King Rat

Aha! Got you. The King exulted. So Cheng hasn’t come just for my deal! It is fish and the village. Now how can I turn this to my advantage? Betcha Cheng San’s having trouble delivering the merchandise. Maybe the Japs intercepted some boats and got tough. Old Sutra’s no fool. No money, no deal, and Cheng San knows it. No makee tradee, no makee business and old Sutra’ll sell to another. Yes, sir. So the King knew he could trade tough and mentally upped his asking price.

Then food arrived. Baked sweet potatoes, fried eggplant, coconut milk, thick slices of roasted pork, heavy with oil. Bananas. Papayas. The King marked that there was no millionaire’s cabbage or lamb or saté of beef and no sweetmeats the Malays loved so much. Yeah, things were tough all right.

The food was served by the headman’s chief wife, a wrinkled old woman. Helping her was Sulina, one of his daughters. Beautiful, soft, curved, honeyed skin. Sweet-smelling. Fresh sarong in their honor.

“Tabe, Sam,” winked the King at Sulina.

The girl bubbled with laughter and shyly tried to cover her embarrassment.

“Sam?” winced Peter Marlowe.

“Sure,” answered the King dryly. “She reminds me of my brother.”

“Brother?” Peter Marlowe stared at him astonished.

“Joke. I haven’t got a brother.”

“Oh!” Peter Marlowe thought a moment, then asked “Why Sam?”

“The old guy wouldn’t introduce me,” said the King, not looking at the girl, “so I just gave her the name. I think it suits her.”

Sutra knew that what they said had something to do with his daughter. He knew he had made a mistake to let her in here. Perhaps, in other times, he would have liked one of the tuan-tuan to notice her and take her back to his bungalow to be his mistress for a year or two. Then she would come back to the village well versed in the ways of men, with a nice dowry in her hands, and it would be easy for him to find the right husband for her. That’s how it would have been in the past. But now romance led only to a haphazard time in the bushes, and Sutra did not want that for his daughter even though it was time she became a woman.

He leaned forward and offered Peter Marlowe a choice piece of pig. “Perhaps this would tempt thy appetite?”

“I thank thee.”

“You may leave, Sulina.”

Peter Marlowe detected the note of finality in the old man’s voice and noticed the shadow of dismay that painted the girl’s face. But she bowed low and took her leave. The old wife remained to serve the men.

Sulina, thought Peter Marlowe, feeling a long-forgotten urge. She’s not as pretty as N’ai, who was without blemish, but she is the same age and pretty. Fourteen perhaps and ripe. My God, how ripe.

“The food is not to thy taste?” Cheng San asked, amused by Peter Marlowe’s obvious attraction to the girl. Perhaps this could be used to advantage.

“On the contrary. It is perhaps too good, for my palate is not used to fine food, eating as we do.” Peter Marlowe remembered that for the protection of good taste, the Javanese spoke only in parables about women. He turned to Sutra. “Once upon a time a wise guru said that there are many kinds of food. Some for the stomach, some for the eye and some for the spirit. Tonight, I have had food for the stomach. And the sayings of thee and Tuan Cheng San have been food for the spirit. I am replete. Even so, I have also—we have also—been offered food for the eye. How can I thank thee for thy hospitality?”

Sutra’s face wrinkled. Well put. So he bowed to the compliment and said simply, “It was a wise saying. Perhaps, in time, the eye may be hungry again. We must discuss the wisdom of the ancient another time.”

“What’re you looking so smug about, Peter?”

“I’m not looking smug, just pleased with myself. I was just telling him we thought his girl was pretty.”

“Yes! She’s a doll! How about asking her to join us for coffee?”

“For the love of God.” Peter tried to keep his voice calm. “You don’t come out and make a date just like that. You’ve got to take time, build up to it.”

“Hell, that’s not the American way. You meet a broad, you like her and she likes you, you hit the sack.”

“You’ve no finesse.”

“Maybe. But I’ve a lot of broads.”

They laughed and Cheng San asked what the joke was and Peter Marlowe told them that the King had said, “We should set up shop in the village and not bother to go back to camp.”

After they had drunk their coffee, Cheng San made the first overture.

“I would have thought it risky to come from the camp by night. Riskier than my coming here to the village.”

First round to us, thought Peter Marlowe. Now, Oriental style, Cheng San was at a disadvantage, for he had lost face by making the opening. He turned to the King. “All right, Rajah. You can start. We’ve made a point so far.”

“We have?”

“Yes. What do you want me to tell him?”

“Tell him I’ve a big deal. A diamond. Four carats. Set in platinum. Flawless, blue-white. I want thirty-five thousand dollars for it. Five thousand British Malay Straits dollars, the rest in Jap counterfeit money.”