‘Whisky,’ he cuts in.
He’s been here before.
‘Buat semua?’ For everyone?
A slight inclination of the head. I hit the bar and pour generous serves, balance them back on a tray. The officer doesn’t take his eyes off me as he sips. I’m tempted to get up and pour myself a whisky, or to put my feet on the chair next to the officer’s; tempted to do something young and mad and indifferent, just to shatter the glassy tension. He’s first to finish. He draws a single finger over his lips, asks softly, ‘Dimana Shane?’
‘Medan. He’ll be back in two days.’
‘Did he leave it?’
‘Leave what?’ I ask, just as it dawns on me. They’re here for the bribe, of course. The bribe Shane pays to sell liquor, to stay open. Shane didn’t mention they’d be coming and he certainly didn’t leave any money. Perhaps they’re early. ‘Oh, yang itu!’ You’re talking about it. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but Shane left nothing with me to give to you. He’s been very busy and actually quite sick. Perhaps if you come back on the weekend?’
‘I think you can help us.’
There’s something about their faces, something at once familiar and utterly strange. These police have the same look as Indonesian soldiers, or Indonesian customs officials – the ones who fleece you in small rooms, behind closed doors, over ash-stippled desks. It’s a look of carefully combed contempt, backed with blankness. It’s a look that makes it impossible to imagine these men as husbands, as fathers, as brothers.
‘Take me to the office. You have a key to the safe.’
‘I don’t have a key to the safe,’ I say truthfully. ‘I’ve only been working here for a week. Shane doesn’t trust me with a key to the safe.’
‘Then I’m afraid, miss, you’ll have to give me your passport.’
‘My passport’s with immigration,’ I lie. ‘I don’t have my passport. But I’m happy to get you a photocopy.’ I jump to my feet.
The officer doesn’t like this. He too springs to his feet so we’re eye level.
Above us, the nuts in the betel tree click like wooden beads.
‘Whisky,’ he says.
‘Certainly, sir.’
‘The bottle,’ he says.
‘Of course.’
I bring him an unopened bottle, our last. Hand it over with the faintest tremor in my fingers.
‘You tell Shane we’ll be back,’ the officer says.
Then the five of them turn and head toward the door.
I can’t help myself. I break into English. ‘See ya later, ya fucken jerks!’
The officer turns and for a single horrified moment I worry he’s understood me. I smile and dip my head graciously. He nods. They leave. And I make straight for the remaining half-bottle of whisky.
51
Adalie texted yesterday asking me over for coffee. I’d forgotten about giving her my number at Dennis’ place. Tengku and Umar had reappeared by the time I left, but Kristi was still missing. I didn’t feel too bad about heading out, knowing the boys were there. I wasn’t disobeying Shane’s explicit demand not to leave the resort unattended.
It’s hard to imagine it was only a few weeks ago I was last in this house of wood and glass, moving drunk around the laughter-lit rooms, burningly conscious of Matt. Now, it’s a completely different space; the paintings are bubble-wrapped and the artifacts and textiles are bundled into boxes. The remaining glass in the window frames is held in place by brown masking tape and there’s the moving-out smell of cypress-scented cleaning products.
‘Come in, come in!’ calls Adalie when she sees me at the door.
‘Thanks. How’s the packing coming along?’
‘It’s awful.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say awkwardly.
A woman comes in from the kitchen corkscrewing a grey cleaning rag between her hands. She smiles at me, flashing neat white teeth, and asks Adalie if she has a moment.
‘Tentu saja!’ Of course! Adalie says in thickly Dutch-accented Indonesian.
The woman then drops to her knees in a position of supplication and my heart drops with her – appalled.
‘It’s like this,’ she says. ‘Bu has been such a good employer over the years and I give thanks to God for bringing you to us. But I have something to ask. Yesterday, one of my sons crashed our family’s only motorbike.’
Adalie is as uncomfortable as me. She’s readjusting her skirt, lowering herself to the floor, taking her housekeeper’s hands in her own.
Her housekeeper, almost crying, continues, ‘Bu has always been so good and I’m so sorry to ask, but I wonder if you can spare some money to help fix the motorbike?’
‘That is no problem,’ says Adalie warmly. ‘Of course I can spare you the money. How much do you need?’
Her housekeeper mumbles a rupiah equivalent of forty Australian dollars.
‘Of course. No problem at all,’ Adalie repeats. ‘We’ve been so happy with the work you’ve done. And just because we’re leaving now, it doesn’t mean we won’t be back, it doesn’t mean we won’t be in touch.’
‘Thank you Bu. May you have a long life,’ her housekeeper says, tears sliding freely now down her pretty, high-cheeked face.
The two women embrace. If only I’d turned up ten minutes later. This is way too intimate. The housekeeper is a proud woman – imagine the courage it must have taken for her to fold to her knees and beg. I feel slightly sick-dizzy when I think of the power of money here.
Through the glass, over the balcony, a grey wind gurneys the tops of the trees. In the distance, there’s a lead-pencil line of ocean lurching with swell. So much for my plan of getting in the water.
‘Sorry Penny,’ says Adalie. Her housekeeper has disappeared. ‘Please, come. Can I get you a coffee?’
‘Sure.’
When we’re finally settled in cane chairs on the balcony, sipping from glasses of grainy, tasty robusta, she says, ‘Remember the meeting at Dennis’?’
I nod.
‘Do you remember what Matt said?’
My cheeks spot red like stovetops. ‘About what?’
If Adalie notices my shame she doesn’t let on. ‘About Shane. About the dukun.’
‘Yeah,’ I say cautiously, wondering where this is going. ‘Matt was seeing a dukun to try and poison him.’ While I haven’t said anything to Shane, I’m carrying it, the moral baggage of complicity.
‘So is it working?’ Adalie’s dead serious.
‘I don’t know. Shane’s sick, there’s no doubt about that.’
The wind picks up. Adalie’s unruffled, face thoughtful. ‘I’m about to tell you something. And I would like you to keep this just between the two of us.’
I wait.
‘I’ve talked with my housekeeper and she’s gone to see a friend. We think this will work much better. Here.’ She hands me a plastic bag. Inside is a twisted black piece of … what? Skin? Fin? Bone? Tongue?
I get a prickling feeling under my shirt that’s got nothing to do with the wind. ‘More black magic,’ I say, surprised at how even my voice is, thinking: these mad bloody bules! First Matt, now Adalie, who else? The bules here are probably wheeling and dealing in more black magic than the locals!
‘Don’t say anything to Franz,’ Adalie says. ‘I know he’s an anthropologist, but he’s a scientist first. He wouldn’t approve. The thing is, I really don’t want to go back to Europe. Imagine – winter in Holland. Horrible! Franz says the only way we would possibly consider staying is if Shane was gone. I know, I know,’ she gestures inside to the packed boxes. ‘A bit late, no? But this,’ she flicks the plastic bag, ‘very bad, very strong. It took my housekeeper a long time to get.’
‘So … what do I –’
‘Boil it. Then mix the boiled liquid in with some tea. One week within drinking it, he’ll be gone. Back to Australia.’
‘I don’t know if Shane drinks tea. Certainly beer and spirits.’
‘Well, I leave it to you.’
‘Adalie, I don’t mean to be disr
espectful, but Shane’s my boss. He’s paying me, and well, he’s … well, he’s not that bad.’
She laughs softly, mirthlessly. ‘Yes, this is what you think now,’ she says. ‘This is what you think now.’
52
That night, after Tengku and Umar have disappeared to their room, it feels like I’m the only one in the surf resort. The wind has completely died. Waves detonate on the reef. I fidget through a few pages of Robert Adamson but feel too keyed up, too nervous to be reflective. So I toss the book and turn instead to a surf movie. There are the usual boobs and barrels and blue water. I only half watch, mind still elsewhere. I’m thinking of the police with their skin buff with sweat and oil. I’m thinking of Ibu Surti dreaming of shopping malls while Adalie dreams of magic. I’m thinking of the plastic bag with its devilish black contents scrunched out of sight in my rucksack. I’m thinking that consumerism, modernity, must be slowly eroding culture, and wonder if it will also erode religion. I’m thinking of a burning church and Josh’s text in code. And suddenly, hotly, I’m thinking of Matt. Of my lips tracing his jaw, tracing a path through the raw stubble down his throat, tracing his dark, sharp collarbones. I’m thinking of his hands gliding my sides, lacing hard in the small of my back. I’m thinking: I hate being here alone. I hate sleeping alone. There’s a pause in the surf movie. Beyond the guesthouse drifts the eerie electric song of the ice-cream man.
53
Kristi’s back, busy airing out a bedroom. She dares me with her eyes to say something. I just smile and say good morning, head on to the kitchen to fix myself a coffee. Tengku and Umar are in their usual spot, sucking up oily strands of mie goreng.
‘Hey guys, where’ve you been?’
‘Jalan-jalan,’ they reply in unison.
‘But where?’
They gesture vaguely. It probably doesn’t matter where they’ve been, it’s not like we were flat out with guests.
I take my coffee onto the deck and look out over the water. It’s early morning silk. The waves are lining up on the main reef okay but it’s big, with the odd, rogue wash-through. Maybe I’ll go for a paddle tomorrow, if the wind continues to hold off and it settles down a bit.
Around ten, Shane comes heavy-footed along the corridor of posters. He didn’t look too bad the night before he left but he looks shattered now, pink-eyed and sallow-skinned. He must have driven overnight from Bandar Lampung. Still, he grins when he sees me.
‘Penny! How’s everything been?’
‘Pretty quiet.’
‘Always is this time of year. I’ve got some early Christmas presents for you.’
‘Presents?!’
‘Kristi!’ he bellows.
She appears within moments, a coquettish tilt to her head.
‘There’s some bags on the back seat of the car. Bring them in.’
She pads away on bare feet.
‘What was Medan like?’ I ask.
‘What do you think?’
‘A shithole?’
‘You got it. And so were they alright? They didn’t fuck off on you?’
Maybe that’s what had happened last time.
‘No, no. All good.’
He can sense the lie, the way a shark senses blood. I can feel him gathering himself for an attack but Kristi comes back with the bags, distracting him.
‘On the table,’ he commands. ‘The green one’s for you.’
The bag’s full of fabric – skirts, dresses, skimpy singlets.
‘Thought your wardrobe needed a bit of a lift. I don’t want to see you in pants anymore, especially not those fucken clown pants you had on the other night, the ones with the crotch down to the floor. They’re not a good look, okay? You’re working in a surf resort, not the fucken backpackers in Perth. Think of this as your uniform. And that bag too, the blue one.’
There are two bottles of Gordon’s inside. I don’t feel comfortable about being told what to wear, but a few bottles of bedroom gin is just fine. ‘Thanks Shane.’
Kristi’s pouting.
‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ he says. ‘I didn’t forget about you. You’ll get your present later.’
He smacks her arse.
Somewhere in the distance, a wail from the mosque opens like a throat.
54
Shane’s gesturing wildly at a bloke a third his age. There are three of them. Definitely Aussies. With sun-bleached hair and boardies and Bintang singlets that show off effortlessly toned arms. Their bare feet are a mess of reef cuts, missing toenails, inky lines of urchin poison. It looks as though Shane’s trying to out-storytell the young bloke. The bloke, too stupid or arrogant to see the manic gleam in Shane’s eye, keeps interrupting him. Shane doesn’t flip. The night is young. The mozzie coil has only just begun its inward inch. Then one of them notices me, lets out a low, shy cough, and gestures with his head. Shane spins around.
‘Penny. These gentlemen would like to order.’
‘What can I get for you guys tonight?’
I take the orders for beer and then Shane turns back to the young fella. ‘What were ya saying, mate?’
They only stay for a few, then take off into town in a taxi for some dinner at the night market. Shane seems disappointed to see them go and turns to me. He’s got a heavy smell about him: cologne and sweat and charred cloves.
No chance, not tonight. I excuse myself and go back to my room for a quiet beer alone.
55
It’s the crack of dawn and I’m up in the surf-check tower. Over the water the colours are changing, somnolent as smoke. There’s one guy out surfing the right and, even from this distance, I know it’s Shane. Despite his heft he’s unbelievable on a board. You can tell he used to surf competitively by his wave choice, by the line he cuts, by the timing and placement of his turns. I imagined he’d surf all whack and slash, with a kind of disdain for the wave. Instead, he’s got a much smoother, more powerful style. Big, relaxed turns. Big, violent fans of spray. Shane apparently doesn’t just talk the talk.
Behind me, the ladder creaks and groans. The day’s started. It’s the three guys. Scratching their armpits and stubble.
‘Morning.’
‘Morning.’
‘What a faggot,’ one of them says. He half turns to me. ‘Told us it only worked on high tide in the dry.’
This morning, it’s glassy and the tide is super low. Blackened knobs of rock and reef are exposed almost to the wave. If Shane missed a take-off, he’d end up kissing dry reef. But there’s no way Shane will miss a take-off.
‘Looks pretty shallow,’ comments another guy. ‘Bet his fins are clipping the reef on those bottom turns.’
‘Don’t be a pussy. Let’s hit it.’
A few minutes later there’s the scuffing of tropical wax, the smell of coconuts and bubblegum. The guys go cat-like over the reef. Shane, when he sees them, takes a wave in.
56
A paddlepop dusk, a fluro ’80s sunset: guava, violet, sirsak. The muezzin starts his dusk cry and tonight, there’s something arresting in his voice, an exquisite, almost feminine mournfulness.
Shane’s voice competes with the muezzin’s.
‘… well you know, some people like fucking blonds, others like fucking paraplegics. I happen to like fucking Asian chicks –’
The guys’ laughter is punctuated with the throaty rattle of geckos.
‘Penny,’ says Shane when he sees me. ‘Get yourself a drink and join us. Gentlemen,’ he opens his hand expansively, ‘can the lady sort you out with more drinks? This round’s on the house.’
‘We’ll have three more Binnys thanks,’ says one of the guys in a nasal voice. He’s obviously the leader of the group, with freckles so dense they blur into a tan.
‘Shane?’
He lifts his beer. ‘Same again, love.’
Before sorting out the drinks at the bar I duck my head into the kitchen to make sure Tengku and Umar are on call should the guys want dinner. Kristi’s sitting on an upturned crate with a cigarette resting on
a sulky bottom lip. A dirty cloth hangs over her knee. A rubble of unwashed plates, spoons and ashtrays is spread across the kitchen benches. The Aussie boys must have had an early feed.
Tengku and Umar are nowhere to be seen.
‘Well?’ I say, gesturing to the mess.
‘Well what?’ she spits.
I shake my head; give up. She doesn’t answer to me anyway.
At the beer fridge I pull out five frosty Bintangs. Within moments, the bottles bead with condensation. I cram them on to a tray and move back over to the guys. They scrape their chairs out to include me in the circle. Their hands – the scorched colour of crab – reach greedily for the beers.
‘I was just telling the fellas what keeps me here despite all the shit. They’ve seen it firsthand. Tell ’er about the bikes.’ Shane’s already slurring his words.
‘The bikes?’ repeats the freckled guy. ‘Yeah, well, we got in a few days ago and stayed down on the beach.’
‘At Ibu Ayu’s?’
‘Nah, some other joint. A bloke rented us bikes for a week. On day three one of the bikes disappeared. Bang. Just like that. From the locked car park.’ He caulks his beer with his lips. Wipes his mouth. Continues, ‘They called up the bloke we rented them off and he demanded we cover the cost of the bike. Pay for a brand new moto.’
‘Oh yeah? How much were you lookin’ at?’
One of the other guys, dark skin, rum-wicked eyes, says, ‘Eight grand.’
‘No way! More like eight hundred,’ I say. ‘So what happened?’ Ants are mobilising around my beer. I lift it from the balcony railing to my lips.
The freckly guy continues. ‘Obviously we were suss on the whole thing and sure enough, later that arvo, Johnno saw his bike parked out the front of the Circle K supermarket. Recognised the sticker. So we waited outside and roughed the bloke up a bit.’
Johnno, a blond surf doll, sniggers, ‘Yeah, that’s one way of putting it.’
Shane’s not to be outdone. ‘There’s a syndicate of them,’ he says. ‘Those Euros who were here the other week, same thing happened to them.’
Troppo Page 15
