most
explosive, both literally and politically,” Tommy Lee said glibly. “The
Europeans still here are detached, and although colonialism was never an issue
here, it is used to trigger a few atrocities, Mr. Durell, in the name of merdeka —freedom. Most of the Western
consulates are run these days by a skeleton force only, and European and
American branch business offices are all practically deserted, since most of
their personnel have left for ‘extended vacations’ until the dust settles.”
“You’re well-informed, Tommy.”
“It is my business to be, sir. And I still think it would be
wisest if you stayed at the consulate."
“No, I’ve chosen my bed, and I’ll sleep in it.”
“Peacefully, I trust,” the Chinese murmured.
Durell found only one wrong note on the drive, and that
dealt with a remark about Dendang, or Fishtown. They were halted for a
troop-carrier convoy, burdened with solemn brown men under big helmets. Dusk
was imminent. At the same moment, grenades exploded with a muffled crumping
noise a few blocks away, but the site was invisible under the old banyan trees
that lined the road. The people at the sidewalk stalls, selling or buying egg
noodles, bananas, batik, hammered brass from India and carved sawo wood images from Bali, seemed
undisturbed either by the troops or the explosions. Traffic waited patiently
for the convoy to pass. A crowd of Malays gathered around a cockfight in
a dusty alley nearby never paused in their heated gambling.
Against the loom of the ancient Portuguese fortress on the
waterfront, Durell glimpsed a maze of waterfront alleys, mat huts, sampans,
Dyak long houses, Chinese tearooms and Moslem prayer houses all built in a
rickety nightmare of alleys and canals over the fetid harbor water. He asked
Lee if that was Fishtown, run by Prince Ch’ing, and Tommy Lee's smile was quick
and nervous.
“Oh, you have heard of our local ogre? Ch’ing is the
favorite whipping boy for every bad thing that happens in this part of Borneo.”
The big, pleasant young Chinese seemed defensive and
embarrassed, and Durell thought it odd. He filed the item away for future
reference as the car swung ahead and they sped up a wide boulevard lined with
pleasant, stuccoed villas smothered with oleanders,
frangipani, palms and bamboo hedges. Some of these houses were privately
guarded by armed men. There was a padang , or square, on this headland forming the north shore
of Pandakan Bay, lined with some public buildings—the Indian-style Hotel des
Indes, with its ornate fretwork and towers, opposite a mosque and a sidewalk
café and a modern sugar cube of a hospital—all fronting on the green padang that was
equipped with a Victorian, gingerbread bandstand under a gilded Moorish cupola.
“Drop me off at the hotel, quietly,” Durell said. “Is that
the Pandakan Hospital, by the way?”
“Yes, sir. I understand you may wish to visit the Papuan
schoonerman named Simon." Tommy’s smile flashed big, white teeth.
"Dr. Malachy McLeod mentioned it before he left for Tarakuta.”
“I see. How is Simon doing?”
“He is on the critical list, sir. If I can assist you—”
“Don’t worry, Tommy, I’ll be calling on you.”
There was no sign of tension in this Western oasis perched
on the breezy hill overlooking the bay. The cafes were crowded and the height
of land yielded a relatively cool breeze that rang melodiously with the scores
of bicycle bells and betjas sweeping around the padang .
A Malay boy took Durell’s grip and vanished with it into the high, cool
fret-work of the enormous lobby of the Hotel des Indes. Durell felt hot and
gritty from the long trip, as if he had been traveling forever; and it had not
been a restful flight shared with Willi Panapura. He longed for a cool
tub, a tall bourbon, and a. good meal, if one was available.
He sent Tommy Lee on with instructions to notify Dr. McLeod
he had arrived, if contact with Tarakuta was possible, and then followed
explosive, both literally and politically,” Tommy Lee said glibly. “The
Europeans still here are detached, and although colonialism was never an issue
here, it is used to trigger a few atrocities, Mr. Durell, in the name of merdeka —freedom. Most of the Western
consulates are run these days by a skeleton force only, and European and
American branch business offices are all practically deserted, since most of
their personnel have left for ‘extended vacations’ until the dust settles.”
“You’re well-informed, Tommy.”
“It is my business to be, sir. And I still think it would be
wisest if you stayed at the consulate."
“No, I’ve chosen my bed, and I’ll sleep in it.”
“Peacefully, I trust,” the Chinese murmured.
Durell found only one wrong note on the drive, and that
dealt with a remark about Dendang, or Fishtown. They were halted for a
troop-carrier convoy, burdened with solemn brown men under big helmets. Dusk
was imminent. At the same moment, grenades exploded with a muffled crumping
noise a few blocks away, but the site was invisible under the old banyan trees
that lined the road. The people at the sidewalk stalls, selling or buying egg
noodles, bananas, batik, hammered brass from India and carved sawo wood images from Bali, seemed
undisturbed either by the troops or the explosions. Traffic waited patiently
for the convoy to pass. A crowd of Malays gathered around a cockfight in
a dusty alley nearby never paused in their heated gambling.
Against the loom of the ancient Portuguese fortress on the
waterfront, Durell glimpsed a maze of waterfront alleys, mat huts, sampans,
Dyak long houses, Chinese tearooms and Moslem prayer houses all built in a
rickety nightmare of alleys and canals over the fetid harbor water. He asked
Lee if that was Fishtown, run by Prince Ch’ing, and Tommy Lee's smile was quick
and nervous.
“Oh, you have heard of our local ogre? Ch’ing is the
favorite whipping boy for every bad thing that happens in this part of Borneo.”
The big, pleasant young Chinese seemed defensive and
embarrassed, and Durell thought it odd. He filed the item away for future
reference as the car swung ahead and they sped up a wide boulevard lined with
pleasant, stuccoed villas smothered with oleanders,
frangipani, palms and bamboo hedges. Some of these houses were privately
guarded by armed men. There was a padang , or square, on this headland forming the north shore
of Pandakan Bay, lined with some public buildings—the Indian-style Hotel des
Indes, with its ornate fretwork and towers, opposite a mosque and a sidewalk
café and a modern sugar cube of a hospital—all fronting on the green padang that was
equipped with a Victorian, gingerbread bandstand under a gilded Moorish cupola.
“Drop me off at the hotel, quietly,” Durell said. “Is that
the Pandakan Hospital, by the way?”
“Yes, sir. I understand you may wish to visit the Papuan
schoonerman named Simon." Tommy’s smile flashed big, white teeth.
"Dr. Malachy McLeod mentioned it before he left for Tarakuta.”
“I see. How is Simon doing?”
“He is on the critical list, sir. If I can assist you—”
“Don’t worry, Tommy, I’ll be calling on you.”
There was no sign of tension in this Western oasis perched
on the breezy hill overlooking the bay. The cafes were crowded and the height
of land yielded a relatively cool breeze that rang melodiously with the scores
of bicycle bells and betjas sweeping around the padang .
A Malay boy took Durell’s grip and vanished with it into the high, cool
fret-work of the enormous lobby of the Hotel des Indes. Durell felt hot and
gritty from the long trip, as if he had been traveling forever; and it had not
been a restful flight shared with Willi Panapura. He longed for a cool
tub, a tall bourbon, and a. good meal, if one was available.
He sent Tommy Lee on with instructions to notify Dr. McLeod
he had arrived, if contact with Tarakuta was possible, and then followed
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