Island of Demons Page 37

  “A fine, high-nosed man, Ida Bagus,” Walter nodded, approvingly. “There has always been a stiffness between him and the Meads,” he whispered. “He was upset that they first came at the time of nyepi and got permission to drive across the island despite the rules of religion. After all, nyepi is just a larger version of what we are doing today.”

  It was true. The New Year festival was a time of cleansing and marking boundaries, of tempting the demons away from the village to the crossroads for a feast, parading them in paper images – subsequently burnt – and sealing off the human domain thus purged. Unlike present events, however, it also involved a day of everyone staying quietly at home, no fires lit, not even a lamp or cigarette, to deceive the demons into thinking Bali was deserted. For Balinese, both Dutch and demons are inherently stupid but only Balinese find silence unearthly. Margaret, fearing no demons, sucked noisily on her cigarette.

  “Personally, I have found the priests here to be the greatest of disappointments. I had expected cultural insight but they are mostly very ignorant old men who know nothing of ‘Why’ or ‘How’ and simply talk of ‘What’ – endless ritual prescriptions. It is the Balinese way to live within excessively tight organisation and the reason that they are quite incapable of coping with the unknown and with so little sense of the individual. The whole busyness of Bali,” she snapped, “is just a great barrier against fear and terror and rituals such as this are, after all, simply a kind of whistling in the dark.”

  A dangerous glint appeared in Walter’s eye. “Keep your haircut on,” he laughed. “Personally, Margaret, I have always whistled in the dark and have no problem living by Balinese rules whose reason I do not know. Charlie Chaplin told me he had once stayed with Maurice Chevalier in the south of France. Chevalier had this game of skittles set up in the garden and it was a rule of the house that anyone who won had to go to a sort of shrank – shrine – at the bottom of the garden and press a button. The doors opened and the statue of a fat, naked lady came out mechanically and the winner had to kiss her arse. Chevalier was most insistent that it should be done. Charlie was happy to do it but could never understand whether the fat arse was a reward or a punishment. Bali is a bit like that.” The total blank non-comprehension of Margaret’s face was a delight. Here, at last, was a comment she did not have a view or a theory about. So she wrote it down.

  Greg twinkled. “Complicated business the relationship between the collective and the individual, old man. You might say it’s an old chestnut that’s still a hot potato. Margaret’s rather an expert on the subject …”

  “Okaaay! I don’t think you have quite caught my meaning. You exoticise, Walter,” she sniffed. “You make people romantic, more unusual and exciting than they are, colour them in, whereas they are just following cultural prescriptions.”

  Walter wasn’t having that. “Exotic, romantic, exciting? I think what you are saying Margaret,” he spoke gently and calmly, eyes wide with innocence, “is that it is wrong to fall in love.” She clamped her jaws and wrote that down too. Love, she might have said, was merely a cultural notion. But today she was not arguing against love, it forming part of her dispute with Greg. Walter was having a good day. “You see? I am backfiring on all cylinders, am I not?” Then to me. “Ida Bagus always insists on throwing his clients’ money about,” he remarked with envy, as though he had ever been denied that pleasure, “especially where rich bule are involved. And we – as you know – are the very crème bule. I don’t know how many dogs, chickens, ducks and pigs will have been killed to feed the demons. Come on Bonnetchen. Let’s go and see.”

  In the middle of the garden, where the gay bunting of the daily wash usually fluttered, a grim erection reared up like a crucifixion, a bamboo shrine for each of the cardinal points and one more for the centre. Five is a primordial number for Balinese. Splayed corpses of white beasts lay bespatchcocked to the north, black to the south, yellow to the east, red to the west and a veritable rainbow for the centre.

  “Margaret,” Walter stated with slow emphasis, “is a forceful woman. She is, perhaps, the only wife ever to urge her husband to get on with it and get to the point while they are having sex.” I had no idea what he was talking about.

  The priests were already installed on high chairs, rather like those used by us for the feeding of babies, refreshing themselves with McPhee’s brandy, served by an unwontedly sweet-faced, honey-mouthed Sampih. A perilous arrangement of ladders and platforms would allow them access to the balcony and thus the highest room, where they would change. It seemed to me unwise to serve the brandy before the changing but, in due course, Ida Bagus was up there in a trice and, when he redescended, he was a thing of beauty – sparkling white sarong, high diadem of scarlet and gold, beads and bells and silver bowls – surely one of them that used by Walter to compound his “Dynamite” drink. Soon Ida Bagus was leading the chanting, coaxing forth and shaping the magical mantras with his slender hands, waving in the bells, addressing first the gods and then the demons, generating a booming power and will to command that rang out like thunder and cast a net of protective enchantment over the compound.

  A cheer from the back of the building. I looked round and Walter had gone. The McPhees’ boys and our own were round there, surrounded by the young bloods, scrabbling in the dust, cockfighting, a requirement of the ceremony since blood must be shed on the earth. But this did not preclude a little convivial gambling and soon Resem was untwining his silver ringgit from his waistbelt and handing it shamefacedly over to the other household, his cockerel slashed and slaughtered by its opponent. One by one, all our household was being roundly plucked and Walter was there, headshaking, striking poses from Victorian melodrama and grimly refusing any advance on pay – the heartless, mustachio-twirling skinflint – saving the boys’ reputation as bold bachelors at the same time as he spared their money.

  The gamelan struck up a fine brassy sound, the musicians grouped in the shelter, arranged around the legs of McPhee’s piano, Sampih in there hammering at the keys of the gangsa, a long-stamened red hibiscus – conventional symbol of the penis – tucked behind one ear. McPhee and Jane were conferring with the lesser priests, poring over diagrams drawn in the dust, waving arms, pointing, trying to plan the rest of the event, for Ida Bagus had withdrawn to sleep and strengthen himself, as much power had been drained from him by the morning’s work. The bottle of brandy had gone with him. The Meads flitted, photographed, observed arms-crossed, bickeringly disapproved. The coloured threads on the offerings, recalling the failed tests for schizophrenia, particularly annoyed Margaret. Despite all the activity, nothing seemed to be happening.

  “Where are the dancers?” I asked.

  “What dancers?”

  “For the calonarang play.” I had expected to see them transported up on the back of a lorry, standing upright like cigarettes in a fresh pack of American smokes.

  “Ah, no.” Walter’s eyes shone. “This is something special, Bonnetchen. The play is to be done, not by human dancers but by the shadow puppets and Ida Bagus himself is to be the puppeteer, the dalang.”

  “Ah.” Unlike some other parts of the archipelago and odd as it sounds, the Balinese sometimes perform shadow plays in broad daylight. That was, however, not to be the case today. The colourful sight of Ida Bagus in full religious spate was not to be bleached out by sunlight, so we faced a long arid wait until late in the evening and then the play would run till dawn. This would be no problem for the Balinese who could – as it were – switch themselves off at will.

  The event had by now gathered a full supporting cast outside, a crowd scene from Breughel – satay-sellers, gamblers, drink-peddlars cricket-fight impressarios, purveyors of little banana leaf-wrapped packages of rice or betel nut. As always, the shadow play would be not just be for gods and patrons but the world at large and the space before the compound boiled with the activities of everyday life. When spectators had nothing else to do, they groomed each others’ hair. One mother dandled a tiny child o
n her lap that took alternate casual sucks at her breast and a long, rustic cigarette.

  Walter led us across to McPhee’s fine ricebarn – never yet used for rice – where a shaded platform offered rest to ourselves and a couple of comatose musicians, Ketok and Kumis – known, roused, greeted, caressed, of course, – as part of Walter’s magic of universal friendship. Resem appeared with food and drink, hot rice, smoked duck, pungent fruit and misty tuak, shared in good fellowship. Jane’s cats sprawled and stretched and preened about us. At the end, the food made a final circuit. “Cannot, cannot, cannot – kenyang,” I declared. The Balinese tittered. It was an old crowd-pleaser but one I could not resist. Kenyang in Malay means “I am full”, in Balinese “I have an erection”. Resem, full but not erect, stayed to watch Walter teach all a raucous Viennese card game he had played with Vicki, called Tarock. Kumis is “moustache” and, as gratuitous motivation will creep into the affairs of men, Kumis’s own was particularly luxuriant and clearly the envy of wispy Resem who constantly licked his own upper lip. The afternoon passed in great content, waves of muted sound washing over the newly demon-proofed walls, the barn like a raft afloat, its pillars great reassuring masts against which to rest our backs. A storm hissed through the vegetation across the valley. It would not come here. Ida Bagus would not permit it. Resem did surprisingly well at the game so that I wondered if Walter were not deliberately manipulating it to make good his losses. I, myself, did not play. I know that gambling is an important element of ritual, creating, as it does, more elbow room for the action of the gods, yet I am invariably unlucky and it brings me no pleasure to lose my money.

  Kumis settled back amongst the scattered cards and lit a cigarette. “Do you know the story about Bali and gambling?” In Sayan, he was a known storyteller.

  “What story?” In Bali, a storyteller relies on his audience for prompting questions, a monologue becomes dialogue.

  “Well, it is like this. There lived a man, a Brahmana, called Sidi Mantra.”

  “Where was this?”

  “In the kingdom of Daha, in Eastern Java.”

  “When was this?”

  “Long, long ago.” This becomes tedious to the Western ear. I shall omit further questions. “God had been kind to him and given him great wealth, everything but a son. Then, even that was granted and the boy was called Manik Angkeran.

  “Oh how they loved that boy and how they spoiled him! Everything that he wanted was given to him. He grew into a young man who was bold and clever and very, very handsome but he had one failing. He gambled. He gambled at every opportunity and on everything. He surrounded himself with wild companions and played with them day and night. He had no thought even for women or anything else.

  “He threw away everything he owned till he had nothing left. Then he borrowed more money. As security he used his parents’ lands and soon that money was gone too. He went to his father and confessed and his parents’ hearts were moved to pity. His father was a very holy man, full of sakti, and he fasted and prayed and asked the gods what he should do and suddenly they answered him on the wind.

  “A voice told him. ‘Go east until you come to Gunung Agung. There you will find a dragon called Naga Besakih who owns great treasure. Ask him for some in your extremity.’ So that is what he did. At that time, Bali and Java were linked by a spit of sand. On each side, the waters boiled and gnawed but could not get through and the holy man walked across dry-shod.

  “When he arrived at Gunung Agung he sat down and prayed and made mantras and rang his bell and called out the name of Naga Besakih until there came a great rumbling and the very earth shook. Other men would have run away in fear, but Sidi Mantra was protected by his great power and rang his bell again and boldly called out to the dragon.

  “‘Who dares to call me?’ it asked and came out of its cave. It was huge and terrifying and covered in jewels that shone and dazzled. Then Sidi Mantra spoke in most respectful language and explained why he had come and what he wanted. The dragon laughed and even that was a terrible sound.

  “‘That is easy,’ he said. He shook his body like a wet dog and great jewels fell off and rained down on Sidi Mantra who spread out his kain and gathered them up. ‘Take them and save your son. But do not let him gamble ever again and never come and ask me for more, for that is all you will get.’ So Sidi Mantra thanked him and went home and paid his son’s debts and all was well. But the son forgot his promise and gambled again and lost again and said to himself. ‘The old man went to the dragon and got money. I will go too. I am cleverer than him. He will not be able to refuse me.’

  “So Manik Angkeran set off and came east and walked to Gunung Agung and called out to Naga Besakih and rang his father’s bell – which was not allowed – and when the dragon came, he spoke arrogantly and most disrespectfully.

  “‘Dragon. My money is gone. I need more. Give me some!’

  “The dragon listened and said, ‘Manik Angkeran. Because your father is a very holy man, full of sakti, and my friend, I will give you what you ask. But I say to you again that you must change your ways. You must stop gambling and you must marry.’ But as the dragon turned, Manik Angkeran saw a huge diamond on the end of its tail and was seized with greed. He drew his kris and chopped of the end of the dragon’s tail. The dragon roared in pain, spun round and burned him to ashes.

  “When Sidi Mantra heard what had happened, he was very sad. He loved his son and he was ashamed for what the boy had done. So he came to Gunung Agung and crouched down low and called out to Naga Besakih and asked his forgiveness.

  “‘Well,’ said the dragon, ‘I will restore your son to you but henceforth you must live apart, for you cannot live together.’And that is what he did. The son was restored to life and the father set off to return to Java. When he arrived at the sand spit, with tears in his eyes, the old man turned and drew his staff across the land and the water rushed in, in the blink of an eye, and now there is the deep and dangerous sea that divides us from Java. Bali became an island.”

  “Beh!”. “Beh!”. “Beh!”.

  I thought here to find a justification of my own views. “So,” I said, eying Walter and Resem and directing the moral at them, “the story teaches us that gambling is a foolish and dangerous habit, unholy even.”

  Kumis looked at me in astonishment. “Nooo, Tuan” he said, and shook his head. “It says that gambling is the very root of Bali and that, without it, we would still be ruled by the Javanese.”

  Walter hooted with amusement. “And that we should all continue to live as bachelors or be eaten by dragons,” he laughed.

  I Bagus Gede returned long after the setting sun. In the darkness, lightning licked and crackled over the distant mountains and an electric charge tingled in the damp air. A bedsheet to serve as screen for the shadow play had been set up over a bamboo frame by the edge of the ravine with the musicians assembled and idling behind it. The demons and sprites that lived there would be conscripted to the audience. The great box of ornate, buffalo-skin puppets had been brought up and covered with a white cloth. Bagus Gede was meticulously about his preparations, chanting and praying, handing out the puppets to be set out, good on one side, bad on the other, by his assistants, invoking powers for strength and eloquence. Finally, the smoking lamp was lit and glowed behind the screen, the wooden hammer pinioned between his toes. A series of staccato raps with it, against the box, brought the musicians to order and they launched into the overture. The kayon, a representation of the holy tree of life with the sacred mountain at its base, was leaning against the screen. It would punctuate the various scenes but now was a character in its own right, being made to leap and twirl and pulsate to the rhythm of the music. It was immediately clear to me that Ida Bagus was drunk.

  “You know, I think he is already in a trance!” whispered Walter, astonished. He crept over, on bent knees to avoid offence, to watch more closely. The Meads prowled, watching the audience, not the play – the play, to them, irrelevant – Greg firing off sho
ts, each one greeted by a murmur from the crowd, Margaret pointing out victims like a Salem witchfinder.

  “Nothing important at this stage,” he explained through his pipe. “I just want to get them used to flash photography for later.” Too good for a puppeteer to miss. Each time he did it, the characters projected on the screen jumped and made a joke about the thunderstorms in this play. Then came a series of smutty jokes about foreigners whose sex was mysterious since they covered their breasts and slept with everything, even pigs. The gang of little boys in the front row loved that, giggling and tugging at their genitals. Being spoken by servants, therefore in Balinese, as opposed to the Old Javanese of the high caste puppets, even I could understand it. Drunk or not, Ida Bagus was on fire. It was what you might call a three-star performance. Accents, gestures, refined and low, dirty jokes, cosmic themes, sound effects, songs – hands, feet and voice all engaged them on the simple screen, manipulating the rods attached to arms and legs to coax the figures into uncanny life. McPhee was round the back, where the puppets were all gold and bright colours, fussing over the constitution of the orchestra – why were there drums? – the tuning, the use of different themes. This was the spot for those who were not content just to watch the effect but were interested in the skill of the performers. Perhaps it has something to do with the obsessive Balinese distinction between sekala, the world of the visible, and niskala, that which lies beyond the senses. I do not know. The Balinese do not know. You would have to ask Margaret. QED. I picked up an air that Walter and McPhee had explored at their last piano recital.