his mind.
Ayear passed quickly by which time he found that he was firmly ensconced in the Canberra circuit and continued to spend at least one weekend every month in the quiet of Anderson’s hideaway. He still found himself relaxed in the man’s company. Apart from the weekends away they met often, dining together and even travelling to Queenstown in New Zealand together for a weekend ski visit. He never tired of listening to John’s deep soft resonant voice advise on subjects new to Stephen or lecture him on the idiosyncrasies of bureaucracy in government. He was always attentive to the older man’s advice and out of the deep respect he had developed for him had, without hesitation, accepted his urging to transfer to the Information Bureau and broaden his horizons. Except it wasn’t really the Information Bureau!
In years to come Coleman would reflect upon his close relationship with Anderson and silently acknowledge that he was not really conscious at the time that it was then he had been recruited, albeit surreptitiously, by the master craftsman. He had entered a new world, sinister and without shape, a world from which few had ever escaped. And now he was back in Melbourne, in literary hell, struggling to stay alive — or at least remain on the course.
Although difficult, the study load suited Coleman’s demeanour. He was offered an intellectual challenge and was obliged to compete as an individual. Initially, during the confusing first days he had questioned his judgment in selecting this training. Critical of his own lack of patience he had, he decided, to persevere and complete the task he’d undertaken. Now, armed with weeks of confidence building results behind him, Coleman applied the necessary self-discipline required to push himself just that little harder, to achieve the level of fluency required to communicate in the alien tongue.
As he strolled towards the soft sounds of the sea and the waves slowly encroached on the narrow strip of the dark sandy foreshore, Stephen’s thoughts continued to drift in the early morning hours. He felt tired, but at the same time he experienced a sense of exhilaration at being alive, almost as if he had finally been given some real purpose in life. Stephen found this new energy invigorating. He identified the new motivating forces and was pleased that they were not based on monetary considerations. It would have been relatively easy, he knew, to obtain employment through his parents’ connections in a far more lucrative field of endeavour.
The cry of birds overhead interrupted his thoughts. A flock of sea-gulls passed over and Stephen instinctively raised a hand over his head. He stood for a moment observing a small fishing dinghy bobbing up and down a few hundred metres offshore. They were probably from the base, he thought, as it was some distance to a jetty not located within the military surrounds. Coleman stood for a few moments looking out to sea. A figure moved past behind him and called, “Selamat pagi.”
Coleman instantly recognised Pak Seda, one of his instructors. “ Selamat pagi ,” he responded.
Seda approached, hands in pockets, with the casual gait Asian men have developed throughout the centuries. “Mau kemana? ” Where are you going? asked the short dark skinned man. Coleman hesitated. He knew he had to select his words precisely as mistakes, even off campus, were remembered when assessing student proficiency.
“Iseng-iseng saja Pak .” Just strolling around, sir, he answered. Coleman was pleased he had remembered the phrase. His vocabulary was growing rapidly which increased his confidence.
“You are up early Koesman .” Seda observed, using the student’s allocated Indonesian name.
“Yes. I needed the fresh air. Too many of these ,” he replied, indicating the cigarette dangling between his nicotine-stained fingers, his sentences still stiff as one would expect of a new student.
“Would you like a kretek ?” the teacher offered. Aroma from these cigarettes mixed with clove would permeate every corner of the staff building when Seda smoked. The uninitiated would stand close to a kretek smoker only once before discovering that apart from the marijuana grass-like smell, the weed would often explode burning holes in nylon shirts, trousers, or even worse, as had happened one day, to the Director of Studies’sports coat. Seda had almost changed to more orthodox brands after the embarrassing incident.
Coleman flicked his cigarette away before accepting the Dji Sam Soe . As he lit it, the taste touched his tongue followed by a cooling sensation of scented smoke flowing into his lungs.
Seda observed the student expecting a response he had often witnessed from inexperienced Indonesian cigarette smokers. When none was evident Seda was pleased and proffered the rest of the packet.
Embarrassed, Coleman refused. “No, Pak , terima kasih ,” breaking into English, “Thank you, but no. I cannot take your cigarettes as they must be very difficult to obtain here in Australia.”
“Tidak apa apa . It’s all right. I buy them from friends who work for Radio Australia. They have plenty. Please. I would be offended if you don’t take them”
Coleman knew that this was not the case. Asians would not show offence over something so trivial; instantly he felt a warmth for this lonely man who tried so hard to be inconspicuous amongst his peers. Stephen accepted the packet and walked along the beach road, his tiredness forgotten, pleased to be in the company of the Timorese.
“As a child I used to walk along the beach near my village. I would dream of crossing the ocean to make my fortune and return as wealthy as a king. ”
Seda paused to ensure that he selected words simple enough for the student to understand.
“In my kampung the people were so poor there was not even one motorbike. We were the neglected island: the forgotten people in Soekarno’s dream. ” He turned his head to ensure that his student had understood. “Do you understand, Mas? ”
Coleman had understood but was unsure how he was expected to respond. “I understand what you are saying but do not understand the ... ” he paused, searching his memory for the correct word. Unable to remember, he resorted to the English substitute, “situation.” he added.
“Ah. Yes, for Australians life is relatively simple. What will you do when you have completed the course?”
Coleman felt the thrill of the assumption. He had been reasonably confident of completing the training but this was the first indication, almost confirmation of the possibility from a staff member.
“No doubt I will be sent to Jakarta to assist the Information Bureau there. After two years in the Embassy the government usually sends us back to Canberra where we sit and wait for another opportunity to travel ,” he explained, struggling to find the correct words in his limited vocabulary.
“Perhaps you will have the opportunity to visit my kampung halaman ,” suggested the guru.
“Insja Allah,” Allah permitting, Coleman responded flushing immediately he realised his mistake. He corrected his error with a suitable Christian equivalent and apologised to Albert for his error.
“Tidak apa apa,” Albert declared, not wishing that Coleman suffer for his mistake.
The two men walked together each contemplating his own future until the intrusion of the putrid seaweed smell forced their retreat to prepare for the school day.
That evening Coleman decided to visit Albert briefly, away from the school, to establish whether or not the teacher would be prepared to offer additional tuition. He believed that, with the assistance of one of the indigenous speakers, colloquial and idiomatic dialogue would be less difficult to deal with once he had completed the course and commenced his tour in Indonesia. The basic syllabus provided only a general introduction to idiomatic terminology as most graduates would, in fact, have little opportunity to actually visit or work in Indonesia. Consequently, those who were fortunate to receive overseas postings would discover to their chagrin, upon arrival in the target language countries, that they would have considerable difficulty with the day-to-day communication.
As he approached the well-kept married quarters,