Paul Theroux - The Consul's File

We rather disliked children; we had none of our own, but that was seldom noticed because the local kids were everywhere. They strayed from the Staff Quarters and the kampong into the Club grounds, meeting in threes — three Tamils, three Malays, three Chinese, as if that was the number required for play. They usually quarrelled: it was an impossible number — one was invariably made a leper, victimized and finally rejected. Alec called them villains. He blamed the theft of his camera on one particular threesome who played their own version — no teams, no net — of the Malay game of sepak takraw, kicking a raffia ball the size of a grapefruit back and forth at the side of the Club-house.

There was a solitary one, perhaps Malay. It was hard to tell how dark she was beneath her dirt. She had uncombed hair and bruised legs and elbows and she wore a soiled waistless dress of the sort sent in bales from America and England and distributed by bush missionaries. She was not tall, but neither was she very young. The dirt gave her skin the texture of greasy fabric. Her feet were cracked like an adult's, she was solemn, she did not play. She squatted on the grass with her arms folded on her knees, her tangled hair drooping, and she watched the other children taking possession of the parking lot, the gardens, the old bowling green. She looked upon them with a witchy aloofness. She was, for all her dirt, free.

All this I remembered after she joined us.

Late one night, over drinks, Tony Evans was describing how a tennis ball should strike the racket if it was to have maximum top-spin. There were three of us in the lounge — Tony, Rupert Prosser and myself — and it was October, just before the second monsoon. Tony was still in his white tennis outfit, having made a night of his after-game drinks; there were spills of pink Angostura down the front of his Fred Perry shirt.

'You should concentrate on your game now that the Footlighters have folded,' he said to Prosser, the pink gins giving what was meant as a casual remark a leaden pedantry. 'Jan's got a weak serve — she should be working on that.' He sipped his drink. 'Now, top-spin. Ideally, the ball should hit the racket at this angle.'

He touched the ball to the strings and then with a sudden hilarity hit the ball hard. It shot out of the window and made a dark thump in the grass.

'You weren't paying attention.'

Prosser said, 'You're drunk.'

But Evans was heading for the door. He said, 'Now I've got to find my bloody ball.'

We heard him stamping around the lawn and swishing through the flowers under the window. He cursed; there was a cry — not his — like a cat's complaint. The next we knew he was at the door and saying, 'Look what I found! '

He did not hold the girl in his arms — she was too big for that. He held her wrist, as if he was abducting her, and she was trying to pull away. She had the haggard, insolent look of someone startled from sleep. She did not seem afraid, but rather contemptuous of us.

'She was at the door,' said Evans. 'I saw her legs sticking out. These people can sleep anywhere.'

‘I’ve seen her around,' said Prosser. 'I thought she was from the kampong.'

'Could use a bath,' said Evans. He made a face, but still he held her wrist.

In Malay, I asked her what her name was. She scowled with fear and jerked her head to one side. Her thin starved face caused her teeth and eyes to protrude, and she smelled of dust and damp grass. But she was undeniably pretty, in a wild sort of way, like a captive bird panting under its ragged feathers, wishing to break free of us.

'Call the police,' said Evans. 'She shouldn't be sleeping out there.'

Evans said with unmistakable lechery, 'She doesn't look like much, but believe me she's got a body under all those rags. I felt it! Give her a bath and you might be surprised by what you find. All she wants is a good scrub.'

I said, 'We ought to call the mission.'

'They'll be asleep — it's nearly midnight,' said Prosser. 'I'll ring Jan. We can put her in the spare room.'

Prosser went to the phone. Evans picked up the bowl of peanuts from the bottle-cluttered table. He showed her the peanuts and said, 'Makan?’

At first she hesitated, then seeing that she was being encouraged she took a great handful and pushed it into her mouth. She turned away to chew and I could hear her hunger, the snappings and swallowings.

Evans nudged me. 'Listen to him'—Prosser was drunkenly shouting into the phone in the next room—'I'll bet Jan thinks he's picked up some tart! '

A week later the girl was still with the Prossers.

'She's landed on her feet,' said Evans. 'Couple of bleeding hearts. They always wanted a kid.'

'She's no kid,' I said. 'Has Prosser told the police? Her parents might be looking for her. Who knows, she might have had amnesia.' Evans was shaking his head. 'She might be a bit simple.'

'Not according to Jan. They're thinking of taking her on as an amah. She learns fast, they say. The only thing is, she hasn't said a blessed word! '

'Suppose she's not Malay? Suppose she's Chinese? We should get someone to talk to her in Cantonese or Hokkien. Father Lefever could do it.'

'You don't want a mish for this,' said Evans. 'My provisioner's just the man. I'll put him onto it. You're in for a treat. Pickwick's a real character.'

That afternoon, as I was walking into town, a car drew up beside me, the Prossers' Zephyr.

'Give you a lift?' said Rupert.

I thanked him, but said I'd walk. Then I saw the girl. She was in the back seat, in a beautiful sarong, with a blouse so starched it was like stiff white paper enfolding her dark shoulders. She smiled at me shyly, as if ashamed to be seen this way. The blouse was crushed against her breasts, the sarong tightened on her curve of belly. Cleaned up she looked definitely Chinese; her face was a bit fuller, her eyes deep and lacking the dull shine her hunger had given them. She was a beauty in tremulous trapped repose, and the Prossers in the front seat were obviously very proud of her.

'We're taking Nina into town to buy some clothes,' said Jan. 'She doesn't have a stitch, poor thing.'

'We had to burn her dress,' said Rupert, grinning. 'It stank! '

'Filthy! She was caked with it,' said Jan, who like Rupert seemed to relish their transformation of the girl.

Rupert glanced back admiringly. 'We gave her a good scrub. Jan wouldn't let me help.'

Jan was coy. 'She's hardly a child.'

The girl hid her face against her shoulder: she knew she was being discussed.

I said, 'What does she have to say?'

'Not much,' said Jan. 'Nothing actually. We think she'll open up when she gets used to us.'

I told them my idea of asking someone to speak to her in Chinese and how Evans had suggested his provisioner.

'Wonderful,' said Rupert. 'Send him around. We're dying to find out about her.'

'You know her name at least.'

'Nina? That was Jan's idea. We always said if we had a girl we'd call her Nina.'

And they drove awav, like a couple who've rescued a stray cat. They looked happy, but I was struck by the sight of their three odd heads jogging in the car's rear window. If the girl had been younger, if she had not looked so changed by that hint of shame, I think I would have let the matter rest. There would have been little to describe: a lost child — and children look so much alike. But she was different, describable, almost remarkable in her looks, perhaps fifteen or sixteen, all her moles uncovered, a person. Someone would remember her. I knew Jan and Rupert wouldn't forgive me for going to the police, so the first chance I had I rang Father Lefever at the mission and asked him if he could find out anything about her. The mission net was wide: Johore was a parish.