Both Cheng San and the headman broke into huge smiles.
"Wah-lah," Cheng San said. "It will be good to be able to talk through thee to my friend Rajah all the words that are in my miserable mouth. Many times have I wanted to say that which neither I nor my good friend Sutra here could find the words to say. Tell the Rajah that he is a wise and clever man to find such a fluent interpreter."
"He says I make a good mouthpiece," said Peter Marlowe happily, now calm and safe. "And he's glad he can now give you the straight stuff."
"For the love of God stick to your well-bred Limey talk. That mouthpiece mishmash makes you look like a bum yet."
"Oh, and I've been studying Max assiduously," Peter Marlowe said, crestfallen.
"Well, don't."
"He also called you Rajah! That's your nickname from here on. I mean
'here on in'."
"Crap off, Peter!"
"Up yours, brother!"
"C'mon, Peter, we haven't much time. Tell Cheng San this. About this deal. I'm gonna —"
"You can't talk business yet, old man," said Peter Marlowe, shocked.
"You'll hurt everything. First we'll have to have some coffee and something to eat, then we can start."
"Tell 'em now."
"If I do, they'll be very offended. Very. You can take my word for it."
The King thought for a moment. Well, he told himself, if you buy brains, it's bad business not to use them — unless you've got a hunch. That's where the smart businessman makes or breaks — when he plays a hunch over the so-called brains. But in this case he didn't have a hunch, so he just nodded. "Okay, have it your way."
He puffed his cigarette, listening to Peter Marlowe speak to them. He studied Cheng San obliquely. His clothes were better than the last time.
He wore a new ring that looked like a sapphire, maybe five carats. His neat, clean, hairless face was honey-toned and his hair well-groomed.
Yep, Cheng San was doing all right for himself. Now old Sutra, he's not doing so good. His sarong's old and tattered at the'hem. No jewelry. Last time he had a gold ring. Now he hasn't, and the crease mark where his ring had been worn was almost unnoticeable. That meant he hadn't just taken it off for tonight's show.
He heard the women off in the other part of the hut chattering softly, and outside, the quietness of the village by night. Through the glassless window came the smell of roasting pig. That meant the village was really in need of Cheng San — their black-market outlet for the fish the village was supposed to sell directly to the Japs — and were making him a gift of the pig. Or perhaps the old man who had just trapped a wild pig was having a party for his friends. But the crowd around the fire was waiting anxiously, just as anxiously as us. Sure, they're hungry too. That means that things must be tough in Singapore. The village should be well stocked with food and drink and everything. Cheng San couldn't be doing too well smuggling their fish to the markets. Maybe the Japs had their eye on him.
Maybe he's not long for this earth!
So maybe he needs the village more than the village needs him. And is putting on a show for them — clothes and jewelry. Maybe Sutra's getting pissed off with lack of business and is ready to dump him for another black-marketeer.
"Hey, Peter," he said, "Ask Cheng San how's the fish biz in Singapore."
Peter Marlowe translated the question.
"He says that business is fine. Food shortages are such that he is able to obtain the best prices on the island. But he says the Japs are clamping down heavily. It's becoming harder to trade every day. And to break the market laws is becoming more and more expensive."
Aha! Got you. The King exulted. So Cheng hasn't come just for my deal! It is fish and the village. Now how can I turn this to my advantage? Betcha Cheng San's having trouble delivering the merchandise. Maybe the Japs intercepted some boats and got tough. Old Sutra's no fool. No money, no deal, and Cheng San knows it. No makee tradee, no makee business and old Sutra'll sell to another. Yes, sir. So the King knew he could trade tough and mentally upped his asking price.
Then food arrived. Baked sweet potatoes, fried eggplant, coconut milk, thick slices of roasted pork, heavy with oil. Bananas. Papayas. The King marked that there was no millionaire's cabbage or lamb or beef and no sweetmeats the Malays loved so much. Yeah, things were tough all right.
The food was served by the headman's chief wife, a wrinkled old woman.
Helping her was Sulina, one of his daughters. Beautiful, soft, curved, honeyed skin. Sweet-smelling. Fresh sarong in their honor.
"Tabe, Sam," winked the King at Sulina.
The girl bubbled with laughter and shyly tried to cover her embarrassment.
"Sam?" winced Peter Marlowe.
"Sure," answered the King dryly. "She reminds me of my brother."
"Brother?" Peter Marlowe stared at him astonished.
"Joke. I haven't got a brother."
"Oh!" Peter Marlowe thought a moment, then asked, "Why Sam?"
"The old guy wouldn't introduce me," said the King, not looking at the girl,
"so I just gave her the name. I think it suits her."
Sutra knew that what they said had something to do with his daughter. He knew he had made a mistake to let her in here. Perhaps, in other times, he would have liked one of the tuan-tuan to notice her and take her back to his bungalow to be his mistress for a year or two. Then she would come back to the village well versed in the ways of men, with a nice dowry in her hands, and it would be easy for him to find the right husband for her.
That's how it would have been in the past. But now romance led only to a haphazard tune in the bushes, and Sutra did not want that for his daughter even though it was time she became a woman.
He leaned forward and offered Peter Marlowe a choice piece of pig.
"Perhaps this would tempt thy appetite?"
"I thank thee."
"You may leave, Sulina."
Peter Marlowe detected the note of finality in the old man's voice and noticed the shadow of dismay that painted the girl's face. But she bowed low and took her leave. The old wife remained to serve the men.
Sulina, thought Peter Marlowe, feeling a long-forgotten urge. She's not as pretty as N'ai, who was without blemish, but she is the same age and pretty. Fourteen perhaps and ripe. My God, how ripe.
"The food is not to thy taste?" Cheng San asked, amused by Peter Marlowe's obvious attraction to the girl. Perhaps this could be used to advantage.
"On the contrary. It is perhaps too good, for my palate is not used to fine food, eating as we do." Peter Marlowe remembered that for the protection of good taste, the Javanese spoke only in parables about women. He turned to Sutra. "Once upon a time a wise guru said that there are many kinds of food. Some for the stomach, some for the eye and some for the spirit. Tonight, I have had food for the stomach. And the sayings of thee and Tuan Cheng San have been food for the spirit. I am replete. Even so, I have also — we have also — been offered food for the eye. How can I thank thee for thy hospitality?"
Sutra's face wrinkled. Well put. So he bowed to the compliment and said simply, "It was a wise saying. Perhaps, in time, the eye may be hungry again. We must discuss the wisdom of the ancient another time."