by John Greet
‘I’ll talk to him,’ I said.
I drove directly to Kerobokan Prison. I’d driven past the building many times but never knew what it was until someone told me. The prison stood on the corner of Jalan Tangkuban Perahu and the main road, between Legian and Semeniak. It was a stone’s throw from Madame Putu’s and from the main road it looked like a cheap pension. Nothing indicated it was a prison. A rice paddy surrounded most of the building and a warung, manned by inmates, was by the entrance way, catering to visitors. There were guard towers out of sight at the rear of the building. I was allowed inside for a bribe of two thousand rupiah. The guard led me into what I came to know as the ‘blue room’ and asked me if I would like to hire a mat for another thousand rupiah. As there were no chairs or tables in the large crowded room and the concrete floor was dirty, the only option I had was to hire the mat. I waited for the next bribe request, and it came immediately. The guard told me that Geno was a remand prisoner and was allowed visits only from family and I would have to pay a fee if I wanted to meet him. But the guard suggested I take a concession of ten visits, which I could have for only twenty thousand rupiah, and with that I could have a free mat as well.
A list of rules posted at the front door of the blue room stated that visits must last only fifteen minutes, but nobody seemed to take any notice. I could tell visitors had been there for hours. Indonesians and foreigners filled the room. I couldn’t tell the prisoners apart from the visitors. A couple of guards stood around. A kiosk in a corner sold Fanta, nasi goreng and iced tea. Several couples had claimed the far wall, and my eyes widened in surprise as I saw a young Indo girl straddle her foreign boyfriend; fully clothed, she rocked back and forth on his lap slowly, her hand braced on his shoulders. Other couples fondled each other, their hands groping under clothes. A young girl I recognised from Madame Putu’s was masturbating her client under a sarong. In another area, families sat in circles around plates of food, eating, taking no notice of what was happening against the far wall. A prisoner moved amidst the crowd, selling plastic-wrapped portions of sweet sticky rice. Another offered to sit next to me with a palm frond fan to keep me cool. ‘Only five hundred rupiah,’ he insisted. I brushed him off as I found a spot on the bare concrete to spread my mat.
As Geno was hustled into the room by a guard, his eyes scanned the area and settled on me. A smile spread across his face, and he rushed towards me and pumped my hand. ‘Man, what took you so long? I been waiting!’ He grinned as he sat next to me on the mat.
‘Sorry, Geno. You know, I’ve been kind of busy.’
‘Hey, forget about it. You here now. That’s the main thing.’
Geno’s hair had grown. His clean clothes and close shave told me that the horrendous grief he’d gone through at the Polda had become manageable.
‘I’m okay, man. I got a guard to get money in from Brazil. Fucker took twenty-five percent. You know I’m locked up all day but I can buy my way out for a couple of hours a day. I’m exercising, man, every day.’
‘I talked to your lawyer. She wants money to reduce your sentence.’
‘Fuck her, man! I don’t need no reduction.’ Geno pulled me in close and whispered, ‘Listen up and listen good. Next time you come I’m gonna give you something. I want to make you a drawing.’ I remained silent. The debt of twenty thousand dollars I owed Geno hung in the air between us. ‘Hey chill out, man, nothing illegal okay. And go to Putu and tell her to get her cute little ass in here to see me. Okay? And find my guitar and bring it with you next time.’
We bought food and drinks and shared a meal. I told him about all the changes happening at the Sandika, including the cockfight that on account of Geno’s bust had saved the hotel. At this, Geno roared with laughter and said, ‘Hey, man, at least I did some good thing, eh?’ I told him about the new friendship between Anak and Mahmood. He showed particular interest in whether we were continuing the diving tours and questioned me at length about what equipment Satchimoto had left behind.
‘Do you think Satchimoto had anything to do with Paolo’s death?’
‘Think? What the fuck you talking, man? Satchimoto murder Paolo, no question about it.’ The dark look on Geno’s face made me quickly change the subject.
‘Geno, I want to know this … Why did you carry the cocaine yourself? It doesn’t make any sense.’
‘Ah, I knew you gonna ask me that, man,’ he said. ‘Those two putana. Listen, I tell you. I go to Rio. I pick up two couriers, beautiful Copacabana beach girls, just perfect. I buy tickets, fix them up with five kilo each and we fly Rio, Paris in transit, Singapore. Then between Singapore and Jakarta, one girl get sick. She look so bad, man. Sweating, vomiting, she go unconscious. All the flight staff, they hanging around us, and I got my five kilos strapped to her thighs. I start to shit myself, everything going wrong. I push her into the toilet and take the dope off her. Then the other girl she panic. She go into the toilet and take off her dope. I’m there with ten kilos of cocaine in a shoulder bag. Anyway, the girl, she get more and more sick. Scary stuff, man. I thought she gonna die. The doctor, he come to us when the plane stop in Jakarta. She must go to hospital now, he tell us. She has some kind of blood clot. Well, of course, the other girl go with her. I can’t do nothing, man. I get back on the flight to Bali with ten kilos of coke in my bag. No choice, man. What I gonna do? So I know I gonna bin it. I go into the toilet, those fucking airplane toilets, they so fucking small. I start to unwrap the coke, ’cause I wrap it up good in Rio. It stink of acetone, then someone knocking on the door outside the toilet, then the fucking air-hostess saying, “Can you please vacate the toilet?” Fuck! So I stuff all the coke in my bag and take my seat. Man, what’s with these Indonesians, they shit and piss every two minutes. There’s a queue for the toilet, and I can’t get back in. We now nearly at Bali. At last, I get into the toilet again, but I see I can’t put ten kilos down that tiny little shitter. So I strap the dope to my gut and go myself. Fucking crazy, man. I know that now.’ Geno stopped for a moment, a distant look in his eyes. ‘Craziest thing I ever do in my life. Anyway, I knew Satchimoto gonna be there waiting and if there was any shit gonna happen with Customs, he pay the man. I get off the plane and I do passport okay. I walk up to the Customs guy. I’m sweating and shitting myself. I never carry dope before. You know the airport. You can see the outside from the Customs area. I see Satchimoto standing there, and he looking at me, and I start to feel safe. Then the Customs guy, he don’t even look at my bag. Two cops come from behind and they grab me. They take me to a room and find everything. I’m fucked. I tell them to go get the little Japanese guy outside, that he pay whatever they want. They walk me out but Satchimoto was gone, man, gone. He could have saved my ass but he fucked off to save his own ass. You know that motherfucker is a clever prick. He murder Paolo because he think Paolo gonna talk.’
‘You don’t think he told the Customs here in Bali?’ I asked.
‘Nah, he didn’t know I was carrying.’
‘Maybe the two girls in Jakarta then? It seems strange that the two cops came up from behind.’
‘Yeah, I’m thinking that too. Maybe one of them have a little coke on them … You know, they both coke-heads so they grass me up to get their ass off the hook. Those putana!’
‘So what are we going to do about your case?’
‘Nothing, man. Just come tomorrow and leave everything to me. Go now to Putu but tell her nothing about what you doing. Just tell her to come here, okay?’
I rolled up the mat and promised Geno I’d be back the next day. I passed the copulating couples and the eating families, and walked out of Kerobokan Prison, wishing that I’d never come. Here I was again, caught up in Geno’s shit.
Outside the doorway of her brothel, Putu listened to my request suspiciously. She nodded and said she’d go. I asked her to give my regards to Joko.
* * *
Janna was ready to go home. Dewi was adamant that she stay longer, but Anak told me that the bloodstone cure was now c
omplete. The alcohol had left her, and she was healed. I found her in her room, sitting on the bed. She turned away from me as I came near. Her hair covered her face. When I put my hand on her shoulder, she looked up at me, her face wet with tears.
‘I don’t know anymore. Don’t know what is happening to me. Everything has changed, everything.’ I sat with her and waited. I held Janna until she was calm.
‘I feel silly,’ she said. ‘Everything was fine. I was waiting for you, excited about going home, and then … I wasn’t sure anymore, wasn’t sure if I could do this.’
‘Hey, I’m with you. I’m here.’
‘Are you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Look at me. I’m a freak. I’m the drunk ape woman … You are making a mistake. I’m not whom you think I am.’
Outside, a peacock strutted across the compound and it stopped beneath the banyan tree, crowing, spreading its tail feathers. The caged fighting birds set up a racket. I looked back at Janna. Her face was puffed a little, her eyes still wet but soft and searching. ‘Adam?’ she asked.
I had to find words but nothing came. ‘Maybe I’m not who you think I am,’ I said under my breath.
Anak and Dewi were waiting for us in the compound. Anak pulled Janna aside and said something that made her smile. The women embraced, with Dewi saying that she would visit Janna the following day.
We drove down the bush track to her compound. Inside, Janna ran straight to the cage. The apes were quiet. She took the key and unlocked the door. The orangutans smothered her. She mumbled a few endearments in Croatian, cuddled and petted them. They responded, gently petting and stroking her face, clucking. They took her hand and led her to their platform. She sat with them. One ape inspected her hair as if looking for nits, while the other laid its head on her lap and gazed up at her. I quietly entered the cage and placed a basket of fruit beside them.
‘Come, Adam, sit with us,’ she said absently. I wasn’t ready. I left the cage. Janna followed, pulling herself away from the orangutans and locking the cage on the way out.
‘How do you feel about that?’ I asked, pointing to the lock and chain.
‘It’s okay, but I want to let them out into the compound at night. My boys need to have some space. We will be safe.’ She stopped and looked back at her apes, ‘I have treated them so badly. I am so ashamed … Thank you, Adam. I love them so much but I’m wondering if this is … Well, I’ll think about that later. Can we go for a walk on the beach?’ she asked. ‘There is a small warung further down that makes really good food.’
The sea was calm on a low tide. We walked near the water’s edge on a wide expanse of ruffled sand. Eddies of trapped seawater shone like silver. Small sea birds with stilt-like legs ran before us then took flight when we got close. Janna, absorbed in her surroundings, pointed out colours or stopped to admire the shape of a sea shell. The sun shadowed her, making her movements an elegant silhouette. Tinted amber clouds floated on the horizon and above them was a blaze of turquoise-blue. The evening sun was about to perform its magic. Janna walked up to me and ran her fingers over my face, then looked at me oddly.
‘What’s up?’
‘Nothing, just making sure.’ She handed me two little identical shells, crab shells that had been glazed by the sea to a delicate pink. ‘Take one,’ she said as she folded the other in her hand.
24
I was back at the prison. The same guard at the gate held up two fingers to indicate I’d used my second visit and handed me a mat. I found a quiet spot and looked around. More couples canoodled in a secluded corner. Geno arrived covered in sweat, his muscles pumped, his face bright with a healthy glow.
‘Hey, man, I been running. I do hundred press-ups and sit-ups every day.’
‘You’re looking good.’
‘Yeah, and the thing you gonna get for me, you can only get in Denpasar.’ Geno pulled out four little bamboo sticks of varying sizes from his pocket. ‘Now, what you do is … You gonna find the exact centre of each stick and make a circle with it on a piece of paper, like a compass. These are the sizes, okay? Make sure you got it right. Don’t fuck it up.’
I nodded. I knew I had no choice.
‘Then you go to Denpasar to a truck supply store. You know, one of those places that sell all the parts for the cars and trucks.’ I told him that I’d seen such places. ‘Okay, now you buy me four pieces of rubber hose. You know, that really thick stuff used for water pipes in the motors. Like really thick, man, this thick,’ Geno said, indicating the size with his fingers and thumb, ‘and they must be straight, and about seven or eight centimetres each.’
‘What’s this for?’
‘Don’t ask, man. And where’s that little Putu?’
‘I went to her place and told her you wanted to meet her.’
‘Okay, I know what she want.’ Geno pulled me in close and whispered an amount in my ear.
‘You sure?’
‘Course I’m fucking sure. Go tell her, okay?’
I met Putu at the brothel again. She acknowledged the amount and told me she’d visit Geno that day. Then I drove straight to Denpasar, to the largest car-parts supplier I could find. The salesman gave me a compass to make measurements from the sticks. Then he offered me a selection of rubber engine-hoses with the diameter Geno wanted. The transaction lasted less than thirty minutes. Then, with the remainder of the money, I bought a cheap guitar at the local music shop. Back at the Sandika, I wondered what the hoses were for as I wrapped them in a sarong, keeping them ready for Geno.
* * *
That evening, Janna and I met at a jazz bar in Nusa Dua. I parked my motorbike and followed the sound of a piano to a large pagoda by the beach. The notes of a jazz ballad flowed with the sound of the surf. The pianist had his head lowered as his fingers danced on the keys. An audience of colourful sun-baked tourists drank cocktails at rattan tables. The open-sided bar led out onto the beach: it was the same beach where Geno and Paolo had taught me to surf an eternity ago.
Janna sat alone at a table, her expression serene and enraptured, lost in the music. She wore a black spaghetti-strapped dress, and her hair was teased up into a top knot and held together by a Japanese comb. I paused for a moment to admire her: the confident and proud way she held herself, the strong line of her neck, the soft curve of her throat, and the incredibly smooth texture of her skin.
The ballad ended to a smattering of applause. Janna filled her glass from a Perrier bottle, caught sight of me and waved me over. ‘Did you hear that last piece? It was sublime.’
‘Just the last verse,’ I said. We sat looking at each other, hesitant and uncertain, each waiting for the other to speak. The waiter came and left. A group of tourists crowded the bar, calling for drinks. The pianist was signing CDs and the bar staff were clearing tables.
‘Shall we walk for a bit?’ asked Janna. ‘We can come back for the next set.’
The Nusa Dua sands had been carefully raked, the beach chairs placed in perfect order and the palm trees trimmed. Behind us, the hotels were lit up like Christmas trees. This was an upmarket tourist area, so different from where the Sandika was. It made me feel a little uncomfortable. I much preferred the wild surf and sweeping sands of Kuta Beach.
‘You look amazing,’ I said as we stopped by the water’s edge. Janna turned to face me. She smiled and took a deep breath.
‘You know, I feel amazing. No, wait, that didn’t sound right.’ She shifted on her feet and dug her toes into the sand. ‘What I mean is … Being alive feels amazing. I’ve missed out on so much. Like music, for example.’ She waved her hand back towards the bar. ‘I played the piano when I was a teenager and loved it. I think I’m going to take it up again.’ She looked wistful for a moment but then her lightness returned. ‘Adam, thank you for everything. For helping me get my life back. But I want you to know that I’m okay now.’
‘What do you mean?’
She tilted her head and looked at me quizzically, then she said in a thoughtful v
oice, ‘What I mean is … I don’t want you to be here because you think you are saving me. Is that the right word? Well, anyway, I’m okay now, and I want you to be here because you want to be here, with me.’ She raised her arms and fixed her comb. I understood what she meant. My heart pounded as I tried to find the right words. I’d never seen myself as her saviour, and I couldn’t find a way to tell her how I really felt.
Here was my chance, my moment, but all I could say was, ‘This is where I want to be.’
* * *
Anak and Mahmood Bas had plans for a joint venture, and I was often asked to sit in on their meetings. Mahmood paid the mortgage on Sandika Hotel in return for some Bali-Haj-style units that would be erected along one side of our property. Mahmood spared no expense when it came to the building of Anak’s father’s shrine: carved granite pillars led into a walk-in recess; the urn and the flat stone sat in the centre, surrounded by replicas of gods from Anak’s temple of origin. The completed structure complemented the Bali Haj grounds.
But what really brought the two men together was their passion for cockfighting. Anak had the best eye for picking birds, while Mahmood had the right business acumen to make the betting work. They travelled together around Java looking for champion cockerels. Anak made the selections, and once back in Bali, with Mahmood’s bush bankers in place, they couldn’t lose. When they arrived at the cockfighting tournaments, very few people were aware they were cohorts. The punters assumed the old Hindu-Muslim rivalry remained in place.
