hike through the jungle with an Anglophile Chinese poet. As I listened, I wondered why a man would wear shorts in the jungle where his unprotected skin would be so badly scratched. Was it simply to show his legs?
Did you see that, he asked suddenly. No? Well, it was
Die Sonette an Orpheus
, in the 1923 Insel-Verlag edition. Must be worth a hundred quid.
For sale?
Don’t be ridiculous. No, in that horrid shop back there. Come. You must look.
I actually did not wish to be controlled by John Slater, but he had his great paw on my forearm and I had no choice but stare into the same bicycle repair shop which had taken my attention on Monday. The same white man with ulcers on his legs was sitting on the broken plastic chair and indeed was reading, by the light of a naked bulb,
Sonnet to Orpheus
.
See, said Slater.
Hearing this, the white man lifted his mild eyes and, havingconsidered Slater for a moment, slowly raised his arm in salute.
Christ, said Slater.
His hand still clamped around my arm, he propelled me forcibly back along the street.
Do you know him?
He looked at me with his big chin working as if he were chewing something unpleasant. Know him? he said indignantly. Of course not.
And that is really where the story begins, for it was clear to me that he was lying.
2
The editors of literary magazines, while conceiving of themselves as priests, actually travel like brush salesmen, always making sure they have a sample of their wares packed along with socks and underwear, and it was not at all eccentric of me to bring several issues of
The Modern Review
to Malaysia. One of these had a very fine translation of Stefan George, which I expected a reader of Rilke would admire and so the following morning, at half past six, I wrapped it in some pretty paper and set off back to Jalan Campbell. I had no notion of how this half-mile walk was going to change my life. If I had only stayed in bed, I would not be where I am today, struggling in a web of mystery that I doubt I ever shall untangle.
Yet once I had started there was nothing to save me frommyself. Indeed, all the obsessive tendencies which have made me a good editor were now brought to bear on this abandoned white man. I would not be happy until I knew who he was, although my curiosity wasn’t quite so dispassionate, for I already imagined him to be ‘lost’ and wished, for my own personal guilty reasons, to give him comfort.
I found the shophouse very easily and was well inside its rather oily smelling interior before I realised that my man was not in residence. In his place was the Chinese woman I had previously seen packing fish in plastic bags. Close-up, she revealed herself to be a fierce little thing with a flat round face marked by two long jagged scars.
I greeted her as my phrase book ordered:
Selamat pagi
, I said, but she was working to a different script.
Wha you want?
There was nothing to do but offer my precious quarterly.
Wha for this?
English poetry, I said, for the man.
Orang
. Does he read English?
Her lip curled, giving an impression of implacable hostility, towards poetry perhaps, or England, or sweating white women—who could tell?
Poetry?
Will you please give it to him?
Not here now, she said, and tucked my proffered gift away as if she might later use it to wipe her bottom.
Selamat tingal
, I said, and left the shop feeling very foolish, striding along the street with my head down, wishing that I had minded my own bloody imperial business. Most of all I wished I had not wasted my magazine.
Were it not for the squeal of a buckled bicycle wheel I might not have spotted my Rilke reader. In all the confusion of cars and trucks and motorbikes, it took a moment to recognize who was pushing the injured bicycle along the road. Inthe gritty, humid air, the white man did not look particularly alien, simply another human figure pressing forward under the clammy weight of the sky. I was by now rather at the limits of my social confidence,
Did you see that, he asked suddenly. No? Well, it was
Die Sonette an Orpheus
, in the 1923 Insel-Verlag edition. Must be worth a hundred quid.
For sale?
Don’t be ridiculous. No, in that horrid shop back there. Come. You must look.
I actually did not wish to be controlled by John Slater, but he had his great paw on my forearm and I had no choice but stare into the same bicycle repair shop which had taken my attention on Monday. The same white man with ulcers on his legs was sitting on the broken plastic chair and indeed was reading, by the light of a naked bulb,
Sonnet to Orpheus
.
See, said Slater.
Hearing this, the white man lifted his mild eyes and, havingconsidered Slater for a moment, slowly raised his arm in salute.
Christ, said Slater.
His hand still clamped around my arm, he propelled me forcibly back along the street.
Do you know him?
He looked at me with his big chin working as if he were chewing something unpleasant. Know him? he said indignantly. Of course not.
And that is really where the story begins, for it was clear to me that he was lying.
2
The editors of literary magazines, while conceiving of themselves as priests, actually travel like brush salesmen, always making sure they have a sample of their wares packed along with socks and underwear, and it was not at all eccentric of me to bring several issues of
The Modern Review
to Malaysia. One of these had a very fine translation of Stefan George, which I expected a reader of Rilke would admire and so the following morning, at half past six, I wrapped it in some pretty paper and set off back to Jalan Campbell. I had no notion of how this half-mile walk was going to change my life. If I had only stayed in bed, I would not be where I am today, struggling in a web of mystery that I doubt I ever shall untangle.
Yet once I had started there was nothing to save me frommyself. Indeed, all the obsessive tendencies which have made me a good editor were now brought to bear on this abandoned white man. I would not be happy until I knew who he was, although my curiosity wasn’t quite so dispassionate, for I already imagined him to be ‘lost’ and wished, for my own personal guilty reasons, to give him comfort.
I found the shophouse very easily and was well inside its rather oily smelling interior before I realised that my man was not in residence. In his place was the Chinese woman I had previously seen packing fish in plastic bags. Close-up, she revealed herself to be a fierce little thing with a flat round face marked by two long jagged scars.
I greeted her as my phrase book ordered:
Selamat pagi
, I said, but she was working to a different script.
Wha you want?
There was nothing to do but offer my precious quarterly.
Wha for this?
English poetry, I said, for the man.
Orang
. Does he read English?
Her lip curled, giving an impression of implacable hostility, towards poetry perhaps, or England, or sweating white women—who could tell?
Poetry?
Will you please give it to him?
Not here now, she said, and tucked my proffered gift away as if she might later use it to wipe her bottom.
Selamat tingal
, I said, and left the shop feeling very foolish, striding along the street with my head down, wishing that I had minded my own bloody imperial business. Most of all I wished I had not wasted my magazine.
Were it not for the squeal of a buckled bicycle wheel I might not have spotted my Rilke reader. In all the confusion of cars and trucks and motorbikes, it took a moment to recognize who was pushing the injured bicycle along the road. Inthe gritty, humid air, the white man did not look particularly alien, simply another human figure pressing forward under the clammy weight of the sky. I was by now rather at the limits of my social confidence,
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