King Rat

“Smell it!” said Larkin for all of them. It was hard to talk, his saliva almost choking him. “I can’t smell anything but that stew and it’s the greatest smell I’ve ever smelled and I don’t care whether it’s Rover or not, I want to eat.” He rubbed his stomach, almost painfully. “I don’t know about you bastards, but I’m so hungry I’ve got cramps. That smell’s doing something to my metabolism that’s just not ordinary.”

“I feel sick, too. And it’s got nothing to do with the fact that the meat’s dog,” said Peter Marlowe. Then he added almost plaintively, “I just don’t want to eat Rover.” He glanced at Mac. “How are we going to face Hawkins afterwards?”

“I don’t know, laddie. I’ll look the other way. Yes, I don’t think I could face him.” Mac’s nostrils quivered and he looked at the stew. “That smells so good.”

“Of course,” the King said blandly, “anyone don’t want to eat can leave.”

No one moved. Then they all leaned back, lost in their own thoughts. Listening to the bubble. Drinking in the fragrance. Magnificence.

“It’s not shocking when you think of it,” said Larkin, more to persuade himself than the others. “Look how affectionate we get with our hens. We don’t mind eating them—or their eggs.”

“That’s right, laddie. And you remember that cat we caught and ate. We didn’t mind that, did we, Peter?”

“No, but that was a stray. This is Rover!”

“It was! Now it’s just meat.”

“Are you the guys that got the cat?” Brough asked, angry in spite of himself. “The one about six months ago?”

“No. This was in Java.”

Brough said, “Oh.” Then he happened to glance at the King. “I might have guessed it,” he exploded. “You, you bastard. And we scavenged for four hours.”

“You shouldn’t get pissed off, Don. We got it. It was still an American victory.”

“My Aussies’re losing their touch,” Larkin said.

The King lifted the spoon and his hand shook as he sampled the brew. “Tastes good.” Then he prodded the meat. It was still tight to the bone. “Be another hour yet.”

Another ten minutes and he tested again. “Maybe a little more salt. What do you think, Peter?”

Peter Marlowe tasted. It was so good, so good. “A dash, just a dash!”

They all tasted, in turn. A touch of salt, a fraction more huan, a little dab of sugar, a breath more turmeric. And they settled back to wait in the exquisite torture cell, almost asphyxiated.

From time to time they pulled the blanket from the window and let some of the perfume out and some new air in.

And outside of Changi, the perfume swam on the breeze. And inside the jail along the corridor, wisps of perfume leaked through the door and permeated the atmosphere.

“Christ, Smithy, can you smell it?”

“’Course I can smell it. You think I’ve got no nose? Where’s it coming from?”

“Wait a second! Somewhere up by the jail, somewhere up there!”

“Bet those yellow bastards are having a cook-up just outside the bleeding wire.”

“That’s right. Bastards.”

“I don’t think it’s them. It seems to be coming from the jail.”

“Oh Christ, listen to Smithy. Look at him pointing, just like a bloody dog.”

“I tell you I can smell it coming from the jail.”

“It’s just the wind. The wind’s coming from that direction.”

“Winds never smelled like that before. It’s meat cooking, I tell you. It’s beef. I’d bet my life. Stewing beef.”

“New Jap torture. Bastards! What a dirty trick!”

“Maybe we’re just imagining it. They say you can imagine a smell.”

“How in hell can we all imagine it? Look at all the men, they’ve all stopped.”

“Who says so?”

“What?”

“You said, ‘They say you can imagine a smell.’ Who’s ‘they’?”

“Oh God, Smithy. It’s just a saying.”

“But who’re ‘they’?”

“How the hell do I know!”

“Then stop saying ‘they’ said this or ‘they’ said that. Enough to drive a man crazy.”

The men in the cell, the chosen of the King, watched him ladle a portion into a mess can and hand it to Larkin. Their eyes left Larkin’s plate and went back to the ladle and then to Mac and back to the ladle and then to Brough and back to the ladle and then to Tex and back to the ladle and then to Peter Marlowe and back to the ladle and then to the King’s portion. And when all were served, they fell to eating, and there was enough left over for at least two portions more per man.

It was agony to eat so well.

The katchang idju beans had broken down and were almost part of the thick soup now. The papaya had tenderized the meat and caused it to fall off the bones, and the meat came apart into chunks, dark brown from the herbs and the tenderizer and beans. The stew had the thickness of a real stew, an Irish stew, with flecks of honey oil globules staining the surface of their mess cans.

The King looked up from his bowl, dry and clean. He beckoned to Larkin.

Larkin just passed his mess can, and silently each one of them accepted another helping. This too disappeared. And then a last portion.

Finally the King put his plate away. “Son of a bitch.”

“Perfection!” Larkin said.

“Superb,” said Peter Marlowe. “I’d forgotten what it’s like to chew. My jaws ache.”