left. In the months that followed they had not communicated. Both had been too preoccupied with the demands placed on their lives during that time.
Coleman’s fond memories of Albert were abruptly interrupted as he identified the CD-18 number plates on the Holden. The driver ran around the vehicle and opened the door before he could do so for himself.
“Selamat pagi, tuan,” Achmad, the smiling Sundanese driver greeted him.
“Selamat pagi, Mas,” responded the Australian, much to the surprise of Achmad.
“Tuan bisa mengerti Bahasa Indonesia?” Achmad inquired, amazed at Coleman’s grasp of the language.
“Bisa saja,” Coleman replied.
The driver sat quietly concentrating on his driving. He was pleased that he had been sent to meet the new tuan . None of the other drivers would believe this when he told them. A new tuan who could already speak their language! Surely he must have lived here before. Ah, decided Achmad, then of course he could be Dutch and just pretending to be Australian. Achmad decided to scrutinize the newcomer to look for visible signs of his being Dutch.
Not that Achmad would know for he had never seen one of the former colonists. He was born during the Japanese occupation and the Dutch never returned to his province after the war. Those who had stayed on after independence left when Soekarno annexed West Irian in the early sixties.
Coleman could see that Achmad was not concentrating on his driving as well as he should. Instead, his small brown eyes darted continuously to and from the rear vision mirror observing the tuan . What for, Coleman could not fathom. They continued in silence for the short drive to Cikini where the Embassy building stood, set back from the railway some seventy-five metres. Coleman’s heart sank.
The building was the obvious remnants of some colonial family mansion built in the latter part of the last century. To some it would have antique charm. To others, who knew that the ageing exterior often indicated a complete state of interior ruin, such dwellings were best demolished.
Alex Crockwell, the embassy officer who had been delegated the task of meeting him at the Kemayoran airport the previous evening had not discussed working conditions in the Embassy nor had he mentioned the poor state of the premises. Coleman assumed that it was not an oversight as the man most probably considered the dilapidated building’s appearance romantic.
He was not unhappy that Crockwell would leave as soon as their hand-over was completed. Stephen disliked the petty, almost officious character, as he had seen many like him during his stay in the capital. He knew that there were many small-minded bureaucrats whose relatively unimportant positions provided the breeding ground for their moody dispositions and deep-rooted animosity for those who had real power.
Achmad the driver left the engine running as he raced around to open the tuan’s door. Stephen adjusted his suit and started up the steps admiring the magnificent beringin tree to the right. The highly polished brass plate affixed to the small roman column on the right announced that they were entering the Australian Embassy. Coleman thanked his driver and entered the foyer, surprised at the apparent lack of security. He was relieved to observe that the structure had been air-conditioned with large banks of window units, each humming its way through a surprising range of mechanical noises, as the power fluctuated through lows and peaks that would have destroyed lesser machines.
“Ah, there you are old chap.” a voice boomed from the other end of the reception area causing Stephen to turn quickly, immediately wishing he hadn’t. The sharp stabbing pain near his temples returned with a vengeance. “Welcome, welcome,” the rotund figure continued, extending both hands as he waddled towards the newcomer. Coleman thought the man looked like some giant duck.
“Have a good trip, did we? Are they looking after you at the Ha Ee ?”
Stephen was to learn later that this sound like a banshee wail was the abbreviated form for the Hotel Indonesia and that not knowing so identified one immediately as new blood in town.
“My name is Geoffrey Dickson, Dicky to my friends, and I am the Consul in this fine establishment. You, of course, must be Stephen Coleman!”
Stephen smiled and immediately relaxed at the warmth of the man.
“Yes, and thank you Mr Dickson, Stephen Coleman is correct,” he said extending his hand to those of the Consul.
“Dicky, man, Dicky,” he intoned, taking Stephen’s right hand between both of his, pumping ceremoniously and beaming sincerely.
“I will take you around this fine establishment and introduce you to its erstwhile tenants,” the jovial Consul announced, sounding more and more like Robert Moreley.
“That’s very kind of you, er, Dicky,” Stephen responded, his left arm now under the control of the surprisingly strong grip of his escort.
“No need to worry about registration and all of that nonsense right now, old chap, you will have ample time to complete the formalities tomorrow. Come along now,” he ordered, almost lifting the taller man off the ground with a sudden spurt of speed Stephen would not believed him capable of making.
“This is Bobby; he is the Assistant Consul. Totally superfluous in my opinion but the Post staffing requirements demand that his position be filled even though he has less than nothing to do,” he said, his twinkling eyes and trace of a smile showing that he was not serious. “Bobby, say hello to our newest addition, Stephen Coleman.”
The junior stood with an outstretched hand while removing his glasses for the introduction.
“Robert, Robert Thornton. Welcome to Dicky’s Den,” he said. The emphasis on the Consul’s name indicated that this part of the complex really did belong to the fat career civil servant.
“Thanks, Robert, look forward to having a chat with you later. Maybe you can help me unscramble some of my advances and docs. Okay?”
“That’s what we’re here for, mate, that’s what we’re here for. Come back when you’re settled and we’ll have a look at what you’ve got,” with which Bobby sat down again and resumed his examination of the long list of financials in front of him.
They continued on through a lengthy corridor, down the centre of which was a length of thick wine red carpet, held in place by highly polished brass strips.
“You must close your eyes now, my dear,” Dicky joked, as he extracted a large ring of keys from his back pocket attached to which was a chain tied carefully to his belt.
The door was unlocked, and again Stephen was speedily lifted off his feet by the Consul as he ushered his new man inside, Dicky ceremoniously re-locked the doors with a double turn of the strange looking keys. Stephen was surprised, as all that was visible was another corridor. He had expected something quite different, not sure exactly what, but certainly not just corridors! Dicky increased his pace and Stephen was a little troubled by Dicky’s vice-like grip, which had remained on his arm since they were outside in the foyer.
“Won’t be long now,” he said, and suddenly propped before pushing at the wall between photographs of Her Royal Highness and Sir Robert Menzies.
Stephen was mystified. Why was there no handle on this door that had been made to appear to be part of the wall? He didn’t ask. They entered another corridor, and now Stephen began to feel as if Dicky was playing some practical joke on him, a common trick back home when someone commenced their first day in a new job. Dicky sensed the younger man’s resistance to continue and moved his grip further up Stephen’s arm closer to his shoulder, without reducing his incredible speed.
“Ah, here we are,” he announced, coming to the end of the corridor and opening yet another door with one of his countless number of keys. He pushed the door ajar, gestured with his left hand and, with a slight mocking bow, indicated that the newcomer should enter. Stephen did so, amused by his escort’s antics.
They had entered the second level