End of the Ocean Read online

  “Did ya see that bloody wanker?” he asked anyone listening.

  Sage let her go, but she stood where she was, cardboard squares floating down the gutter behind them; sticks of incense sprouting from holders on top, some still smoking as they floated away.

  Ogi used her phone and took everyone’s picture. Then Ratri started taking pictures.

  Drinking warm beer that Wayne kept beneath the seat of his motorbike, they stood and talked for a half hour, until the rain came to an end. When the sun was out and it was hot they rode on. Within the hour they were in Amed, at Good Karma. Ratri was exuberant. The energy like electricity. Everything at once felt different than it had before. Like the sun was now brighter and the air they were breathing had somehow changed. Became sweeter. Like some new connection between the two of them had been made.

  They parked. Ogi climbed off Wayne’s motorbike and started taking pictures. Ratri was right behind her, eyes open wide behind big sunglasses and a beautiful smile, telling Sage hurry, that this was so beautiful, the most beautiful place she had ever seen.

  “Go head, mate,” Wayne said, nodding for Sage to follow them, telling him to go, that he had this.

  Sage thanked him and Wayne bowed. Sage returned it and stretched his back then walked toward the girls, standing by the water now, the sun far out behind them, getting smaller, but still hot, still bright, still reddening the skin on his arms and neck.

  Shit, Sage said. It was hot, but it was beautiful. And it was worth a thousand sunburns to experience this. A weekend with someone who made him feel so glad to be alive. Just her being with him made him feel like he was worth something.

  They each hugged him and rubbed his chest and Ogi told him he have big muscle. Then, positioning him between the both of them, they took a half dozen selfies, and in the last one they each kissed his cheeks, then Ratri kissed his ear. Then Sage kissed her mouth, again, slower than he did the first time.

  “Oh my God you guy get room, plenty time make love later,” Ogi said. “Now we eat prawn and drink all night and dance. You like dance Sage?”

  His arm around her now, holding Ratri causally, looking at Ogi, both cheeks red, not quite blushing, Sage said he was a pretty good dancer you get a couple of drinks in him.

  “Somebody say drinks?” Wayne said, right on cue, as if he had been standing on the sideline waiting his turn to perform. Walking up to them with a bottle of rice wine, he said tonight they would dance the salsa.

  “The salsa?” Sage said. “In Bali?”

  Wayne explained there were many traditional dances in Indonesia, like the Barong or the kecak, but they were usually performed by men. Or you had to wear a costume.

  “But they ain’t sexy,” Wayne said. “The salsa on the other hand…” Wayne, grinning, said, “Here,” to Sage, handing him one of four glasses, holding them upside down between his fingers, and handing the other two glasses to their companions.

  Wayne poured wine in the glasses which they raised and tapped together.

  “To good friends and good times,” he said. “…to Bali.”

  They drank and laughed. Someone started playing music. There was a mandolin and a violin and something Sage had never heard before. The sound came from below.

  “Definitely not traditional Balinese instruments,” Wayne said.

  They listened and drank and finished the bottle. Wayne left and returned with two more bottles, poured four glasses and said to follow him to the edge of the terrace, to the wide steep steps, hand chiseled from century-old stone, then down to a great courtyard, one wide step at a time.

  They followed. Ratri in front of Sage, her right hand in his left; his eyes amalgamated to her body, watching her walk, watching her long black hair cascade across her shoulders; Ogi dancing in front of them, taking long drinks from the bottle, yelling something in Indonesian that made Ratri laugh.

  They came to a floor. Hard stone, slickly finished. A magnificent shine from well polished rock, even at that hour, with limited glow; tall candles burning, their flames flickering, calling all matter of moth to the light.

  They stood, touching each other subtly and unsubtly; watching moths float to flame, as if they had been put there for God’s own amusement, to set ablaze, making shadows on walls that broke apart and became new shadows as the band beneath them played.

  They sang and danced, gleefully, drunkenly, and promises were made without words being said. They would writhe and grind on this Balinese substratum of a half million rocks, decorated by hand: colorfully orchestrated, attentively positioned, in accordance to weight and size.

  Once the sun was gone and there was moon and stars, after much drinking and dancing, they spent late hours on the beach. The women gathered wood and the men made a fire.

  Other beachgoers fell upon them; all travelers and tourists and curious folk. Good Karma was about love. Everyone drank and shared stories of who they were and where they were from and why they were there. Wayne produced a large joint, which he swore had been difficult to procure, struck a match and held it to the end, until the paper caught fire. Then, Wayne hitting it in short puffs, the fire took hold and reddened the end and it was smoking.

  He passed it to Sage and the circle got a little tighter once he got that joint going.

  He hoped Ratri would not mind, and she didn’t. She smiled and told him to enjoy, though she abstained, along with Ogi. They said marijuana was for crazy bule.

  A Balinese man who had emerged from the shadows sat across from them and produced a banjo. He and Wayne spoke Indonesian. The man left, returning with an old guitar that was cracked and aged but still had plenty of life, according to him.

  He handed it to Wayne and returned to his banjo. Wayne bowed and thanked him and plucked a few chords. He chuckled then, telling Sage the guitar had never been tuned.

  The Balinese man, who called himself Harr, very happy and very drunk, played a fast song that of course Sage had never heard, but a few from the group sang along: Ratri and Ogi among them.

  It must have been an old Indonesian favorite, Sage thought, watching them sing as Wayne tuned the guitar: turning pegs, strumming strings, making tweaks and adjustments.

  After a few minutes it played reasonably well, and Wayne was quite good. Which did not surprise Sage. There was nothing the man was not good at. There did not seem to be anything he did not know or could not do: a man who appeared to have more skills than any one man should have, but Sage was still glad to know him.

  Ratri pulled Sage toward her. This time she kissed him. They sat, holding each other as Wayne sang a song about a priest named Stan who was a short white man with a bad haircut and a red right hand.

  It was slow and dark and strangely worded, but beautifully sung.

  The fire raged and Wayne strummed the guitar as Sage and Ratri slipped away. From the fire and the flames and what few people were left, they walked to the water’s edge and warm waves washed their feet.

  The moon was close, cornstalk yellow; it cast ashen shadows on the fire behind them.

  They walked a short distance and stopped. The night was warm and still. Very slowly, seductively, Ratri took her clothes off and let them fall to the sand. Sage removed his shorts and flung them behind him, never taking his eyes from her. They kissed. Slowly at first, even delicately; he held her as if she were fragile. Hands and mouths exploring each other. They kissed again, longer kisses, so hungry for the other, pulling apart for small breaths of air. Then, Sage, slowing it down, pulling his head away, biting her lip tenderly, almost said I love you.

  She looked at him, and what she saw in his eyes he saw in hers. They said nothing.

  He kissed her again before anything could change. Lowering her to the ground, Sage felt her almost say it, that she loved him too. But she spoke to him in Javanese instead.

  “What’d you say?”

  “I say I want you to fuck me, Sage.”

  H
e kissed her faster, their lips pushing against each other harder than they ever had, and then she was on her back and he was on top of her, loving her without words, just grunts and kisses. Naked bodies in wet sand as the ocean covered them and uncovered them in waves of thick white foam.

  Sage made love to her hard, but slow. He took his time and gave her everything she needed, until the tides were so great they carried his shorts away and he jumped up to give chase, never to find them, while Ratri laughed, eyes closed, head back, holding her own clothes in her hand. Laughing at the beautiful American.

  And then he returned to her: naked and hard, and she pulled him to the sand and made him fuck her again, until they were cold and weak. Then he carried her across the shore, to their candlelit bungalow, and made love to her in the shadow of firelight.

  Kerobokan

  After several drunken days and many methamphetamine-fueled nights, and after the Molly he had done at Kuta Beach Club the previous night, all Grady wanted to do was sleep.

  Now, sitting in an elegant hotel in Nusa Dua, on the balcony of his room, relaxing with a warm cup of tea, eating a cool bite of pitaya, he had never been more tired; nor had he ever seen a more splendid view of the city, and as tired as he was, part of him could sit there all day, taking it in: the motorbikes and the people and the ocean behind them.

  He sat deep in his chair and reflected. Lately, things had gotten strange. The day before he thought he had been followed. He wasn’t sure. It could have been the pharmaceuticals, the lack of sleep or nervousness from the impending job, but he was pretty sure he’d seen the same man behind him two different times, in two different places, on two different sides of the island. Then he got sidetracked and did not think of him again, until he saw two poliza in front of his hotel, talking to the manager and valet, like they might be asking questions. It seemed suspicious, at least to him. Grady was cautious. He kept riding.

  Perhaps it was the drugs, perhaps not, but smuggler’s intuition told him run. He carried his passport with him at all times, along with some cash and a few grams of methamphetamine he kept in a camera case with a false bottom. He had everything he needed. He left his clothes behind, he could buy new ones. He switched hotels, which led him to his current hotel, with the balcony and the view. That had been yesterday, and last night he had done Molly at the Kuta Beach Club: dancing, rubbing, molesting an Australian woman to the sounds of dubstep bass until he lost her in the crowd.

  Massaging his temples, he looked at his watch. Took a sip of tea. He would switch hotels again tomorrow. Try to get a hold of Djoko. But first, sleep. The bed looked very soft. It called to him in a voice only a man who had been without sleep for three days would know.

  He set his teacup on the table and leaned back in the chair and thought about a shower.

  They broke open the door without warning. He had no idea they would come. While he stood naked in the hallway, bath towel in his hand, they screamed Get down on floor in Indonesian, or that was his interpretation. Many voices, at once, all of them poliza or military, he wasn’t sure, all yelling things he could not understand, all pointing guns. A large Indonesian soldier hit him in the stomach with the butt of his rifle and Grady went down. Naked, now winded. He lay on the floor, stunned. Slack-jawed, gasping for breath, his mind shifted into gear and he considered his dope.

  Someone had set him up. Someone who knew he had methamphetamine. Someone who knew where he would be. And how many people could have known that? As hard as he tried to avoid being followed he had not tried hard enough. Had Djoko fucked him? Impossible. What if they arrested Djoko too? Grady felt the scheme unravel.

  They allowed him a pair of shorts then led him from the room. Both hands cuffed behind him, reporters waiting in the lobby, taking pictures; poliza standing proud, smiling, arms around Grady, as if he were the latest trophy they’d acquired. Another tourist caught with drugs. On his way to hard time. Let this be a lesson to the others. That’s what their voices said when translated from Indonesian.

  In Bali there is no tolerance for drugs.

  They led him to a car and sat him in the backseat while the journalists took his picture.

  After the weekend they’d spent in Amed, Sage thought his life was beautiful. It had been a long time since he’d thought that. If he had ever thought that. But now he did. That had been two weeks ago. If only time could move more slowly.

  In the evenings they went dancing. It was an activity Sage had never cared for, but here, now, he would cut paths through the dance floor, pulling her behind him, leading her, lifting her off the ground. Sometimes they’d fight traffic and ride to the beach. Sometimes they’d stay home. In his room. They would make love on his bed, each taking turns being stuck by the spring.

  Sometimes she would sing to him.

  He saw Wayne less often. Sometimes twice a week. But on the weekends they’d hit CP Lounge and do a tray of rainbow shots. Sometimes they’d do several trays. Rainbow shots had become Ratri’s favorite. Sage liked them too. And while Ogi would only drink the blue ones, Wayne would drink anything. Then they would hit the dance floor. Closing time was four a.m.; they would ride home as the sun came up.

  They had fun. Weekend after weekend. Then Wayne disappeared. He returned a week later as if nothing had happened and told Sage he’d been gone on business. What business he’d been gone on Sage never asked. Then Wayne called to say Ade had called him, that he was finished with Sage’s passport.

  “Fancy a motorbike ride?” Wayne asked.

  Sage said that was fine. That they could go anytime. He was relieved, but he was also disappointed. Though he was glad Ade had not lost it, part of him wished he had. The part of him that could not bear the thought of leaving. It was harder than he imagined it would be and he knew it would be hard.

  They met in Ubud and rode to meet Ade. Traffic was thick, but Sage had gotten used to it. A few thousand motorbikes fighting the same thin strip of road all at once no longer seemed intimidating. He felt at home. He blended in. To him this felt normal.

  When they got to the corner where the bakso man had been, he was not there. There was a new man instead. He stood behind a small stove on wheels, grilling hot corn on the cob in chili sauce. It smelled so hot and so good Sage could taste it in his mouth.

  He parked and approached the vendor, bought one for himself, one for Wayne, and two cold San Miguel Lights. Dua, he said. Terima Kasih. Then: Semoga harimu menyenangkan ya teman. Which meant have a nice day, my friend. His Indonesian was getting better.

  Sage stripped his cob bare of corn, as did his associate. They finished their beers, bought two more and waited for Ade. When he arrived, a half hour late, he apologized and blamed his wife.

  “She take motorbike,” he said, apologizing again. She had ridden it to the store.

  “It’s no problem,” Wayne assured him.

  Ade opened his trunk, rooted through a half-dozen passports, and handed one to Sage.

  “Thank you,” Sage said, opening it, making sure it was his. Checking for that stamp.

  “I try call you many time,” Ade said.

  “Ah, mate. I been bouncin’ all around. Before that we were in Amed.”

  “Very nice,” Ade said, though he himself had never been there.

  They parted ways and Sage followed Wayne to his house in Ubud, where they drank wine and smoked weed and ate fruit. Ratri came over at midnight and they made love in the pool and slept naked, out in the open, beneath the stars. It was unbelievable, how perfect his life had become. But it was hard to enjoy, knowing it would come to an end so much sooner than he would have liked.

  When Sage woke she was gone. The sun was bright and hot. She had left him a note on her pillow. He studied her handwriting, smiling at how pretty it was. How unique it was. Knowing how slowly she had written it, how hard she must have tried. She had wanted it to be perfect. He knew that because he knew her. It impressed him. It enlightened him to kn
ow so many different people from all over the world wanted to learn his language but it had never occurred to him to want to learn theirs.

  Wayne was smoking a joint when Sage walked over, sitting in a low-slung chair by the pool.

  “Mornin’.”

  “Pagi,” Sage said, glad he could still remember that one, squinting at the sun, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

  “Sleep good?”

  “Didn’t do much sleeping.”

  “Do any good fucking?”

  “I ravaged her.”

  “That’s my boy.”

  Wayne handed him the joint, both smiling. Wayne said, “Glad to see you’re getting on.”

  “She’s incredible.”

  Wayne nodded.

  Sage took a hit off the joint and, without really thinking, said, “I dunno what I’ll do without her.”

  Wayne did not seem surprised to hear him say that though Sage seemed surprised to have said it. Still, Wayne said he knew the feeling. But Sage wondered if he did. Wayne lived in a world beyond his world. Beyond any world Sage could imagine, and he had the resources to facilitate this lifestyle. Sage did not. He was broke.

  He could not afford to stay and she could not afford to leave, and the closer they grew to each other the more it hurt since they knew what was coming: an end to their romance, unless he could change it. Something he did not know how to do. After all he had been through in the last year, this was a new desperation. The thought of leaving her there made him sick. To find her then leave her. And return to what? Alone. Without her.

  It was a tragedy unfolding and they pretended not to see it. But as the month drew to an end Sage saw it. One fact became apparent: He was running out of money, and his scheme to collect unemployment had fallen apart as well. They now wanted to see him.

  Your presence is required at the Career Center their last email said, for a personal meeting—a face-to-face meeting—one he could not have attended if he’d wanted to since he was ten thousand miles away.