Hawkman
01-13-2012, 09:03 AM
Sitting in his rattan chair on the stoep of the plantation’s atap thatched bungalow, Caruthers listened to the jungle as he sipped his pink gin. The dim, yellow light of the hurricane lamp, hanging from the eaves above, cast its feeble glow against the velvet black encroachment of the night. Beyond its reach, the savagery of nature thrived in its concealing shroud of darkness. Above the sawing rhythm of insects rasping legs against wing cases and the constant whine of hungry mosquitoes, the occasional scream of some unfortunate animal succumbing to predation by Ignatius, the resident tiger, announced that the natural order of creation continued unabated.
Caruthers had named the tiger Ignatius after his friend and partner, Carstairs. Carstairs was a man whom he had observed to be equally voracious in his appetites, whether for the blood of local wildlife or the virtue of susceptible females. There was a steady stream of these; naïve, mail-order brides, joining husbands whose ambitions set them on the course of carving out a personal slice of empire, only to wind up rotting, along with everything else, in the stultifying humidity of decay that pervaded the Malayan rubber plantations.
Beyond the veranda’s wooden balustrade, behind the veil of night, the tropical forest lurked, malignantly exhaling its foetid steamy breath into the clearing where Caruthers’ bungalow squatted, impudently erected by his own hand.
Just as he finished his third gin, the night was pierced by a different kind of scream, a bestial, primordial scream, which originated, not from the fauna out in the night, but from within the house. Its pitch, high, well modulated and suffused with a woman’s satisfaction, warbled down to a level inaudible against the ambient cacophony. Carstairs would be out soon to join him for a drink. Caruthers reached for the bell.
When its tinkle failed to illicit an immediate response he sighed and called for the houseboy.
“Jumaat… Jumaat!”
A moment later Caruthers discerned the distinctive slap of sandals against the wooden floor as Jumaat arrived with the native’s habitual sedate economy of movement, so suited to the tropics.
“Yes, tuan?”
“Another bottle of gin and two glasses, there’s a good chap.”
“Yes tuan.”
As Jumaat disappeared back into the house, Caruthers couldn’t help reflecting how inappropriate it was that the servants never contrived to look sweaty, whereas their masters were drenched in the stuff within five minutes of washing and changing their clothes. He always felt shabby in comparison with the natives. It wasn’t even as though he’d only just arrived out here, where the infernal heat and malaria exacted such a deadly toll on the ex-pat community. He and Carstairs had somehow managed to survive ten years of it. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been home on leave. Deep down he never really expected to see home again. He was convinced he was going to die here, probably unpleasantly.
His musings were interrupted when Carstairs came out to join him on the stoep. He trod carefully and kept his distance, observing Caruthers from the edge of the pool of light. His eyes reflected the yellow flame of the oil lamp and he was wearing the feline smile he always wore after he’d serviced Caruthers’ wife. The resemblance to the tiger was remarkable. Caruthers couldn’t help smiling.
“Caruthers – “
“Carstairs – “
“Gin?”
“Coming.”
“Good.”
“Old girl on form tonight?”
“Er – yeees…”
“Bit noisy for my taste. Spoiled the ambience.”
“Sorry.”
“Not your fault, old man. Damned woman’s got no self-control”
“Apparently not.”
“It’s the heat, makes ‘em wild.”
“Quite.”
The conversation lapsed in the absence of gin.
Carstairs knew Caruthers was quite happy for him to service his wife, but he still felt guilty about it. He almost resented Caruthers’ savoir-faire, his willing complicity in his wife’s adultery. He had no compunction over seducing the other plantation owners’ wives, but Caruthers was his friend and partner. It just didn’t feel right.
He lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply and breathed the smoke out into the night. He watched as it dispersed and contemplated the arrival of a much needed drink. The cigarette burned unheeded between his fingers, the blue haze curling around him while the cylinder of ash grew and sagged.
Caruthers watched him, secretly enjoying his discomfort, even amused by it. He really had no cause for complaint. He’d chosen the girl on the strength of what had subsequently turned out to be a significantly retouched photograph. She wasn’t actually ugly, but she wasn’t right for him. In fact he’d quickly realised that he didn’t even like her, but he was damned if he was going to pay for her passage back home.
Nevertheless, the girl had a reasonable expectation for some kind of return for the inconvenience of coming out, so he’d married her and refined her natural aptitude for management. She was a damned good secretary, but as far as he was concerned, that was not a good enough reason to sleep with her on a regular basis. The fact that Carstairs was prepared to was a huge relief for him, ensuring that the girl had no real cause for grievance. She had status, something useful to do and her sexual needs were catered for. From Caruthers’ point of view it was an arrangement which suited all parties.
Jumaat’s return was heralded by the steady schlup of his sandals and the cheerful chinking of glass on bottle, oscillating sedately on a tray in time to the houseboy’s shuffling gait.
“Aaaah, Gin!” exclaimed Carstairs with obvious relish. He turned away from the invisible jungle, beaming, as his eyes followed the tray being deposited on the table.
“Thank you Jumaat. Any sign of the Mem?” asked Caruthers.
“Out soon, tuan,” replied the servant, regarding his master impassively. “You wish me to serve?”
“No, thanks, we’ll help ourselves.”
“Very good, tuan, food ready at eight.”
“Good man,” said Carstairs, but Jumaat had already retreated into the lamp-lit interior of the bungalow.
Caruthers occupied a moment with the act of creating two stiff pink gins. When he’d finished he handed one to Carstairs who accepted it gratefully.
“Heard the news about the DC?” asked Caruthers.
“What’s that?”
“The DC. Young chap, came out two years ago. Went to Eaton.”
“Oh, Robertson.”
“That’s the bunny.”
“What about him?”
“They say his water’s turned black.”
“God!”
“I bet Tiny Cartwright five bob that he’d last four years. Looks like I’ll have to pay up.”
“Shame,” said Carstairs, though it was unclear whether he was referring to the lost bet or the misfortune of the young DC.
“There’ll be hell to pay in K-L. They’ll be in a right old tizzy.”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Wonder who’ll be put in place to hold the fort?”
“Jamesson, probably.”
“God, I hope not. Man’s an arse.”
“Oh yes. Complete arse.”
The act of agreement appeared to have exhausted them. Again they lapsed into companionable silence, savouring their gin. Carstairs ran an idle finger around the inside of his starched collar. It was already feeling limp. Both were trying to ignore the running underarm dampness, mercifully concealed by tropical dinner jackets. Caruthers absent-mindedly fingered his bow tie, convinced it was wilting in the heat.
The clatter of Heels on planks announced the arrival on scene of Mrs. Caruthers. She emerged from the doorway still fixing an earring in place and graced both men with a brittle smile.
“Ah, there you are, Desdemona. We were wondering where you’d got to,” said Caruthers, ingenuously. “Heard a dreadful scream just now, thought the tiger had got you.”
The smile cracked a little as she regarded her husband and tried not to let the hurt show in her eyes. “Perhaps he did,” she replied and her glance flicked involuntarily to Carstairs, who cleared his throat to mask his discomfort.
“Oh well, at least you’re still here to tell us about it. Can’t have you being eaten by tigers, that wouldn’t do at all, you’re much too valuable to lose. Place ‘d go to hell in a hand cart without your finger on the pulse.”
It was the nearest Caruthers ever came to expressing appreciation towards his wife and she accepted the compliment gratefully, even if it was a backhanded one. She gave him a rueful smile and the haunted look in her eyes retreated a little further beneath the surface. “You can always rely on me to keep my finger on a pulse, even when there’s little hope of finding one.”
This remark was too enigmatic for Caruthers, who could never understand why she kept looking at him in a way that suggested he had a bit missing. He did what he always did when confronted by something he didn’t understand. He ignored it.
“Gin?”
“God, yes!”
“That’s my girl.”
Caruthers had named the tiger Ignatius after his friend and partner, Carstairs. Carstairs was a man whom he had observed to be equally voracious in his appetites, whether for the blood of local wildlife or the virtue of susceptible females. There was a steady stream of these; naïve, mail-order brides, joining husbands whose ambitions set them on the course of carving out a personal slice of empire, only to wind up rotting, along with everything else, in the stultifying humidity of decay that pervaded the Malayan rubber plantations.
Beyond the veranda’s wooden balustrade, behind the veil of night, the tropical forest lurked, malignantly exhaling its foetid steamy breath into the clearing where Caruthers’ bungalow squatted, impudently erected by his own hand.
Just as he finished his third gin, the night was pierced by a different kind of scream, a bestial, primordial scream, which originated, not from the fauna out in the night, but from within the house. Its pitch, high, well modulated and suffused with a woman’s satisfaction, warbled down to a level inaudible against the ambient cacophony. Carstairs would be out soon to join him for a drink. Caruthers reached for the bell.
When its tinkle failed to illicit an immediate response he sighed and called for the houseboy.
“Jumaat… Jumaat!”
A moment later Caruthers discerned the distinctive slap of sandals against the wooden floor as Jumaat arrived with the native’s habitual sedate economy of movement, so suited to the tropics.
“Yes, tuan?”
“Another bottle of gin and two glasses, there’s a good chap.”
“Yes tuan.”
As Jumaat disappeared back into the house, Caruthers couldn’t help reflecting how inappropriate it was that the servants never contrived to look sweaty, whereas their masters were drenched in the stuff within five minutes of washing and changing their clothes. He always felt shabby in comparison with the natives. It wasn’t even as though he’d only just arrived out here, where the infernal heat and malaria exacted such a deadly toll on the ex-pat community. He and Carstairs had somehow managed to survive ten years of it. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been home on leave. Deep down he never really expected to see home again. He was convinced he was going to die here, probably unpleasantly.
His musings were interrupted when Carstairs came out to join him on the stoep. He trod carefully and kept his distance, observing Caruthers from the edge of the pool of light. His eyes reflected the yellow flame of the oil lamp and he was wearing the feline smile he always wore after he’d serviced Caruthers’ wife. The resemblance to the tiger was remarkable. Caruthers couldn’t help smiling.
“Caruthers – “
“Carstairs – “
“Gin?”
“Coming.”
“Good.”
“Old girl on form tonight?”
“Er – yeees…”
“Bit noisy for my taste. Spoiled the ambience.”
“Sorry.”
“Not your fault, old man. Damned woman’s got no self-control”
“Apparently not.”
“It’s the heat, makes ‘em wild.”
“Quite.”
The conversation lapsed in the absence of gin.
Carstairs knew Caruthers was quite happy for him to service his wife, but he still felt guilty about it. He almost resented Caruthers’ savoir-faire, his willing complicity in his wife’s adultery. He had no compunction over seducing the other plantation owners’ wives, but Caruthers was his friend and partner. It just didn’t feel right.
He lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply and breathed the smoke out into the night. He watched as it dispersed and contemplated the arrival of a much needed drink. The cigarette burned unheeded between his fingers, the blue haze curling around him while the cylinder of ash grew and sagged.
Caruthers watched him, secretly enjoying his discomfort, even amused by it. He really had no cause for complaint. He’d chosen the girl on the strength of what had subsequently turned out to be a significantly retouched photograph. She wasn’t actually ugly, but she wasn’t right for him. In fact he’d quickly realised that he didn’t even like her, but he was damned if he was going to pay for her passage back home.
Nevertheless, the girl had a reasonable expectation for some kind of return for the inconvenience of coming out, so he’d married her and refined her natural aptitude for management. She was a damned good secretary, but as far as he was concerned, that was not a good enough reason to sleep with her on a regular basis. The fact that Carstairs was prepared to was a huge relief for him, ensuring that the girl had no real cause for grievance. She had status, something useful to do and her sexual needs were catered for. From Caruthers’ point of view it was an arrangement which suited all parties.
Jumaat’s return was heralded by the steady schlup of his sandals and the cheerful chinking of glass on bottle, oscillating sedately on a tray in time to the houseboy’s shuffling gait.
“Aaaah, Gin!” exclaimed Carstairs with obvious relish. He turned away from the invisible jungle, beaming, as his eyes followed the tray being deposited on the table.
“Thank you Jumaat. Any sign of the Mem?” asked Caruthers.
“Out soon, tuan,” replied the servant, regarding his master impassively. “You wish me to serve?”
“No, thanks, we’ll help ourselves.”
“Very good, tuan, food ready at eight.”
“Good man,” said Carstairs, but Jumaat had already retreated into the lamp-lit interior of the bungalow.
Caruthers occupied a moment with the act of creating two stiff pink gins. When he’d finished he handed one to Carstairs who accepted it gratefully.
“Heard the news about the DC?” asked Caruthers.
“What’s that?”
“The DC. Young chap, came out two years ago. Went to Eaton.”
“Oh, Robertson.”
“That’s the bunny.”
“What about him?”
“They say his water’s turned black.”
“God!”
“I bet Tiny Cartwright five bob that he’d last four years. Looks like I’ll have to pay up.”
“Shame,” said Carstairs, though it was unclear whether he was referring to the lost bet or the misfortune of the young DC.
“There’ll be hell to pay in K-L. They’ll be in a right old tizzy.”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Wonder who’ll be put in place to hold the fort?”
“Jamesson, probably.”
“God, I hope not. Man’s an arse.”
“Oh yes. Complete arse.”
The act of agreement appeared to have exhausted them. Again they lapsed into companionable silence, savouring their gin. Carstairs ran an idle finger around the inside of his starched collar. It was already feeling limp. Both were trying to ignore the running underarm dampness, mercifully concealed by tropical dinner jackets. Caruthers absent-mindedly fingered his bow tie, convinced it was wilting in the heat.
The clatter of Heels on planks announced the arrival on scene of Mrs. Caruthers. She emerged from the doorway still fixing an earring in place and graced both men with a brittle smile.
“Ah, there you are, Desdemona. We were wondering where you’d got to,” said Caruthers, ingenuously. “Heard a dreadful scream just now, thought the tiger had got you.”
The smile cracked a little as she regarded her husband and tried not to let the hurt show in her eyes. “Perhaps he did,” she replied and her glance flicked involuntarily to Carstairs, who cleared his throat to mask his discomfort.
“Oh well, at least you’re still here to tell us about it. Can’t have you being eaten by tigers, that wouldn’t do at all, you’re much too valuable to lose. Place ‘d go to hell in a hand cart without your finger on the pulse.”
It was the nearest Caruthers ever came to expressing appreciation towards his wife and she accepted the compliment gratefully, even if it was a backhanded one. She gave him a rueful smile and the haunted look in her eyes retreated a little further beneath the surface. “You can always rely on me to keep my finger on a pulse, even when there’s little hope of finding one.”
This remark was too enigmatic for Caruthers, who could never understand why she kept looking at him in a way that suggested he had a bit missing. He did what he always did when confronted by something he didn’t understand. He ignored it.
“Gin?”
“God, yes!”
“That’s my girl.”