The Great Fire by Shirley Hazzard Page A

inimical languages like Italian and Japanese.
    Peter's unaffected impressions were meanwhile sent to Leith, whose letters at this time comforted him, supplying a companionable measure of intelligence, and testifying, within Exley's isolation, to a previous sharing. He saw how Leith, more reticent than he, nevertheless responded to new circumstances as to fresh existence, experiencing antipathy or charm as the essential matter of finite days; accessible, even so, to dreams engendered. Out of their mutual reprieve, Leith had salvaged immediacy; had kept faith with the fugitive vow of every man in battle: If I get through this, the hours will be made to count.
    Leith now hoped to pass through Hong Kong in the autumn. With cautious warmth, Exley looked to the exchange they then might have, not all at once, but over gradual days. He wondered about women in Leith's life. He had noted the little girl who was a changeling — aware that men will display love when they cannot help themselves.
    In August, Peter Exley was assigned to the interrogation of a Japanese officer charged with atrocities to prisoners of war. He had already noticed the man in the exercise cages behind the barracks, on a private road that led through trees to the general's house. The prisoner was listless, slight, still young; short limbs, cropped dark head. Sometimes the inexpressive eyes met Exley's. It was difficult to say, then, who was the accused.
    Among those who gave evidence was the skipper of a Dutch merchantman on the Surabaya—Kobe run. Exley's letter reached this Dutch captain on his way north, at Singapore or Penang, and ten days later, landing in the colony, he came to make his deposition. He was something over fifty, Hendriks by name: dark eyes unmoist in dry face, soft knob of nose. His body itself, short and tough, announced taciturnity. He gave his evidence in brief, competent assertions, and in correct, peremptory English.
    He had been taken prisoner at Tanjungpriok, the port of Jakarta, early in 1942.
    In Exley's little office at the Bank, Hendriks told his appalling story with detachment. When the documents had been prepared and signed, the Dutchman said, 'We are in port some days. You shall lunch on board.'
    On a Sunday of inhuman heat, Exley found himself on the Kowloon docks, following the shadow of the godowns until forced out on an asphalt wasteland where coolies hauled cargo for hoisting. The Dutch ship, squat and shabby white, had a short white superstructure cramped amidships. With driblets of rust on her hull and at the outlet of the anchor cable, she recalled the smirched bathtub of some old hotel. Exley was shown to a dim saloon, well enough kept up in its dark old way, with panelling and polished brasses and heavy chairs that had defied typhoons. On a long table, a snow-white cloth was set with the dishes of the rijsttafel.
    Hendriks came in at once, his seamed flesh emerging, at collar and cuffs, from a uniform white as the table.
    Bols was brought in a crock of ice, along with the circular baked patties that, according to Roy Rysom, contained dog. As the indoor contrast passed off, the heat in the saloon became terrific. Condensation slid from cold glasses and formed a puddle of white starch around the ice bucket.
    At table they were served, in silence, by a Malay and two Chinese.
    The elaborate ordeal of drink, heavy food, and blazing sauces slowly consumed the afternoon. It seemed easier to loll there than to cut the thing short, Hendriks being clearly unprepared for any abrupt departure. Exley disliked his blunt manner with the servants, the orders rapped without a glance; and his unquestioning assumption of a right to bore. Drink settled in at eyes and temples, pulsating in purple rings. There were extended silences into which the ice collapsed with sharp sounds in crock and glasses and both men softly mopped at eyes and jowls as if quietly weeping.
    Exley realised that Hendriks was getting ready to talk.
    Hot towels were