The granting of an exit visa to a resident European is a big operation. My first visit to the visa section of the police-department headquarters lasted an hour. In that time I managed to secure the five different forms that had to be completed, and countersigned by various other authorities, before the formal application could be submitted. This was good going. I went next to the agents for the Hongkong and Shanghai Bank, cashed a cheque and had one of the forms countersigned. After I had deposited it, together with another form, at the Internal Revenue Department, I called in at the Indonesian Consulate and applied for a transit visa. By then, it was time for lunch.
I went to the Orient Hotel, where they had an air-conditioned bar. I also hoped to find De Vries, the Sunda-Pacific Airways traffic manager, and thus save myself the trouble of calling in at his office. He was there all right, nursing a de Kuyper’s gin as if it were all that he had left to live for. Sunda-Pacific Airways ran the scheduled passenger services out of Selampang under a Government franchise that was due to expire later that year. The Government had recently announced that it would not be renewed, and that a new national airline authority would take over. He knew only too well that, while international air safety requirements would necessitate their retaining the Dutch pilots, no such necessity would protect the rest of the Dutch staff. He had been one of the original members of the company. His bitterness was understandable.
After he had promised to see that a seat was held for me on the Friday plane to Djakarta, he asked me how things were up in Tangga. I told him, and asked how things were in Selampang. It was a foolish question; but I had nothing to do until the offices opened again, and I thought, somewhat virtuously, that the least I could do was to listen to him.
I received the answer I deserved.
“You know damn well how things are in this city. I would be pleased if you would stop encouraging me to become a bore. Have another drink.”
Over luncheon, however, he did unburden himself a little.
“I wouldn’t like a Government spy to hear me saying this,” he said; “but people like me have only one chance of survival here.”
“What’s that?”
“A revolution.”
“You mean Sanusi?”
“Why not? Did you know that he’d appointed a representative in New York to lobby the United States, and that for the past six months he’s had agents in Malaya and Pakistan, meeting religious leaders and canvassing support for the movement?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“The censorship has been quite efficient, but in my business news gets around. I can tell you, they’re badly worried down here. Sanusi controls more than half the total area of the country as it is. The Nasjah Government has failed completely. The country’s bankrupt, the elections were a farce and the Communists are getting stronger every day. If Sanusi were to take over tomorrow, the Americans and British would probably sigh with relief.”
“I don’t see how you’d be better off, though.”
“We couldn’t be worse off. At least, we could come to terms with Sanusi.”
“Are you sure of that?”
“Sanusi may be a fanatic in some ways, but in others he is open to reason.”
“You speak as if you knew him.”
“Oh yes, I know him. You forget, he commanded the garrison here.” He paused, then added: “There are lots of people in this place who know Sanusi.”
“I’m sure there are. Has he any weaknesses?”
“Wishful thinking. Same as me.”
A waiter was hovering near us. De Vries began to talk of other things. It was not until we were sitting on the terrace having our coffee that he reverted to the subject. A column of army trucks with troops aboard them went by. The troops were in full marching order, with steel helmets and machine pistols. They were clinging on for dear life as the trucks bounced over the pot holes outside the hotel. I remembered something I had read in the Government newspaper that morning about an important army exercise.
“Sanusi has another weakness,” De Vries remarked sombrely.
“Oh?”
“He does not like to take chances.”
When the Government offices reopened I made another tour, beginning with the Ministry of Public Works, who were required to certify that I was leaving the country with their knowledge and without any of their property in my possession, and ending with the police department, where I deposited the completed forms, together with my passport and a substantial sum to cover “fees.” A sour police lieutenant then agreed reluctantly that, if I returned the following day at about the same time, the exit permit might be stamped in my passport. When I arrived back at the tailor’s it was no surprise to find that the slacks and shirts I had ordered were ready for me; nevertheless, I was pleased. After a day with official Sunda, it was refreshing to deal with the businesslike Chinese.
Back in the apartment, I slept for an hour or so. When I awoke, I found that it had rained heavily and that the air smelt of, and felt like, hot mud. However, the water in the bathhouse was cool, and, after I had showered, I was able to dress without too much discomfort.
I had arranged to meet Rosalie at the New Harmony Club at eight thirty. Soon after eight, I locked up the apartment and set out. The lift was not working, and I had to walk down the stairs past the floors occupied by the radio station. The corridors had sponge-rubber carpets laid along them and there was a lot of external wiring on the walls; but otherwise they looked much like floors in an ordinary office building. On one landing workmen were manhandling a heavy piece of electrical equipment that looked like a meat safe out of the lift. When I reached the ground floor I could hear a big diesel generator set thudding away in the basement. The radio station, Jebb had told me, was independent of the city power supply. The two policemen on the door glanced at me casually, but did not trouble to look at the temporary pass their predecessors had given me earlier in the day.
Mahmud pedalled over grinning when he saw me come out, and soon we were splashing through the rain-filled pot holes along the Telegraf Road towards the racecourse.
I would like to be able to say that I sensed something strange about the city that evening-an inexplicable tension in the air, a brooding calm that foretold the storm-but I cannot. Most of the drains had overflowed with the rain and added their own special stench to the normal canal smell, but there seemed to be just as many people about as there had been the previous night, and they all seemed to be behaving in the normal way. On one patch of wasteland beside the road, there was even a small fair in progress. A carousel had been set up, and a small stage on which two Indian conjurors were performing. Mahmud slowed down as we went past. One of the conjurors was holding a tin chamber pot, while the other pretended to defecate coins into it. As the coins clattered into the pot, the crowd applauded happily.