Paul Theroux - The Consul's File

We thanked her and she said something that sounded like 'Hawaii'. We persuaded her to say it more slowly. She said, 'Have you a wife?'

'Not him.’ said Flint, slapping me on the arm in what I am sure he meant as congratulation.

'I'm coming,' she said.

She left. Flint said, 'I've never seen her before.'

'Seems very friendly.'

'Typical,' said Flint, full of approval. 'The Malays are fantastic. You get people like this all over the Federation — plenty of time for small-talk, very hospitable, give you the shirt off their back. I got this theory. You ask a guy directions in Malaysia. If the guy's Chinese he knows where you want to go but he won't tell you how to get there. If he's Indian he knows and he'll tell you. If he's Malay he won't know the place but he'll talk for ten hours about everything else. It's the temperament. Friendly. No hangups. Outgoing. All the time in the world.'

Fadila was back with the coffees. 'Americans, right?' she said, slopping coffee into the saucers as she set down the cups. 'I know Americans. Just had some here the other day, three of them, going down to Singapore. "Why go to Singapore?" I said. "Why not stay here?" I gave them a good meal, some free beer. Why not? I don't care if the manager gets cross. It's good for business — they'll be back. That's how you get customers.' She grinned at Flint, wrho had been listening to this with interest. 'Hey, they invited me to visit them in New York City! '

Flint said, 'You wouldn't like New York.'

'Why not? I like K.L. I like Johore Bahru. I like Ser-emban. Why not New York? What's your line of work, mister?'

Ordinarily, someone like Flint would have said 'business' or 'teaching' or made some vague reference to the government service. But Fadila was friendly; Fadila had spooned sugar into his coffee and stirred it; Fadila was snapping her hanky at the flies near the table. So Flint was truthful: 'I'm with the U.S. Embassy in K.L. This is your new consul. Mr Rogers' replacement.'

Fadila brightened and became even more voluble. 'Anything you want to know I can tell you.' She winked at me. 'There's something going on here. More than you think. You don't know, mister. I hear everything. Stay here.'

This time she rushed away.

Flint said, 'Jesus, I envy you. This is the real Malaysia. Look how friendly they are! '

'They? You mean her.'

'They're all like that in these little towns. And I'm stuck in K.L. Maybe Lois is right — I am married to my job— but if it wasn't for her I could be in a place like this. And tonight I've got this dinner, another hassle.'

Fadila hurried towards us along the verandah. She was wearing a pair of sunglasses with one cracked lens and carrying two pint bottles of Tiger beer. She placed them on the table and opened them.

'It's rather early for that,' I said.

'It's free,' she said, snorting. 'It's a present. You're my guest. Drink it up.'

Flint was smiling. He drank. I drank. The beer was sweet and heavy, and on top of the coffee fairly nauseating. Fadila talked as we drank; now she was saying something about the Malays — she didn't trust them, they stole, they were lazy, they were sneaky, they lied. She knew they lied: they were always lying about her. The British were good people, but she liked Americans best of all. I listened, but she did not require any encouragement. I concentrated on finishing the bottle of beer and when I had drunk it all I felt dazed, sickened, leaden, no longer hungry, and slightly myopic, as if the beer had been squirted in my eyes.

I said, 'We have to go.'

'What's the rush?' said Flint. 'I'm enjoying myself.'

Fadila said, 'Anyway, the Residence isn't ready.'

Flint looked interested.

'You have to stay at the Club — they're still painting the Residence.'

Flint said, 'They were supposed to have finished that painting last week.'

Fadila shook her head. 'I know the jaga — they're not finished. But the Club is nice. I'll see you there, don't worry. I know the Head Boy, Stanley Chee. Tell him Fadila sent you. He'll take good care of you.'

I stood up and thanked her for the beer. Flint said, 'I was just telling my friend here how lucky he is to have a post like this.'

'It's quiet in Ayer Hitam,' she said. 'No rat-race here, like K.L. You can relax.'

And in the car Flint said, 'Aren't these people fantastic?'

We went to the Consulate, a three-room bungalow made into offices, flying an American flag. It faced directly onto the road, at the beginning of the long driveway which led to the Residence, where another flag flew on a taller pole. I was introduced to my secretary, Miss Leong, to the driver Abubaker and to the peon Peeraswami. They looked apprehensive; they were silent, stiff with worry, seeing their new employer for the first time. I felt sorry for them and tried to relieve their anxiety by staying a while to chat, but this only worried them the more, and indeed the longer I chatted the more their terror of me seemed to increase.

Although it was only a hundred yards away, we drove to the Residence, and Flint — perhaps remembering Medan — said, 'White men don't walk.'

The Residence was blistered and scorched, the columns blackened, the verandah mottled; it had the appearance of having withstood a siege. But it was the workmen, burning off the old paint with blow torches. They scurried out of broken bushes and set to work as soon as we drove in. Fadila's warning had been accurate: there was a great deal more to do. Bamboo scaffolding had been lashed together around the house, and it tottered as the workmen clung with their flames and scrapers. I could see into and through the house: it was empty but for a figure running out at the back, shooing chickens, slamming doors.

Flint said, 'They should have finished this painting a week ago.'

We turned to go. Fadila was leaning against the car.

She was smiling, in her sunglasses, and now I could see how dirty her sarong was, the torn blouse, her grubby feet.

She said, 'I knew where to find you.'

Flint looked pleased, but when he started to talk to her she shouted something quickly in Malay to the painters. She laughed and said, 'I told them to mind their own business and get to work. No fooling and what-not. The Tuans are watching you. Look, they are afraid.'

'Why thanks very much,' said Flint.

But I said to her, 'That won't be necessary.'

Flint glanced at me as if to warn me that I'd been too sharp with her.

'We've got work to do,' I said.

Fadila said, 'The Consulate closes for lunch.' She looked at the sun out of the corner of her eye. 'Almost time.'

'Shall we go over to the Club?' said Flint.

'I'll show you where it is,' said Fadila.

I said, 'We'll find it.'

'Look,' she said, pointing at the painters. 'Look at those stupid men. I tell them to work and they don't work. Now they are just sitting.' She screamed at them in Malay and this time they replied, seeming to mock her. It was then that I noticed Fadila's very dirty hair.

Flint said, 'Fadila will keep them on their toes, won't you, sweetheart?'

'They are pigs,' she said. 'Malay people are no good.' She spat in their direction. 'They are dirty and lazy. They try to do things to me. Yes! But I don't let them.'

'What kind of things?' said Flint, savouring the risk in his question.

'With my head.'

I said, 'Let's go.'

But Flint was still talking to Fadila. He said, 'This is a great place. I'd like to be here myself.'

'You stay here,' said Fadila coyly; then she motioned at me. 'He can go back to K.L.'

The Club dining room was full: men in sports shirts, shorts and kneesocks, women in summer dresses, waiters in stiff jackets and ties carrying trays. It was as if we had stumbled into a lost world, but not an ancient one; here it was eternally 1938. None of the people looked directly at us, and no one had greeted us, but this exaggerated lack of interest made me as uncomfortable as if we were being stared at. A silence had fallen when we entered, then the silence became a rustling of self-consciousness, the clatter of forks, laughter and loud talking.