The fact that Ennis had never visited Sutrawan’s regular hour’s office in the months that he had known him was strange. He had always met him either in his hotel suite when travelling, or in one of his favourite restaurants, more notably the Blue Ocean nightclub in Jakarta.
He had asked himself many questions about Sutrawan, a man that he had grown to appreciate and even admire. There was no doubt about his wealth and influence. Ennis had visited his paper mill at Bekasi. His huge modern panel board factory, situated just outside of Jakarta, which was one of the biggest in the country.
That hot, very wet, January morning at the height of the rainy season, Ennis felt very curious about what waited him as he climbed into Riady’s Landcruiser. As they drove out past the Presidential Palace, he wiped away the heavy condensation that the high humidity and air conditioning formed on the windscreen, using a perfumed paper tissue from the box that lay on the dashboard.
He had always regarded the palace, as a fine but not over extravagant edifice. He had been received by Idris Hendra in the Vice Presidents office and surprisingly he had remarked at the time the palace was very lightly guarded, when compared to palaces of presidents he had seen in other developing countries. It seemed to him to be a sign of stability in the country.
They then turned right down Gadja Madja, a wide avenue named after a national hero; a nauseabond canal ran down the centre separating both sides of the avenue into distinct city districts.
Riady drove in the direction of what Ennis soon recognised as the Chinese section of the city. The traffic was dense and slow, and in spite of an indescribable lack of discipline somehow kept moving. The air was unbelievably polluted with fumes and noise. They passed the Blue Ocean - the out of hours office - on the right hand side; it looked different during the day, less attractive, and an uncomfortable feeling of embarrassment ran through him as he noted the dilapidated appearance of the building, which looked like some kind of an oversized dive.
There was an extraordinary mixture of vehicles, becaks, bicycles, hand drawn carts and porters pushing barrows. The motorbikes seemed to take extravagant risks as they dodged in and out between the cars and buses. The worn becak drivers took advantage of every stop to rest their tired worn out bodies. On the pavements, the teeming crowds milled in kaleidoscope of chaos. The mini-buses were packed to cracking with their colourful cargoes of passengers, whose faces wore glazed looks as they stared unseeingly through the grimy windows.
After what seemed an eternity of stops and starts they arrived in the old city centre of Batavia. The mass of traffic was snarled up around the main square, which lay in front of the old town hall and the central railway station. They turned left into what appeared to be a restricted traffic area, where Riady paid for the entry at a tollbooth. Restricted did not signify less traffic, simply that they were entering a paying zone.
The barrier swung up and they rolled over a bridge, which crossed an oily-still stinking canal, then turned right into a dense crowd of porters who were carrying, pulling or pushing immense bales of textiles and other goods.
The area became increasingly dilapidated. Ennis felt his heart sinking, as Riady announced with a sly pleasure, ‘We’re almost there,’ it was evident that they were not about to visit the smartest business district of the city.
After skirting around an enormous pungent mountain of rotten garbage in a grim narrow street, they arrived in front of an uninspiring three or four-storey building, which housed what appeared to be a distributor of motor vehicle tyres. He then knew they had arrived he recognised the name of Sutrawan’s Korean joint-venture partner. He tried to - but could not - imagine inviting Strecker or another of the Europeans to the building.
Riady squeezed the Toyota into the parking place indicated by an old broken down parking attendant. Ennis then followed him into the building, winding his way amongst the stacks of tyres. He could make out, in the feeble light emitted by a single naked light bulb, several elderly Chinese squatting on their haunches, smoking cigarettes in the reeking smell of rubber dust and tyres that pervaded in the stock room.
They climbed two or three flights of wooden stairs, past cheap worn offices, partitioned by panels of veneered plywood then turned into a short narrow corridor. Riady entered into one of the offices.
‘Bak Sutrawan is there?’ he asked pointing to a door.
‘Sudah,’ replied one of the secretaries, a slim neatly dressed Chinese girl.
He knocked and they entered the office; Sutrawan was on the phone behind a large modern desk with a shinning black lacquered top, decorated by silver framed photographs and trophies for different Badminton exploits.
On the walls were photographs of Sutrawan, shaking hands of various dignitaries and politicians. A large centre place was given to those photos of him with President Suharto of Indonesia. He was speaking Chinese, Hokkienese, which Ennis had come to recognise and smoking one of his ever present Kretek cigarettes, shedding a shower of sparks every time he waved his hand, shouting and giving orders over the phone, fiercely as in a Chinese opera.
‘Hello John!’ he shouted putting down the phone, smiling as he stood up, leaning out and stretching his hand over his desk, in an invitation to Ennis, to sit on a long black imitation leather couch against the wall facing him.
‘Bob, ask the girl to bring glasses!’
‘So what do you think of my offices? They’re not luxurious, but people feel at easy here, it’s Indonesian style,’ he said with a happy grin. Through the windows, covered with a film of condensation provoked by the air-conditioning, Ennis had a view of a three-storey building that faced them. Rusty air conditioners rattled, suspended precariously from blackened steel frames, and water continuously dripped down the green slimed facade. He was uneasy; it was not the kind of office that he was used to, he felt foreign.
‘Here, have an XO!’
‘Gan bei, drink up young man!’ he said lifting his glass.
‘So John, James Gunung is coming over and will join us for lunch, he’s my attorney, have you met him before?’
‘No.’
‘Never mind, he will help us draw up the draft agreement. Tomorrow we will be going to Taipei, you’re coming with us!’
‘Right.’
‘We’re going in the Falcon.’
‘Fine.’
‘You know where to go at the airport? We’re leaving at and ten, sharp!’
The glass of XO contained a massive dose. Ennis sipped the cognac smilingly, hiding his apprehension at the effects it would have. At that moment the door opened and a well-dressed Chinese in his forties walked in. He was good looking with an athletic build.
‘John, this is James Gunung.’
‘Hi John! Nice to met you,’ he said with a refined American accent, holding out his hand and smiling broadly.
Ennis learnt that Gunung was a Harvard educated lawyer. He was as smooth and sophisticated as any Boston lawyer could be. He exuded natural charm and intelligence, making Ennis a little uneasy. He remembered a past colleague, who had had a similar background and education, and he recalled his questioning, that cut delicately like a surgeons knife, probing for the untruth whilst comforting the patient with soft words.
Ennis felt as though James could read him like an open book. His accent was perfectly natural and apart from his well-proportioned Chinese features, he could have been a typical well-bred upper class American Wasp.
Gunung had been born in China. His grandparents had quit the country during one of the traumatic upheavals of the revolution to settle in Indonesia. They were wealthy merchants who had escaped with their wealth intact, and had prospered through judicious investments. In the tradition of many wealthy overseas Chinese, they had ensured that their son obtained the best class education in the United States.
Sutrawan and James were total contrasts. One was the smooth product of a wealthy education, the other, a self made man, who had succeeded against almost overwhelming odds, in a country where the poor were trodden
into the rice fields of sweat and hard labour.
Contrary to Sutrawan’s relations with Gao, the two men appreciated each others complementary qualities, and James gave his counsel in a kind and respectful manner, to his rich friend and client.
‘So John, you are with the Banque de Berne!’
Sutrawan had informed everybody of his connection with the bank, getting pleasure from his association with that name. Ennis could not disappoint Sutrawan by telling James Gunung that de Berne was a minority shareholder of the Papcon. Nevertheless, he was irritated by the constant reference to them, who in any case were no longer playing an effective role in the business.
‘Not directly, they are one of the Papcon’s shareholders and carry out a banking role for us.’
‘I see,’ he replied indicating by his tone his grasp of the situation.
‘We can talk over lunch!’ interrupted Sutrawan, ‘Drink up John!’
They spent another half an hour labouring through the dense traffic before arriving at a disappointingly drab Chinese restaurant. It was on an adjacent block to the Hongkong Bank Building, which also housed the offices of the Commercial Counsellors office, an annexe of the French Embassy.
They were directed up to a private room reserved for them on the first floor, it could have been at best be described as very nondescript. The meal was grim, a style of Chinese cuisine that was not to Ennis’ taste, an undefined variety of marinated shellfish, steamed white fish and prawns with oyster sauce. He would have been happier with grilled or fried fish…if he was cornered into eating fish at all.
‘So John we are to prepare an agreement?’ James said to him whilst Sutrawan joked with waitress.
‘Do you have a draft?’ asked Ennis.
‘No, we haven’t prepared a draft,’ he replied, then turning the question. ‘Maybe you are the best person to prepare something? The basic agreement is that the Agung Group represents the consortium, for a commission in the case that we are successful in concluding the business. You know something fairly standard ... except there will be a confidential clause. Any commission received will be reinvested as capital in the pulp mill company.’
Ennis nodded, he could see no objection to that arrangement.
‘The Agung Group, in the non-confidential part of the agreement, will represent the consortium as its local partner. They will have a share of 7.5% in the capital. They will be the local private investor.’
‘The project equity will be three hundred million dollars, which is roughly one third of the price to build the mill, the commission on the total mill price is 2.5%, that makes a 7.5% share in the equity,
‘Correct,’ said James reflecting.
‘Okay then! I will prepare a draft, which will be ready for Mr Brodzski’s next visit when it can be signed. As soon as it is ready, I will fax it over to you. Is your fax confidential, I mean do many people have access to it?’ he asked.
‘No. There’s no problem there,’ Gunung replied, ‘No problem at all, it’s in my practice, so nobody but my staff will see it.’
‘Fax me back any modifications, so that we can firm it up as soon as possible, if there any last minute changes they can be carried out here when Mr. Brodzski comes, then it will be registered at the Public Notary’s Office after signature.’
Ennis was glad to get back to the hotel so that he could sleep off the cognac. He had a dull headache remembering he had fixed a game of squash at six.
THE JET SET