Paul Theroux - The Consul's File

'Was it the same man as before?'

'Yes, just like before. He was terrible — he laughed.'

And her story was the same, even the same image as before, about him picking her legs up 'like a wheelbarrow', a rather chilling caricature of sexuality. Truth is not a saga of alarming episodes; it is a detail, usually a small one, that gives a fiction life. Hers was that horrible item, unusual enough to be a fact and too bizarre to be made up, about the slippery skin of the rapist. He was greasy, slimy — his whole body gleamed. She couldn't fight against him; she couldn't get a grip on him. He had appeared in her room and pounced on her, and she was helpless. This time she said she had resisted and it was only by biting on her that he held on.

I said, 'You'll have to drop your charges against The Prince.'

‘I’m afraid to.'

'But don't you see? He's in jail, and if it was the same man as before then it couldn't have been The Prince.'

'I don't know what to do.'

'I suggest you get a telephone installed in your house. If you hear any suspicious noises, ring me or the police. Obviously it's some local person who fancies you.'

But The Prince was not released. Somehow the police had extracted a confession from him, a date was set for the trial and Miss Clem was scheduled to testify. That was weeks away. In the meantime, Miss Clem had her telephone put in. She rang me one evening shortly afterward.

'Is there anything wrong?' I asked, hearing her voice.

'Everything's fine,' she said. 'I was just testing it.'

'From now on only ring me in the event of an emergency,' I said.

'I think I'm going to be all right,' she said, and rang off.

For a brief period I forgot about Miss Clem, The Flower of Malaya. I had enough to keep me busy — visa matters were a continual headache. It was about this time that the Strangs got their divorce — which is another story— but the speculation at the Club, up to then concerned with Miss Clem, was centred on what Milly Strang could possibly be doing in Bali. She had sent a gleeful postcard to Angela, but nothing to Lloyd. Miss Clem dropped from view.

My opposite number came down from Penang on a private visit and we had a little reception for him. The invitation specified 'drinks 6–8 p.m.' but at eleven there were still people on the verandah badgering the waiters for fresh drinks. My reaction was tactical: I went into my study and read the cables. Usually it worked — when the host disappears the guests are at sea; they get worried and invariably they take the hint.

The telephone rang. I was not quick and when I picked up the receiver the line went dead. At first I did nothing; then I remembered and was out of the door.

Peeraswami, my Tamil peon, had been helping out at the party. As I rushed out of the back door I noticed him at the edge of the courtyard, chatting to the kitchen staff. I called to him and told him to get into the car. On the way I explained where we were going, but I did not say why.

Miss Clem's house was in the teachers' compound of the mission school. It was in darkness. I jammed on the brakes and jumped out. Peeraswami was right behind me. From the bungalow I could hear Miss Clem sobbing.

'Go around back,' I said to Peeraswami. 'In those trees. If you see anyone, catch him.'

Peeraswami sprinted away. I went into the house and stumbled in the direction of the sobbing. Miss Clem was alone, sitting on the edge of the bed. I switched on the light and saw her sad fat body on the rumpled bedclothes. She had an odd shine, a gloss on her skin that was lit like a snail's track. But it covered her stomach; it was too viscous to be perspiration and it had the smell of jungle. She was smeared with it, and though she seemed too dazed to notice it, it was like nothing I had ever seen before. She lay down sobbing and pulled a sheet over herself.

'It was him,' she said.

'The Prince?'

'No, no! Poor Ibrahim,' she sobbed.

'Take a bath,' I said. 'You can come back to my house when you've changed.'

'Where are you going?'

‘I’ve got to find my peon.'

I found him hurrying back to the house. In the best of times he had a strange face, his dark skin and glittering teeth, his close-set eyes and on his forehead a thumbprint of ashes, the eye of God. He was terrified — not a rare thing in Peeraswami, but terror on that Tamil face was enough to frighten anyone else.

'Tuan!' he cried.

'Did you see him?'

'Yes, yes,' he said. 'He had no clothings, no shirtings. Bare-naked! '

'Well, why the hell didn't you catch him?' I snapped.

'Tuan,' said Peeraswami, 'no one can catch Orang Minyak.'

'You knew him?'

'Everyone know him.'

'I don't understand,' I said. 'Orang is man. But Minyak — is that a name?'

'It his name. Minyak — oily, like ghee butter on his body. You try but you cannot catch hold. He trouble the girls, only the girls at night. But he Malay spirit — not Indian, Malay,' said Peeraswami, as if disclaiming any responsibility for another race's demons.

An incubus, I thought. What a fate for the Flower of Malaya. Peeraswami lingered. He could see I was angry he hadn't caught Orang Minyak. And even then I only half-believed.

'Well, you did your best,' I said, and reached out to shake his hand. I squeezed and his hand shot away from mine, and then my own hand was slippery, slick and smelling of jungle decay.

'I touch, but I do not catch,' said Peeraswami. He stooped and began wiping his palms on the grass. 'You see? No one can catch Orang Minyak.'

'Mine used to sweat in his sleep,' said the woman in the white dress, a bit drunkenly. 'It literally poured off him! During the day he'd be dry as a bone, but as soon as he closed his eyes, bang, he'd start dripping.'

Her name was Maxine Stanhope and practically the first thing she had said to the woman who sat opposite was, 'Please call me Max, all my friends do.' They sat on the ferandah of a hotel outside Denpasar, in Bali, in the sun the other tourists avoided. They had dark reptilian tans and slouched languorously in the comfortable chairs like lizards sunning themselves on a rock. Lunch was over, the wine was gone, their voices were raised in emphatic friendliness. They had known each other for only three hours.

'Mine didn't sweat that much, but he made the most fantastic noises,' said Milly Strang. 'He carried on these mumbling monologues, using different voices, and groaning and sort of swallowing. Sometimes I'd wake up and just look at him and laugh.'

'It's not funny,' said Maxine. But she was laughing; she was the larger of the two, and sharp-featured, her hair tugged back and fitting her head closely. There was a male's growl of satisfaction in her laugh, not the high mirth you would have expected from that quick, companionable mouth. 'When I remember the things he put me through, I think I must have been crazy. Mine made me warm his cup. I should have broken it over his head.'

'Mine had this way of pawing me when he was feeling affectionate. He was really quite strong. He left bruises! I suppose he thought he was — what's the expression? — turning me on.'

'They always think that,' said Maxine. She held the empty wine bottle over the other's glass until a drop fell out. 'Let's have another — wine makes me honest.'

'I've had quite enough,' said Milly.

'You're the boss,' said Maxine. Then she said, 'Mine weighed two-hundred pounds.'

'Well, mine was at least that. I'm not exaggerating. When I think of him on top of me — it's ludicrous.'

'It's obscene. Mine kept gaining weight, and finally I said to him, "Look, if this goes on any more we won't be able to make love." Not that that worried me. By then I'd already taken a lover — not so much a lover as a new way of life. But Erwin said it didn't matter whether you were fat or thin. If you were fat you'd just find a new position.'