by Tod A
Cooney called for another round of drinks, but Maday didn’t hear him. There was some commotion brewing inside at the bar. A tall ex-pat covered in bandages was rapidly winding himself up into a screaming match with a comely Asian.
“Why aren’t they at home?” Cooney said. “It’s her bloody night off. Stupid taff, if that skirt was mine, I’d be screwing her six ways to Sunday, not bickering in a boozer.”
“Sadly, I think this place provides the only social life they have,” Raj said.
“If this establishment don’t meet your high sub-continental standards, Curry, there are other pubs, you know.”
“Who’s the guy in the bandages?” I asked. “He seems a little screwy.”
“That’s Welsh Mick,” Raj said. “Believe it or not, he’s the official photo stringer for the Post. My colleague.” He rolled his eyes.
“His wife’s a bit screwy too, if you catch me,” Cooney said. “She buggered off a few weeks ago without a word. I would’ve sacked her. But don’t the punters love her. Had to take her back. Business was suffering.”
“You heard him admit it, gentlemen. He’d ‘sack’ her if he could,” Raj said.
“Mr Curry, you do have a one track mind.” Monty said.
“I think it’s romantic,” Kubu said.
“Mick and Nung?” Monty said. “The drunk and the barmaid. A match made in heaven.”
“Made in hell, you mean,” Cooney muttered. “Nung?” I said. The name rang a bell. I squinted toward the bar. She was a dead ringer for Frank’s New York party date. “Isn’t she Frank’s girl?”
“Frank who?” Raj asked.
“Frank Fochs, my boss. Lives over there,” I said, pointing down the beach.
Cooney spun around. “Fochs? You must be joking. You’re working for that fucking scum?”
I was about to ask him what he meant when a cacophony of shouting and breaking glass erupted from near the bar. The Welshman had fallen backwards off his stool, smashing Maday’s tray to the floor. Cooney leapt up to deal with the situation.
This was my introduction to the human wreck that was Mick Rowlands. I ran into Mick—literally—later that evening, as he stumbled out of the toilet wrapped in filthy gauze.
I asked him if he was okay.
“Okay? Okay? Crashed me bike, didn’t I,” he shouted.
The boys filled me in on the rest of the story. Mick had had another tiff with Nung—part of a perpetual financial dispute—and set off on his motorbike in a drunken rage. Unfortunately, his bike had no lights, and Mick had launched himself headlong into a patch of thorny acacia at the end of the driveway. The Welshman’s latest misadventures were a perennial gossip topic at the bar.
“I don’t understand how you can bear to work with that dipsomaniac, Raj, darling,” Monty said.
“He’s actually an educated man. He can quote the classics when sober.”
“Yes? And when exactly is that?”
“A bloody psychopath is what he is,” Cooney said. “But I’ll grant you, he’s a loyal customer.”
As far as I could see, Mick was a one-man disaster area. You usually heard him well before you saw him. This was a blessing in the form of a warning, for he was better avoided.
The only thing I can say in his favor is that Mick’s drinking problem made mine look tame by comparison. For Mick, a quiet little chat involved waving a bottle around and a lot of shouting. It was beer for breakfast, more for lunch, and whiskey for tea. His arms were stained green with crude tattoos, his fingers too—‘TIME’ on one fist, ‘TIDE’ on the other—prison souvenirs.
Mick’s wife, Nung, was a different story. Raj had dubbed her Miss Forbidden Fruit.
“She’s a crap bartender,” Cooney said. “But every man within five clicks is onto her scent like dingoes on doughnuts.”
Nobody could fathom why this tropical treasure would stick with a rotten bastard like Mick Rowlands.
Mick hailed from a village in northern Wales. He claimed to be a descendant of the explorer Sir Henry Morton Stanley, and bragged of being expelled from the finest schools in Britain. Apparently he was also a gifted photographer. But by the time I met him most of his synapses had been corroded by drink.
Somewhere between one bar fight and the next he’d been referred to a psychiatric hospital where they determined him unable to work, and therefore entitled to a generous government stipend. The Welshman was crazy—no argument there. But unable to work? Hardly.
He was fit enough to hoist beers from table to maw from morning till night. He’d survived multiple motorcycle wrecks. He was capable of cashing his dole checks right on schedule. And in the first clear hours of morning, he managed to file photos for the Jakarta Post.
It was also said that Mick did a tidy business importing ‘souvenirs’ from Madu whenever he went back to Wales to collect his annuity. Mick’s mates back in Cardiff must have shat green as they ogled the photographic evidence of his exotic lifestyle overseas—the turquoise waters, the swaying palms, the delicious golden bride—all courtesy of Her Majesty’s Government.
There was only one problem with this idyllic arrangement: keeping Nung satisfied required certain sacrifices. Nung had a thing for bling. Mick’s chief avocation was drinking, which cost money. And the funny thing about money is that there never seems to be enough of it around—especially if you suck down booze like a bilge pump. Though he did, after his own fashion, truly love the girl, the real love of Mick’s life was alcohol, to have and to hold, to love, honor and cherish, until death did they part—hence, the never-ending financial feud with Nung. She wanted to wear their money: he wanted to drink it.
I had more sympathy for her than for him. What would you do if you were the finest female for miles around and your husband was the town joke? Work it, of course, is what you would do. And work it, she did. Nung had her pick. She liked them tanned and trendy and reeking of Duty Free cologne.
It was like a sitcom that kept repeating. One minute everything would be hunky dory, Mick on his stool with an Oh-Cha in his paw, spouting off about Dylan Thomas. Then he’d swivel around and realize she had disappeared with some shiny prick from Poplar or Perth, down to the discos to have herself a proper night out.
Everyone knew what would happen next. The Welshman would whip himself up into the usual frenzy, cursing her name to anyone within earshot. Then, bracing himself for business with a couple of whiskeys, he’d stagger to his bike and gun it out into the night to look for her.
The local bouncers knew the script. All too familiar with this foreign lunatic and his run-around wife, they feigned incomprehension at Mick’s mangled Madunese.
Mick was crazy, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew that the bouncers had been paid to keep their mouths shut—by his wife, and probably with his money. He’d smash a bottle on the pavement for effect, then squeal off on his bike, hurling threats into the sweaty darkness.
But he was only killing time. Paying to get into every joint in Joro would have tapped into Mick’s drinking fund. So he’d wait until the bars closed, figuring Nung and her boy-du-jour would eventually head back to the bastard’s hotel. There were only three hotels in town with air conditioning. And Nung insisted on AC—Mick knew this by now.
When finally Mick tracked them down, he’d lure the seducer outside and beat him mercilessly, ‘TIME’ and ‘TIDE’ raining down like hail before a tornado. Then, his fury spent, Mick would mount his bike and weave away, leaving Nung to make her own way home. He had never laid a hand on her in anger. And Nung had always returned to him.
Once, Mick went too far. He hired a trio of Filipino goons to thrash a repeat offender with cricket bats. The recipient of this treatment barely survived. Unfortunately, the Filipinos stomped the wrong guy by mistake. The victim spent eight weeks in Joro’s Australian Hospital recovering from cranial trauma and fractured tibia. No matter. Mick had made his point:
he loved her.
Daybreak usually found him bleeding from a recent driving mishap, bellowing at the mute face of a concrete hotel. Bloody but unbowed, he would always forgive her.
Even paradise has its price.
{ 5 }
Paradise Found
My eyes struggled to focus on the hand-scrawled fax the night manager had slid under the door while I slept.
Mr Mark, Welcome to Madu! Mr Frank away on urgent business. Sorry I not meet you at airport, but I must go to village for my mother cremation. Mr Frank say you to come Villa Istana. Stay in Guest Bungalow. I waiting you. Best greetings, Sanjaya.
Things were looking up. Somehow, I balanced my luggage on the bike and made it to Frank’s place. A smartly-dressed Madunese man opened the door.
“Mr Mark?”
“Sanjaya?”
“Welcome. Please come.”
He beckoned a waiting servant to heft my bags and we passed through the big teak doors into a lush garden. Sanjaya led me along a shady path of pumice slabs beneath an arbor thick with flowering vines.
“This the Big House, Mr Frank house.”
A two-story colonial villa with whitewashed walls and thatched roof sat in the shade of tall coconut palms and ancient eucalyptus. Beyond the swimming pool a compact bungalow was set against the back garden wall.
“This the Guest Bungalow. Antique house, import from Java. You sleep here.”
My new lodgings consisted of two small rooms, one above of the other, with an open-air bathroom behind. The bungalow was constructed of interlocking sections of hand-carved teak. Frank must have shipped it back to Madu in pieces.
“Wow, this is … perfect,” I said, trying to digest it all. “So where’s Frank?”
“Mr Frank still away. Business problem,” he said. “No worry.”
The servant manhandled my bags up an antique ship’s ladder to the bedroom-cum-office. Sanjaya handed me a set of keys, then left me to get settled.
When the servant had gone, I scaled the ladder and ran to the teak desk, spinning around in the swivel-chair to take in the panoramic view. Windows to the south and east overlooked the garden. To the west was the patch of jungle where I’d cut my knee, and beyond the jungle, sea. The rear view looked north over the rice fields toward the lagoon. I spotted Cooney’s place a quarter mile up the beach.
I took out the Rocket, rolled a blank page into the platen, and typed two words: “FUCK YES!”
I parted the mosquito curtain and threw myself down on clean white sheets, breathing in new smells: the tang of mosquito coils and teak oil, the sweet scents of flowers and incense.
Too excited to stay still for long, I jumped up and raced down the ladder to the shower. Butted against the back wall of the compound, the bathroom was open to the sky and filled with flowering plants. I stripped off my sweat-soaked clothes, turned the taps on full, and stepped into the cooling flow like some filthy mendicant immersing himself in the Ganges.
Yes, things were definitely looking up. This was a writer’s dream retreat. It certainly beat my rat’s nest back in Bushwick. What more could I ask for? I could do it here, I really could. My bliss was cut short by a rapping at the door.
“Mr Mark,” Sanjaya called. “Mr Frank, phone for you!”
“Be there in a sec,” I yelled back. I threw on some shorts and jogged across the garden to the Big House. Sanjaya stood stiffly on the veranda, a cordless phone clamped to his ear.
“Ja,” he said. “Ja, Mr Frank, ja!”
The voice squawking from the receiver didn’t sound happy.
I took a quick look around. The villa was set up like a showroom: sleek hardwood furniture, Madunese antiques and artifacts, religious sculptures. I recognized some of the swag from the Naga website.
“Ja, ja, okay,” Sanjaya said finally, and passed the phone to me. “Mr Frank.”
“So you made it, Mark. So sorry I wasn’t able to meet you. Are you settling in?”
“No worries,” I said. “Everything okay?”
“I have a situation here. It turns out to be much more serious than I thought. It may be some time before I can return to Madu.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Just get started re-writing the website text. Sanjaya will take you over to Naga to review the stock.” As he talked I climbed the hardwood staircase, past a collection of carved canes and crutches, relics of Madu’s polio years. “The internet should be working in the compound. If you need anything else, just ask Sanjaya. That’s what he’s paid for. Well, if there’s nothing else …”
“Um, before you go,” I said. “I’m having some difficulties myself. With my bank. Any chance of getting an advance on my first paycheck? It would really help me out.”
“There’s an orang-utan skull in the display case upstairs in my study. Petty cash is in the skull. Take as needed, and we can settle up later.”
“Thanks, Frank. I appreciate it.”
“I’ll be in touch when I can.”
He hung up before I could reply.
The case was huge, a cabinet of curiosities. Giant clam shells vied for space with antique swords, wood figurines, opium pipes, and the like. The orang-utan skull was intricately carved with swirling tribal designs. The skull cap had been sawn off to make a sort of jar. Inside were several thick rolls of rupee notes wrapped in rubber bands. I counted out two million rupees, about two hundred dollars, and put it in my pocket.
Sanjaya was waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs.
“Mr Mark, come. I take you see Naga headquarter.”
I mounted my bike and tailed him.
Leaving the posh precincts behind, we were sucked into the flow of traffic, pumped from clogged arteries into constricted capillaries, until we reached a non-descript concrete-and-corrugated-steel compound in the heart of Kang-Kang’s warren of gangs. Sanjaya honked and a guard opened the metal gate. We parked in the gravel yard beside a shipment of fresh-cut timber.
He flicked a switch and a tall garage door rose to reveal the cavernous interior of the warehouse. I followed Sanjaya down a central aisle, between towering stacks of furniture. He pointed out the obvious: here were chairs and desks, over there were cabinets and wardrobes.
I was only half listening. I strolled along, stroking the smooth surfaces, inhaling the smells of teak and oil, as the air rang with the clatter and scrape of hand tools. There must have been several million dollars’ worth of goods in here, all crafted by the skillful hands of the Madunese.
Steep stairs led to a narrow catwalk suspended from the rafters. Below us two dozen men labored ankle-deep in shavings. We followed the catwalk toward a small room projecting from the back wall. This was Frank’s office, from which he surveyed his dominion. The workers leapt to attention when they saw us. I noticed that a few of the men were missing digits, and I flashed back to my great-grandfather’s wood shop. Sanjaya quickly introduced me, then dismissed the workers with a wave of his hand.
“What are they making?” I asked.
“Sacred icons. We sell so many gods, Mr Mark. Buddhist, Christian, Hindu. Ganesha and Hanuman very popular. Most popular is Shiva. You know Shiva?”
“The god of death?”
“No, Yama is this Lord of Death, bringing justice. These there are Yama on buffalos, with eyes like fire.”
A host of fearsome four-armed figures sat astride their mounts.
“And what are those?” I asked, nodding toward a cache of sculptures in a fenced-off area.
“Yes, those Shivas. Shiva divine cosmic dancer. Creator and destroyer. Inventor of sex!” he whispered. “Very special icons. Very, very much valuable. Antique.”
The Shiva statues danced in formation, their pointed crowns piercing the light like temple spires.
Later, as Sanjaya walked me to my bike, we passed a pit in the yard where worke
rs were unearthing sculptures like those I’d seen inside. He noted my interest.
“This how we make old. Mr Frank special mixture: black tea and cow piss,” he giggled. “Bury in dirt one year. Then dig up. Now antique! People pay so much more. Mr Frank clever man.”
So there was more to Naga than just import-export.
As I drove back to Villa Istana I mulled over this new information. These were statues, carved blocks of wood. Their artistic value was subjective, their spiritual virtues debatable. Was a Virgin Mary carved last year less holy than one carved last century? It was all hocus pocus to me. Was it my worry if buyers couldn’t spot the difference between a buried Buddha and an actual antique? If they were pleased with their purchase, I wasn’t going to rain on the parade. In life, the buyer had best beware—especially when it came to religion. By the time I pulled through the big wooden doors of Villa Istana I had dismissed the whole issue from my mind.
Those first few weeks on Madu flew past like a sweet dream. I awoke with the rising sun to the sound of birdsong and the gentle swish of the sweeper’s whisk. Breakfast awaited me at the bottom of the ladder: nasi goreng and fresh papaya. I sipped my morning coffee and giggled over the Madu Post at the little table under the vine-draped pergola, as enormous black bees drifted from bloom to bloom. After breakfast I worked upstairs at my desk while green parakeets flitted outside the window. Out in the paddy, hour after hour, the sun-baked farmer wrestled his plow through waist-deep mud behind a skinny water buffalo, as white cranes probed for worms in its wake. In the late afternoon Wulan came for my daily massage. At six I’d call it a day and head to the bar. It was an easy life to get used to.
I knew it couldn’t last.
Sometimes I’d pass wide-eyed children on the jungle path, where the smell of rot hung heavy over the sickly riverbed. Tripod would meet me on the beach, her whip-thin tail wagging at the scraps I tossed her. We’d walk along the waterline together, cooling our feet in the surf, as the sun engorged itself. Leaving her to chase her crabs, I’d cross the rickety bridge to Ben’s. I knew the boys would be there on the other side, hunkered down at our usual table overlooking the lagoon.