“It has no price. Take it with thee.”
Peter Marlowe turned the radio over. It was a main set. In good condition. The back was off and the tubes glinted in the oil light. There were many condensers. Many. He held the set nearer the light and carefully examined the guts of it, inch by inch.
The sweat began dripping off his face. Then he found the one, three hundred microfarads.
Now what do I do? he asked himself. Do I just take the condenser? Mac had said he was almost sure. Better to take the whole thing, then if the condenser doesn’t fit ours, we’ve got another. We can cache it somewhere. Yes. It will be good to have a spare.
“I thank thee, Tuan Sutra. It is a gift that I cannot thank thee enough for. I am the thousands of Changi.”
“I beg thee protect us here. If a guard sees thee, bury it in the jungle. My village is in thy hands.”
“Do not fear. I will guard it with my life.”
“I believe thee. But perhaps this is a foolish thing to do.”
“There are times, Tuan Sutra, when I truly believe men are only fools.”
“Thou art wise beyond thy years.”
Sutra gave him a piece of material to cover it, then they returned to the main room. Sulina was in the shadows on the veranda. As they entered she got up.
“May I get thee food or drink, Father?”
Wah-lah, thought Sutra grumpily, she asks me but she means him. “No. Get thee to bed.”
Sulina tossed her head prettily but obeyed.
“My daughter deserves a whipping, I think.”
“It would be a pity to blemish such a delicate thing,” Peter Marlowe said. “Tuan Abu used to say, ‘Beat a woman at least once a week and thou wilt have peace in thy house. But do not beat her too hard, lest thou anger her, for then she will surely beat thee back and hurt thee greatly!’”
“I know the saying. It is surely true. Women are beyond comprehension.”
They talked about many things, squatting on the veranda looking at the sea. The surf was very slight, and Peter Marlowe asked permission to swim.
“There are no currents,” the old Malay told him, “but sometimes there are sharks.”
“I will take care.”
“Swim only in the shadows near the boats. There have been times when Japanese walk along the shore. There is a gun emplacement three miles down the beach. Keep thy eyes open.”
“I will take care.”
Peter Marlowe kept to the shadows as he made for the boats. The moon was lowering in the sky. Not too much time, he thought.
By the boats some men and women were preparing and repairing nets, chatting and laughing one to another. They paid no attention to Peter Marlowe as he undressed and walked into the sea.
The water was warm, but there were cold pockets, as in all the Eastern seas, and he found one and tried to stay in it. The feeling of freedom was glorious, and it was almost as though he was a small boy again taking a midnight swim in the Southsea with his father nearby shouting, “Don’t go out too far, Peter! Remember the currents!”
He swam underwater and his skin drank the salt-chemic. When he surfaced, he spouted water like a whale and swam lazily for the shallows, where he lay on his back, washed by the surf, and exulted in his freedom.
As he kicked his legs at the surf half swirling his loins, it suddenly struck him that he was quite naked and there were men and women within twenty yards of him. But he felt no embarrassment.
Nakedness had become a way of life in the camp. And the months that he had spent in the village in Java had taught him that there was no shame in being a human being with wants and needs.
The sensual warmth of the sea playing on him, and the rich warmth of the food within him, fired his loins into sudden heat. He turned over abruptly on his belly and pushed himself back into the sea, hiding.
He stood on the sandy bottom, the water up to his neck, and looked back at the shore and the village. The men and women were still busy repairing their nets. He could see Sutra on the veranda of his hut, smoking in the shadows. Then, to one side, he saw Sulina, caught in the light from the oil lamp, leaning on the window frame. Her sarong was half held against her and she was looking out to sea.
He knew she was looking at him and he wondered, shamed, if she had seen. He watched her and she watched him. Then he saw her take away the sarong and lay it down and pick up a clean white towel to dry the sweat that sheened her body.
She was a child of the sun and a child of the rain. Her long dark hair hid most of her, but she moved it until it caressed her back and she began to braid it. And all the time she watched him, smiling.
Then, suddenly, every flicker of current was a caress, every touch of breeze a caress, every thread of seaweed a caress — fingers of courtesans, crafty with centuries of learning.
I’m going to take you, Sulina.
I’m going to take you, whatever the cost.
He tried to will Sutra to leave the veranda. Sulina watched. And waited. Impatient as he.
I’m going to take her, Sutra. Don’t get in my way! Don’t. Or by God…
He did not see the King approaching the shadows or notice him stop with surprise when he saw him lying on his belly in the shallows.
“Hey, Peter. Peter!”
Hearing the voice through the fog, Peter Marlowe turned his head slowly and saw the King beckoning to him.
“Peter, c’mon. It’s time to beat it.”
Seeing the King, he remembered the camp and the wire and the radio and the diamond and the camp and the war and the camp and the radio and the guard they had to pass and would they get back in time and what was the news and how happy Mac would be with the three hundred microfarads and the spare radio that worked. The man-heat vanished. But the pain remained.
He stood up and walked for his clothes.
“You got a nerve,” the King said.
“Why?”
“Walking about like that. Can’t you see Sutra’s girl looking at you?”
“She’s seen plenty of men without clothes and there’s nothing wrong with that.” Without the heat there was no nakedness.
“Sometimes I don’t understand you. Where’s your modesty?”
“Lost that a long time ago.” He dressed quickly and joined the King in the shadows. His loins ached violently. “I’m glad you came along when you did. Thanks.”
“Why?”
“Oh, nothing.”
“You scared I’d forgotten you?”
Peter Marlowe shook his head. “No. Forget it. But thanks.”
The King studied him, then shrugged. “C’mon. We can make it easy now.” He led the way past Sutra’s hut and waved. “Salamat.”
“Wait, Rajah. Won’t be a second!”
Peter Marlowe ran up the stairs and into the hut. The radio was still there. Holding it under his arm, wrapped in the cloth, he bowed to Sutra.
“I thank thee. It is in good hands.”
“Go with God.” Sutra hesitated, then smiled. “Guard thy eyes, my son. Lest when there is food for them, thou canst not eat.”
“I will remember.” Peter Marlowe felt suddenly hot. I wonder if the stories are true, that the ancients can read thoughts from time to time. “I thank thee. Peace be upon thee.”
“Peace be upon thee until our next meeting.”
Peter Marlowe turned and left. Sulina was at her window as they passed underneath it. Her sarong covered her now. Their eyes met and caught and a compact was given and received and returned. She watched as they shadowed up the rise towards the jungle and she sent her safe wishes on them until they disappeared.
Sutra sighed, then noiselessly went into Sulina’s room. She was standing at the window dreamily, her sarong around her shoulders. Sutra had a thin bamboo in his hands and he cut her neatly and hard, but not too hard, across her bare buttocks.