He lay awake, his eyes wide open in the dark, thinking all these thoughts and in the next minute thinking that he must not let paranoia take a grip of him again, not ever. He was completely certain he would never be able to sleep. That was the last thing he thought, three clear monosyllables. I won’t sleep.
He dreamt of Rita. She was standing far away from him, on a road, looking out over a field. Then the field was a cliff, then she fell, and he woke with a start. The hut was dark and silent and he fell asleep again, immediately, dreamt of her again. This time, he dreamt she was being cut at by people he couldn’t see, the way they had the corpulent I Gede Puger, the fat man famous for corruption. They had sliced the fat from his body, it was said, before they shot him in the head. He was standing on a bridge. Then she was beside him. They were cutting her but she didn’t mind. He woke in panic, flailing, and realised dawn had already come and Kadek was on the veranda.
As he opened the doors, Kadek bowed good morning. ‘I am sorry I did not come yesterday Mr Harper but my wife was sick.’
‘I am sorry to hear that, Kadek, please pass on my good wishes.’
He could see, as he looked out over the valley, that it had not rained in the night: a dry night then, not a night to hide your tracks, not a night when the thunder of rain on the roof of the hut would have hidden any sounds on the veranda.
He splashed his face with the water Kadek had brought, lit a cigarette, sat on the veranda and listened to Kadek inside the hut tidying up, making the bed, smoothing the bed sheets with a swift motion of his hand so that they made a sound like the slowly flapping wing of some great bird, an albatross perhaps. So, that was why they hadn’t come. They were waiting for rain. He wondered how much they would be paid. How much was he worth?
He wondered how Kadek lived: well, he hoped, if he was employed by a Western company, in a large compound with his extended family. He imagined Kadek’s wife as young and pretty, two or three children, perhaps. Such lives were good lives as long as nothing went wrong — that was what he often thought when he passed through the villages; the slow pace of life, the communal living, the family ties. As long as there was enough food, and no one fell sick. . he stared out at Gunung Agung, the holy mountain, floating above the trees. . as long as the volcano didn’t erupt or a tidal wave sweep away your fishing boat or pestilence destroy the rice harvest. . as long as there wasn’t a war or a devaluation of the rupiah or a coup. Rita and others like her could romanticise such lives, such islands, all they liked, but the people who lived here walked a tightrope every day of their lives.
After a few minutes, Kadek stepped over the threshold onto the veranda and, without speaking, placed a china cup of coffee next to his elbow. Kadek had intuited by his silence that it had not been a good night, he thought. Wearily, he relived his dream, sipping at the hot black coffee. He wondered if it really had been as long a dream as it had felt at the time, or if he had only remembered it as long. He had heard somewhere, back in Holland, that dreams occur in the second we rise from unconsciousness, in a flash — and that even if we think we have been dreaming for hours, it is only what we remember in a flash, time compressed. This thought had always fascinated him. Perhaps it was true of conscious memory too: decades could be remembered compressed into a moment, after all.
However horrible and odd the dream, it was at least a comfort that he had dreamt of Rita. He thought he would be pleased to dream of her in whatever form she might take: and surely that was something, whatever happened. How short a time he had known her and yet how large she loomed in his mind. Those who haunt us are not the most beautiful or most dear, he thought, far from it, merely those who arrive at a time in our lives when we are ready to be haunted.
Kadek came back out onto the veranda and said something. He was aware of Kadek’s voice sounding in his ear, a small burst of noise to his left, but he did not register the words. Then Kadek said again, ‘Mr Harper. .’
‘Yes?’ Harper did not turn his head.
‘Your breakfast. It is on the table but I could bring it to you?’
Harper turned his head, at last, and said, ‘Oh, thank you, leave it, thank you.’
Kadek bowed.
He sat on the veranda for a while, then rose, slowly, wearily, from his seat, went and leaned his elbows on the rail, looking out over the valley. If he fulfilled his fantasy of the villa in the rice fields, building those bookshelves for Rita, how long would it be before he started sleeping badly again, crying out or disturbing her as he rose from the bed in the middle of the night? She would say, what is it? He would tell her, eventually, and so hand some of his memories to her. It would be like presenting her with a severed head wrapped in a bed sheet. Better to stay away than do that to her. He must strike a bargain with himself, and make it firm — once he left here, if he left here, he would put it behind him. Could he do that? Wasn’t that the problem, always, not making a choice — but knowing whether you had a choice or not?
He became aware of Kadek standing next to him. The man had materialised soundlessly at his elbow. What was it now?
Kadek looked at him and said, ‘It is all done now, Mr Harper.’
As they stood facing each other, it was as if all pretences had fallen away, and Kadek was saying, you know the place you have come to now, all is finished.
Then Kadek said, ‘Will you be requiring a meal later today or perhaps you will eat in the town?’
‘You don’t need to come later, thank you.’
‘Tomorrow morning, or will you be leaving before breakfast?’
Of course, Kadek had been informed of his departure. Perhaps Johan had gone to see him after his coffee with Harper in the smart restaurant, or perhaps there had been a phone call from whoever employed Kadek directly, probably an operative or an office in Denpasar.
‘No, no, thank you, I won’t require anything else. .’ Harper said. He hadn’t realised this was the last time he would see him. He had assumed Kadek would be there on his final morning.
‘And what of your transport requirements, Mr Harper?’
Again, this was something Harper had not considered. It didn’t seem appropriate to enquire about buying the little battered car now. Kadek was clearly done with him.
‘I will take the car into town in the morning, then leave it parked outside the Museum. I’ll leave the keys at the entrance desk.’
Kadek bowed a little, said, ‘It has been a pleasure to work for you, Mr Harper.’ He straightened, gave a smile then, the smile of an equal, bidding goodbye.
Their goodbye was so peremptory, he could not think of a gesture. ‘Thank you, thank you, yes, it’s been a pleasure for me too.’
And then, as if the thought had only just come to him, Kadek added, ‘Would you like me to fold and pack your clothes?’
‘No thank you, I can do that myself, later today.’ He had what, six shirts, three pairs of trousers, some T-shirts, his old boots, two pairs of shoes? He had a nice watch. He had an expensive leather bag with a zip that Francisca had bought him that was intended for toiletries. He used it for pens and pencils and disposable cigarette lighters and kept some of his cash folded and tucked into the lining where he had unpicked a seam. He had his notebook. He would tear out the pages, one by one, and burn them in the ashtray. That would take an hour or so.
And then, before he could think to extend his hand, thank Kadek again or mention a tip, Kadek had gone, leaving him alone on the veranda. Ostensibly, Harper had dismissed him, but Harper knew that it was he who had been dismissed.