Shaman of Bali

by John Greet

  ‘Here comes Mum … Gotta go.’

  ‘Grace, wait!’

  Back at the bar, another shot of arrack helped soothe my nerves. My daughter had no idea who Tula really was or what he was capable of.

  Satchimoto came up to me again, but this time I was ready to listen to him, ready to entertain any money-making idea he had so I could make a payment to Tula.

  Wayan served us breakfast. The tide was in, and waves lapped at the sea wall. Seagulls dived and cawed, fighting for scraps as the night fishing boats cleaned their catch. Satchimoto waited until we’d finished eating before he began.

  He wanted to set up a tour company in Bali and do both diving and fishing. He had contacts with travel agents and with diving and fishing clubs in Japan. I was relieved to hear that he didn’t intend to use our boats or to even cross the reef. ‘Too dangerous,’ he said. But he wanted to use the Sandika as his base. ‘This hotel feels like home, and you are like family to me,’ he said, buttoning up his Hawaiian shirt and firing off a round of machine-gun laughter. He wanted a building on the Sandika grounds to work from. He would front up a large amount of cash to purchase the necessary inflatables, Land Rovers, dive bottles and air compressors. When he said that he was confident about bringing in at least twelve fishermen every week, I paid more attention. Geno and Paolo would be his dive monitors, and he wanted Jimmy the Fish as his dive manager. ‘Will you ask Jimmy? I will talk to Geno and Paolo. And could you talk to Anak about the plan?’ Satchimoto pushed a packed envelope across the table, ‘Give him this.’

  I was in the office, discussing Satchimoto’s idea with Anak over the telephone when I saw the expat from Blue Ocean whom Geno had dealt to the night before. He went past the office window and seemed to know the way to the brothers’ room. Anak and I were still talking when the Blue-Ocean guy returned, carrying a shoulder bag he didn’t have with him when he’d arrived. His eyes were as wide as jack apples. It bothered me that Geno and Paolo had not respected my request to keep their business off the Sandika. We were on the verge of receiving serious financial support for the hotel, and I didn’t want the brothers to jeopardise us. As soon as Anak and I were finished, I would talk to them. I wondered if Satchimoto, who was about to employ them, was aware of what they really did.

  Anak agreed to the proposal. He would lease Satchimoto the land, and as long as the correct building procedures were observed, we could begin immediately. Anak would send an architect and help him personally with the purchasing of the equipment. When I told Satchimoto, he flashed his bad-toothed grin and pumped my hands. I excused myself and made my way up to Geno and Paolo’s room.

  The brothers were sprawled on their beds. The door was open. Geno got up when I entered. On the coffee table I saw a razor blade and scraps of white powder.

  ‘What’s going on? I saw that guy come and go. I saw his eyes and the shoulder bag.’

  ‘Hey, who the fuck are you? Some kind of fucking policeman. Not your business, man. We set you up with a fucking passport, and we tell that Japanese down there he gotta do his business here, just for you, man, just for the hotel, because we love this fucking place.’ Geno was pacing up and down. There was sand in his hair, on his face and on the floor. Surfboards were stacked in the room. I remembered that it was from this very room that we had removed a dead surfer.

  ‘Okay, I hear you, but if the hotel gets busted for having cocaine, it’ll all be for nothing.’

  He turned towards Paolo, ‘Listen to this, motherfucker.’

  ‘He only doing his job,’ Paolo shrugged, but his brother didn’t seem to pay any attention. Geno put an arm around my shoulder and said in a cloying voice, ‘Okay, man, Paolo, he right. Forget about it, no more dealing cocaine from the hotel, okay? No more, okay.’

  I left the room, uneasy about whether the brothers would keep their word. From the pathway I looked back at the Bali Haj. Thankfully a few of their guests still came to our coffee shop, just enough to keep us afloat.

  * * *

  Janna’s face came to me at odd times during the day, opaque and shrouded. Sometimes she shone like a heroic character, and other times she looked lost. That evening I returned to Omar’s, but she wasn’t there. I waited and as it got late, I realised she wasn’t coming. I asked Omar. He was concerned about her. ‘She always comes, always,’ he said while stacking chairs on tables.

  I knew where she lived, in a walled compound not far from the palm tree with the light. I rode along the beach, then down the small alleyway that led to her compound. I continued along the narrow pathway, ducking palm fronds, when she appeared. I cut the motor. She stood only a half-metre before me. Her hair was an unruly white tangle and her clothes dishevelled. She wasn’t wearing her shades; there were dark shadows beneath her blue eyes.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘My boys have gone …’ she said, not making eye contact.

  ‘Can I help?’

  She threw me a distrusting look. The path was too narrow for her to pass but she pushed away the plants and vines to force her way past. The path was so narrow that I could not turn around and had to continue forward. I guessed that it would lead me out onto the beach again and I could return to help her find her orangutans. However, the further I went, the denser it became; vines and branches blocked my way. I could hear the surf so I knew the beach was close. With the motorbike’s engine revving in short bursts, I struggled forward.

  An ape’s paw landed on my handlebars suddenly. Two fire-red eyes fixed on me. The ape’s body was a vague outline before me. I wanted to call out to Janna but I quickly realised she was too far away to hear me. As my eyes adjusted, I made out the ape. Its large body blocked the way. I kept my eyes glued on it, watching for any sudden movement. The ape released its grip on my handlebars. It wrinkled its nose and emitted a sharp grunt, then flailing its arms and grimacing, it began a series of deep-throated sounds punctuated by bursts of percussive clucking. The ape’s throat puffed out, pulsating, growing larger until it was the size of a balloon. Then it raised its head and opened its enormous mouth. A howl burst from the animal. I was gripped with fear and hoped Janna had heard her ape and was on her way back. It was a spine chilling sound. The ape’s throat worked like a bagpipe’s sack, the howl rising and falling, strangely musical yet terrifying. Then it stopped abruptly. Its red eyes were still on me but now held a strange expression. I gripped the handlebars and put my foot on the kick start. If the beast came at me, I would give the motorbike full throttle and charge. The orangutan raised itself up to its full height, and it was then that I saw its erection: a long dagger-like penis with a flared, red head protruded out of its hairy groin. Its intention was now terrifyingly clear to me.

  I was about to hit the bike’s kick start when another arm reached over my shoulder. Before I could move, it had latched onto my genitals and was squeezing. I felt the second ape’s body pressing against mine from behind. It had mounted the passenger seat and was clutching my balls in a vice-like grip. My leg pushed down on the kick start and the motor roared. I jammed back the throttle. The grip on my balls from behind broke as the bike reared up, charging forwards. The ape in front of me moved aside. My bike hit the trunk of a coconut tree, throwing me over the handlebars, my landing softened by the dense

  undergrowth.

  I was on my feet and stumbling through the bush to the beach. My fear gave me an astonishing speed, and I ran driven by terror, by what might happen if the apes caught me. They were close behind. I could hear their clucking and panting. Then an orangutan’s paw swiped at my back. I managed to slip its grasp, but its claws had ripped through the fabric of my shirt and cut my skin. Then, a voice in my head echoed: Apes can’t swim. It had a clipped British accent. It came again, flashing. I remembered where I had heard the words before: on a documentary I’d seen on orangutans. Apes can’t swim.

  I hit the beach, legs pumping the hard sand. I glanced back. One ape was close, loping fast in great gangly strides, legs akimbo, holding its penis in one paw,
while the second ape trailed behind. I ran into the surf. A large wave knocked me off my feet and I went with it, allowing my body to be carried out by the receding water. I stood waist deep in the water, gasping. Planting my feet into the sand, I looked for the apes. They were at the water’s edge. As the foam swept up the beach, they scrambled away, and as it cleared, they ambled towards me again.

  I waited, ducking under the waves, while the orangutans loped at the water’s edges. They could see me, yet their fear of water held them at bay. Waves rolled past me in a steady pattern, pushing the apes back with each sweep.

  Janna came across the sand, unsteady on her bare feet. Her hair was wild and windswept. She wore a sheer night dress and held a bottle in one hand. The animals rushed to her, reaching for the bottle. She admonished the apes as she held the bottle high, out of their reach. When she saw me, she broke free of the animals and walked into the water. A wave rocked her, but she found her balance and waded forward. The next wave submerged her. She came up coughing in the waist-deep water, still holding the bottle. I swam to her and caught her just as she was about to go under again. I held her in my arms. Her make-up had washed away, and her hair was swept back. Through her wet sheer dress, I saw the rise of her breasts. So enraptured I was by her beauty, her sensuous curves, her satin skin, that for an instant I was spellbound. I’d forgotten about the apes until her trembling voice brought me back, ‘Put me down, please.’

  I stood her up and steadied her against the next wave. She pushed the bottle of arrack into my hand. ‘Walk to the boys and give it to them,’ she said. I reached out once again to steady her but she moved back, bracing herself. ‘Do it,’ she said.

  Holding the bottle, I stared at the apes. They sat quietly on sand above the waterline, watching us. ‘If you don’t want to stay here all night, do it!’ said Janna, as she took my arm, and we waded out of the water. When we reached dry sand, the animals rushed to us. I wanted to return to the safety of the surf, but she had a firm grip on my arm. The apes were now as docile as I’d seen them at Omar’s.

  ‘Give them the bottle,’ said Janna.

  Both orangutans sat on their haunches expectantly. I handed one ape the bottle. It took it gingerly, unscrewed the cap and sucked on the liquor, its paws grasping the bottle. After a moment, Janna wrenched the bottle away, handing it to the second ape. There was a brief scuffle, a little hissing and pawing like two kittens fighting over a bowl of milk. Janna raised her finger and the orangutans settled down.

  ‘Go now,’ she said, ‘they won’t hurt you.’

  From the force of her gaze, I knew I should leave. I moved away slowly. The wind had risen. The sea whipped and frenzied. With quickened pace, I turned and walked backwards. The three figures remained above the water’s edge, hunched together in a bizarre communion. I watched until I could no longer see them.

  15

  Geno and Paolo kept their word. If there was any cocaine business going on, it happened well out of sight. And they involved themselves in Satchimoto’s diving and fishing business with an enthusiasm that was out of character. I wondered about their motivation; they surely didn’t need the money.

  ‘Hey man, I thought you gonna be happy, eh? We working, man, just like you,’ Geno was clearly irritated by my question.

  Satchimoto named the business ‘The Bali Blue Fishing and Diving Company’. He had his Land Rovers and inflatables elaborately signed and glossy brochures printed up. The company office that bordered the carpark had a lady-grass roof. They intended to dive the shipwrecks on the eastern side of the island and fish in the deeper waters of the same area. It turned out that Geno and Paolo were both experienced scuba divers. When the first group of Japanese fishermen arrived, we met them at the airport. Wayan showered them with frangipani blossoms while Ketut and I led them to the Land Rovers. At the Sandika, we put on a smorgasbord seafood dinner with complimentary cocktails, and Geno and Paolo entertained our guests with Brazilian music.

  The first days of diving were a success, and in the evening, I was astonished at the capacity of the Japanese to drink cocktails. If this continued, with the room rate added in, we would do nicely. With the Bali Haj guests starting to come through again, my job as hotel manager changed from casual to fulltime. Our accounts were becoming healthy, and if this kept up, I would be sending some money to Tula soon.

  * * *

  When our lady-grass roof had blown off in the storm, the rat monkeys had moved into the banyan tree. Now they’d returned to our roof, and in their much improved habitat, their numbers increased. The incessant chatter of these animals began to bother our Japanese guests. These tiny cheeky-faced, long-tailed monkeys kept our roof free of mice, rats, snakes and lizards, but I had to weigh up those benefits against their cacophony.

  The best way to deal with the problem, according to Anak, was to buy a leopard cat and keep it in a cage near the hotel block. The scent of the cat alone would scare away most of the monkeys. We could buy the leopard cat at the Satria pet market in Denpasar.

  I found the market and strolled around, admiring exotic collections of caged birds, pangolins, snakes and every breed of monkey, all of them looking forlorn, housed in rows of makeshift cages. The market was crowded. The Balinese loved pets, especially birds. Every compound had a caged bird. I asked about leopard cats and was shown to the rear of the market. As most pets at the market were the staple diet of the animal I wanted, the leopard cats were kept in a far corner to preserve the peace. They were striking-looking animals, about twice the size of a domestic cat, with bright-yellow and black markings that resembled a leopard’s, and downturned ears with tufts of hair growing out of them. Their eyes looked evil as they paced their cages, hissing and snarling at anyone who came near. They were perfectly wild, having been recently trapped by hunters on the jungle floor.

  ‘You got monkey problem?’ said the vendor.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Him fix it,’ he said, pointing to the largest of the cats. ‘Give him one fruit bat every day, him happy.’ I wasn’t sure I was going to do that. I was fond of our fruit bats. After lengthy haggling, I paid the equivalent of fifty dollars for the largest cat and its metal cage. The vendor heaved the cage onto his shoulder, and I led him to the Land Rover. The cat glared at me with demonic eyes, baring teeth and hissing. Such a magnificent animal should not be caged, I thought. I could imagine it on the forest floor, running free, sleek as silk.

  At the Sandika, Ketut and I carried the cage to a quiet spot under a mango tree at the far end of the hotel where a large family of rat monkeys lived. Suddenly there was silence. I’d forgotten what the place sounded like without the monkeys’ peeling laughter and chatter. They sat up on the eves of the roof as quiet as temple statues, hugging each other, their wide red eyes staring down as the leopard cat paced back and forth in its cage, snarling and sniffing out its new surroundings.

  ‘Him skinny, him hungry,’ said Ketut and returned with a slab of buffalo meat. When he slipped it into the cage, the cat pounced on it and devoured it in one gulp. I sat, watching the cat. Eventually it stopped pacing and rested its head on its paws, its eyes darting between me and the rat monkeys.

  That night, without the monkeys’ chatter, the crickets and tree frogs could be heard once again, along with the curling and tumbling of waves on the sea wall.

  It was a moonless night with no breeze. I pulled my bed onto the balcony, where it was a couple of degrees cooler. I couldn’t stop thinking about Grace going to see Tula. My imagination conjured up images so vivid and unhealthy that I had to force them away. I trusted that Grace wouldn’t do anything too silly, but Tula was a master manipulator. All I could do was wait for the next phone call.

  I thought of the two bodies that had been found by a tramper in the Waitakere Ranges years ago. They belonged to a couple of young girls who had worked in one of Tula’s clubs. The newspapers were all over it. The murders were the talk of town. Tula was the prime suspect.

  I was ten years old then. Duri
ng that time, he ate at our restaurant. A posse of news cameras stood by the front door, so my father let him leave through the back door. I watched from a corner of the kitchen as he moved through with his men. He was laughing and joking with our staff and stopped to sample some pasta. Then he caught sight of me sitting at the prep bench with my homework. He came over and put his hand on my cheek, ‘Don’t worry, little Milano. They can’t touch me.’

  The next day, he was arrested on suspicion of murder. A week later, there was no more news of the investigation. I came in from school one day, and my father had a newspaper spread on the prep table. He was reading the article to his staff. I caught only the last sentence: ‘Owing to lack of evidence, all charges have been dropped against Tula Mahe.’

  * * *

  I woke up under the veil of my mosquito net to the usual chirping of crickets and frogs. I could smell temple incense and mango blossoms. Wayan would be doing her rounds. Satchimoto’s laughter came from the coffee shop. Then I heard an unfamiliar sound, a giggle from the room next door, followed by a guttural Japanese expletive.

  I showered and went down to the shop, ordered a coffee and absorbed myself in the morning’s newspaper. Again I heard the giggle. I looked over the top of my newspaper and saw two local bargirls, wearing bright red lipstick, high heels and low-cut Lycra tops. They were boarding a taxi under the banyan tree. An hour later, I received an urgent call to the office. A Japanese fisherman’s wallet was missing from his room. His cash and credit cards were gone. By the time we phoned his credit card company in Japan, it was too late. A large amount of money had been withdrawn.

  Later that day I asked Satchimoto where the girls came from. He told me that a local taxi driver could supply any number of young girls for a very low fee.

  ‘How much?’ I asked. The word ‘young’ bothered me. I was having wild dreams about what Grace might be up to. I was astounded by the large amount Satchimoto quoted.