Shaman of Bali

by John Greet

  Using the palms as cover, I moved closer towards the brothers. I saw the flashlight cop slowly circling their bike. He shone a beam on Geno’s face and then on Mikey’s body, which lay head-down in the crook of Geno’s neck.

  ‘Get off the motorbike.’

  ‘No,’ said Geno, looking hard at the cop. He took out his license and passport from a travellers pouch and handed them to him. ‘Sir, it was a lot of hassle to get this guy on the bike. Took a long time. He very drunk, he dead drunk, and if we move him, he vomit. Not nice, sir, not nice for you, sir.’

  The cop unclipped his gun holster. I took a deep breath. I could smell salt air and feel the sand under my feet. People on the other side of the road began to gather, locals mostly.

  ‘Brazilian?’ asked the cop, shining his light on the passport and in the same breath asked, ‘You know three on motorbike is not allowed in Bali?’

  ‘Sorry, sir, we have to get this guy home. He sick, really drunk …’ Geno’s voice was cut off by the slamming of a car door. The second cop stepped out with a torch in one hand and a gun in the other. He walked towards the brothers. He wore leather boots, a tight-fitting military style uniform and a high-peaked cap with a badge, which indicated he was the higher-ranking official of the two. I hardly had time to take in what was happening when he stopped in mid-stride. In the light of his torch I saw why. Paolo held a wad of American dollars in his hand. No words were exchanged after that. I watched from the shadows with an acidic taste in my mouth: Paolo sat on the back of the bike, one arm around the body, the other holding out the money. Both policemen feigned disinterest at first, but then in a casual movement, the higher-ranking cop moved in behind the bike and pocketed the bribe.

  The onlookers dispersed. Geno started the motorbike, and the police guided the trio on to the road with hand signals and flashlights. Geno glanced at me as he accelerated past my bike. His green eyes caught mine, and a grin puckered his face. We rode down Double Six Road and onto Blue Ocean Beach. Geno and Paolo drove their motorbike onto the sand towards the water’s edge. I parked and kept lookout. Apart from a lantern-lit restaurant further along, the place looked deserted. I saw the white caps of waves, heard the sound of surf pounding. Then the brothers returned, just the two of them on the motorbike. They gave me a nod. I rode back to the Sandika Hotel, following the brothers.

  In the solitude of my room, I thought I would feel relief that we were out of danger, but instead I felt cold and empty. It had all happened so fast. My first instinct had been to run. Then I had been caught by an urge to protect myself. Who was Mikey, the Australian surfer who had died tonight? Did he have a family? The image of him lying on the sand on Blue Ocean Beach in his board shorts and red T-shirt came to me again.

  Unable to stay still, I paced my room. The monkeys’ chattering irritated, and the tree frogs’ croaking mocked. A knock came on the door. It was Paolo.

  ‘Just come to say goodbye, man. Geno and I, we going, we outta here.’

  ‘Yeah, that would be best,’ I said. But first I wanted to talk to Geno.

  The brothers’ luggage lay in the centre of the room, packed and ready to go. The place looked tidy. Geno sat on the couch. The bottle of Johnnie Walker stood where we’d left it on the coffee table. I took a shot glass from the mini bar, filled it to the brim with whisky and knocked it back.

  ‘I thought you had an understanding with Anak. No drugs at the hotel. But heroin? What’s up with that? And who was Mikey anyway! How could you fucking do this?’ My voice got louder with each word until I realised I was shouting.

  ‘Okay, okay, stop right there, man,’ said Geno, putting up his hand. ‘First thing, we never bring dope here. Never, man. We always honour our thing with Anak, always. Mikey, that motherfucker, we did not ask him here. He just show up, and he got a big bag of Thai smack. He want to change it with us for coke, because he can’t sell smack in Bali, and he sit right here, make three lines. And you know me and Paolo, we don’t do that shit, and we was just telling him to fuck off when he roll up a note and … Well, man, you see what happen.’ I took another shot of whisky and it went down easier.

  ‘Where’s the heroin now?’

  ‘Gone. Paolo, he dump it in the beach somewhere.’

  ‘You guys feel anything about Mikey?’

  ‘Fuck him, man!’ said Geno, holding up both palms. ‘Look at the trouble he make for us … Hey, don’t beat yourself up, Adam. He dead, we here, that’s life. What you gonna do?’ The third shot of whisky hit the mark, and I felt its numbing effect. I reached for another but Paolo took the bottle.

  ‘Easy, man.’

  ‘And look at it like this: we do that junkie scumbag a big favour.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Think about his family, man. What they gonna like better, a son who drowned surfing or by heroin overdose?’

  I thought about Geno’s strange logic. The whole thing brought back memories of Duncan. I couldn’t see or understand what the connection between Duncan and Mikey was, but it was there.

  ‘You guys coming back?’

  ‘Yeah, give it a few weeks, man. Let it blow over.’

  5

  The heron outside my window flapped its wings. From my balcony I looked out at the reef. Glassy waves peeled away in a steady pattern. On the beach, women sat in a circle, weaving frangipani blossoms into garlands. Ketut fished leaves out of the swimming pool with a long bamboo pole. The smell of freshly brewed coffee wafted up from the shop. I heard the distant ring of the office phone, then I saw Wayan waving to me.

  ‘David’s being really weird since you’ve been gone,’ Grace sounded rattled. ‘You know, he like, keeps trying to talk to me like he’s now my father, and he even tried to put his arm around me. He really creeps me out, Dad. What should I do?’ she asked, her voice as clear as if she were standing next to me. The hairs on my arms bristled as I thought of my ex-wife’s partner. Grace changed the subject before I could answer, ‘Oh, and Tula’s guys came to see Mum the other day. They said that because she owns half of the restaurant, she’s responsible for half the debt.’ The words brought me back to reality with a jolt. I was about to speak when she cut in again, ‘I’m going flatting with some friends and they’re, like, really cool. You’d like them … And I forgot to tell you: I’ve left school, and you know Pierre who has the French café? I’m working front of house for him.’ The news hit me like a slap in the face.

  ‘Whoa, Grace, slow down, one thing at a time, and why didn’t you talk to me first before you quit school.’

  ‘Because you would have said no.’

  ‘Damn right, I would’ve!’

  ‘Sorry, Dad. I should have asked you, but you’re not here, remember?’

  I pulled up a chair. A couple of young tourists about Grace’s age wandered past the office window. They were dressed in their swimming clothes, headed for the pool. Wayan brought in a coffee and placed it before me. My daughter was eighteen, I reminded myself. I was already running a restaurant at that age.

  ‘Okay, Grace, you have my blessing. But in the future, tell me before you make these big decisions.

  ‘I will! Thanks, Dad.’

  * * *

  In the coffee shop, the same young couple I’d seen before were sitting at a table, playing chess. A couple of surfers passed me on the way to the beach. How I envied their carefree existence. I would have liked Grace to travel overseas, to do something other than hospitality, but I had to remember that she loved everything to do with the restaurant business.

  I sat under the banyan tree, sipping fresh coconut juice and watching new customers wander into the coffee shop. Word had spread that our restaurant was a good place to eat, and we had begun to pick up business. Wayan liked my changes. I made garnishes of local herbs and diced fruit. I found a linen glass cloth and taught our staff how to polish cocktail glasses with it; I also taught them to make sure the dining plates went out to customers without fingerprints or smudges. The fruit and vegetables from the morning market we
re fresh, and the fish always caught on the day. We also made sure the meals weren’t overcooked and we didn’t use too much garlic or salt. And so, Wayan received regular compliments on her cooking.

  As a kid I loved seeing the delight on our customers’ faces as my father did his rounds through Milano’s dining room. He would move from table to table in his chef’s whites, shaking their hands, telling them jokes and inquiring after their food. He was a big man with considerable Latin charm. In the kitchen, I remember being fascinated by the way the hot oil flamed up in his skillet as he cooked, pan in one hand, me on his hip, barking orders to a bevy of kitchen staff. My grandfather was given the task of looking after me. His wife had died while giving birth to my father. He’d raised his son on his own, just as my father was raising me.

  I can still see my grandfather, Papa Milano, standing before his antique coffee machine. It was a tangle of polished copper and brass that stood on a plinth at the entrance to the restaurant. ‘I bring this from Italy,’ he would say in a distant voice as he picked up a cloth to polish the brass.

  By the time I could speak, I wanted to know where my mother was and when she was coming back. Every kid I knew had a mother, except for me. I thought all I had to do was to ask my father to bring mine back.

  ‘Papa, where’s my mother?’ He continued cooking. I tugged at his apron.

  ‘Basta! Enough!’ he barked. His tone would’ve silenced any kid, but I was determined to know. I barely came up to his knees and was about to tug at my father again when an arm reached and scooped me up. It was Papa Milano.

  ‘Tell him, Salvador. He’s old enough now.’ My grandfather held me close. I could see my father’s face grimacing. He ground his teeth, and his cheeks flushed. He wouldn’t look at me.

  ‘Catzo, Papa, what you doing to me!’ My father cupped his fingers in an exasperated gesture. ‘This picilo stronzo, he’s too young!’

  ‘Tell him, Salvador!’ The kitchen had gone quiet. The chefs, kitchen hands and dishwashers had their ears peeled to hear our conversation.

  ‘Salvador, you talk to your son. You answer his question like a good father, or I gonna tell him myself in front of everyone!’ Papa Milano took the skillet from my father and pushed me into his arms. The staff lowered their heads as we walked past the prep benches. We pushed our way through the swinging doors into his office.

  I felt grown up and important sitting in my father’s swivel chair. He uncapped a bottle of whisky and slugged it down. ‘Come here.’ He lifted me up and sat me on his knee. He smelled of whisky and garlic. ‘Your mama’s name is Rosa, and she ain’t never coming back here.’

  Tears welled up in my eyes. I couldn’t stop them, but I kept my face still. I wasn’t going to cry, not in front of my father. He took my face in his hands, and his voice became a murmur.

  ‘She was no good, son, no good.’

  ‘Why?’ My voice cracked.

  ‘She worked here for two weeks, and we, well … You know, we got together.’

  ‘Were you married?’

  He laughed, which made me smile, and I brushed away my tears with the back of my hand, ‘Yes, son, she was married. But she just wasn’t married to me.’ He laughed again, ruffled my hair then drank some more.

  ‘Where did I come from then?’

  ‘I hardly knew her, you know. Two weeks is not long enough to know someone. She disappeared, and I thought she’d gone back to her husband in Italy, but nine months later she showed up in the kitchen with a bassinette, and you inside it.’ He took another slug from the bottle. ‘She say, “I can’t do this, Salvador. He’s your child.” Then as quick as she arrived, she left. I try to track her down, but the only thing I know is that she came from Verona, and you know, son, I never even knew her last name.’

  His words had a finality to them. I knew I would never find my mother, and I knew that she wasn’t coming back. I sobbed against his chest until his apron was wet with my tears. Papa Milano came in then and led me to my bed.

  ‘You know, Adam,’ he said as he tucked me in, ‘your father never had a mother either, and he turned out alright. Sleep now child, and tomorrow, everything gonna be okay.’

  My grandfather died when I was six. After that I was looked after by a succession of Italian girls who worked at Milano’s. Each usually lasted a year or two. My father never married.

  From an early age, I was determined not to go into hospitality. I had watched my father’s life becoming consumed by it. I knew the kitchen had stolen his life, and finally killed him. When I turned sixteen I enrolled in a marine school. I hoped to become an offshore skipper.

  My father was disturbed. ‘What do you think I do this for? Why do you think I work so hard in front of this stove?’ he said. But then he had relented and paid my tuition fees.

  * * *

  When a casually dressed Indonesian ate at our place one night and walked out without paying, I was surprised. ‘Eddi Medan,’ whispered Wayan. ‘Security … Same like the police … Him Muslim.’

  The man returned the following night and asked me to join him at his table. Wayan’s words put me on edge.

  ‘Know anything about this guy?’ he asked, pulling out a snapshot of Mikey from his wallet. I shook my head. ‘You’re looking a bit pale. Anything you need to tell me, Adam?’

  ‘How do you know my name?’

  ‘It’s my job to know. Hey, relax, mate. I’m on your side. This guy was a known drug courier, and I’ve been trying to track him down for some time. Just need to know where he stayed, so I can clean out his room before the local police get to it and take a large bribe from one of my clients.’

  ‘He didn’t stay here.’

  ‘You sure about that, mate? He was seen around here.’

  ‘Positive.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll strike this one off my list. Hey, I hear you’re a chess player?’ Eddi then ordered a chess board and two beers over to our table.

  Over the course of the game, he told me he was from southern Java and his family had emigrated to Sydney when he was a kid. After finishing high school, he had become a police cadet and joined Sydney’s police force. In his mid-twenties he had decided that traditional police work wasn’t for him. He took three months’ leave and came to Bali, where he found a job that suited him: an affiliation of hotels hired him to work as liaison between them and the famously corrupt Indonesian police. I relaxed a little when he told me that the Sandika was included in this group. Being fluent in both English and Indonesian, he had a network of Indo beach hustlers who were his informants. He could track down a stolen credit card before it was used. He dealt with rental car accidents and guests skipping out of hotels without paying; they would find Eddi waiting for them at the airport.

  Eddi was big man with a gangly gait. He had a cop’s wryness, which was countered by gentleness, particularly evident in his brown eyes. I wondered why he hadn’t asked me where I was from, then guessed that he’d chosen not to. I asked him about the Bali Haj and the story between the two hoteliers. Eddi exhaled as he told me: ‘I work for them both, so I can’t really say much. A story like theirs is steeped in thousands of years of history; they were born to hate each other.’

  Eddi drained his beer as I moved my queen in for the kill. He shrugged and called for two more beers. ‘Anak’s an interesting guy,’ he said. ‘One time I’d done in my back, and I went to every doctor I thought could help. Nothing worked, and I was all strung out on painkillers. I was in a bad way. Anak heard of my condition and called me to his house on a night of the full moon. You know I’m a Muslim and I find the Hindu ceremonies too strange, but my back hurt so much that I was prepared to try anything. Anyway, Anak gave me some water the colour of blood. I drank that stuff … Then I remembered I had an appointment with my acupuncturist.’ Eddi leaned across the table and said, ‘You know, he couldn’t get one of his needles to go in. He kept trying, but the needles just broke. It freaked him out, and he still hasn’t gotten over it. But here’s the strange thing: I went home, a
nd the next morning, my back pain had vanished. Gone! My back has given me no trouble since. Figure that one out, mate.’

  * * *

  After a few weeks, Geno and Paolo returned to their room. Once more, the evening sunsets were accompanied by Geno’s bossas and sambas. I resumed my surfing lessons and often hung out with the brothers at the Blue Ocean bars. I enjoyed their company but always kept a weather eye out lest they lure me into their business again.

  One day, Geno invited me to walk along the beach with him. ‘Adam, I got something for you,’ he said. When he handed me a large manila envelope, I was uncomfortable. We walked a few more paces in awkward silence.

  ‘Open the fucking thing, man,’ he said. In the envelope, folded between two sheets of paper, I found an Australian passport. It was printed under the name of Michael Brown, but it had a photo of me, my correct age, and on the first blank page a one-year residency visa for Indonesia.

  ‘Geno, where did you … That’s not my name, and where did you get the photo?’

  ‘I took the fucking photo when you weren’t looking, and its Mikey’s passport. At least we got something from that motherfucker for all the trouble he caused us. We had it fixed, and the work visa, man, those rip off Indos at immigration. Anyway, listen up. We square now. You help us and now we help you. Finito, okay?’

  ‘I can’t accept this.’

  ‘You can and you fucking will. What else you gonna do if the police stop you, eh?’

  I thumbed through the passport. The photograph had been touched up, and it gave me a possum-in-the-headlights stare, but the likeness was good. I didn’t want to be Michael Brown, but on the other hand, this passport would give me the freedom to move around Bali. I’d never ventured too far from the Sandika for fear of being stopped. I’d be safer with it than without it.