Shaman of Bali

by John Greet

  ‘It’s me, Geno! It’s me, Adam!’ I shouted. ‘You’ve just thrown Satchimoto off the building.’ I took him by the shoulders and shook him. He stared at me quizzically then the murderous look in his eyes changed to a confused green. He sheathed and pocketed the carpet knife.

  ‘What the fuck!’ he stammered. Then it dawned on him. The magnitude of what he’d just done and the danger we were in now. We rushed to the glass barrier. Far below, we saw Satchimoto. He’d landed on the road, his head split open, surrounded by a growing pool of dark liquid, his arms splayed and his legs bent at unnatural angles. Traffic had stopped. Stunned pedestrians stopped, hands covering faces, others staring motionless.

  ‘Fuck,’ said Geno. ‘Quick, man, we gotta get outta here. Take the stairs.’

  I followed Geno through the door to the stairwell. He moved fast, taking the stairs in jumps of three at a time. He didn’t look back. Then I remembered Satchimoto’s false teeth; I rushed back up the stairs and to the roof, and pocketed them. I went back out through the door. The express lift wasn’t in use. I pressed the call button and waited. Seconds became minutes, and the minutes felt like hours, and then finally the doors slid open to an empty lift. I pressed the button for the tenth floor. I wiped the sweat off my face with a handkerchief on the way down and walked out into the reception area of my English school. I went to the bathroom, washed my face and hands. As I passed the receptionist on the way to my classroom, she didn’t look up.

  In the classroom, the group of men were chatting away in Japanese. As soon as they saw me, they chimed ‘Sensei-san’ in unison and reverted to English. The clock on the wall said two-fifty. I’d been gone twenty minutes.

  ‘Please excuse me, I had to take a telephone call. We can make up the extra time in the coffee shop after class if anyone would like that. Now let’s look at those irregular verbs.’ I took my seat at the head of the table and placed my hands flat on the table top to stop them from shaking.

  At three o’clock an announcement came through on the speaker system, first in Japanese then in English. ‘Would all occupants of the building please use the north exit when leaving, on account of a traffic accident.’ I looked around the room; nobody found this unusual.

  After class I led my group of students into the groundfloor coffee shop, where we continued our conversation lessons. Police and uniformed guards were mixed with the crowded patrons of the lobby, questioning the people who left by the north exit. Luckily they didn’t bother with a group of businessmen and their teacher, all of us well-dressed and carrying briefcases. We passed through unnoticed. I was so conscious of Satchimoto’s false teeth in my pocket that they felt like they were burning holes in the fabric. I wanted rid of them as well as the pair of keys. I hadn’t yet thought of a safe place to dump them. I walked a good distance with my students. At the west entrance to Shinjuku Station, we bowed to each other and went our separate ways.

  On the way to Akebonobashi, past the Ni-chome district, was a Shinto temple. It was set in a park and as I walked through its entranceway, I came to a deep pond with water bamboo, flowering lilies and golden carp, whose fins rippled the tranquil surface of the water. I sat on a side bench beside the pond. A Shinto monk shuffled past in burgundy robes. I watched the movement of the carp for some time then reached into my pocket, looked around to make sure nobody saw me and tossed Satchimoto’s teeth into the water. They floated on the surface for a short while. The carp inspected them, then determined they were not edible and glided away. Satchimoto’s false teeth sank in short sweeping movements.

  I chose the heaviest rock bordering the pond. Green carpet moss broke away as I moved it. I slipped the two safety-deposit keys under it, pressed the spongy green moss back into place and looked around. An old woman was praying at the shrine, head bowed, holding incense in her palms. Nobody had seen me. With the moss back in place, the rock looked as if it had never been moved.

  That night I drank myself into a sake stupor. As I staggered home down a deserted alley I pulled the carpet knife from my pocket and snapped it in two. I tossed it to the ground and stamped on it again and again until all that remained of it was crushed plastic and tiny segments of blade. I slumped against a doorway, holding my head. From across the alley, an old lady in a kimono came out and without looking at me, she swept the mess into a tray with a straw broom. Then she disappeared behind a wooden door.

  * * *

  I went to work the following day. The receptionist told me that a man had died outside the building yesterday, but they were not sure how.

  I tried to sound casual when I answered, ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ Then I entered the class room to a chorus of ‘Good morning, Sensei-san’ and immediately in halting English a student gave me a full rundown of yesterday’s death. It was the talk of the class.

  ‘Maybe he jump?’ wondered another student.

  ‘Jumped,’ I corrected him. ‘It’s the past participle, but the “ed” is pronounced as “t”.’ I made the class repeat after me as I said ‘jump-t’, exaggerating the ‘t’.

  I forced myself through a full day of classes. I’d lost my appetite, and I had no desire to talk with anyone, and when I was alone, scenes from the incident on the rooftop invaded my mind as vivid as the day they had happened. I couldn’t sleep, and at one point I considered giving myself up to the police. I didn’t want to call Grace. I would hear the telephone ringing but could not answer it. It was all I could do to carry on teaching until enough time had passed so I could leave my job without arousing suspicion. I found myself looking over my shoulder constantly, worried that Geno would appear.

  My solace was sake. I went to a local tavern every night. As soon as the barman saw me enter, he’d shout ‘konnichiwa’. And by the time I reached my seat a carafe of hot sake and a selection of pickles were placed before me on a bamboo tray. The ancient wooden tavern was packed tight with drinkers. I would listen to their guttural laughter and watch the dance of chopsticks while I worked my way through a number of carafes, as many as I could drink until the barman, who reminded me of someone I knew, held up his palm and said, ‘Yamete kudasai, Stop’. Then I’d drag myself home and collapse on the tatami floor.

  A week later, at the end of a morning class, the receptionist came and asked for me to follow her. She led me to a classroom, where sat a Japanese detective and a young female translator. He had punch-permed hair and wore a black shirt under his dark suit. The translator introduced him as Detective Katsuki, the person in charge of the investigation of the man who had fallen off the building. Katsuki pushed his identification badge across the table and the translator began. I felt my face tighten and held onto both sides of the chair.

  ‘We have been informed that you spend a lot of time on the roof garden of this building. Is this correct?’

  ‘It is. I went there to read. It was relaxing.’ I was surprised at how normal my voice sounded.

  ‘Did you see any other people during the time you were there?’

  ‘No. Occasionally someone would come up, but not recently.’

  ‘When did you last go up to the roof?’ My stomach sank. Had someone seen me there that day? I felt Detective Katsuki’s eyes boring into me.

  ‘A couple of weeks ago.’

  ‘Can you give us an approximate time and day?’ the translator asked, without looking up, writing continuously as she spoke. I pulled out my pocket diary, hoping my hands wouldn’t shake, and thumbed through it. I looked at my weekly schedule.

  ‘The fourteenth of this month, from twelve to two o’clock.’ That was in fact the last time I’d been up to the roof to read. Detective Katsuki spoke in a guttural tone to his translator for some time.

  ‘In your opinion, do you think it would be possible for someone to climb up the suicide barriers and jump? Or do you think there were other people involved?’

  I breathed out, feeling numb. I could hear the words coming out of my mouth; they sounded distant, as if they came from another person, another voice.
>
  ‘I really can’t answer that. It’s not something I have thought about.’

  A long conversation followed between the detective and the translator. Although I did not understand Japanese, I kept hearing them repeat the name Satchimoto in connection with the word ‘Yakuza’. My curiosity pulled me back.

  ‘Can I ask a question?’ I interrupted.

  ‘Certainly,’ replied the translator.

  ‘Could you tell me about the man who died?’

  ‘Certainly,’ she said again and shuffled through a couple of papers. She came up with a file that had Satchimoto’s photo on the right-hand corner.

  ‘Iko Satchimoto was the name he most frequently used, although we know he had other aliases and a number of passports. Because of this, it’s been hard to track his recent movements. We know he spent the last year offshore, perhaps in the Philippines, possibly in Indonesia. He was a well-known Yakuza boss. He was a money-man and organiser. His main operation was money laundering for different Yakuza factions through a group of travel agents he controlled with his wife.’ The translator stopped. ‘Would you like for me to continue?’ she asked, looking up from her file.

  ‘Please do,’ I said.

  ‘His wife left him for a rival Yakuza boss, and together they attempted to take over Satchimoto’s operations. His life was at risk on account of this. We know the rival faction had a contract out on him. We believe Satchimoto got warning of this and fled Japan, taking a large amount of Yakuza money with him. He was gone for about a year but resurfaced recently. Our informants tell us he paid back all the money he owed with interest. We think the Yakuza would have no reason to assassinate him, and the way in which he died is not the way they carry out their assassinations.’ The translator looked through a couple more pages then said, ‘That is why we are asking you so many questions.’

  ‘Thank you for explaining this.’

  Detective Katsuki suddenly spoke in English. His voice growled, ‘Satchimoto, no good man, you understand?’ I nodded. ‘Yakuza no good. In Japan, big problem, understand?’ I nodded again. The detective stood and shook my hand. ‘Thank you, Sensei-san. Maybe I take English lesson with you, okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ I answered, taken aback by the turn of events. I wasn’t a suspect. They hadn’t even asked to see my passport, and the information about Satchimoto explained volumes. In the lobby we bowed formally to each other, and Katsuki and I exchanged cards. I entered my classroom and looked at the expectant faces of my students.

  ‘Good afternoon, class.’

  ‘Good afternoon, Sensei-san,’ they replied in unison.

  That evening I wrote a letter of resignation to the school, explaining that I would be leaving Japan soon. I had two more weeks of teaching to be completed.

  That night I sat again in the tavern, letting the hot liquor mix with relief. A huge load had been lifted from my shoulders. I had to figure out what to do and where to go. As the barman refilled my glass, I knew who he reminded me of: Farbat Dingali, the Indonesian lawyer Mahmood Bas had used to get Anak out of jail. I settled for one carafe. I needed to remain clear. I fiddled with the chopsticks, pushing the pickles around on my plate. By the end of the night, I knew what I was going to do.

  30

  By the time I’d finished my morning class it was two o’clock. Indonesia was two hours behind Tokyo. From the phone in the lobby, I called the international directory and got Dingali’s number. A secretary put me through, his voice condescending as he tried to remember who I was. ‘Ah, of course, of course, how could I forget,’ came his slippery tone as I told him what I wanted. ‘I can try, but no promises though. I’ll make some inquiries and call you back.’

  I gave him the school’s number and information about when I’d be available there. On a grey Monday morning, when the Tokyo smog smothered the view from my classroom window, I was asked to come to the telephone.

  ‘Good news, my man. It can be done. Book a flight to Jakarta, call me with the flight number, and I’ll meet you before immigration. I must warn you it’s going to be expensive …’ said Dingali.

  * * *

  At the Shinto temple, I walked around for some time before I took a seat by the pond. I was dressed as a tourist and carried a camera. I waited until I was alone then pushed the rock slowly with my foot. The two brass keys lay exactly where I’d left them. I reached down, picked them up and pocketed them while pretending to take a photograph of the pond, then replaced the rock.

  I took a taxi to the Ginza and went straight to the Bank of Tokyo. A wall of safety-deposit boxes of varying sizes lined the interior of a large enclosed room to one side of the main entrance. Two uniformed and armed security guards stood outside, while a number of customers had their boxes open or were shuffling through documents on the tables provided.

  I found the number I was looking for with ease and put the two keys into their slots and turned them simultaneously. The box slid open. Inside it, wrapped in brown paper and secured by tape, lay the money. I opened my shoulder bag and stuffed the paper parcel into it. I had to stop myself from looking over my shoulder, afraid Geno might come bounding in. I carefully closed the box then walked out past the security guards calmly, as if this was something I did every day.

  I strolled the crowed avenues of the Ginza, mingling with the shoppers and lunchtime crowd. Reaching into my pocket, I took a tissue and wrapped the two brass keys in it.

  On the way back to Akebonobashi, I stopped again at the temple. At the shrine I took a handful of Japanese yen and dropped it into the offering basket to made a wish. Golden carp circled the pond. It was spring in Tokyo, but I hadn’t noticed. The cherry blossoms were in bloom and their petals floated on the ponds surface like pink snowflakes. I unwrapped the keys, bent down as if to feed the fish and let them slip from my hand. They sank instantly.

  Back in my room, I locked the door, pulled down the blinds and in the dim light, opened the parcels and counted the money. It came to exactly one million and two hundred thousand American dollars. I repacked it into bundles and returned it to the shoulder bag.

  * * *

  One week later, I passed through Customs and Passport Control at Narita Airport and boarded a Garuda Airline flight direct to Jakarta. I’d found a suitcase and packed my clothes, but the case was still only half-empty, so I’d bought a collection of Japanese kimonos to fill it out; the bundles of cash were strewn randomly through my suitcase. There was no point in hiding them as I would be meeting Dingali before Customs, but I took the precaution of arranging the money in such a way that the lawyer wouldn’t be able to see how much I had.

  Ten hours later, as the plane began its decent to Jakarta Airport, from my window seat porthole I saw the myriad of small islands that lay just offshore. Then I caught sight of Jakarta, the sprawling capital city of the most densely populated island in the world. I exited the plane and at Passport Control, on viewing my passport, the controller made a phone call and asked me to wait to one side. Within minutes Dingali arrived with an official, who wore a tag that read ‘Department of Immigrations’.

  As we walked to his office, Dingali told me to pay the man ten thousand U.S. dollars. I dug into the case and produced the money. The immigration official put an entry stamp on Michael Brown’s passport then led us through a side door to the arrival lounge.

  ‘Okay, so here it is,’ Dingali said as we seated ourselves. ‘I’ve contacted the commander of the drug squad in Bali, the arresting officer in your case, and the bad news is that although there were no charges laid, the commander still has a personal problem with you. He’ll allow you back into Bali for a price of course, but he insists you must tell him how the Brazilian escaped,’ said the lawyer.

  ‘I can’t do that.’

  ‘Then it’s going to cost you, my friend.’

  ‘How much?’

  Dingali looked thoughtful, then shaking his head said, ‘You couldn’t afford it.’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘Three hundred thousand dollar
s.’

  ‘Done.’

  He raised both eyebrows. ‘And how do you intend to pay this amount?’ he asked in disbelief.

  ‘In cash, now.’

  He didn’t blink; he asked me to follow him to the toilet. As we reached the cubicles, I entered one. I quietly took the money from my suitcase and put it in my shirt front then flushed the toilet. Outside, apart from Dingali who stood there with an open briefcase, the toilets were empty. He didn’t bother counting the money as I placed it in his case.

  ‘I’m impressed,’ he said as we walked towards a taxi rank.

  I took a taxi to downtown Jakarta, where I bought a briefcase, arranged the remaining money in a tidy manner and walked into a branch of the Bank of Indonesia.

  ‘I’d like to deposit nine hundred thousand dollars into this account,’ I said, pushing across a piece of paper scribbled with an account number to a poker-faced teller. A manager appeared with a sly smile on his face and asked for me to follow him.

  ‘I assume you know the owner of this account?’ he asked as we sat in his office.

  ‘Yes, he’s a friend of mine.’

  ‘So you would have no objection if we called him to verify?’