As dead memory cells were replaced by more active and not so alcoholically influenced ones, pieces of the previous evening’s activities began to filter through to his brain and then, with a rush, everything flooded back to him.
He turned around quickly looking for the girl, and seeing no apparent sign of her, attempted to recall his last movements before returning to the Hotel Indonesia. He tried but could not remember.
Sitting on the double bed with its hand-woven embroidered bedcover still not turned down he leaned forward and placed his hands so that they would support his head. He really felt terribly sick.
The basket of welcome fruit, still wrapped in a cellophane cover, sat on the coffee table directly in front of the bed. The card stated something to the effect that the management welcomed him to the hotel and trusted that his stay would be memorable.
The phone rang shrilly, the sharp tones piercing his throbbing head.
“Selamat pagi, sir, this is your wake up call,” the tinny voice announced.
He raised his arm and peering through one bloodshot eye checked his watch. It read six-thirty. He dimly recollected booking the call for an hour earlier! Again he checked his watch, thanked the operator and pushed himself up into a sitting position.
He got up and the room swam before him. He knew he must get to the bathroom quickly, not through commitment to attend the office on time, on his first day, but more to avoid the inevitable disaster that would occur if he didn’t, as he felt that the queasiness surging through his stomach could no longer be ignored.
Coleman headed for the bathroom knowing what was to follow.
He retched.
The heaving convulsions forcing him to his knees as he clung to the chrome grip alongside the bathtub, his head cradled by one arm over the toilet bowl. Minutes passed slowly and Stephen dragged himself upright and stepped into the bathtub, turning the cold faucet on to maximum. Leaning with one arm against the ceramic wall he steadied himself.
He remained in this position, the tropical cold water stinging his body, assisting with the slow recovery process. He then altered the water flow and filled the huge American Standard bath to its brim. He lay still in the bathtub contemplating what would lie ahead on his first full working day in the capital.
He had arrived over the weekend, much to the disgust of the staff delegated to meet and escort him to his hotel. He had completed his customs and immigration checks and identified the embassy official. He was obvious. Alex Crockwell stood alone with his hands clasped behind his back, apparently oblivious to the surrounds.
“Coleman?” he called out, raising one hand, finger pointed in the air as if he was about to hail a taxi.
“Stephen,” Coleman answered, lowering both cases and extending his hand.
“Leave those there, the boy will carry them for you,” he said and turned, leaving Stephen with no other choice but to follow.
“You couldn’t have picked a more difficult time to arrive.”
“Sorry?” Coleman called to the disappearing figure, not entirely certain that he was following the right person. The young and pretentious man had not even bothered to introduce himself. Moments later he caught up as the embassy officer had stopped and turned, almost impatiently.
“Put those in the back,” Crockwell ordered the driver who had jumped from the Holden and raced around to open the door for the embassy official. Coleman watched without saying anything.
“Thanks for the reception,” Stephen offered as they drove away from the dilapidated terminal.
“My turn on duty roster, I’m afraid,” Crockwell replied. He then went on to explain that he had missed a wonderful opportunity to spend the weekend away in the mountains but, as Coleman’s arrival coincided with these plans, he had to cancel. Stephen was surprised that the embassy officer actually raised the point that personnel movements always seemed to take place on weekends, apparently spoiling some event or other; Canberra really should be more considerate and realize that Indonesia was a difficult post, and should not expect the limited resources of the Embassy staff to sacrifice their own time to meet and escort others, when they should be recharging their batteries.
“I suppose you will want to have a look around later after you’ve freshened up?” Crockwell asked. The tone of his voice implied that Coleman should refuse the halfhearted invitation and, having enjoyed a few drinks during the eight hour flight, he was tempted to tell the escort officer to get lost and leave him to his own devices. But he didn’t.
“Yes,” Coleman replied, “it’s still early and I would appreciate a quick tour. How about I check in, dump my gear and you show me around for a bit?”
Crockwell was visibly disappointed and sat silently for the rest of the ride to the hotel. Coleman decided he really didn’t need the other man’s company but would insist just out of bloody-mindedness. Crockwell waited impatiently in the lobby while Coleman slowly showered and changed. Visibly annoyed with having to wait, Crockwell displayed a show of childish temper by snapping at the driver as they left the hotel.
Coleman managed to restrain himself until later in the evening. He remembered enjoying himself in the bar with the women hanging around his neck, when Crockwell again made some comment as to the lateness of the hour.
“Hey!” Coleman had snapped. “Why don’t you just piss off then and leave me here?” There had been an argument and, although the temptation was there, Coleman had resisted smacking the other man around the head as he rightfully deserved.
Stephen groaned. Damn! He hadn’t even set foot in the office and already there would be at least one person gunning for him!
Slowly he towelled and waited for his body to adjust to the room temperature after the bath. He selected the pin-striped suit with a maroon tie. Conservative enough, he decided.
Venturing down to the expansive lobby Stephen immediately remembered the lingering smell he had identified when first alighting from the aircraft. It hung heavily in the air like the aroma of ageing fruit which was about to turn, and yet there was something about its scent, something exotic, which made one feel that it was a permanent part of the general ambiance.
Coleman viewed the traffic confusion from the hotel foyer. No briefing could have prepared him for the awesome spectacle of Jakarta’s traffic crawling around the Selamat Datang column located directly outside the Intercontinental Hotel Indonesia. Bedlam would be an appropriate description, Coleman mused.
Thousands of becaks, the Indonesian trishaw, congregated at the entrance. He knew that the drivers often lived in these contraptions, earning barely enough each day to purchase a meal of nasi putih before collapsing exhausted. They would curl up in the passenger seat, breathing the foul diesel fumes as they slept. Undernourished and prematurely aged, these men would be lucky to live longer than thirty-five years. When they departed, a hundred others would scramble for the opportunity to pump their legs, strain their hearts and finally die, maybe even to die harnessed to their iron monsters, as had so many before them.
Competition was fierce. The city boasted one hundred thousand of these car-scraping, traffic-congesting, back-to-front pedicabs. He would take a ride in one of these becak at the weekend, Stephen Coleman decided. Until then, the Embassy had provided him with a light blue air-conditioned Holden, complete with driver.
Driving! Coleman shuddered at the thought. Part of his briefing had been an information sheet describing action to be taken in the event of an incident when driving oneself. The instructions were basic. In the event of involvement in an accident, regardless of the condition of any third parties, the foreign driver was to return immediately to the embassy grounds and report directly to the Consul. To stop and render assistance could result in the driver’s immediate departure to a more heavenly highway at the hands of the violent crowds which, within moments, inevitably appeared at the scene of any altercation in the Far East.
Facing