by
TAJ
Slowly placing the letter back into its blue envelope, Rutherford shook his head. His eyes were already bleary, though the first glass of scotch and water he had ordered was still full to the brim. Now he could feel the shock and anger settling like hot latex, in the large, aching hollow of his stomach. He wanted to vomit..Fools, he thought. Damn stupid fools. They had sold the estate, the whole bloody rubber plantation. What on Earth had they been thinking? He was supposed to be the manager, the big man in charge. Arthur Rutherford, the kingpin of plantation operations. And now they had the audacity to send him a letter. A letter, by God! Not a telegram. Not a call. Not a representative from the head office. No consultation. No interest in his opinion. Just a thin piece of airmail stationary in a standard blue envelope. Nothing more. And what did they expect him to do now? Fly back? Just like that? Simply toss it all? Fifteen, no sixteen years of....
Rutherford crumpled the envelope into a ball, then slammed his fist down hard near the glass, splashing booze over the counter and himself. He felt the wetness seep through the crevices between his taut thumb and forefinger toward the wad of paper at the center of his hand. The glass rocked to a halt.
"Everyone go to hell!" he shouted at the stillness which followed. A few heads turned toward him in the dimly lit room, but not another sound broke the silence. The overhead fan revolved noiselessly. The jukebox sat quiet and dark, its plug lying idle on the floor nearby. There were winged ants and mosquitoes moving in the room; a gecko waited patiently, statue-like, on the wall above the mirror. The barkeep looked down and continued washing glasses as though nothing had happened.
"Maybe you buggers are deaf!" Rutherford bellowed, this time even louder than before. He suddenly spun around on his stool so that his back was to the bar, both fists poised for action. Facing him were three rubber tappers, big men with dark skin and huge hands, who rose from their seats ready to fight. But at the same time, the barkeep moved in behind Rutherford and, reaching across the bar, pinned the guest's arms to his sides with a practiced grip.
"You drink enough, fat man," the barkeep said calmly. " You go home now. Be quiet. No trouble. That's all."
Fat man... go home... that's all. The words seemed to hang in the humid air. Rutherford leaned forward slightly to test the man's grip and found that it would not be too difficult to break free. He could drop to the floor quickly so that the bar between them would knock he barkeep's arms away, then he would spring up again, fists awhirl, and smack down one of the tappers before the others knew what was happening. It would be a close fight.
But just as Rutherford began his downward movement, the nearest tapper kicked out at the heavy man's torso with unexpected speed and agility. The blow caught Rutherford just below the collarbone, sending him sprawling at the base of the bar where the other two tappers pounced on him. They held him fast to the floor while the barkeep circled round to help.
There was no fight. It was over before it had even begun. Stunned and aching, Rutherford allowed himself to be guided out of the bar, where he muttered a half-felt oath of revenge and found himself alone on the unlit street. The crumpled blue envelope was still in his hand.
As he began walking, he felt the sweat running down his back and under his arms. Even though the sun was now several hours beyond the horizon, the night air was still thick with the heat of the day, as always. Sixteen years in the tropics had changed Rutherford in many ways -- aged him, drained him, hardened him, perhaps -- but he had never got used to the climate. It seemed to grow worse year by year.
To the west, a line of tall palm trees could be seen etched darkly against the moon-bright sky. He began to feel a bit easier -- still confused, but less angry. His eyes rested on the horizon where the jungle stretched inland, peaceful and unchanging. Ever vigilant, the jungle kept watch at the outskirts of towns. It was waiting, Rutherford imagined, for any opportunity to grow over the concrete and steel, to replace the order that humans had carved on the fringe of its thick, green foliage. People could keep pushing back the dark line of trees, of course. They could draw lines, raze the land, and set up fences, but given the slightest chance, the jungle would always come back, wild and lush, to reclaim its lost territory. There was an odd form of solace in that thought.
Rutherford stopped for a moment and looked down at the envelope in his hand. He had no reason to keep it, but he couldn't bring himself to throw it away. It had recast his future. It had disturbed his life. And just because a simple business transaction prevailed: the plantation had been sold. How or to whom did not require explanation. The home office would be calling him back. He was no longer needed at the estate. In a few days, he would be receiving formal orders to leave -- another blue envelope, perhaps. Almost as though the jungle had begun its inevitable reclamation already, Rutherford was being pushed out. And the worst of it was he could neither resign himself to leaving nor force himself to fight it. The news had caught him completely off guard.
Now, in addition to his pride, his shoulder was hurt. He hadn't expected the tapper to be so quick. When he had first come to the estate, the locals had called him "sir" or "Encik Arthur." But their respect or their fear had gradually eroded as the years rolled on. They grew more and more nationalistic. They began voicing open resentment about "white" ownership and foreign invaders. They started calling Rutherford names behind his back. Babi putih, or "white pig," was their favorite, and he couldn't help but hate them at times. They were a lazy, superstitious and deceitful lot. Like animals, they were. And he recalled a joke the expatriates often told which ended, "You can take a native out of the jungle, but you can't take the jungle out of a native."
Not far down the street, past a row of shuttered shophouses, Rutherford came to another dark bar, but this one was noisy with music and the laughter of women. There was a room in the back that he knew well, almost too well, for he had wasted many a night there when it was too late to drink and he was too drunk to travel. There, he could have company. He could talk or forget. The night was not over. Not yet.
Inside, he was greeted by a slim woman in a green sequined dress. "Get Honey for me," he told her, and a second woman appeared, this one a chubby Malay in a low-cut white gown. She walked with a sensuous slowness that seemed almost funny considering her weight, but her hair was glossy, black and thick, hanging beautifully down her back to her waist, and it more than made up for whatever faults she might have had.
"Arty," she cooed, as she took Rutherford's arm and led him to a booth at the back of the barroom. "Arty, you been gone so long time. You keep me waiting all these months. Oh, Arty boy, I miss you all the time, you know. Now you come back and make me happy, is it? Maybe you miss Honey too. A little, yes?"
Rutherford did not answer, but studied her closely as he put the balled up envelope on the table. She must have been at least forty, maybe older, but the make-up and the weak lighting kept her ever in her twenties. Her skin was still smooth and firm. Heavily perfumed, too much brown flesh showing, she could be any man's type as long as he had the desire, imagination, and a little booze to mellow the reality. She was every man's woman, and tonight, she was Rutherford's. Perhaps for the last time?
