The Timor Man (24 page)

He'd been surprised, and then overcome with anger when he walked into the small asbestos-walled departure room reserved normally for crews and recognized her standing there, talking to one of the crew about her baggage. His travelling companion was to be Louise.

Furious, he had dropped his own case and stormed up to her.

“What the blazes are you doing here?” he demanded not even waiting for her to finish talking to the orange suited airman.

“A simple ‘hello' would suffice, Stephen,” she responded stiffly.

“You're not on this flight, surely?” he asked incredulously.

“On the flight. On the mission. Yep, guess you could say that cowboy!” she answered, deliberately exaggerating a deep-southern accent.

“And in what capacity, if I may be so rude as to inquire?” his face flushed with controlled anger.

“As an observer. Courtesy of Uncle Sam and however they refer to the Indonesian Government department responsible for the farce they have the audacity to call a plebiscite.”

“You're the other foreign national sent to substantiate my report of this visit?” he asked, knowing that she was going to respond in the affirmative but not wanting it to be so.

“Correct.” She hesitated for just a moment before adding, “and, it would be the mature and professional thing to do if we were to establish some ground rules together now, before we depart. Don't you agree, Mister Coleman?”

Stephen glared at the woman for whom he'd once held such deep passionate feelings and was suddenly lost for words.

She was as beautiful as ever. How could you be angry with a woman who looked as good as this? he wondered.

“Okay, Louise. Or is it Miss Louise, or, considering your newly developed accent, Missy? I'd heard you'd taken up with the good doctor over in your patch but I didn't realize that he was from Georgia!”

There it was. He'd said it. It had just slipped out, his mouth faster than his brain and immediately he'd regretted the barbed innuendo regarding her social life. For a long moment they looked at each other. He thought she had smiled first and he misinterpreted the sign, stepping closer to her, almost sheepishly.

“No, Stephen. Not now, we'll talk when we're airborne.”

With which, he was obliged to wait. He was curious to discover why this woman had exited his life so suddenly, so mysteriously. He now had the opportunity or would, during the tour, to confront her, alone and away from the cocktail circuit.

They had seen each other at functions. She had always avoided him and, after some months, Stephen had finally accepted that they had no future together. He had never understood what had happened. He knew that their brief affair was more than some temporary fling. At least it was to him. Stephen resented the mixed emotions he immediately experienced when she turned up as his travelling companion. Stephen recognized that he still held strong feelings for Louise. But that was now all in the past.

Life had gone on for both. He had an occasional relationship, but without developing any real feelings for the partner he'd taken at the time. On the other hand, he knew that Louise was seen regularly on the arm of one of the USAID doctors, also an American. He let it all pass and after a time believed he'd put it all behind him. And now she was here, together with him, and he felt the old familiar stabbing sensation which had plagued him before. They were now both approaching the end of their tours and he did not want her to disappear again, or at least, not without a reasonable explanation. A reason, even an excuse. Something you could give to another who had once opened the window to their soul and believed the softly whispered promises that had been made.

A sudden drop dragged his thoughts back to the present. The air turbulence persisted on throwing the Dakota around as if it were made of paper. He probed his memory to recall whether or not he may have revealed his terrible fear of flying to her during those few exciting days together. Stephen was angry with her. She just sat there reading a bloody book! He wanted to unbuckle and move across to sit alongside her but fear kept him strapped into his canvas seat.

Again the aeroplane dipped, lifted slightly then dropped bringing a silent scream to his lips. And then the plane broke through the lower cloud cover and there, off the port side, Coleman could see the white beaches and coconut palms of the Island of the Gods.

Suddenly, it was as if there had never been any threat of falling, or fear of dying. He slowly regained his composure and smiled at Louise. She was preoccupied with the landing formalities and, as this was a freighter, double checked her straps and gear.

“Good flight, hey?” he called nonchalantly over the engine noise as they banked towards the small and narrow strip with ocean at each end.

She smiled in response. “Of course, I've had worse but out of ten, this was an eight,” he offered, now full of bravado as the aircraft's undercarriage shook when its tyres leaped from zero to seventy-five miles per hour within a fraction of a second, hitting the hot tarmac and screaming as rubber tore away.

“Stephen,” she said sharply, leaning towards him still buckled tightly, “shut up!”

It was said without venom. He realized then he'd been obvious and that she'd known he'd been terrified the whole time. He felt foolish.

The crew wanted to refuel then continue on through the rest of the afternoon to Kupang but he was adamant. He simply refused to fly any more that day. He was already tired and needed to regain his composure after the dreadful aerobatics he had experienced for most of the past few hours. He looked to Louise for support. “What about it, shall we take a break here?” he asked as the aircraft taxied to a halt.

She appeared indifferent as she sat looking at the pale blood-drained face. “It's your tour, Stephen but, to be honest, I wouldn't mind a hot tub after that last leg.”

He was relieved that she'd agreed and immediately sensed the stress flow outwards from his body. The crew acquiesced, finally agreeing that an evening's stopover in Bali wouldn't be all that bad. As it was unscheduled, and at Stephen's request, he offered to pay for the meals and accommodation for the evening. The crew willingly accepted. They pocketed the advance he proffered and then disappeared into the free messing facilities available to them as members of AURI, the Indonesian Air Force. He was too tired to squabble over a few dollars.

The airfield was practically deserted. Together they hired an old left-hand drive Plymouth Belvedere taxi and proceeded to the Hotel Bali Beach in Sanur. Settling down to the ‘welcome drink' in the Baris Bar Coleman recovered from his ordeal. Later, having showered, he attended to his equipment before phoning Louise's room. There had been no answer. He was disappointed.

That evening he dined alone. Well, as alone as one can be, Stephen thought, with more than a dozen staff observing his every movement in the under-occupied four-star resort. He searched high and low but could not locate Louise anywhere. Even the reception staff could not help when he pressed them politely, inquiring if she had gone out sightseeing, or taken a stroll along the thin strip of sand which separated the hotel grounds from the onslaught of the fast moving tides of Sanur. He sat in a deck-chair beside the pool overlooking the ocean. The setting was magnificent and, he thought despondently, wasted! There were less than ten guests in the hotel. The airport had yet to be upgraded to accept wide-bodied aircraft and, consequently, only a few visitors were able to enjoy the serenity of the warm hospitable people, their culture, and unbelievable scenery.

He had returned to the Baris Bar off the foyer and was entertained by observing a colourful character, an American, dressed in Bermuda shorts working very hard to sell what looked like Indian blankets. The man ordered drinks for the bar. Five, in all counting Stephen. Then he had opened the beautifully woven cloths to demonstrate their magnificent colours. The man was an absolute salesman, Coleman acknowledged.

Within minutes the old couple from the States had succumbed to his outrageous story of how he had smuggled these priceless and rare materials from right under the nose of the headhunters in one of the outer islands. Stephen had seen the same cloth in the small back streets of Pasar Baru in Jakarta selling for around three dollars. Before permitting his fellow countrymen to know the price of these rare and unique hand-woven works of art the overweight fellow insisted that they be his guest and enjoy yet another round of martinis which, of course, the elderly and now slightly tipsy couple readily accepted. Coleman knew when not to interfere. Anyway, he was enjoying the show and it was none of his business if this strange character found it necessary to flog village cloth to unsuspecting tourists.

He attempted to buy the man a drink. Surprisingly, he refused.

“That's my limit, man, got to fly tomorrow. Taking a quick run over to Surabaja but I'll have the bird back by sixteen hundred hours if you want to try your luck then.”

Coleman looked at the American.

“I'm the chief pilot for Mutiara Airlines,” he announced, his speech now more slurred as the martinis supposedly took effect. “In fact, I'm the only goddammed pilot,” he laughed, holding both his arms out demonstrating to the bar that he obviously knew what aircraft wings looked like. “Haven't been paid in five months. The arseholes!” Looking directly at the couple he said, “Reduced to selling bric-a-brac to pay my way. What sort of life is that for a man who flew missions all over Indochina for Air America?” the words slurred more.

“Tell you what. As you're from back home, fifty bucks will do it!” he said, rolling one of the pieces up slowly over his arm and placing it in the woman's hands.

“Are you sure?” she asked, feeling guilty that they were taking advantage of one of their own, lost in the backwaters of civilization, probably without any real food.

“Ma'am,” he started, “if I charged you any more I wouldn't be able to live with myself in the morning,” and turning to the Balinese barman called for the check.

“Please,” the old man was out of his chair, moving towards the bar. “Please let us at least pay for the drinks?”

Coleman quietly smiled. This guy was really good!

“Sir,” he replied, almost sadly,” you are a gentleman, and I thank you.” With which he turned to the barman and instructed him, in Bahasa Indonesia, to put all the drinks, as usual, on the tourist's check. Having been paid he then disappeared.

 

Stephen stayed for a while longer then strolled back outside into the balmy tropical evening air. He could hear the small waves and, occasionally, spotted their white crests as they broke onto the gentle sloping beach. Removing his shoes, Stephen walked down to the water's edge, deep in thought. In the distance he could see more lights and wandered slowly towards them.

As he approached he could hear the music long before seeing the dancers. A Balinese
gong
was performing, the sharp distinctive sounds emanating from the bamboo
gamelan
accompanied by drum and metal being beaten, the orchestra piercing the serenity of the night. They were performing for themselves. Perhaps a rehearsal, he guessed.

Stephen moved in closer to the artists and watched as they carried out their intricate dances, the beautiful young girls bending, twisting their bodies, while well rehearsed movements of their fingers and eyes not only displayed incredible discipline and control but provided the onlookers with a sense of participation in this rich and vibrant culture. Occasionally, as one of the musicians tapped the
cengceng
cymbals in concert with the beat of the
rencang
Stephen believed he could almost visualize the mythical characters depicted in the
gamelan's
sounds.

He was intoxicated with the night fragrance of the frangipani flowers and totally engrossed in the scene, this private view of the village collective, the
gong
, when he was startled by a hand touching his shoulder.

Turning quickly, he saw the silhouette of her head and shoulders, the shadows partly hiding her face.

He stood transfixed.

“Shh,” she said, placing a finger to his lips. “Don't spoil the moment, Stephen.”

Alarm changing quickly to surprise, he felt her arm slip through his, standing quite still, as if mesmerised by the unfamiliar noises coming from the village play performance. He could feel the warmth of her hands and recognized her perfume as they stood together, fascinated by the skilled dancers carrying out their intricate routines casting a spell over the Balinese night. The tantalizing rhythm continued, captivating the two, urging them together, locked in their own magical trance as they witnessed the soft brown figures moving gracefully to the sounds and the story of

the
Ramayana
Epic.

He turned to her and slowly moved his mouth towards hers.

She responded.

As she raised her lips to his, their soft touch produced a flood of memories. Holding each other with a tenderness long forgotten, Stephen tasted the bitterness of their long separation. And for a long time they embraced, without talking.