Passport to Death

by Yigal Zur

  What about me? I wondered. Do I know where I am? I still had no idea if I was getting any closer to Sigal, but it was obvious I was getting closer to my past. Maybe they were one and the same.

  It wasn’t an easy decision for me to go talk to Barbu. There was too much baggage between us, in fact, between the three of us, Reuven, Barbu, and me, a triangle we once believed was eternal. Going there meant asking for a favor, and favors aren’t in my vocabulary. I have to admit there was quite a bit of ego involved, but ego also played a practical role: it fostered the fear of opening old wounds, a fear I had carried for years and was still with me here, in Bangkok. It’s amazing how people like us are fearless when it comes to operations. But this fear stuck to us like chewing gum, stretching out for miles of time. Still, in the maze I was caught in at the moment, Barbu seemed the only ray of light.

  An eponymous purple octopus gleamed in lurid neon lights above the entrance to the club. One of its tentacles was wound around the chest of a cartoon-like girl with fleshy lips, the tip reaching to the space between her legs, which were spread open crudely. I climbed the stairs to the second floor. Ever since the city passed a law banning live shows at street level, Patpong has lost something of the free flesh market atmosphere it once had. The clubs moved the lewder shows upstairs, forcing the tourists to traipse up and down. They go up, take a look, maneuver among all the girls trying to lure them in, and then decide whether to go back down and try the next place, which is exactly the same, or stay there and pay up. You don’t get anything unless you pay. There are no free lunches in the world, and certainly not in a Bangkok nightclub.

  A skinny man with a pockmarked face came down the stairs toward me. “Where you going?” he asked sharply. A Thai with a pockmarked face can be just as nasty as one with a mole beside his nose, I reminded myself. “To see Barbu,” I answered.

  I went inside. This early in the evening, the club was still half-empty. I caught sight of Barbu right away. He was sitting at a small table at the end of the bar. Smoke rose from a Gitanes in the ashtray in front of him. The same brand he used to smoke. Strong and aromatic, a lit Gitanes accompanied him wherever he went. Nit Nuy, the Thai woman who had lived with him for years, was behind the bar washing glasses and cleaning ashtrays. Soft music issued from the stereo system. It was jazz from the ’50s, his favorite music. A small python was curled up at his feet. From time to time, he reached down and scratched the side of its head.

  Everyone knew him as Barbu. Few remembered, or ever knew, his real name. Even I called him Barbu. It was hard for me at first. For me he was Yair from down the street, Yair from paratrooper training, Yair who always looked so proud in the pictures of him in his uniform with a red beret, paratrooper’s wings, and reddish-brown boots. It was only years later, when he was shuttling back and forth between Marseille and Casablanca, that he grew a beard under his Ray-Ban shades and started going by the name Barbu. I guess that was the time when his darker side began to take over. But we only found that out later, when it all collapsed and he simply got up one day, handed in his resignation, and vanished.

  Now and then, his name came up in conversation. Presumably, he was in the merchant marine for a while. After that he came back to Israel and started crafting hand-sewn sandals. He lived in one of the old stone houses on the Haifa shore, where his friends would come to listen to jazz and puff hesitantly on a joint, grinning from ear to ear. Yair never smoked weed. He just sat there and smiled, rocking his head in time to the music and scratching his mangy German shepherd behind the ear. Its name was Jazz, naturally.

  One day he closed up shop and disappeared. There were rumors. They said he moved to Amsterdam and after that to New York. He was seen at the Bhagwan ashram in Pune in India. Then nothing for years. Until I ran into him one day in Bangkok.

  I was walking through Patpong looking for a quiet place to have a drink. The Goldfinger was too loud and the French Kiss was too crowded, filled, as usual, with journalists and mercenaries waiting for a war to keep them busy and meanwhile consuming huge quantities of beer until their bloated bellies were leaning on the bar. So I went into the Purple Octopus, hoping that it would be quiet upstairs. I was right. That’s when I saw Yair.

  I went over to him. He didn’t even get up, just kept sipping on a frosted glass of Coke and ice. “Just so you know,” he said, “here I’m Barbu. And that’s Nit Nuy,” he added, pointing to an attractive petite woman behind the bar.

  I sat down and drank the whiskey Nit Nuy poured me. We exchanged a few words, like two people who hadn’t seen each other in a long time but weren’t really interested in the usual meaningless Israeli protocol of “where have you been and what have you been doing?” In any case, it made no difference where we were in our lives at the moment. “What’s up?” I asked him, as if we’d seen each other the day before.

  “Everything’s coming up roses,” he answered in kind, smiling.

  That put us on the same page.

  “The whiskey’s authentic. No knockoffs here,” he said.

  “Good to know.”

  Nit Nuy refilled our glasses, whiskey in mine and Coke and ice cubes in his.

  “If you’re looking to get laid, let me know, and I’ll say yes or no and who,” Barbu said. “You don’t stick your cock in any of my girls without my say-so. Got it?”

  That was Barbu speaking, spelling out the house rules. Not the Yair I knew.

  Contrary to my first impression, he was kind and generous. I slept better that night than I had in a long time. Maybe it was the whiskey, or maybe the two girls with the amazingly soft skin I found in my bed in the middle of the night. I didn’t even know how they got there, and I didn’t really want to know. What difference did it make? They were there. Surprisingly, I fucked that night without any inhibitions or any anxiety about doing something I hadn’t done in months. No regard for the future either. Nothing. I just went with the flow. I was harder than I’d been in quite a while, ever since the incident that brought us all down, and afterwards the girls and I cuddled up in the bed, our arms and legs intertwined like a big purple octopus, and I slept like a baby.

  The next morning was even better. One of the best of my life, the kind that falls into your lap like a gift. There aren’t too many like that. Not for me anyway. I chose to forget the profession of the girls who woke up with me and simply see them as giggly little things with an enormous desire to smother me with attention. So what? We had breakfast on the floor. They fed me the best bits from the bowl with chopsticks and poured me endless cups of green tea. Then we went back to the bed and fucked some more. When I woke up, the bowls were gone and they were sitting against the wall, gazing at me.

  “You have Thai girlfriend?” Gong asked. She looked like her name, which means “shrimp”—small, curled over, and not very pretty. I answered in the negative. Her friend, Na-Nao, “cool season,” didn’t speak any English. She asked Gong what I’d said, and they exchanged a few sentences and giggled.

  Na-Nao was tall and dark, suggesting southern, maybe even Muslim, origins. She was much taller than most Thai women and extraordinarily lovely. “Na-Nao say first time she do it with falang,” Gong reported.

  Once again, I was sitting across from Barbu. Yair Shemesh was gone. He was counting 100-baht notes, leaning over until his beard, already showing flecks of white, was resting on his chest. From time to time, Nit Nuy refilled his glass of Coke and added more ice. No one was allowed to bother him until he was finished counting and had put rubber bands around the wad of bills. Not even an old friend. Not that I was sure I fit that description.

  After handing the bills to Nit Nuy, Barbu dragged the snake closer to him by the tail and started scratching it. The python didn’t seem to derive any pleasure from the attention, but it was probably used to it.

  “So tell me what you’re doing here. What is it this time?” Barbu was never one to beat around the bush.

  “I’m looking for someone.”

  “An Israeli?”

&nbs
p; “Yes, a young Israeli woman.”

  Stroking his beard, he said, “I heard a different story.”

  I didn’t reply.

  He continued to stroke his beard in a slow rhythmic motion, gazing at me with his black eyes under thick brows. “I heard you wasted a guy, the Israeli gay.”

  “Bullshit. Why would I want to take him out?”

  “Because he wouldn’t tell you where they hid the package they stole, him and Sigal.”

  I ran that through my head. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” I said.

  Barbu gave me a look that said he wasn’t in the mood to waste time. “I heard you’re working for someone who’s looking for a way to make a deal and get her sister and the money out of Thailand.”

  I laughed. “Doesn’t that sound like a fairy tale to you?”

  He didn’t join in my laughter. “Anything’s possible in Thailand,” he said. “Two types of people come here. Some are naïve tourists and the others aren’t. You certainly don’t fall into the first category. You come here for a reason.”

  “Why would I kill him?” I asked.

  “What I want to know,” he went on, “is how come you land in Bangkok and a few hours later you happen to take a cab and the driver happens to have two Israeli passports and they happen to belong to two morons who got mixed up in a drug deal. One of them disappeared and the other was killed, and you just happen to be the last person to see him.”

  “I guess it’s all coincidence,” I said. It didn’t sit well with me, pretending to be an idiot.

  “Coincidence my ass,” he said, angrily. He grabbed the snake and hurled it at me. I don’t know who was more surprised, me or the snake, but there’s no doubt about which of us reacted faster. The snake wrapped itself around my leg and sank its teeth into my shin. It hurt like hell, but I kept quiet.

  “There’s no such thing as coincidence. Don’t you know that?” he said. “Everything is part of a predetermined plan.”

  Whoever said pythons don’t bite? When I got it off me, Barbu laughed. “He’s an orphan,” he said. “He used to belong to an old junkie who performed with him onstage and let him sleep in her cunt. But she died. Of AIDS. Poor little baby. I adopted him. What else could I do? If I hadn’t, he would have ended up as soup for some fucking Chinese.”

  I considered the subject of AIDS and the blood that was dripping down my leg under my pants. I wanted to crush the creature’s head, but it had already slithered into a corner and curled up.

  “Are you going to help me?” I asked.

  He didn’t answer.

  “You owe me.”

  “I don’t owe anyone anything,” he said. “Not you, that’s for sure.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked.

  “Don’t you get it yet? You too dumb to understand?” he said.

  It’s not that I didn’t understand. But I wasn’t sure I was ready for it.

  “Officially, they blamed you. The brass came down hard on you and Reuven when the Jenin network collapsed. So why do you think I had to leave?”

  I kept silent. What could I say? Barbu was gone and Yair Shemesh was back, returning me to the past, to the baggage we all still carried.

  “You fucked up and I was just collateral damage,” he said. “The handler in the field.”

  Nit Nuy topped up my whiskey glass. I could already feel the headache I was going to have later.

  “I left because of you, because I didn’t want to take sides. And I didn’t want to be there when you started to hate each other.”

  I was even more silent, if that’s possible.

  “You didn’t know what was happening in the field. You thought everyone was in your debt. Why? Because of the money they got from you every month? You were clueless. Yussuf tried to get a message to us, to tell us he was torn up inside. That things weren’t black and white. That it’s more complicated, and we’re all just pawns in a game. But you couldn’t see three feet ahead of you. Nothing. It took Reuven time, but in the end, he got it. That’s why he’s here. You come and go, blame the whole world, blame him. For you, the penny never dropped.”

  I didn’t respond, letting time and the whiskey do their job.

  “I need your help,” I said finally.

  “I can’t help you. The only thing that can help you is letting go of the past. All I can do is give you Reuven’s address. After that, you’re on your own. And don’t come back. It’s over between us.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  I WENT BACK out into the humid streets of Bangkok. It was a long time since someone had told me to get lost. I should have been angry, but I wasn’t. That told me that Yair Shemesh was fogging my head like a film I had to clean out. But what had just happened? There’s no such thing as coincidence, he said. Was he making a general statement or was he hinting, in his own enigmatic way, at what my next move should be?

  I replayed in my mind everything that had happened since Shai got the telephone call. The passport the cabbie handed me on a silver platter; the fact that he led me by the nose to Micha Waxman; Reuven. One thing I still didn’t understand: Why had I been dragged into this story? Why me, in particular?

  I found myself walking through the crowded aisles of MBK, one of Bangkok’s largest and busiest shopping malls. I wandered among the mountains of jewelry, knockoff watches, and DVD covers. Pick one, and within ten minutes you’ll have a copy. And then coming toward me I saw the laughing eyes of Aliza, Shmulik’s secretary from the embassy. It’s weird, running into people you know when you’re overseas. It doesn’t seem plausible.

  She was standing in front of me, her arms akimbo, her belly button showing above her tight low-riding jeans. She was wearing an open blouse over a tank top studded with black sequins. However dainty and petite she looked, she still gave the impression of being a very tough gal.

  When I got closer, she smiled, her thin lips opening wide to reveal small, sharp teeth like a lizard. “You forgot all about me,” she said, in a tone that implied “you’re wasting time.”

  “Hi,” I said.

  “It’s a shame. I can help you. You have no idea how much I can help.”

  I knew she was right. Wherever you go, the secretary is your key asset. Smile at her, pay her a little attention, and you’re riding high.

  “You’re a big tall guy,” she said. “Taller than I remembered.”

  “Sorry. I’ll try to be taller in your memory next time.”

  “You’re stuck, right?” she asked.

  Apparently, the look in my eyes said it all.

  “Coffee?” I suggested.

  We went into a Starbucks and sat down at a table in the smoking section. Things moved fast. By the time I asked her who Weiss worked for, her fingers were already resting on my hand. No ring and no tan line to indicate that one had ever been there.

  I couldn’t ignore her scent. She used a Victoria’s Secret cream with a fruity perfume. I know, because I used to get it for Mira when I went to New York. That was when I was still trying. I can’t say it didn’t do anything for me. She closed her eyes. When she opened them, again the smile was gone.

  “Mainly the Chinese,” she said. “Without them, nothing moves. They control the drug trade. The Israelis just handle the trafficking, and only to Europe. It’s frustrating for them.”

  “Why?”

  “Too little profit for too much hassle. You know what Israelis are like, they want it all. God gave them two faults: big eyes and no self-control. Put that together with two other features, no tact and no understanding of other people and places, and you’ve got a ticking time bomb. They always want more. They show up here flaunting suitcases filled with money and think it’s like buying a stall in the market. Eventually they learn they’re not playing on their own turf.”

  She took a pack of Eve Menthols from her purse, lit one, and inhaled deeply.

  “Is Weiss in charge of moving the drugs?” I asked.

  Again, she closed her eyes, opened them
, and exhaled, twisting her lower lip to blow the smoke toward the ceiling.

  “You don’t think he does it himself, do you? It’s a well-oiled machine. He has his errand boys. You already met one of them.”

  “Shaya?”

  “Uh-huh.” She nodded.

  I waited for her to go on. She rested the cigarette in the ashtray, took a sip of coffee, and cleaned the foam from her lips with the tip of a finger. Her fingers were long and thin, almost as if they had no joints. Just long pale extensions of her hand.

  “Everyone knows kids are looking for drugs. So Shaya and the rest of Weiss’s agents set up shop in a guesthouse or a bar on Khao San where they roll joints and share them out liberally, all the while bragging about the package they smuggled into Europe. I guess the fish are always dumber than the fisherman.”

  That made me laugh.

  “What are you laughing for?” she asked.

  “For some reason, aphorisms about fish are very popular in Thailand.”

  “I was trying to make a philosophical point, but I guess you know everything,” she said resentfully. She wanted to show me there was more to her than I imagined.

  “No, I don’t know everything. Sometimes I just make a guess, and I don’t always get it right.”

  “What’s your guess about me?”

  She puffed on the cigarette, revealing her small, sharp teeth. Her eyes were even darker and cloudier than before, making them colder.

  “You know more about Weiss than your average embassy worker. You had some connection with him, or you still do,” I said.

  “Too many fingers started pointing to the embassy,” she said cryptically.

  We sat in silence, sipping our coffee. Then she went on.

  “Had, in the past tense. It’s over. Remember that. But I can’t change it now. They’ll find out when they find out. It won’t be the first time the dirty laundry of a Foreign Office worker is aired in public.”