The Empire Trilogy - J. G. Farrell [451]
Surprised, Matthew explained that Admiral Nomura, the Japanese Ambassador in Washington, had been having talks with the American Government. The Americans wanted the Japs to move their troops out of Indo-China and to agree to peace in the Pacific; the Japs wanted the Americans to stop helping Chiang Kai-shek in their war against China and to unfreeze their assets. Things would look grim if they didn’t agree. That was why he had expected that people in Singapore might be worried.
‘I suppose some people may have the wind up,’ said Monty indifferently.
Matthew decided to give up once more and let events take their course. While he lay slumped in the corner of the seat with a young woman sprawled on his shoulder like a hot compress, one curious picture after another trembled before his eyes, reminding him of the ‘magic lantern’ he had played with as a child. One moment the Pontiac was grumbling and nudging its way through a narrow street hung with banners of Chinese ideographs, the next it was speeding down a wide avenue between silver slopes which flashed and winked at him and proved to be great banks of fish (Matthew was glad of the speed: the stench was so powerful it made you clutch your collar and roll your eyeballs back into your brain). He peered in wonder at the glistening naked bodies of the men working by oil lamps to gut and salt these silvery Himalayas of fish but the next moment again the Pontiac had transformed itself into a stately barge forging it way over a smoky, azure river … Here and there Chinese waded head and shoulders above the blue billows, which presently grew transparent and correspondingly thickened into a darker blue empyrean hanging a few feet overhead; through this blue canopy, like cherubim, disembodied Chinese heads peered down from balconies at the Pontiac making its slow progress beneath.
‘This is the street of the charcoal burners. The bloody Chinese live fifty to a room here in some places.’
Now the clouds of smoke had rolled away to reveal that they were in another, quite different street where from every window and balcony there swung pots of ferns and baskets of flowers. Strings of dim, multi-coloured lanterns hung everywhere. ‘It’s time this lot got weaving with their black-out, too,’ said Monty, and his eyes glittered like cutlery as they roved the balconies above. Suddenly Matthew saw that in the heart of each display of lanterns and flowers there was a beautiful woman set like a jewel.
‘Did we have to come this way, Monty?’ grumbled Joan, removing herself from Matthew’s shoulder. ‘Why didn’t we go along Beach Road?’ Ehrendorf stirred at last and looked around with an uncomfortable smile; meanwhile, the Pontiac continued to advance with Joan firmly sandwiched between the two perspiring Englishmen on the back seat. Certain of the women on the balconies above stuck languorous poses, or stretched out a slender leg as if to straighten a stocking. One idly lifted her skirt as if to check that her underwear was all in order (alas, she appeared to have forgotten it altogether); another forced a breast to bulge out of its hiding and palped it thoughtfully.
‘Look here, Monty,’ Joan protested, ‘this is a bit thick. You did this on purpose.’
‘Did what on purpose?’
‘You know perfectly well. And it’s not very clever.’
‘In Singapore you can see things they don’t mention at posh finishing schools,’ exulted Monty, ‘but that’s no reason to get in a bate.’ He added for Matthew’s benefit: ‘This is respectable compared with Lavender Street yonder where the troops go. You could have a “colonial experience” there all right!’
So wide was the Pontiac, so narrow the streets of this part of the city, that it was a miracle they could pass through them at all. Even so, they frequently had to slow to a walking pace while the syce made some fine decisions, an inch on this side,