End of the Ocean

by Matthew McBride

  As he walked through the courtyard he saw several restaurants and an odd assortment of shops, but none that sold clothes. He walked on. When he did find a store that sold clothes there was nothing that would fit him. Everything was too small, not a single item of clothing in the shop would fit his body.

  He left and walked to his terminal. There was nothing else he could do.

  Waiting to board the plane, the man beside him looked nervous. And so did the man beside that man. Sage now found himself observing the habits of other travelers. The woman in front of him looked nervous, too. She had suspicious eyes and a large bag, sturdy, hand-woven. It was hard to say what might be in there.

  Once his group number had been called, he boarded the plane and found his seat by the window, placed his backpack in the overhead compartment, and, squeezing by a large woman wearing too much perfume, took his seat and fastened his seatbelt and pushed his earbuds in.

  Though his phone was dead and there was no way to play music, he’d found as long as he wore them, people left him alone.

  He closed his eyes and tried not to think about anything. But how could he not think about this: Just above his head was a bag full of diamonds. What if he’d just kept them? Flown home and made a fortune and lived the life of his dreams. Down the road he’d come back for her—except he couldn’t and he knew it, and even if he could come back he would not find her, not in a place like that, and not if she did not want to be found. And that was assuming they hadn’t killed her once Sage failed to return.

  When he opened his eyes they were flying. He’d been awake the whole time but had no memory of take off. To his right, the seat was empty and the woman who’d once sat beside him was gone.

  “Drink?” a flight attendant asked Sage, stopping the cart at the row before him.

  “Water.”

  Smiling politely, she handed a bottle to Sage, who thanked the attendant with a nod.

  Tramping down the aisle, forcing the flight attendant who had just served Sage to stand sideways, clutching the overhead compartment for support, the woman who’d been beside him returned, wedging herself in the seat, and once she’d fastened the seatbelt extender, after carelessly throwing her seat back, she, drained of breath, asked the flight attendant for a cold one.

  Stuffing the water bottle in the seatback before him, Sage closed his eyes and thought about Ratri, how he wished he had told her he loved her. How he’d had the chance but did not take it. Now he wondered if she knew, and thought how lonely she must feel. Not knowing how much he loved her or how far he would go.

  All that stood between them was an ocean and time.

  ***

  Ngyn Suterma left his job at the factory and rode to the small shed he rented on the Campaugh Trail Ridge. He was anxious and had not been himself. Djoko had missed their last two meetings and did not return his texts. When he called Wayne Tender a recording said his number was out of service. As a safeguard, Ngyn had thrown his phone away and bought a new one, with a new number. He began to watch his back.

  Because he had never felt this way before, and though he and his wife rarely spoke of such things, that morning he’d reminded her of what he did, of the consequences. Then he told her about the shed, that there was money he wanted her to have if something went wrong. Not that anything would. He was taking precautions. And that had worried her, his sweet wife, and though he told her it would be OK, his admission had scared her and she cried for the first time in more years than he could recall.

  It touched Ngyn; he told her he loved her. Words he had not said since before they were married. He kissed her and suggested they go to the bedroom. He swore he had the time, and if he was late for work his boss would understood because a good boss understood those things.

  She’d told him to forget it and he’d left for work.

  At the shed now, he parked beside it and walked to the door. He stopped then, his feet locking firmly in place, sliding on loose gravel. His lock had been trifled with and was not where it should have been, at the odd angle Ngyn had left it. Someone had been there, someone could be there now.

  Ngyn broke out in gooseflesh at the thought of being watched.

  Fast-walking to his motorbike, he left. Riding faster than he had ever ridden, tearing down gravel-strewn roads, bouncing through potholes, leaning deeply into curves as if he were being chased, his sarong gliding above the pavement, Ngyn twisted the throttle and watched each side mirror for someone behind him.

  There was no one there. He let off the throttle and wondered if he’d lost his mind. Had the lock really been tampered with? It could be paranoia. Maybe he’d failed to turn it the last time he was there.

  He slowed down. He still did not see anyone. Maybe Djoko was just busy. Maybe those doubts he had he put there himself because he allowed them in his head.

  Ngyn pulled over and turned around. What would he tell his wife? It was bad enough to have worried her, but now she expected money and if he came back without it after telling her he would have it what would he tell her then?

  It rained for thirty seconds then ceased as if it had not rained at all. The sun was bright throughout. He made his return, riding much slower this time, feeling foolish. His reservations had gotten the best of him. The same deep holes he had plowed through moments earlier he now rode around. He took his time.

  Returning to the shed, parking, removing his key, slipping it in his pocket, walking casually through the weeds, Ngyn lifted his sarong and pissed on the side of the building.

  He felt fine; the stress of his involvement with organized crime sometimes took its toll. Made him nervous. Two missed appointments with Djoko did not help. The fact that Wayne ignored him made things worse.

  He circled the building and removed the keys from his pocket and slid the correct key in the hole and spun it. The lock opened. Ngyn turned the handle and stepped inside. It was dark. He walked several steps, to the center of the room, pulling the string for the light bulb, but nothing happened. He pulled the string again, still nothing. It clicked.

  The door slammed shut behind him. He jumped. It was very dark. Ngyn saw nothing, but he knew what was coming. Strong hands grabbed him, around his neck, pulling him off his feet. A second voice, in Indonesian, saying hold him down hold him down as Ngyn begged for his life and told them he had money. That he would pay if they would let him go.

  They told him they’d already found his money then stabbed him in the guts. Gagged him and bound his hands. The man who had closed the door, slim, dirty, covered in gang tattoos, walking to the center of the room, screwed a light bulb in the socket and pulled the string. The light came on.

  Ngyn, still conscious, bleeding heavily, screamed into the gag, begging with his eyes as the man walked toward him, a freshly sharpened machete in his hand. He swung, with no warning, decapitating Ngyn, as the other man, the one who had previously held him, used the knife he’d stabbed Ngyn with to cut away loose skin, until he could tear the head free and drop it in a sack.

  After turning off the light, they locked the lock and rode away.

  ***

  When the captain announced it was time to fasten their seatbelts, Sage realized they were landing.

  He started breathing fast as soon as he heard. It would not be long now. Half an hour and they’d touch down, and although he was prepared, it was a forgone conclusion his second arrival at Ngurah Rai International Airport would be more intimidating than his first.

  How could this be happening? He swallowed and popped his ears.

  The plane, slowing down now, dropping lower, held that elevation for a long stretch of time and pressure built inside his head. He began to sweat.

  Reaching up, he adjusted the air nozzle above him for the one hundredth time, and since he was already stealing the woman’s air beside him, he adjusted her air nozzle too.

  Swallowing hard, straining, he tried to force his ears to pop again but they would
n’t.

  Outside the window he saw patches of white fabric that was a cloud. They flew through it. As they made their decent there was ocean as far as he could see in each direction; it was blue and it was green and where the water met the shoreline he saw whitecaps break on rocks. Then he saw mountains, stunted, far away, small compared to the mountains he’d just seen.

  Over the speaker, the captain said words in Indonesian that Sage understood none of. Then an attendant came by and handed him a card, the same card he’d filled out the first time, only this time he had to lie when it asked if he was bringing in contraband.

  It made him question such a question since who would answer if they had.

  Filling it out quickly, Sage forbade himself from dwelling on things that caused him worry. He had to relax. Remain calm. Out through his nose and in through his mouth. Or perhaps he had that backwards. Either way he felt good about this, and after several long hours of deep concentration he was ready. He was doing a job for the Indonesian government. In a sense. But, unlike Wayne Tender, who was the star of the show, Sage was part of a large ensemble, cast at the last minute, a debut actor in a supporting role.

  Be cool, he told himself, and do everything again you did the first time. Look for the large Indonesian man with the small head. How hard could that be? A man that big with a head that small would not be hard to miss.

  He let out a quick breath when he felt the landing gear. That meant they were close.

  The woman beside him, opening her eyes, grunting, sitting up straight, retrieved a napkin from her purse and wiped saliva from her cheek.

  He could see Bali in front of him and the ocean below, and if his plane fell from the sky and crashed to the earth that would be OK with him. In some ways, he preferred it. Nothing could be worse than this. No matter how much money he made, like he’d told Wayne Tender before he left, this was just a one-time deal.

  Below, there was ocean then buildings and houses.

  When he saw the airport on approach it filled him with dread.

  Coming in fast, nose up, engines screaming, touching down harder than they all expected, the tires jolted when they made first contact, barking sharply, smoke rolling off them in quick white puffs. The plane left skid marks on top of skid marks on hot black tarmac as the pilot brought the nose down to great relief, and, once they had taxied down the runway, after pausing to give another plane passage, his flight from Krabi, Thailand to Denpasar, Bali had come to an end.

  When it did, everyone stood but him. Even the woman beside him stood. Children, grandparents, women with babies. Everyone stood; they could not wait to depart. But Sage just sat there, trembling. His ears would not pop and the pressure turned his face red.

  Feeling hot and nauseous and very small, Sage wanted to set himself on fire.

  And then he saw the picture burned into his mind. Her: on a mattress on the dirt.

  He stood, even though it was an act of futility since he would have to crouch so low. Everyone else was standing so he was standing too.

  Pushing his way to the aisle after the woman beside him had made her departure, and after retrieving his backpack from the overhead bin, Sage stepped over a suitcase someone had left on the floor and fought his way to the front of the plane.

  Exiting the cabin, cursing the captain for not crashing, he stepped into humidity so intense his unwashed clothes reeked on command, or perhaps they had reeked already. But now, walking through a stretched glass tube that sat in sunlight all day, building up heat, hour after hour, flight after flight, so by the end of the day travelers were soaked in sweat by the time they got inside, Sage felt as good about his arrival as a man in his position could have hoped to.

  Leaving the hot, transparent cylinder behind, entering Ngurah Rai International Airport, Sage saw the same sign he saw the first time but this time it made him flinch:

  WELCOME TO INDONESIA DEATH PENALTY FOR DRUG TRAFFICERS!

  He waited in line. Thinking, self-evaluating, looking back on the worst day he could remember, knowing how far he had come since then, Sage knew he was not as tough as he once thought he was, but he had learned to be strong in a way he had never been before. It was a hard lesson to be taught and one he never thought he would be subjected to, but some people in this world were forced to endure those things and he was one of them.

  Here he was: a short line of people before him, branching out into ten or twelve lines even shorter than that, each feeding to a separate line that ended at a series of wide black marks painted across the floor, warning incoming travelers not to cross them. There was no way to choose whose line to stand in because someone told him where to stand, and then, once he was where he was supposed to be, where he went next was dependent on what machine was available to check himself in with, and regardless what he did or how hard he tried, he had no control when that happened or where he would go after that.

  It was a system designed to keep people from doing the very thing he had to do.

  Sage was stunned. And as hard as he tried, he could not remember if this was how it had been the last time he was there. He had not paid attention. Even though that had not been long ago, he had seen and done so much since then.

  He was very nervous; his anxiety had never been greater. The only man who had spoken to him at all before he left Bali was the big man, and despite what Wayne said, Sage did not know if he should look for him or hide from him.

  When he came to the black line painted across the floor an airport employee waved Sage toward him, and, holding out his hand, asked to see his passport.

  “Sure,” Sage said, stepping forward, handing it over.

  The employee took a good look at him and Sage knew he had been had, that he’d been waiting for him all along and would let the others know.

  Handing it back, pointing to the last line over, the shortest line there was, he told Sage, with slight disinterest, that he was free to go.

  “Terima kasih,” Sage said, and the man responded with a nod.

  Once he found his line it moved quickly. Five people in front of him, three of them women and two of them men. One woman was the one who’d sat beside him. She stood in front with her hand on her hip but Sage could see no luggage.

  And then there was a man behind him who seemed to come from nowhere. And at first Sage was relived to have someone stand there until he saw who it was: the man who had approached him four days ago. Though he was not in uniform, Sage knew it was him. Firm gut, no neck, and a small bald head between two wide shoulders that stretched his polo shirt tight.

  Sage did not panic. He turned around and waited in line and hid behind dark glasses.

  When it was his turn to approach the counter, a woman asked to see his passport.

  “No problem.”

  She glanced at it briefly, but when her eyes saw the name she looked at him closely.

  She asked him to remove his glasses and when he did she worked him over.

  “No beard in the picture,” Sage said, touching his face, smiling.

  She was young and pretty and when she returned his passport she told him he should run. At least that’s what he thought she said. And then he realized she said nothing.

  But there was something about that transaction, the way her hand had touched his hand when they didn’t need to touch at all.

  RUN he thought she said without saying anything. But then he didn’t. He couldn’t. And even if he would have run where would he have gone? There was nowhere to go. He had to see this through.

  Expecting to be approached or pummeled or taken by surprise, walking toward a glass panel to use its reflection, he no longer saw the bald man though he saw people using wifi. So, coming to a stop, removing the phone Wayne had given him, Sage pretended to use wifi, too, even though his phone was dead.

  Looking around he saw no one and the man who he thought had been behind him was nowhere to be seen. Had he even been there? Perha
ps Sage made him up. Perhaps Sage made up everything. Even at this moment, as hard as it was to face, perhaps he was not even there. This could be a dream. The longest dream he had ever had.

  The kind of dream that lasts a lifetime concealed in the blink of an eye.

  He tried to remember the last thing he did before he came to Bali.

  Maybe he’d been in a car wreck. Or overdosed on pills, because during the worst part of what he went through he thought about that. About going to sleep and not waking up.

  He could be in a coma. And none of this was real. What if he was still married and this was just a sham? An elaborate ruse birthed by his subconscious to pay more attention to his wife. Take her on that vacation she’d always dreamed of, to a place she’d talked about for years.

  He was amused and relieved at this sudden comprehension, that none of this was real. Perhaps he’d just had surgery. Soon the doctors would awaken him and she’d be standing by his side—or perhaps she’d be below him, with him inside her, looking in his eyes. Telling him he was the only one like she had done so many times.

  Then a new awareness washed over him, that if none of this was real it meant she wasn’t real, that everything he went through was for nothing, that if this was a dream than Ratri was a dream, and when he asked himself if he had the option which reality would he choose: To wake up to a woman he had finally stopped loving or to a woman who would always love him—because when Ratri told him she loved him like she had loved no one else he knew her words were real, that she was real, and if he had the option to go back to the life he had before or the life he had with her he would choose a life in Bali.