The Scottish Banker of Surabaya - By Ian Hamilton Page 0,55
quite taken with ports and thought she had seen just about every type, but Kalimas Harbour was spectacularly original. It was filled with pinisis — two-masted wooden sailing ships — and praus — double-hulled ships — their big, colourful sails rippling in the light breeze. These weren’t museum pieces; they were real, working ships that filled every berth and lined up three-deep waiting to load or unload an eclectic array of goods.
“This is wonderful,” Ava said as they drove past one with Kia sedans on its deck, another with boxes marked HEWLETT PACKARD, and yet more, holding cages stuffed with chickens, live cows, bags of cement, bags of rice.
Fay turned down a side street, drove the car halfway onto the sidewalk, and turned off the engine. They were directly in front of a restaurant that opened onto the street. “We’d better move fast if we want to get a table,” she said, leaping from the car.
They sat no more than a yard from the sidewalk, just inside the shade. “John said we’re going to X.O Suki tonight, so I thought it might be different for you to eat something local.”
“I’m easy,” said Ava.
“You want a beer?”
“White wine?”
“They won’t have it.”
“Then just a sparkling water.”
“Bintang, the local beer, is good.”
“No, thanks. Beer gives me headaches.”
“How about food — any allergies or anything?”
“Order what you want.”
Fay spoke in Indonesian to the waiter, then turned to Ava when he left. “John told me you’re an accountant.”
“I am,” Ava said, and repeated the story about the Hong Kong client.
“He’s a bit confused as to why you want to meet with Bank Linno. They’re not exactly first-class, you know.”
“My client gave me the name and asked me to check up on them. It isn’t my choice.”
Their drinks arrived in bottles with two frosted empty glasses and a plate of lime wedges. “John says you’re a friend of a friend.”
“That’s true — Johnny Yan.”
“He lives in Toronto, right?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re in Hong Kong?”
Ava saw that Fay was trying to connect the dots. She was bright, this one, and more alert than her husband. “I live in Toronto, but I have a client base that’s mainly Asian and I’m affiliated with a company in Hong Kong, so I travel there quite often.”
“I see.”
The waiter brought a plate of plain white long-grain rice piled high in the shape of a cone. “We can spice that up with the sauces that come with our meal,” Fay said. “I ordered fried fish, sardines with a tomato sambal, and shrimp in a hot coconut sauce.”
“Sambal means ‘sauce,’ doesn’t it?”
“Yeah, basically it does. And nearly all our sauces have some amount of coconut milk in them.”
“I’m not up to speed on Indonesian cooking.”
“Why would you be?”
“Exactly.”
The dishes came together, and talk ended as Fay spooned rice onto both of their plates, then placed the tiny whole, cleaned sardines right in the middle and coated them with tomato sambal.
Fay ate the way Ava did, quickly and efficiently, as if afraid to let the food get cold or the flavours dissipate. Halfway through the meal they finished their drinks and ordered another round.
When they were done, Ava sighed. “Those were brilliant choices.”
“Did you like your food?”
“Loved it.”
“How do you keep so thin?”
“Exercise and genes.”
“I’m just genes.” The sun had crept sideways and was now starting to encroach on their table. “Time to leave,” Fay said.
They hadn’t driven far before the streets began to narrow. Fay parked the car on the sidewalk again. “We’ll have to walk from here.”
“You’re not afraid of getting a ticket or being towed?”
Fay looked at her as if she had made a joke. “No, that won’t be a problem,” she said, opening her glove compartment. She pulled out a plastic sign and placed it on the dash. “That says, Don’t dare give this car a ticket.” And then she took out two scarves. “Let’s walk.”
Whatever breeze there was in the narrow street was blowing in their direction, and Ava began to pick up faint aromas. She looked around and couldn’t see their origin. Then Fay took a hard right and they were on a street lined on either side with shops and stalls. “The Arab quarter,” she said.
Fay led Ava through the warren, past shops selling fruit, pistachios, dates, sultanas, rugs, prayer beads, an array of spices, roast lamb, skewered chicken sizzling on hotplates, jewellery. Ava wanted to loiter, maybe shop a little. Fay kept walking. After two more turns they entered a narrow alley and the sky disappeared. The passageway