The Well

A Borneo story.... "The woman peered into the hole. 'No water down there, Tuan?'"

When Moot arrived from the river with Dan's freshly dried clothing, he put a round, steel plate over the two burners of the American's butane stove, to heat the iron. “The ironing will take me a half hour, Mr. Dan. Then I'll take a look at the rain barrel on the roof?”

Dan, looking up from the copy of The Straits Times he was reading, about the latest in the war in Vietnam, nodded agreement.

Moot Zawawi was the only Malay in Saratok who had any wealth. For this, he was suspected of moral degeneracy by the other Malays, and the fact was that Moot was not a friendly man. He was too direct. He did not bother with the flowery wandering so pervasive in the speech of the other Malays. He appeared—impatiently—to dismiss his neighbors in the village.

Dan had long ago noticed that Moot spoke mainly about profits. He owned thirty acres of rubber trees upriver from Saratok and had the most modern processing equipment of anyone. He also owned several houses in the kampong, and the Chinese merchants came to Moot the Malay instead of other Chinese for building materials, an arrangement unheard of in other towns.

Despite all this—despite even the fact that Moot owned a Land Rover of his own, very old and decrepit but nonetheless the only private one in Saratok—Moot was still referred to around the kampong as the night-soil collector. As it happened, he still was the night-soil collector. He had begun his fortune years before by provident parlays of that one activity into many others.

Moot drove Dan’s Land Rover, did his wash, and shopped for his food. In recent months, Moot had begun providing workers for the access road to Saratok, for which Dan was the senior engineer. On all the other projects Dan had supervised, the workers had not been dependable, and he had to spend hours every day looking for them, complaining to them, and making them re-do work. Few ever showed up on time, and all worked slowly. Dan was patient, perhaps even lax when it came to project discipline. He had learned that orders only caused laziness, and that disgruntlement from him was a source of offended humor for most of the workers. But still it bothered him that work that could be done in the United States in one month usually took five months to do here.

With Moot's workers, it took one month.

But Moot's efficiency was another matter that brought him under suspicion in the kampong. His neighbors felt that a man who suffered so little self-doubt was not to be trusted.

"Shall I iron these, Mr. Dan?" Moot held up a pair of Dan's khaki walking shorts.

"No, just fold them."

The Malay put them aside and rummaged through the pile of garments at his feet. His skin was dark brown and mottled with light splotches left over from childhood chicken pox. His face was like his manner, and a lack of good humor showed in the taut muscles that kept his mouth closed and that directed his eyes almost always straight ahead. His few teeth were dark brown and rested at angles from each other. The gray stubble on his chin, along with a graying at his temples, gave him a look of disapproved-of grizzle. As he ironed, his elbow jutted out and back, so that he reminded Dan of a water pump ceaselessly working on its own.

Dan leaned over the plans on his desk. He had gotten some money from the U.S. consulate in Kuching for a village well he wanted to build for the Malays in Saratok. It was intended as a gift, offered in thanks for the kindnesses his neighbors had shown him during the year he had been living in their village. Despite his presumed Christianity and his flat, nasal accent in their language, the Malays treated Dan with considerable hospitality. Usually, a tuan would be put up in the government guesthouse outside town. That Dan had expressed a preference for the Malay kampong had greatly flattered the Malays, so much so that, the day he moved in, Dan had been feted by the village leaders with flowers and glasses of orange squash.

The town of Saratok was located on the Krian, a tidal river that overflowed its banks several days a month. The Malays washed their clothing in the river and got their drinking water from rain barrels on the roofs of their houses. The river tide was not dangerous to the houses in the kampong, which were up on stilts. But Dan worried about the smell that was left when the tide went out. The water simply was not healthy. Also, the rain barrels remained full only during the rainy seasons. During the dry periods the water eventually became acrid and in some years dried up altogether. No one had ever thought to dig a well in the kampong. To his astonishment a few months earlier, Dan had discovered that none of the Malays knew how to do it.

Sitting at his desk—a broad plank held up by two upended metal trunks—Dan leaned his head on one hand. His fingers were cracked and soiled with the residue of mud from his work on the road. He pulled at his unkempt hair, then scratched the top of one foot where a fly had been landing over and over again for the last few minutes. Dan wore the cheap, plastic sandals that he had decided were best suited to work in the jungle. For one thing, they didn't rot. He found that he could wash his feet conveniently without removing the sandals. Just now, a drop of sweat rolled down his forehead, dribbled onto his hand, then fell onto a sheet of paper. He daubed his forehead with a Kleenex. Looking about, he saw that Moot had stopped ironing.

"When will we start on the well, Mr. Dan?"

"The day after tomorrow."

Moot studied the ironing board a moment. He stepped out from behind it and rested his hand on its end. "I have a problem, Tuan."

The use of the word “tuan” was new for Moot, who usually would have nothing to do with it. He stood before Dan in an attitude of shy quiescence. With his hands folded together, he appeared to be mulling a confession. Dan laid his pencil on the table and waited.

Silence grew between them.

"What problem?"

"I can't get any workers, Mr. Dan. For the well." Moot spoke in a clipped mutter. He gave the information as though it were being forced from him.

"Why not?"

"You're not paying them enough."

"Not enough? Moot, you're the contractor. It's up to you to arrange these things."

"Yes, Mr. Dan. But ten ringgit a day is not enough."

Dan knew that the Malays usually worked for eight ringgit a day, sometimes even seven. But for a project like this he had felt he could be more generous, and he had told Moot to offer ten. "This doesn't sound right, Moot. Is there some other problem?"

"No. The workers are asking for fifteen. I've tried to protect your interests, of course." Moot smiled with bright self-regard. The appearance of such cheerfulness so quickly, with so little preparation, worried Dan. It was uncharacteristic of Moot. But Dan was too involved with finishing his plans to worry about this. Besides, the well would require only three or four days to dig. He turned back to the papers on his desk.

"OK. Offer them thirteen."

Two days later, Dan was up early to begin work. He stepped out onto his porch into the morning mist. One wide path ran the length of the kampong. On either side many of the wooden houses were hidden in the fog. Others could be made out like drawings not yet completed, their windows and roofs giving way to indistinct outlines, then to nothing. Dan descended the steps of his house to the dirt track that led past the mosque, which was itself a simple wooden building like his own. Its water-stained plank siding was warped above the stilts that held it up over the mud. The thatch roof was quite old and almost black with the ravages of monsoon rains. Coconut palms rose up in slim bunches. There were hundreds of them throughout the village. In the mist, the fronds canopied the houses like silken umbrellas.

Dan had planned the well for a site at the far end of the kampong on a rise away from the river. It was an open place, where many people could gather while waiting their turn at the water. Now a group of fifty villagers awaited the American. To keep the hole that would be dug from filling with rainwater, Moot had arranged for a thatch cover. It lay at the foot of a palm several feet from the well site. Dan wore a fresh pair of shorts, one of his newly ironed white shirts, and his San Francisco Giants baseball cap. As he passed through the crowd of villagers, he spoke with several, thanking them for coming.

Dan enjoyed his work for the Interior Ministry. The roads he built meant a great deal to these people, and he felt he was doing something of real value for them. But the well was another matter. Water—fresh, clean water rippling up from the mud—was something of which the Malays simply had too little, despite the months of heavy rain each year.

No one replied to Dan's ambling greetings. Moot awaited him also, standing apart from the others with five Chinese men. One of the Chinese leaned on a new shovel that Dan had obtained for the project. Moot smoked a cigarette and awaited the American's orders. Dan looked back at the villagers, from whom disapproval—downturned mouths, slumped shoulders, and steady, downcast eyes—shone like darkness.

"Moot," Dan whispered. "I thought you had Malay workers."

"No, no Malays here. We want to use good people."

"But that's not what I want. This is a well for the Malays. It's an insult to them to use these Chinese."

Dan turned to look at the workers. The Chinese, realizing something was wrong, talked among themselves.

"I want you to hire Malays, Moot. Apologize to these men, but I want Malays."

"Mr. Dan, they aren't as good."

"Moot. Hire Malays."

When Dan arrived at the well site the next day, Moot awaited him with five Malay workers and a smattering of others from the kampong. Moot stood next to the thatched cover among the tools, smoking another cigarette. Dan greeted him, then took up a shovel and turned toward the workers.

"I want to thank you for coming here this morning." He spoke with aplomb in Malay. "With this well, your families will have fresh water to drink all year long. Your clothing will be fresh. There will be no need to boil your water to make it clean. It's an honor for me to be a part of it." He grinned and extended his arms. Then, leaning over a patch of muddy grass, he pushed the shovel into the earth with a thrust of his foot, and turned the dirt over. "Now," he grunted, "let's go to work."

No one moved. After a moment Moot took up another shovel and held it out before one of the workers. "You, Ismael, take this one. Dig."

Ismael paid no attention to him. Instead, he stared shyly at Dan.

Moot pushed Ismael by the shoulder. "Get to work."

Ismael turned again toward Dan. "Tuan, we're happy to work, but we have to talk first."

Moot pushed him by the shoulder. "No talk. No talk."

Dan put out a hand to restrain him. "What is it, Ismael? What's wrong?"

Ismael was a tall man, almost as tall as Dan himself. He was also very thin, and a sprig of hair jumped from the back of his head like a small geyser. He was the assistant at the mosque and one of the most devout men in the village. When Ismael prayed to Mecca, he wailed.

"Excuse me, Tuan. But we are not being paid enough."

Moot turned his back and retreated toward the thatch cover. He looked out into the woods.

"I think I'm giving you more than a fair amount," Dan said.

Ismael sought out the others. They were too shy to speak and remained at a distance. "We appreciate your gift of the well. But six ringgit a day is not enough. Even though Moot insists on it."

"Six!"

Ismael pointed at the spot where Dan had turned the earth with the shovel. "We don't know how deep we'll have to go. There may be rocks..."

“Six!” Dan turned and walked toward Moot, who moved away from the well site down the path toward the village. Dan caught up with him. "Moot, we agreed you’d pay these people thirteen."

The Malay continued walking.

"Not eight, Moot. Not seven. And not six."

"I'm the contractor, Mr. Dan. I have to be paid, too."

“You are being paid. This, this is robbery. Of them, and of me."

Moot shook his head. By now he was almost running, and Dan let him go. Moot's arms pushed out to the sides as he retreated, like an elderly sprinter's. When Dan walked back toward the other Malays, he saw they were all laughing.

"Ismael, you're the new boss. Dig the hole about a meter and a half deep. A meter across." Dan turned to leave, and then stopped himself. His hands were shaking with nervous anger. "Don't forget to put the cover there over the hole. Very important. I'd like to see you here tomorrow at nine o'clock." He waited a moment. The Malays did nothing except to take on the attitude of embarrassed lingering that Dan had seen moments before. "And you'll be paid thirteen."

With an eruption of talk, the Malays began digging.

A half hour later Moot knocked on the door to Dan's house. Dan stepped out onto his porch, and saw that Moot was very agitated. Dan invited the Malay in, and as soon as the door was closed behind him, Moot began speaking.

"Don't make a fool of me in front of my neighbors, Mr. Dan."

"If you treat them fairly, that won't happen."

Moot paced toward the kitchen, then turned to the front door. He was sweating, and small rivulets of perspiration ran down his cheeks as though his skin were made of lined bark.

"They're fair people, Moot.”"

"Those bastards? Their mothers wouldn't know an honest face, Mr. Dan. They think I'm shit, like the shit I take from their outhouses." Moot blustered silently a moment. His hands flew about. "All my life I've been treated like a servant. All my life."

Dan walked to his desk and leaned back against it. Moot removed the black songkok from his head. He slapped it against one leg, raising a cloud of dust.

"But they don't ask for much, Moot. Just fair pay. All you have to do is treat them fairly."

"Fair pay, eh?" Moot grumbled a moment, wiping a hand across his mouth. "You think that's all they want from me?" He stepped toward the door. "No. You arrange the work, Tuan."

"Moot."

"See how they dig your well without me, the idiots."

"Moot, please."

"Or dig it yourself.” Moot walked out onto the porch and hurried down the steps. His hands hung straight down at his sides. The back of his dark head glimmered beneath his cap. He reached the main path and turned toward his own house, fifty yards away, which was the largest in the kampong. A spindly man, Moot listed to his left, his shoulders at a wavering angle to the ground.

That night it rained heavily. The sun the next morning was hidden by mist and clouds. But it came out within an hour…a hot white ball in the blue sky. Dan stood on his porch and listened to the radios in the kampong. They all played the same program: Radio Sarawak's early morning Malay music show. Through the glistening trees drifted sweet-hearted love songs, mostly duets in which a man and a woman raised their voices over violins and gongs. ”Our love is forever in the lovely rain. God will smile upon it.”

Dan stretched, placed his hands in the pockets of his shorts, and descended the steps. He walked up the path to the well site. When he arrived, he discovered Ismael had forgotten about the thatched cover. A canvas tarp the Malay had used to cover the hole had sunk deep into it beneath the weight of the rainwater. Dan saw only one corner of it curled up and spattered with mud. He pulled the tarp from the hole. A two- foot-high ridge of shiny mud surrounded the well site. The hole itself was filled with water.

Dan stared into the hole for several minutes. He took up a bucket. He attempted a resigned sigh, keeping Ismael's kindliness in mind. But finally, he gave in to the rage he truly felt. “That idiot..."

He dropped to his knees and lowered the bucket into the hole. The water divided and swallowed the bucket up, leaving swirls of light and dark brown on the surface. Dan's knees sank into the ridge of mud, and he could not pull the bucket from the water. He fell forward, just saving himself from tumbling in, and the bucket sank deep to the bottom of the hole. Mud twirled about like smoke on the surface. Finally, Dan eased his legs, then his entire body, into the water, which came up to the middle of his stomach. He found the bucket with his foot.

He bailed for half an hour. With each bucket of water removed, the hole remained just as full. Dan pulled himself from the hole and stood with his hands on his waist, staring with embarrassed malevolence at the water. He removed his shirt and threw it over by the thatched cover. None of the workers had arrived yet, and as Dan stepped back into the hole and continued bailing, he grumbled that this was Moot's fault, all this, that if Moot had been more honest, none of this would have happened.

Mahmet bin Saleh and Ismael walked up the path toward the hole. Mahmet, the imam at the mosque, was an important man in the kampong. The top of his head reached the middle of Ismael's chest, but he moved with such calm authority that Ismael, with all his height, seemed only to be tagging along. Mahmet's black pants flickered in the sunlight. He paused to pick up Dan's shirt. He held it out and examined it, then placed it flat on the thatched cover. "The sun is strong, Tuan. You'll have a dry shirt soon."

Standing in the water, his shoulders stooped with fatigue, Dan thanked him.

"I'm sorry for this problem," Mahmet said.

Dan climbed from the hole and sat down at its edge. The two Malays hunkered to either side of him, and all three men stared into the water. They resembled a small gallery of birds.

"Given the opportunity," Mahmet said finally, "a hole in the ground will fill up with water." He took up a dollop of mud and rolled it in his fingers a moment. "It's the nature of things." He tossed the mud into the hole.

"Yes, but if the cover had been placed over the hole as I instructed, this wouldn't have happened."

Mahmet's face tightened. He looked away.

"Do you know where the other workers are, Ismael?" Dan said.

"No. I suppose they didn't come because of the rain last night."

"But that shouldn't have stopped them. We have work to do."

“You can't dig a hole when it's full of water, Tuan."

"Go get them for me, please." The tone of Dan’s voice, so suddenly gruff, surprised both Malays. Dan knew that he was insulting them. But he could not help himself. For once they would have to give in to his needs, rather than otherwise, the way it had always been. This time Dan would not obsequiously negotiate, as he so often did, for the sake of everyone else's good feelings. "Get them, dammit."

Neither man understood Dan’s sudden change to English, which was even more of an insult. It resulted in even more obvious dismay.

After a moment, Mahmet nodded toward Dan and smiled. "Ismael…" The imam held his hands out, palms up in a gesture of conciliation. "Do you have any cigarettes?"

Ismael shook his head.

"Tuan, do you?"

"In my shirt." Dan gestured toward the garment. His packet of cigarettes showed through the wet cloth. It resembled a clod of dirt.

"I see," Mahmet said. "Ismael, would you go to the mosque and bring us all a packet of cigarettes and some dry matches? We need to talk, and we can't really do so without a good smoke."

Ismael nodded and stood up. He walked down the path and headed into the village.

"Tuan, it's important we speak in private." Mahmet watched Ismael retreat. "I know you didn't plan all this to come out in such a way." He gestured toward the hole, and Dan nodded. "There are a few things you don't know about our village. I wish you had known them. You could have avoided these problems." The sunlight filtering through the palm fronds played across Mahmet's face in thin shadows. His eyes were imbued with mournful discomfort. "But Moot is not a kind man. He doesn't care much for us. He doesn't seem to understand us."

The hole lay open before them, a maw filled with indistinctly colored mud and water.

"The people are jealous," Mahmet said. "They think you value Moot's friendship more than you value theirs."

"Mahmet, I only want to give the kampong a gift."

“Yes, Tuan."

"Some water."

“Yes. I understand. You understand." Mahmet looked over his shoulder and pointed toward the village. "But they do not."

The Malay looked down at Dan's legs. The mud, in splotches and long, dribbling lines, had already begun drying. Dan's shorts were clotted with light terra-cotta.

"They fear you are in league with Moot, to enrich him at their expense."

"In cahoots," Dan muttered in English.

"What is that, Tuan?"

"An American phrase. It means the same thing."

"Yes." Mahmet nodded. Sadness and embarrassment flowed from him, although Dan did recognize that the imam was trying to advise him. "As you say. And they don't wish to believe it, because you have been so kind to us otherwise."

"Has anyone tried to be kind to him?"

"Yes, Tuan. But Moot resists."

Dan stood and walked toward the thatched cover.

"We are a friendly people," Mahmet said. “We take care of our own. But there has always been an anger in Moot. I don't know where it comes from. We've always treated him with the greatest kindness, of course."

“Of course." Dan grunted as he attempted moving the thatched cover toward the hole.

"I knew you'd understand." Mahmet stood, to help Dan. The two men brought the structure to the hole and covered it over.

Dan brushed his hands and put on his muddy shirt. "I have a suggestion, Mahmet."

The Malay nodded and waited.

"We have the belief in the United States that all problems can be solved through talk, through negotiation."

"Very civilized, Tuan."

"Surely that can be done here with this problem."

Mahmet remained silent.

"Will you call a meeting of the village leaders? Tomorrow?"

"Certainly. But why?"

"A meeting that Moot can come to?"

Mahmet placed a hand on his chest, as though he were clutching for a breath. "Moot?"

"A lot of this has been my fault." Dan attempted putting a note of calm good judgment in the sentence, as well as the search for forgiveness.

Mahmet shook his head, as though to put aside Dan’s effort at blaming himself.

"Yes, it has," Dan continued. "But it can be solved, easily, by talk."

"Tuan, please, may I suggest—"

"I really must insist, Mahmet. I want to do what's best for the kampong."

"But, Mr. Dan—"

"And if you would help me with this, I'm sure the dispute could be solved quickly."

"Please—"

"I insist."

Mahmet, at a loss, nodded his head.

The following morning Mahmet welcomed the village leaders into his home. Bom bin Mustapha, whose gut filled his yellowed T-shirt as though it were a great basket, entered the living room and headed directly for Dan. Barely on his feet, Dan felt his hand being secured within Bom's as though the Malay were cadging it for later use. "Tuan, we are honored."

"Thank you." Since Bom would not let go of him, Dan shook the Malay's hand with equal enthusiasm. Bom moved on to Mahmet and shook his hand in the same way. He ignored Moot, who was sitting apart from the others, in order to shake Ahmad Trengganu's hand. "How is your rice this season?"

"The same, Bom, the same." Smiling, Ahmad drew on a cigarette. "Rice never changes."

Until his recent retirement, Ahmad had been the headmaster of the Saratok Malay school, for thirty years. He was a happy, argumentative man of about seventy. He was not a native of Sarawak. Having grown up in Kuala Trengganu in Malaya, famous for its batik, he wore sarongs of bright reds and greens decorated with ceremonial birds and borders. The other men in the village dressed in more customary machine-printed sarongs with large, patterned checks. Ahmad's dress was not the only thing that set him apart from the other villagers. He was also well traveled, having been sent thirty-nine years before by the British Brooke-family government to New Zealand for a course for English teachers. He had been in Wellington for two weeks, and always treasured the experience. Dan had never exchanged a word in English with Ahmad. As far as he knew, the Malay didn't speak it.

Zahir hobbled up the steps on his wooden crutches. His left leg had been withered by a childhood disease, and it hung from his body like a rag. He lived at the far end of the village in a small house with two rooms. He owned no land and was very poor. He was a village elder, however, because he had the power of prognostication. He had foretold bad marriages and untidy deaths. People feared Zahir's smile, which was constant. He had been very helpful to Dan upon the American's arrival in Saratok, when Dan had been offered houses by Mahmet and by Moot. Mahmet's was a wood-frame building next to the mosque, drafty and comfortable enough, but of a drab design that was of little interest. Moot's was a more palatial edifice, faced with a large porch and situated on a hill overlooking the kampong. Zahir's silence had swayed Dan from renting Moot's house. At the time, Dan had not known who Moot was, but he had gotten the clear impression from Zahir that Mahmet's was, really, the better choice.

Zahir greeted everyone in the room, and then went to the doorway between the living room and the kitchen. Above the door hung a black and white photo of President Sukarno of Indonesia. Though at the time Malaysia was at war with Indonesia, and Sukarno was therefore the enemy, his picture hung in almost all the Malay homes. He was a great hero in the Malay struggle for independence. The present war would fade eventually, everyone thought, and Sukarno would remain a hero.

Zahir pushed aside the cloth partition and greeted Mahmet's wife. "Do you have orange squash for us?"

There was high laughter, like breaking glass, from the kitchen. "Yes, and sweet cake. Especially for you, Inche Zahir." The cloth was pushed aside and Mina appeared. During meetings of this kind, she usually sat in the doorway, just behind the cloth partition, listening to the talk. Other women, and children as well, sat in the kitchen listening. But unlike these others, Mina spoke. When she wished to add something to the talk, her hand reached for the cloth and pushed it aside. Her voice bolted into the room, and then the hand retreated behind the cloth again. Dan had witnessed this on a number of occasions. Mahmet, always patient, waited silently, his head buried in one hand while he and the other men listened.

Mina walked now across the room toward Dan and offered him a piece of yellow, sugary cake and a glass of orange squash. Dan accepted the cake and tasted it while Mina awaited his approval. Though quite full, her face was covered with lines. Powdery makeup filled the wrinkles. Her smile revealed teeth that were black with years of chewing betel nut, and her red lips got their color from her saliva.

The cake, like a dry sponge taking on water, slowly filled Dan’s mouth. "Delicious." He took a glass of orange squash, and Mina continued about the room. After all the others, she served Moot, who took the last piece of cake, which was broken and shredded, without a thank you. Mina’s lip was turned up, and as Moot stared at her, she turned back toward the kitchen.

"Tuan Dan asked me to have this meeting," Mahmet said, "so that we can talk about the well he has so kindly offered the kampong."

Grumbling whispers moved through the room. All the men sat on rattan mats that were spread out on the polished hardwood floor of Mahmet's living room. Dan watched the palm trees outside, bright and motionless in the morning sun.

"He asked me to invite our neighbor Moot to join us, since there is a question about his involvement in the project."

Moot's head hung low between his shoulders. He studied his feet.

"Yes, I… " Dan held back a moment. He glanced at Mahmet, whose rather lost look caused him to hurry on. He thanked God he could speak Malay. "I feel we can work out our problems here. With the well, I mean. Moot has always helped me on my projects, and I—"

The cloth in the kitchen doorway fluttered to one side. "Eh, night-soil man." Mina's voice, like pieces of flint, clattered into the room. "Helping the Tuan, eh?" The cloth fell once again, and Mahmet held his hands up before him in an effort to interrupt.

"Yes, I help the Tuan," Moot said. "More than you do. More than any of you do."

Immediately the room filled with voices. Disapproval, like the rush of heavy rain, coursed through the house. Zahir's high voice rose above everyone else's as he pushed himself up on his hands and protested. Ahmad wrung a corner of his sarong in his fingers and shook his head.

Finally, Mahmet, holding out his hands with the palms facing the floor, quieted everyone. "Let Tuan Dan speak, please."

Dan, sweating, leaned forward and sipped from his orange squash. His large face hung above the half-empty glass. "I'm to blame for the problem here."

Again, there was an upsurge of talk, though now it had a sympathetic tone. Dan lowered the glass to the floor and continued speaking.

"I asked Moot to hire workers for the well, but I didn't specify Malay workers." He looked at each man in the room. For the moment he had their attention. "We use Chinese on the road project, and—"

“Yes, we've wanted to ask about that, Tuan," Bom said. Dan, still immersed in his own thought, paused a moment. "That is, why haven't Malays been used on the road?"

'Well, it's because—"

"It's because I've been given the job by Mr. Dan of finding the best workers.” Moot thrust a hand out before him. “And do you know why I don't hire Malays?" He split the remains of his piece of cake into two and popped one of the pieces into his mouth. "Because they are lazy.” He chewed rapidly. "Because they can't follow orders. Because they are stupid."

Ahmad tossed a leftover bit of cake onto the floor. "We hired your father!" He pointed an index finger at Moot. His Trengganu batik seemed to flame, and spittle gathered on his lips as he spoke. "To carry our shit away years ago. What about that, Moot? Was he lazy?"

"You treated my father like an animal."

"At least he knew his place." Ahmad’s brow furrowed into a scowl. "He did not have airs, as you have."

Dan tried interrupting. but was cut off by Ahmad.

"Moot was this way in school, Tuan. Always arguing. When he was there, which was not often."

"Who would come to your school, teacher?" Moot looked about the room. "What could Ahmad possibly know?"

"Bom." Dan hurried to turn the conversation away from such turmoil. "You're right, of course. I was foolish about the workers. I know there should be Malays on the road project, and tomorrow I'll see to it." He cursed himself silently. He realized that, by letting Moot handle all the arrangements, he had made a terrible mistake.

Bom, evidently, had not heard Dan. “Moot, your father was a lazy fool."

"Although we can't say that about your mother!" Mina’s voice, from behind the curtain, sparkled with colorful disdain. "She wasn't lazy!"

Laughter rose through the room.

"A whore!" Zahir said.

"She was not." Moot said.

Zahir grinned. "She came from Simanggang, didn't she? Disgraced, thrown out of her father's house."

"That's not true, you bastard."

Ahmad nodded. "I remember. Your father loved the whores in Simanggang. Went there all the time."

Dan hurried to intrude. "There was another problem. The pay. The pay. Moot and I misunderstood each other. He offered six ringgit because he didn't understand what I wanted."

Ahmad rose to full voice. "And everyone knows the whores down there don't care who they fuck."

The crowd broke into laughter. Mahmet, who had kept silent for the moment, began laughing as well. He hid his mouth behind the fingers of his right hand.

“Yes, ask your daughter about that, Ahmad," Moot said. The laughter in the room halted, and Moot, caught for a moment in the silence, inhaled. He had gained momentum, and he hurried to press it forward. "Though my father wouldn't even have noticed your daughter." Now he laughed himself, his throat constricting so tightly that the sound came out in brief coughs. "In fact, ask all six of your daughters." His laughter, isolated in the now otherwise silent house, sounded like wheezing. "Ask your wife, Ahmad."

"Moot!" Mahmet’s mouth fell open, and his eyes, downcast and fluttering, seemed about to fill with tears. "Respect the memory of the dead."

In the heat outside, the coconut trees did not move. Dan wished he were in the shade of one of them right now. All around him were shaking fists and vitriol. He could do nothing. He pleaded. His own voice tightened. He wrung his baseball cap in his hands, then tossed it to the floor as he began shouting himself. But he could not be heard in the babble of voices.

"Cruel man," Mahmet said.

Moot thrust his chin out, ignoring the tumult of protests.

Ahmad grimaced. "Louse-ridden dog." Sweat glistened on his neck.

Dan retrieved his cap, stood, and placed it on his head. He stepped out onto the flight of stairs leading from the house. Behind him, voices rose in gusts of argument. He put on his sandals at the bottom of the stairs and hurried up the path. As he retreated, yelps, shouts, and accusations poured from the house. Dan headed for the well site. His hands were stuffed into his pockets. He walked very quickly, as though being propelled toward the hole by a stiff wind.

He struggled a moment with the thatched cover, and finally was able to pull it aside. He looked back toward Mahmet's house. At the bottom of the stairs, Moot was putting on his leather shoes. His left hand shook in a fist above his head as he walked toward the main path. Mahmet—understanding, diplomatic Mahmet—inveighed in the doorway against the retreating night-soil man. The others hung out the windows while many regular villagers gathered around the imam’s house to watch and laugh. The river—very dark brown and appearing for the moment motionless—reflected the thick, cotton- white clouds overhead.

After a moment, Dan took up a shovel and plunged it into one of the mounds of mud at the hole's edge. He dropped the spadeful of dirt into the hole, and the resultant plash muddied his sandals. He took up a second shovelful, then a third. The water now spilled over the banks of the hole. Dan removed his shirt and continued shoveling. Sweat dribbled down his face. He bent and dug.

He tried calming his nerves but could not. Kindness, an altogether worthwhile thing in itself had brought him to this…Dan the witness—no, the catalyst—to the reopening of the village wound. He paused, a shovelful of mud in the air dripping to the ground. But it wasn't kindness at all, he thought. The well really was just one more chance to do things your way. The right way. He let the shovel drop to the ground, and mud oozed from it like an amoeba. Efficiency, he thought. American productivity. Those are what you've been trying for with all this, instead of seeking something…something else…something far less superficial.

He dropped the mud into the hole.

Such as simple surrender, maybe, to the way things are.

He took up another shovelful, thinking he was being too severe with himself. The well was going to bring them water. It was supposed to be a good idea, a kindly one even. He dropped the dirt into the hole. Perhaps it was not just affection for the Malays that was pushing him along, Dan decided, but with all the other reasons, his simple wish to help out was at least a part of it. He looked around once more at Mahmet's house. The Malay remained on the top step. From the distance, he appeared to be watching Dan. The imam did raise his hand to wave to the American, bringing a shred of peace to Dan’s mind.

A Malay woman came up the path from the river. She carried two buckets of water suspended from opposite ends of a long stick that she balanced across her shoulders. With each heavy step, the stick bowed. Water spilled from the buckets onto the path. She stopped a moment. "Filling up the hole?" She spit a large glob of betel-induced saliva onto the ground.

"Yes." Dan sighed as another shovelful of dirt disappeared into the well. He did not look up.

The woman peered into the hole. "No water down there, Tuan?"

"No." Dan sighed again, a passage of saddened defeat. "None."

© 1988 Terence Clarke. All rights reserved.

—

This story comes from my 1988 collection, The Day Nothing Happened, which will be re-published in a new edition in 2026.

“Terence Clarke: Recovering The Arts” columns are free of charge. Subscribe to them here. Or, if you wish, you can help us financially with a paid subscription at $5.00 per month or $50.00 per year. That, too, can be done here. It’s your call.

We will not share information about your subscription with anyone.