Troppo (20 page)

Kristi's back, busy airing out a bedroom. She dares me with her eyes to say something. I just smile and say good morning, head on to the kitchen to fix myself a coffee. Tengku and Umar are in their usual spot, sucking up oily strands of mie goreng.

‘Hey guys, where've you been?'

‘Jalan-jalan,' they reply in unison.

‘But where?'

They gesture vaguely. It probably doesn't matter where they've been, it's not like we were flat out with guests.

I take my coffee onto the deck and look out over the water. It's early morning silk. The waves are lining up on the main reef okay but it's big, with the odd, rogue wash-through. Maybe I'll go for a paddle tomorrow, if the wind continues to hold off and it settles down a bit.

Around ten, Shane comes heavy-footed along the corridor of posters. He didn't look too bad the night before he left but he looks shattered now, pink-eyed and sallow-skinned. He must have driven overnight from Bandar Lampung. Still, he grins when he sees me.

‘Penny! How's everything been?'

‘Pretty quiet.'

‘Always is this time of year. I've got some early Christmas presents for you.'

‘Presents?!'

‘Kristi!' he bellows.

She appears within moments, a coquettish tilt to her head.

‘There's some bags on the back seat of the car. Bring them in.'

She pads away on bare feet.

‘What was Medan like?' I ask.

‘What do you think?'

‘A shithole?'

‘You got it. And so were they alright? They didn't fuck off on you?'

Maybe that's what had happened last time.

‘No, no. All good.'

He can sense the lie, the way a shark senses blood. I can feel him gathering himself for an attack but Kristi comes back with the bags, distracting him.

‘On the table,' he commands. ‘The green one's for you.'

The bag's full of fabric – skirts, dresses, skimpy singlets.

‘Thought your wardrobe needed a bit of a lift. I don't want to see you in pants anymore, especially not those fucken clown pants you had on the other night, the ones with the crotch down to the floor. They're not a good look, okay? You're working in a surf resort, not the fucken backpackers in Perth. Think of this as your uniform. And that bag too, the blue one.'

There are two bottles of Gordon's inside. I don't feel comfortable about being told what to wear, but a few bottles of bedroom gin is just fine. ‘Thanks Shane.'

Kristi's pouting.

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,' he says. ‘I didn't forget about you. You'll get
your
present later.'

He smacks her arse.

Somewhere in the distance, a wail from the mosque opens like a throat.

Shane's gesturing wildly at a bloke a third his age. There are three of them. Definitely Aussies. With sun-bleached hair and boardies and Bintang singlets that show off effortlessly toned arms. Their bare feet are a mess of reef cuts, missing toenails, inky lines of urchin poison. It looks as though Shane's trying to out-storytell the young bloke. The bloke, too stupid or arrogant to see the manic gleam in Shane's eye, keeps interrupting him. Shane doesn't flip. The night is young. The mozzie coil has only just begun its inward inch. Then one of them notices me, lets out a low, shy cough, and gestures with his head. Shane spins around.

‘Penny. These gentlemen would like to order.'

‘What can I get for you guys tonight?'

I take the orders for beer and then Shane turns back to the young fella. ‘What were ya saying, mate?'

They only stay for a few, then take off into town in a taxi for some dinner at the night market. Shane seems disappointed to see them go and turns to me. He's got a heavy smell about him: cologne and sweat and charred cloves.

No chance, not tonight. I excuse myself and go back to my room for a quiet beer alone.

It's the crack of dawn and I'm up in the surf-check tower. Over the water the colours are changing, somnolent as smoke. There's one guy out surfing the right and, even from this distance, I know it's Shane. Despite his heft he's unbelievable on a board. You can tell he used to surf competitively by his wave choice, by the line he cuts, by the timing and placement of his turns. I imagined he'd surf all whack and slash, with a kind of disdain for the wave. Instead, he's got a much smoother, more powerful style. Big, relaxed turns. Big, violent fans of spray. Shane apparently doesn't just talk the talk.

Behind me, the ladder creaks and groans. The day's started. It's the three guys. Scratching their armpits and stubble.

‘Morning.'

‘Morning.'

‘What a faggot,' one of them says. He half turns to me. ‘Told us it only worked on high tide in the dry.'

This morning, it's glassy and the tide is super low. Blackened knobs of rock and reef are exposed almost to the wave. If Shane missed a take-off, he'd end up kissing dry reef. But there's no way Shane will miss a take-off.

‘Looks pretty shallow,' comments another guy. ‘Bet his fins are clipping the reef on those bottom turns.'

‘Don't be a pussy. Let's hit it.'

A few minutes later there's the scuffing of tropical wax, the smell of coconuts and bubblegum. The guys go cat-like over the reef. Shane, when he sees them, takes a wave in.

A paddlepop dusk, a fluro '80s sunset: guava, violet, sirsak. The muezzin starts his dusk cry and tonight, there's something arresting in his voice, an exquisite, almost feminine mournfulness.

Shane's voice competes with the muezzin's.

‘… well you know, some people like fucking blonds, others like fucking paraplegics. I happen to like fucking Asian chicks –'

The guys' laughter is punctuated with the throaty rattle of geckos.

‘Penny,' says Shane when he sees me. ‘Get yourself a drink and join us. Gentlemen,' he opens his hand expansively, ‘can the lady sort you out with more drinks? This round's on the house.'

‘We'll have three more Binnys thanks,' says one of the guys in a nasal voice. He's obviously the leader of the group, with freckles so dense they blur into a tan.

‘Shane?'

He lifts his beer. ‘Same again, love.'

Before sorting out the drinks at the bar I duck my head into the kitchen to make sure Tengku and Umar are on call should the guys want dinner. Kristi's sitting on an upturned crate with a cigarette resting on a sulky bottom lip. A dirty cloth hangs over her knee. A rubble of unwashed plates, spoons and ashtrays is spread across the kitchen benches. The Aussie boys must have had an early feed.

Tengku and Umar are nowhere to be seen.

‘Well?' I say, gesturing to the mess.

‘Well what?' she spits.

I shake my head; give up. She doesn't answer to me anyway.

At the beer fridge I pull out five frosty Bintangs. Within moments, the bottles bead with condensation. I cram them on to a tray and move back over to the guys. They scrape their chairs out to include me in the circle. Their hands – the scorched colour of crab – reach greedily for the beers.

‘I was just telling the fellas what keeps me here despite all the shit. They've seen it firsthand. Tell 'er about the bikes.' Shane's already slurring his words.

‘The bikes?' repeats the freckled guy. ‘Yeah, well, we got in a few days ago and stayed down on the beach.'

‘At Ibu Ayu's?'

‘Nah, some other joint. A bloke rented us bikes for a week. On day three one of the bikes disappeared. Bang. Just like that. From the locked car park.' He caulks his beer with his lips. Wipes his mouth. Continues, ‘They called up the bloke we rented them off and he demanded we cover the cost of the bike. Pay for a brand new moto.'

‘Oh yeah? How much were you lookin' at?'

One of the other guys, dark skin, rum-wicked eyes, says, ‘Eight grand.'

‘No way! More like eight hundred,' I say. ‘So what happened?' Ants are mobilising around my beer. I lift it from the balcony railing to my lips.

The freckly guy continues. ‘Obviously we were suss on the whole thing and sure enough, later that arvo, Johnno saw his bike parked out the front of the Circle K supermarket. Recognised the sticker. So we waited outside and roughed the bloke up a bit.'

Johnno, a blond surf doll, sniggers, ‘Yeah, that's one way of putting it.'

Shane's not to be outdone. ‘There's a syndicate of them,' he says. ‘Those Euros who were here the other week, same thing happened to them.'

‘They didn't rent off Ibu Ayu?'

‘Course not. They were lookin' for the cheapest bikes.'

‘Yeah, right.'

The conversation slides on to surfing. When I was a kid the topic always coruscated inside me: the idea of unscoured coasts, unvisited villages, the wandering promise of adventure. Then, maybe on Namotu, something hardened. I got sick of the endless speculation that went with it, like: ‘You should've been here yesterday,' ‘Lookin' good for Thursday, Friday,' ‘On its day.'

Better to live it, not to talk it. Better to let your surfing do the talking rather than your mouth. Dad had taught me that. But surfers can go on and on for hours and not bore.

I'm bored.

My eyes quickly assess the beer situation. The boys' are still about half full. Shane's is almost empty. I slip out of my seat and back to the bar. The difference between being a waitress and a hostess. Anticipating the needs of your guests, your boss. Not waiting to be asked. I look into the kitchen again but Kristi has disappeared with the cooks. I know what will happen, I'll end up having to do the clean up later tonight, swaying on my feet from booze and weariness.

When I get back with Shane's beer, the guys have warmed up, are now dangerously squeezing him.

‘So Shane, mate. How come you've named this wave out the front after yourself? When we were surfing up north this arvo and mentioned we surfed “Shane's Sumatra” this morning, the local fellas didn't have a clue what we were talking about.
They said the right-hander out the front is called Karang Kepiting.'

‘Karang Kepiting?' Shane repeats. ‘Never heard of it.'

‘What about that set up on the way to Padang? Supposed to be like a reverse Ulus. You know how we could find it?'

‘How you could find it? Get on a bike, take a map and drive.' Shane leans toward the guys, ‘Once you've crossed the eighth river after the island, you're getting close. If you get to Bintuhan, you've overshot.'

In my opinion, there are two types of surfers; those who tell – who by telling feel as if they have some power over their listeners, who can't help but tell – and those who stay silent.

Shane disappoints. After a little more prodding, he explains exactly how to get there, exactly what tide to surf the reef on, exactly what wind, exactly what swell size and direction.

‘It's fickle,' he warns them. ‘There's a good chance you'll be skunked. If you like though, Penny can drive you there tomorrow.'

Shane pats his pocket, fumbles out a set of car keys.

‘Here. The fellas will wanna leave first thing.'

‘Sure.'

No doubt Matt's unimpressed when he has to share his local with guys like these. They're nice enough but young fellas' tongues run quick.

Shane seems to me a little pathetic in that moment, bulk hunched over beer, currying favour with second-hand knowledge. And then he stands, challenges one of the guys to a game of pool. The one with the flirting, rum-black eyes. ‘Yeah, alright. Always keen for a bit of pool.'

Shane follows them to the table. There's the clean crack of pool balls. The guys continue their easy, piss-taking chat.

‘Yeah, Rob! Sick one.'

‘Didn't realise you were a pool shark, mate.'

‘What's wrong with ya, Shane, beer's supposed to make you
more
focused!'

Above Shane's head, bloated bugs helicopter the lamps. He looks more than focused. His lips have thinned to a scar and there's something in his eyes, something doubling and daft. I stand quietly. Watch him line up the cue, let it rest on the bridge of his fingers, test its slide. He's three balls down. The guys fall silent, grip their beers. Shane jerks the cue. It smacks the jack. One of his balls spins toward a pocket then stops, a floss-line away.

There's an agonising silence.

Shane's fury swells the space, invisible, but palpable. And then he loses it. Snaps the pool cue against the edge of the table. Snaps it in half. The guys' mouths paralyse in sneers of disbelief.

Shane turns on them. ‘What the fuck are you lookin' at, hey?
Hey
?!'

The three guys are all shorter than Shane. None of them can stare him directly in the eyes.

The blond surf doll, Johnno, puts his hands up, palms out. ‘Nothin' mate. We're not lookin' at nothin'.'

But Shane isn't listening. The lines on his face are soluble as backstreet batik – in one instant distinct then rinsing soft as he moves into the light.

The guys back away, murmuring.

‘Might hit the sack now, eh.'

‘Not a bad idea.'

‘Wanna be up early for the dawnie.'

‘Yeah, for sure.'

Rob's the first to turn away, pool cue still in hand, amusement in those dark eyes. Shane pins him with a look. And then sends
a loaded Bintang bottle flipping toward the back of his head. It bumps his shoulder, bursts against the floor.

‘I asked
what the fuck you were looking at
!' roars Shane.

The guy touches his shoulder, turns back around, slowly.

The three of them narrow their eyes like dogs.

Rob charges, swings the cue. It connects with Shane's forehead. Shane drops to his knees. The other two guys kick him to his back. Kick him and kick him in the ribs and arse. Shane moans. For such an intimidating-looking bloke I can't believe they've toppled him so quickly.