Shaman of Bali

by John Greet

‘Not at all.’

  Over the speaker phone in the manager’s office, I heard Mahmood affirming that he knew me and explaining that he was expecting the money. I recalled the conversation I’d had with him by phone from Tokyo:

  ‘Mahmood, I need to ask a favour.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I need to deposit a large amount of cash into your bank account.’

  ‘How much?’ I could picture him smoothing his moustache.

  ‘Close to a million dollars.’

  ‘My goodness, Adam! You seem to be doing alright.’

  ‘Not really, but I will explain later. I’ll be in touch with further instructions about the money. Can you do this?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said, and gave me his bank details.

  I left the bank with fifty dollars in my pocket. It took me an hour to find a street beggar about my size. I took him aside and told him that I’d like to buy his clothes for fifty dollars and that he could have my suit as well. In a side alley, we made the exchange. His torn sweat-stained shirt and shorts stank, but they were a good fit. The only thing that didn’t do him justice was that I insisted on having his tyre-sole sandals, leaving him barefoot as he couldn’t squeeze into my shoes. On seeing my reflection in a shop window, I realised my face and hair were too clean, so I rubbed my fingers around the exhaust of a parked car and ran them over myself.

  The last thing I did before entering the New Zealand Embassy was throw Michael Brown’s passport into the sewer.

  The receptionist looked at me with suspicion and made me wait. There was a stack of New Zealand newspapers on a rack, and in one of them, I found a recent article on the search for the missing sailor Adam Milano. It had a photo of me. It would make my explanation so much easier.

  It was an hour before an Embassy official came to see me. I simply pointed to the paper in my hand and said to him, ‘I believe I am this man. I am Adam Milano.’

  Within minutes, the High Commissioner appeared. He had a missing person’s file in one hand and a warm smile. He guided me into a conference room.

  ‘We were almost ready to close this file … We were sure you had drowned. Where on earth have you been?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What do you mean you don’t know?’

  ‘I woke up this morning and remembered my name and that I have a daughter called Grace back in New Zealand. The last I remember is that the Sea Rover ran into a reef. But, unfortunately, I have no recollection of my life after that.’

  31

  The Air New Zealand flight banked to starboard. The familiar views of the Auckland skyscape and of the Pacific and Tasman Oceans thrilled me. I saw the rolling surf of the West Coast beaches and traced the Manukau Harbour back to the sand bar beyond the heads. Then the plane banked to port and the Waitemata Harbour shone like silver in the distance, and I could see North Head and Bastion Point rising up, blue and misty, like mythological fortresses guarding the entrance to the harbour. A lone sail bent against the wind and further out across the channel, Rangitoto Island sat humped like a huge prehistoric beast. But what was causing my heart to leap out of my chest was that I knew Grace was waiting for me on the ground below.

  I cleared Customs, walked out of the arrivals gate and searched for her. I couldn’t find her. I walked the length of the airport, looked outside then thought that I might have given her the wrong arrival time. I knew where Elisabeth lived. I would take a taxi there and wait outside. But then, suddenly, Grace sidled up beside me and put her hand on my arm.

  ‘Hello, Dad,’ she said quietly, and her hand slipped down to her belly. She took my hand and placed it on top of hers. Then she wrapped her arms around my waist and buried her head into my chest. Taxi horns sounded around us, and backpackers ambled by clutching guide books like bibles. The scrapes of trolley wheels and the hum of the airport were drowned out by the roar of a departing plane.

  ‘You kept your promise,’ said Grace as we walked towards a taxi.

  I checked into the Y.M.C.A. and spent the morning on the phone, speaking with my former accountant, the liquidator and my creditors. A sum was agreed upon, so I called Mahmood to let him know I was ready to go ahead with the first stage of our plan.

  The next morning, I wrote a check for Elisabeth’s share of the restaurant and sent it to her address by courier post. An hour later, the phone rang.

  ‘Is that you, Adam?’ she said. I didn’t answer, but as I hung up the receiver I felt light and free.

  * * *

  It was autumn in New Zealand, and a southerly wind with a cold bite blew down Ponsonby Road as I made my way to Tula’s haunt, located on the second floor of a bar at Three Lamps. I carried a plastic bag with one hundred and eighty thousand dollars in cash, which I swung back and forth nonchalantly as if it contained nothing more than a loaf of bread. The Matua sat at a table attending to his affairs. As he saw me enter, he rose and crossed the floor to give me the traditional Polynesian greeting, the touching of noses.

  ‘In the islands, we revere our ghosts and bestow titles upon them. In your case I think I’ll take the money and hope that it is real.’

  ‘I can assure you it is.’

  ‘I miss your pastas. Your restaurant is still going, but the food is lousy.’

  ‘So I hear.’

  He looked at me evenly. ‘That little girl of yours is a handful of trouble.’

  I wasn’t going to rise to the bait. I waited until Tula’s men had counted the cash.

  ‘You’re a lucky man,’ he said, as soon as he’d been told the amount was correct.

  * * *

  The duty nurse showed me to his room. Duncan sat wearing a dressing gown; his hair and beard had turned completely white, and although his skin was a blotched leathery brown, it wasn’t the death-like grey I remembered. He’d pulled his chair up to the bed, which was covered in sea charts. A wooden architect’s drawing-board held a chart of the North Australian coastline. Rulers, pencils and scraps of paper with nautical equations scribbled on them were strewn about the room.

  ‘Hello, Duncan,’ I said nervously.

  He looked at me, and in his eyes, I saw no hint of madness. They were as grey as the ocean but held a touch of warm blue.

  ‘What sea-route are you plotting?’ I asked.

  ‘My voyage, I’m trying to figure out how I managed it. If you follow the currents and tides of the region, I should have ended up here.’ He stabbed his finger at a point on the chart.

  ‘Duncan, I’ve brought you something.’

  I placed the varnished wooden box on the bed before him. His eyes were drawn to it like a child to a toy. He opened it with care. Inside, on a deep blue satin lining, lay a sextant and compass. It was the Plath Navistar Classic compass and sextant, the very set that had been used on a famous polar expedition and been recently restored to original condition by the Plath Company themselves.

  ‘They are magnificent.’

  ‘They are yours.’ He couldn’t take his eyes off the instruments. He didn’t notice as I left the room.

  * * *

  On a balmy humid night, Grace and I strolled along Mission Bay Beach. The clouds were heavy with rain. A group of teenagers hung around the fountain. We watched the water lights changing colour, and Grace told me how she didn’t feel comfortable living with her mother. She had to figure out what she wanted to do, how she would support herself as a single mother.

  We came to the fountain and saw Milano’s restaurant on the other side of the boulevard. The terrace was crammed with dinners. The economic crisis had passed.

  ‘Do you miss it?’ asked Grace as she linked her arm in mine.

  ‘A little. I often think about my father and Papa Milano.’

  ‘I can understand that. So, old man, you have some explaining to do. I haven’t asked you anything until now because I wanted you to settle in, but you have to tell me what the hell happened?’

  It took walking several times across the beach until I’d finished my story. I
left out the part about the swollen testicle. There was a sudden smattering of rain, and we sat under the shelter of a phoenix palm.

  ‘That is incredible. It’s out there, Dad! I had no idea. I can’t believe that you never said anything. How are you really? You can’t have gone through all that without feeling … well, I don’t know … Do you think you need counselling?’

  ‘No, sweetheart. I don’t need to see a shrink. I’m okay.’

  When the rain stopped, we continued our walk. The teenagers, already drenched, had now jumped into the fountain pond and were splashing each other, squealing with laughter.

  We sat on a café terrace. I fiddled with my coffee while Grace used the bathroom. I had prepared myself and was ready to tell her of my plan. She took a seat, waved to a waiter and ordered drink.

  ‘Grace, I’m leaving again.’

  ‘I guess I knew this was coming. Bali?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Well, Mahmood has given me my job back. My work visa should be processed by next week. The lawyer Dingali informed me that the commander of the drug squad will not trouble me anymore.’ I took a sip of my coffee. ‘Grace, would you like to come with me?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Come and live in Bali. Would you consider that?’ It took her only a second to decide.

  ‘Hell, yes,’ she said, rubbing her belly. ‘Living in a luxury resort in Bali! Are you serious? Of course, we’re coming. Are there good hospitals over there?’

  ‘No, but we’ll go private, and Wayan and Ketut are going to cherish this baby as if it were their own.’

  * * *

  We flew to Ngurah Rai Airport in mid-December. As we passed through Immigration and Baggage Control, we walked out into the warm embrace of Wayan and Ketut. Wrapped in frangipani garlands, we made our way to the Land Rover. Within minutes I was sitting at the Sandika’s sea wall, drinking a Long Island iced tea and receiving guests like a returning soldier. Eddi, Mahmood, Gusti and then finally Anak arrived. He had little to say but I sensed his pleasure.

  When we were alone, he leaned forward and whispered, ‘Come and see me tonight.’ Fire flies flickered in the headlights under a dusky half-moon as I rode to Anak’s compound. He sat cross-legged on his dais under the giant banyan, framed by hanging aerial roots, which gave his rat monkeys access to the inner realms of the sacred tree. Several scampered upwards on my arrival. A candle flickered in a root cavity before an image of Arjuna. The compound was empty. In the glow of an oil lamp, Anak was meditating on something before him. I saw the bloodstone in a glass of water. He indicated where I should sit. We watched the stone begin to bleed; a red ink-like liquid oozed from points in the bloodstone and curled into the water’s surface, as delicate as incense smoke. Slowly the water in the glass turned deep red. He then picked up the glass, removed the stone and satisfied with the colour handed it to me.

  ‘Anak, I am home and safe and not in need of protection.’

  ‘Of course, but drink it anyway. It will give you energy and clarity. You have much to tell me … I want to know everything.’

  As Anak watched, I drank the tasteless red water. I knew he would want to know every single detail, from the time Geno pole vaulted out of the prison until the present moment.

  Soon, I felt a surge of energy, followed by a deep peacefulness, and I was about to begin the telling of my story when I was suddenly filled with a compelling urge. I reached down, took Anak’s kris from his sash, touched its razor sharpness with my thumb and slashed the curved dagger down on my outstretched arm. The blade hit my skin, but it didn’t cut. I reached over and slashed at a piece of bamboo on the dais. The same kris sliced through it like it were a ripe mango. I slashed at my arm again in a quick succession. Apart from a few red marks, there were no cuts.

  ‘Are you quite finished?’ Anak asked impatiently.

  ‘Yes, I believe I am.’

  ‘Good. Now start from the beginning.’

  Anak folded his arms and closed his eyes. I heard the chatter of monkeys, the cooing of cockerels, the chirping of insects and tree frogs. For a brief moment, the distant sound of a plane departing the airport drowned these night noises, then they returned, accompanied by the swaying and rustle of palm fronds. I took a deep breath and began.

  * * *

  It was the middle of the night when I returned to the Sandika. I peeked into Grace’s room and saw she was sleeping soundly. Through the mosquito net, I watched the rise and fall of her chest, the curve of her belly. She’d been through enough on my account. From now on, I would be looking after my daughter and grandchild. Grace had taken to Bali instantly, and I knew she would be happy staying here.

  I went back out and sat by the sea wall, revelling in the peacefulness and clarity of the bloodwater. A wave broke, its shimmering hiss blending with the night noises. I closed my eyes and a flood of images surfaced. I saw the plough-nose dinghy, with me floundering on the stern. I saw Jimmy the Fish at the helm, surfing an outrigger down a glassy wave-face. I saw Geno strapped to the bow of an outrigger, with a jerrycan on each shoulder. I saw myself lying on the floor of a prison cell. The next wave broke, and the sound reached me like an old friend, whispering secrets.

  32

  I smelled him: that sweaty musky smell he’d always had. He was behind me. His hand latched onto my hair and pulled at my head, and the blade of his knife was cold against my neck.

  ‘Move, motherfucker, and I cut your throat.’

  I froze. A wave crashed against the sea wall. Geno tightened his grip. The sharp point of his knife dug into the soft flesh of my neck, hard enough to penetrate and cut skin.

  ‘How the fuck you thought you gonna get away with that one, man? You think you clever, motherfucker? Nice work, man, but Geno got you figured. You took Satchimoto’s keys, and you got my money. You can’t spend that much so soon, man, so I know you got it stashed. I gonna make this real simple. You take me to my money or you gonna be Mikey Brown for real. I gonna squeeze the fucking life outta you and dump your sorry-ass body at Blue Ocean. Just like that junkie scumbag.’

  ‘I got your money, Geno, and I wanted to give you the keys back in Tokyo, but you were gone. I had no way to contact you. I was waiting for weeks, but you never came.’ My voice trembled as I lied, and my body shook even though I knew he couldn’t hurt me. I was safe. He knew nothing of the power of the bloodstone.

  ‘Nice try, motherfucker. Just take me to my money.’

  ‘It’s stashed by Blue Ocean.’ More lies rolled out of my mouth. I wanted to get Geno away from the Sandika, away from Grace.

  Still holding the knife, he released his grip on my hair. I turned and couldn’t recognise him. He’d grown a beard that covered his face. His long hair, as well as the beard, were dyed jet black and his green eyes were now dark brown.

  ‘Coloured contacts lenses, man. I walk right past the same Customs asshole at the airport that busted me. I hand him my Spanish passport, and he didn’t know nothing, man. After I finish with you, I gonna go get that commander motherfucker, who beat the shit outta me. I gonna do him nicely.’ Twisting my arm up my back, he forced me towards my motorbike. We mounted it together. As we rode along the beach road, he leaned against my back, digging the knife into me. I hoped that a cop would stop us, but it was too late in the night. Kuta was deserted. The beachfront hotel lights were dimmed and wisps of steam evaporated from the tar seal of the empty road. When we reached Jalan Legian, a vehicle’s headlights shone at us. I saw the pale faces of two tourists through the car’s windscreen. I could crash, run right into the vehicle. I couldn’t be hurt; memories of Ketut and the truck returned to me. Geno pushed the knife in harder. The car passed.

  I swung the motorbike into Double Six Road and came out on the beach. The tide was out. We rode along hard sand, sea shells crunching beneath the tyres. When I saw the solitary lamp on the palm tree, I crossed dry sand. The back wheel revved and spun until we came to the track. I stopped outside the carv
ed doors of the compound. I hammered on the door. I heard a sandpapery rustle from the palms above, and a dog barking. I hammered again. With each thump, I felt the knife in my back. We waited. Then came a scratching on the other side of the door, the sound of claws on wood, followed by throaty clucking. The door opened, just a crack at first. When she saw it was me, she opened it wide. Janna held an oil lamp in one hand and with the other she held back her apes.

  ‘Adam!’ she screamed. Geno pushed me into the compound. Janna saw the knife and froze.

  The two apes took him from behind. One wrapped its arms around him like tentacles, enfolding him and throwing him to the ground. The knife fell from his hand as he was buried under the animal. The ape secured him easily, holding Geno’s arms and legs splayed with its own four limbs. The second ape clucked, peeling its lips back and showing its sharp yellow teeth.

  ‘Stop! No!’ Geno screamed.

  Janna was about to stop her apes. I held her back. While one ape held Geno, the other ripped his trousers away with its paw. His bare buttocks squirmed and writhed beneath the beast, trying to dislodge the ape as it mounted him.

  ‘Please, Adam … Oh, for fucks sake, man! Please.’

  The ape on top of Geno threw back its head, pumped up its throat and let go a harrowing burst of clucking and gurgling. The sound reverberated off the compound’s walls. I knew the sound: it was an orangutan mating call. Geno stopped struggling; his body stiffened, his butt cheeks clamping together, and his pleading face fixed on me in a look of abject horror. I moved cautiously towards the ape sitting on top of him, took him by both paws and pulled him off Geno. The ape stared at me and down at Geno, then a paw pulled away and swiped at me. Janna rushed to restrain the animal. The other ape wrinkled its nose and released its grip. I picked up the knife and knelt beside Geno, and while Janna held back the apes, I pointed it at Geno’s eye.