Pelangi Haven Page 3

  somewhat longer basis, or just for today?'

  'I think she'd like the job. She's the daughter of my cook and she's not

  working right now.'

  She washed as best she could, but her appearance didn't please her as

  she looked in the mirror, not that it had pleased her lately at all. She

  shrugged, put her comb back in her bag and hung up the towel.

  Lunch consisted of fried fish, rice and stir-fried vegetables, all

  delicious.

  'Who rents the houses from you?' she asked. 'I don't remember

  anybody even being interested in Pelangi. No electricity, no running

  water and nothing to do, you know. No fancy restaurants or

  nightclubs or swimming pools or bars. B-o-o-o-ring.'

  'People who want peace and quiet. Mostly friends of mine or friends

  of friends. Some others—the odd writer, honeymooners, some old-

  colonial types, who don't like what's happening to the East. Usually

  not your run-of-the-mill tourist.' He gave another one of his cheerless

  crooked grins. 'I've had one character Interpol was looking for.'

  Linden's fork stopped midway to her mouth. 'Did you know that?'

  'No. He did not offer that information, but they came looking for him

  here a few days after he'd left. He'd told me he was on his way to

  Hong Kong, but that was probably not true.'

  'Do you know why they wanted him?'

  He shook his head. 'They didn't tell me. I didn't care particularly.'

  'What was he like? I mean, did he look dangerous?' Oh, my, she

  thought, I sound like a curious kid.

  'He looked perfectly harmless. He made me think of my father,

  actually.'

  Linden grinned. 'Oh, dear, your poor father. How is he, by the way?'

  'Fine. Remarried last year.' He took a drink from his water and there

  was a sudden, surprising spark of humour in his eyes. 'The lady

  breeds borzois— Russian wolfhounds.'

  She liked the way his eyes lit up. 'I like people with strange hobbies.

  I have a friend who's into fungus— fungi. You have any hobbies?'

  'Nothing strange.'

  She put her fork down and frowned in concentration. 'Let me think.

  You collect stamps? You do needlepoint? You grow orchids?'

  'You're getting close. 'I'm an amateur botanist.'

  'Really? Tell me about it. You go tromping around the island and

  look at plaints and trees and that sort of thing?'

  He nodded. 'Nothing serious. What about you?'

  Linden sighed. 'No real hobbies, I guess. I just paint and paint. But I

  like hiking in the mountains, camping out...' She stopped abruptly

  and her fingers clenched around her fork until her knuckles were

  white.

  Waite was the one who had introduced her to the joys of the outdoor

  life. With Waite she'd spent long weekends wandering through the

  hills, fishing for dinner in mountain lakes, cooking out on open fires,

  swimming in clean, cold babbling brooks. All the laughter and loving

  and happiness they'd shared. Over, gone, dead.

  Tears came into her eyes, ran down her cheeks. Damn, she thought.

  Oh damn, damn! She got up. 'Excuse me.' She went out on to the

  verandah and leaned her elbows on the railing and pressed her fists

  against her eyes. Stop it! she admonished herself fiercely. Stop it!

  Stop it!

  CHAPTER TWO

  THERE was the sound of steps behind her, then movement on her

  right. He was standing next to her.

  'Sometimes,' he said slowly, 'it would be better if we could get rid of

  the memories along with the lover.'

  The pressure on her eyeballs was creating wild kaleidoscopic designs

  in her brain. She removed her fists and for a moment looked blindly

  out over the sea, seeing nothing but shimmering darkness. Then her

  vision returned and she drew in a deep, breath.

  'I'm sorry,' she said. 'I'm not usually so emotional.'

  'Don't apologise. Shall we go in and have a cup of coffee?'

  She shook her head. 'No thanks. I'd like to get back to the house and

  see how Nazirah is doing and then I think I'll go for a swim.' She kept

  her voice carefully calm.

  'Be sure you don't burn,' he said. 'It's hot out there.'

  'I know. Thank you very much for lunch.'

  Nazirah had swept out the bedroom, made the bed and carried a

  bucket of water up to the bathroom. Linden dug out her swimsuit

  from her bag and changed. She found a towel and suntan lotion and

  headed for the beach. A large spreading rain tree stood at the edge of

  the beach and she dropped her things off in the shade of it and ran to

  the water. The sand burned her feet. The water glared and sparkled

  with the sun's reflection.

  There was no one else out. It was too hot. She really would have to

  be careful. It was October and she hadn't been out in the hot sun for

  six weeks or so. The ocean was placid and the water warm. Floating

  on her back she squinted up at the blue sky. There were clouds

  coming in over the ocean. It was the rainy season and there might be

  a good rain later today or tonight.

  She closed her eyes and thought of what Justin had said. Sometimes it

  would be better if we could get rid of the memories along with the

  lover. Would it not be a waste to forget all the good times? No matter

  how much it hurt now, she had loved Waite and he had been part of

  her life. It could not be amputated like a leg.

  She tried to make her mind a blank. She should learn yoga or

  meditation. Relax the body, relax the mind. The soft movement of the

  water was having a soothing effect. She began to feel the tension

  drain out of her slowly as she drifted along on the water, using only a

  minimum of leg movement to stay afloat.

  After a few minutes she left the water and sat in the shade under the

  rain tree and squeezed the water out of her hair, then shook it loose

  and back over her shoulders. To the right an outcrop of large

  boulders jutted into the sea. The rocks, worn smooth and round by

  the waves, looked grey and black. She had climbed those rocks as a

  girl, feeling the rough encrusted surfaces under her bare feet.

  Barnacles and shells clinging to the rock had all the colours of the

  rainbow when you looked closely. Once she'd tried to paint those

  miniscule colour clusters and had failed.

  Turning away from the ocean, she examined the other little houses

  set back in the coconut grove. Everything looked quiet and peaceful.

  No one was around. Sensible people had a siesta at this time of the

  day. What was the saying again? Only mad dogs and Englishmen go

  out in the noonday sun. And broken-hearted American redheads,

  apparently.

  Justin's house was closest to the beach, set apart a little from the

  others, with large bushes of crimson hibiscus growing on the left

  side. Bunga raya was the Malay name for hibiscus. Amazing what

  useless information the brain decided to store in its memory, while

  other, important matters were lost forever.

  There was movement in the shade of the overhang above the steps to

  Justin's house. He came leaping down the stairs and marched down

  the path with long, easy strides. He was an attractive man, lean in hip


  and wide in shoulder. The still boyish looks of ten years ago had

  matured nicely, she thought. Three years he'd been here. A lonely

  life, she imagined. Of course, it was was enough to go to Penang now

  and then and enjoy the pleasures of more developed resort island. But

  Justin didn't seem the jet-set swinger type.

  Justin didn't see her until he was close to the rain tree. He stopped,

  resting his hands easily on his hips.

  'Had a swim already?'

  'Just a short one. Didn't want to burn to a crisp my first day here.'

  And burning she did easily with her fair skin, although she could

  usually manage to get a light tan if she was careful and kept applying

  the lotion.

  He frowned suddenly, came a step closer and peered at her thigh.

  'What is that on your leg?'

  She swallowed. 'A bruise.'

  'It's a beaut. What did you do?' He lowered himself next to her in the

  shade.

  'I fell against a coffee table.' Her voice sounded odd and she noticed

  the sharp look he gave her. Always those watchful eyes that seemed

  to see everything, probing.

  'How did you fall?'

  I tripped over a rug, a shoe. It was dark. I couldn't see well. She

  looked away. 'Somebody hit me and I lost my balance.'

  There was a moment of heavy silence.

  'Somebody hit you,' he repeated softly. 'May I guess who?'

  Linden shrugged, still not looking at him.

  'Did he hurt you?'

  'Just a swollen lip. It didn't last long.'

  'Was that the first time?'

  She looked at him then, seeing the frowning forehead and the

  disturbed look in the dark eyes. 'You'd better believe it!' she said with

  soft vehemence in her voice. And the anger was back, curling hot in

  her stomach. 'Once is too often! I wasn't going to sit around and wait

  for a repeat!'

  'So that's why you're here.' He was playing with a piece of white

  coral, forearms leaning on his raised knees, still observing her.

  'I couldn't stay. He was the head of the Art Department in my college

  and I saw him every day. I knew I could not cope with that.'

  'Why did he hit you?' He looked away, staring out over the ocean as

  he asked the question.

  'He just lost control. He had a foul temper. There's something wrong

  with him. He had terrible black moods and it was getting worse and

  worse. In the end he hit me. That's where I got off the boat.' She was

  amazed at how calmly she spoke, but when she looked down on her

  hands she noticed they were tightly clasped together and the knuckles

  were white.

  He did not reply and they were both silent.

  After a while she- came to her feet, shook the sand out of the towel

  and wrapped it around herself. 'I'll have to get a sarong,' she said

  lightly. 'As a matter of fact, I'd better make a list and do some more

  shopping. Are the shops open again around five?'

  'Yes.' He leaped to his feet too. 'Let me know if you need help with

  anything.'

  'Thanks.'

  For a moment his eyes held hers. 'You've grown up,' he said quietly.

  'Ten years will do that to a girl.' There was faint bitterness in her

  voice. Ten years and a man like Waite, she added silently.

  As she walked back to the house she wondered how much he

  remembered of those two days he'd spent on the island those many

  years ago. And for what reasons he had come back here, of all places.

  Nazirah was in the kitchen washing plates and cups and glasses and

  pots and pans when Linden came back. She went into the bathroom,

  washed off sand and sea water and shampooed her hair. It would take

  a while to dry without a hair dryer, but no matter. She had all the

  time in the world here. All the time she wanted for painting and

  reading. At home she never had time enough. Everything she wanted

  was here: time and peace and quiet. Simple surroundings. Good food.

  Sun and sand and sea and whispering palms. Solitude.

  It's what she needed now—solitude. To forget and let the pain fade

  and the wounds heal. She sat on the verandah in a creaky rattan chair

  and brushed her wet hair. Drops of water dripped on her bare legs.

  Birds twittered in the trees, the only sound in the heavy, torpid heat

  of midday. Nothing moved, and the stillness almost seemed unreal.

  One of the palms close by had a heavy load of ripe green coconuts

  hanging in a cluster from its centre. They'd have to be cut down soon.

  She was thirsty. In the kitchen she found a drink of water. It was cool

  and clean and came from the hand- dug well behind the house. She

  examined the refrigerator. It seemed in fine condition, but she

  wondered if it would still work, after three years. Maybe she should

  check with Justin.

  The heat made her feel languid and drowsy. She lay down on the bed

  and for a while she slept.

  At five she went into the village, bought tea and coffee, bread,

  mosquito coils, a green sarong, and a pineapple. Going from small

  shop to small shop, she examined the merchandise—aluminium

  cookware, balloons, comics in Malay, plastic buckets and crates of

  Coca Cola. A bald-headed westerner walked slowly down the street

  ahead of her. He had a pot belly and a limp. He wore shorts and a

  shirt and thongs. He was probably one of Justin's renters. A writer?

  An old colonial? A member of the Mafia? It would be interesting to

  find out, interesting to know why people came to this little island.

  The three-legged yellow cart at the end of the shopping street seemed

  familiar. The face of the Chinese owner was familiar too when

  Linden came closer. Mak Long Teh, wearing baggy pants and a loose

  blouse. Still there selling her bowls of noodles and vegetables and

  shrimp, fried quickly in a wok over a kerosene burner. Linden,

  stopped at the cart and smiled.

  'Mak Long Teh! Apa khabar? How are you?'

  The woman looked at Linden in surprise, then her eyes lit up and her

  face broke into a smile. Whoever thought the Chinese looked

  inscrutable had never been to Malaysia, Linden thought as she shook

  Mak Long Teh's hand.

  'You have come back!' the woman said.

  'I got hungry for your mee goreng.'

  Mak Long Teh laughed her deep gurgling laugh. 'Is there no mee

  goreng in America?'

  'Not like yours, Mak Long Teh.'

  Mak Long Teh's eyes shone. 'Would you like some now?' Swiftly she

  began to cook the food, adding more shrimp than she would normally

  have, Linden noticed. As Linden ate, standing next to the cart with

  the bowl in her hand, Mak Long Teh told her about her family, about

  her daughter who had married and had recently had her first baby,

  and about her son who'd gone to Penang and worked as a waiter in

  the Casuarina Hotel restaurant.

  It was dark when Linden walked back home, carrying her purchases

  in plastic bags. Crickets chirped in the grass. A cool breeze blew in

  from the ocean and the sound of waves washing ashore sounded

  peaceful in the dark.

  Nazirah had gone home. Linden lit the two kerosene lamps and

  brewed a cup of coffee. She sat down outside on the vera
ndah, a

  mosquito coil beside her chair, and watched the darkened sea.

  She sat there for a long time, feeling the loneliness seep through her,

  seeing Waite's face, hearing his voice, wishing he was with her to

  enjoy the peace of this place, to hold her in his arms and love her.

  Don't think about Waite, she said to herself. Don't think about Waite.

  It rained during the night and the sound of it awoke her. Wind blew

  hard through the palm trees and one of the shutters in the house was

  banging in the wind. With her sarong around her she went in search

  of it and closed it. She left the shutters open in her room and the air

  grew cool, almost chilly. The windows were mosquito-screened, had

  shutters, but no glass. Lying on the lumpy kapok mattress, she drew

  the sheet close around her and looked at the angry sky. It's like

  camping, she thought, lying in a tent so close to wind and rain, yet

  staying dry. Camping. Don't think about camping.

  She forced her mind to concentrate on other things. The wind calmed

  down and the rain changed to a slow, steady drip that softly rustled

  the leaves and lulled her to sleep.

  Several weeks went by. It rained a lot and the weather was cool. Her

  house was organised. The fridge was humming contentedly. She was

  getting used to living without electricity and running water. At night

  she went to bed early. No television to keep her a long awake. She

  woke up early every morning and went for walk along the beach or

  for a swim in the ocean. Then she'd have coffee and some breakfast

  and went into the village to buy her supply of food for the day. The

  vegetables in the pasar were freshly picked and beautiful. Nazirah

  cooked her a hot lunch and went home afterwards. Linden liked

  having the place to herself and she fixed her own dinner or went into

  the village to eat.

  Every morning, after she returned from the market, she painted. A

  village carpenter had made her an easel and a stool, and she'd brought

  a supply of paints and canvas with her. The light inside the house was

  not very good, and often she worked outside in the yard, or on the

  verandah, with pots of paint, brushes, rags and turpentine next to her

  on a small table.

  Her life took on a different rhythm, but the dull ache of loss stayed

  with her, haunting her all through her days and nights. She missed