was also certain that other indoctrination sessions were being held in the other houses. Indoctrination meant victimisation. Also there was the big public school tradition of not sneaking.
He strolled restlessly about the big living-room, stopping at last to examine the titles of books behind the smeared glass of the standard-pattern bookcase. Some of the books dated from his university days—poets like Auden and Spender, novels by Upward, Dos Passos, André Malraux. In those days he had himself for a time been a Communist; it was the thing to be, especially at the time of the Spanish War. He remembered the loose-mouthed student of engineering who had the complete works of Lenin and was glib in his application of Dialectical Materialism to all human functions—drinking, lovemaking, films, literature. He remembered the girls who swore and chain-smoked and cultivated a deliberate lack of allure, the parties where he met them, the songs they sang at the parties:
“Three, three, the Comintern.
Two, two, the opposites,
Interpenetrating though.
One is Workers’ Unity
And evermore shall be so.”
Those memories now had the smell of old apples, they were a dried pressed flower. Were these boys the same as he had been, fired with an adolescent desire really to reform the world, as little to be taken seriously? Shiu Hung was a good student of History. Crabbe wanted him to go to England, to read for a degree there. He had a future before him. Did he really see the ambushes, the eviscerations, the beheadings of the innocent as a wholesome and necessary step to the fulfilment of a freer and happier East? Or did he, young as he was, know what power was and desire it?
Crabbe heard a car singing in a rising scale round the bend of the long drive. His watch said nearly twelve. The car stopped in the porch, he heard brief words and a slammed door, then the car was off again, singing down the riverside road that led to the town. He heard Fenella mounting the stairs. He went to the door to meet her.
“Hallo, darling,” he said. She seemed flushed and happy, the afternoon’s quarrel forgotten. “Here I am,” she said. They kissed.
“Was it a good film?”
“Well.” She went ahead of him into the living-room. “Let me have a drink first. Wake up Ibrahim and ask him to fetch some ice.”
“Ibrahim’s not back yet. He too went to the cinema.”
“Never mind. This water seems cold enough.” She sat down with a flop of languor and drank some diluted gin.
“Well,” she said. “It’s rather a long story. We never got to Timah.”
“Never got there?”
“Do you know anything about this driver, What’s-his-name Khan?”
“Nothing. Why?”
“Well, we broke down on the road. At least, he said we’d broken down. He managed to drive the car into one of the estates—conveniently near, I thought, a bit too convenient. Admittedly the car was coughing a bit, but I think we could have got to Timah. He said he knew some of the Special Constables there and also the estate driver. He said he could get the car repaired.”
“He spoke in English?”
“No, Malay. But I could follow him. I really must get down to learning the language, Vic. It’s silly not to know Malay when you’re living in Malaya.”
“Really, my dear. This is quite a new note.”
“Well, actually, there was a lot I wanted to find out tonight, but nobody spoke English. Everybody knew some Malay.”
“What did you want to find out?”
“Oh, it’s a long, long story. We went to this estate and there was a sort of party going on. It was mostly Tamils. There seemed to be some sort of religious ceremony, but it wasn’t really religious either. The most incredible things. You’ve no idea.”
“Such as?”
“Well, some of them walked in their bare feet on broken glass and others stuck knives into their cheeks, and one man swallowed a sword. And they sang songs. And we had a foul-smelling drink called toddy.”
“Ah.”
“Have you ever drunk it?”
“Yes, a little.”
“Well, it’s all right if you hold your nose. It’s quite intoxicating in a gentle sort of way.”
“That’s true.”
“I had quite a lot of that. They kept handing it round. Really, the whole evening was most interesting. Like something out of The Golden Bough.”
“But you missed the film.”
“Yes, I missed the film. Still, I never much fancied The Battleship Potemkin, really. But I mustn’t miss the next one.”
Just before she went to sleep Fenella said, “You know, that Khan man, the driver, is rather nice really. Very attentive. I only wish I could understand what he’s saying to me. It all sounds quite complimentary. This is like something in a novel, isn’t it?” she added. “Like one of those cheap novels about Cairo and what-not.” She giggled a little and then swam off into sleep, snoring very faintly.
While she slept happily two men were happily awake. One was Alladad Khan. He swelled with pride as he took off his shirt before the mirror. He flexed his muscles and examined his teeth. He tried various facial poses, ending with a lascivious leer which, he realised, did not really suit him. He recomposed his face to a quiet dignity much more becoming a Khan. Then to the mirror he spoke some words of English. “Beautiful,” he said. He sought for an adverb to go with it. “Bloody beautiful,” he said. Tomorrow he must borrow that little book from Hari Singh. Then he turned to his wife’s photograph and sneered dramatically at the strong long nose and the confident arm leaning on his own new-married image. “Silly bastard,” he said. “Bloody liar.” Then, satisfied, he got into bed.
He lay smoking a last cigarette. Smoking in bed was forbidden by his wife, because once he had burnt the sheet. His wife was not here to enforce the law, but, Allah, she would soon be back, complete with a squalling baby. When she returned he would assert his manhood a bit more. Any further mention of her brother and he would use rude language. He might even strike her gently, though hitting a woman was not conduct befitting a Khan.
Tida’ apa.
Mrs. Crabbe had, he thought, been given a very good evening, and it had cost nothing. At first she had been frightened, but a pint or so of fresh toddy had soon made that pass. His friends, he thought, had behaved very well. They had neither belched nor spat excessively. They had smiled frequently and encouragingly. She had obviously been interested in the things she had seen. It was a good thing she had not been able to understand the songs she had heard.
Next time he would make the car break down near a kedai, one of the more refined kedais where ice was obtainable. There they could have a good long talk. By then he should know a little English.
“Bloody good,” he said. Then, content, he turned towards the wall and addressed himself to sleep.
The other happy man was Nabby Adams. Old Robin Hood had brought him to Penang. There was to be a conference of Contingent Transport Officers at Butterworth the next day, and Hood needed Nabby Adams’s technical advice. Nabby Adams was now sitting in a rather high-class kedai, doing very nicely indeed.
Nabby Adams had arrived in Penang with two dollars. Hood had given him the money for a hotel room but nothing for expenses. The two dollars had to be husbanded carefully. First, a bottle for breakfast had to be bought. This bottle had been bought and then stored carefully in the same cupboard as the chamber-pot. This left one dollar for the evening, one dollar to taste the varied pleasures of a civilised city that has been called the Pearl of the Orient.
Nabby Adams had entered a kedai and ordered himself a small bottle of Anchor. Now, it normally happens that when one has much money in one’s pockets that is the time when other drinkers, even strangers, are at their most generous. When one has nothing nothing will come of nothing. On this occasion things went differently. A Chinese jeweller had said, “A drink for the police-lieutenant. It is they who are clearing this country of Communist scum.” Nabby Adams had been bought a large bottle of Tiger. He protested that he had no money to return this generosity. He had been told that that was no matter, that nothing was too good for police-lieutenants. Soon friends of the Chinese jeweller came in and were greeted warmly by the Chinese jeweller. They too were appreciative of expatriate police-lieutenants and they too bought him large bottles of Tiger. It was not long before Nabby Adams had eight unopened large bottles of Tiger on the table before him. Then somebody had said, “The police-lieutenant is drinking very slowly.”
Somebody had said, “Too slowly.”
Somebody had suggested, “Perhaps if the police-lieutenant had a brandy before each bottle of beer it would help him to get them down.”
This was thought to be a good idea. Soon eight glasses of brandy appeared on the table. They helped the beer down considerably. And now Nabby Adams was speaking rapid Urdu to a couple of Bengali business-men who frequently nodded gravely in agreement. Occasionally the Chinese jeweller would sway over to the table and shout:
“More drink for the police-lieutenant. It is only fitting that they should be repaid for their bravery.”
It was, joking on one side, the best bloody evening that Nabby Adams had had for a long time.
Meanwhile Victor Crabbe was dreaming. He was in Boothby’s office. This office expanded and contracted like a huge yawning mouth. Boothby was sitting in his chair with Rahimah on his knee. Rahimah was evidently very fond of Boothby for she kissed him frequently, even when he was yawning. Boothby was glancing through a Chinese pamphlet, saying, “If you’d been in this Federation as long as me you’d be able to read this language. All it says is that terrorist activities must be intensified, especially in this School. That’s your trouble, Crabbe, you’re inexperienced. You can’t take orders, you can’t exercise discipline, the boys laugh at you behind your back.”
On a ledge, high up near the ceiling, Fenella lay languidly, saying, “Oh, darling, I’m so happy, so happy.” Boothby said, “All right, boys, give him a joy-ride.” The Chief Clerk and the two peons came in, wearing caps marked with the bintang tiga, the three stars. They bundled him into a smart Abelard, into the driving-seat, and said, “You’re on your own.” But he was not on his own. The muffled figure in the passenger-seat said, “Oh, darling, I’m so happy, so happy.” Over the bridge-fence they went. “Who ever heard of ice in Malaya?” yawned Boothby. Nabby Adams said, “I can’t abide it cold.” Over they went, into the dark January waters.