State of Siege

She gave a cry of triumph as she saw me. Not only, she said, had she been prevented from coming to work the last two mornings by soldiers in the street, but now, when the soldiers in the street did let her pass, there were other soldiers waiting to accuse her of looting. Her trousers quivered with indignation. When I sent the soldier away she shouted insults after him.

Then, she came in and saw the apartment.

For several seconds she stood there staring; then, she waddled through slowly into the living room.

It looked awful in the daylight. The bombing had made a mess, but it had been a tolerable mess; in two days a decorator could have put everything right again. The grenades and machine-pistol fire had savaged the place. The furniture was torn and splintered, the floor and walls and doors were scarred and pitted. Nothing was unspoiled; a pleasant room had become a hideous disfigurement.

To my dismay, I saw tears beginning to roll down Mrs. Choong’s plump cheeks.

“Soldiers!” she said bitterly, and then looked at me. “Bedroom also?”

“That’s pretty bad, too, I’m afraid, Mrs. Choong.”

“Poor Mr. Jebb! But you, mister? You here?”

“Most of the time. Last night, when the attack came, Miss Linden and I went up on the roof.”

“Miss Linden? That is Miss Mina’s friend?”

“Yes.”

“Ah.” She brushed the tears away. “You want breakfast?”

“I’m afraid there isn’t any food left.”

“I bring.” She held up the bag she was carrying. “I promise, I bring. Miss Linden, too? She want breakfast?”

“Yes, please, Mrs. Choong. There’s no electricity, though. We used the Primus stove.”

But she was already in the kitchen. I heard her swearing to herself over the confusion she found there.

After breakfast, Rosalie and I cleaned ourselves up as best we could with the dregs of the water in the bathhouse, and made ready to leave. We had arranged to meet later at the Harmony Club. Meanwhile, she would go home and I would see the police about my passport. I would also have to buy some clean clothes. Mrs. Choong took away the dirty ones to get them dobi- ed.

Nobody was allowed inside the radio station without a new sort of pass that I did not have, and we had to use the auxiliary staircase to get down into the square. The road was still closed to four-wheeled traffic, but the betjak drivers were back, and Mahmud was there, grinning knowingly as if we had all been on a wild two-day party together and were suffering a common hangover. There were a lot of people about, staring awe-struck at the damaged buildings or excitedly discussing their experiences. The children were having a fine time playing in the shell holes. As he pedalled along, Mahmud talked continuously about what had happened where he lived; but I don’t think either of us listened to a word he said. We were enjoying our freedom.

When we arrived at Rosalie’s apartment house, I waited outside until she had satisfied herself that all was well there, and then went on to the tailor’s shop. He had a pair of khaki slacks from another order that he said he could alter for me in an hour, and showed me where I could get a shirt ready-made. After I had bought the shirt, I set out for police headquarters.

As we approached, I could see that there was a big crowd collected at the end of the street in which the headquarters were situated. It soon became apparent that we were not going to be able to get through, and I waited while Mahmud went ahead on foot to see what the trouble was. He was gone five minutes and came back looking troubled. Barbed-wire barricades had been set up at both ends of the street, he said, and troops were preventing anyone entering or leaving who did not have a special pass. The crowd consisted mainly of people with relations who had been arrested during the night. Many of those arrested, he added with gloomy satisfaction, were themselves policemen, but there were others whose only crime was that they had not refused to give food and water to the rebel troops; or so their relatives said.

I went to De Vries’ offices, but they were closed. Then, I tried the Orient bar. That was closed, too. As I was coming away, I saw a man I knew slightly who said that there was rumour going around that both the Dutch manager of the Orient and De Vries had been arrested. I went back to the tailor’s shop and waited while he finished altering the slacks; then I told Mahmud to take me out to the Harmony Club.

It was a little after eleven and the club did not open until noon, but the doorman was there and he fetched Mrs. Lim.

She was only just sober, and obviously could not remember a thing about me; but she did her best.

“Hullo, love. Fancy seeing you here!”

“Hullo, Mrs. Lim. I’m looking for your husband.”

“Oh, he’s gone into town. I don’t know where. Hasn’t it been awful? Where were you all the time? The Orient?”

“Roy Jebb lent me his apartment.”

“Dear old Roy. Is he back yet?”

“He should be back today.” I could see her memory fumbling dimly with the fact that I knew Jebb.

“And you want to see Mor Sai?”