Djinxed

By Ellen Hawkins

Ellen and Victor Hawkins and their two children arrive in Indonesia in 1971 and immediately find themselves on centre stage, "white grubs in a chocolate garden".This is their fourth posting abroad with Crammonds, a multinational textile firm. In Bogor, they're beset by Dragons-breath and Raingod, by beggars,fevers and dysentery, by laughter and banging pots at three in the morning at the start of Ramadan.
The couple scramble to meet each challenge, only to discover further chaos crowding the horizon. They continue to put their faith in Crammonds lured by the promise of a formal joint venture with local Chinese partners that will send Victor on the road to a shiny future.
When an early fiasco threatens to derail the project, ellen conjures up the Djinx, a playful, deadly demon who romps through the pages of this lively memoir causing everything to go awry.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ellen Hawkins
• Release date: May 22, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476451947

Ellen Hawkins

Ellen Hawkins was born in Ontario, Canada. In 1964 she set out to explore the world and the following year met and married Victor in Scotland. His work took them to Portugal, Switzerland and Chile before the posting to Indonesia. She currently lives in Santiago, Chile where several of he short stories appeared in "Friday's Fare", "In Transit" and "Perspectives", anthologies by Santiago Writers, of which she is a founding member.

Book preview

The Flight

A man gazing at the stars is at the mercy of the puddles on the road

Anon.

This is novel, I said, flinging words over my shoulder at Victor, who walked beside our three-year old.

A young man held a black umbrella over our heads, shielding us from heaving rain that fell from sky the colour of charcoal. I stepped onto a floating platform, our infant daughter tight on one hip, and felt water sloshing into my sandals.

A novel...? Rain drowned the rest.

I glanced back. Our aircraft sat on the glistening tarmac. Passengers streamed down the gangway, two by two, each pair escorted by a beaming man bearing an umbrella.

I was rather hoping for an adventure! I shouted, crossing to the next plank. At least I could still laugh.

What?

I’d be laughing like a lunatic if I didn’t get some sleep soon. Five days travelling with two children, one sick. Some adventure. Ahead, light shone from the open doors of the terminal building. I hoisted Lesley higher as Victor and Jennifer came abreast. We stepped over the threshold.

A pair of hands stretched out to greet us, the only white hands in a sea of brown ones. It was October 1971 and this was Djakarta – as it was then spelled – Djakarta, Indonesia.

Looking back I now see the bait that drew us to this place: a small buff envelope, innocent as a peppermint wafer and almost as enticing. Victor’s eyes betrayed a hint of excitement as he held it out to me. We were in the dining room of our home in Glasgow and I knew immediately that this was a job offer from Crammonds, the company for which Victor worked, for a posting abroad. Behind him the room was cluttered with toys, the chair backs draped in laundry: children’s leggings, pastel sweaters, pantyhose, shirts, diapers.

Every day since our return from Chile eighteen months earlier, when we’d bought and moved into this house, I’d tidied this narrow room morning and night. Most days I pegged clothes out to dry; most days they were still damp when I brought them in. As the months passed, the scene repeating its daily tale, this disorderly room had come to symbolize the monotony of our lives.

Tell me the news is good, I said, tearing open the envelope and pulling out the letter. Somewhere warm, somewhere with sun. I read:

Dear Mr Hawkins,

You have been appointed Mill Manager in Bogor, Indonesia for a period of 2–4 years. This is a joint venture with Benar Baka, a family-owned business. Your salary will be $6.000,000 rupiahs per annum. A house and car will be provided. You will be entitled to 11 weeks home leave every two years, alternating with 4 weeks local leave.

You should plan to take up this position no later than October 15.

Yours sincerely,

James McDermott,

Personnel Department

I hurried to the bookshelf, unearthed my faded Readers Digest World Atlas and found Bogor on the island of Java, near Djakarta. I noted the tiny island of Bali off its eastern tip.

I reckon that's about the same as my UK salary, Victor said.

Is that good?

Depends. We can rent this place.

Sell the car. That would pay for a new boiler. I bent to wipe Lesley’s nose as she crawled past. Remembering I'd put the potatoes on, I dashed to the kitchen. Steam clouded the window overlooking the back garden.

What have we got to lose? I called, turning down the gas flame. Anyhow, you know it’s cheaper to live in a third-world country…

…if you live like a local. Victor stood in the doorway, his blue eyes framed in an angular face, a woven tie knotted at the neck of his white shirt. In his tweed jacket, khaki trousers and trim brown hair, he looked every inch a rising young executive.

I had to laugh. We both knew I'd have signed up for a circus if it offered a chance of escape. And so would he.

In the weeks and months preparing for the move there wasn't time to reflect on our decision, except during one horrible weekend when Lesley spiked a temperature and had two convulsions in as many days. She was admitted to hospital. Five days later, while she was being discharged, I told the doctor about Indonesia.

I expect the baby will be fine, he said with an indulgent smile. All she needs is plenty of tender loving care. Now I could drag out his entrails with my bare hands but at the time I swallowed his snake oil in one gulp and got on with our plans. And that's another thing – it was not as if we’d never lived abroad before Portugal, Switzerland. Chile.

The morning we hauled the seven red suitcases down the stairs, stacked them in the waiting taxi and turned to lock the front door, it was as if we were off to spend our Lotto winnings. In a fit of exuberance we’d booked flights that would take us Glasgow-London-Nice-Bangkok-Djakarta, with stopovers in the middle three. In London Lesley lost her appetite. At Heathrow airport Victor passed our tickets, stapled accordion-wise, across to the agent who said, And where do you think you’re going today? We laughed, not stopping to ask ourselves the same question.

Nice was neither sunny nor nice. By the time we boarded our Air France flight to Bangkok in the late afternoon, Lesley had gone nearly three days on a diet of milk. For a sickly eighteen-month old, she looked surprisingly robust, with round cheeks, round yellow curls and a perpetual smile. Jennifer, whose slender frame belied a sturdy constitution, had long, fine, satiny hair.

While Victor stowed the bags, I set up quarters in a three-seat row: me in the middle, a child on either side and books, toys, sweaters and damp cloths within reach. The public address system crackled to life. We regret to announce our flight will be delayed. Everyone groaned. Across the aisle Victor opened his copy of Time magazine.

Lesley began to cry. I lifted her out of her seat and rocked her back and forth.

Shh, I whispered. But on she wailed, gaining volume, gaining momentum. If I could just get her some milk. Around us, passengers began to cluck and complain. Shh, shh, I murmured, trying to ignore their glaring looks.

Victor spoke to a stewardess, who shook her head.

We’re not allowed to serve refreshments, she mouthed, not until after takeoff.

By now Lesley’s wailing had become a high-pitched scream, the noise reverberating in the enclosed space. Jennifer had covered her ears, Victor’s face was cracking. I swayed and bounced, sobbing along with Lesley, absorbing a communal sense of outrage.

When the aircraft finally left the ground, it was as if an invisible band that held us to earth had snapped and we hurtled into space, all longing for release.

I lunged at a passing stewardess. Please! She needs some milk.

You’ll have to wait. The woman brushed past. We’re serving cocktails now.

Eventually the bottle arrived and Lesley sucked down the milk. The silence that followed filled the void to overflowing and finally brought forgiveness.

Twenty hours later – hair electrified, feet swollen – we landed at Bangkok airport where the sun broke through our fatigue. A petite, irresistible guide suggested an afternoon city tour. We motored through the city’s core, past graceful temple spires and saffron-robed priests proffering begging bowls. When we hopped down to gaze at myriad golden Buddhas, the blaring horns of clogged traffic seemed not to matter.

To my relief, Lesley broke her fast that evening and ate a little red sausage. Soon after, we settled into our beds and slept. A sound woke me, Lesley vomiting. I lifted her from her cot, cleaned her up and brought her into my bed. Through closing eyelids I noticed Jennifer crawl in beside her father.

Something nudged at the edge of a dream. Lesley, being sick. My limbs were wooden. I dabbed at her face, scooped her up. We tumbled into Jennifer’s abandoned bed. A rustle, a gurgling whimper. I stumbled through the night, switching beds, reversing sheets. Cursing the sausage.

The morning was as grey as our faces. While we waited for the lift, Jennifer vomited on the hall carpet.

It's all right, Mummy, she said. I missed my dress.

We flew on, to Singapore and then Djakarta, where the aircraft spilled us out into the black, sodden, six-o-clock evening. A huge chasm had opened between us and home, one spanning nearly 12,000 kilometres, seven time zones and five wearying days.

Now a pair of white hands reached out to greet us.

Welcome to Djakarta! How was the flight? Harry planted kisses on our cheeks before shaking Victor's hand. Harry was Crammonds’ local Number One, a bon-vivant bachelor with a handlebar moustache and a mocking smile.

Interesting.

Jolly good! That’s the spirit. Let me introduce Sambodo, our man of the documents. He gestured to a stocky Indonesian who smiled and took our passports.

Harry ushered the girls and me to a bench along one wall. Why don’t you stay here, sweetie. The Old Man and I will do the necessary, have a look-see for the luggage.

Buoyed by Harry’s friendliness, I sank back and watched them meld with the crowd. At over six feet Victor stood out like a man on stilts. Even Harry, though a head shorter, towered over the Indonesians. Across the room Samboda skirted an untidy queue and disappeared into a side office.

We were in a wood-panelled room with scuffed floors, yellow lighting. Voices rose and fell like water dripping in a metal pan. People milled about – slight bodies, glowing skin, black eyes, stiff black hair, the women’s pulled in buns held with golden pins. Solemn-faced men under Nehru hats. Batik sarongs, women in lacy blouses. I leaned back, conscious of our bleached bodies. White grubs in a chocolate garden.

Victor waved and we joined the men.

Now ladies, Harry said, stay close. We’ll lead the way. Victor, you keep an eye on Jennifer. Ellen, sweetie, if you and Lesley tuck in behind us, the porters and Sambodo will bring up the rear. He lifted a hand. Stand by your beds, lads! Off we go.

We went, weaving in and out, moving in a loose caravan of bodies and bags. Harry nudged open the exit doors and suddenly we were in a crush of jostling people.

Why are we stopping? I asked but no one heard. Rain clattered on the tin roof. Arms waved like windmills above grinning faces and then a shriek went up as someone spied us. Everyone was hooting and whistling and leaping up to get a better look. Ahead, a phalanx of young men barred the way.

Out of the way! Harry roared, pushing forward. Mind the children! He loosed a volley of English and Indonesian peppered with French. Behind me the porters shoved and I was staring at Victor's back and shuffling my feet and hanging on to Lesley for dear life.

Clear the way! Harry used his tongue like a whip. A blur of features – blackened teeth, flattened noses, hooded eyes. We squeezed by a small gate, ducked under arms andthen we were sprinting through the rain, jumping over puddles, clambering into a long black car and laughing wildly while the men stowed the luggage in a mini-van before leaping in with us.

Jolly good! Harry twisted in his seat, his eyes shining. The driver eased the car forward. I glanced past him, past sweeping windscreen wipers, at flooded streets, water lapping the kerb.

Still catching his breath Victor said, What in the name of God was that all about?

"Back there? Drivers, mostly young bucks looking for fares. For betjaks, bemos–"

"What is a bemo?" Jennifer asked, her voice pitched to reach adult ears.

A kind of motorcycle with covered seats tacked on behind. Fairly draughty ride, mind you.

I peered out the window. Low, single-story buildings lined the road. Most seemed to be boarded up but it was hard to tell. Bundles huddled in doorways, bodies hunkered down, wrapped inside sarongs; others stood about as if expecting the rain to stop. Water hit the window as another vehicle whooshed past.

"Did you see that bemo, sweetie? Ferocious racket. And there, see the boxy contraption? That’s a betjak. A bit like a rickshaw but the driver pedals from the rear. Harry turned to Victor. No taxis, I'm afraid. God help the poor sod who arrives here unannounced."

Now narrow streets were opening into wider roads. Fatigue crept over me. What time was it? What day was it?

Adi Satria laid on this Mercedes, Harry was saying.

Adi Satria? I should be paying attention.

Adi Satria and his brother, Tom Lee, are the owners of Benar Baka, our local Chinese partners. It's a bit confusing. Adi lives here in Djakarta with his wife and their children. Tom lives in Belgium. There’s also a sister in Bogor who runs the family house there. You’ll meet some of them tomorrow.

A sister. Until now, I’d always been welcomed to a new posting by other company wives, foreigners like myself. But we would be the first Crammonds’ family in Indonesia.

At the hotel we toured our tiny apartment in the annex then Harry paused on his way out to remind us we’d meet for breakfast. As the door closed behind him I turned on Victor.

We can’t stay here. Look at the open staircase. The kids could fall through those slats. Did you see the bathroom? Not even a seat on the toilet. A trickle of dirty water from a single tap. And the air conditioner’s blowing hot air.

Victor made soothing noises. Harry hadn’t seemed impressed either. Maybe Adi Satria could find us something else. Might as well make the best of it.

While I undressed the children, Victor fetched a man who fiddled with the knobs on the air conditioner but to little effect. I tucked the girls into their beds in an upper alcove then curled up beside Jennifer, thinking of finding a nightgown, of putting my head on a soft, soft pillow. Downstairs someone knocked on the door. I stiffened, strained to hear the conversation. Go away. Please go away.

Victor poked his head above the stairwell. Adi Satria and Warum and their children are here. They’ve come to meet us and the girls.

I sat up. I can’t wake the kids. They’re exhausted. I’m exhausted! I could feel the tears welling.

I told Adi Satria they were sleeping, Victor hesitated, but you’d better come down. They’re very nice. His eyes coaxed and I forced my legs to move.

As usual, Victor was right. The children, though disappointed not to see our girls, were shy and well behaved. Adi Satria and Warum seemed kind and understanding and anxious to help. They’d brought a basket of fruit and a tin of biscuits. What more did we need? Milk? They’d send a tin of powdered milk round with the driver. How would I mix it? That jug over there, on the tray with the glasses. That was boiled water and safe to drink.

After they left, Victor and I lay on the bed listening to rain thrumming on the roof, the sound broken only by the intermittent chug of the air-conditioner.

We woke to a room full of light. Lesley was banging the rails of her cot, Jennifer standing in the doorway holding a red dipper. I remembered seeing it on the ledge of a tank of water in the bathroom. Harry had called it a mandi. We showered, tossing water over our shoulders, and watched it curl down an open drain. Apart from faint smudges under their eyes, the children seemed no worse for the long journey.

When Warum and Adi Satria arrived they touched the children’s hair as though unable to resist its silkiness. Adi Satria, a fine-boned man with a ready smile, wore Western dress but Warum, slender and petite, had on a kebaya, the lacy blouse, and sarong. Were we ready for breakfast? Harry was waiting. Adi Satria held the door open, inviting us outside.

We stepped into a wide alley with high concrete walls, and into a savage heat like the breath of a thousand dragons. It beat on our heads and limbs with a furious intensity. Dragons-breath. I looked at Victor who was lifting Lesley. Our eyes locked but we couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak. Warum was smiling, speaking words I couldn’t comprehend. Too late I remembered reaching for the buff envelope, wishing for somewhere with sun. Too late I learned the Chinese proverb, ‘Be careful what you ask for’.

I gripped Jennifer’s hand and staggered towards the restaurant.

Chapter Two

The Parade

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder

– English proverb

I am sitting in the garden of our new hotel, breathing slowly, in and out. The air is heavy, laced with smells of burning rubbish, decaying fruit, cooking oil, perfume, rotting leaves, damp soil. Its vapour wafts along the hallways, round an inner courtyard. I’m breathing tropical fug that’s been simmering at the equator since the beginning of time. Dragons-breath, before he opens the gas jets.

Soon Lesley and I move into our air-conditioned room leaving Jennifer, our child-of-the-sun, to explore the garden. I can hear her and the maid chattering, despite the absence of a common language. Victor has gone to Bogor with Pak Chokro, one of the Lee family retainers. They are looking for houses, one for us and one for another couple who will soon join the project. I’m grateful this is considered men’s work, that I’m allowed to stay cocooned in this dark, comforting room.

I should be taking stock, making lists. I’d rather sleep. I’d rather be a Fruit bat, like the ones we saw yesterday on our visit to Bogor. I could press my forearms together and hang upside down, above the confusion. At dusk I would soar over the town. Instead I curl up beside Lesley and think about yesterday.

Adi Satria told us we should start early, to avoid the worst of the heat, and sent round the air-conditioned Mercedes with Muchtar, who had been assigned as our driver. Harry came too so we set off in good spirits, bumping along dirt roads, past houses with tiled roofs and walled gardens brilliant with bougainvillea. Stray dogs, lean and cowed, sidled onto the road. Muchtar eased round them, driving as if he were transporting fine porcelain. On reaching a paved, potholed road we picked up speed and then we were coasting. The men were talking business but I kept my nose to the window, fascinated by the passing scene.

Fleeting images overlapped, of scraggly banana trees, naked children, men carrying loads on poles balanced across their shoulders, whizzing vehicles, carts, Vespa scooters, buses and bemos with battered fenders, flapping canvas curtains and rusted grilles.

And everywhere people – lithe brown legs astride motorbikes, pedalling betjaks, straddling water buffaloes, squatting in ditches, stooping in rice paddies; thin arms carrying children, bundles, baskets loaded with fruit; dusty feet in plastic shoes kicking up loose red soil; heads with smiling faces crowding at every window of every bus; women in doorways, sky the colour of chicory, sun glinting on water, brown terraces, green shoots, olive shrubs, emerald, jade, jungly green.

Are we there yet? Jennifer asked.

We’re just coming into Bogor now, sweetie.

We are? I said. When did we leave Djakarta? I mean, was there a gap?

The others laughed. I hadn't meant to be funny. Even in Britain, a country so small you could dump it into one of the Great Lakes, there were rural pauses between villages and towns. I'd seen nothing to suggest a break in the continuous occupation, industrialisation, cultivation of the corridor between Djakarta and Bogor.

We'd been climbing steadily. Somewhere along the way, Harry had explained that Batavia, the Dutch name for colonial Djakarta, had been malaria-ridden, its canals ideal for breeding mosquitoes. Residents had fled to the hills of Bogor and built summer homes there, where the air was cooler, the climate healthier. Even the President of Indonesia had a summer palace there.

You’ll find Bogor much cooler, Harry said, reading my thoughts. "Rains every afternoon, clears the air. Hudjan, it’s called. Rain."

Hoo-jan. Jennifer tested the word.

It’s quite nippy further up, Harry added, where they grow tea. Worth a run in the car, Vic, once you’re settled.

We entered town on a broad avenue overarched with flame trees. Muchtar slowed as the road curved along a wrought iron fence.

Suharto's palace, Harry said, pointing out an elegant white-columned building set in parkland. Doesn’t use it much, by all accounts. Keep a sharp eye now, girls. See over there?

Deer! Jennifer spotted one, then several more, grazing in a copse of trees.

Moments later we passed the Botanical Gardens, the Kebun Raya, Harry called it, and again Muchtar slowed. We craned our necks to see bamboo arching skyward from a tangle of trees and vines. Something was screeching, making a great fuss.

There, I said, really high. You'll have to scrunch down, girls. See? That tree looks like it’s been hung with black packages.

What are they?

Bats, fruit bats. Aren't they enormous?

We drove on, the avenue narrowing as the traffic swelled. Houses bordered the street now and pedestrians filled its edges, spilling onto the shoulders. More bicycles, more betjaks.

"This is the main street, Djalan Merdeka, Harry said, and here, where Muchtar is turning off, is the Lee house."

We had pulled up beside an iron paling fence where a white house stood beneath spreading trees.

Tom and Adi Satria suggested it might do for you. I've vetoed the idea, but see what you think.

We opened the car door to a rush of hot air. A handful of onlookers stood aside to let Muchtar open the gate. We filed in, past an empty pond set in a small garden. I looked back as we waited on the steps. Curious neighbours surrounded the Mercedes. More people were hurrying forward, leaning into the paling fence. The door opened from inside.

Welcome to Bogor. A tiny woman stood there, her face dominated by dark-rimmed spectacles. Miss Lee hardly reached my shoulder. In the reception area she waved us into padded rattan chairs.

You will be thirsty, yes?

Before we could answer, a maid appeared carrying a tray of drinks. She, too, was diminutive, perhaps in her twenties. Harry began to speak, drawing attention away from the maid, but I watched as she folded her knees to lower the tray then sat on her heels and placed sweating glasses on the table. Then in one seamless movement she raised herself up and backed out of the room, sliding her bare feet across the red-tiled floor. All this in a tightly wound sarong, with grace. Oddly, not once had she lifted her head.

I have arranged for you to take lunch here, Miss Lee said, but first I will show you the house. Maybe it is suitable, very quiet here, not hot like Djakarta.

We followed her, thrusting our heads into bedrooms. I noted dark interiors, fans perched on bedside tables, a suggestion of coolness. In the sitting area, I stared at a wall telephone, a replica of one we’d had when I was growing up in rural Northern Ontario. In the dining room, we edged past a full-size refrigerator dominating one wall. The bathroom was modern, except for narrow channels in the floor to carry away waste water.

Servants quarters and kitchen are this way, Miss Lee said, leading us outside and along a covered walkway. Again the heat rushed forward bearing smells and sounds, of cooking and barking dogs, of exhaust fumes and chattering voices. The crowd at the gate was growing.

At the kitchen door Miss Lee stood back to let me enter. I made out a small stove, tiled counters. I felt like a giant in a dungeon. In the laundry area taps jutted from the wall at knee level. The maid would squat here to scrub clothes; she’d sleep in the adjoining bedroom.

Throughout the tour, Miss Lee’s quick movements and rapid speech gave the impression she was anxious to get away and she left soon afterwards. The air grew heavier as we sat around the table. I had no idea what we were eating, only that it was delicious. The house was dark, not cool.

As the maid cleared the table, Victor said to Harry,

I think you’re right about this place. But what’s the deal? Is this the company house we were offered? I thought I recognized it when we drove up. Roger showed us a picture in Glasgow.

The Polaroid! I’d forgotten all about it. I’d been at that meeting, too, in Head Office. We’d been discussing the new posting with Roger, Crammonds’ sales director for the Far East. He’d just returned from Indonesia and had pulled out the photo. In it three boys struck a pose in front of a black fence fronting a white house. Roger said they were the photographer’s children. Now I wasn’t so sure. How could anyone have taken out a camera on this corner without being swamped by inquisitive kids? But why would he lie?

The Lees own the property, Harry said, and would be delighted if you stayed here. But it's your call. He fished in his pocket for a packet of cigarettes.

If eating depends on me going into that kitchen, I said, we’ll starve.

Victor laughed. I think that’s the decision taken, Harry.

But it was more than the kitchen. It was the noise from the street, the gloomy atmosphere.

Harry looked at his watch. No need to rush back to Djakarta. Why don’t we go for a walk? Explore the town, have a look-see?

Is it far?

The shops are just down the road. What do you say, chaps? He raised his brows at the children, who smiled back, china-blue eyes alight.

I opened the door, sensed a quickening of interest from the spectators at the fence. The crowd was now several deep, maybe forty people. I lifted Lesley onto my hip. Jennifer ran past the fishless fishpond then stopped at the gate as Victor took her hand. We filed through an opening as people made way. I glimpsed babies slung in lengths of batik, men and women.

In the street Harry kept up a steady stream of chatter as we ambled along. The sun was relentless. Lesley’s curls stuck to her head. Dragons-breath. Here in Bogor.

Victor said quietly, Don’t look now, but we have company.

What d’you mean?

Behind us.

I glanced sideways. Trailing in our rear was the crowd of fence-watchers. I turned away, feeling perspiration drip from my chin, eyes boring into my back. As though my glance had given him permission, a young boy suddenly danced round in front of us and reached up to touch Lesley.

Hey! Harry warned him off, but the lad’s eyes squinted in amusement. While others kept a respectful distance, he and a few friends began to circle, skipping lightly, nipping in with fingers ready to tag the children. Victor edged closer and scowled. An adult spoke sharply and the boys fell back.

It’s these beautiful daughters of yours, Harry said. Like midges to a picnic. Just want to touch. Wouldn’t hurt the girls, of course.

We were coming into the heart of town, where rows of shops faced each other across the street. Ahead, people thronged the sidewalks, as though they’d been expecting us. A pair of children, thin and persistent, now pranced in front of us, chanting a phrase, backing away as we advanced. The girl wore a faded yellow print dress. A boy of about four gripped her skirt, as though taking courage from an older sister. Both grinned widely.

What are they saying? I asked, sidestepping a wizened beggar who offered an open palm.

Sweets, they're asking for sweets.

Our exchange in English prompted an outburst of laughter. A few yards on, a woman crouched behind a portable stove. Her open smile revealed a mouthful of reddened gums, her gesture an invitation to try the lumps of food sizzling in her pan of oil. Another woman squatted in front of a storefront, a few rotting vegetables suspended in the lap of her sarong. I stepped by, avoiding her eyes.

We moved on, past more beggars, more vendors; past idlers leaning or sprawling in doorways; past young men standing at the fringes of our parade, pointing, calling and whistling.

Jolly lot, wouldn't you say? Harry’s moustache dripped with perspiration.

Smells clogged my nostrils. I breathed carefully and stared into the shop windows. There wasn’t much to see: a box of chalk, a stack of tinned cheese, single magazines, plastic shoes – all widely spaced, to disguise their meagreness; everything sun-faded, neglected.

We crossed the street, made our way back towards the house, pursued by our admirers. A breeze stirred, at last.

We're going to get drenched, Victor said.

The sky had been darkening. Now thunder rumbled. We hurried, Jennifer running between the men, Lesley jouncing in my arms.

The afternoon rain! Harry shouted as we jogged along. Cools the place down!

Laughing now, we ran, not caring if we made a ridiculous picture. Our escorts kept pace. The first fat drops of rain hit us as we reached the gate. A volley of thunder chased us inside.

What must we look like? I cried, as we stood at the dining room window. Rain lashed the glass and a curtain of water blurred the outlines of the paling fence. Our hair and clothes clung to us, greasy and wet. Harry would tell Adi Satria that we’d prefer to find another house. Victor would begin looking at properties.

The maid came in with a tray of drinks. We turned away from the window and gulped down coconut milk with shreds of white flesh floating in its liquid. Victor and I exchanged a look, then gazed at our pale, soft-skinned, golden-haired daughters.

Chapter Three

Introductions

He who would climb the ladder must begin at the bottom

– English proverb

In the house on Djalan Merdeka, where we would stay temporarily, round-eyed servants stood in a row and stared impassively at Victor and me. I smiled but no one smiled back. Perspiration oozed from my armpits. Miss Lee appeared cool in her sleeveless cotton dress and slip-on sandals. In quick order she had welcomed us, enquired about our drive from Djakarta and then, with a few sharp words and a lift of the chin, made the seven red suitcases disappear.

This is Romli, she began. He is a good cook. He makes very good pineapple cream pie and he also speaks a little English. I was very lucky to find him for you. Romli bowed formally. Immaculate in white trousers and a short-sleeved, loose-fitting shirt, he wore his Nehru hat squarely on his head.

And this is Dina. She will do the washing and some cleaning. She is very responsible. Dina lowered her head. A batik sarong wound around her generous waistline kept the tails of her blouse tucked mostly into place.

Miss Lee moved on. Here is Dudu. He is the houseboy. He works for me. His job is to clean floors. At night he sleeps outside and guards the house. I will also send my gardener once a week. Dudu offered a loose smile. He might have been in his late teens. Or his thirties.

With a curt nod, Miss Lee dismissed them. In the brief visit that followed, she outlined the servants’ salaries and explained their duties and ours. Would I like to visit the local shops? Good. Thursday morning. Then she, too, was gone, leaving a void out of proportion to