The Fifth Season. Kerry B Collison
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Hamish found himself tapping to the chorus, again, embarrassed when his eyes came into contact with the delightfully attractive woman who had joined them.
‘It’s always been one of my favorites,’ he explained, smiling at Mary Jo, who pounced on the opportunity.
‘What about that interview, then, Mr. McLoughlin?’ and he laughed, the mix of music and the beautiful woman added to alcohol, lifting his spirits.
‘Well, you may have your time cut out for you Jo,’ he explained, with practiced charm, ‘I plan to leave tomorrow.’ Jo pretended to sulk and both men laughed.
‘What about a breakfast interview?’ she suggested. Hamish considered this for a moment before replying.
‘Only if you can make it by six,’ he offered, turning to applaud the pianist as he skipped from one song to another, his audience obviously enjoying the medley as he moved from Billy Joel to Elton John, and across a range of distinctive, popular tunes.
‘Never happen,’ Goldstein interrupted good-naturedly, ‘you’d never get him out of bed.’ There was a sudden, embarrassed silence, then Mary Jo laughed softly.
‘You know what I mean,’ he chuckled, gulping the whisky and ushering the others before him. He raised his hand and scribbled in the air, calling for the check. ‘Come on, let’s get something into our stomachs. I’m as hungry as hell.’ The staff hurried to present the bill, and within minutes they were on their way, Hamish waving towards the preoccupied pianist, as if they were old friends.
They walked casually out into the magnificent foyer, pausing and moving discreetly to one side whenever Goldstein stopped briefly to chat with familiar faces.
‘He’s very popular,’ Mary Jo whispered. She stood alongside Hamish patiently waiting for their friend to rejoin them.
‘Who wouldn’t be? His presence here represents more than forty billion dollars to this economy,’ he replied, almost matter-of-factly. She examined his expressionless face, and decided there was no envy in the response. If anything, he seemed a little drunk.
‘Will he give it to them?’ she asked, with a slight tilt of her head.
Hamish McLoughlin admired the combination diamond and blue sap-phire earring exposed, as her soft, blonde hair drifted away from her cheek with the gesture. For the first time, he became conscious of her perfume as the delicate fragrance of Nina Ricci’s L’Air du Temps touched his senses.
‘I wouldn’t,’ was all he said, his thoughts uncomfortably elsewhere.
‘Do you think….’ she began, but Hamish shook his head, then smiled.
‘Leave it for Harry, Jo,’ he advised, then wishing he had not been so abrupt. They were rejoined by the IMF representative, who continued to smile at everyone they passed as they exited the hotel.
‘Not eating in?’ Hamish asked, surprised, as the hotel’s restaurants were all five star.
‘I doubt we would be left alone,’ Harry replied. ‘Besides, I know just the place if you still enjoy a good combination Indonesian and Chinese. It’s a bit down market, but the food’s okay. What do you say, Jo?’
‘Sounds okay to me. Where are we going?’
‘Down near Chinatown,’ he laughed, winking at the other man in conspiratorial manner. ‘There’s a place I was taken last time I was in town.
Food was great and I’m sure they’ll remember me.’
‘You’ve got to be joking!’ Hamish laughed. ‘Don’t you know we all look alike to the locals?’ Mary Jo remained out of the banter, enjoying their obvious camaraderie.
‘No, they’ll remember me,’ the American assured them, alluding to whatever had taken place during his recent visit. Content to leave it at that, they bundled into a taxi and permitted Goldstein to direct the driver to their downtown destination.
As they drove down Jalan Thamrin the traffic seemed endless. Sky-scrapers lined the boulevard, lights blazing as if staff manned their offices around the clock, and colorful bulbs strung around the upper floors presented an almost carnival atmosphere. Mary Jo remembered arriving not long after Christmas, only to discover that Indonesia’s entire Moslem community totaling more than one hundred and seventy-five million were preparing for the month of Ramadan, the ninth month in the Islamic calendar, during which fasting is undertaken during daylight hours. The Hari Raya Idulfitri celebrations following Ramadan would fall almost simultaneously with Chinese New Year. To Mary Jo, it seemed that the economies of the entire region would grind to a halt when this occurred, as more than one and a half billion people from China through Malaysia, Singapore and Indonesia, closed their businesses to join family and friends for the celebrations.
Their driver followed Jalan Gunung Sahari until reaching Ancol , then right into Martadinata. Ten minutes later, as their vehicle turned and twisted through Tanjung Priok’s narrow back-streets, both Hamish and Mary Jo felt uneasy with their surrounds. The harbor was not even considered a safe place during the day, let alone this far into the evening and, although the nature of her work often resulted in her being placed in dangerous situations, there was just something sinister about harbors which had always made her uncomfortable. She was about to suggest that perhaps they were lost, when Harold Goldstein called out.
‘Here we are,’ he announced, almost proudly, patting the driver on his shoulder. He peeled off a number of bills and passed these to the man.
‘Terima kasih,’ the driver thanked his fare. Mary Jo could not believe that Goldstein was about to send the taxi away, aware it would be impossible to find another when they were ready.
‘I wait here?’ Mary Jo was relieved to hear the driver ask, and was amazed that her co-passengers were even considering the question.
‘Yes, you wait here, terima kasih, ’ she intervened, flashing a handful of Rupiah notes. The taxi driver nodded, beamed at the three foreigners, then killed his engine. He would sleep there outside the restaurant until they returned. The small group climbed out, and to Mary Jo’s dismay, stepped directly into a shallow, muddy puddle, causing her to leap for the broken pavement, barely visible under the dimly lit doorway. She heard both the men curse loudly as they too scrambled to avoid slipping and, reaching safety, examined their shoes to see what it was they had stepped in.
‘Come on,’ Harry encouraged, advancing carefully into the single-story structure. The Cahaya Laut restaurant’s muddy entrance was, to say the least, disconcerting, and in no way reflected the fine cuisine found inside the noisy establishment. As they made their way further into the packed restaurant Mary Jo could not believe her eyes at the spectacle before her.
There were more than two hundred determined diners crammed claus-trophobically into an area suitable for half that number, all attacking the various servings covering their round tables with a gusto reminiscent of scenes she had encountered in the alleys of Shanghai. The three forged ahead through a steady stream of departing guests, stopping near the cashier’s post to wait for a table. Harry called out something but this was lost in the incredible surrounds of overwhelming chatter.
‘Sorry?’ the others called back, leaning closer to hear.
‘I said, it’s great, isn’t it?’ Goldstein shouted proudly, his face beaming with anticipation as he stepped back to permit several waiters to struggle through, carrying dishes of steamed eel and barbecued turtle. A Chinese cook clad in a filthy singlet suddenly appeared, yelled at one of the waiters while brandishing a large kitchen knife threateningly, then retreated to his domain still cursing the intelligence of the other man’s ancestors. The manager appeared and directed two of his staff to clean a table vacated only moments before, as he assisted the three foreigners into their cramped space.
‘My god, it’s bedlam!’ Hamish McLoughlin complained, leaning back to permit another waiter access to their table. Chopsticks and small soup bowls added to the clatter as these were placed noisily on their