State of Siege

The New Harmony Club was outside the city. Beyond the race track there was a stretch of about a mile of straight, unlighted road, with large bungalow compounds on either side of it. It was very quiet on this road, and you could hear an approaching car almost as soon as you saw its lights. Even the cicadas seemed muted, and we had left behind the smell of the canals.

“Nice part this,” Jebb said; “as long as you’re not too near the race track.” The two betjak were travelling abreast now.

“Who lives here?”

“Foreign legations mostly. One or two rich Chinese. They have to pay through the nose for the privilege though. Look, there’s the club. That light ahead. Shove it along, Mahmud! We need a drink.”

It was a bungalow much like the rest, but with an electric sign by the entrance to the compound, and a gatekeeper in a peaked cap who peered at us intently as we turned in. As we stopped, the warm, humid air seemed to close in again, but now it was heavily scented by the frangipani growing in the forecourt; and from inside came the lush, sentimental, international sound of a night-club pianist playing American music.

In the vestibule a Chinese doorman in a sharkskin dinner jacket made out a temporary membership card for me, and sold me a pack of American cigarettes at double the black-market price. Then, we went through into the room beyond.

Once it had been two rooms, but arched openings had been cut in the old dividing wall to make it one. There was a teak-panelled bar at one end and a platform with the piano on it in an alcove. The rest of the space inside was filled with tables, about a dozen of them. Out on the covered terrace there were a few more tables and a small raised dance floor. The walls were painted to imitate stonework, and the light came from electric candles in wrought-iron wall brackets.

It was early, and only two or three of the tables were so far occupied. The bar, however, was crowded. Most of the men were Europeans, though there were a couple of slick young Sundanese in air-force uniforms sitting on bar stools and a neat Chinese with rimless glasses. The pianist was a supercilious-looking Indian wearing a gold bracelet and a ruby ring. A Dutch couple were leaning on the piano with glasses in their hands, listening to him raptly. The wife’s hair was untidy and she seemed to be a little drunk. The Indian was ignoring them.

“ ‘A bunch of the boys were whooping it up in the Malamute saloon,’ ” Jebb quoted facetiously, and began to elbow his way towards the bar, exchanging greetings with people as he went. “Hullo, Ted. How’re you doing, sport? Hi, Marie.”

Marie was a stout, dark girl with big, protruding teeth and a tight silk dress. She smiled mechanically and blew cigarette smoke at the ceiling. Jebb winked at me. I had no idea what the wink meant, but I grinned back understandingly. The effort was wasted. He was greeting the Chinese with the rimless glasses.

“Evening, Mor Sai. Want you to meet a pal of mine, Steve Fraser. Steve, this is Lim Mor Sai. He owns the joint.”

As we shook hands, a middle-aged blonde with haggard eyes and a foolish mouth came through the door beside the bar and slipped an arm through Jebb’s. “Hullo, Roy love,” she said. “I thought you were going to Makassar.”

“No, that’s tomorrow. Molly, this is Steve Fraser. Steve, this is Molly Lim.”

She gave me a glassy stare. “Another bloody Britisher, eh? Why don’t you people stay at home?”

I smiled.

“One day, my darling,” said her husband primly, “you will make such a joke too often. Then, a lot of our furniture will be broken and there will be trouble with the police.”

“Oh, go on with you!” She fondled his cheek. “He knows I’m pulling his leg. I’ll give you three guesses where I come from, Mr. Fraser, and the first two don’t count.”

“Lancashire?”

“Of course. Mor Sai says I even speak Cantonese with a Liverpool accent. Isn’t that right, love?”

Lim looked bored with her. “As this is your first visit to the club,” he said to me, “you must have a drink on the house.”

“That’s what we’ve been waiting to hear,” said Jebb. “We’re drinking brandy.”

“You’ll find it on the bill,” said Mrs. Lim sardonically and moved away.

Lim snapped his fingers for the barman and gave the order. Jebb nudged me. I glanced across the room and saw Mrs. Lim snatch a glass out of a man’s hand and swallow the drink at a gulp. The man laughed.

Lim saw it, too. The moment our drinks came, he excused himself and went over to where she was standing.

“I ought to have warned you about our Molly,” Jebb said. “Don’t buy her a drink, whatever you do.”

“It doesn’t look as if she waits to be bought one.”

“Yes, you have to hold on to your glass when she’s around. That bastard should know better. He’ll be unpopular with Lim if he’s not careful.”

“Is that a bad thing?”