Paul Theroux: The Consul's File

Flint said, 'I think I've made a friend.' After we ordered he said, 1 need a friend.'

'I'll keep an eye on her.'

'You were acting pretty funny with her,' he said. 'They're all right, these people. We could learn a lot from them. They look after their men-folk, they know how to run a house, they got a good sense of humour. You won't hear any dependent wife crap from them.'

I said nothing. I continued to eat, and I felt the attention of everyone in the room on me, the pressure of their glances; I sensed them sniffing.

Flint said, 'You won't get anywhere if you take that attitude.'

I looked at him, wishing he'd shut up.

He said, 'That high and mighty attitude, thinking people like Fadila don't matter. They do. And I'll tell you something else — she knows a lot that goes on around here.' He tapped his head. 'She's tuned in.'

'She could use a bath,' I said.

'Uncalled-for,' he said. 'You don't know how lucky we've been. We arrive in town and, bingo, we meet the greatest character in the place. I'll bet everyone knows her.'

He could not have been more right, for five minutes later there was a commotion at the door to the dining room, some shouts a scuffling, a yell, and the entire room looked up, nodded in recognition and began muttering. The waiters stiffened at the buffet where a rijstafel was set out, then an old Chinese man in a white jacket marched to the door and hissed something in Malay.

Flint got to his feet; the old Chinese man — whom I took to be Stanley Chee, the Head Boy — looked at Flint. Flint said, 'Let that woman through.' The dining room went silent as Fadila walked towards us, adjusting her blouse.

Flint pulled out a chair for her and seated her at our table.

She said, 'That stupid man told me to go away — because of my feet. I said I had to see you.'

'Sure you did,' said Flint.

'It's important,' said Fadila.

Flint looked at me, then frowned at his fingers.

I said, 'We were just about to leave.'

'Want to talk somewhere else?' said Flint.

Fadila said, 'These people hate me. They are bad people. All Malay people are bad, and the Chinese are pigs — they eat pigs — and the Indians always cheat you. That is Ayer Hitam. It is a nasty place. I want to go far away.'

Flint said, 'It seems a nice quiet little place.'

'No,' said Fadila. 'The people take you to the hospital. They want to do things to your head. They make you eat poison. If you refuse they slap you. At night they beat you with a rotan. They hide your clothes and make you naked so you cannot run away.' She leaned towards Flint, but instead of whispering she raised her voice. 'I had letters from Mr Battley and Mr Downs. "Fadila is a good amah, Fadila speaks English, Fadila is honest." The hospital people destroyed my letters! They cut off my hair! They beat me! I want to be your amah.'

Flint said, 'We have to go.'

'Let me be your amah. Take me with you.'

Flint's face was fixed in a smile, but his eyes were active. 'Appointments. Business. At the Consulate.'

'The Consulate is closed.'

'Business,' he said, and jumped to his feet.

'Take me,' she said. 'You are a good man. He hates me — he thinks I am sick. But you like me. You'll let me be your amah.' She took his arm and from the expression on Flint's face I could tell that she must be squeezing him hard. 'I want to go with you.'

'Outside,' said Flint and started for the door with Fadila still holding tightly to his arm.

There were stares, mutters, and one clear voice I know what I'd do with her. Flint hurried from the dining room. I followed, as calmly as I could, and heard, just as I left the room, one word, Americans.

Stanley Chee met me at the door; he bowed and made me pause. He said, 'Is she troubling you? If so, I can send her away.'

'Who is she?'

'Last year she was an amok. She was given medicine. But she will be an amok again soon.'

'Strange,' I said.

'No, not strange. Her husband took another wife, a young girl from Malacca, because Fadila did not give him any children. He went away and Fadila became an amok. Her husband was a devil.' He straightened his gold-rimmed glasses and added, 'Sir, all Malays are devils.'

Flint was inside the car, Fadila outside with her face against the window, crying bitterly. I noticed that Flint had locked all the doors. I walked to the other side of the car, but he didn't unlock the door. He rolled the window down a crack and said, 'This is it, old buddy. It's all yours — I've got to run. Lois is expecting me. Dinner party tonight. Keep your fingers crossed. And don't let our friend here get run over.'

Fadila's face hardened as Flint drove away. She turned, limped a few feet, then faced me and said, 'He is a pig and so are you.'

Ah Chiang, the wife of Alec's Chinese cook, had taped bits of holly to the leaves of the potted palm. The mistletoe sprig had been knocked down by the whirling fans and was blowing across the floor under the nose of the cat, but the cotton snowflakes stuck to the mirror of the drawing room were still there. The snowflakes were Mildred's idea. She thought they made the government bungalow look festive, and there was plenty of surgical cotton in the house: Alec was a doctor at the mission hospital. And yet the decorations had a look of tropical exhaustion, shabby and temporary. The snowflakes had wilted, the holly had crinkled shut in the heat, and the mosquito coils that were burning in water-filled dishes around the room gave off a funereal aroma of incense.

It was my first Christmas in Ayer Hitam, and I was too new to the town to be able to turn down Alec's invitation. There were no cars outside when I arrived, and I thought perhaps I had got the time wrong. But I saw people at the windows and inside half a dozen guests, three Chinese, an Indian and a large dark woman who wore a Christmas corsage, a plastic Santa bandaged in cotton wool and red ribbon.

The Chinese — two slim girls and Reggie Woo — were whispering together in a corner. The dark woman was talking loudly to Mr Ratnasingham. I recognized him as the pianist who had given a recital in the club lounge in November, when the Sultan had come over for the gymkhana. He was barrel-chested, a cheery Tamil with pomaded hair and an enormous wristwatch, wearing his black recital suit rather uncomfortably in thp heat.

It had just rained. The sky was low, and the trees still dripped. The smell of the rain was the smell of the dampened frangipanis, a hot close perfume of muddy blossoms and a cloud of humidity that weighted the bridge of my nose. It was only after a rain that I could smell the flowers, but the rain had brought an oppressive heat to the town that made Christmas seem absurdly distant.

Mr Ratnasingham said, 'We were just talking about Midnight Mass — they have it every year at the mission.'

'I always go,' said the woman. 'Last year there were some Eurasians there. They laughed the whole time. Disgraceful.'

I guessed she had a tincture herself or she would not have mentioned their race.

'This is our American Consul,' said Mr Ratnasingham.

The woman brightened. 'I knew Mr Gilstrap very well.'

Sam P. Gilstrap had been consul in Singapore in the Fifties. The woman was an old-timer. I said, 'Sam was half-Indian.'

Mr Ratnasingham smiled. He came close enough for me to hear his watch tick.

'Cherokee,' I said.

Mr Ratnasingham said, 'What was your previous post?'

'Africa — Uganda,' I said. 'One year they deported half a dozen Europeans for singing White Christmas.'

Mr Ratnasingham laughed. 'They're just down from the trees. That would never happen in Ayer Hitara.'

'I mustn't drink too much,' said the woman, and I was sure she was Eurasian by her scowl. 'I lose my voice if I drink too much brandy.'