King Rat (20 page)

“I thank thee, Tuan Sutra. It is a gift that I cannot thank thee enough for. I am the thousands of Changi.”

“I beg thee protect us here. If a guard sees thee, bury it in the jungle. My village is in thy hands.”

“Do not fear. I will guard it with my life.”

“I believe thee. But perhaps this is a foolish thing to do.”

“There are times, Tuan Sutra, when I truly believe men are only fools.”

“Thou art wise beyond thy years.”

Sutra gave him a piece of material to cover it, then they returned to the main room. Sulina was in the shadows on the veranda. As they entered she got up.

“May I get thee food or drink, Father?”

Wah-lah, thought Sutra grumpily, she asks me but she means him. “No. Get thee to bed.”

Sulina tossed her head prettily but obeyed.

“My daughter deserves a whipping, I think.”

“It would be a pity to blemish such a delicate thing,” Peter Marlowe said. “Tuan Abu used to say, ‘Beat a woman at least once a week and thou wilt have peace in thy house. But do not beat her too hard, lest thou anger her, for then she will surely beat thee back and hurt thee greatly!’”

“I know the saying. It is surely true. Women are beyond comprehension.”

They talked about many things, squatting on the veranda looking at the sea. The surf was very slight, and Peter Marlowe asked permission to swim.

“There are no currents,” the old Malay told him, “but sometimes there are sharks.”

“I will take care.”

“Swim only in the shadows near the boats. There have been times when Japanese walk along the shore. There is a gun emplacement three miles down the beach. Keep thy eyes open.”

“I will take care.”

Peter Marlowe kept to the shadows as he made for the boats. The moon was lowering in the sky. Not too much time, he thought.

By the boats some men and women were preparing and repairing nets, chatting and laughing one to another. They paid no attention to Peter Marlowe as he undressed and walked into the sea.

The water was warm, but there were cold pockets, as in all the Eastern seas, and he found one and tried to stay in it. The feeling of freedom was glorious, and it was almost as though he was a small boy again taking a midnight swim in the Southsea with his father nearby shouting, “Don’t go out too far, Peter! Remember the currents!”

He swam underwater and his skin drank the salt-chemic. When he surfaced, he spouted water like a whale and swam lazily for the shallows, where he lay on his back, washed by the surf, and exalted in his freedom.

As he kicked his legs at the surf half swirling his loins, it suddenly struck him that he was quite naked and there were men and women within twenty yards of him. But he felt no embarrassment.

Nakedness had become a way of life in the camp. And the months that he had spent in the village in Java had taught him that there was no shame in being a human being with wants and needs.

The sensual warmth of the sea playing on him, and the rich warmth of the food within him, fired his loins into sudden heat. He turned over abruptly on his belly and pushed, himself back into the sea, hiding.

He stood on the sandy bottom, the water up to his neck, and looked back at the shore and the village. The men and women were still busy repairing their nets. He could see Sutra on the veranda of his hut, smoking in the shadows. Then, to one side, he saw Sulina, caught in the light from the oil lamp, leaning on the window frame. Her sarong was half held against her and she was looking out to sea.

He knew she was looking at him and he wondered, shamed, if she had seen. He watched her and she watched him. Then he saw her take away the sarong and lay it down and pick up a clean white towel to dry the sweat that sheened her body.

She was a child of the sun and a child of the rain. Her long dark hair hid most of her, but she moved it until it caressed her back and she began to braid it. And all the time she watched him, smiling.

Then, suddenly, every flicker of current was a caress, every touch of breeze a caress, every thread of seaweed a caress- fingers of courtesans, crafty with centuries of learning.

I’m going to take you, Sulina.

I’m going to take you, whatever the cost.

He tried to will Sultra to leave the veranda. Sulina watched. And waited. Impatient as he.

I’m going to take her, Sutra. Don’t get in my way! Don’t. Or by God…

He did not see the King approaching the shadows or notice him stop with surprise when he saw him lying on his belly in the shallows.

“Hey, Peter. Peter!”

Hearing the voice through the fog, Peter Marlowe turned his head slowly and saw the King beckoning to him.

“Peter, c’mon. It’s time to beat it.”

Seeing the King, he remembered the camp and the wire and the radio and the diamond and the camp and the war and the camp and the radio and the guard they had to pass and would they get back in time and what was the news and how happy Mac would be with the three hundred microfarads and the spare radio that worked. The man-heat vanished. But the pain remained.

He stood up and walked for his clothes.

“You got a nerve,” the King said.

“Why?”

“Walking about like that. Can’t you see Sutra’s girl looking at you?”

“She’s seen plenty of men without clothes and there’s nothing wrong with that.” Without the heat there was no nakedness.

“Sometimes I don’t understand you. Where’s your modesty?”

“Lost that a long time ago.” He dressed quickly and joined the King in the shadows. His loins ached violently. “I’m glad you came along when you did. Thanks.”

“Why?”

“Oh, nothing.”

“You scared I’d forgotten you?”

Peter Marlowe shook his head. “No. Forget it. But thanks.”

The King studied him, then shrugged. “C’mon. We can make it easy now.” He led the way past Sutra’s hut and waved. “Salamat.”

“Wait, Rajah. Won’t be a second!”

Peter Marlowe ran up the stairs and into the hut. The radio was still there. Holding it under his arm, wrapped in the cloth, he bowed to Sutra.

“I thank thee. It is in good hands.”

“Go with god.” Sutra hesitated, then smiled. “Guard thy eyes, my son. Lest when there is food for them, thou canst not eat.”

“I will remember.” Peter Marlowe felt suddenly hot. I wonder if the stories are true, that the ancients can read thoughts from time to time. “I thank thee. Peace be upon thee.”

“Peace be upon thee until our next meeting.”

Peter Marlowe turned and left. Sulina was at her window as they passed underneath it. Her sarong covered her now. Their eyes met and caught and a compact was given and received and returned. She watched as they shadowed up the rise towards the jungle and she sent her safe wishes on them until they disappeared.

Sutra sighed, then noiselessly went into Sulina’s room. She was standing at the window dreamily, her sarong around her shoulders. Sutra had a thin bamboo in his hands and he cut her neatly and hard, but not too hard, across her bare buttocks.

“That is for tempting the Englishman when I had not told thee to tempt him,” he said, trying to sound very angry.

“Yes, Father,” she whimpered, and each sob was a knife in his heart. But when she was alone, she curled luxuriously on the mattress and let the tears roll a little, enjoying them. And the heat spread through her, helped by the sting of the blow.

When they were about a mile from the camp, the King and Peter Marlowe stopped for a breather. It was then that the King noticed for the first time the small bundle wrapped in cloth.

He had been leading the way, and so concentrated had he been on the success of the night’s work, and so watchful of the darkness against possible danger, that he had not noticed it before.

“What you got? Extra chow?”

He watched while Peter Marlowe grinned and proudly unwrapped the cloth. “Surprise!”

The King’s heart missed six beats.

“Why, you goddam son of a bitchl Are you out of your skull?”

“What’s the matter?” Peter Marlowe asked, flabbergasted.

“Are you crazy? That’ll land us in more trouble than hell knows what. You got no right to risk our necks over a goddam radio. You got no right to use my contacts for your own goddam business.”

Peter Marlowe felt the night close in on him as he stared unbelievingly. Then he said, “I didn’t mean any harm —“

“Why, you goddam son of a bitch!” the King raged. “Radios are poison.”

“But there isn’t one in the camp —“

“Tough. You get rid of that goddam thing right now. And I’ll tell you something else. We’re finished. You and me. You got no right to get me mixed in something without telling me. I ought to kick the shit outta you!”

“Try it.” Now Peter Marlowe was angry and raw, as raw as the King. “You seem to forget there’s a war on and there’s no wireless in the camp. One reason I came was because I hoped I might be able to get a condenser. But now I’ve a whole wireless — and it works.”

“Get rid of it!”

“No.”

The two men faced each other, taut and inflexible. For a split second the King readied to cut Peter Marlowe to pieces.

But the King knew anger was of no value when an important decision had to be made, and now that he had gotten over the first nauseating shock, he could be critical and analyze the situation.

First, he had to admit that although it had been bad business to risk so much, the risk had been successful. If Sutra hadn’t been good and ready to give Pete the radio he’d’ve ducked the issue and said, “Hell, there’s no radio hereabouts.” So no harm was done. And it had been a private deal between Pete and Sutra ‘cause Cheng San had already left.

Second, a radio that he knew about and one that wasn’t in his hut would be more than useful. He could keep tabs on the situation and he’d know exactly when to make the break. So, all in all, there was no harm done — except that Peter had exceeded his authority. Now take that. If you trust a guy and hire him, you hire his brains. No point in having a guy around just to take orders and sit on his can. And Peter had sure been great during the negotiations. If and when the break came, well, Peter would be on the team. Got to have a guy to talk the lingo. Yeah, and Pete wasn’t scared. So all in all, the King knew he’d be crazy to rip into him before his mind told him to use the new situation in a businesslike way. Yep, he had blown his stack like a two-year-old.

“Pete.” He saw the challenging set to Peter Marlowe’s jaw. Wonder if I could take the son of a bitch. Sure. Got him by fifty — maybe eighty pounds.

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry I blew my stack. The radio’s a good idea.”

“What?”

“I just said I was sorry. It’s a great idea.”

“I don’t understand you,” Peter Marlowe said helplessly. “One moment you’re a crazy man and the next you’re saying that it’s a good idea.”

The King liked this son of a bitch. Got guts. “Eh, radios give me the creeps, no future in them.” Then he laughed softly. “No resale value!”

“You’re really not fed up with me any more?”

“Hell no. We’re buddies.” He punched him playfully. “I was just put out that you didn’t tell me. That wasn’t good.”

“I’m sorry. You’re right. I apologize. It was ridiculous and unfair. Christ, I wouldn’t want to jeopardize you in any way. Truly I’m sorry.”

“Shake. I’m sorry I blew my stack. But next time, tell me before you do anything.”

Peter Marlowe shook his hand. “My word on it.”

“Good enough.” Well, thank God there was no sweat now. “So what the hell do you mean by condenser?”

Peter Marlowe told him about the three water bottles.

“So all Mac needs is the one condenser, right?”

“He said he thinks so.”

“You know what I think? I think it’d be better just to take out the condenser and dump the radio. Bury it here. It’d be safe. Then if yours doesn’t work we could always come back and get it. Mac could easily put the condenser back. To hide this radio in the camp’d be real tough, and it’d be a helluva temptation just to plug the goddam thing in, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes.” Peter Marlowe looked at the King searchingly. “You’ll come back with me to get it?”

“Sure.”

“If — for any reason — I can’t come back, would you come for it? If Mac or Larkin asked you to?”

The King thought a moment. “Sure.”

“Your word?”

“Yes.” The King smiled faintly. “You put quite a store by the ‘word’ jazz, don’t you, Peter?”

“How else can you judge a man?”

It took Peter Marlowe only a moment to snap the two wires joining the condenser to the innards of the radio. Another minute and the radio was wrapped in its protective cloth and a small hole scraped away in the jungle earth. They put a flat stone on the bottom of the hole, then covered the radio with a good thickness of leaves and smoothed the earth back and pulled a tree trunk over the spot. A couple of weeks in the dampness of its tomb would destroy its usefulness, but two weeks would be enough time to come back and pick it up if the bottles still didn’t work.

Peter Marlowe wiped the sweat away, for a sudden layer of heat had settled on them and the sweat smell frenzied the increasing waves of insects clouding them. “These blasted bugs!” He looked up at the night sky, judging the time a little nervously. “Do you think we’d better go on now?”

“Not yet. It’s only four-fifteen. Our best time is just before dawn. We’d better wait another ten minutes, then we’ll be in position in plenty of time.” He grinned. “First time I went through the wire I was scared and anxious too. Coming back I had to wait at the wire. I had to wait half an hour or more before the coast was clear. Jesus! I sweated.” He waved his hands at the insects. “Goddam bugs.”

They sat awhile listening to the constant movement of the jungle. Swaths of fireflies cut patches of brilliance in the small rain ditches beside the path.

“Just like Broadway at night,” said the King.

“I saw a film once called Times Square. It was a newspaper yarn. Let me see. I think it was Cagney.”

“Don’t remember that one. But Broadway, you got to see it for real. It’s just like day in the middle of the night. Huge neon signs and lights all over the place.”

“Is that your home? New York?”