The Influence
V. Home Improvement
Chapter 28
The sky is still dark enough for a handful of persistent stars to flicker through the wispy clouds, but the night is fighting a losing battle. In the east, there is already a hint of pale pink on the horizon, getting brighter and more fiery red by the minute.
Four men wearing dark sarongs and flat black caps carry a makeshift platform made out of bamboo poles lashed together towards a group of men waiting around a bonfire. A young woman lies on the platform, tightly bound to it with coarse twine from feet to head. Her eyes are closed but her mouth moves slightly, the only sign that she is alive. Her arms, also bound, are on her chest, the right hand on top of the left one as if in prayer. As the four approach, the waiting men part silently to let them through. They place one end of the platform on the ground and lean the top part against a branch of a gnarled, ancient looking mangrove tree. Avoiding to look at the woman, they join the others.
One of the men in the group, looking like an imam with his self assured bearing and long if sparse beard, and dressed in a long white robe with a white cap on his head, approaches the woman, with two men following close behind. One of the two carries a bundle in his outstretched arms, the other is empty-handed except for a bunched up piece of rough cloth. Both men look like they would rather be anywhere else right now. The rest of the group stay where they are, shuffling their feet and staring stubbornly at the ground.
The imam stops in front of the woman while the other two men walk around the tree to face him. The imam talks quietly, his voice too low for anyone but the woman to hear, while gently stroking her hair and face. The woman opens her eyes, blinks repeatedly as if she is waking up from a deep sleep. Her eyes, initially dreamy and unfocused, start rolling in all directions, then she starts struggling against the twines that holds her immobile. She tries to lift her head, then her hands and arms, then bucks her torso against the restraints. But the twines hold her firmly and she lets out a long and sorrowful wail.
The imam is unperturbed, he continues talking to the woman and now fragments of what he is saying drift across to the group. It sounds like a chant, hypnotic and soothing. He caresses her face, using both hands now, and as the woman relaxes, looks at him trustingly, the imam signals surreptitiously to one of the men, the one carrying the cloth. Clearly unhappy, the man unwraps it into a long strip and, as the imam pulls open the woman’s mouth and nods, he loops the strip across her lower jaw and drops down to the ground under the platform, pulling on the ends of the strip as hard as he can, using his full body weight.
The woman shrieks from the unexpected pain as her jaw nearly touches her throat, distended to the point of breaking or dislocation. Yet the imam remains calm and signals to the other man, who opens the bundle to reveal two items inside. The imam picks up one of these, a flat piece of obsidian with a wickedly sharp edge, holds it up briefly while saying ‘Insha’Allah’, brings the stone down and without any further ceremony slices open the woman’s cheeks, creating a macabre parody of a smile.
The imam lets the stone drop to the ground, its task completed, takes the other object, a golden disk the size of his palm. He holds it reverently yet with obvious distaste, with just the fingertips of both hands, raises his arms high above his head. He turns to face the group and makes sure they all see what he is holding before he turns back towards the woman and pushes the disk deep into her mouth. Now the imam taps the shoulder of the man crouching under the platform. He stands up and removes the strip from the jaw then quickly slings it under the woman’s chin and pulls the ends towards the top of her head. With the mouth nearly closed, he ties the strip in a knot. Several of the woman’s front teeth get broken in the process but she does not even notice it. With her mouth closed, the disk edges barely showing beyond the butchered cheeks, her screams are muted and now mixed with gagging sounds as blood pours down her throat. She breaths rapidly through the nose, fighting for precious air, her eyes wide open and staring.
The imam beckons the bearers who pick up the platform and carry it to the bonfire. The flames light up a long and narrow pit, maybe a metre deep, a mound of soil next to it. On the other side of the pit, lying on the ground, is a thick wooden pole, its surface covered in Arabic script and obscure symbols. The bearers position the platform above the pit, crouch down to lower it as much as they can, their arms extended, before they let it drop it to the bottom. Next, two of them pick up the pole and lower one end into the pit, just above the woman’s head, then continue supporting it while the rest of the men begin pushing the soil back into the pit.
As the first chunks of earth fall on the woman’s face she realises her fate and, eyes bulging with disbelief, her whole body starts to buck against the twines holding her down. The one across her stomach, thinner than the rest, breaks, and she arches her back desperately, straining to free herself. The men ignore it and continue shoving the soil. Soon the woman is covered, only minute traces of movement visible but even that ceases as more soil is heaped on.
The heavy red clay around the bottom part of the pole is carefully packed to ensure the pole will stay upright. A few more minutes and the pit is covered completely. The men stomp their feet repeatedly to compress the soil, leaving only a slight bulge tracing the outlines of the pit, then move back as the imam approaches the pole, kneels then prostrates himself in front of it.
The prayer is brief. The imam gets up and starts walking towards the village, now visible in the early morning light, without once looking back. The others follow him in silence, and as the sun rises fully over the horizon, the pole shadow extends over the covered pit, marking the unimaginable horror beneath.
Fuck me, this is by far the worst dream, I thought as I woke up in revulsion.
I’d finished plastering the future honeymoon suite using my left arm and hand only – and we know why, don’t we? – with an enthusiastic but not very skilled helper. Another of BB’s bunch, there to keep me safe. After we were done he’d gone to sleep in one of the completed rooms while I discretely redid some of his work. Being knackered from working for five hours without a break, I’d expected a good and uninterrupted night’s sleep. Instead, I had to endure experiencing the torture and killing of the poor woman without any means to prevent it.
I do have one fear in my life, bordering on obsession. (I also used to have compulsive thoughts of being alone and floating in open seas, waiting for sharks to rip me apart. But having more or less experienced that, and survived, it had by then been delegated to my modest collection of other manageable phobias.) You may have guessed it – my major fear is being buried alive, waking up in a coffin in utter darkness, unable to move, knowing that there is no way out. Just thinking about it makes me break out in a sweat, pulse racing. Yes, I’m afflicted with claustrophobia and do not tolerate well anything that restricts my body or mobility. Kris, ever the pragmatist and critic, insists that that’s why I prefer to walk around the house naked and ride the bike without a helmet. Whatever the reason, the thought of being buried alive fills me with absolute terror. And I’d just witnessed someone it happened to.
Not in the mood to go back to sleep immediately and risk more of the same, I got up and shuffled towards the kitchen, torch in hand, keeping quiet so as not to wake up my minder. I could hear him snoring, probably high on solvent fumes.
Still half asleep, I stopped in horror at the end of the hallway, seeing Frankenstein’s creation walking towards me. Then I realised I was looking at myself in the huge mirror above the top of the stairs. Well fuck it, I thought disgustedly, when I moved here I still looked good. And normal. Now, my appearance was marred by a mohawk hairstyle above my right ear and the scars on my shoulder which, despite the surgical tape that was still keeping it together, would forever remind me that it had been chewed on by an oversized fish. At least the damn shark didn’t get deep enough to sever any tendons and muscles, thanks to the BCD being in the way. It just rearranged the skin on my shoulder, leaving a couple of teeth as a signature. Artsy shark, thinking it’s Tracey Emin. Well screw you, shark, I’m still alive and wearing your fucking tooth on a chain.
Down in the kitchen, I pulled out my last remaining bottle of single malt, a basic Glenfiddich and one I normally only use in cooking. I lifted it up and checked the level. Less than half left, no big surprise. Having bikers in the house on a daily basis will deplete anyone’s booze reserves, I can assure you. I poured myself a full glass then proceeded to roll a joint. The only way to get a good night’s sleep without being bothered by dreams.
As I inhaled deeply, chasing the smoke with half of the glass, I wondered what Kris would make of this one. The surroundings, the people, and the apparent Islamic connection – not that I’ve ever heard of Muslims advocating live burials, but then I’m hardly an expert on religions – it all pointed to Sulu. Which was John the Bajau’s assumed origin. Surely there was a link? I felt proud of my powers of deduction. For the first time since the dreams started I was able to guess where this one had happened. Next time I talked to Kris I would have substantial information.
She’d kept in touch fairly regularly since her departure, keeping me updated about her progress in Japan. Last I heard she’d confirmed the family name of the suicide guy and was tracing his descendants. In between the sleuthing, as she insisted on calling it, she was visiting old and new business connections, and was enthusiastic about Namba, the red-light district in Osaka. According to her it had the best equipped love motels anywhere in Japan, and insisted that ‘we have to come here sometime, until then I’m thinking of you.’ I somehow doubted that and was sure that she was too busy trying out the equipment with her room companion, or companions. Doing my best to pretend I wasn’t jealous.
Four men wearing dark sarongs and flat black caps carry a makeshift platform made out of bamboo poles lashed together towards a group of men waiting around a bonfire. A young woman lies on the platform, tightly bound to it with coarse twine from feet to head. Her eyes are closed but her mouth moves slightly, the only sign that she is alive. Her arms, also bound, are on her chest, the right hand on top of the left one as if in prayer. As the four approach, the waiting men part silently to let them through. They place one end of the platform on the ground and lean the top part against a branch of a gnarled, ancient looking mangrove tree. Avoiding to look at the woman, they join the others.
One of the men in the group, looking like an imam with his self assured bearing and long if sparse beard, and dressed in a long white robe with a white cap on his head, approaches the woman, with two men following close behind. One of the two carries a bundle in his outstretched arms, the other is empty-handed except for a bunched up piece of rough cloth. Both men look like they would rather be anywhere else right now. The rest of the group stay where they are, shuffling their feet and staring stubbornly at the ground.
The imam stops in front of the woman while the other two men walk around the tree to face him. The imam talks quietly, his voice too low for anyone but the woman to hear, while gently stroking her hair and face. The woman opens her eyes, blinks repeatedly as if she is waking up from a deep sleep. Her eyes, initially dreamy and unfocused, start rolling in all directions, then she starts struggling against the twines that holds her immobile. She tries to lift her head, then her hands and arms, then bucks her torso against the restraints. But the twines hold her firmly and she lets out a long and sorrowful wail.
The imam is unperturbed, he continues talking to the woman and now fragments of what he is saying drift across to the group. It sounds like a chant, hypnotic and soothing. He caresses her face, using both hands now, and as the woman relaxes, looks at him trustingly, the imam signals surreptitiously to one of the men, the one carrying the cloth. Clearly unhappy, the man unwraps it into a long strip and, as the imam pulls open the woman’s mouth and nods, he loops the strip across her lower jaw and drops down to the ground under the platform, pulling on the ends of the strip as hard as he can, using his full body weight.
The woman shrieks from the unexpected pain as her jaw nearly touches her throat, distended to the point of breaking or dislocation. Yet the imam remains calm and signals to the other man, who opens the bundle to reveal two items inside. The imam picks up one of these, a flat piece of obsidian with a wickedly sharp edge, holds it up briefly while saying ‘Insha’Allah’, brings the stone down and without any further ceremony slices open the woman’s cheeks, creating a macabre parody of a smile.
The imam lets the stone drop to the ground, its task completed, takes the other object, a golden disk the size of his palm. He holds it reverently yet with obvious distaste, with just the fingertips of both hands, raises his arms high above his head. He turns to face the group and makes sure they all see what he is holding before he turns back towards the woman and pushes the disk deep into her mouth. Now the imam taps the shoulder of the man crouching under the platform. He stands up and removes the strip from the jaw then quickly slings it under the woman’s chin and pulls the ends towards the top of her head. With the mouth nearly closed, he ties the strip in a knot. Several of the woman’s front teeth get broken in the process but she does not even notice it. With her mouth closed, the disk edges barely showing beyond the butchered cheeks, her screams are muted and now mixed with gagging sounds as blood pours down her throat. She breaths rapidly through the nose, fighting for precious air, her eyes wide open and staring.
The imam beckons the bearers who pick up the platform and carry it to the bonfire. The flames light up a long and narrow pit, maybe a metre deep, a mound of soil next to it. On the other side of the pit, lying on the ground, is a thick wooden pole, its surface covered in Arabic script and obscure symbols. The bearers position the platform above the pit, crouch down to lower it as much as they can, their arms extended, before they let it drop it to the bottom. Next, two of them pick up the pole and lower one end into the pit, just above the woman’s head, then continue supporting it while the rest of the men begin pushing the soil back into the pit.
As the first chunks of earth fall on the woman’s face she realises her fate and, eyes bulging with disbelief, her whole body starts to buck against the twines holding her down. The one across her stomach, thinner than the rest, breaks, and she arches her back desperately, straining to free herself. The men ignore it and continue shoving the soil. Soon the woman is covered, only minute traces of movement visible but even that ceases as more soil is heaped on.
The heavy red clay around the bottom part of the pole is carefully packed to ensure the pole will stay upright. A few more minutes and the pit is covered completely. The men stomp their feet repeatedly to compress the soil, leaving only a slight bulge tracing the outlines of the pit, then move back as the imam approaches the pole, kneels then prostrates himself in front of it.
The prayer is brief. The imam gets up and starts walking towards the village, now visible in the early morning light, without once looking back. The others follow him in silence, and as the sun rises fully over the horizon, the pole shadow extends over the covered pit, marking the unimaginable horror beneath.
Fuck me, this is by far the worst dream, I thought as I woke up in revulsion.
I’d finished plastering the future honeymoon suite using my left arm and hand only – and we know why, don’t we? – with an enthusiastic but not very skilled helper. Another of BB’s bunch, there to keep me safe. After we were done he’d gone to sleep in one of the completed rooms while I discretely redid some of his work. Being knackered from working for five hours without a break, I’d expected a good and uninterrupted night’s sleep. Instead, I had to endure experiencing the torture and killing of the poor woman without any means to prevent it.
I do have one fear in my life, bordering on obsession. (I also used to have compulsive thoughts of being alone and floating in open seas, waiting for sharks to rip me apart. But having more or less experienced that, and survived, it had by then been delegated to my modest collection of other manageable phobias.) You may have guessed it – my major fear is being buried alive, waking up in a coffin in utter darkness, unable to move, knowing that there is no way out. Just thinking about it makes me break out in a sweat, pulse racing. Yes, I’m afflicted with claustrophobia and do not tolerate well anything that restricts my body or mobility. Kris, ever the pragmatist and critic, insists that that’s why I prefer to walk around the house naked and ride the bike without a helmet. Whatever the reason, the thought of being buried alive fills me with absolute terror. And I’d just witnessed someone it happened to.
Not in the mood to go back to sleep immediately and risk more of the same, I got up and shuffled towards the kitchen, torch in hand, keeping quiet so as not to wake up my minder. I could hear him snoring, probably high on solvent fumes.
Still half asleep, I stopped in horror at the end of the hallway, seeing Frankenstein’s creation walking towards me. Then I realised I was looking at myself in the huge mirror above the top of the stairs. Well fuck it, I thought disgustedly, when I moved here I still looked good. And normal. Now, my appearance was marred by a mohawk hairstyle above my right ear and the scars on my shoulder which, despite the surgical tape that was still keeping it together, would forever remind me that it had been chewed on by an oversized fish. At least the damn shark didn’t get deep enough to sever any tendons and muscles, thanks to the BCD being in the way. It just rearranged the skin on my shoulder, leaving a couple of teeth as a signature. Artsy shark, thinking it’s Tracey Emin. Well screw you, shark, I’m still alive and wearing your fucking tooth on a chain.
Down in the kitchen, I pulled out my last remaining bottle of single malt, a basic Glenfiddich and one I normally only use in cooking. I lifted it up and checked the level. Less than half left, no big surprise. Having bikers in the house on a daily basis will deplete anyone’s booze reserves, I can assure you. I poured myself a full glass then proceeded to roll a joint. The only way to get a good night’s sleep without being bothered by dreams.
As I inhaled deeply, chasing the smoke with half of the glass, I wondered what Kris would make of this one. The surroundings, the people, and the apparent Islamic connection – not that I’ve ever heard of Muslims advocating live burials, but then I’m hardly an expert on religions – it all pointed to Sulu. Which was John the Bajau’s assumed origin. Surely there was a link? I felt proud of my powers of deduction. For the first time since the dreams started I was able to guess where this one had happened. Next time I talked to Kris I would have substantial information.
She’d kept in touch fairly regularly since her departure, keeping me updated about her progress in Japan. Last I heard she’d confirmed the family name of the suicide guy and was tracing his descendants. In between the sleuthing, as she insisted on calling it, she was visiting old and new business connections, and was enthusiastic about Namba, the red-light district in Osaka. According to her it had the best equipped love motels anywhere in Japan, and insisted that ‘we have to come here sometime, until then I’m thinking of you.’ I somehow doubted that and was sure that she was too busy trying out the equipment with her room companion, or companions. Doing my best to pretend I wasn’t jealous.
●
Two fat ones later and the whisky gone, I finally achieved the correct mix of drunk and high to drag myself upstairs and back into bed, by now sure that I wouldn’t have any more dreams. Not that I expected more of the… special ones, I just didn’t want any residue to transform itself into one of my other nightlong nightmares, repeating itself over and over again.
I climbed into the bed, pleasantly disconnected from reality and with the distinct feeling that I was floating just above the mattress when I heard a faint chirp from one of the dark corners.
‘Minnie? Is that you, girl?’
Another chirp, more assertive this time as she detached herself from the corner and moved cautiously towards me, into the light thrown by the bedside lamp.
‘Hey, Minnie, you’re alive!’ I was elated. ‘Where’ve you been? Are you okay?’
She stopped some way from the bed, looked up and twitched her whiskers as if to make sure that I was alone.
‘Are you hungry, girl? Want me to make you a nice dinner?’
More chirps, then she continued towards me and – I’ve never seen a rat do that – jumped up on the bed without any effort, landing next to my feet. She’d never been this close to me before. I reached with my hand towards her but she squeaked quietly and retreated to the edge of the bed.
‘Sure, girl. I’ll leave you alone,’ I said to reassure her as the room started spinning. ‘You just have a good rest and when we have breakfast tomorrow you can tell me all about it.’
I climbed into the bed, pleasantly disconnected from reality and with the distinct feeling that I was floating just above the mattress when I heard a faint chirp from one of the dark corners.
‘Minnie? Is that you, girl?’
Another chirp, more assertive this time as she detached herself from the corner and moved cautiously towards me, into the light thrown by the bedside lamp.
‘Hey, Minnie, you’re alive!’ I was elated. ‘Where’ve you been? Are you okay?’
She stopped some way from the bed, looked up and twitched her whiskers as if to make sure that I was alone.
‘Are you hungry, girl? Want me to make you a nice dinner?’
More chirps, then she continued towards me and – I’ve never seen a rat do that – jumped up on the bed without any effort, landing next to my feet. She’d never been this close to me before. I reached with my hand towards her but she squeaked quietly and retreated to the edge of the bed.
‘Sure, girl. I’ll leave you alone,’ I said to reassure her as the room started spinning. ‘You just have a good rest and when we have breakfast tomorrow you can tell me all about it.’
Chapter 29
As I woke up I remembered Minnie and how she’d surprised me by getting up on the bed. She was not there now, nor anywhere in the room as far I could see.
‘Minnie? You still here, girl?’
There was no reply or movement, not counting a spider scuttling up one of the bed posts noisily. Maybe I’d just had one of those rare psychotropic-induced moments, thinking about Minnie and missing her, with my brain complying and producing the appropriate experience.
Then again, maybe I also have tiny dancing fairies at the bottom of my garden. Of course Minnie was in my room last night, I told myself, she’s just a bit cautious after the garage incident. She’ll reappear when she is ready.
BB and four of his bunch were in the kitchen, a mountain of popiahs – Malaysian style spring rolls – on the table next to mugs of steaming kopi-o, the local version of coffee. One of the guys was abusing my expensive Italian hob and the inexpensive IKEA frying pan, making scrambled eggs. Based on the heap of shells on the desktop, he’d used up all of my remaining eggs and I made a mental note to triple everything on my shopping lists for the foreseeable future. My local Cold Storage would love me even more than usually.
‘Guys, anyone seen Minnie?’ I asked as I stepped through the door, noting with satisfaction the momentary shock on their faces as they were confronted with an apparition sporting a hairdo that Robert Smith of the Cure would’ve been proud of, complemented by ugly bruises and livid scars, some of which still seeped blood and pus. All of it confirming my potentially epic, Oscar-winning appearance as a psycho killer. No makeup necessary. Need I mention that I was naked as well?
‘A very good morning to you,’ BB roared happily, unflustered. ‘May I invite the master of the house to join us for a modest breakfast? Alas, the lady that you enquire about has not graced us with her luminous presence. Maybe she still busy with the garbage bin, ha, ha.’
I didn’t appreciate him making fun of me, and even less so as his minions joined him in the guffawing. I’ve no problem with being regarded as a mat salleh, the Malay street term for a foreigner, usually implying a weird European – every nation in the world has an expression, more or less disparaging, for an outsider or anyone different. But laughing at me for having a pet rat and being attached to her was going beyond the acceptable, I felt.
‘Oh shut up, you fat, ugly bastard. And as for the rest of you fucking mat rempits, grow up. I’ll make my own coffee. A proper one.’
In any other circumstance I would’ve been beaten up badly for using that particular term for the present bikers. Mat rempit is a local and derogatory collective name for baby bikers racing their modified and custom painted scooters along KL streets, mainly at night. In general they are perceived as a major nuisance, on occasion they cause spectacular accidents. The locals refer to them as mosquitoes. I prefer to call them cockroaches because no one likes them or wants them around, yet they always appear where you least expect them to and, once you’ve seen one, you can be sure that more will follow.
Not surprising, then, that the guys sitting at the table across from me looked ready to draw their parangs and rearrange my body into a multitude of unnatural positions, never mind chop me up in bite sized pieces for the next weekend’s barbecue.
‘Ha, you funny man,’ BB roared, looking pointedly at his table companions, ‘is good for you we like joke. Now have your racun kopi and we talk after.’
‘Minnie? You still here, girl?’
There was no reply or movement, not counting a spider scuttling up one of the bed posts noisily. Maybe I’d just had one of those rare psychotropic-induced moments, thinking about Minnie and missing her, with my brain complying and producing the appropriate experience.
Then again, maybe I also have tiny dancing fairies at the bottom of my garden. Of course Minnie was in my room last night, I told myself, she’s just a bit cautious after the garage incident. She’ll reappear when she is ready.
BB and four of his bunch were in the kitchen, a mountain of popiahs – Malaysian style spring rolls – on the table next to mugs of steaming kopi-o, the local version of coffee. One of the guys was abusing my expensive Italian hob and the inexpensive IKEA frying pan, making scrambled eggs. Based on the heap of shells on the desktop, he’d used up all of my remaining eggs and I made a mental note to triple everything on my shopping lists for the foreseeable future. My local Cold Storage would love me even more than usually.
‘Guys, anyone seen Minnie?’ I asked as I stepped through the door, noting with satisfaction the momentary shock on their faces as they were confronted with an apparition sporting a hairdo that Robert Smith of the Cure would’ve been proud of, complemented by ugly bruises and livid scars, some of which still seeped blood and pus. All of it confirming my potentially epic, Oscar-winning appearance as a psycho killer. No makeup necessary. Need I mention that I was naked as well?
‘A very good morning to you,’ BB roared happily, unflustered. ‘May I invite the master of the house to join us for a modest breakfast? Alas, the lady that you enquire about has not graced us with her luminous presence. Maybe she still busy with the garbage bin, ha, ha.’
I didn’t appreciate him making fun of me, and even less so as his minions joined him in the guffawing. I’ve no problem with being regarded as a mat salleh, the Malay street term for a foreigner, usually implying a weird European – every nation in the world has an expression, more or less disparaging, for an outsider or anyone different. But laughing at me for having a pet rat and being attached to her was going beyond the acceptable, I felt.
‘Oh shut up, you fat, ugly bastard. And as for the rest of you fucking mat rempits, grow up. I’ll make my own coffee. A proper one.’
In any other circumstance I would’ve been beaten up badly for using that particular term for the present bikers. Mat rempit is a local and derogatory collective name for baby bikers racing their modified and custom painted scooters along KL streets, mainly at night. In general they are perceived as a major nuisance, on occasion they cause spectacular accidents. The locals refer to them as mosquitoes. I prefer to call them cockroaches because no one likes them or wants them around, yet they always appear where you least expect them to and, once you’ve seen one, you can be sure that more will follow.
Not surprising, then, that the guys sitting at the table across from me looked ready to draw their parangs and rearrange my body into a multitude of unnatural positions, never mind chop me up in bite sized pieces for the next weekend’s barbecue.
‘Ha, you funny man,’ BB roared, looking pointedly at his table companions, ‘is good for you we like joke. Now have your racun kopi and we talk after.’
●
‘So, miss Kristina say she fain and hab good informasi,’ BB said after his guys had departed and I’d finished my two espressos – he knew me well enough not to interrupt my morning coffee ritual.
‘I’m positive she’s more than fine, knowing her,’ I replied sourly. ‘I’m sure that by now she’s having the time of her life in Osaka.’
‘I know what you think, man, and I unerstan’. Me, I think same like you, lah, but miss Kristina, she different. She know more about life and spirits than a kampung dukun.’
‘Seriously? You see her as a shaman?’
‘She very good at telling future, every time.’
‘Really? If she is, did she ever hint at Tikus croaking?’ I asked scathingly. ‘With me potentially turning into a fucking vegetable at the same time?’
‘Dukun not know everytin’, man. But they know what important.’
‘Sure, of course. Very selective of them, isn’t it?’
‘Neber main’, I also can tell future,’ BB smiled. ‘You go shopping today, get more food and drink. And Saturday, you come riding with us.’
‘Riding where? I’m not sure the bike can take the heat during a long run.’
‘Jus’ to Hard Rock Cafe, man. Good band, heavy. And good cold beer. I send someone to make sure you ride safe.’
‘I’m positive she’s more than fine, knowing her,’ I replied sourly. ‘I’m sure that by now she’s having the time of her life in Osaka.’
‘I know what you think, man, and I unerstan’. Me, I think same like you, lah, but miss Kristina, she different. She know more about life and spirits than a kampung dukun.’
‘Seriously? You see her as a shaman?’
‘She very good at telling future, every time.’
‘Really? If she is, did she ever hint at Tikus croaking?’ I asked scathingly. ‘With me potentially turning into a fucking vegetable at the same time?’
‘Dukun not know everytin’, man. But they know what important.’
‘Sure, of course. Very selective of them, isn’t it?’
‘Neber main’, I also can tell future,’ BB smiled. ‘You go shopping today, get more food and drink. And Saturday, you come riding with us.’
‘Riding where? I’m not sure the bike can take the heat during a long run.’
‘Jus’ to Hard Rock Cafe, man. Good band, heavy. And good cold beer. I send someone to make sure you ride safe.’
Chapter 30
My minder for the day was Billy. It wasn’t his real name, of course, as he was Chinese. Having watched Easy Rider he’d decided that this was the coolest name ever and that a bandana was a mandatory riding accessory.
I liked Billy, his English was good enough and his skill with tools went beyond tinkering with his Sportster. He’d assisted me in constructing the extension for the ladder that I was on.
The roof drain at the side of the house had been overflowing for the last three days, with the down pipe bone dry. Something was blocking it and I needed to clear the obstruction. But the ladder was not quite long enough to rest against the roof overhang, so we’d welded together the extension from some aluminium pipes I had and screwed it onto the ladder.
I got to the top, the wide drain collector just about reachable, and proceeded to shove the stick I’d brought with me down it.
‘I can feel something,’ I shouted down to Billy who was holding the ladder. ‘Yeah, must be leaves, and a lot of them. I’ll try to dislodge them and you tell me when they start coming down the pipe.’
The leaves wouldn’t budge no matter how hard I poked. So I transferred the stick to my right hand and reached up with my left, feeling around blindly.
‘There’s a lot of crap here, and all rotting as far as I can feel,’ I informed Billy, who gave me a thumbs-up.
‘Better you than me, boss.’
‘Thank you for your wholehearted support, Billy,’ I replied as I continued rooting around in the mess. ‘There’s a bloody branch here, as well. Also rotted, all squishy. But why the fuck is it moving–’
I didn’t expect my hand to be clamped in a vice with very sharp edges, the pain immediate and searing.
‘Fuck,’ I wailed, trying to pull my hand out, ‘this hurts!’
I yanked the hand out, a python head firmly attached to it. Not a huge python, judging by the size of its head, but bloody determined, refusing to release my hand no matter how much I shook it. I started hitting the head repeatedly with the stick until the snake finally opened its mouth and let go. Then I realised that, with my right hand holding the stick and my left now released by the snake, I had nothing supporting me on the ladder.
‘Shit,’ I shouted as I started falling backwards, dropped the stick and grabbed the ladder with one hand. It stopped me from falling but I’d lost my footing and began sliding down.
Eat your heart out, Jackie Chan, I can also slide down ladders, I thought just before my chin hit the first rung, then got acquainted with the rest of them all the way down until I dropped down on Billy’s head. The ladder followed, and of course it didn’t fall to one side, it fell on us.
As we rolled away from the ladder and each other, huffing and puffing, Billy was laughing. I wasn’t. In pain, I looked at my hand covered in blood and bits of rotting leaves, and my first thought was that I’d have to disinfect the wounds at once; the second one how on earth I was going to ride the bike to Hard Rock Cafe; then yet another thought hit me and I started laughing as well.
‘Well, I sure can’t blame Kris for this one,’ I said as I sat up. ‘And if she and BB ever find out about this, I will never hear the end of it.’
‘Don’t worry, boss, I won’t tell,’ Billy assured me and pointed up. ‘You have all windows closed? I think snake now find another place.’
He ran upstairs with me hobbling behind to make sure the python wouldn’t try to get in. We were just in time to see it poking its head through one of the ventilation ducts above a window, its middle part hanging in the air outside, distended. Damn snake, wanting to use my house to digest whatever it had eaten. Judging by the size of its stomach most likely a baby monkey, but I had a momentary vision of Minnie being crushed to death and swallowed whole, and angrily beat the python’s head with my fist – the good one – until it decided to go look for another shelter.
I closed the duct and went to my bathroom to pour alcohol over the hand, catching a glimpse of my face in the mirror.
‘Oh no, fuck, not this as well,’ I groaned. I’d forgotten about my chin connecting with the rungs. The skin was scraped raw and a big, purple bruise was developing in front of my eyes. Great, now I looked like one of those indigenous people that tattoo their chins. And BB was going to laugh his fat arse off.
I liked Billy, his English was good enough and his skill with tools went beyond tinkering with his Sportster. He’d assisted me in constructing the extension for the ladder that I was on.
The roof drain at the side of the house had been overflowing for the last three days, with the down pipe bone dry. Something was blocking it and I needed to clear the obstruction. But the ladder was not quite long enough to rest against the roof overhang, so we’d welded together the extension from some aluminium pipes I had and screwed it onto the ladder.
I got to the top, the wide drain collector just about reachable, and proceeded to shove the stick I’d brought with me down it.
‘I can feel something,’ I shouted down to Billy who was holding the ladder. ‘Yeah, must be leaves, and a lot of them. I’ll try to dislodge them and you tell me when they start coming down the pipe.’
The leaves wouldn’t budge no matter how hard I poked. So I transferred the stick to my right hand and reached up with my left, feeling around blindly.
‘There’s a lot of crap here, and all rotting as far as I can feel,’ I informed Billy, who gave me a thumbs-up.
‘Better you than me, boss.’
‘Thank you for your wholehearted support, Billy,’ I replied as I continued rooting around in the mess. ‘There’s a bloody branch here, as well. Also rotted, all squishy. But why the fuck is it moving–’
I didn’t expect my hand to be clamped in a vice with very sharp edges, the pain immediate and searing.
‘Fuck,’ I wailed, trying to pull my hand out, ‘this hurts!’
I yanked the hand out, a python head firmly attached to it. Not a huge python, judging by the size of its head, but bloody determined, refusing to release my hand no matter how much I shook it. I started hitting the head repeatedly with the stick until the snake finally opened its mouth and let go. Then I realised that, with my right hand holding the stick and my left now released by the snake, I had nothing supporting me on the ladder.
‘Shit,’ I shouted as I started falling backwards, dropped the stick and grabbed the ladder with one hand. It stopped me from falling but I’d lost my footing and began sliding down.
Eat your heart out, Jackie Chan, I can also slide down ladders, I thought just before my chin hit the first rung, then got acquainted with the rest of them all the way down until I dropped down on Billy’s head. The ladder followed, and of course it didn’t fall to one side, it fell on us.
As we rolled away from the ladder and each other, huffing and puffing, Billy was laughing. I wasn’t. In pain, I looked at my hand covered in blood and bits of rotting leaves, and my first thought was that I’d have to disinfect the wounds at once; the second one how on earth I was going to ride the bike to Hard Rock Cafe; then yet another thought hit me and I started laughing as well.
‘Well, I sure can’t blame Kris for this one,’ I said as I sat up. ‘And if she and BB ever find out about this, I will never hear the end of it.’
‘Don’t worry, boss, I won’t tell,’ Billy assured me and pointed up. ‘You have all windows closed? I think snake now find another place.’
He ran upstairs with me hobbling behind to make sure the python wouldn’t try to get in. We were just in time to see it poking its head through one of the ventilation ducts above a window, its middle part hanging in the air outside, distended. Damn snake, wanting to use my house to digest whatever it had eaten. Judging by the size of its stomach most likely a baby monkey, but I had a momentary vision of Minnie being crushed to death and swallowed whole, and angrily beat the python’s head with my fist – the good one – until it decided to go look for another shelter.
I closed the duct and went to my bathroom to pour alcohol over the hand, catching a glimpse of my face in the mirror.
‘Oh no, fuck, not this as well,’ I groaned. I’d forgotten about my chin connecting with the rungs. The skin was scraped raw and a big, purple bruise was developing in front of my eyes. Great, now I looked like one of those indigenous people that tattoo their chins. And BB was going to laugh his fat arse off.
●
‘Ready?’ Billy shouted at me. ‘You go first.’
I waved in response and slammed the Panhead into gear, the rear wheel spraying gravel as I went down the driveway in a slide.
My left hand was tightly bandaged and very much throbbing. That would be sorted out soon with a few shots, I expected, but there was no way I could hide my chin other than using a balaclava. Oh well, I’d just have to make it clear to the boys that any discussion about my appearance was not on tonight’s agenda. At least the leather jacket covered my shoulder.
They were already inside as we arrived, their bikes parked on both sides of the entrance with two slots left for us. As I walked through the door, the bouncers parting to let us in and pointing towards the bar, I could hear the bloody band getting on with yet another dirge. Heavy it wasn’t. I challenge you to find any hard rock band in Malaysia whose appearance matches their taste in music. At best, they will play an endless succession of infamous rock ballads and metal anthems, each sounding like it was lovingly arranged by Chris de Burgh. Otherwise it’s all local love songs, incredibly tacky (there’s not a single Malay song that does not include the word cinta, love, over and over), invariably with overlong distorted guitar solos. The band was currently killing Carrie, a song best forgotten. As the singer cried out in anguish I winced in embarrassment.
The guys were lined up along the far side of the bar, facing the stage and whooping in delight. I walked towards them, with Billy behind me, and as soon as I saw the first eyebrows raised and mouths open questioningly, I lifted my hand in warning. My left hand, which didn’t help.
‘I’ll kill the first one of you that mentions my chin.’ And, looking at the bandage, I added, ‘or my hand.’
BB seemed concerned, until Billy slid up to him and started whispering – thank you for that, Billy. Then BB started shaking with laughter, pounding his fists on the bar top.
‘Surely thou dost not fear the soft and tender fork of a poor worm?’ he bellowed.
‘Fuck you BB, just get me a double vodka.’
BB signalled to the barman and, ignoring my threat, proceeded to tell everyone within shouting distance what had happened to me, no doubt thoroughly embellished. I couldn’t tell, it was all Bahasa to me. When he finished even the barman snickered as he pushed the glass towards me.
‘You like snake lady I can arrange,’ the cheeky bugger said and winked at me conspiratorially. ‘With hijab or without.’
I ignored him and turned to BB, who asked me to take off the jacket and display my shoulder to his associates.
‘Why don’t you instead amuse everyone on the premises by telling them how scared shitless you were on that boat? Being safe and getting pissed while I had to battle the fucking sharks.’
‘I know my limits,’ BB replied, ‘but you, first you jump in sea with sharks then you try to fly from roof with snake. At least now you have skin for new boots.’
‘I didn’t kill the python, you miserable bastard. I believe in the preservation of all wildlife,’ I said and turned towards the barman with the empty glass, ‘Another double, on the double.’
The band finally finished but threatened the crowd with returning after the break. Immediately, the muzak came on, thankfully at a lower volume and slightly less likely to induce tinnitus. Feeling the warmth in my stomach spreading and the hand getting pleasantly numb, I relaxed a bit and scanned the tables in the restaurant part. As always on a Saturday the place was packed. Two tables in the centre were pulled together for a big group of Indonesians, rowdy and drunk as they always are when they visit KL, chatting up the standard entourage of resident working girls and trying to negotiate discounts. Most of the other tables were occupied by young couples with the usual vacuous facial expressions, madly in love and holding hands. No doubt whispering cinta to each other.
At the table furthest away from the stage a group of men, all dressed in dark suits, were going through a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label, generously mixing the whisky with soda and ice. Silly sods, but then they were all young and Chinese from what I could see through the dim lighting, without any stamina or experience of booze and rightfully careful not to overdo it. The bottle emptied, one of them turned around to look for a waitress and I recognised the guy that I’d assisted into the pool at Ho’s party. For a second our eyes met, his wide in unhappy recognition.
Might as well take the proverbial bull by the balls – or is that horns, I thought – and show Kris that I can also do soft diplomacy when required. Also, this time I was sober. Well, relatively sober.
I called out to the barman for a quad vodka, to keep me going, and nudged BB while I kept my eyes on the Chinese blokes, ‘I’m going over to have a chat with someone. Can you guys make sure my back is covered? Just in case.’
BB followed my stare, ‘Who that? And why you wan’ trouble? We here for good time, no fight.’
‘I don’t think there will be any trouble. Just want to say hi to someone I’ve met before. Have a quiet chat, you know. You guys stay here unless I need you. But do be ready.’
Glass in hand, I weaved my way across the floor towards the table. The guy had turned his back on me but the rest of them looked at me suspiciously. As I approached, two of them got up – they were big, nearly as big as BB, with button-straining jackets and arms sticking out in the fashion of gym addicts – and placed themselves firmly in my way. Heavy duty but barely half a brain between them, that much was obvious.
‘Relax, guys,’ I smiled disarmingly, ‘I just want to have a chat with your boss. So take five and go rip off the head of a chicken somewhere, or rape a goat, whatever takes your fancy.’
They didn’t budge. Neither did they attempt to kill me on the spot, which was a good sign.
‘Hey!’ I called out, peeking between the two dummies and trying to remember his name. Ah, yes, Chen. ‘I’ve come to make peace, junior. Have a glass or two with you and make up. Like adults do occasionally, know what I mean?’
Chen got up furiously, nearly overturning his chair, both bodyguards looking at him in alarm. With barely a movement of his hands, he dismissed them and faced me.
‘If you have anything to say, do it now before I have my people crush you like a bug.’
‘Whoa, buster,’ I said, lifting my glass and toasting him, ‘I’ve not come here to pick a fight. Just want to conclude that talk we had a few weeks ago. And clarify a few things.’
‘So speak.’
‘Let’s do this in a civilised manner, shall we?’ I said amiably. ‘At the table. And I’ll get us a proper whisky for the conversation, if I may?’
I didn’t wait for Chen’s reply, I sat down in the chair vacated by one of the bruisers and waved to BB, who was following the altercation intently from the bar, simultaneously showing everyone at the table that I wasn’t alone and if necessary would have the backup of a dozen mean bikers, all of them currently staring at us.
A waitress walked by doing her best to avoid us, but I was merciless and stopped her. ‘A bottle of Lagavulin, please. Forget the ice, forget the soda, that’s kids’ stuff. But with proper whisky glasses this time.’
I may have been pushing it, but so far no one at the table showed any inclinations to get violent. The bottle and glasses were brought to the table in record time and I insisted on opening and pouring.
‘Anyone else here wants to try a real whisky?’ I enquired, holding up the bottle. ‘Together with me and Chen junior here?’
They all pushed their glasses towards me, the bruisers included, while Chen hissed, ‘Stop calling me junior or I’ll kill you myself, right now!’
‘Sorry mate, didn’t mean to be disrespectful,’ I replied. ‘All I know about you is that your old man is called Chen and is a hotshot in Macau. And that you’re expanding the family business to KL. Cheers.’
‘My father, as always!’ Chen got agitated and his table companions looked ready to dismember me. ‘My father this, my father that. I’m fed up with forever being seen as my father’s son. And the heir to his legacy.’
‘I know what you mean, mate, I’ve been there myself,’ I said to calm him. ‘It’s tough to walk in your father’s shadow all your life.’
‘What I’m doing here, it’s nothing to do with my family or my father. This is me, running my own business, creating my own empire, all legally,’ Chen said, then considered what he’d said. ‘And why the fuck am I telling this to a gweilo, anyway?’
We were both tipsy by now (you don’t get to mess with Lagavulin without facing the consequences, it’s a serious liquor best left to professional drinkers), but I was slightly on top, being heavier, and in much better mood than the last time we interacted.
‘Look, here’s the deal,’ I said as leaned towards Chen, doing my best to appear sincere, and actually meaning it, while I poured the last of the whisky into our glasses. ‘I’ll do everything I can to stop the rumours about you hitting on me–’
‘I didn’t, you piece of–’
‘I know you didn’t, and you know you didn’t, but alas, rumours are so easily propagated in this town, aren’t they? Even if they’re totally baseless.’
Before he had a chance to respond, I continued. ‘So, here’s what I’m putting on the table. One, I’ll make sure that everyone who’s anyone important in this town gets to know that I was just another drunken gweilo that had a few too many and pushed you into the pool by mistake. And please don’t interrupt me while I’m being helpful,’ I said as Chen’s face turned a dark shade of purple. ‘Two, I’ll tell you everything I know about this so called treasure that every lowlife in KL seems to be familiar with. After which you leave me and my girlfriend alone. Or else you get to deal with the biker boys – you see them over there, at the bar? Every one of them would be willing to die for my girlfriend, and I’ll be the one to slice off your balls if we ever get to that stage, screw the consequences. Do we understand each other? Are you okay with that and do we have a deal?’
‘Go on.’ Chen was all ears by now, yet understandably cautious.
‘Thank you. So, I had a dream,’ I raised my forefinger, no point in telling him about the other ones, I felt, ‘about a fat guy dragging a trunk with a dead girl in it and getting ripped to shreds by monkeys. That’s it. End of story.’
Chen just continued looking at me.
‘Right, so the fat bloke was someone who actually happened to have lived in KL over half a century ago, but how the fuck could I’ve known that? To me, it was nothing but a bad dream. Yet, ever since, I’ve had dickheads trying to kill me and my girlfriend. For what? A fucking dream? Some kind of treasure that the guy had found? Supposedly it’s a trinket, with the usual promises of world domination to anyone who has it. If it at all exists, as no one has ever seen it, just heard rumours about it. I don’t give a shit one way or the other, I’ve got more pressing things to worry about. Such as continuing to live a good life here, doing my own thing, being carefree and happy with my girlfriend. No problems and no worries mate, you know what I’m talking about, don’t you?’
‘But dreams are important. They tell you all about your past and your future.’
‘Well fuck it, I don’t give a flying shit about any dreams, past or future. I’ve enough dealing with the present, thank you very much, and no desire whatsoever to explore the past. Or look for something that most probably doesn’t exist. Particularly if it means that my girlfriend gets uncomfortable. Or jittery, in which case the Neanderthals at the bar will react badly. So, do you understand where I’m coming from and do we have a deal?’
‘Why should I believe you?’ Chen eyed me suspiciously. ‘Don’t believe me, by all means, go talk to Ho instead. He knows about my dream, my girlfriend told him everything. And that’s another matter for you to think about carefully: Ho considers her to be family, and very precious. Anything happens to her, he will go looking for the party responsible. Trust me, you don’t want Ho on your bad side. So do talk to him, and ask him about Tigran Ng. That’s the man in my dream, by the way.’
I raised my glass in expectation and Chen thankfully followed my cue.
‘We may have a deal. But only if you have told me the truth.’
‘I have, and you have my word on it. Check with Ho.’
Beauty, as they say, is in the eye of the beholder, right? Well, so is truth. Whatever is perceived to be the truth is surely such? So what right did I have to dissuade Chen junior from believing in what I’d just told him? It sounded totally believable, he was happy, I was happy, ergo everything was good.
‘If you’re still inclined to doubt me, just have a look at this,’ I said, pulling up my hair and showing him the scar. ‘I was shot at and nearly died, in my own home. On another occasion, my girlfriend and I were nearly forced off a motorway and shot at by a bunch of criminals. The car was almost a write-off.’
‘And your face?’
‘Another attack.’ I was on a roll and figured that embellishing the facts somewhat wouldn’t hurt my case. ‘See the hand? A parang did that.’
‘Yes, I can see that you have been… unfortunate.’
‘Yeah, I’d call it something else, mate, but never mind. The point I’m making is that if you are happy to pursue this ridiculous fantasy instead of getting on with your empire building, you’re welcome to it. And if you end up maimed or dead because of it, it’s no skin off my back, know what I mean? I’ve warned you.’
To clinch the deal, I signalled to BB to come over with the boys and ordered another bottle of Lagavulin, just as the band was making their way back to the stage. I managed to pour a decent amount of the Scottish nectar in everyone’s glasses – and call for another bottle – just before the lead guitarist shocked us with a deafening chord, prepping the crowd for Sweet Child of Mine.
Oh dear, it could’ve been worse. At least this was a simplistic enough song for them to be able to handle, I thought, anything other than the original should be a major improvement.
I waved in response and slammed the Panhead into gear, the rear wheel spraying gravel as I went down the driveway in a slide.
My left hand was tightly bandaged and very much throbbing. That would be sorted out soon with a few shots, I expected, but there was no way I could hide my chin other than using a balaclava. Oh well, I’d just have to make it clear to the boys that any discussion about my appearance was not on tonight’s agenda. At least the leather jacket covered my shoulder.
They were already inside as we arrived, their bikes parked on both sides of the entrance with two slots left for us. As I walked through the door, the bouncers parting to let us in and pointing towards the bar, I could hear the bloody band getting on with yet another dirge. Heavy it wasn’t. I challenge you to find any hard rock band in Malaysia whose appearance matches their taste in music. At best, they will play an endless succession of infamous rock ballads and metal anthems, each sounding like it was lovingly arranged by Chris de Burgh. Otherwise it’s all local love songs, incredibly tacky (there’s not a single Malay song that does not include the word cinta, love, over and over), invariably with overlong distorted guitar solos. The band was currently killing Carrie, a song best forgotten. As the singer cried out in anguish I winced in embarrassment.
The guys were lined up along the far side of the bar, facing the stage and whooping in delight. I walked towards them, with Billy behind me, and as soon as I saw the first eyebrows raised and mouths open questioningly, I lifted my hand in warning. My left hand, which didn’t help.
‘I’ll kill the first one of you that mentions my chin.’ And, looking at the bandage, I added, ‘or my hand.’
BB seemed concerned, until Billy slid up to him and started whispering – thank you for that, Billy. Then BB started shaking with laughter, pounding his fists on the bar top.
‘Surely thou dost not fear the soft and tender fork of a poor worm?’ he bellowed.
‘Fuck you BB, just get me a double vodka.’
BB signalled to the barman and, ignoring my threat, proceeded to tell everyone within shouting distance what had happened to me, no doubt thoroughly embellished. I couldn’t tell, it was all Bahasa to me. When he finished even the barman snickered as he pushed the glass towards me.
‘You like snake lady I can arrange,’ the cheeky bugger said and winked at me conspiratorially. ‘With hijab or without.’
I ignored him and turned to BB, who asked me to take off the jacket and display my shoulder to his associates.
‘Why don’t you instead amuse everyone on the premises by telling them how scared shitless you were on that boat? Being safe and getting pissed while I had to battle the fucking sharks.’
‘I know my limits,’ BB replied, ‘but you, first you jump in sea with sharks then you try to fly from roof with snake. At least now you have skin for new boots.’
‘I didn’t kill the python, you miserable bastard. I believe in the preservation of all wildlife,’ I said and turned towards the barman with the empty glass, ‘Another double, on the double.’
The band finally finished but threatened the crowd with returning after the break. Immediately, the muzak came on, thankfully at a lower volume and slightly less likely to induce tinnitus. Feeling the warmth in my stomach spreading and the hand getting pleasantly numb, I relaxed a bit and scanned the tables in the restaurant part. As always on a Saturday the place was packed. Two tables in the centre were pulled together for a big group of Indonesians, rowdy and drunk as they always are when they visit KL, chatting up the standard entourage of resident working girls and trying to negotiate discounts. Most of the other tables were occupied by young couples with the usual vacuous facial expressions, madly in love and holding hands. No doubt whispering cinta to each other.
At the table furthest away from the stage a group of men, all dressed in dark suits, were going through a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label, generously mixing the whisky with soda and ice. Silly sods, but then they were all young and Chinese from what I could see through the dim lighting, without any stamina or experience of booze and rightfully careful not to overdo it. The bottle emptied, one of them turned around to look for a waitress and I recognised the guy that I’d assisted into the pool at Ho’s party. For a second our eyes met, his wide in unhappy recognition.
Might as well take the proverbial bull by the balls – or is that horns, I thought – and show Kris that I can also do soft diplomacy when required. Also, this time I was sober. Well, relatively sober.
I called out to the barman for a quad vodka, to keep me going, and nudged BB while I kept my eyes on the Chinese blokes, ‘I’m going over to have a chat with someone. Can you guys make sure my back is covered? Just in case.’
BB followed my stare, ‘Who that? And why you wan’ trouble? We here for good time, no fight.’
‘I don’t think there will be any trouble. Just want to say hi to someone I’ve met before. Have a quiet chat, you know. You guys stay here unless I need you. But do be ready.’
Glass in hand, I weaved my way across the floor towards the table. The guy had turned his back on me but the rest of them looked at me suspiciously. As I approached, two of them got up – they were big, nearly as big as BB, with button-straining jackets and arms sticking out in the fashion of gym addicts – and placed themselves firmly in my way. Heavy duty but barely half a brain between them, that much was obvious.
‘Relax, guys,’ I smiled disarmingly, ‘I just want to have a chat with your boss. So take five and go rip off the head of a chicken somewhere, or rape a goat, whatever takes your fancy.’
They didn’t budge. Neither did they attempt to kill me on the spot, which was a good sign.
‘Hey!’ I called out, peeking between the two dummies and trying to remember his name. Ah, yes, Chen. ‘I’ve come to make peace, junior. Have a glass or two with you and make up. Like adults do occasionally, know what I mean?’
Chen got up furiously, nearly overturning his chair, both bodyguards looking at him in alarm. With barely a movement of his hands, he dismissed them and faced me.
‘If you have anything to say, do it now before I have my people crush you like a bug.’
‘Whoa, buster,’ I said, lifting my glass and toasting him, ‘I’ve not come here to pick a fight. Just want to conclude that talk we had a few weeks ago. And clarify a few things.’
‘So speak.’
‘Let’s do this in a civilised manner, shall we?’ I said amiably. ‘At the table. And I’ll get us a proper whisky for the conversation, if I may?’
I didn’t wait for Chen’s reply, I sat down in the chair vacated by one of the bruisers and waved to BB, who was following the altercation intently from the bar, simultaneously showing everyone at the table that I wasn’t alone and if necessary would have the backup of a dozen mean bikers, all of them currently staring at us.
A waitress walked by doing her best to avoid us, but I was merciless and stopped her. ‘A bottle of Lagavulin, please. Forget the ice, forget the soda, that’s kids’ stuff. But with proper whisky glasses this time.’
I may have been pushing it, but so far no one at the table showed any inclinations to get violent. The bottle and glasses were brought to the table in record time and I insisted on opening and pouring.
‘Anyone else here wants to try a real whisky?’ I enquired, holding up the bottle. ‘Together with me and Chen junior here?’
They all pushed their glasses towards me, the bruisers included, while Chen hissed, ‘Stop calling me junior or I’ll kill you myself, right now!’
‘Sorry mate, didn’t mean to be disrespectful,’ I replied. ‘All I know about you is that your old man is called Chen and is a hotshot in Macau. And that you’re expanding the family business to KL. Cheers.’
‘My father, as always!’ Chen got agitated and his table companions looked ready to dismember me. ‘My father this, my father that. I’m fed up with forever being seen as my father’s son. And the heir to his legacy.’
‘I know what you mean, mate, I’ve been there myself,’ I said to calm him. ‘It’s tough to walk in your father’s shadow all your life.’
‘What I’m doing here, it’s nothing to do with my family or my father. This is me, running my own business, creating my own empire, all legally,’ Chen said, then considered what he’d said. ‘And why the fuck am I telling this to a gweilo, anyway?’
We were both tipsy by now (you don’t get to mess with Lagavulin without facing the consequences, it’s a serious liquor best left to professional drinkers), but I was slightly on top, being heavier, and in much better mood than the last time we interacted.
‘Look, here’s the deal,’ I said as leaned towards Chen, doing my best to appear sincere, and actually meaning it, while I poured the last of the whisky into our glasses. ‘I’ll do everything I can to stop the rumours about you hitting on me–’
‘I didn’t, you piece of–’
‘I know you didn’t, and you know you didn’t, but alas, rumours are so easily propagated in this town, aren’t they? Even if they’re totally baseless.’
Before he had a chance to respond, I continued. ‘So, here’s what I’m putting on the table. One, I’ll make sure that everyone who’s anyone important in this town gets to know that I was just another drunken gweilo that had a few too many and pushed you into the pool by mistake. And please don’t interrupt me while I’m being helpful,’ I said as Chen’s face turned a dark shade of purple. ‘Two, I’ll tell you everything I know about this so called treasure that every lowlife in KL seems to be familiar with. After which you leave me and my girlfriend alone. Or else you get to deal with the biker boys – you see them over there, at the bar? Every one of them would be willing to die for my girlfriend, and I’ll be the one to slice off your balls if we ever get to that stage, screw the consequences. Do we understand each other? Are you okay with that and do we have a deal?’
‘Go on.’ Chen was all ears by now, yet understandably cautious.
‘Thank you. So, I had a dream,’ I raised my forefinger, no point in telling him about the other ones, I felt, ‘about a fat guy dragging a trunk with a dead girl in it and getting ripped to shreds by monkeys. That’s it. End of story.’
Chen just continued looking at me.
‘Right, so the fat bloke was someone who actually happened to have lived in KL over half a century ago, but how the fuck could I’ve known that? To me, it was nothing but a bad dream. Yet, ever since, I’ve had dickheads trying to kill me and my girlfriend. For what? A fucking dream? Some kind of treasure that the guy had found? Supposedly it’s a trinket, with the usual promises of world domination to anyone who has it. If it at all exists, as no one has ever seen it, just heard rumours about it. I don’t give a shit one way or the other, I’ve got more pressing things to worry about. Such as continuing to live a good life here, doing my own thing, being carefree and happy with my girlfriend. No problems and no worries mate, you know what I’m talking about, don’t you?’
‘But dreams are important. They tell you all about your past and your future.’
‘Well fuck it, I don’t give a flying shit about any dreams, past or future. I’ve enough dealing with the present, thank you very much, and no desire whatsoever to explore the past. Or look for something that most probably doesn’t exist. Particularly if it means that my girlfriend gets uncomfortable. Or jittery, in which case the Neanderthals at the bar will react badly. So, do you understand where I’m coming from and do we have a deal?’
‘Why should I believe you?’ Chen eyed me suspiciously. ‘Don’t believe me, by all means, go talk to Ho instead. He knows about my dream, my girlfriend told him everything. And that’s another matter for you to think about carefully: Ho considers her to be family, and very precious. Anything happens to her, he will go looking for the party responsible. Trust me, you don’t want Ho on your bad side. So do talk to him, and ask him about Tigran Ng. That’s the man in my dream, by the way.’
I raised my glass in expectation and Chen thankfully followed my cue.
‘We may have a deal. But only if you have told me the truth.’
‘I have, and you have my word on it. Check with Ho.’
Beauty, as they say, is in the eye of the beholder, right? Well, so is truth. Whatever is perceived to be the truth is surely such? So what right did I have to dissuade Chen junior from believing in what I’d just told him? It sounded totally believable, he was happy, I was happy, ergo everything was good.
‘If you’re still inclined to doubt me, just have a look at this,’ I said, pulling up my hair and showing him the scar. ‘I was shot at and nearly died, in my own home. On another occasion, my girlfriend and I were nearly forced off a motorway and shot at by a bunch of criminals. The car was almost a write-off.’
‘And your face?’
‘Another attack.’ I was on a roll and figured that embellishing the facts somewhat wouldn’t hurt my case. ‘See the hand? A parang did that.’
‘Yes, I can see that you have been… unfortunate.’
‘Yeah, I’d call it something else, mate, but never mind. The point I’m making is that if you are happy to pursue this ridiculous fantasy instead of getting on with your empire building, you’re welcome to it. And if you end up maimed or dead because of it, it’s no skin off my back, know what I mean? I’ve warned you.’
To clinch the deal, I signalled to BB to come over with the boys and ordered another bottle of Lagavulin, just as the band was making their way back to the stage. I managed to pour a decent amount of the Scottish nectar in everyone’s glasses – and call for another bottle – just before the lead guitarist shocked us with a deafening chord, prepping the crowd for Sweet Child of Mine.
Oh dear, it could’ve been worse. At least this was a simplistic enough song for them to be able to handle, I thought, anything other than the original should be a major improvement.
●
A couple of hours later I stumbled out from the club and got on the bike without too much hassle, thanks to Billy volunteering to kick it into life. BB assisted me with getting onto the bike and helpfully pointed out where the brake controls were. As if I didn’t know that, ha, with both foot and hand brakes controlled by my left… oops, I meant my right foot and hand.
So no problems anymore, were there? Definitely not. Anyway, my left hand was just dandy, no pain, and I was on top of the world, was I not? Just a short ten minute ride, about to be escorted by two of BB’s boys to make sure I arrive home safely. I’d told BB, possibly in an unnecessarily loud voice, that I would not need any tucking in. Able to find my own bed, thank you very much, but appreciate the thought and no need for babysitting by two of KL’s finest, etcetera. He ignored me, the bastard.
Danny – we were on first name basis now – was outside, watching me thoughtfully, flanked by his bruisers. As I pulled away he raised a hand, as in warning. Or maybe he was just being friendly.
So no problems anymore, were there? Definitely not. Anyway, my left hand was just dandy, no pain, and I was on top of the world, was I not? Just a short ten minute ride, about to be escorted by two of BB’s boys to make sure I arrive home safely. I’d told BB, possibly in an unnecessarily loud voice, that I would not need any tucking in. Able to find my own bed, thank you very much, but appreciate the thought and no need for babysitting by two of KL’s finest, etcetera. He ignored me, the bastard.
Danny – we were on first name basis now – was outside, watching me thoughtfully, flanked by his bruisers. As I pulled away he raised a hand, as in warning. Or maybe he was just being friendly.
Chapter 31
A beautiful morning it wasn’t. A leaden, overcast sky with rain trickling down added to my misery. Besides, it was hardly morning, it was early afternoon and I wished I was dead. It wasn’t going to be a very productive day, I could feel it.
The bathroom mirror didn’t do anything to improve my mood, nor did my pounding headache. The shoulder looked slightly better; it had stopped leaking and most of the scabs were gone, but my chin looked like I’d tried to shave with a shovel. The hand was still throbbing and as I unwrapped the bandage I saw a definite swelling around the punctures and gashes. I’d have to pop over to the nearest pharmacy and get me a dose of antibiotics before the infection got worse. Thankfully, there’s rarely any need for a prescription in Malaysia, you can get almost anything over the counter here, no questions asked. And with most available medicine here being generic, the prices are not as inflated as in Europe, where the big pharma boys rob their customers blind and get away with it.
I wondered if the pharmacy would have something specifically targeting infected python bites but rejected the idea immediately. Most likely they’d try to flog one of the ubiquitous Chinese remedies sharing the shelf space with condoms, mosquito repellents and wart removers. Lamb placenta for a youthful skin, anyone, or a bird’s nest to cure indigestion? Why not dried and powdered python penis to heal python bites, eh?
Bloody snakes. They may not have poison fangs but they sure have a lot of sharp teeth, all of which point inwards. Just like morays. Well, so far I hadn’t had the privilege of being intimate with an irate and persistent representative of that particular species, but then I’d probably not spent enough time diving with Kris. Bloody women.
I went down to the kitchen, keeping my head as still as possible and hoping it wouldn’t explode and distribute pieces of brain pickled in alcohol all over the stairs. The future guests, I was sure, wouldn’t appreciate it.
Minnie’s food bowl and both saucers, one for Cava (what can I say, she appreciates Spanish bubbly) and one for water, were empty. Just like for the last five days, ever since she visited me in my bedroom. Thus, and assuming that no other rat would dare encroach on her living space, Minnie had returned but was wary of people with guns and smelly bikers. I’d just have to work on regaining her trust.
I heard a diesel engine start somewhere down the road, which reminded me that I had a meeting next morning with the chief designer of a pool company that I’d been talking to. He’d seemed knowledgeable enough during his first visit, and understood what I wanted, nodding enthusiastically as I explained my vision to him: irregular in shape and looking like a natural rock pool, complete with a miniature waterfall and fringed with exotic looking vegetation. The location was perfect, plenty of open space between the back of the house and the jungle, and flat enough not to worry about landslides. All we needed to define was the exact pool shape and the positioning of the rocks, after which the designer would produce the initial plan and we’d fine tune it until I was satisfied. And agree on the cost, of course.
The engine revved up, sounding too close for comfort and I suddenly had a bad feeling about it. Surely they wouldn’t…? I went to the laundry as fast as my head would allow and rummaged through the bin. Putting on a pair of dirty shorts, I lit a cigarette to calm me down then went outside.
As I’d suspected, unfortunately. A digger was scooping up another bucketful of earth and concrete while being lazily observed by three workers in shorts (much dirtier than mine, I noted with satisfaction) and flip flops. The tableau was nearly obscured by thick, black diesel fumes impervious even to the drizzling rain. In front of my house. And on my driveway. I do not suffer fools gladly in the best of circumstances, and at that moment I was prepared to strangle them.
‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’ I shouted at the top of my voice, trying to ignore the hammering in my brain which was peaking towards stroke levels.
They all turned towards me, their eyes bulging in apprehension.
‘Hello boss, my boss say we have time today so we start pool,’ one of the workers, probably the foreman, replied after a moment’s hesitation.
‘No, you’re not. Stop that machine now. Immediately!’
‘But boss–’
‘Now. Or I will do it myself.’
The guy was confused, but complied. He shouted something to the operator who switched off the engine, part of my driveway still in the raised bucket, then turned to me.
‘You not want pool?’
‘Yes I want pool,’ I replied, keeping the words to a minimum and as simplistic as possible. ‘But not here.’
‘But my boss give me plan,’ he offered.
‘Really? Show me.’
He trotted off to the truck and returned with a greasy sheet of paper which he put in my outstretched hand. The left one, of course, and as I looked at the paper I realised why they were staring at me. Hand still dripping blood, face bruised and scratched, shoulder shredded – I’d given myself a fright the other night, seeing my image in the mirror. To them I probably looked like a demon from a locally produced horror film. Time to calm down the situation, I felt, as these were simple workers just following orders. We’ve heard that one before, haven’t we, back in Europe, sometime in the late 40s? Yet this is still the norm in most of Southeast Asia. Bosses boss and workers obey, orders are followed without any questions and the word initiative is not in anyone’s vocabulary.
If I played it right, then, I’d get them sorted out in no time. Trust me, you really want home improvement workers firmly on your side in this country. Brute force usually doesn’t do it. Establishing a rudimentary rapport, on the other hand, while still being absolutely clear about who’s the boss, is infinitely more effective. And having them look up at you helps, although not if it’s in fright.
‘Ah, this,’ I said and vaguely indicated parts of my body. ‘I had a fight with a python a couple of days ago.’
‘Ooh, big python, boss?’
‘Big enough.’
‘You kill?’
‘No, I don’t kill,’ I said, then added for good measure, ‘animals.’
The foreman turned to his men and gave them a condensed summary. It worked as I’d hoped – their first reaction was to look at me in awe, then anxiously scan the surroundings.
I ignored them and looked at the plan. Did I say plan? It was a hand drawing, in ballpoint pen, with one rectangle identified as house and another rectangle claiming to be the pool. A line between the two indicated a distance of thirty feet, with the size of the pool shown as twenty-five by twenty, also feet. Not a single measure, position or shape was right.
‘And you say Mr Siaw gave you this?’ I was puzzled.
‘Oh no boss, he big boss. Encik Saiful give me this.’
‘Who the hell is Saiful?’
‘My boss, boss,’ the foreman replied, happy to clarify things for me. ‘We dig pool now?’
‘No you don’t,’ I said as I turned over the paper that was getting soggy from the drizzle and read the address scribbled on it, then held it up in front of his face.
‘You can read, can’t you? What street is written here?’
‘Pinggiran Tunku, boss.’ The foreman confirmed proudly. ‘Where your house, boss.’
‘No, you dyslexic twat, this is Pinggian Tunku,’ I shook my head in despair, ‘and it is beyond me how you managed not to find one of the major roads in Bukit Tunku. Instead, you come to this lane and my house, and destroy my driveway. Never mind, I will call Mr Siaw and sort everything out.’
Horror registered in the foreman’s sweating face as he realised the implications and the very likely consequences of his mistake.
‘Please Sir, no need Sir. We make good now.’
I had him exactly where I wanted him. Without any incentive (in other words, an actual threat) they would’ve buggered off, leaving me to deal with a sizeable hole in the ground and a ton of soil piled up next to it.
‘Okay… what’s your name?’
‘Ganesh, Sir,’ he replied, looking at me imploringly.
‘Okay, Ganesh. You make good now and I will forget this. But I want the driveway as it was before, you understand?’
‘Yes, Sir.’ He was palpably relieved and eager to please. ‘You will not even see tomorrow where hole has been made, I give you my solemn promise, Sir. We put new concrete on top. But please, Sir, where can we get water for mixing concrete?’
Excellent. Even better than I expected.
‘There’s a tap on the side of the garage, over there,’ I said, then thought of the bike and most of my tools being inside. ‘But don’t go in, that’s where the python is.’
I stayed outside just long enough to see them start filling the hole before I went back inside to continue nursing my hangover.
The bathroom mirror didn’t do anything to improve my mood, nor did my pounding headache. The shoulder looked slightly better; it had stopped leaking and most of the scabs were gone, but my chin looked like I’d tried to shave with a shovel. The hand was still throbbing and as I unwrapped the bandage I saw a definite swelling around the punctures and gashes. I’d have to pop over to the nearest pharmacy and get me a dose of antibiotics before the infection got worse. Thankfully, there’s rarely any need for a prescription in Malaysia, you can get almost anything over the counter here, no questions asked. And with most available medicine here being generic, the prices are not as inflated as in Europe, where the big pharma boys rob their customers blind and get away with it.
I wondered if the pharmacy would have something specifically targeting infected python bites but rejected the idea immediately. Most likely they’d try to flog one of the ubiquitous Chinese remedies sharing the shelf space with condoms, mosquito repellents and wart removers. Lamb placenta for a youthful skin, anyone, or a bird’s nest to cure indigestion? Why not dried and powdered python penis to heal python bites, eh?
Bloody snakes. They may not have poison fangs but they sure have a lot of sharp teeth, all of which point inwards. Just like morays. Well, so far I hadn’t had the privilege of being intimate with an irate and persistent representative of that particular species, but then I’d probably not spent enough time diving with Kris. Bloody women.
I went down to the kitchen, keeping my head as still as possible and hoping it wouldn’t explode and distribute pieces of brain pickled in alcohol all over the stairs. The future guests, I was sure, wouldn’t appreciate it.
Minnie’s food bowl and both saucers, one for Cava (what can I say, she appreciates Spanish bubbly) and one for water, were empty. Just like for the last five days, ever since she visited me in my bedroom. Thus, and assuming that no other rat would dare encroach on her living space, Minnie had returned but was wary of people with guns and smelly bikers. I’d just have to work on regaining her trust.
I heard a diesel engine start somewhere down the road, which reminded me that I had a meeting next morning with the chief designer of a pool company that I’d been talking to. He’d seemed knowledgeable enough during his first visit, and understood what I wanted, nodding enthusiastically as I explained my vision to him: irregular in shape and looking like a natural rock pool, complete with a miniature waterfall and fringed with exotic looking vegetation. The location was perfect, plenty of open space between the back of the house and the jungle, and flat enough not to worry about landslides. All we needed to define was the exact pool shape and the positioning of the rocks, after which the designer would produce the initial plan and we’d fine tune it until I was satisfied. And agree on the cost, of course.
The engine revved up, sounding too close for comfort and I suddenly had a bad feeling about it. Surely they wouldn’t…? I went to the laundry as fast as my head would allow and rummaged through the bin. Putting on a pair of dirty shorts, I lit a cigarette to calm me down then went outside.
As I’d suspected, unfortunately. A digger was scooping up another bucketful of earth and concrete while being lazily observed by three workers in shorts (much dirtier than mine, I noted with satisfaction) and flip flops. The tableau was nearly obscured by thick, black diesel fumes impervious even to the drizzling rain. In front of my house. And on my driveway. I do not suffer fools gladly in the best of circumstances, and at that moment I was prepared to strangle them.
‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’ I shouted at the top of my voice, trying to ignore the hammering in my brain which was peaking towards stroke levels.
They all turned towards me, their eyes bulging in apprehension.
‘Hello boss, my boss say we have time today so we start pool,’ one of the workers, probably the foreman, replied after a moment’s hesitation.
‘No, you’re not. Stop that machine now. Immediately!’
‘But boss–’
‘Now. Or I will do it myself.’
The guy was confused, but complied. He shouted something to the operator who switched off the engine, part of my driveway still in the raised bucket, then turned to me.
‘You not want pool?’
‘Yes I want pool,’ I replied, keeping the words to a minimum and as simplistic as possible. ‘But not here.’
‘But my boss give me plan,’ he offered.
‘Really? Show me.’
He trotted off to the truck and returned with a greasy sheet of paper which he put in my outstretched hand. The left one, of course, and as I looked at the paper I realised why they were staring at me. Hand still dripping blood, face bruised and scratched, shoulder shredded – I’d given myself a fright the other night, seeing my image in the mirror. To them I probably looked like a demon from a locally produced horror film. Time to calm down the situation, I felt, as these were simple workers just following orders. We’ve heard that one before, haven’t we, back in Europe, sometime in the late 40s? Yet this is still the norm in most of Southeast Asia. Bosses boss and workers obey, orders are followed without any questions and the word initiative is not in anyone’s vocabulary.
If I played it right, then, I’d get them sorted out in no time. Trust me, you really want home improvement workers firmly on your side in this country. Brute force usually doesn’t do it. Establishing a rudimentary rapport, on the other hand, while still being absolutely clear about who’s the boss, is infinitely more effective. And having them look up at you helps, although not if it’s in fright.
‘Ah, this,’ I said and vaguely indicated parts of my body. ‘I had a fight with a python a couple of days ago.’
‘Ooh, big python, boss?’
‘Big enough.’
‘You kill?’
‘No, I don’t kill,’ I said, then added for good measure, ‘animals.’
The foreman turned to his men and gave them a condensed summary. It worked as I’d hoped – their first reaction was to look at me in awe, then anxiously scan the surroundings.
I ignored them and looked at the plan. Did I say plan? It was a hand drawing, in ballpoint pen, with one rectangle identified as house and another rectangle claiming to be the pool. A line between the two indicated a distance of thirty feet, with the size of the pool shown as twenty-five by twenty, also feet. Not a single measure, position or shape was right.
‘And you say Mr Siaw gave you this?’ I was puzzled.
‘Oh no boss, he big boss. Encik Saiful give me this.’
‘Who the hell is Saiful?’
‘My boss, boss,’ the foreman replied, happy to clarify things for me. ‘We dig pool now?’
‘No you don’t,’ I said as I turned over the paper that was getting soggy from the drizzle and read the address scribbled on it, then held it up in front of his face.
‘You can read, can’t you? What street is written here?’
‘Pinggiran Tunku, boss.’ The foreman confirmed proudly. ‘Where your house, boss.’
‘No, you dyslexic twat, this is Pinggian Tunku,’ I shook my head in despair, ‘and it is beyond me how you managed not to find one of the major roads in Bukit Tunku. Instead, you come to this lane and my house, and destroy my driveway. Never mind, I will call Mr Siaw and sort everything out.’
Horror registered in the foreman’s sweating face as he realised the implications and the very likely consequences of his mistake.
‘Please Sir, no need Sir. We make good now.’
I had him exactly where I wanted him. Without any incentive (in other words, an actual threat) they would’ve buggered off, leaving me to deal with a sizeable hole in the ground and a ton of soil piled up next to it.
‘Okay… what’s your name?’
‘Ganesh, Sir,’ he replied, looking at me imploringly.
‘Okay, Ganesh. You make good now and I will forget this. But I want the driveway as it was before, you understand?’
‘Yes, Sir.’ He was palpably relieved and eager to please. ‘You will not even see tomorrow where hole has been made, I give you my solemn promise, Sir. We put new concrete on top. But please, Sir, where can we get water for mixing concrete?’
Excellent. Even better than I expected.
‘There’s a tap on the side of the garage, over there,’ I said, then thought of the bike and most of my tools being inside. ‘But don’t go in, that’s where the python is.’
I stayed outside just long enough to see them start filling the hole before I went back inside to continue nursing my hangover.
●
I was alone in the house, BB having complied with my insistence that I neither needed nor wanted any babysitters around. It felt good being on my own once again, a very welcome return to normalcy. The fridge and freezer were fully stocked, as were the wine cooler and booze cabinet. I could finally get on with my life.
The phone started vibrating on the kitchen table. I picked it up and saw it was a message from Kris: talk in 1hr?
Hello darling, I love you too, I replied testily.
Her response was instant. u know i love u
Sure, I wrote back. Having a good time in Osaka?
Mwah! 1hr?
Kris in a nutshell, I thought. Well over half a generation younger than me, for her it’s all about brevity in written communication. Most of the time nowadays you have consider yourself lucky to read the occasional fully formed sentence, grammatically correct, even in a formal document. Typed, of course. When was the last time you read something in handwriting, not in crude block letters but in an aesthetically pleasing script? And how many years ago was it that you received a handwritten letter, or even a postcard, delivered to your mailbox? Your physical mailbox, that is, not your email in-tray. I know, I’m probably a dinosaur, but can’t help feeling that humanity and aesthetics are on the losing end of progress as defined by sundry technocrats and borderline autistic geeks.
One hour should be enough for a quick curry, with loads of chilli and garlic to stimulate endorphin production and revive me to the point where I could cope with a prolonged, I was certain of it, conversation with Kris. And long enough to make sure that the phone was fully charged.
The phone started vibrating on the kitchen table. I picked it up and saw it was a message from Kris: talk in 1hr?
Hello darling, I love you too, I replied testily.
Her response was instant. u know i love u
Sure, I wrote back. Having a good time in Osaka?
Mwah! 1hr?
Kris in a nutshell, I thought. Well over half a generation younger than me, for her it’s all about brevity in written communication. Most of the time nowadays you have consider yourself lucky to read the occasional fully formed sentence, grammatically correct, even in a formal document. Typed, of course. When was the last time you read something in handwriting, not in crude block letters but in an aesthetically pleasing script? And how many years ago was it that you received a handwritten letter, or even a postcard, delivered to your mailbox? Your physical mailbox, that is, not your email in-tray. I know, I’m probably a dinosaur, but can’t help feeling that humanity and aesthetics are on the losing end of progress as defined by sundry technocrats and borderline autistic geeks.
One hour should be enough for a quick curry, with loads of chilli and garlic to stimulate endorphin production and revive me to the point where I could cope with a prolonged, I was certain of it, conversation with Kris. And long enough to make sure that the phone was fully charged.
●
Having finished the dinner – and leaving some of it for Minnie – I began to feel infinitely better. I’d made my own version of the Indian vindaloo, much hotter than it normally would be, with added pineapple to get the sugar kick, combined with coconut rice and a rojak salad on the side. Being on top of the world once again, I lit up a joint and poured myself a decent measure of Craigellachie.
The phone rang.
‘Hello darling,’ Kris said cheerfully.
‘Hi love,’ I replied, ‘how are you doing? Having a tough time sampling Osaka love motels?’
‘Oh you dirty old man, that’s all you ever think of. Here I am, bursting with information if you’d only let me tell you.’
‘Sure, shoot.’
‘Do I detect a slight peevishness here?’, Kris enquired.
‘Of course not, I’m actually in an excellent mood,’ I responded, then paused, ‘Well, now that you’ve mentioned it, maybe a little bit… no, actually, more than that. While you’ve been having the time of your life, fucking your way through the local love motels, I’ve–’
‘Darling, the only reason I told you about the motels in the first place was because I want us to visit them together and–’
‘While I’ve been working hard on keeping us safe from the local gangsters, not to mention keeping my house free of jungle wildlife and getting–’
‘What do you mean by “keeping us safe from gangsters”?’
‘Remember Chen junior at Ho’s party? The guy I helped into the pool?’
I gave her a summary of my meeting with Danny Chen and our provisional détente agreement.
‘That’s fantastic, darling! But how do we make sure that he sticks to his side of the bargain?’
‘I assume that you’ve not mentioned my other dreams to Ho, have you?’
‘Of course not, why?’
‘What about the dive off Sabah, he knows about that?’ ‘I’ve told him that we had a slight incident–’
‘Slight incident my arse, more like a fucking disaster.’ ‘…incident on a weekend diving trip, that’s all. So why does it matter?’
‘Because I suggested to Chen junior that he confirms it all with Ho, including the existence of that fatty, Tigran.’
‘You did what?’
‘Well, it’s hardly a secret, is it? Half the KL population seems to know it by now.’
‘You may have a point there, but still, disclosing everything…’
‘Far from everything. One dream, and possibly one trip to Singapore.’
‘Hmm, you may be right, but how do we make sure he doesn’t find out about our continued quest?’
‘What do you mean – our continued quest?’ I asked. ‘There isn’t one. I’ve sorted out the gangsta boys and now we can get back to our normal lives. You continue making millions on the exchange, I go on pretending to be a hotelier. That’s it.’
‘But darling, I’ve found out so much about that object now, and why everyone has been looking for it for ages. It’s incredible, that thing is a legendary artefact.’
‘Fine, we’ll give Danny all the info you have and let him run with it,’ I was adamant.
‘What if he’s not the only one after it? What if there are other people out there still thinking that you are in the loop and prepared to kill you for it? How do we deal with that?’
Damn, as a former project manager I should’ve been more professional, creating a risk register to cover all expected and unforeseeable threats.
‘If that’s the case, maybe I should organise a half day seminar for all interested parties. How about that? To disseminate available information and let them fight it out.’
‘Darling, you’re bullshitting now and you know it. It’s hardly a realistic option, never mind being utterly stupid. The only way forward is to continue our own investigation.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning that I’ve now learned enough for us to continue. This thing, if it really exists – and we know it does, you’ve seen it – will rewrite archaeology.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really. It’s ancient. Have you heard of the Ahnenerbe?’
‘Can’t say I have. What is it, other than sounding pompously Teutonic?’
‘A secret group formed in the mid-1930s by Himmler, to look for Atlantis and find proof that the Aryan race had once ruled the world.’
‘Oh yeah, sure, great. What’s next, us looking for the holy grail?’
‘Of course not, don’t be silly, they tried that. But these people came upon the description of that thing, the artefact, and its origins, while they were looking for the site of Atlantis.’
‘Which was supposed to have been in the Atlantic, wasn’t it? The name is kind of a giveaway. So why the interest in the Pacific? They discovered proof of what – Pacificopolis? Pacificania? The lost continent of Mu populated by prehistoric Germans sporting funny moustaches and shouting “sieg heil” when meeting each other?’
‘Yes, very funny, darling. In the meantime, may I suggest that we continue on this particular subject once I’m back? I’m off for Tokyo tomorrow, for two nights, then I’m coming back home.’
‘Sure, baby. I’m certain that Ginza misses you. And vice versa.’
‘Why do you have to be so difficult? I’m going to Tokyo for work.’
‘Of course you are, lover. Just don’t work too hard.’
‘Hmm.’
Kris cut the call, leaving me both frustrated and intrigued.
The phone rang.
‘Hello darling,’ Kris said cheerfully.
‘Hi love,’ I replied, ‘how are you doing? Having a tough time sampling Osaka love motels?’
‘Oh you dirty old man, that’s all you ever think of. Here I am, bursting with information if you’d only let me tell you.’
‘Sure, shoot.’
‘Do I detect a slight peevishness here?’, Kris enquired.
‘Of course not, I’m actually in an excellent mood,’ I responded, then paused, ‘Well, now that you’ve mentioned it, maybe a little bit… no, actually, more than that. While you’ve been having the time of your life, fucking your way through the local love motels, I’ve–’
‘Darling, the only reason I told you about the motels in the first place was because I want us to visit them together and–’
‘While I’ve been working hard on keeping us safe from the local gangsters, not to mention keeping my house free of jungle wildlife and getting–’
‘What do you mean by “keeping us safe from gangsters”?’
‘Remember Chen junior at Ho’s party? The guy I helped into the pool?’
I gave her a summary of my meeting with Danny Chen and our provisional détente agreement.
‘That’s fantastic, darling! But how do we make sure that he sticks to his side of the bargain?’
‘I assume that you’ve not mentioned my other dreams to Ho, have you?’
‘Of course not, why?’
‘What about the dive off Sabah, he knows about that?’ ‘I’ve told him that we had a slight incident–’
‘Slight incident my arse, more like a fucking disaster.’ ‘…incident on a weekend diving trip, that’s all. So why does it matter?’
‘Because I suggested to Chen junior that he confirms it all with Ho, including the existence of that fatty, Tigran.’
‘You did what?’
‘Well, it’s hardly a secret, is it? Half the KL population seems to know it by now.’
‘You may have a point there, but still, disclosing everything…’
‘Far from everything. One dream, and possibly one trip to Singapore.’
‘Hmm, you may be right, but how do we make sure he doesn’t find out about our continued quest?’
‘What do you mean – our continued quest?’ I asked. ‘There isn’t one. I’ve sorted out the gangsta boys and now we can get back to our normal lives. You continue making millions on the exchange, I go on pretending to be a hotelier. That’s it.’
‘But darling, I’ve found out so much about that object now, and why everyone has been looking for it for ages. It’s incredible, that thing is a legendary artefact.’
‘Fine, we’ll give Danny all the info you have and let him run with it,’ I was adamant.
‘What if he’s not the only one after it? What if there are other people out there still thinking that you are in the loop and prepared to kill you for it? How do we deal with that?’
Damn, as a former project manager I should’ve been more professional, creating a risk register to cover all expected and unforeseeable threats.
‘If that’s the case, maybe I should organise a half day seminar for all interested parties. How about that? To disseminate available information and let them fight it out.’
‘Darling, you’re bullshitting now and you know it. It’s hardly a realistic option, never mind being utterly stupid. The only way forward is to continue our own investigation.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning that I’ve now learned enough for us to continue. This thing, if it really exists – and we know it does, you’ve seen it – will rewrite archaeology.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really. It’s ancient. Have you heard of the Ahnenerbe?’
‘Can’t say I have. What is it, other than sounding pompously Teutonic?’
‘A secret group formed in the mid-1930s by Himmler, to look for Atlantis and find proof that the Aryan race had once ruled the world.’
‘Oh yeah, sure, great. What’s next, us looking for the holy grail?’
‘Of course not, don’t be silly, they tried that. But these people came upon the description of that thing, the artefact, and its origins, while they were looking for the site of Atlantis.’
‘Which was supposed to have been in the Atlantic, wasn’t it? The name is kind of a giveaway. So why the interest in the Pacific? They discovered proof of what – Pacificopolis? Pacificania? The lost continent of Mu populated by prehistoric Germans sporting funny moustaches and shouting “sieg heil” when meeting each other?’
‘Yes, very funny, darling. In the meantime, may I suggest that we continue on this particular subject once I’m back? I’m off for Tokyo tomorrow, for two nights, then I’m coming back home.’
‘Sure, baby. I’m certain that Ginza misses you. And vice versa.’
‘Why do you have to be so difficult? I’m going to Tokyo for work.’
‘Of course you are, lover. Just don’t work too hard.’
‘Hmm.’
Kris cut the call, leaving me both frustrated and intrigued.
Chapter 32
The sound of the digger was reassuring, now that I was certain the workers knew what they were doing. Mr Siaw had visited me the day before, as planned, and we had agreed on both the design and the cost of the pool, although the last bit had taken intense negotiating. I’d already gotten acquainted with the crew digging the hole and knew that they would perform as expected.
The rain, however, had not let up for the last three days. It was light but relentless and I considered whether I’d need to add to my calculations the cost of pump rental to get the water out of the pit if the rain continued. With the soil here mainly clay, any holes in the ground stay filled with water until it evaporates. I’d even had a nightmare about it – no, not one of those, just a regular one where I’d slid into the muddy water, re-enacting the scene from Poltergeist, except in my dream I was battling floating kitchen appliances.
This was probably because I’d started planning refurbishment of the kitchen, or rather its total makeover. The current layout and equipment, while sufficient for a single household, would need to be transformed into a slick, commercial environment able to cope with the demands of up to two dozen guests. And not just for the three daily meals, I intended to offer 24/7 service, catering to any of my future guests’ particular (and peculiar) food and beverage requirements. All-inclusive pampering of the guests, that was my strategy for competing with the multitude of five star KL hotels, most of them half empty at best.
I was sitting in the kitchen, still my favourite part of the house, waiting for Kris to arrive. She’d sent me a message a couple of hours earlier, telling me that she’d landed and would come over for dinner. Which she would bring, no need for me to prepare anything. And more than hinting that she may stay the night.
That last statement had taken me by surprise. So far, Kris had limited her visits here to my kitchen. Once, early in our relationship, she’d made a tour of the house including my bedroom, only to pronounce it both uninhabitable and uncivilised. I remembered her shuddering at the sight of a couple of fat spiders checking her out from the dark ceiling corners of my bedroom, their forelegs clicking on the plaster in excitement. Yet now she was prepared to spend the night here. I couldn’t help wondering what her agenda was. Did she feel guilty about going off for a fuckfest in Japan without me, or did she miss me enough to actually accept sharing her sleeping quarters with a few posturing but otherwise harmless arachnids?
As I mulled this over and tried to think of further possible alternatives, I heard the Tuscan coming up the road, roaring as it slid on the gravel of the driveway. I walked outside to greet the love of my life. Instead of my usual leisure wear, in honour of this very special visit I was attired in slacks and a short sleeved shirt, both ironed.
‘Hello gorgeous, it’s good to have you back,’ I said as she got out of the car, an oversized picnic basket in her hand.
‘I’ve missed you, darling,’ Kris responded, then stopped in shock as she took in my appearance. ‘What–’
‘I know, I omitted the tie, but I still hoped that–’
‘Fuck the tie, what the hell happened to you? And why haven’t you told me anything about–’
‘Ah, you mean this,’ I said, pointing at my chin, unwittingly with my left hand which was double its usual size and the colour of an overripe tomato. ‘Just a close encounter with–’
‘I leave you for barely a week–’
‘Eleven days, actually, but who’s counting?’
Kris stormed by me, deposited the basket on the kitchen table with a thud, turned to face me.
‘What happened? And no bullshit this time.’
‘Ah, as I was about to tell you, I was doing a bit of household maintenance and happened to get intimately acquainted – through no fault of mine, I hasten to add – with a ladder and… er… a python.’
‘Are you crazy,’ Kris was furious, ‘out of your fucking mind, toying with pythons?’
‘I can assure you that I do not toy with pythons even in my most flippant mood,’ I replied with as much dignity as I could muster, ‘and I will not take blame for any aberrant specimen of the said species showing an unhealthy interest in interacting with me.’
‘Oh for fuck’s sake, stop talking like David bloody Attenborough and tell me what happened.’
‘Fine,’ I said with a shrug. ‘I was cleaning the roof gutter and a python bit me. End of story.’
‘Really?’
‘Then I kind of fell off the ladder and scraped my chin somewhat.’
‘You call that somewhat? And what about your hand? You look like the walking dead. Have you seen a doctor?’
‘Not necessary, I’ve got–’
‘Right, I’m calling a doctor now.’
‘No, you’re not,’ I caught Kris’ hand as she pulled out her phone. ‘I’m good, I got medicine for it, and I’m also using an antibiotic cream on the bites. So stop worrying, I may look like shit but it’ll get better in a couple of days.’
‘You’re crazy, you know that? I leave you to your own devices for a few days–’
‘Eleven, to be precise.’
‘Shut up, you idiot. I leave you for a few days and you get nearly eaten by a snake.’ Kris was still mad but I could sense that she was calming down.
Perfect time for me to do my man magic – soothe the woman, woo her, gently guide her to realise that the only possible solution to all her problems is for me to make love to her.
‘Darling, let’s have a snack and go to bed.’
‘Fuck that, I’m not sleeping in a house with snakes. I thought your spiders were bad enough.’
‘It’s not in the bloody house, is it? It was outside to begin with and now it’s probably as far away from here as it could get after I clobbered it on the head. Anyway, it was a baby python, barely two metres.’
‘And that’s supposed to make me feel better?’
‘Well, yes–’
‘Boss, Sir, we are done now,’ Ganesh hovered at the kitchen door, his dirt-streaked face shining with pride. ‘May I invite your good self to approve of our hard working?’
Never before had the visage of an honest labourer been a more welcome sight in this household, nor more auspicious.
‘Of course, I will inspect it now.’ I replied, then turned to Kris. ‘Darling, would you mind setting the table while I check out the pool?’
I didn’t wait for an answer and followed Ganesh out as quickly as I could (and almost anticipated getting hit in the head by a flying pan – no pun intended, honestly). The rain had finally stopped, so that by the time I got to the back of the house I was only ankle deep in mud. I was impressed. The guys had followed exactly the bamboo sticks that Siaw and I had stuck in the ground every half metre to mark the edges of the pool, so close that I could see most of the inner sides of the sticks, all of which were still standing upright. As I expected, there was enough rainwater covering the bottom to dissuade me from jumping in to measure the precise depth, but it looked close enough to what I wanted.
‘Good job, Ganesh,’ I said, pumping his hand and smiling at his crew. ‘If I ever need another hole I’ll think of you first.’
Ganesh was bursting with happiness, the sarcasm beyond him. ‘Thank you, Sir, we always do our best, Sir.’
‘I’m sure you do. Come with me, I’ll give you a small token of my appreciation.’ And you’ll help me defuse the situation with Kris, I thought.
I’d worried unnecessarily. Kris had mellowed considerably and was busy arranging scores of yummy looking pieces of sushi and sashimi on several large plates.
‘I hope this will be enough for us, darling. I know how much you like maguro.’
‘I do love tuna, and this looks delicious,’ I replied as I pulled out a six-pack of Tiger beer from the fridge and handed it to Ganesh. ‘Nothing better than a cold beer after a hard day’s work. And you guys have earned it.’
‘Thank you, Sir, you are very kind, Sir.’ He looked pleased enough, yet was eyeballing the bottle of Glenfiddich on the counter. Some people are never satisfied.
The rain, however, had not let up for the last three days. It was light but relentless and I considered whether I’d need to add to my calculations the cost of pump rental to get the water out of the pit if the rain continued. With the soil here mainly clay, any holes in the ground stay filled with water until it evaporates. I’d even had a nightmare about it – no, not one of those, just a regular one where I’d slid into the muddy water, re-enacting the scene from Poltergeist, except in my dream I was battling floating kitchen appliances.
This was probably because I’d started planning refurbishment of the kitchen, or rather its total makeover. The current layout and equipment, while sufficient for a single household, would need to be transformed into a slick, commercial environment able to cope with the demands of up to two dozen guests. And not just for the three daily meals, I intended to offer 24/7 service, catering to any of my future guests’ particular (and peculiar) food and beverage requirements. All-inclusive pampering of the guests, that was my strategy for competing with the multitude of five star KL hotels, most of them half empty at best.
I was sitting in the kitchen, still my favourite part of the house, waiting for Kris to arrive. She’d sent me a message a couple of hours earlier, telling me that she’d landed and would come over for dinner. Which she would bring, no need for me to prepare anything. And more than hinting that she may stay the night.
That last statement had taken me by surprise. So far, Kris had limited her visits here to my kitchen. Once, early in our relationship, she’d made a tour of the house including my bedroom, only to pronounce it both uninhabitable and uncivilised. I remembered her shuddering at the sight of a couple of fat spiders checking her out from the dark ceiling corners of my bedroom, their forelegs clicking on the plaster in excitement. Yet now she was prepared to spend the night here. I couldn’t help wondering what her agenda was. Did she feel guilty about going off for a fuckfest in Japan without me, or did she miss me enough to actually accept sharing her sleeping quarters with a few posturing but otherwise harmless arachnids?
As I mulled this over and tried to think of further possible alternatives, I heard the Tuscan coming up the road, roaring as it slid on the gravel of the driveway. I walked outside to greet the love of my life. Instead of my usual leisure wear, in honour of this very special visit I was attired in slacks and a short sleeved shirt, both ironed.
‘Hello gorgeous, it’s good to have you back,’ I said as she got out of the car, an oversized picnic basket in her hand.
‘I’ve missed you, darling,’ Kris responded, then stopped in shock as she took in my appearance. ‘What–’
‘I know, I omitted the tie, but I still hoped that–’
‘Fuck the tie, what the hell happened to you? And why haven’t you told me anything about–’
‘Ah, you mean this,’ I said, pointing at my chin, unwittingly with my left hand which was double its usual size and the colour of an overripe tomato. ‘Just a close encounter with–’
‘I leave you for barely a week–’
‘Eleven days, actually, but who’s counting?’
Kris stormed by me, deposited the basket on the kitchen table with a thud, turned to face me.
‘What happened? And no bullshit this time.’
‘Ah, as I was about to tell you, I was doing a bit of household maintenance and happened to get intimately acquainted – through no fault of mine, I hasten to add – with a ladder and… er… a python.’
‘Are you crazy,’ Kris was furious, ‘out of your fucking mind, toying with pythons?’
‘I can assure you that I do not toy with pythons even in my most flippant mood,’ I replied with as much dignity as I could muster, ‘and I will not take blame for any aberrant specimen of the said species showing an unhealthy interest in interacting with me.’
‘Oh for fuck’s sake, stop talking like David bloody Attenborough and tell me what happened.’
‘Fine,’ I said with a shrug. ‘I was cleaning the roof gutter and a python bit me. End of story.’
‘Really?’
‘Then I kind of fell off the ladder and scraped my chin somewhat.’
‘You call that somewhat? And what about your hand? You look like the walking dead. Have you seen a doctor?’
‘Not necessary, I’ve got–’
‘Right, I’m calling a doctor now.’
‘No, you’re not,’ I caught Kris’ hand as she pulled out her phone. ‘I’m good, I got medicine for it, and I’m also using an antibiotic cream on the bites. So stop worrying, I may look like shit but it’ll get better in a couple of days.’
‘You’re crazy, you know that? I leave you to your own devices for a few days–’
‘Eleven, to be precise.’
‘Shut up, you idiot. I leave you for a few days and you get nearly eaten by a snake.’ Kris was still mad but I could sense that she was calming down.
Perfect time for me to do my man magic – soothe the woman, woo her, gently guide her to realise that the only possible solution to all her problems is for me to make love to her.
‘Darling, let’s have a snack and go to bed.’
‘Fuck that, I’m not sleeping in a house with snakes. I thought your spiders were bad enough.’
‘It’s not in the bloody house, is it? It was outside to begin with and now it’s probably as far away from here as it could get after I clobbered it on the head. Anyway, it was a baby python, barely two metres.’
‘And that’s supposed to make me feel better?’
‘Well, yes–’
‘Boss, Sir, we are done now,’ Ganesh hovered at the kitchen door, his dirt-streaked face shining with pride. ‘May I invite your good self to approve of our hard working?’
Never before had the visage of an honest labourer been a more welcome sight in this household, nor more auspicious.
‘Of course, I will inspect it now.’ I replied, then turned to Kris. ‘Darling, would you mind setting the table while I check out the pool?’
I didn’t wait for an answer and followed Ganesh out as quickly as I could (and almost anticipated getting hit in the head by a flying pan – no pun intended, honestly). The rain had finally stopped, so that by the time I got to the back of the house I was only ankle deep in mud. I was impressed. The guys had followed exactly the bamboo sticks that Siaw and I had stuck in the ground every half metre to mark the edges of the pool, so close that I could see most of the inner sides of the sticks, all of which were still standing upright. As I expected, there was enough rainwater covering the bottom to dissuade me from jumping in to measure the precise depth, but it looked close enough to what I wanted.
‘Good job, Ganesh,’ I said, pumping his hand and smiling at his crew. ‘If I ever need another hole I’ll think of you first.’
Ganesh was bursting with happiness, the sarcasm beyond him. ‘Thank you, Sir, we always do our best, Sir.’
‘I’m sure you do. Come with me, I’ll give you a small token of my appreciation.’ And you’ll help me defuse the situation with Kris, I thought.
I’d worried unnecessarily. Kris had mellowed considerably and was busy arranging scores of yummy looking pieces of sushi and sashimi on several large plates.
‘I hope this will be enough for us, darling. I know how much you like maguro.’
‘I do love tuna, and this looks delicious,’ I replied as I pulled out a six-pack of Tiger beer from the fridge and handed it to Ganesh. ‘Nothing better than a cold beer after a hard day’s work. And you guys have earned it.’
‘Thank you, Sir, you are very kind, Sir.’ He looked pleased enough, yet was eyeballing the bottle of Glenfiddich on the counter. Some people are never satisfied.
●
‘Do you like it?’ Kris asked as I happily munched on a maki. ‘I managed to buy genuine wasabi, not the usual coloured horseradish. I also got several stems so we can make our own.’
‘It’s fantastic,’ I said, my eyes watering and my nose on fire.
‘Isn’t it just?’ Kris replied, matching me in both pained expression and utter culinary enjoyment. ‘Have another glass, my master.’
Master? She can’t be serious, I thought, then saw her lopsided smile and the sparkle in her eyes. Naughty girl, pulling my leg. Well, two can play that game.
‘Domo arigato gozaimasu, my lovely geisha,’ I said and raised my glass. ‘May your skin retain the smooth and soft surface of a perfect peach, and your omanko remain tight and supple for a century to come. Kampai.’
Kris looked at me in surprise before draining her glass. ‘You’ve never let on that you’re familiar with Japan.’
‘Maybe I’ve known a Japanese girl or two in my life. Does it matter? We both have untold stories to tell and maybe, hopefully, one day we’ll feel comfortable enough with each other to open up. Ideally before I croak.’ I refilled our glasses. ‘Until then, kampai.’
Kris toasted me, drained her glass in one go and slammed it down on the table as tradition demands. For a moment she looked like she was about to say something serious. Instead, she asked, ‘How do you like Bishonen? It’s far from being considered the most exclusive sake, but it’s always been my favourite.’
‘I love it, darling, it’s a perfect complement to the food. And now’s the perfect time to tell me all about your trip.’
‘So productive, on all levels,’ Kris leaned towards me eagerly, elbows on the table. ‘My work, our quest, it couldn’t have been better.’
‘And your free time, it was equally productive? And pleasurable?’
‘Darling, please don’t,’ she looked at me imploringly.
‘Sorry, forget I said that, I’ve been on edge for some days,’ I shrugged. ‘Just tell me what you’ve found out about this… artefact.’
‘It’s fantastic,’ I said, my eyes watering and my nose on fire.
‘Isn’t it just?’ Kris replied, matching me in both pained expression and utter culinary enjoyment. ‘Have another glass, my master.’
Master? She can’t be serious, I thought, then saw her lopsided smile and the sparkle in her eyes. Naughty girl, pulling my leg. Well, two can play that game.
‘Domo arigato gozaimasu, my lovely geisha,’ I said and raised my glass. ‘May your skin retain the smooth and soft surface of a perfect peach, and your omanko remain tight and supple for a century to come. Kampai.’
Kris looked at me in surprise before draining her glass. ‘You’ve never let on that you’re familiar with Japan.’
‘Maybe I’ve known a Japanese girl or two in my life. Does it matter? We both have untold stories to tell and maybe, hopefully, one day we’ll feel comfortable enough with each other to open up. Ideally before I croak.’ I refilled our glasses. ‘Until then, kampai.’
Kris toasted me, drained her glass in one go and slammed it down on the table as tradition demands. For a moment she looked like she was about to say something serious. Instead, she asked, ‘How do you like Bishonen? It’s far from being considered the most exclusive sake, but it’s always been my favourite.’
‘I love it, darling, it’s a perfect complement to the food. And now’s the perfect time to tell me all about your trip.’
‘So productive, on all levels,’ Kris leaned towards me eagerly, elbows on the table. ‘My work, our quest, it couldn’t have been better.’
‘And your free time, it was equally productive? And pleasurable?’
‘Darling, please don’t,’ she looked at me imploringly.
‘Sorry, forget I said that, I’ve been on edge for some days,’ I shrugged. ‘Just tell me what you’ve found out about this… artefact.’
Chapter 33
Tracing the suicidal officer and his family was the easiest part, Kris had said. Kazuhiro Mori was from Kyoto, where his two children still lived. They were grateful and honoured to have the family heirloom unexpectedly returned after so many years. Eager to share the memory of their beloved father with Kris, they had organised a family meeting with their children and grandchildren and their families. Together, they painted a picture of a peaceful, gentle and learned man, loving husband and father, far from the desperate man who had slit his own stomach inside a sinking ship.
Before the war, Mori-san had been an anthropologist and ethnographer at the Kyoto Imperial University, specialising in Pacific cultures. Proud to be Japanese, yet he neither agreed with nor condoned his country’s aggressive expansionist policies. However, in a time when nationalism was rife in Japan, that was a view he kept to himself, only sharing it with his immediate family.
Barely in his mid-thirties when the war broke out, he had already earned the respect of his colleagues, both in Japan and abroad, having published a number of acclaimed and insightful papers on a variety of subjects. Ranging from a critique of Malinowski’s works on the sexual habits of Trobriand islanders to a comparative study of Micronesian and Polynesian myths and their origins, professor Mori-san was seen as an expert in his field.
It wasn’t a surprise, thus, to the Japanese scientific community (other than to the recipient himself, deeply distressed and already then considering ritual disembowelment as a way out) when professor Mori-san received an official letter informing him curtly that he had become the head of a newly created department in the wartime government, demanding his presence in Tokyo within two days. He was also given the rank of major, with room for promotion, but that was hardly a consolation for a confirmed pacifist and academic.
Kris had managed to trace and read relevant records held by the National Archives of Japan, but only after one of her contacts, a government minister, had intervened and formally requested that she be given access. The Faculty for Research on the Origin of Mankind had come into existence, with a staff of two – Mori-san and a clerk fluent in German, at the urgent request of the German government. Its sole purpose was to follow up and verify nonsensical leads on ancient, purportedly Aryan peoples in Asia and the Pacific, all of this coming from the Ahnenerbe. The Japanese government, effectively run by the military, did not take this seriously by any stretch of imagination; it was all about appeasing the Germans, their current and – as everyone in Japan hoped – short lived allies.
Ah, the Ahnenerbe, a wacko organisation set up in the 1930s by Himmler, the delusional psychopath, to prove to the world that Aryans were indeed the master race and destined to rule the earth. To ensure credibility, Himmler had enlisted several scientists, among them Herman Wirth, by all accounts at best a mediocre archaeologist, and Otto Rahn, a historian fascinated by the legend of King Arthur and actually believing in it. They started by looking for the holy grail in France and Spain and failed miserably. Then they moved on to digging up the Swedish, Scottish and Icelandic countryside, without much planning or research, looking for clues in early Viking settlements.
As no clues were forthcoming no matter how much they misinterpreted the runes, the sorry bunch next organised an expedition to Tibet, to prove once and for all that the remnants of the master race had fled Atlantis and settled in the mountains to avoid future cataclysms. Other than measuring dozens of Tibetan heads in the hope of proving their Aryan origin, and with expedition members getting hospitalised for altitude sickness and frostbite, the overall results were disappointing.
‘How did you find out about all this?’ I asked Kris, amazed.
‘Most of it is freely available on the internet,’ she replied. ‘The rest I got from sources in Germany and US. And it gives us more clues about the artefact.’
As the unexplored parts of the world were shrinking at an alarming rate, the Ahnenerbe next set its sights on the Pacific, a more or less expected progression eastwards from Tibet. The organisation had received possible proof of an ancient Pacific civilisation, predating Atlantis by several millennia yet being its true origin and ancestral home. Strangely enough, this piece of information had come not from Germany, but Sweden.
Count Hugo von Löwenhaupt was a self-styled naturalist, archaeologist and anthropologist (in fact, he viewed himself as an accomplished renaissance man), and not least a dedicated Hitler fan like most of the Swedish upper classes at the time. Considering himself a successor to Linnaeus, the count had made several expeditions to the Pacific between the end of the 19th century and the first two decades of the next one and had stories to tell anyone who was prepared to hear them. Preferably without being prone to falling asleep while listening to the count’s interminable, monotone narratives of his glorious exploits.
This avid collector of curiosities, for that was what he really was, had amassed a huge number of objects on private display in his stately mansion on the outskirts of Stockholm. Being a pedantic Swede he had also noted down every minute detail about each item, as well as having filled innumerable diaries with exhaustive information about “savages and their beliefs”, gathered mainly through conversations with European bureaucrats and plantation owners and occasionally with who he termed “tribal chiefs”.
All of his regularly sent letters, addressed to Herr Himmler, Ahnenerbe, PRIVAT, had been summarily dismissed – and quite rightly so – as rants by an over-privileged, delusional prat. All but one, which was passed on to their Japanese counterpart as being of interest and requiring immediate action, landing on the desk of the unfortunate Mori-san.
Major Kazuhiro Mori, a newly made special envoy to his divine majesty, Emperor Hirohito, and an unwilling holder of a document which gave him power over any military and administrative rank while in the field, was initially less than enthusiastic after he read the latest German dispatch. Instead of being allowed to pursue his true calling, or at least stay safe in Japan, the major was now bound by duty to investigate the claims made by the crazy European gaikokujin and risk his health on a remote Pacific island. Most likely another useless heap of guano, fought over by teenagers asked to die for their countries in a war that they did not understand.
Yet this dispatch was different from the previous ones, identifying a specific village in New Guinea, on an island off the northeast coast of New Britain, as a setting for a gruesome mass killing. The information purported to be first hand, told to the count by a coffee plantation owner, and referred to a priceless, legendary item that had been cursed for generations, one that required a tribute to be paid in blood.
Before the war, Mori-san had been an anthropologist and ethnographer at the Kyoto Imperial University, specialising in Pacific cultures. Proud to be Japanese, yet he neither agreed with nor condoned his country’s aggressive expansionist policies. However, in a time when nationalism was rife in Japan, that was a view he kept to himself, only sharing it with his immediate family.
Barely in his mid-thirties when the war broke out, he had already earned the respect of his colleagues, both in Japan and abroad, having published a number of acclaimed and insightful papers on a variety of subjects. Ranging from a critique of Malinowski’s works on the sexual habits of Trobriand islanders to a comparative study of Micronesian and Polynesian myths and their origins, professor Mori-san was seen as an expert in his field.
It wasn’t a surprise, thus, to the Japanese scientific community (other than to the recipient himself, deeply distressed and already then considering ritual disembowelment as a way out) when professor Mori-san received an official letter informing him curtly that he had become the head of a newly created department in the wartime government, demanding his presence in Tokyo within two days. He was also given the rank of major, with room for promotion, but that was hardly a consolation for a confirmed pacifist and academic.
Kris had managed to trace and read relevant records held by the National Archives of Japan, but only after one of her contacts, a government minister, had intervened and formally requested that she be given access. The Faculty for Research on the Origin of Mankind had come into existence, with a staff of two – Mori-san and a clerk fluent in German, at the urgent request of the German government. Its sole purpose was to follow up and verify nonsensical leads on ancient, purportedly Aryan peoples in Asia and the Pacific, all of this coming from the Ahnenerbe. The Japanese government, effectively run by the military, did not take this seriously by any stretch of imagination; it was all about appeasing the Germans, their current and – as everyone in Japan hoped – short lived allies.
Ah, the Ahnenerbe, a wacko organisation set up in the 1930s by Himmler, the delusional psychopath, to prove to the world that Aryans were indeed the master race and destined to rule the earth. To ensure credibility, Himmler had enlisted several scientists, among them Herman Wirth, by all accounts at best a mediocre archaeologist, and Otto Rahn, a historian fascinated by the legend of King Arthur and actually believing in it. They started by looking for the holy grail in France and Spain and failed miserably. Then they moved on to digging up the Swedish, Scottish and Icelandic countryside, without much planning or research, looking for clues in early Viking settlements.
As no clues were forthcoming no matter how much they misinterpreted the runes, the sorry bunch next organised an expedition to Tibet, to prove once and for all that the remnants of the master race had fled Atlantis and settled in the mountains to avoid future cataclysms. Other than measuring dozens of Tibetan heads in the hope of proving their Aryan origin, and with expedition members getting hospitalised for altitude sickness and frostbite, the overall results were disappointing.
‘How did you find out about all this?’ I asked Kris, amazed.
‘Most of it is freely available on the internet,’ she replied. ‘The rest I got from sources in Germany and US. And it gives us more clues about the artefact.’
As the unexplored parts of the world were shrinking at an alarming rate, the Ahnenerbe next set its sights on the Pacific, a more or less expected progression eastwards from Tibet. The organisation had received possible proof of an ancient Pacific civilisation, predating Atlantis by several millennia yet being its true origin and ancestral home. Strangely enough, this piece of information had come not from Germany, but Sweden.
Count Hugo von Löwenhaupt was a self-styled naturalist, archaeologist and anthropologist (in fact, he viewed himself as an accomplished renaissance man), and not least a dedicated Hitler fan like most of the Swedish upper classes at the time. Considering himself a successor to Linnaeus, the count had made several expeditions to the Pacific between the end of the 19th century and the first two decades of the next one and had stories to tell anyone who was prepared to hear them. Preferably without being prone to falling asleep while listening to the count’s interminable, monotone narratives of his glorious exploits.
This avid collector of curiosities, for that was what he really was, had amassed a huge number of objects on private display in his stately mansion on the outskirts of Stockholm. Being a pedantic Swede he had also noted down every minute detail about each item, as well as having filled innumerable diaries with exhaustive information about “savages and their beliefs”, gathered mainly through conversations with European bureaucrats and plantation owners and occasionally with who he termed “tribal chiefs”.
All of his regularly sent letters, addressed to Herr Himmler, Ahnenerbe, PRIVAT, had been summarily dismissed – and quite rightly so – as rants by an over-privileged, delusional prat. All but one, which was passed on to their Japanese counterpart as being of interest and requiring immediate action, landing on the desk of the unfortunate Mori-san.
Major Kazuhiro Mori, a newly made special envoy to his divine majesty, Emperor Hirohito, and an unwilling holder of a document which gave him power over any military and administrative rank while in the field, was initially less than enthusiastic after he read the latest German dispatch. Instead of being allowed to pursue his true calling, or at least stay safe in Japan, the major was now bound by duty to investigate the claims made by the crazy European gaikokujin and risk his health on a remote Pacific island. Most likely another useless heap of guano, fought over by teenagers asked to die for their countries in a war that they did not understand.
Yet this dispatch was different from the previous ones, identifying a specific village in New Guinea, on an island off the northeast coast of New Britain, as a setting for a gruesome mass killing. The information purported to be first hand, told to the count by a coffee plantation owner, and referred to a priceless, legendary item that had been cursed for generations, one that required a tribute to be paid in blood.
Chapter 34
‘That was nasty,’ I shuddered after Kris had finished the story, with too much detail for my liking. ‘So the major went there and found what, exactly?’
‘He’d come across stories of the artefact before and always dismissed them as unsubstantiated legends. But in that village, he discovered that the artefact was real.’
‘He actually found it?’ I asked. This revelation suddenly relegated my latest dream to a regular nightmare, nothing but fiction. And if that was true, what about the previous dreams?
‘No, he didn’t. But he discovered what had happened to it. The artefact was stolen from the village by a trader–’
‘Ah, coming perhaps from the Sulu Archipelago?’
‘How did you know?’ Kris was astonished.
‘You’ve not changed your mind about staying the night here, have you?’ I asked as I got up from the table and started clearing the plates. ‘Because I’ve got another dream to tell you about, once we’re in bed.’
‘He’d come across stories of the artefact before and always dismissed them as unsubstantiated legends. But in that village, he discovered that the artefact was real.’
‘He actually found it?’ I asked. This revelation suddenly relegated my latest dream to a regular nightmare, nothing but fiction. And if that was true, what about the previous dreams?
‘No, he didn’t. But he discovered what had happened to it. The artefact was stolen from the village by a trader–’
‘Ah, coming perhaps from the Sulu Archipelago?’
‘How did you know?’ Kris was astonished.
‘You’ve not changed your mind about staying the night here, have you?’ I asked as I got up from the table and started clearing the plates. ‘Because I’ve got another dream to tell you about, once we’re in bed.’
●
‘I know where that happened,’ Kris said excitedly after I’d recounted my dream. ‘Simunul, an island in the Tawi-Tawi group. Because that’s where major Mori-san eventually found it.’
‘But what was he doing on Borneo?’
‘After he retrieved the artefact, he couldn’t go straight back to Manila. The Americans were about to land on Leyte, in eastern Philippines, and the major’s only option was to catch the ship in Miri, as it was sailing to Manila in what he hoped would be safe waters.’
‘Which turned out to be anything but,’ I mused. ‘What do you want to do now? Go to Papua New Guinea? I guess visiting Sulu is out of the question, considering how unsafe it is for foreigners.’
‘Let’s sleep on it, darling. With the bedside light on, please. If I’m about to be eaten by a python I prefer to see it coming.’
‘Pussy.’
‘But what was he doing on Borneo?’
‘After he retrieved the artefact, he couldn’t go straight back to Manila. The Americans were about to land on Leyte, in eastern Philippines, and the major’s only option was to catch the ship in Miri, as it was sailing to Manila in what he hoped would be safe waters.’
‘Which turned out to be anything but,’ I mused. ‘What do you want to do now? Go to Papua New Guinea? I guess visiting Sulu is out of the question, considering how unsafe it is for foreigners.’
‘Let’s sleep on it, darling. With the bedside light on, please. If I’m about to be eaten by a python I prefer to see it coming.’
‘Pussy.’