King Rat

Then the torrent of his rage had poured over her. “Thou art a wicked woman to disobey. Then think not of thyself but of the child! Why condemn a child to agony, a lifetime of agony, longing for one world or the other world—when neither can be had?”

“I want his child,” she had said stubbornly.

“This will not be!”

“Yes it will, Father. Be patient with me.” She had stopped and collected her words. “When my beloved went away he walked past the paddy and into the jungle. I followed secretly, obeying thy orders, but I wanted to see what would come to pass with him. He took off the village clothes and put on his own. Then he walked the road until a Japanese patrol met him. There was an officer with them and he questioned my beloved. My man said that he had been wandering the jungles for months, stealing food as he could, and he denied that he had ever lived in any village. He said that he had come from the west, and not the east where our village lay. The officer asked about the darkened color of his skin, and my beloved said that his own skin was deeply pigmented, and this, with the force of the sun, had made him darker than an Englishman should be.

“The officer gave him a cigarette and after they had talked about many things, the officer said, ‘As thou art an officer, thou hast lost face to be captured alive by the enemy. I will save thy loss of honor. I will help thee. I will let thee use my sacred dagger to commit hari kiri. Then thou wilt die honored.’

“My beloved hid his fear and said, ‘Why should you do this for me?’

“‘Because thou art the Samurai rank of England. I do this for I admire thy bravery and it is not fitting for a brave man to suffer the dishonor of capture.’

“For many minutes my beloved argued for his life, saying that by their code, the English code, that hari kiri was dishonor. Then the officer became angry and spat on my beloved and berated him. Finally the officer said, ‘Thou art a pig without honor. Therefore thou can die like the pig thou art,’ and they put iron manacles on his hands and took him away.”

She had stopped, the tears silently sweeping her cheeks. Then she had said with quiet strength, “So my beloved is dead. It is only right that his seed should live. It is right that a man should have a son to follow him. Even if the son is half of his world and half of ours.”

“Perhaps he has sons in his homeland,” the old man had said compassionately.

“No, Father, he has none. This is why I did not wish to stop the birthing of his child. Our son will be called Tua, which is almost Tuan, which is the title of respect.”

Then Tuan Abu had touched her forehead and blessed her, and said, “Against my knowledge, let the child be born. Perhaps it will be a girl child. For a girl it is not quite so bad to have East and West within her.”

In time Tua had been born. He was golden skinned and his eyes were blue like his father’s, and his limbs were strong and straight and blemishless. He was a son to be proud of, and he became the light of Tuan Abu’s eyes. Dying, Tuan Abu had touched Tua’s head, blessing him, saying, “One day, perhaps, thou will cross the seas to find thy father’s kin and perhaps, if Allah wills, they will smile on thee. But I believe they will not smile on thee,” he had added sadly. And before he died he had given her a paper which gave the sureness to the birth and the truth of it, and the name from which Tua came.

Now N’ai was walking the golden jungle, pink flowered, verdant, strong. She walked across the taro patch and climbed the bamboo stairs to their hut and ran into the arms of her beloved and they lay together, warmed, and then they ate good food that she had cooked—saté and rice and shrimps and breadfruit and coconuts—and then she had made kawa for him, and he lay back and she knew she was good in his eyes.

They passed the time in talking, for now, three months after he had arrived in the village, he could speak their tongue even as she. He was telling her about his home and many things.

“And thy wife?” she asked hesitantly.

Peter Marlowe laughed. “I have no wife.”

“Well, then, thy mistresses?”

“I have no mistresses. But, for a short time I did have one.”

She frowned, thinking that it was strange that a man so old should have had but one woman in his life, one woman. But she knew that he was telling her the truth, so she knelt beside him and said, “Tell me about her, my love.”

“Her name was Marina, and I met her on the great ship that brought me from England to the East. We fell in love, but I was a child in matters of love.” Peter Marlowe smiled and stroked her raven hair.

“What was she like, how did she look, tell me.”

“She was tall and fair, a head taller than thee. Her skin was like milk and her eyes blue.”

“And I am small and my skin is dark and my eyes dark,” she cried, and wept suddenly for her love was so much.

He took her in his arms and held her close. “But I love thee.”

“Do you love me, truly do you love me?”

“Thou art my life, little one.”