East of Suez (7 page)

“Should I make my arrangements now?” I reached for my passport and wallet with its credit cards.

“You may make all of the arrangements now, Mr …”

“Cooperman.” I presented my passport.

“You are not an American?” He said this with mild surprise.

“No, I’m from Canada. As you see. Lots of people have to wait for the give-away words like ‘doubt’ and ‘about.’”

“I have a degree in engineering from the University of British Columbia. I know western and central Canada very well. My name is Henry Saesui, Mr Cooperman. And I will see to all the arrangements for your visit to the reef. May I suggest the morning trip? That avoids the worst of the heat. You’ll want to get a strong sunblock for your arms, face, and neck, Mr Cooperman.”

“How early is early, Mr Saesui?” I know he had told me, but my mind had not retained the information.

“The dive boat leaves the jetty promptly at seven-thirty. I hope that will not be too matutinal for you?”

“Oh
no
,” I lied. “Just matutinal enough.” One thing about having a flawed memory is that I’d quickly forgotten the rude awakening that was in store for me.

“You must arise with the sun if you are to discover our country as Sir Stamford did.”

“Who?”

“Sir Stamford Raffles, you know.”

“I’m going to read up on
him
.”

“Have you gone scuba diving before, Mr Cooperman?”

“I’ve done some snorkeling in fresh water. A few years ago, I did a short open-water course on underwater equipment down in Florida. I’ve brought my certificate and log with me.”

“Excellent!” My papers fell into well-worn fragments as he tried to unfold them. The wear came over time when I carried some of the papers along with other things in my wallet, just in case I got lucky. “You are an experienced diver. I haven’t seen papers like these in some time.”

“I’ve always wanted to do the real thing at a place like this,” I said, to cover my embarrassment as I repacked the tattered papers into my wallet.

“You will be wanting to rent equipment from us then?” I had misjudged his interest in my experience. It was just a way to get on with his checklist of questions.

Mr Saesui handed me my passport back with a slight smile, adding: “We will expect your arrival soon after seven-fifteen on Wednesday morning, Mr Cooperman. I’m sure you will be able to arrange a taxi through your hotel.”

These times were so early in the day as to be abstractions. I nodded, then remembered: “You’ll want a deposit, won’t you?”

“In your case, Mr Cooperman, that will not be necessary.”

“Oh, I just remembered something.” A frown replaced the smile on his face for a moment, then the smile returned. I pointed over my shoulder behind me. “Up the hill, on the road down here, we passed a beached freighter sticking out into the street. Can you—?”

“Tsunami,” he said. As though that explained everything.

“That’s what my driver said. What does the word mean?”

“Tsunami is a tidal wave. Nothing to do with tides, of course. It came from an underwater eruption near Sumatra last year. Many people were killed. We had to rebuild much of the waterfront. Meanwhile, there are a dozen families living in the hull up the road, even while they are cutting it up for scrap.”

“Of course, I remember now. I’m sorry.”

After a short pause, a reluctance to move on from so many deaths, back to business. He led me through a long, narrow corridor to a shed, backed up against the hill. A high concrete wall was crumbling, probably from the constant pressure of the hill rising up behind. Mr Saesui turned me over to a young clerk, a darker local man by the look of him, named Ho. He brought out various bits of gear for me to try on: there were rubber flippers, rubber pants, and a similar top. Then there were weights and the Aqua-Lung itself. Ho smiled a lot, but was patient with me as I tried on one item after the other. In the end, he handed me some lead weights and two regulators: one for going and the other for coming, I guessed. His next gift to me was a “rashi.” I think that’s what he called it. From what I collected from his miming I grasped that it was to ward off some of the nastier samples of wildlife that try to sting the exposed lower neck. I caught what sounded like “jellyfish” in there someplace. I almost turned around and headed for home.

Ho’s English was as limited as my French, but we managed the whole process in less than half an hour, during which time I was offered Chinese tea in a small cup without a handle. Such refinements will come later on, I figured. A fellow worker came by with a Coke and seemed to argue with Ho about closing down the shop that night.

Mr Saesui himself showed me out when I had done. “When you come here on Wednesday, please go to the west building. The office on the water, across the street. You needn’t come here again. Until then, Mr Cooperman.”

I found my way back to the seafront. Suddenly the air was thick with the cry “Taxi!” in a score of different accents and inflections. I shook my head, waved them away, and looked at the small craft tied up at the docks and others making their way out to the open sea. The odor of seaweed was rank on the air. It cut into my sense of smell, where, after the first shock, it lingered pleasantly. Mingled with this were other smells: tar, oakum, iodine, and dead fish. The sounds of shorebirds mingled with those of small motors and shouts from along the waterfront. The steady boom-boom of four-stroke engines reminded me of a long-ago trip to the harbor at Pugwash, Nova Scotia, where I first heard them.

After filling my senses for twenty minutes or so with local color, I decided I needed to find transportation back to the upper town. Even as I did this, I promised myself a return journey. The shore seemed to be what this place was all about; the rest of the town that I’d seen so far looked like it could be anywhere. Another look was needed.

I flagged down a proper four-door cab just unloading a fare and directed him to the part of town where I might expect to meet my clerical friend. I found the address in my Memory Book. Settling into the back seat, I felt the lift I get when I’ve managed things satisfactorily. My recent need to write things down instead of depending upon my memory had begun to convert me into a more efficient person. While all reading was difficult, my own writing was still decipherable. As long as nobody rushed me. I leaned back into the seat and watched the sights as we climbed the hill away from the water.

FIVE

THE TAXI DRIVER
dropped me in a teeming traffic circle in the middle of the Old Town. He’d followed Ex-Charpentier Avenue to where a plateau of flat ground calmed traffic and formed an oasis from the steady run up from the harbor. After taking my money from me with a bow, the driver waved his arm to introduce me to Ex-Berlioz Square, as though he were making me a present of it.

There were café tables here and there under awnings and shade trees. I saw more Western men and women here than anywhere since the airport. Here the traffic was thick with bicycles and various two- and three-wheeled scooters. I saw a sidewalk café with people sitting at tables dangerously close to the edge of the road. Illegally parked cars were the buffer. Were the customers trying to imitate pictures of Paris in the 1920s? They bent heads together over the small round tables and were dressed in current fashions. Most of the men had briefcases either beside them or on the tables. Nearby, a large cinema was featuring a movie that had been playing in Grantham when I left town. The front of the theater had been made to look like a cave, with stalactites and stalagmites. They supported a triangular sculpture built of smaller triangles. What this had to do with caves, I never found out. A small store near a corner had a display of out-of-town newspapers outside its window, hanging in a frame. I recognized three banks as well as an enormous church with cupolas at the top, catching the light like silver foil. This was obviously the place to be in Takot, the business and social hub of the city. My mouth began watering for a chopped-egg sandwich.

“Mr Cooperman!” I heard the cry from across the street, where I hadn’t noticed another café. This one, like the other cafés with terraces, had the same imported look. My priestly friend was sitting with a stranger under an awning at a tiny table. I waved and began crossing the street. Father O’Mahannay was wearing a dark cassock with a broadbrimmed hat. He looked spread out, as if occupying two or three chairs at once. His companion, a sallow little man with thick glasses and prominent magnified eyes, was clutching his briefcase to his body as though to protect his vitals from an expected fusillade.

“Hello!” I shouted as I waved, overjoyed at seeing a familiar face.

“Ah, Mr Cooperman!” he said with enthusiasm as I came up to the table. The sallow man moved to expose another chair. “You found us after all. My note forgot to mention that I can usually be found here when I’m not wanted back at the fadders’ fort.”

“The
what
?”

“When I was growing up, the young boys used to call it the ‘fathers’ fort,’ or, more accurately, the ‘fadders’ fort.’ I wonder whether it really was all that frightening.”

“I should write that down; I write down everything else.”

My new friend watched me play with my notebook. “Remarkable,” he said, shaking his head. “Remarkable.”

“Good afternoon, Father. I’m glad to see you again.” His reply was drowned out by a passing scooter. As I settled into the cane chair, he introduced his companion. “Mr Cooperman, this is my old friend, Billy Savitt. Billy’s visiting Takot like you, but he knows the city well from earlier visits.” Savitt gave me a smile and his card, the latter with a little bow. I said my how-do-you-do and shook his cold hand.

Funny how formal everybody was here. I have never been mistered so much in my life. Why were we all starting to sound like we were characters in Somerset Maugham or that other novelist who writes about people going to pieces in the tropics?

For a small hand, Savitt had a mighty grip. I rescued my fingers, smiled, and tuned in to what the priest was saying. “Billy, Mr Cooperman is from Canada. This is his first excursion into this part of the world. You might win a gold star in heaven if you’ll take him under your wing until he gets the hang of the place.”

“Royt you are. Well. I’ll troy to be useful,” Savitt said, sounding like London’s East End—at least, the way television and the movies represent East Enders. “Oy’ll show you where to get a salt beef sandwich on good rye bread. Best in this part of Asia. Can’t tell it from the Nosh Bar in Piccadilly, near the dear old Windmill.” I won’t try to reproduce Savitt’s accent further. He was easy enough to understand, once I’d bent my ear to the sound of his vowels. “You know London, Mr Cooperman?”

“Sorry. I’ve been there only in the movies. I’ve been a stay-at-home until this trip came up.”

“Business?” The question was direct, but he was smiling.

“Pleasure. Sun, surf, and sky, mostly, with a little sightseeing and gallery-hopping. I’ve put it off too long.”

“Nonsense, Cooperman! Have yourself a Bunbury.”

“A what?” I asked the priest.

“Never mind. It’s never too late,” said O’Mahannay.

“I’ll show you around a bit, if you like, Mr Cooperman. I’ve attended to most of my business; now I can easily spare the time before getting back to my kip.” Savitt was, I hate to say it, a ratty-looking little man with a sloping jaw and washed-out complexion. He was wearing a loose-fitting single-breasted suit made from lightweight tan polyester, his shirt was dripdry—and I was wool-gathering.

“That’s very kind of you,” I replied, rather more formally than I intended.

“Well, that’s settled then,” said O’Mahannay, clapping his small chubby hands together, like a bridge player picking up the last trick.

“You know, there’s a synagogue off Ex-Charles de Gaulle Avenue, not far from the fish market, just up the hill,” Savitt said, pointing over my shoulder.

“This whole city seems to be built on a hill.”

“The mountains are pushing us into the sea, my friend,” observed the priest. I was delighted to find that I’d had a similar thought. At the hotel, maybe. I was a quicker study than I’d ever suspected. “That’s why property in Takot is so dear. There’s not enough of it.”

“And what’s all this about Ex-Charles de Gaulle and Exwhat-was-it? The main street?”

“Ex-Charpentier Avenue? Ah, yes, you don’t know about the checkered history of this place, Mr Cooperman. The French clawed it away from both of its neighbors on the peninsula as soon as copper was discovered in the 1850s. It was a French colony until just after the Second World War. That was when the Glorious November Revolution happened, which restored the country to the locals. They renamed all of the streets after the fallen heroes of the War of Independence. Charpentier Avenue became Thong Suksun Street. And so on. But, with time, people relaxed and had to admit to themselves that as far as tourism is concerned, Charpentier is more easily remembered than Thong Suksun. ‘Ex-’ was the compromise that made it work. You’ll find that this is a great town for compromises, Mr Cooperman. Compromise makes the sun rise in the morning and compromise brings out the stars at night.”