End of the Ocean

by Matthew McBride

  While Puii talked to Benz, a third man came over, then a fourth. Everyone talked fast. Everyone looked at Sage. By the time she returned with his water Sage was reasonably thirsty. Resisting the urge to interrupt Puii, he remained calm and listened, not to the words themselves but to how they were spoken. Benz was angry, and Sage wondered why.

  A few of the men who had approached their table now wandered off and, finally, after more arguing and unpleasantness, Puii said they were done.

  “What d’you mean we’re done?”

  “It time to go, boss.”

  Puii, standing, said something in Thai and left, with Sage right behind him. Once they were outside Sage asked him what was said.

  “Nothing. It OK, everything fine.”

  “What about the diamonds?” Sage said, not bothering to whisper and not caring how Puii felt about it.

  “Yeah yeah, what I say? I say everything fine. We go now, back to Ao Nang.”

  “Bullshit, not until I know what’s going on—Wayne’s gonna call me tonight,” Sage said, not sure if he would or not, “and I better have good news or he’s gonna be pissed, and he ain’t gonna be pissed at me, he’s gonna be pissed at you.”

  Puii, agitated, said there was no problem.

  “It take one more day, maybe two day. You tell Wayne Tender that what I say.”

  “No,” Sage said, not yelling but raising his voice. “You know what Wayne’s gonna tell me if I say that? He’ll say, ‘Deals off,’ that’s what he’ll say. He was very specific. If I leave here tomorrow empty-handed you’ll never do business again.”

  Puii, making a fist, yelled several things in Thai, and Sage thought, momentarily, he was calling for his friends. “Yeah, you serious man. OK, you tell Wayne Tender I do best I can. My God, I not work miracle. I only one man.”

  Puii seemed angry and quite frustrated and Sage felt good about it. He felt very much in control. It felt good to use Wayne’s name and to throw his weight around.

  “C’mon, let go,” Puii said, kick starting his scooter and pulling away.

  Sage, relieved to be leaving, slipping in his earbuds, pulled out behind him.

  They rode.

  It was evening when they stopped at a night market outside of Ao Nang. Puii told Sage he was hungry, that he would eat, that Sage should eat too.

  “Must preserve strength,” Puii said. “Come with me. They have best prawn.”

  There were several tents set up along the road; they were large and tall and very long, and they were filled with people selling all manner of food: squid, prawn, calamari, eel, chicken, and other things Sage would never eat. But what he did eat—chicken satay, the food Ongard had told him about, with freshly roasted hot corn, smothered in mayonnaise and white rice soaked in kecap manis—he thought was good. Still, it was hard to enjoy the food or the beauty knowing the woman he loved was a hostage.

  After they’d eaten, Puii, saying he must leave, told Sage to follow the road they were on, turn left, then follow that road to the bar.

  “I come see you tonight late or tomorrow. I do my best, boss,” he said, kick-starting his scooter. “Tell Wayne Tender Puii not good at work miracle but he try.”

  Sage said he would tell him and hoped he had the chance, but he would have no chance unless Wayne called him. Sage started his motorbike, glad this day was behind him. He rode from the night market toward the white city lights, back to Ao Nang. Feeling cool wind, riding slowly, passing Banana House, he saw Topp in the open-walled doorway, sandwiched between two women while a third woman took their picture. He continued down the street, toward the ocean, riding by Andy’s, weaving in and out of traffic, thick that time of the night, horns blazing, bright lights flashing as loud music screamed from passing speakers. He parked his motorbike and climbed off, crossing the street, walking toward the beach. Taking off his sandals, he sank down in white sand. Trudging through it, he came to a bench under a large thick-limbed tree and admired its beauty as he sat beneath it.

  It was cool by the ocean. People walked along the beach. Some lay on the sand, others waded into the water, but mostly he saw couples; very few walked by themselves and the ones who walked alone walked as though they were in no hurry to reach their destination.

  He sat for an hour, maybe two, listening to the waves and the traffic behind him. Then, riding back, feeling the wind, cooler this night than those before it, he returned to the bar. He had beers with Topp, waiting for Puii until midnight, when he, slightly less drunk than the previous night, climbed the stairs to his room. Puii had failed to make an appearance, something that came as no surprise to Sage. Again he crashed to the bed and found sleep immediately. But for only a few hours. Waking early and forgoing a cold, soapless shower, he put on the same pair of dirty clothes for the fourth day and walked downstairs to wait for Puii, knowing if Puii didn’t arrive he would have to leave without him and roll the dice with Wayne.

  Either way it was out of his hands. He’d done the best he could, the way he saw it.

  Nam greeted him with a lovely smile and asked Sage, in English she’d been rehearsing, if he would like some buttered toast.

  “I’d love some.”

  After his toast had been eaten and his bill had been paid he returned the motorbike to Andy, who forced Sage to have a beer with him even though it was barely noon. Once he’d finished, after he’d said his goodbyes, walking back toward Banana House, looking at his phone, he saw that it was one o’clock. His flight left at four, his taxi would be there in an hour, and he still had not heard from Wayne. He’d said someone would call Sage, but then, by his fourth day there, no one had.

  When he walked into Banana House he saw Puii sitting in a chair by the pool table, a beer on the table in front of him. He was lighting a cigarette with a match when he looked up at Sage.

  Throwing his hands up dramatically, he said, “There you are, serious man. I look everywhere for you.”

  “I didn’t think you’d show up.”

  Sage could tell Puii did not understand what he’d said and also that he did not care.

  “Here,” he said, pointing to Sage, “give me bag.”

  Clearing his throat, Sage removed his backpack from his shoulder and set it down on the floor. Then he took a seat across from Puii.

  Puii looked at Sage and said nothing.

  “Well?” Sage said.

  “I leave bag for you at bar,” Puii said, standing and smoking, ready to leave.

  “So that’s it?”

  “That it, man. Go back to Bali, tell Wayne Tender Puii deserve bonus he work so hard.”

  “I’ll tell him.”

  Looking Sage in the eye, speaking softly, Puii said, “Good luck at airport. That true test how serious man you are.”

  The comment rattled him, but Sage walked to the bar and asked Nam if there was a bag for him, and after she said there was, smiling, impressed by her own English, she removed it from the floor and set it on the bar.

  “Khob khun,” he said, realizing he should have said ka at the end but bowing courteously. Then, retreating to a table in the most dimly lit part of the room, away from everyone else, he waited for his ride.

  His taxi was a half hour late, and as soon as it arrived Sage wasted no time walking toward it, the backpack over his shoulder. The bag Puii had left him was identical to the one Wayne had given him. It felt heavy when he’d picked it up, but once he looked inside Sage found nothing to explain the weight but some leftover toothpaste and a statue of Buddha: one item he could have used earlier, but the other he had no use for.

  Inside the car, frustrated to be running late, Sage was disappointed not to have Ongard now that he would need a store.

  Because he had been nervous, Sage had forgotten to switch the contents of his bag. Although he’d remembered what Wayne had told him—that Puii would bring him a backpack, and that he should trade that backpack for his current backpack, that he s
hould first take out his things and transfer them—he hadn’t done that, he’d given it to Puii instead. Now he had to buy clothes. Postcards. A few souvenirs. He could not take an empty backpack through the airport. If they went through his bag he’d need more to convince them than a used tube of toothpaste and a pocket-sized Buddha.

  Now, leaning toward the front seat, he cursed himself. Telling the driver he was in a hurry, Sage, touching his chest, pointing to his own dirty shirt, told the driver he must buy new clothes.

  His driver, Pattanpong, according to the name on his ID though Sage had no idea if it was his first or his last, tapping his finger on the wheel, making adjustments to the radio, appeared oblivious to his needs.

  “Uh,” Sage fumbled. “Uh, pood Thai,” which he thought meant he spoke no Thai.

  Pattanpong nodded, either implying Sage was correct or that he did not speak English.

  Taking a deep breath, pulling at his shirt again, trying to ignore the fact he was a foreigner in a strange land with a backpack full of diamonds who had no way to communicate, Sage, in desperate need of a wardrobe, said, “Shirt. I need clothes, clothes. You understand?”

  His driver said, “Laundry?”

  “No,” Sage said, though he considered that progress. “Not laundry, clothes. New clothes. Go to store,” Sage said. “Shop,” he said, pointing to his shirt, “I—need—to—buy—clothes.”

  Pattanpong said, “Clothes?”

  “Yes, yes, that’s great, Pata …Pata—pang, is it?”

  “Pattapong,” he said, nodding.

  Opening his backpack, Sage showed him it was empty. “I need clothes.”

  “Clothes?” Pattanpong said.

  “Yes, clothes! Someone stole my clothes. I must buy more.”

  “Oh—K,” Pattanpong said, very slowly, nodding like he knew what he must do. “Some. One. Steal. Clothes.”

  “Yes they did, those assholes.”

  Pattanpong laughed so Sage knew he understood some English; that he could at least understand the word asshole. He asked him again if he could help.

  “Can you take me to a clothing store, to a—bintang?” Sage said, throwing that out there, knowing it was a long shot, thinking Pattanpong might know that one, but he didn’t.

  Putting the car in gear, Pattanpong said, “Snam bin,” which Sage assumed meant clothes. Or store. But it didn’t. Only later would he realize it meant airport.

  Sage sat back in his seat and tried to relax, he couldn’t. There was too much in his head. Sage watched Ao Nang disappear behind him. Leaving the city as the street became wide and opened to a real road, Pattanpong, turning up the radio, began to sing along, belting out whatever it was they were listening to with genuine passion.

  Sage imagined her beside him, leaning close, huddled tight, bearing witness to Pattanpong’s performance.

  But she wasn’t and he knew it, and as hard as it was for him to do this he could not imagine how hard it was for her. But he believed, one day, many years from now, surrounded by their children and their children’s children, they would look back on the day he did what he had to and know it was for love.

  Sage removed the bottle of water he’d jammed in the side pocket of the backpack and, though he tried his best not to, thought about where the diamonds were hidden. The bag felt heavy. It must have weighed ten pounds already. But it was a big backpack to begin with, sewn with thick material, well-constructed. So maybe that was normal for all he knew. In the end, what did he know about backpacks? As much as he knew about diamonds.

  When Pattanpong brought the car to a stop they were in the city. Sage looked out both windows for signs of a store but saw only traffic. And then, as they took off, when Pattanpong switched lanes, Sage could see where they were going, and though they were at least on time, being taken to the airport was the last thing he wanted.

  “What about my clothes?” Sage said, sitting up.

  Pattanpong turned down the radio and said, “Snam bin.”

  “Yeah that’s what you said, but I said I need clothes, Patta, Pada—

  “Pattanpong,” Pattanpong said impatiently with a quick nod of his head.

  “Yes, whatever. Where the hell are we? This looks like the airport.”

  “Yes,” Pattanpong said. “Snam bin.”

  “Damn it, that’s not what I wanted,” he said. “I need clothes. Clothes. Where the hell can I find clothes?”

  “Snam bin.”

  “Fuck,” Sage said.

  Pattanpong laughed.

  Inside the airport Sage worried. He knew they sold clothes in the airport—surely, surely they sold clothes there—but if they didn’t all he could do was hope for the best and trust Wayne’s information. But, tough as it was to admit it, Wayne’s information, for the most part, had all been wrong. Nothing had gone accordingly. And as much as Sage would like to blame Wayne for the disaster with the backpack, it had been his own fault for not making the switch. He had to own that and deal with it accordingly.

  As he walked slowly, trying to get his bearings, the same airport he had felt so comfortable in days ago now seemed menacing. To his right he saw a restroom and knew that he should go. His hands had never been so wet; his heart had never beat so fast.

  Inside the bathroom, after sidestepping two German tourists in the middle of a shouting match that was a conversation, he walked to the last stall, luckily vacant, and opening the door, stepped inside.

  Sitting on the toilet he did not feel tough or brave. He felt scared. More scared than he had ever been. Regardless of how he found himself in this situation there was only one way out and it was too late to turn back now.

  Sage thought about his family. He hadn’t talked to them in days. Weeks? It could have been weeks, he didn’t know. Since the day he got off the plane things were a blur, and what he could remember seemed as though it had taken place over a period of months, even years, but not weeks. Not days. It felt like he’d known Ratri his whole life.

  He heard a knock on the door that startled him. Looking down, Sage saw a black pair of shoes.

  Sage needed to vomit. A second knock. This time he cleared his throat.

  Whoever knocked said something he could not understand. Then Sage saw the end of a mop slide beneath his door.

  Relief flooded his body. It felt good to know it was a janitor.

  Relax: he took a few deep breaths. Remembered what the self-help videos he watched suggested, that if he wanted to be a success he must believe he was a success.

  Breathe: out from his mouth and in through his nose. He envisioned himself a new man, walking, stalwartly, backpack in hand. Proudly from the shithouse he would emerge, and with a fortune in diamonds the Indonesian government knew about, he would board a plane to Bali without any doubts.

  He flushed the toilet and left the stall and washed his face in the sink, scrubbing it with soap that smelled like lye. It felt good to feel that clean but the strongest soap they made could not wash away the guilt he carried.

  Still, seeing himself in the mirror he knew he could do this. Even though he looked tired and old. There were bags under his eyes now, swollen and red-lined from the sun and wind. Touching the growth on his face that had become a beard, the first one he had ever grown, standing up straight, he took stock of himself, smoothing the wrinkles in his filthy shirt, tightening the leather of his belt. He left the restroom a stronger man than he’d went in.

  Like a little alone time and a five-minute pep-talk was all he’d really needed. Then he remembered the clothes his backpack currently lacked and started looking for a store. It wasn’t easy. He asked question after question but no one could help him. Finally, after talking to several airport employees, Sage found a man who understood him.

  “Store,” Sage said. “I need clothes.”

  “Store?” The man said.

  “Yes,” Sage said, pointing to his shirt. “Clothes, I need to buy cloth
es. A shirt,” he said. “Pair of shorts.”

  “Oh, you need short?”

  “Yes, I need shorts, shirts, anything. All of my clothes were stolen.”

  The man, nodding now, told Sage there was a store that had clothes. Pointing to the duty-free walkthrough, he told Sage he must first check in.

  Very relieved, Sage thanked him, almost hugged him. Once he had checked in and found the area for security, he fell into one of three long lines with everyone else. Standing and waiting, he watched those around him and everyone looked frustrated, in a hurry, so he felt like he should look frustrated, too.

  He wanted to blend in and the closer he got to the front of the line the more real it all became. He saw an officer with a dog but remained calm. If a dog could smell diamonds than he was one hell of a dog. Sage wasn’t worried.

  As his line shortened and he got closer to security, passport in hand, he was ready. The place was busy, there were many people and things moved quickly. Once it was his turn he removed his backpack and his sandals and his belt and set them on the plastic tray.

  Looking at his phone, now completely dead, it occurred to him that Wayne, in an act of sheer incompetence, had failed to supply him with a way to charge his phone even if it had worked.

  Sage tossed that in the tray as well, yawning, stretching his back. He was as bored with this procedure as everyone else and in just as big a hurry.

  He walked through the scanner after the man in front of him and no alarms went off. To his right he saw a young Thai woman, very short, studying the monitor of the x-ray machine, and even though the conveyor belt moved slowly, and despite the fact his backpack was empty, the expression on her face failed to change.

  Standing on one foot, backpack over his shoulder, after jamming his other foot into his sandal, he turned and walked away. No one yelled halt or blew a whistle and no one came running after him. He was just another traveler in an airport with a backpack and in a hurry. Sage was nothing more than that. It had been a rough four days in Thailand. Most of them spent drunk. And then someone stole his bag, that’s what he would say if anyone asked. That they’d ransacked his rucksack and took everything he had. Except his toothpaste. Because nobody cared about toothpaste, and statues of Buddha weren’t hard to find.