The Timor Man. Kerry B Collison

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      Mary never accompanied them whenever they left the campus. Albert would attempt to explain the Asian philosophy by taking Coleman on field trips to farms, where in-situ exposure to agricultural life could be utilized to teach him the more delicate interpretations of idiomatic usage.

      “Never forget, Mas Koesman, Indonesia is and always will be an agrarian state. It is therefore imperative for the complete linguist to first of all understand those things which are of most importance to the people. Europeans have little knowledge of our staple food. Rice. As you have now learned, we use a variety of terms to describe the state of that mystical crop. We do not call it just rice. You may consider me a pedant. I am not. Nor am I attempting a lesson in semantics, for rice to Asians is life and life is God’s gift to us. It therefore follows that, to a logical Asian mind, rice is a life form with its own soul. You must understand that, for Asians, acceptance of animism is common and is often intertwined with religious philosophy to become one belief. There are no rules governing what man should accept unto himself in terms of personal belief. Those barriers exist only within religious dogma itself.”

      Coleman had listened intently. In a country as populous as Indonesia, it was obviously a mammoth undertaking to feed the newborn millions each year.

      “Do other basic crops command similar respect and therefore name changes from planting to consumption?” he had asked.

      “Only some, and not in Indonesia, however I would expect so in China. Those people will eat anything.”

      The student was now accustomed to the occasional slight directed at the Chinese, for even a Christian Timorese who had grown up in poverty could still be expected to harbour some animosity towards the more affluent members of the community. The Asian staff at the school rarely proffered political opinions nor did they openly cast aspersions on other ethnic groups. Albert’s comment was merely indicative of just how close the two had grown. Their time together had been mutually rewarding.

      Stephen might have viewed their friendship differently had he known that Albert had forwarded his name to the Chief of Indonesian Intelligence — Nathan Seda. Albert felt satisfied that he had fulfilled his ongoing commitment to Nathan by advising him of students’ names, military background, and postings upon course completion. He felt little remorse for these people were occidental and could not begin to understand the orientals’ obligation to family. The mere suggestion of threat to his father and family was sufficient motivation for Albert. One is born with a greater loyalty than friendship and this was enforced by his belief, thou shalt honour thy father and thy mother.

      He did not look on what he had done as disloyalty, but he did not deny that his strengthening bond of friendship with the young Australian tempted him to confide in Stephen.

      His predicament had no immediate solution. To divulge his secret to Coleman and trust him not to alert the authorities was too much to demand of any friendship. On the other hand, once in Jakarta, his friend could convince Nathan of Albert’s impossible position. These alternatives frequently crossed Albert’s mind; however he feared that an officer such as Coleman would be obliged to inform his superiors if he became aware of Albert’s extra curricular activities. He had, wisely, discarded the idea.

      They had parted at the end of the course with feelings of mutual affection and respect and, as Stephen had bid his farewells, Albert immediately felt the void of loneliness in which he was left. In the months that followed they had not communicated. Both had been too preoccupied with the demands placed on their lives during that time.

      Coleman’s fond memories of Albert were abruptly interrupted as he identified the CD-18 number plates on the Holden. The driver ran around the vehicle and opened the door before he could do so for himself.

      “Selamat pagi, tuan,” Achmad, the smiling Sundanese driver greeted him.

      “Selamat pagi, Mas,” responded the Australian, much to the surprise of Achmad.

      “Tuan bisa mengerti Bahasa Indonesia?” Achmad inquired, amazed at Coleman’s grasp of the language.

      “Bisa saja,” Coleman replied.

      The driver sat quietly concentrating on his driving. He was pleased that he had been sent to meet the new tuan . None of the other drivers would believe this when he told them. A new tuan who could already speak their language! Surely he must have lived here before. Ah, decided Achmad, then of course he could be Dutch and just pretending to be Australian. Achmad decided to scrutinize the newcomer to look for visible signs of his being Dutch.

      Not that Achmad would know for he had never seen one of the former colonists. He was born during the Japanese occupation and the Dutch never returned to his province after the war. Those who had stayed on after independence left when Soekarno annexed West Irian in the early sixties.

      Coleman could see that Achmad was not concentrating on his driving as well as he should. Instead, his small brown eyes darted continuously to and from the rear vision mirror observing the tuan . What for, Coleman could not fathom. They continued in silence for the short drive to Cikini where the Embassy building stood, set back from the railway some seventy-five metres. Coleman’s heart sank.

      The building was the obvious remnants of some colonial family mansion built in the latter part of the last century. To some it would have antique charm. To others, who knew that the ageing exterior often indicated a complete state of interior ruin, such dwellings were best demolished.

      Alex Crockwell, the embassy officer who had been delegated the task of meeting him at the Kemayoran airport the previous evening had not discussed working conditions in the Embassy nor had he mentioned the poor state of the premises. Coleman assumed that it was not an oversight as the man most probably considered the dilapidated building’s appearance romantic.

      He was not unhappy that Crockwell would leave as soon as their hand-over was completed. Stephen disliked the petty, almost officious character, as he had seen many like him during his stay in the capital. He knew that there were many small-minded bureaucrats whose relatively unimportant positions provided the breeding ground for their moody dispositions and deep-rooted animosity for those who had real power.

      Achmad the driver left the engine running as he raced around to open the tuan’s door. Stephen adjusted his suit and started up the steps admiring the magnificent beringin tree to the right. The highly polished brass plate affixed to the small roman column on the right announced that they were entering the Australian Embassy. Coleman thanked his driver and entered the foyer, surprised at the apparent lack of security. He was relieved to observe that the structure had been air-conditioned with large banks of window units, each humming its way through a surprising range of mechanical noises, as the power fluctuated through lows and peaks that would have destroyed lesser machines.

      “Ah, there you are old chap.” a voice boomed from the other end of the reception area causing Stephen to turn quickly, immediately wishing he hadn’t. The sharp stabbing pain near his temples returned with a vengeance. “Welcome, welcome,” the rotund figure continued, extending both hands as he waddled towards the newcomer. Coleman thought the man looked like some giant duck.

      “Have a good trip, did we? Are they looking after you at СКАЧАТЬ