Island of Demons Read online

  We drove on. The road became a path, floured with salt and pepper sand, running down to the beach amongst bamboos and other plants of unknown name. There in the distant dusk, gleamed a fire. We parked the car, collected our gear and stumbled through ankle-deep softness down towards the retreating waterline where the sand was firmer underfoot. Alit flirted with the edges of the waves and, as we trudged, the sound of distant music emerged and gelled.

  There was a group of about a dozen, gathered round a fire as in emulation of Walter’s kecak dance. Rosa and Miguel, holding hands and seated on a picnic hamper, the sprawling form of Conrad, the two gnarled sailors that had brought them in their outrigger and a mix of other men from the nearby village. Other boats, blue, red and white, with the long snout of the elephantine sea monster, were drawn up on the sand. The music was from a flute and Jew’s harp, a genggong, being played by two of the villagers and they flashed recognition to Walter with their eyes while the rest rose and greeted more formally. A container of brem, distilled rice spirit, was circulating and promptly offered. Walter took a token pull and passed it to me, doubtless expecting a gratifying coughing fit, forgetting I had been raised on Dutch gin, and made a face at an astonished little boy, sitting on his father’s lap, his hand resting on his shoulder in gentle love. When had my own father ever held me like that? I felt suddenly, absurdly tearful and coughed in dissimulation. Remains of roasted fish were lying by the fire and a fresh supply was wrapped in banana leaves and poked into the ashes for us.

  Conrad was lying back and had a great idiotic smile on his face. He was always happiest on a beach. In later times, he would have become one of the laidback but taciturn surfers of Kuta in grossly flowery shorts, or more likely, one of those intrepid giants who rode fat waves straight at the sheer cliffs of Uluwatu. His great hairy chest was a thing of wonder to Balinese, the attribute of a demon rather than a human. This did not preclude a certain success with the ladies – when I was out with him, people of both sexes would ask permission to touch it – but his tastes lay, I gathered, towards the rosy-cheeked-poetic-damsel sort of Dutchwoman. The men laid down their instruments to cheers and applause and smiled modestly.

  “Now we have played for you,” one said, “it is now your turn to sing for us.” Such a simple and reasonable proposition caused mayhem amongst the whites.

  “The only song I could possibly sing is of a darkeyed beauty from Guadalahara,” proposed Miguel, diffidently.

  Rosa, not from Guadalahara and jealous by reflex, pouted. “I could do a number I used to do in the Ziegfield Follies but it’s kinda raunchy.”

  “At school, as a soprano,” Conrad blushed, “I performed a version of Schubert’s Trout but the words I have now forgotten. I could hum though.” Walter looked at me.

  “The only songs I know are hymns,” I stammered. “Plain, Protestant hymns. I’m afraid I have no voice, I cannot sing.”

  “Wonderful,” Walter headshaking. “You see how far we have allowed ourselves to be distanced from even the simplest social accomplishments? To say you cannot sing, or dance, is meaningless to a Balinese. It is like saying you cannot speak or walk or do not know how to breathe. In such circumstances, there is only one song to sing, that old English tune ‘Old MacDonald had a farm’, translated into Malay for our friends here and allowing them to join in with the animal noises.” He gave swift instruction.

  “Tuan MacDonal ada kebun, ee-ay-ee-ay-oh,

  Dan di kebunnya ada babi …”

  It was a fantastic success. Our voices were terrible but the range demanded is not large and, in such circumstances, volume will easily substitute for quality. Walter teased the Balinese mercilessly, hesitating over the choice of animal, pointing suddenly at individuals who had to leap in with the appropriate noise, picking impossible, silent animals such as the tortoise to screams of laughter, reserving pig noises for the little boy. True, local zoological knowledge meant that the inventory of Tuan MacDonald’s farm had to include, besides the more conventional domesticated beasts, goats, monkeys and bullfrogs but I have always been very surprised that no new Balinese art form ever emerged based on it as introduced to them that night. They were reduced to hysteria. We all were.

  The villagers finally rose, stretched, shouldered their goods and children and strode off into the clicking, head-high bamboo with many warm farewells and a few residual animal calls. Did we not wish to spend the night in their village? No need. But were we not afraid? Here there were wild beasts, birds, worst of all witches. Thank you. Here would be fine. Rosa and Miguel had the tent. Conrad had his rifle. If the worst came to the worst Bonnetchen could sing and frighten anything away. Might we sleep in their boats if need be? Of course but perhaps the village …?

  “Tea,” said Walter in the silence of their departure, suddenly a solicitous butler. “Let us all have a cup of tea before bed.” He set a saucepan in the glowing embers and lit a cigarette, even remembered courteously to set a cup for Alit. “Which kind would you like? We have camomile, jasmine or Indian.” He disposed little envelopes pedantically along one knee.

  “Indian,” said Miguel, laughing. “Real tea, proper tea.”

  Walter twinkled. “Ah no. I think you should have jasmine. More suitable.”

  Miguel frowned. “How so? Why not proper tea? The tea I have always drunk at your house.”

  “Because, dear Miguel,” he paused for effect, “as you are always pointing out to us, proper tea is theft.”

  We slept distributed among the boats and awoke with the dawn, stiff, cold hungry and then Alit was there with a warm smile and hot coffee. In daylight, the beach was a shocking sight, its smooth surface ploughed up and scored by the visits of a dozen different creatures. Walter was down on his knees.

  “Look, the tracks of cranes. And here, a bear. And this is a turtle.”

  “What are those?” I pointed to deep ruts.

  “Oh that’s a crocodile’s tail, a big one by the look of it.” It came out of the sea, circled the Covarrubiuses tent, returned.

  “And that?”

  He scuffed it out with his feet. “Best not to mention that, I think. It’s just a tiger.”

  We spent a day of sheer delight. Conrad swam and lazed and taught me to catch crabs – as the locals did – with a flower tied to the end of a piece of string. The fishermen loaded us into their boat and dragged us, bare feet crushing the razor-sharp coral, over the reef and handed us a biscuit tin with glass set in the bottom that allowed us to see to the very bottom and look, godlike, down into a watery world of sea urchins, bright fish, sea snakes and extraordinary reefs. Alit was almost hysterical with excitement at this new world. Walter and Conrad retired to one end of the beach to draw the inhabitants of a rockpool before their fugitive colours fled. Rosa and Miguel withdrew for a Mexican siesta. And I was left alone with my sketch pad and Alit, now the blasé sea-dog, legs spattered with sand, shoulders dusted with mica crystals, radiating happiness. He had tucked an orchidaceous red flower behind his ear, the same kind I had just used to catch crabs. Alit leaned back against a boat and stared out to sea. I would sketch him. I had to as the deference art owed to beauty. I raised my charcoal and pointed at the pad.

  “Can I?”

  He nodded. “Can!” He was an instinctive model, knowing not to move or change his expression as we talked. “Tuan Rudi, how big is the sea?”

  “Well. The sea you see here is so big it goes all round the world and comes back to Sanur on the other side. If you want to go to Holland, you can sail in one of the big ships for three weeks without stopping.” I captured the swoop of the back with two quick strokes. As good as Miguel.

  “Beh! So far.”

  “And it is very deep. In some places it is as deep as the distance from Ubud to Denpasar.”

  “Beh! It is good to work for Tuan Walter. I learn many things.”

  “What did Badog tell you about Tuan Walter?” The angle of the neck was not quite right. It was artfully curved not straight. I adjusted and curled the
tip of my charcoal around the tenderest part of his throat.

  “He told me Tuan Walter was a good man and very kind, that he would look after me.” The stomach was scooped, concave, the hipbones very pronounced, art nouveau hipbones.

  “What else?” The arms were cocked at an odd angle, very Balinese, like the wings of a little bird.

  “He said he would never beat me.” I was shocked. How could anyone raise a hand against tender young Alit?

  “Did he say you should play with Tuan Walter?”

  “Oh yes!” He nodded, then remembered and froze. “He explained that Tuan Walter was a musician. So now, when the gamelan orchestra come to the house to practise, I play the gender, as I did at home, while he usually plays the gangsa.”

  I shook my head. “No, I mean. Did he say you should play with him at night?” One leg was bent. The muscles about the kneecap were difficult. I fudged, as so often, left them plunged in shadow where there could be no shadow.

  “He explained that Tuan Walter was sometimes lonely for he knew very few women and so I might help him as a friend, if I wanted.” I etched in the features of the face, shaded by long, black hair.

  “How would you help him?”

  He smiled. “Help him the way boys help each other. I don’t think I should say. I am shy.” He blushed in proof.

  “I am like his little brother,” I was relentlessly matter-of-fact, working on his hard, lean chest. “I too have helped him at times. Tell me.”

  “Really?” He was genuinely surprised. “But you are so old. Badog said that if I did not wish to, it was easy. I should look deep in his eyes and whisper that I could not, since I loved him and respected him too much, like a father. I could not get hard because I was ashamed. Then he would not insist and he would not be angry. Tuan Walter never gets angry like the other Dutchmen. Or, if he tried to use me as a woman, I should say that I was not a transvestite. Or if he wanted to use my mouth, I should say that it was against the ancient custom of Bali, that things of the above did not belong with things of below, that shoes did not belong on one’s head, that rivers did not flow to the top of mountains, it was a pollution, sebel, then he would stop. The best way, at such times, was just to take him in my hand and be very eager and suck his face very hard, as the white men do – he showed me – and groan and the water would quickly come out and he would turn over and sleep. Then, the next day, he would buy me a new cloth and be very friendly.” I shaded in the shadows under his arms.

  “That cloth you are wearing,” I remarked. “It looks new.”

  He laughed, quite unoffended and touched my arm softly to acknowledge a naughty joke. “From my mother, for my new job. You must understand that a new cloth is a big thing for us. We are very poor. This is the first time in my life I have eaten rice every day. Usually, at home, we eat manioc like the pigs.” I felt the familiar gush of shame. Why was it my job to feel guilty about everything? He worked, after all, for Walter but I knew that in Walter’s Bali Paradise there was no real want and certainly no guilt.

  A group of fishermen emerged from the waving bamboo and pottered around doing nautical things, mostly just pulling on bits of their boats to test their security. One, with a lazy eye, came and stood behind me, watching me work.

  “There’s something wrong with that knee,” he pointed. “You’ve got it wrong. It doesn’t match the other one.” Then: “That man with the hairy chest, Tuan Walter’s little brother, I told my wife about it. Do you suppose he’d mind if I had a feel? She wants to know.” I watched him wander over, get very excited over Walter’s drawing. Of course, a fish – much more interesting than village boys. I saw them talking, then he reached out to touch Conrad’s chest and started back as though from an electric shock and they all laughed. They began talking about the fish, the man making swimming motions with his hands and pointing to the sky and Walter stopped drawing and made notes. My own sketch was finished. On an impulse, I tore it from the pad and gave it to Alit.

  “Send it to your mother,” I said. “Show her how handsome her son looks in his new cloth.” Alit, delighted, sembahed thanks. Miguel appeared from nowhere, eye-rubbing, lip-smacking, looked it over.

  “Something badly wrong with that knee,” he said. “Difficult things knees, though not as difficult as hands.” Then, frowning,“Has anyone got any news about Manchuria? Rosa keeps going on about it.”

  ***

  The news from Manchuria was not good, Japanese massacring civilians, looting and the like. The Balinese shrugged. After all, the Dutch had done the same to them just a few years ago. They were a forgiving people. Walter skipped past it all unseen and homed in what was really outraging him, the Paris Exhibition, a competitive bit of chest-beating by the Western powers, going on in France at that moment. The Dutch had centred their pavilion around the Indies and the Indies around Bali and Bali around dancing. The whole collection of Western colonies was become what Rosa called “one big musical number” all-singing, all-dancing like the Follies. What upset Walter was that the Dutch had not asked him to do the murals, on which he had set his heart, choosing, instead, a very jobbing artist, Charles Sayers, the man who had so unsuccessfully hunted tigers in Pulaki.

  “How could they ask you? You still have not finished those historical pictures for Stutterheim. Don’t you see? They were a sort of interview for the big commission.”

  He groaned at the mention of Stutterheim. It was a recognisable symptom, premonitory sign of the gestation of the next historical painting, its first foetal kick. Delivery would be many weeks off and then it would be rushed from the house like something stillborn, being – as it would – very un-Walterlike, full of figures dutifully about variations on a single theme, rather like one of Sobrat’s busy little paintings. When the time came, I must remember to make the comparison. No one here would mention my own quiet successes of the year, with exhibitions in Bandung and Yogya and no shortage of buyers amongst the steadier Dutch citizens.

  “Yes but Sayers!” Walter tore at his hair, then smoothed it back into place. “A man doesn’t mind losing a beauty contest but not to a warthog.”

  Later, there was still worse news, as the Japanese bombed the undefended cities of distant Manchuria to the sound of Rosa’s protests, the Dutch pavilion caught fire and all the finest Balinese antiquities, borrowed from the Batavian Society, went up in flames. Fortunately, none of the little legong dancers from Peliatan, accompanied by Cokorda Raka, had been hurt, yet Walter raged and stormed over the dinner table.

  “The folly. The stupidity. Why weren’t the Balinese antiquities locked up in a fireproof safe at night as was promised? Irreplaceable treasures so lightly puffed away. Cokorda Raka will say nothing, being in the pocket of the Dutch, but others here will never trust us again.”

  “Well,” I comforted, “at least one good thing came out of it. It says Sayers’ murals went up in smoke too.”

  He stopped shouting and brightened. “Yes. There is that.”

  He was really only half listening, being, as always, distracted by the wealth of insect life around the lamps and the occasional bat veering in, open-mouthed, to suck them up. We were seated at a table, littered with bottles and cigarette packets – God how we all smoked in those days – on the terrace of the Bali Hotel, the tropical night pulled down around us like a damp blanket. Outside, rain was lashing down so that the tables nearest the rail had cleared themselves, with squeals, as the monsoon crashed in. It was a mark of our not being tourists that we had chosen more advisedly and stayed in place and we were nominally here to say final farewells to Miguel and Rosa, dressed in matching grey silk, their visit stretched from an intended three to nine months. Under the table they would be gripping hands. They were leaving, having sworn great oaths to return. Miguel was “definitely going to do a book” on Bali. We nodded, smiled. We had heard it all so often from others before, said it ourselves, like as not. On the other side of the table were Dr Roelof Goris of the antiquities service who had at least written a tourist guide
using Walter’s photographs. Being both an alcoholic and “of the faith” he was here for a little recreation from puritanical Java. Next to him that night, if I recall aright, sat an odd couple, one thickening into middle age with one of those square faces and excessively even teeth that only Americans can have, the other unfleshed like an emaciated whippet. The Covarrubiases knew them, naturally from the States. The first was Templeton Crocker, Hawaiianly floral-shirted, eccentric American millionaire, whom the San Francisco newspapers habitually termed “sensitive”, fearing litigational retribution for more precise use of adjectives. His yacht, the Zaca, had called in at Buleleng and dropped him off on the way to collect birds in the South Seas. Temp would rejoin it at Benoa, having spent a couple of days with Walter stalking the rare Balinese mynah. A master of the arts of leisure, his greatest pride was to have written the libretto for a Chinese opera, “The Land of Happiness”, actually vanity-staged in Monte Carlo and – less surprisingly – in his fief of San Francisco and he had played us generous excerpts the previous night. It had been a terrible evening, not least because he attempted the female roles himself in a broken falsetto and torn French. In those days the American upper classes only spoke foreign languages badly lest they be mistaken for immigrants. At his side, was Hubert Stowitts, former track athlete, choreographer, costume- and set-designer who had been enthusiastically involved in the staging of the opera and now described himself as an “anthropological explorer of native sexuality” and artist. As might be imagined for one so creatively engaged, his life had not been without incident though his artistic output was limited to undulant male nudes in bright colours. Both he and Rosa had been snapped naked by the same society photographer, she as a water-nymph, he a rampant Spartan warrior. His gifts had first come into their own when, as a dancer, touring South America in the company of Isadora Duncan and the aging Pavlova (“plucked her brows and her fanny nightly my dears”) the company’s props and sets had gone astray. Hub had sensationally improvised both overnight and been judged dispensable again only when, on the evening of the world premier of Scheherezade, he had tired of the dull choreography they had all painstakingly rehearsed and instead performed, extempore, one of his own devising and centred on himself – to the dismay of the rest of the wrongfooted onstage company. Subsequently, he had starred in a film with Garbo and had ambitions to “probe” India, having himself once been repeatedly and memorably enjoyed by a huge Lascar on the docks of San Francisco in his student days. This all related in dance and an actorially projected voice – fortunately in English – in the dining room of the hotel on whose porch we now sat, unsurprisingly, alone. We would soon be asked to leave but this had been delayed by the ordering of several bottles of unbelievably expensive champagne that had now lulled Hub to a state of sleepy non-communication.