Paul Theroux - The Consul's File

Raziah played a deceptively awkward game, the length of his arms made him appear to swing wildly; he was fast, but he often stumbled trying to stop. After the first set it was clear that everyone had underestimated Shimura. Raziah smashed serves at him, Shimura returned them forcefully, without apparent effort, and Shimura won the first two sets six-love. Changing ends, Raziah shrugged at the verandah as if to say, Tm doing the best I can.'

Evans said, 'Raziah's a slow starter. He needs to win a few games to get his confidence up.'

But he lost the first three games of the third set. Then Shimura, eager to finish him off, rushed the net and saw two of Raziah's drop shots land out of reach. When Raziah won that game, and the next — breaking Shimura's serve — there was a triumphant howl from the verandah. Raziah waved, and Shimura who had been smiling turned to see four men at the rail, the Chinese waiters on the steps, and crouching just under the verandah two Tamil gardeners — everyone gazing with the intensity of jurors.

Shimura must have guessed that something was up. He reacted by playing angrily, slicing vicious shots at Raziah, or else lifting slow balls just over the net to drop hardly without a bounce at Raziah's feet. The pretence of the casual match was abandoned; the kitchen staff gathered along the sidelines and others — mostly Malay — stood at the hedge, cheering. There was laughter when Shimura slipped, applause when the towel fell from his neck.

What a good story a victory would have made! But nothing in Ayer Hitam was ever so neat. It would have been perfect revenge, a kind of romantic battle — the lanky local boy with his old racket, making a stand against the intruder; the drama of vindicating not only his own reputation as a potentially great tennis player, but indeed the dignity of the entire Club. The match had its charms: Raziah had a way of chewing and swallowing and working his adam's apple at Shimura when the Japanese lost a point; Raziah talked as he played, a muttering narration that was meant to unnerve his opponent; and he took his time serving, shrugging his shoulders and bouncing the ball. But it was a very short contest, for as Evans and the others watched with hopeful and judging solemnity, Raziah lost.

The astonishing thing was that none of the Club staff, and none of Raziah's friends, seemed to realize that he had lost. They were still laughing and cheering and congratulating themselves long after Shimura had aced his last serve past Raziah's knees; and not for the longest time did the festive mood change.

Evans jumped to the court. Shimura was clamping his press to his racket, mopping his face. Seeing Evans he started to walk away.

Td like a word with you,' said Evans.

Shimura looked downcast; sweat and effort had plastered his hair close to his head, and his fatigue was curiously like sadness, as if he had been beaten. He had missed the hatred before, hadn't noticed us; but the laughter, the sudden crowd, the charade of the challenge match had showed him how much he was hated and how much trouble we had gone to in order to prove it. He said, 'So.'

Evans was purple. 'You come to the Club quite a bit, I see.'

'Yes.'

'I think you ought to be acquainted with the rules.'

'I have not broken any rules.'

Evans said curtly, 'You didn't sign in your guest.' Shimura bowed and walked to the clubhouse. Evans glared at Raziah; Raziah shook his head, then went for his sarong, and putting it on he became again a Malay of the town, one of numerous idlers who'd never be members of the Ayer Hitam Club.

The following day Shimura left. We never saw him again. For a month Evans claimed it as a personal victory. But that was short-lived, for the next news was of Raziah's defection. Shimura had invited him to Kuala Lumpur and entered him in the Federation Championship, and the jersey Raziah wore when he won a respectable third prize had the name of Shimura's company on it, an electronics firm. And there was to be more. Shimura put him up for membership in the Selangor Club, and so we knew that it was only a matter of time before Raziah returned to Ayer Hitam to claim reciprocal privileges as a guest-member. And even those who hated Shimura and criticized his lob were forced to admire the cleverness of his oriental revenge.

His father, Woo Boh Swee, had chased after the English in that shy, breathless Chinese way, hating the necessity of it and making his embarrassment into haste. He had gone from Canton to Hong Kong to work on an English ship and later had come to Ayer Hitam to supply the rubber estates with provisions. But the rubber price had fallen, many English and American families left the town, and the Chinese who replaced them imported or grew their own food; so he started City Bar.

It was the biggest coffee shop in town, the meeting place for a secret society — but the gang was only dangerous to other Chinese and did not affect Woo's regular trade, the remaining English planters and the Tamil rubber tappers. Woo — or 'City Bar' as he was known — was thoroughly Chinese; he was a chain-smoker, he played mah-jongg on a back table of the shop, he observed all the Chinese festivals with ang pows. The shop smelled of dusty bottles and bean-curd, and dark greasy ducks and glazed pork strips hung on hooks in the front window. He and his wife were great gamblers, and they had two children.

The children went to different schools. It was as if, this once, the Woos were hedging, making an each-way bet. The girl, Jin Bee, was at the Chinese primary school; the boy, Reggie, had been to the Anglo-Chinese school, then to Raffles Institution and the University of Singapore. He was the English child; he played cricket and tennis and was a member of the Ayer Hitam Club. He had distinguished himself by appearing in the Footlighters' production of Maugham's play, The Letter. It was the first play to attract a local audience; it ran for a week, and Reggie's picture was in the Johore Mail. That picture, bright yellow with age, was taped to the wall of City Bar. Everyone had hopes for Reggie. He was that odd figure you sometimes see in the east, the person who leaves his race behind, who goes to school and returns home English. Ayer Hitam was not an easy place to be English, but Reggie, an actor, had certain advantages. He was right for the part. And though drinks at the Club were more expensive than at City Bar. Reggie was at the Club, drinking, nearly every evening.

One night I saw him alone in the lounge. He looked like an actor who hadn't been warned that his play was cancelled; dressed up, solitary, he was a figure of neglect, and his expectant look was changing into one of desolation. I joined him, we talked about the heat, and after a while I told him he ought to get a scholarship to study overseas.

'I wouldn't mind.' He brushed his hair out of his eyes. 'How do I go about it?'

'That depends,' I said. 'What's your field?'

'Philosophy.'

I was prepared to be surprised, but I was unprepared for that. It was his clothes, narrow trousers, pointed shoes, a pink shirt, and a silk scarf knotted at his throat. 'It would be strange,' I said. 'A Chinese from Malaysia going to the States to study oriental philosophy.'

'Why do you say oriental philosophy?' He looked offended in a rather formal way.

'Just a wild guess.'

'A bad guess,' he said. 'Whitehead, Russell, Kant.' He showed me three well-manicured fingers. Then a fourth. 'Karl Popper.'

'You're interested in them, are you?'

'I studied them,' he said. 'I wrote on the mind-body problem.'

'I'll see what I can do.'

The Fulbright forms had to come from Kuala Lumpur, so it was a week before I looked for him again, and when I looked he wasn't there — not at the Club and not at City Bar. 'In Singapore.’ his father said. 'Got business.'