The Situation in Selangor – a longish short story

The Situation in Selangor
A Short Story by
Tony Killinger

“Tell me something, Janet,” I said in my most alluring voice, “have you ever entertained the thought of sleeping with me?” There was a definite pause, one pregnant with all sorts of possible outcomes. Without a doubt I had caught her by surprise; for the first time since I’d met her, six months prior to that, she was at a loss for words.

Janet was listed on the official roster of foreign journalists presently in Malaysia as R. J. Worthington, London Times, London, England, society and culture. For some unspecified reason I was never able to completely buy into that ‘society and culture’ thing. She was the epitome of a nose in the dirt, shoulder to the wheel, hold the presses kind of reporter. Then again, she might have been MI-5 or 6, one of those British intelligence types that usually managed to confuse me with their numbering system. She knew all the right people, there was no doubt of that, and I’d see her banging away on an old Smith-Corona typewriter Sunday mornings after having attended some fancy reception or ball the previous evening.

She looked the part that was sure. She was about 5’ 2”, I doubt she weighed 100 pounds, soaking wet, not beautiful but about the cutest thing you ever laid eyes on. She flitted around like a butterfly in the hot afternoon sun of Kuala Lumpur but just about every evening, around 6PM she would settle into one of those big bucket chairs at the Coliseum club and restaurant. The Brits and the Malays pronounced it Co-lees-see-um; but it was where a lot of the foreign correspondents gathered to guzzle gin and tonics for an hour or so before dinner, and then, like lemmings to the sea, they would rise as a group, go into the white haze of sizzling steaks and chops and devour great chunks of T-Bones or inch and a half thick pork chops.

I was living in a two star Chinese hotel called the Fortuna and so was Janet. We often had coffee together in the morning. We would exchange niceties, discuss our various schedules and usually somewhere about 9:15 she would throw a canvas bag over her shoulder, walk to the curb on Selangor Boulevard and Tong, the hotel’s curb boy would whistle her up a black and yellow taxi and she would disappear into the busy morning’s traffic.

I had come from a job with the Dallas Morning Star, where I caught a lucky break and managed to dig up a story on graft and corruption in the city’s garbage collection system that put me in the running for a Pulitzer. I didn’t get it, naturally, but it attracted the attention of an old time world press type named Oscar Fleming. Oscar worked for the highly respected and quite well funded United Press International. He called me on a Friday afternoon, offered me a job with UPI and it sounded just exotic enough to trap me. By the following Friday I had received all my press credentials, passports, visas and a couple of grand advance expenses and booked a flight three fifths around the world to Malaysia. Oscar said to hang around, get my bearings and see what was happening there.

All the big names were in Vietnam, of course. This was 1968 and the U.S. forces recently found out they had a tiger by the tail in that Southeast Asia country. I wanted to be there in the thick of it. Malaysia wasn’t even on the world’s radar screen. There were rumblings of impending race upheaval, but no one paid much attention to it. The country was booming; fat with cash and new ideas, but there was this constant undercurrent of tension that permeated the entire peninsula.

The guy I replaced left me a notebook with about fifty names and telephone numbers that I called on a regular basis. They were mostly Government agencies and they fed me the same crap they put in the official press releases, but I could usually put together a few hundred words of copy every week, telegraph it in and as far as I knew, it was going out to the subscribers. I hadn’t heard a word from Oscar since I got there and figured that was a good thing.

“Honestly, Donald,” Janet scoffed, “you really need to work on your tact. It might work in investigative journalism, but a woman would prefer to be wooed a tiny bit, perhaps even complimented and romanticized before being bowled over with a question like that.”

I chucked. “It wasn’t an offer,” I objected, “I was only trying to get some idea of how a society and culture correspondent organized things in her mind. You can’t be all about chiffon gowns and lavish dinner settings.”

Janet looked at me as though she was trying to formulate an elaborate come back, but then she sighed and her shoulders sagged just the tiniest bit. “Your room,” she said quietly, “tonight, after nine. It most certainly was an offer and now I’ve accepted, so you can spend the rest of the day wondering how you are going to deal with it.”

I was elated, and I’m sure it showed, but I tried not to be too outwardly triumphant. “Perhaps it would be best to just let things develop on their own,” I smiled. “Incense and candles?” I wondered aloud.

She laughed. “Can I make an observation, Mister Mitchell?”

“Sure,” I replied.

“This has nothing to do with our intended tryst, but I’m wondering if you have expanded the list of contacts your predecessor left you?”

“No,” I admitted. “I’d much rather be in Vietnam covering the war, so what does or does not happen here isn’t at the top of my list.”

She took out a leather notebook from her canvas bag and tore out a sheet of paper. “I’m going to write the name and number of a particularly good friend of mine on here, but I want you to do a little preliminary footwork, find out who he is and where he’s at in the hierarchy of things and then give him a call. Tell him I referred you.

“And I need this person for what reason?” I wondered.

“Because you’ve got it all wrong at this point,” she answered. “Vietnam is the shooting war that has the world’s attention, at the moment, but the real future of Southeast Asia is being decided right here, and the final verdict isn’t far off. Broaden your prospective a little; this is much bigger than some Texas alderman lining his pockets with the leftovers from a city contract.” She gulped down the last of her coffee, threw the bag over her shoulder and started towards the door. “Looking forward to tonight,” she giggled.

Yang Su Deng, the name on Janet’s note, was a very wealthy Chinese merchant known far and wide as “Mister Yang”. Gathering data on him was like opening a plastic bag into the current of a swift running stream. Everybody and then some had an opinion of Mister Yang. He was very active in the Chinese opposition to the Malay government, contributed extensively to the campaign coffers of just about any candidate who favored a lessening of the absolute control exercised by the Malays over financial dealings in the country and solidly supported labor unions. In a right leaning country, Yang represented the leftmost anchor point.

It was about five o’clock in the evening when I felt I had enough preliminary information to meet with Mister Yang for a one on one interview, so I called the number on the note. A secretary and I exchanged banter about who I was, what I’d like to talk to Mr. Yang about and an estimation of how long I thought it might take. I told her I thought an hour would suffice, but I really couldn’t tell until we got into it. She penciled me in for the next morning at eleven and suggested that perhaps Mister Yang and I could do our interview over a light lunch. I said that would be just peachy.

I had dinner alone that night. I was thinking about what Janet had said, that I needed to broaden my prospective. In spite of the constitutional advantage offered to the Malays, Malaysia appeared, for all practical purposes, to be Chinese. The restaurant where I had dinner was just a microcosm of the whole country. The waiters, the cooks, the bus boys and the doorman were all Chinese; the manager, who stood towards the back of the cashier’s booth, was Malay. I ate a lovely pepper steak and rice dinner, followed by a tepid cup of green tea and Chinese cookies. It could just as easily have been in Beijing or San Francisco.

As you might imagine, I was a tiny bit nervous when I returned to the Fortuna. I wondered if Janet was in her room or if she’d come galloping in after the appointed hour with some wonderfully far out excuse and a thin apology accompanied by a suggestion that we make it some other time. It was not to be. At 9:05 there was a soft little rap on the door.

I’m not going to be your typical kiss and tell type, but let it suffice that things went swimmingly well from my prospective. The diminutive little lady was nearly as animated in her carnal knowledge as she was in her everyday world. But, and this only highlights how extraordinary an individual she was, she left me in a state of utter confusion. I had emptied my pockets and thrown some money on top of the dresser. Before Janet left my room she deftly removed a 20 dollar bill from the scattered cash and stuffed it down the front of her pullover. “Just so you don’t think I’ve given anything away for free,” she said, smiling. She winked and walked out the door.

Janet did not show up for coffee the next morning and that disappointed me. I wanted to tell her all the facts I’d learned about her Mister Yang. Maybe I thought she would be impressed; I really don’t know what my thoughts were.

I was left with a little time and it was a scrumptious morning so I decided to walk around town a little. If the internals of Malaysia were Chinese, as I had explained, the externals were a wondrous mix of so many cultures you would be hard pressed to describe it. There were McDonald’s hamburgers and Indian spice shops pressed up against each other directly facing Chinese gold shops and a Muslim garment store. Everything moved at an explosive rate accompanied by an almost constant honking of horns and the screaming symphony of motorcycle engines. When the traffic light turned red the cars, busses and taxis stopped, but the motorcycles would filter through the halted vehicles and form a glob in every conceivable space at the head of the line. When the light turned green again it was something right out of the pages of the Daytona 500; smoke, noise, honking, people shaking their fists, riders speeding on to the next light long before the meaning of those fists could be understood.

To add to the din of the traffic was the ever-present banging and booming of ongoing construction. There seemed to be a crane on every block, building higher or knocking down something lower. Walking on the sidewalk for an entire block was almost impossible. The cranes were fenced off, operating behind walls of split bamboo. That meant you had to leave the relative safety of the curb and step into the thunderous uncertainty of the vehicle versus motorcycle race and all its pulsating danger. During afternoon rains you were guaranteed to be drenched by the spray.

At 10:45 I hailed a taxi and showed the driver the address that had been given to me by the secretary over the phone. He looked at me strangely and shrugged. The route took us through one neighborhood after another, each one a slightly bit more expensive than the one before and eventually into an area where there were no neighborhoods, only stately mansions. Out here, the old British influence took over. Homes were sprawling, open aired, gabled bungalows covering several thousand square feet and surrounded by golf course size lawns and magnificent royal palms. Indian yard boys pushed rusty wheelbarrows through planned garden plots and exquisitely trimmed hedgerows. This was where paradise would have been placed, if it had been given a choice.

I was led into a very large room and seemed to have no outward function. There was a dinning table, an ornate Chinese desk, several sitting groups and a large bookshelf that took up one entire wall. There was no artwork that I could see, but a few of the vases that sat on small tables had an aura to them that spoke of dynasties older than one could possibly imagine. Ceiling fans with huge blades slowly plowed through the mid day air, but the room was open to the outside and not overly warm. You got the impression that it wouldn’t dare be otherwise.

Mister Yang was much younger than I expected him to be, and quite ordinary in his appearance. He was medium built, a bit on the thick side but fit, if you get my meaning. He came out from behind the ornate desk with his hand extended and a broad smile on his face. I was going to like this guy, I felt it immediately.

“Mister Mitchell,” he called in a rather bellowing voice, “welcome to my home, welcome to Malaysia and I hope you are comfortable wherever you are.”

We shook hands, I made some nice remark about how beautiful I thought Malaysia was and what a wonderful home he had. He grabbed my arm and steered me towards a square table that was spread with bowl upon bowl of cut and peeled fruit, a few trays of assorted meats and several large crystal decanters. “Can I pour you a drink?” he asked.

“It’s a bit early for me,” I objected, but my smile was genuine.

“Well it is hours past midday for me, I begin work at 5AM, much cooler and less distraction, you know?” With that he took the glass stopper out of one of those decanters and poured a half tumbler of a fine amber substance, extended the glass to me in a toast and downed about half of it in one gulp.

We sat in unison and I followed Mr. Yang’s lead as he unrolled a fine linen napkin and laid it in his lap. I selected what I assumed to be a pitcher of orange juice and poured it in my glass.

“So,” he began, “you’ve been here for six months, you’ve seen the progress we are making, you talk to members of the Government on a daily basis, tell me what is your opinion?”

Mr. Yang obviously had been as well briefed on me as I had been on him, but it impressed me that he would take the time to find out about a wire-service reporter that could neither help nor hinder him in any way. I was small potatoes in his world.

“I’ll be honest with you, Mr. Yang,” I began, determined to be the tactless journalist people thought I should be, “I don’t understand what all the fuss is about. This place is an economic miracle happening right in front of the world’s eyes. You have no unemployment, everywhere you look there is real progress taking place, this winter weather is the envy of Miami and the ugliest girl from an ugly family is better looking than the average Miss Universe. But,” I paused, “I am here to interview you, not the other way around. What is your opinion?”

Yang laughed at my crude attempt to put him on the defensive. “I was told you might be somewhat abrasive,” he chuckled. “Believe me, Mister Mitchell, it is our own success, both economically and politically that poses the greatest threat and, while that seems contradictory, it is nonetheless true.”

I forked a few small pieces of fruit onto my plate and kept my mouth shut. Having primed the pump, so to speak, it was time to let it flow of its own accord. Yang understood that.

“Everyone calls America the mixing bowl of democracy,” Yang said, philosophically. “Malaysia is the simmering caldron of racism. Malays have a very slim majority over the collection of other cultures; there is a minority Chinese population at roughly 25%, another 10% Indian and the rest is scattered between the European whites, Japanese and various other ethnic groups. But, what we refer to as the ‘bumiputra’ in the constitution, maintain an absolute veto power over all affairs of government and commerce.”

“Yes, I understand that.” The mango was delicious and I almost hated to stop eating it long enough to subtly push the one sided conversation in the direction I needed it to be. “But you do have a representative parliamentary Government, surely these minority groups are not without influence.”

“No, we’re not without influence, but we are nearly devoid of power.” Yang answered. “The upcoming elections in May will probably result in an increase of seats for the minorities, but it will all come in the Selangor areas, where those minorities are heavily clustered.”

I did still not understand his caution. “Do you feel that makes you vulnerable?”

“Yes,” Yang answered forcibly. “The Government has a two contingency plan. If the expanding economic conditions provide labor for the minorities, and they are content with that, making relatively good money, keeping their families fed, etc., then all is well and good. However, if they aren’t content and their discontent spills into the streets, we will all be readily available to the swift and deadly reaction of the police and the armed forces.”

“Mister Yang,” I objected, “I am a reporter, a journalist, and I will honestly report whatever you think the truth is, but surely you can’t believe the Malayan Government is going to start killing Chinese to maintain a power they will probably give up within a few years anyway.”

In the next two hours I listened to Mister Yang restate, time after time, his absolute belief that minorities in the state were in grave danger. Finally he had his car come around for us and we toured several proposed sites where hotels, factories, shopping malls and playgrounds would be built within the very near future. We agreed that there was going to be a lot of people employed doing all that building and I had to concede that it was a great way to keep people content. Steady jobs, steady wages, was a very good way to keep resentment in check.

I was pounding the life out of one of the typewriters in the Fortuna’s business center, an extraordinarily small room off the lobby, usually occupied by one or two lounging hookers, when Janet came in and tapped me on the shoulder. “Honestly Donald,” she laughed, give your girlfriend the rest of the day off.”

I had no idea of what she meant until she gestured at the chair across the room. A young, plump Indian woman with tons of makeup and hoop earrings big enough to stick your hand through was asleep, slack mouthed and snoring audibly. Janet nudged her and said something in Bahasa that made the woman rise up, stretch and smile and leave without saying a word. “Do you know it’s after ten o’clock?” she said, picking up the typed pages I had already finished.

“Lord no,” I said. “I got to working on this piece and lost all sense of time, I guess. I’d like to get it telexed out before morning.”

Janet made no reply, but buried her nose in the copy as she made her way towards the chair the hooker had just vacated. “Wow,” she said, once. Finally she went back to the first page and read the title to me; “The Serpent in Malaysia’s Garden of Eden”. “Do you believe this?” She asked.

“It doesn’t matter if I believe it or not,” I said in resignation. “This is what I’ve been told, some of it verifiable, some not. The people who told it to me believe it, the whole country is walking around on egg shells and I have no option but to report what I see and hear.”

“This will not win you any friends in Putrajaya,” she laughed. Although Kuala Lumpur is the official capital of Malaysia, the seat of Government was housed in the small town of Putrajaya, a few miles to the west near the coast. “But, I must say, you have captured the atmosphere and the beauty of this country in a quite moving feature article. How much do you have left to do?”

“I was just finishing up,” I admitted. “I feel like I’ve been put through the wringer today. I must be hungry; I haven’t eaten since lunch and I sure could use that drink Yang offered me earlier,” I laughed.

“Finish up,” Janet directed. “I’ll take care of the logistics. Meet me on the terrace when you are done.”

I vaguely remember giving the 9 or 10 pages of text to the desk clerk, filling out the telex forms and making my way out to the roof terrace. KL, as we always called her, was finally settling down and the cool night air was deliciously invigorating. It had been two or three months since I had a cigarette, but occasionally I just can’t fight off the urge, and when I saw Janet’s canvas bag and a pack of Marlboro’s on the table I couldn’t resist.

I was about half finished with the cigarette when Janet showed up, an old Chinese cook in tow, along with a huge bowl of wanton soup, a dozen sticks of chicken satay in peanut sauce, a carafe of coffee and a bottle of Canadian whiskey. “Feels good to do your job, right?” she asked.

“Was that a question or a statement?” I ventured. “Anyway, yeah, it does feel okay.”

We ate some of the soup, all of the satay, drank a couple of cups of coffee and about a third of the whiskey and talked for several hours. Finally she grabbed me under the arm and led me towards the lift. Inside she punched the button for my floor and then she kissed me. “You need a shower,” she laughed, “and your teeth brushed and your hair combed and then I’m going to screw your brains out.”

The phone woke me just after 11AM; the traffic noise was thunderous and my window was open. Janet was gone. I mumbled something into the receiver that I hope passed for hello.

“Mitch, this is Oscar. I got your piece. Great stuff my boy. I want you to rent a small office, get a steno, have a couple of phone lines put in and ask around where you can find a good, cheap, photographer.”

“Wait a minute, Oscar,” I slurred, “I need to shut the window.” I did shut the window and then returned to the side of my bed. “I must have misunderstood you; I thought you said to rent an office.”

“I did say to rent an office,” Oscar chuckled. “Nothing elaborate, just a place UPI can call our own, and people can call without going through a desk clerk. I have the feeling you are going to be getting lots of calls when this piece hits the wires.”

Oscar and I talked almost daily after that. He was right; we got lots of calls. With the elections quickly approaching I had no shortage of interviews. I talked to Yang a lot too and occasionally we’d have lunch. I didn’t get many calls from the Government officials; in fact I had a hard time getting through to anybody but clerks and secretaries.

Janet and I saw as much of each other as we could, which never seemed to be enough. It seemed that the elections were a busy time for her too; all the gowns and balls, you know.

Two days before the elections I came into the office and the secretary told me that Miss Worthington had tried to reach me several times. I didn’t think much of it and decided I contact her at the hotel that evening. When I got back that night the clerk handed me an envelope. Inside was a note from Janet and a 20 dollar bill. “I’ve been recalled,” it read. “I’ll be in touch as soon as I can. Be safe, and here’s the twenty back. Save it, you may need it some day.”

The elections went down on the 10th of May, 1969. The Alliance achieved a majority of one by making a deal with an independent candidate. In Selangor the opposition had won parity.

On the 13th of May, under circumstances still unclear, the Chinese had a parade celebrating their victory. Shots were fired, the Malaysian rangers were called in and fighting broke out all over the city. The official Government death count was put at 197, but reliable journalists and independent witnesses put the toll closer to 2,000.

On May 14th Oscar called me and said to fly to New York on the first flight I could get. He never told me why he pulled me so suddenly. A couple of months later I suggested that it might be the right time to send me to Vietnam. Oscar laughed. “When peace comes to Vietnam its going to come through Paris, my boy. That’s where I want you to go. Hang around there and see what’s going on.”

And that is how I happened to be in the lobby of the Regency Hotel in Paris a few months later. The French were hosting an International Trade Conference and the North Vietnamese had sent a delegation. I was hoping I could snag one of them and set up an interview. There were booths and tables set up and various countries and corporations were handing out brochures and key chains, bumper stickers and baseball hats. I thought for a moment I was being pick pocketed, but when I looked a diminutive little lady had linked arms with me. Except that this woman was a brunette, she was a clone for Janet. “You’re Donald Mitchell from UPI, aren’t you?” she smiled.

I had to laugh aloud. “I am,” I admitted. “And you would be?”

“Alicia Wentworth, BOAC,” she said softly.

“Of course you are,” I chuckled. “God, it’s good to see you.”

She looked at me mysteriously. “But we’ve never met before,” she said, still smiling. “By the way,” she was nearly giggling now, “Would you happen to have 20 dollars?”

End