CHAPTER FIVE
Directly on stepping outside Omar's hut Abdulla caught sight of
Willems. He expected, of course, to see a white man, but not
that white man, whom he knew so well. Everybody who traded in
the islands, and who had any dealings with Hudig, knew Willems.
For the last two years of his stay in Macassar the confidential
clerk had been managing all the local trade of the house under a
very slight supervision only on the part of the master. So
everybody knew Willems, Abdulla amongst others--but he was
ignorant of Willems' disgrace. As a matter of fact the thing had
been kept very quiet--so quiet that a good many people in
Macassar were expecting Willems' return there, supposing him to
be absent on some confidential mission. Abdulla, in his
surprise, hesitated on the threshold. He had prepared himself to
see some seaman--some old officer of Lingard's; a common man--
perhaps difficult to deal with, but still no match for him.
Instead, he saw himself confronted by an individual whose
reputation for sagacity in business was well known to him. How
did he get here, and why? Abdulla, recovering from his surprise,
advanced in a dignified manner towards the fire, keeping his eyes
fixed steadily on Willems. When within two paces from Willems he
stopped and lifted his right hand in grave salutation. Willems
nodded slightly and spoke after a while.
"We know each other, Tuan Abdulla," he said, with an assumption
of easy indifference.
"We have traded together," answered Abdulla, solemnly, "but it
was far from here."
"And we may trade here also," said Willems.
"The place does not matter. It is the open mind and the true
heart that are required in business."
"Very true. My heart is as open as my mind. I will tell you why
I am here."
"What need is there? In leaving home one learns life. You
travel. Travelling is victory! You shall return with much
wisdom."
"I shall never return," interrupted Willems. "I have done with
my people. I am a man without brothers. Injustice destroys
fidelity."
Abdulla expressed his surprise by elevating his eyebrows. At the
same time he made a vague gesture with his arm that could be
taken as an equivalent of an approving and conciliating "just
so!"
Till then the Arab had not taken any notice of Aissa, who stood
by the fire, but now she spoke in the interval of silence
following Willems' declaration. In a voice that was much
deadened by her wrappings she addressed Abdulla in a few words of
greeting, calling him a kinsman. Abdulla glanced at her swiftly
for a second, and then, with perfect good breeding, fixed his
eyes on the ground. She put out towards him her hand, covered
with a corner of her face-veil, and he took it, pressed it twice,
and dropping it turned towards Willems. She looked at the two
men searchingly, then backed away and seemed to melt suddenly
into the night.
"I know what you came for, Tuan Abdulla," said Willems; "I have
been told by that man there." He nodded towards Babalatchi, then
went on slowly, "It will be a difficult thing."
"Allah makes everything easy," interjected Babalatchi, piously,
from a distance.
The two men turned quickly and stood looking at him thoughtfully,
as if in deep consideration of the truth of that proposition.
Under their sustained gaze Babalatchi experienced an unwonted
feeling of shyness, and dared not approach nearer. At last
Willems moved slightly, Abdulla followed readily, and they both
walked down the courtyard, their voices dying away in the
darkness. Soon they were heard returning, and the voices grew
distinct as their forms came out of the gloom. By the fire they
wheeled again, and Babalatchi caught a few words. Willems was
saying--
"I have been at sea with him many years when young. I have used
my knowledge to observe the way into the river when coming in,
this time."
Abdulla assented in general terms.
"In the variety of knowledge there is safety," he said; and then
they passed out of earshot.
Babalatchi ran to the tree and took up his position in the solid
blackness under its branches, leaning against the trunk. There
he was about midway between the fire and the other limit of the
two men's walk. They passed him close. Abdulla slim, very
straight, his head high, and his hands hanging before him and
twisting mechanically the string of beads; Willems tall, broad,
looking bigger and stronger in contrast to the slight white
figure by the side of which he strolled carelessly, taking one
step to the other's two; his big arms in constant motion as he
gesticulated vehemently, bending forward to look Abdulla in the
face.
They passed and repassed close to Babalatchi some half a dozen
times, and, whenever they were between him and the fire, he could
see them plain enough. Sometimes they would stop short, Willems
speaking emphatically, Abdulla listening with rigid attention,
then, when the other had ceased, bending his head slightly as if
consenting to some demand, or admitting some statement. Now and
then Babalatchi caught a word here and there, a fragment of a
sentence, a loud exclamation. Impelled by curiosity he crept to
the very edge of the black shadow under the tree. They were
nearing him, and he heard Willems say--
"You will pay that money as soon as I come on board. That I must
have."
He could not catch Abdulla's reply. When they went past again,
Willems was saying--
"My life is in your hand anyway. The boat that brings me on
board your ship shall take the money to Omar. You must have it
ready in a sealed bag."
Again they were out of hearing, but instead of coming back they
stopped by the fire facing each other. Willems moved his arm,
shook his hand on high talking all the time, then brought it down
jerkily--stamped his foot. A short period of immobility ensued.
Babalatchi, gazing intently, saw Abdulla's lips move almost
imperceptibly. Suddenly Willems seized the Arab's passive hand
and shook it. Babalatchi drew the long breath of relieved
suspense. The conference was over. All well, apparently.
He ventured now to approach the two men, who saw him and waited
in silence. Willems had retired within himself already, and wore
a look of grim indifference. Abdulla moved away a step or two.
Babalatchi looked at him inquisitively.
"I go now," said Abdulla, "and shall wait for you outside the
river, Tuan Willems, till the second sunset. You have only one
word, I know."
"Only one word," repeated Willems.
Abdulla and Babalatchi walked together down the enclosure,
leaving the white man alone by the fire. The two Arabs who had
come with Abdulla preceded them and passed at once through the
little gate into the light and the murmur of voices of the
principal courtyard, but Babalatchi and Abdulla stopped on this
side of it. Abdulla said--
"It is well. We have spoken of many things. He consents."
"When?" asked Babalatchi, eagerly.
"On the second day from this. I have promised every thing. I
mean to keep much."
"Your hand is always open, O Most Generous amongst Believers!
You will not forget your servant who called you here. Have I not
spoken the truth? She has made roast meat of his heart."
With a horizontal sweep of his arm Abdulla seemed to push away
that last statement, and said slowly, with much meaning--
"He must be perfectly safe; do you understand? Perfectly safe--as
if he was amongst his own people--till . . ."
"Till when?" whispered Babalatchi.
"Till I speak," said Abdulla. "As to Omar." He hesitated for a
moment, then went on very low: "He is very old."
"Hai-ya! Old and sick," murmured Babalatchi, with sudden
melancholy.
"He wanted me to kill that white man. He begged me to have him
killed at once," said Abdulla, contemptuously, moving again
towards the gate.
"He is impatient, like those who feel death near them," exclaimed
Babalatchi, apologetically.
"Omar shall dwell with me," went on Abdulla, "when . . . But no
matter. Remember! The white man must be safe."
"He lives in your shadow," answered Babalatchi, solemnly. "It is
enough!" He touched his forehead and fell back to let Abdulla go
first.
And now they are back in the courtyard wherefrom, at their
appearance, listlessness vanishes, and all the faces become alert
and interested once more. Lakamba approaches his guest, but
looks at Babalatchi, who reassures him by a confident nod.
Lakamba clumsily attempts a smile, and looking, with natural and
ineradicable sulkiness, from under his eyebrows at the man whom
he wants to honour, asks whether he would condescend to visit the
place of sitting down and take food. Or perhaps he would prefer
to give himself up to repose? The house is his, and what is in
it, and those many men that stand afar watching the interview are
his. Syed Abdulla presses his host's hand to his breast, and
informs him in a confidential murmur that his habits are ascetic
and his temperament inclines to melancholy. No rest; no food; no
use whatever for those many men who are his. Syed Abdulla is
impatient to be gone. Lakamba is sorrowful but polite, in his
hesitating, gloomy way. Tuan Abdulla must have fresh boatmen,
and many, to shorten the dark and fatiguing road. Hai-ya!
There! Boats!
By the riverside indistinct forms leap into a noisy and
disorderly activity. There are cries, orders, banter, abuse.
Torches blaze sending out much more smoke than light, and in
their red glare Babalatchi comes up to say that the boats are
ready.
Through that lurid glare Syed Abdulla, in his long white gown,
seems to glide fantastically, like a dignified apparition
attended by two inferior shades, and stands for a moment at the
landing-place to take leave of his host and ally--whom he loves.
Syed Abdulla says so distinctly before embarking, and takes his
seat in the middle of the canoe under a small canopy of blue
calico stretched on four sticks. Before and behind Syed Abdulla,
the men squatting by the gunwales hold high the blades of their
paddles in readiness for a dip, all together. Ready? Not yet.
Hold on all! Syed Abdulla speaks again, while Lakamba and
Babalatchi stand close on the bank to hear his words. His words
are encouraging. Before the sun rises for the second time they
shall meet, and Syed Abdulla's ship shall float on the waters of
this river--at last! Lakamba and Babalatchi have no doubt--if
Allah wills. They are in the hands of the Compassionate. No
doubt. And so is Syed Abdulla, the great trader who does not
know what the word failure means; and so is the white man--the
smartest business man in the islands--who is lying now by Omar's
fire with his head on Aissa's lap, while Syed Abdulla flies down
the muddy river with current and paddles between the sombre walls
of the sleeping forest; on his way to the clear and open sea
where the Lord of the Isles (formerly of Greenock, but condemned,
sold, and registered now as of Penang) waits for its owner, and
swings erratically at anchor in the currents of the capricious
tide, under the crumbling red cliffs of Tanjong Mirrah.
For some time Lakamba, Sahamin, and Bahassoen looked silently
into the humid darkness which had swallowed the big canoe that
carried Abdulla and his unvarying good fortune. Then the two
guests broke into a talk expressive of their joyful
anticipations. The venerable Sahamin, as became his advanced
age, found his delight in speculation as to the activities of a
rather remote future. He would buy praus, he would send
expeditions up the river, he would enlarge his trade, and, backed
by Abdulla's capital, he would grow rich in a very few years.
Very few. Meantime it would be a good thing to interview Almayer
to-morrow and, profiting by the last day of the hated man's
prosperity, obtain some goods from him on credit. Sahamin
thought it could be done by skilful wheedling. After all, that
son of Satan was a fool, and the thing was worth doing, because
the coming revolution would wipe all debts out. Sahamin did not
mind imparting that idea to his companions, with much senile
chuckling, while they strolled together from the riverside
towards the residence. The bull-necked Lakamba, listening with
pouted lips without the sign of a smile, without a gleam in his
dull, bloodshot eyes, shuffled slowly across the courtyard
between his two guests. But suddenly Bahassoen broke in upon the
old man's prattle with the generous enthusiasm of his youth. . .
. Trading was very good. But was the change that would make
them happy effected yet? The white man should be despoiled with
a strong hand! . . . He grew excited, spoke very loud, and his
further discourse, delivered with his hand on the hilt of his
sword, dealt incoherently with the honourable topics of
throat-cutting, fire-raising, and with the far-famed valour of
his ancestors.
Babalatchi remained behind, alone with the greatness of his
conceptions. The sagacious statesman of Sambir sent a scornful
glance after his noble protector and his noble protector's
friends, and then stood meditating about that future which to the
others seemed so assured. Not so to Babalatchi, who paid the
penalty of his wisdom by a vague sense of insecurity that kept
sleep at arm's length from his tired body. When he thought at
last of leaving the waterside, it was only to strike a path for
himself and to creep along the fences, avoiding the middle of the
courtyard where small fires glimmered and winked as though the
sinister darkness there had reflected the stars of the serene
heaven. He slunk past the wicket-gate of Omar's enclosure, and
crept on patiently along the light bamboo palisade till he was
stopped by the angle where it joined the heavy stockade of
Lakamba's private ground. Standing there, he could look over the
fence and see Omar's hut and the fire before its door. He could
also see the shadow of two human beings sitting between him and
the red glow. A man and a woman. The sight seemed to inspire
the careworn sage with a frivolous desire to sing. It could
hardly be called a song; it was more in the nature of a
recitative without any rhythm, delivered rapidly but distinctly
in a croaking and unsteady voice; and if Babalatchi considered it
a song, then it was a song with a purpose and, perhaps for that
reason, artistically defective. It had all the imperfections of
unskilful improvisation and its subject was gruesome. It told a
tale of shipwreck and of thirst, and of one brother killing
another for the sake of a gourd of water. A repulsive story
which might have had a purpose but possessed no moral whatever.
Yet it must have pleased Babalatchi for he repeated it twice, the
second time even in louder tones than at first, causing a
disturbance amongst the white rice-birds and the wild
fruit-pigeons which roosted on the boughs of the big tree growing
in Omar's compound. There was in the thick foliage above the
singer's head a confused beating of wings, sleepy remarks in
bird-language, a sharp stir of leaves. The forms by the fire
moved; the shadow of the woman altered its shape, and
Babalatchi's song was cut short abruptly by a fit of soft and
persistent coughing. He did not try to resume his efforts after
that interruption, but went away stealthily to seek--if not
sleep--then, at least, repose.
