My Life as a Fake (15 page)

All through the hot morning, he had interrupted his story to preen at himself, smoothing his close-shorn head, buttoning and unbuttoning the jacket of his new suit, fussing with his trousers until they were suitably loose across his sturdy knees. This suit, at first a rather touching novelty—which indeed gained him entry to the hotel—soon turned into a time-wasting distraction as he continually interrupted himself to worry at the motives of his benefactor. Time, of course, was getting very short. Today was the fourteenth. My meeting in London was on the nineteenth.

At lunch I took him out to eat beside the pool, but not even food could stop him fretting about John’s gift.

If Slater thinks I am angry because he slept with Noussette, he’s wrong.

You shouldn’t worry.

He could have saved his money, Mem. I am not the jealous type.

Certainly you were when—I hesitated, not knowing what to call the kidnapper, if indeed there was a kidnapper—when ‘McCorkle’ stole your daughter.

That was not
jealousy
, Mem. Jealousy is a little thing. I
had known this child for one awful week, but what I had seen was
life
.

His eyes—too big, too shiny—demanded my agreement.

I embarrass you, he said.

Of course not.

I must serve life, do you see?

But he did embarrass me, and irritate me too. I was stuck with transcribing this story when all I wanted was the rest of that damn poetry. Mr Chubb, I said. You remember the first day you came to the hotel, you brought McCorkle’s manuscript.

I see through you! He was suddenly, inexplicably delighted. You want to go straight to pudding. Look—you’re blushing. You think I don’t know what you want? Would you be listening to me now if you hadn’t read McCorkle? Here, he said, your pen is running dry. Take mine.

He continued—maliciously, I thought: I came straight to Malaya from Sumatra.

And I had no choice. ‘Sumatra, Malaya.’ I wrote it down.

There was a steamer, he continued coolly, from North Sumatra to Penang. Horrid.
Lord Jim
or even worse—all of the Malays crowded below the decks in this filthy, sweaty dark. They were village people, very kind to me even though I was in a frantic hurry and kept pushing that charcoal drawing on them. At first they had no clue, but when I got through to them they were very affected. By the time we docked at Swettenham Pier they all came to say goodbye, fifty of them, just to wish me luck. But what could I do? Now that I saw Penang I understood what I was up against. Needle in a haystack. Hopeless. I ended up in a hotel—lovely old colonial place with the waves crashing against the sea-wall at the back. Tall palms, Chinese waiters—five hundred years old in stiff white jackets—and the famous Albert Yeoh playing
‘Misty’ in the Anchor Bar. Would have been a perfect place to bring a pretty woman. But it was not an adult I was in love with, and with her not there I had no peace. So I wrote, on a wrought-iron table in the garden. It was agony like cutting words into your own chest, but finally I knew I was a poet.

I have been an editor long enough not to give a damn about how a poet looks or talks, but there was something weirdly persuasive about Christopher Chubb in full flight.

May I read those poems, I asked.

His head jerked up. Ha! You have already!

No, no, the ones you wrote in Penang.

You saw them.

What a horrid, twisted smile he gave me. So you
are
McCorkle, I said. You have hoaxed me!

This drew from him a strangled cry and then a queer convulsion—grabbing his head as if he wished to pull it down inside his ribs. Have you listened to
nothing?

I began to speak but he rudely cut me off.

If I could write McCorkle’s poem, do you think I would not claim it? No, you listen to me now. Do you imagine I would invent this pain? He thumped his chest. Who would want to feel like this?

I’m sorry, I must have been sitting here for rather too long.

Then you should understand, he said, and in his fury his mouth gave a nasty twitch. I am Chubb. He is McCorkle.

Frankly, that is a puzzle.

There is no bloody puzzle, can’t you see? I could never,
ever
, have made that poem. Can’t you imagine how hard that is to say?

So where else could I have read what you wrote in Penang?

Smirking, he took a letter from the inside pocket of his jacket and laid it on the table. Even from where I sat the handwriting was recognisably my own.

You rejected me in 1959. Perhaps you will reject McCorkle too?

I would hope, I said, not to miss my chance to judge.

Then you write down my story, miss. And we will see.

What choice did I have but to uncap his nasty little pen?

And at that very damn moment I saw John Slater making his way down the steps from the Pool Bar. As he skirted the pool he waved some airline tickets.

Go away, I thought. He did not know what he was interrupting. He threw the tickets on my lap.

All set for the eighteenth.

This is exactly what I had demanded, but I did not thank him. I wished only that he would go away. It appears, I said, that I have previously read Mr Chubb. Thus I’d hoped to impress him that this was a private conversation. Nonetheless, he pulled up a cane chair and parked himself between us.

She marked up your stuff, old man? Oh, Miss Wode-Douglass began that business
very
young. He patted my knee. I pushed his hand away and glared at him while he ordered Singapore Slings for all of us.

Micks, my darling, what was the name of your vitriolic little friend? Was it Annette?

Go away, John.

Do you know, Christopher, these two girls began correcting their betters at the ripe age of fourteen.

Don’t be a beast.

The mischief was making Slater’s complexion a healthier colour. He took an angel on horseback from the table, grinning rather wickedly. Beast? I’m being a bloody dormouse, darling. They used to mark up my poems, Christopher. Girls,
little slips of things. They would tear verses from my bloody books and send them to me covered with their comments.

Once, John.

At least ten times—and of course I forgave you, for all sorts of reasons. But I was bloody scared of you, Micks.

He gripped my hand and I was shocked to see, through the storm of my annoyance, that his eyes had suddenly filled with tears.

Chubb must have seen this too, and was already excusing himself. I took John’s hand, in fact burrowed my own inside his. It was impossible not to be aware of the old goat’s considerable affection, and it made me not embarrassed in the least, but somehow grubby and deceitful, to be carrying on this negotiation behind his back.

I never published a great poem, John.

He blinked. Where did that come from?

Nowhere. I’ve been thinking about it since we arrived.

Well, old darling, I’d have to say I never wrote a great poem.

Even now, when I think of this moment, I wish I could have brought myself to contradict him. Instead I kissed his hand. It was an awful thing to offer—sympathy.

It happened to slip out, after lunch, that Chubb’s lovely hotel in Penang was none other than the Eastern and Oriental, and I had to wonder why an impecunious poet would even think
of staying at the E&O, or ‘Eat and Owe’ as it was then known. I had not yet visited Penang, but the E&O was famous, like Raffles in Singapore, as a very pukka-sahib sort of place, once favoured by Residents, rajas, and those dreadful ‘Twickenham Duchesses’ who would gather on the lawn on Friday night to complain too loudly about their servants. While this type of establishment occasionally welcomes guests who arrive in something less than black tie—wealthy tin-miners, say, who have travelled by mule through the jungle in order to take tiffin in the long room—they are sure to have been perplexed by Chubb’s rather down-at-heel appearance, so I asked him how he had been received.

I had Australian pounds, he said sharply. There was some fuss with the exchange rate.

Whatever that was code for, I do not know. Certainly he was almost broke, and checking into the E&O was self-defeating. Had he wished to run out of money and therefore be permitted to give up his search? I suggested this to him. Who, I offered, would not understand his dilemma?

Don’t
tunjuk
, you, he snapped. Better you listen.

The morning after he arrived, he was shown to his breakfast table by a shabby, felt-covered screen which did nothing to muffle the continual slap and screech of the swinging kitchen door. His dining companion was a very dark-skinned Tamil who seemed violently offended by the food he was being offered.

Of course, said Chubb, we were in Siberia, isn’t it. I was beyond caring, Mem, but the Indian was in a state. They would not give him face. An educated man. Very sharp, clever tongue to him. He ticked off the waiters. Called in the maître d’, a Scot with thorny ginger eyebrows. Ticked him off as well, declared the scrambled eggs so bad they might have been served at Eton. Well, the Scot’s eyes looked like bloody
murder. He snatched the dish away, so fierce that half the meal fell on the floor.

I asked the Tamil, was this so?

Was what bloody so?

Did you go to Eton,
Tuan
?

It was not a silly question but you should’ve seen his lip curl.
Cheh! Was
I some kind of moron? No, he was a
cikgu
, a schoolmaster. Chemistry and Physics.

And you, he asked, bored rigid before I answered.

I told him I was attempting to find my kidnapped child.

The maître d’ arrived with more eggs, same vintage as the last, but the Tamil’s mood had changed completely. He pushed the plate aside and when he turned his head I saw his wall-eye—one eye on the pot, the other up the chimney, as the saying goes. He fixed the good eye on me, but perhaps it was the bad.

Glass falling on a rock, he said. You must be worried sick.

I had already been shown much sympathy but his injured beauty was particularly affecting, a badge of his own suffering. I liked him immediately, enormously.

When I placed the portrait of monster and child on the table, he stared at it, his brow twisted, nostril flared, then he placed a delicate hand upon my wrist. The rickshawallahs will help you, he said, much kindness in his voice. Talk to them, he said. A little tea money, that’s all.

Tea money?

A few dollars, small payment.

He was dressed exactly like a school teacher—closed coat, silver buttons, an array of pens and pencils in his pocket— but all I understood was the big gold watch worn loose like a bracelet on his wrist. Who could know what his idea of small payment might be? I told him my daughter might be dead already.

He crossed himself. I was not to say such things. He was very fierce, very definite, like someone accustomed to giving orders, also like a small bird with fixed ideas. He took out a pen and rapped McCorkle’s nose with it.

The rickshawallahs know every white man, he said, where they live, where they drink. They will be finding this fellow for you and we will get your daughter back. Take my word.

You see, Mem, I was being saved. But I did not dare believe my luck. Who was this man? His skin was black as coal. His eyes were crooked. My mother would have thought him marked by God, more wrong than just the eyes. Me, of course, she would have judged more harshly still. What blasphemy. I had made a life.

The Tamil poured himself a second cup of tea and as he squeezed the lemon he invited me to come and live with him. His mouth was very pink, a wicked edge to it. I thought, Whoa, Dobbin. Not for me, that business. But when I said no—my mother too, in chorus—his fine face appeared so hurt I felt a cad.

The house is free, he said, provided by the school. I am being at the E&O one night only, to let the roofers do their work.

Finally I understood he did not plan to bugger me.

We shall celebrate my new roof, he said.

When I did not immediately respond, he glared sideways at me as fierce as any kookaburra with one eye on a worm. Gal iron–
ah
.

You may not understand, Mem, what a gal-iron roof means to an Australian. All my childhood I lived under galvanised iron. Such peace, the lovely din of rain at night, it was home to me. Also, although I had my hopes of funding in the future, the dough was running very low.

I asked Chubb to explain his ‘funding’ and he admitted
he’d sent an E&O postcard to Noussette in which he had quoted from McCorkle’s horrid correspondence and repeated his belief that the child was still alive. Five hundred pounds was what he asked for.

I can pay no rent, he said to the Tamil.

My name is Kanagaratnam Chomley but you call me Mulaha or K.G. if you like. You must come with me and see your digs, and on the way I will talk to these rickshawallahs. Did you report the crime to the MPs?

Who?

Police.

No.

Good man, he said, but did not explain.

Chubb still did not know whether to trust him, but the two of them checked out of the E&O together, the diminutive K. G. Chomley all starch and spit and polish, Chubb slovenly in socks and sandals, short-sleeved shirt, pleated brown F.J. trousers made in Warrnambool, Victoria.
Seperti durian dengan mentimum
, Chubb told me, an unlikely pair, the durian and the cucumber.

On Farquhar Street they encountered the usual crowd of rickshawallahs, as loud and quarrelsome as seagulls in the offseason. This type of Asian scene had always alarmed Chubb, who now threw up his arms as if to shoo away the yellow hordes.

K. G. Chomley comfortably immersed himself in their sweaty, nicotine-stained midst and was soon talking in rough Hokkien with two old men in white singlets and ink-blue shorts. Money was passed. Chubb saw this and fretted about how much he owed.

Don’t worry, said Chomley, I spend you. Only tea money.

I wasn’t sure what this meant, Mem. His treat, or the opposite?

They saw your man, said Chomley.

Chubb’s pulse quickened.

Your daughter too, he said, taking the dazed Australian’s sleeve and pulling him out of the path of a blue Hin bus, and then urgently forward across Farquhar Street, where outside the Morris dealers he settled his Craven A into a long ivory holder.

Please, what has happened?

They were staying at Batu Ferringi, but they are in the jungle now.

Why would they do that?

The Tamil shrugged. Perhaps they are communists?

Are we going there now? To the jungle?

No, I am sending you to inspect my new roof.

Please, Mr Chomley, do not tease me.

The Tamil again lay his unnervingly feminine hand upon Chubb’s hairy wrist. Call me Mulaha, he said. Much friendlier.

Please call me Christopher.

Christopher! So saying, Mulaha grabbed hold of a snazzy bright-red Vespa which Chubb had somehow connected with the Morris dealers. Christopher, he cried once more, and leapt athletically upon the kick pedal.

Christopher, he shouted, the cigarette holder clenched between his perfect white teeth, it is Saturday. No action now. On Monday morning we will address him an E.S. parcel. He twisted back the throttle. Hop on. Now we
cabut
.

Cabut
, Mem, means to leave the scene, but I was thinking, What is an E.S. parcel, and how will it save my daughter? I would have asked but was trapped on the only Vespa in Penang. Bloody thing flew off the footpath. We landed like a rock. Disaster imminent.

Mulaha, by Chubb’s account, seems to have been in his
element. He waved to the rickshawallahs, wobbled, lurched into second gear, and then most definitely
cabut
up towards North Beach with his passenger’s arms tight around his narrow waist. Years later Chubb would recall the sweet air clinging to his sweating skin, the smells of fish, hawkers’ fires, jasmine, the salty mud flats at the creeks, and all that coral-blue sea off the right side of the road. In 1956 Penang must have been like paradise. Some bungalows here and there, dusty casuarinas, but mostly the giddy smell of a still-unpolluted sea. The Vespa bounced across the bridge at Sungai Babi—Pig River—and passed the Chinese vegetable gardens where the air was thick with the unholy smell of human shit. Then there was a Malay village, and just beyond the last rust-roofed shack, at the foot of that distinctive lumpy hill named Bukit Zamrud, the driver eased the scooter off the road and, without dismounting, walked it slowly into a stand of tall yellow grass.

We leave it here, he said to Chubb. Our little secret.

What is E.S.? You said we would find my daughter with E.S.

Extra Size, said Mulaha, carefully arranging the grasses so as to hide the scooter more effectively. A parcel too big to deliver, he added, fastening the silver buttons on his coat and arranging his pens in a line along his pocket. Come, he said, no peep about the Vespa-
lah
.

Yes, but how will this E.S. help me?

Now is my day off.

They began walking up a dusty road which rose from the coastal plain and curved around the base of Bukit Zamrud, which from this perspective appeared to be covered in dense jungle.

Before long they came to an elaborate wrought-iron gate with a large enamelled sign: Bukit Zamrud English School.

This, Mulaha said as he unlocked the padlock and unwound the sturdy chain, is a disaster area. Free School is better, Xavier better still, and both are gratis. But here they are shanghaiing the princes from Thailand and Burma. Also any titled youngsters they can find between George Town and Kuala Kangsar.

Chubb looked down on a large wedge of playing field cut like a cucumber sandwich from the rugged landscape. Perched high above on a nubbly hill was a fine three-storied colonial building with arched windows and green wooden shutters.

You like it, Christopher?

Yes.

It is a bloody folly, man. The school board is so desperate to catch the sons of the rajas that the headmaster is making foolish discounts, so even though we now have the desired class of pupils, the school, between you and me, cannot keep up its payments to the
chettiars
. They’ll foreclose anytime soon, so enjoy it while you can.

The road had now dwindled to twin tyre tracks which circled around until all view of the sea was lost. Here, at the back of Bukit Zamrud, there was no breeze. The jungle was very still: palms, vines, huge trees with buttressed roots pressing so insistently against the ten-foot barbed-wire fence that the concrete posts were tilting inwards.

There is a bright side, Mulaha said. They have no money to call in the thatchers. That is good, you see. I get a gal-iron roof. Much cheaper than the damn
attap
.

Now the double track became a muddy path and the two men walked in single file with grass brushing their trouser cuffs. Ahead of them, in a tight niche between the high cliff of the hill and the wall of jungle, was a blinding rectangle of silver—Chomley’s new roof.

When we entered, Chubb told me, I thought I’d made a big mistake in coming here. The front room!
Cheh
. Like an oven. No door or window open. No ceiling, just the blinding naked roof which stank of kerosene.

I am a modern man, said Mulaha.

There were great lumps of
attap
fallen on his sofa, Chubb said, bits of his old roof. You’d think a man like this would be offended by such a bloody mess, but he did not seem to notice.

See, he said, it is more modern! Here, I’ll show you to your room.

I went, Mem. What choice-
lah
? It was an oven too, but I could not afford to leave him now.