The Singhalese was still climbing over the boulders, gasping noisily with fright.
‘What’s up?’ yelled the captain.
‘Sahib, sahib,’ the Singhalese managed to utter, sinking down on the shore and letting his breath out in gasps. ‘Sahib … sahib …’
‘Sharks?’
‘Djins,’ the Singhalese moaned. ‘Devils, sir. Thousands and thousands of devils!’ He dug his fists into his eyes. ‘Nothing but devils, sir!’
‘Let’s see that shell,’ the captain ordered. He opened it with a knife. It contained a small clear pearl. ‘This is all you found?’
The Singhalese took out three more shells from the bag slung around his neck. ‘There are shells there all right, sir, but those devils are guarding them … They were looking at me as I cut them loose …’ His straggly hair bristled in horror. ‘Not at this spot, sahib!’
The captain opened the shells; two were empty but the third contained a pearl the size of a pea, as round as a drop of mercury. Captain van Toch studied in turn the pearl and the Singhalese who was crouching in a heap on the ground.
‘You, boy,’ he said hesitantly, ‘you wouldn’t like to go down there once more?’
The Singhalese shook his head speechlessly.
Captain van Toch felt a strong itch on his tongue to blaspheme. But to his surprise he found that he was talking quietly and almost gently: ‘Don’t be afraid, boy. And what do those … devils … look like?’
‘Like little children,’ the Singhalese breathed. ‘They’ve got a tail and they are this tall,’ and he indicated about four feet from the ground. ‘They stood all around me and watched what I was doing there … there was a whole ring of them around me …’ The Singhalese began to tremble. ‘Sahib! Not here, sahib!’
Captain van Toch reflected. ‘And tell me, do they blink their lower lids, or what?’
‘I don’t know, sir,’ the Singhalese croaked. ‘There’s … ten thousands of them there!’
The captain looked round for the other Singhalese. He was standing some 150 yards off, casually waiting with his arms folded over his shoulders. It is true, of course, that when a chap is naked he’s got nowhere to put his hands except on his own shoulders. The captain made a silent signal to him and the short Singhalese jumped into the water. Three minutes and fifty seconds later he emerged again and with slippery hands slithered up the rocks.
‘Well, get out then,’ the captain shouted. But then he looked more closely and already he was leaping over the boulders towards those desperately groping hands; you’d never credit such a bulk with such agility. He just managed to snatch hold in time of one hand, and panting he dragged the Singhalese out of the water. Then he laid him down on a rock and mopped his sweat. The Singhalese was lying motionless: one of his shins was skinned to the bone, evidently by a rock, but otherwise he was in one piece. The captain lifted his eyelid: only the white of his upturned eyes was visible. He had no shells and no knife.
At just that moment the boat with the crew closed in towards the shore. ‘Sir,’ the Swede Jensen shouted, ‘there are sharks here. Will you carry on fishing?’
‘No,’ said the captain. ‘Pull in here and pick up these two.’
‘Look, sir,’ Jensen pointed out as they were returning to the ship; ‘look how suddenly it gets shallow here. All the way from here to the shore,’ he pointed out, poking his oar in the water. ‘Just as if there was some kind of dam here under the water.’ Not till he was on the boat did the short Singhalese come round. He sat with his knees drawn up to his chin and was shaking all over. The captain sent the men away and sat down with his legs straddled.
‘Well, let’s have it,’ he said. ‘What did you see there?’
‘Djins, sahib,’ the short Singhalese whispered. Now even his eyelids were beginning to tremble and little pimples of gooseflesh erupted all over his body.
Captain van Toch cleared his throat. ‘And … what do they look like?’
‘Like … like …’ A strip of white again began to appear in the Singhalese’s eyes. With unexpected agility Captain van Toch slapped both his cheeks with the palm and the back of his hand to bring him round.
‘Thanks, sahib,’ the short Singhalese breathed, and his pupils again swam out in the white of his eyes.
‘AH right now?’
‘Yes, sahib.’
‘Any shells there?’
‘Yes, sahib.’
Captain van Toch continued his cross-examination with a great deal of patience and thoroughness. OK, so there are devils there. How many? Thousands and thousands. They’re about as tall as a child of ten, sir, and nearly black. They swim in the water and on the sea-bed they walk upright. Upright, sir, just like you and me, but they sway their bodies the while: like this, and like this, all the time … Yes, sir, they’ve got hands too, just like human beings; no, they’ve got no claws, more like the hands of children. No, sir, they haven’t got any horns or any hair. Yes, they’ve got a tail, a bit like a fish but without a tail-fin. And a big head, a round head like the Bataks. No, sir, they didn’t say anything; they only seemed to smack their lips. As the Singhalese was cutting off some shells at a depth of about fifty feet he had felt something touching his back - like small cold fingers. He’d turned round, and there were hundreds and hundreds of them all round him. Hundreds and hundreds, sir, swimming or standing on rocks, and all of them watching what the Singhalese was doing there. That was when he’d dropped his knife and the shells and had tried to swim to the surface. In doing so he’d collided with some of the devils who were swimming above him, and what happened next he didn’t know, sir.
Captain van Toch gazed thoughtfully at the trembling little diver. That boy wouldn’t be any use for anything, he thought to himself; he’d send him home to Ceylon from Padang. Growling and snorting he went back to his cabin. There he tipped out two pearls from the bag on to his table. One of them was as small as a grain of sand and the other was like a pea, with a silvery gleam and a touch of pink. And the captain of the Dutch ship snorted and took his Irish whisky from the cupboard.
Towards six o’clock he again had himself taken in the boat to the kampong, and made straight for that cross between a Cuban and a Portuguese. ‘Toddy,’ he said, and that was the only word he uttered; he sat on the corrugated iron verandah with a thick glass between his thick fingers, and drank and spat and peered from beneath his bushy eyebrows at the scrawny yellow hens which were pecking heaven knows what on the trampled dirt yard between the palms. The half-breed was careful not to say anything and merely filled the glasses. Gradually the captain’s eyes became bloodshot and his fingers began to lack response. It was nearly dusk when he got to his feet and yanked up his trousers.
‘Turning in already, captain?’ the half-breed between the devil and Satan inquired courteously.
The captain stabbed his finger into the air. ‘I’d be damned surprised,’ he said, ‘if there were any devils in the world whom I’ve yet to come across. You man, which way is bloody northwest?’
‘That way,’ the half-breed pointed. ‘Where are you off to, sir?’
‘To hell,’ Captain J. van Toch growled. ‘Going to have a look at Devil Bay.’
That evening marked the start of Captain J. van Toch’s eccentricity. He did not return to the kampong until daybreak; he spoke not a single word and had himself rowed out to the ship, where he locked himself in his cabin until evening. So far nobody noticed anything out of the ordinary since the Kandong Bandoeng was busy enough loading some of the blessings of the island (copra, pepper, camphor, gutta-percha, palm oil, tobacco and labour); but when in the evening he was informed that all the cargo had been stowed he merely snorted and said: ‘The boat. To the kampong.’ And again he did not return until dawn. The Swede Jensen, who helped him on board, inquired, just from politeness: ‘So we’re sailing today, captain?’ The captain spun round as if he had had a needle stuck in his behind. ‘What the hell’s that to you?’ he snapped. ‘Mind your own bloody business!’ All d
ay long the Kandong Bandoeng rode at anchor a cable’s length off the shore of Tana Masa, doing nothing. As evening fell the captain rolled out of his cabin and commanded: ‘The boat. To the kampong.’ Zapatis, the little Greek, followed him with his one blind and one squinting eye. ‘Boys,’ he said; ‘either the old man’s got a girl there or he’s gone clean off his rocker.’ The Swede Jensen scowled. ‘What the hell’s that to you?’ he snapped at Zapatis. ‘Mind your own bloody business!’ Then, together with the Icelander Gudmunson he took the little dinghy and rowed in the direction of Devil Bay. They pulled in behind some boulders and awaited developments. In the bay the captain was pacing up and down: he seemed to be waiting for somebody. Now and again he would stop and call out something like ts, ts, ts. ‘Look,’ Gudmunson said, pointing to the sea which was now blindingly red and golden from the sunset. Jensen counted two, three, four, six fins, sharp as a blade, making for Devil Bay. ‘Shit,’ muttered Jensen; ‘all those sharks!’ Every so often one of the blades would submerge, a tail would flap above the surface and the water would be churned up. At that point Captain J. van Toch began to hop about furiously on the beach, hurl curses and shake his fist at the sharks. Then a brief tropical dusk fell and the moon sailed out over the island. Jensen gripped his oars and brought the dinghy to within a furlong of the shore. The captain was now sitting on a boulder, going ts, ts, ts. Something was moving near him, but it was difficult to make out what it was. Looks like seals, Jensen thought, but seals crawl differently. Whatever it was emerged from the water among the boulders and waddled along the beach with a swaying motion like penguins. Jensen quietly pulled on his oars and stopped half a furlong from the captain. Yes, the captain was saying something, but the devil only knew what it was - probably Malay or Tamil. He was waving his arms as if he were throwing something to the seals (except that they weren’t seals, Jensen reassured himself), and all the while he was jabbering away in Chinese or Malay. At that moment a raised oar slipped from Jensen’s hand and slapped into the water. The captain raised his head, stood up and took about thirty paces towards the water. And suddenly there were flashes and cracks: the captain was firing his Browning in the direction of the dinghy. Almost simultaneously there was a rustling, swirling and splashing as if of a thousand seals diving into the water. But by then Jensen and Gudmundson were pulling on their oars and fairly whipping their dinghy round the nearest headland. When they got back to the ship they did not say a word to anyone. These Nordics know how to keep silent. The captain returned towards dawn: he was morose and angry, but he did not speak a word. Only as Jensen was helping him on board two pairs of blue eyes met in a cold searching stare.
‘Jensen,’ the captain said.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘We sail today.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You’ll get your papers in Surabaya.’
‘Yes, sir.’
That was all. That day the Kandong Bandoeng sailed for Padang. From Padang Captain J. van Toch sent a package to his company in Amsterdam, a package insured for £1,200 sterling. And simultaneously he telegraphed a request for a year’s leave. Urgent reasons of health and that sort of thing. Then he knocked about Padang until he found whoever he had been looking for. He was a savage from Borneo, a Dayak whom English tourists would occasionally hire as a shark hunter, just in order to watch him at work, for the Dayak still operated in the old way, armed only with a long knife. He was evidently a cannibal but he had his fixed scale of charges: five pounds per shark, plus board. Otherwise he was hideous to behold, for his skin had been scraped off both his arms, his chest and his thighs by sharkskin, and his nose and ears were adorned with sharks’ teeth. Everyone called him Shark.
With this Dayak Captain J. van Toch now set out for the island of Tana Masa.
2
Mr Golombek and Mr Valenta
It was hot and the height of the silly season, when nothing, but positively nothing, happens, when there are no politics, when there is not even a European crisis. Yet even then the newspaper readership, sprawled out in agonies of boredom on sandy beaches or in the dappled shade of trees, demoralised by the heat, by nature, by the rural tranquillity and just by the simple healthy life of being on holiday, expects, with hopes dashed anew every day, that at least in their paper they’ll find something new and refreshing, some murder perhaps or a war or an earthquake, in short Something. And if they don’t find it they throw down their papers and angrily declare that there isn’t a thing, not a damned thing, in the paper, that it’s not worth reading at all and that they’ll stop taking it.
And meanwhile there are five or six lonely people sitting in the editorial office because all their colleagues are also on holiday, angrily throwing down their papers and complaining that there isn’t a thing, not a damned thing, in the paper. And the printing shop foreman would emerge from his cubbyhole and say reproachfully: ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen, we haven’t got tomorrow’s leader yet.’
‘Well, why not use … let’s say … that article on the economic situation in Bulgaria,’ one of the lonely gentlemen suggested.
The foreman heaved a deep sigh: ‘And who’s going to read that stuff, Mr Editor? It’ll be another day of Nothing-to-Read in the whole paper.’
The six lonely gentlemen raised their eyes to the ceiling as if they might discover Something-to-Read up there.
‘If only Something would happen,’ one of them suggested vaguely.
‘Or maybe … some … interesting report from somewhere,’ suggested another.
‘What about?’
‘I wouldn’t know.’
‘Or invent … some new vitamin,’ growled a third.
‘Now, in summer?’ objected a fourth. ‘Why, my dear fellow, vitamins are intellectual stuff, that’s more like something for the autumn …’
‘Christ, it’s hot,’ yawned a fifth. ‘We should have something from the polar regions.’
‘Yes, but what?’
‘Anything. Something like that Eskimo Welzl. Frostbitten fingers, eternal ice - that sort of thing.’
‘Easily said,’ said a sixth. ‘But where do we get it?’
A hopeless silence fell upon the editorial office.
‘I was in jevíčko on Sunday …’, the printing shop foreman spoke up hesitantly.
‘So?’
‘It seems some Captain Van toch is on leave there. Seems he was born in Jevíčko.’
‘Who’s that Vantoch?’
‘Fat chap. Supposed to be a sea captain. They were saying he’s been fishing for pearls.’
Mr Golombek looked at Mr Valenta.
‘And where did he fish for them?’
‘Off Sumatra … and Celebes … somewhere down there. Seems he’s lived there for thirty years.’
‘Hell, it’s an idea,’ Mr Valenta said. ‘Could make a first-rate story. Golombek, shall we go?’
‘Why not give it a try?’ agreed Mr Golombek and slipped off the desk he was sitting on.
‘That’s the gentleman over there,’ said the landlord in jevíško.
Sitting legs apart at a table in the garden was a fat gentleman in a white cap, drinking beer and thoughtfully drawing his fat forefinger over the table. The two gentlemen made straight for him.
‘I’m Valenta.’
‘I’m Golombek.’
The fat gentleman raised his eyes. ‘Whassat? What?’
‘My name’s Valenta and I’m a journalist.’
‘And I’m Golombek. Also a journalist.’
The fat gentleman lifted himself with dignity. ‘Captain van Toch. Very glad to meet you. Sit down, boys.’
The two gentlemen obligingly sat down and placed their notepads before them.
‘What are you drinking, boys?’
‘Raspberry juice,’ Mr Valenta said.
‘Raspberry juice?’ the captain repeated incredulously.
‘Whatever for? Landlord, fetch some beer. Well, what is it you’re after?’ he said, planting his elbows on the table.
??
?Is it true, Mr Vantoch, that you were born here?’
‘Sure. Born right here.’
‘How on earth did you manage to go to sea?’
‘Well, via Hamburg.’
‘And how long have you been a captain?’
‘Twenty years, my boy. Got my papers here,’ he said, importantly tapping his breast pocket. ‘Like to see them?’
Mr Golombek would have liked to see what a captain’s papers looked like but he suppressed his curiosity. ‘That means, captain, that in those twenty years you’ll have seen a good deal of the world, what?’
‘Sure. A good deal. Yes.’
‘Whereabouts mostly?’
‘Java. Borneo. Philippines. Fiji Islands. Solomon Islands. Carolines. Samoa. Damned Clipperton Island. A lot of damned islands, my boy. Why?’
‘Well, because it’s interesting. We’d like you to tell us more, you know.’
‘That’s all, is it?’ The captain fixed his pale blue eyes on them. ‘So you’re from the police - that it?’
‘No, we’re not, captain. We’re the press.’
‘The press, is it? Reporters, eh? OK, take it down: Captain J. van Toch, master of the Kandong Bandoeng - ’
‘How’s that again?’
‘Kandong Bandoeng, home port Surabaya. Purpose of visit: vacances - how d’you say it?’
‘Vacation.’
‘Hell, yes, vacation. Well then, print it in your paper under “ships berthed”. And now away with those notebooks, boys.
Your health.’
‘Mr Vantoch, we’ve come specially to seek you out, so you could tell us something about your life.’
‘But why?’
‘To write about it. People are interested in that sort of thing; they like reading about faraway islands, and about what a fellow-countryman of theirs, a Czech born in jevíčko, has seen and experienced in foreign parts.’
The captain nodded his head. ‘That’s true enough. D’you know, I am the only sea captain in the whole of Jevicko. That’s a fact. I’m told there’s also a Jevicko-born captain in charge of … of … of boat swings, but,’ he added confidentially, ‘I don’t believe he’s a real captain. That goes by the tonnage, did you know?’