by Mike Stoner
Teddy throws the metal dish into a collapsing wave. It swallows it whole. He rubs his hands then holds them open-palmed up to the sky and says more words, unheard in the roar of the sea. He turns and starts to wade back. Suddenly he loses his footing and falls over in the shallower water. I splash out to him, but he holds up a hand.
‘I am good. No what what.’
Dripping, he stands next to me, and we stare at the sea together. I admire its strength, but don’t quite understand its power.
‘It is done. Go home, my friend. Go and return to the old places. See what is still there. Waiting for you.’ He looks sideways at me and winks with his one cloudy eye. ‘Good luck.’
He squeezes my shoulder and walks back to the fire, kicks sand over it, picks up his bag and wanders along the beach towards the hill and trees at the far end. Bent legs and scrawny arms hanging out of colourful clothes. I watch until he clambers into the foliage, like an orang-utan, and disappears.
The sea has calmed again. And so have I. I’m not high, either. I’m not anything. I’m not Old Me. I’m not New Me, I’m just me, and relaxed and happy about it. Calm and happy. I try to think about why I would be any other way and I’m not sure.
And why isn’t Laura here?
Because she’s dead. Isn’t she? She was on a bus and she…
She what?
What?
She is dead. By a car. But she arrived, too. Didn’t she? I remember her calling me from Prague. To say she arrived.
No, her mother’s phone call. She is dead. Dead. Of course she is.
She is dead. I know she is dead.
What has that old fool of a walnut done to me? I must be high. I must be. But I feel so alive. I’m so vivid and clear. I am here.
Mad fool. Mad drugs.
But there is something else. Itching up the notches of my spine and in the curls of my stomach. And I think, but I’m not sure, that it is hope.
TYING THINGS UP
‘I finish today.’
Pak Andy nods.
‘You’re going to pay me everything I’m owed.’
‘Yes.’ Something on his desk seems to have his attention. I see more of his bald patch than his face. ‘I will also pay exit tax.’
‘Thank you, Andy. I’ll pick the cash up at the end of class today.’ I stand up and with my hand on the door handle I say, ‘You will treat the other teachers with respect, Andy. Yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘And also Iqpal. He is a good man.’
‘Yes.’
‘Because they are my friends. And you know who my other friend is?’
‘Yes.’
‘Take care, Andy. Thanks for the job.’
I close the door on his bald head and feel a little sad for him. He’s going to be Charles’ bitch for a long time.
I enter a full staffroom.
‘Hey. Newbie returns.’ Kim gets up and smacks me on the back. ‘Thought you’d been eaten by the drug monster somewhere. Last seen leaving Memphis with a beautiful Indian girl and off your face, I heard.’
‘That was five days ago,’ says Julie. She hugs me. ‘That obat was strong shit. We’ve been worried.’
‘I’m OK. Just had to shoot off for a couple of days.’
‘Up to your nuts in curry sauce?’ Jussy sniggers at his own filth.
‘Justin, you get worse,’ says Marty.
‘All I’ll tell you lot is, Mei’s for a farewell drink on Friday.’
‘Whoa. What?’ Kim’s mouth shows how wide it can go.
‘Yep. Bye-byes all round. In the meantime I’m off to class. See you later.’ I laugh and trot up the stairs to my room, leaving a room full of ‘no ways’ and ‘fucks’ behind.
I enter the class and put my irrelevant lesson plan on the desk.
‘There you all are.’ I scan the room with a wide smile across my face. Johnny is in his usual seat, looking embarrassed and awkward, leaning forward over his desk, Jimmy Dean hair swinging in front of his eyes.
‘Sorry I missed you on Monday. Who was your teacher?’
‘Mr Geoff. He did good lesson about past tenses.’ My archenemy, the serious Ferdi.
‘It was boring,’ says Johnny. ‘Finished time, blah blah, unfinished time, blah blah.’
‘Got to agree with you, Johnny. Especially as there’s no such thing as finished time.’
‘Of course there is,’ says Ferdi, ‘I ate my dinner yesterday, it is finished.’
‘No it’s not. It’s still waiting for you to eat it.’ Sod it. I’m going to mess with minds; it’s my last day with them.
‘What? You are crazy.’ Ferdi shifts about in his seat and shakes his head.
‘What did you have, Ferdi?’
‘Nasi goreng.’
‘Was it good?’
‘It was OK.’
‘What’s your favourite food?’
‘Martabak.’
‘Oh yeah. I love martabak too. Well you could have that yesterday if you want.’
‘What?’
There is laughter from around the class and a couple of ‘crazy sir’ comments.
‘The past is still there. And you can live it any way you want. You just have to get there, and when you do, you can eat something different.’
Johnny sits back in his chair and whistles.
‘Eh, teacher. I said some crazy stuff in the past. You say I can change that?’ He studies his fingers, but sneaks a look from under his eyebrows.
‘If you can find that moment, then yes. But perhaps you don’t have to change anything you said.’
There is a pause from Johnny.
‘Whatever you said, Johnny. It was you that said it, and it was probably true, but maybe you just said it to the wrong person. So don’t change it. Just accept it and don’t worry. Make sure if you say it again, it’s to the right person.’ Dukun seems to have worked some wise magic shit on me too. ‘You are you, Johnny, and everyone likes you for that. Perhaps the person you said these things to feels bad for running off and not saying anything when he could.’
There is silence in the class while they try to work out what the hell we are talking about.
Johnny’s finger trails an invisible pattern around the desktop; he nods and says, ‘So you mean what I said is no problem?’
‘I can’t imagine anything you say being a problem. You’re a good guy, Johnny, and one day someone, the right person, will see that.’
‘Thanks, boss.’ Awkward silence scratches around the walls of the room.
Change-the-subject time.
‘So what does anyone want to discuss today, for this, our last lesson together?’
I wait while the noise dies down. My eyes water at the response.
‘What do you mean last lesson?’ demands Johnny.
‘You cannot go,’ says Jenny. ‘No other teacher talks to us like you.’
‘That’s probably because they want to teach you what they’re supposed to be teaching. Not how evil and corrupt and immoral my world is.’
‘And sexy.’ Johnny is being Johnny, and his audience applaud with laughter.
‘Sexy maybe. But sometimes subtle sexy is better.’
‘Subtle?’ asks another student.
‘Not here,’ I hold my hand in front of my face, ‘not in your face like this, too close, but maybe over here,’ I move my hand behind my ear, ‘where no one can see, or maybe just a little glimpse. Subtle.’
‘This country is too subtle,’ says Jenny, and most of the class make a sound of agreement.
I nod. ‘Maybe.’
My stomach flutters. Sudden clarity from nowhere; in two days I fly home.
In two days I find out how crazy I am.
‘We will miss you, sir.’ This is from Jenny again.
‘Why you going man?’ asks Johnny. ‘You not like Indonesian or Chinese pussy?’
Oohs and aahs of disgust and laughter mean I can’t answer for a second.
‘Johnny. Bad boy. You shouldn’t say that. That, that ruden
ess is something you should change if you get the chance. At least only use it where it’s suitable.’
I sit at my desk. Has it all really changed? I have new memories of old moments. My past is changing in my mind. But old memories, old moments are still there too. Two versions of everything. Old moments hiding under the rolling-in waves of new ones. Perhaps my mind has split down the middle. Perhaps I can’t handle the truth anymore and my brain is making its own history. Drugs have done their work. Or perhaps time has bent or split, perhaps the moments have been changed. Laura doesn’t visit anymore and the moments rolling and turning in my head tell me why. I’m just not sure if I should believe them. But in this world, where we have come to be, where things of minuscule intricacies and immense beauty exist together without true explanation or reason, why shouldn’t I? Why shouldn’t it be possible that previous time still exists, and therefore can still be acted on, changed and replanned? If I’ve been somewhere before, then when I revisit I take a different route, I might find that maybe the place has had a facelift, a paint job, an improvement. Surely that should be possible in all facets, dimensions and ways of life. If you strongly want to believe it is possible, then believe it. Believe it. Make it true.
Just listen to me; mad as a hatter.
‘So you don’t like?’
‘Sorry. I, er, was just thinking of something.’
‘Very good, very polite,’ says Ferdi. His skill at sarcasm is coming along nicely. ‘I have had enough. Have had. That is present perfect tense. We use it to talk about the past when it is connected to the present. The past lessons to now have been bad and so is this one. I have had enough. I will complain and now I go.’ He scoops his books up and stuffs them into his bag. ‘Goodbye and please return to your stupid country. You very bad teacher.’
We watch him leave in silence. When the door has closed there is a little more silence, then Johnny says something in Indonesian for the benefit of both native ethnicities in the room, but with the exclusion of mine.
‘What did you say?’
‘What is this on woman?’ He points between his legs.
‘I’m not falling for that.’
‘No. Not for sex, for insult.’
Several words go through my mind, but I hit on the one that I think is the equivalent to what he might want to say.
‘Twat.’ I say.
‘He is a twat,’ says Johnny.
Laughter.
The class have their useful word of the week.
‘Twat,’ they all repeat.
‘So anyway, boss, why leave? Why leave us?’
‘Why? Because I just miss home. I need to go home. I’m scared of it, but I must go home.’ I blink away my blurred vision. ‘I need to find out if the past is finished past or if it is still there, waiting.’
‘Well then, you better go I guess. Good luck, man,’ says Johnny, ‘good luck.’
‘And good luck to you too, Johnny. Good luck to all of you.’
‘See you then, Iqpal.’
‘Selamat. Have a good journey home.’ He has paused in squirting cleaner on the outside windows. ‘I think you happy now.’
‘You think?’ I look at the traffic moving up and down the road. ‘I’ll miss it. The colours and the smells, the becaks, the coffee and the heat.’
‘No. You miss this? No. Your country is paradise, I think.’
‘Paradise? I don’t think so. This is closer to paradise.’
‘No. Here is poor and no money, disease and dirty and many problems. Your country I have seen on TV. It is paradise. Beautiful houses and women with white skin and you are all rich.’
‘You can’t always believe the TV.’
‘But it must be better than here.’ He idly rubs a patch of glass with his cloth and his voice quietens while the glass squeaks. ‘It must be.’
‘Iqpal.’ I squeeze his shoulder. I feel a little condescending doing it, but I want to touch him to show him some warmth. For some reason I feel his life will not be a good one. ‘Take care. I’ll remember you.’
‘You also take care. Come and visit.’
‘I will try. I want to.’
‘And bring me present. Bring a watch. You have good watches in England I know. Beckham and Bond wear them. Bring me a watch.’
‘I will. OK. Selamat, Iqpal.’
‘Selamat.’
I walk away from him and English World school for the last time. I flag down a bicycle becak. As it pulls away I watch Iqpal, standing with a spray bottle in one hand and a cloth in the other. We watch each other until he disappears behind the wall of colours of the street.
‘Where you go, mister?’ asks the pedalling taxi man.
‘The Medan School, please.’
‘OK.’ He pushes hard down on his pedals and we pick up speed. I look to the front as we swerve in and out of the traffic, my rider pushing other becaks away with his hands and feet as we move along under the heavy sky of yet another hot afternoon. In and out of the traffic. Hot, hot day. My eyes are dry from the dust and air. I close them. Just for a moment. My mind sees its chance and wanders, looking in the darkness, going to the furthest corners, digging about, turning over moments like playing cards, looking for the ace. Turn. Turn. Turnturnturnturn.
She stuffs a slice of her pizza into my mouth. All cheese. As she pulls it out a long string of it flops onto my chin.
‘Messy.’ She leans across and sucks it off.
‘You realise the nearest sea is going to be eight hundred miles away?’ We watch the small curls of water on a gentle sea lap at the stones. Moonlight making them silver.
‘Yep.’ She moves the pizza box off my lap and lies down, resting her head there.
‘You know I love you, don’t you.’ She picks up my hand and lays it on her soft hair. ‘Stroke, please.’
‘I do.’
‘You love me.’
‘I do.’
‘You know there’s a world out there?’
‘I do.’
The sea hisses with the rhythm of a slow high-hat as it plays on the beach.
‘I don’t want anyone else. Ever.’ She nestles her head against my crotch. ‘Never ever.’
‘Where is this leading?’
‘I want to be me for a year.’
‘You’re always you.’ Something squeezes the pieces around my heart.
‘I know. But I just want to be me. As an experiment. Just me. And be somewhere where I know no one and see how I do. Just me. On my own. Without help.’
My hand slows and pauses in its stroking. The feeling is creeping up my throat, tightening on my neck.
‘A year. Not even that. Nine months. I’ll be back in nine months and then I’ll find you and shag your brains out and ask you to marry me and have kids and die happy.’ She kisses my thigh through my jeans. ‘But to do that, I want to be a sole explorer. I want to make my own opinions about things. I want a little last time as a single cell, before I divide into a double cell. I’m not splitting up with you. I just don’t want to talk to you for nine months, or see you, or any of my friends or family. I want to survive on my own, just to prove I can.’
‘Not splitting up with me?’
‘Nope.’
‘But no contact after you get on the bus tomorrow?’
‘Nope.’
‘One phone call. Let me know you arrived safely.’
‘OK. One phone call.’
‘Nine months? That’s too long.’
‘No it’s not. You can’t count time, remember. It’s just a human way of labelling something beyond them. Look at cats as a cute, cuddly example. They don’t have days or months or years. They just are, without restriction.’
‘Cats, huh? I guess I have never seen one with a watch.’
‘Exactly. And you could use that lump of moments and go somewhere. Why don’t you do some alone time somewhere new?’
‘Why don’t I?’
There’s a question: why don’t I? Why don’t I?
Why…
&n
bsp; The becak bumps over a kerb.
What is that memory? What is that moment? Is it a moment? Is it a lie? What is it? I must keep this hope. I must. Because if it is a lie, a brainwashing put there by black magic and drugs, then I am mad. And that is the end of me. Or if…
IF
Teddy has helped me find a new path back to be in the right moment, then life is wondrous, the world is always inexplicable, and I am an overjoyed, jubilant man.
IF
‘Here is school.’ He stops pedalling and we freewheel to a stop in the dusty road. A thin powdery haze rises up around my feet.
Naomi is sitting on a bench outside. Her face turned towards the sun, puffing thoughtfully on a cigarette. She doesn’t see me getting out of the becak.
I pay the rider and walk to her, pulling my cigarettes out of my pocket.
Try not to question the moment or my sanity. Just go with it. You’re doing fine.
Sitting on the bench next to her, I light my cigarette and watch her while she still looks skyward. She is a good-looking girl who just wanted to show me around. She didn’t deserve my attack, my bitterness at everything.
‘I’m sorry.’
Her shoulders twitch and she turns her head quickly to me.
‘Shit. You made me jump.’
‘Sorry for that too.’ My toes are white with dust.
‘After all these months you finally come to apologise?’
‘Pretty much. Yes.’
‘Well, you can eff off.’ She squashes her cigarette under her foot. ‘Too late.’
‘Wait, Naomi. Really. You didn’t deserve what I said. I’ve been a little crazy of late.’
‘I was good to you. Nice to you. And you were an asshole to me for no reason.’ She is standing, her face screwed up with anger. ‘You upset me and since then I’ve had to avoid you and that group of misfits from your school. I was embarrassed, angry and annoyed that I let you get away with it.’
‘I’m a tosser. I was a tosser.’ I stand too and try to move my face into her vision so she can see I mean it. ‘I’m leaving in two days and I just wanted you to know I feel bad about it.’