Drive-by Saviours (19 page)

Robadise was on his back, predator on prey. “Bumi,” he said, “listen to me, please. You know all that weird shit you do? Ya, we all know about it. Scalding yourself raw, covering yourself with plastic to pick things up, rearranging your room in ways to protect yourself from spirits, staying up all night checking everything is in the right order, accosting every stranger you see and keeping tabs on them, even checking your penis for disease every night even though you've only had Yaty. You with all your rationality are one of the most superstitious people I know. Just in case, maybe? We all know about your rituals. It's a small neighbourhood with many eyes.”

Bumi's breathing became slow, deep and heavy. Rage gathered from his red raw fingers and his curled toes, angry energy to fight this beast.

“We tolerate it Bumi, because we love you. Yaty especially. You have been a faithful husband to her, and a good father to your kids. I know you'd never hurt a fly Bumi, though it's obvious you want to hurt me right now. But you couldn't, not because I'm stronger but because you just don't have it in you to hurt. Unfortunately, this is a rare trait.”

Bumi lurched upward to try to throw Robadise from his back. Failure. The beast was too strong. He breathed deeply to restart the process of gathering the energy of his rage.

“Bumi,” Robadise said, unperturbed, “our neighbours are not so kind as you. They are not even as kind as I am. They too are superstitious. The worst part is, between you and me, I know I'm partly responsible. If I hadn't been such a good cop, if I hadn't been so insistent on finding the criminal… but what could I do, Bumi? They were children, little children like Bunga. She could have been next.”

The rage was sufficient. Bumi threw Robadise from his back and put him in a headlock. But the beast talked on.

“Bumi, I am sorry, but I guess I stirred up some things, some resentment toward you, when I got people thinking about who could be sick enough to do these deeds. And they said it must be you, with all your weird rituals. They think you practice
guna-guna
, Bumi, black magic! They think it could only have been black magic, otherwise why no evidence?”

Bumi squeezed tighter, trying to get his forearm around the beast's throat, but his wrists were too sore to grip and Robadise continued his hurried whisper. It drove Bumi madder and madder.

“And they think your rituals were black magic to do the little kids in, Bumi. And what makes it worse is that after they arrested you, without my knowledge or my father's knowledge of course, the killings stopped. The real murderer is smart, and he obviously doesn't want to be caught.”

Bumi let go. He panted hard.

Robadise rolled onto his back and looked Bumi in the eye.

“
Goblok!
” Bumi shouted into his face, using the Javanese term for emphasis. “There is no real murderer! Unless you count the fuckers at Bumi Sabuk.”

“Bumi Sabuk? Your employer? You think someone at Bumi Sabuk is the murderer?” Robadise asked, intrigued.

Bumi explained what he'd heard, speculated that maybe whatever was in the canal had subsided. Robadise listened intently and issued a quick dismissal. “Bumi, you must see that you have no real evidence. This doesn't help you.”

“And where is the evidence against me?” Bumi demanded, his own foolish accusations still ringing in his head.

“Most of the police and the public think you did it, so no evidence is needed,” Robadise explained as if he were speaking to Bunga. “Besides, they searched our house right before they seized you. My father and I weren't here, obviously. They found your communist propaganda.”

Bumi issued a deep belly laugh and rolled onto his back, clutching his knees. He continued laughing and rolling side to side until Yaty returned with sweet tea. She gazed at her husband with eyes half shut and placed the tray on the floor before looking toward Robadise, who shook his head. She left without a word.

“I'm serious, Bumi, Toer is—”

“Hardly communist propaganda!” Bumi shouted from his back.

“His true ideology is irrelevant. It's banned material. That means you're fucked. That's all the evidence they need to call you a commie-kid-killer voodoo-practicing traitor. I managed to get you out for now because of my connections and with a little palm grease but in their mind it's just our family's chance to say our goodbyes before you are hanged.”

The honest finality of these words rang through the big room as Bumi's laughter subsided into hollow silence. Robadise lay down on his back beside Bumi and turned his head so they were face to face and asked his old friend, “Want to hear my plan now?”

A MILLION LITTLE THINGS IN CHAPTER 14

A
fter a relationship failure people always ask why.
It's the most frustrating of the post break-up questions. In my experience failure boils down to the intricate series of what we tend to call ‘the little things.' Matching worldview, philosophy, religion, even mid-level politics, is easy. What is hard is deciding who will wash the dishes on Tuesday, how much dirt on the floor is acceptable, whether to watch
TV
after a hard day's work or give each other foot rubs, who pays for coffee. These are the thrusts and parries, dodges and ducks that can turn a good partnership into a competition that erodes trust, intimacy and closeness.

Sarah had no trouble forgiving my little crush on her friend Lily because nothing had come of it, and nothing ever could. But Sarah could never forgive my laziness about dishes or my tendency toward blindness when it came to my things strewn across the floor, coupled with hot-headed hostility if she dared rearrange my ‘organized mess.'

I could forgive Sarah's vanity and stubborn self-righteousness, but her “need for total control over her environment,” as I put it during one fight, her strong preference for a clean and tidy household, irked me beyond patience or forgiveness. Her eventual assault on my newspapers was almost unbearable.

We shared a cynical addiction to news stories and their accompanying shallow analysis. We had a subscription to the
Globe
and Mail
and we loved poring over it in the morning, making fun of Margaret Wente and the other right-wing hacks, loving the vindictiveness of Jan Wong, Stackhouse's exotic overseas thrillers of corruption and poverty. This was the way to start a day, to kick-start our righteous anger before we faced our little corner of Toronto's problems. Maybe the anger was futile given that Sarah went to have her picture taken and I went to administrate the problems of others, but at least it fired us up a little, gave us a nice jolt to start the day. Maybe that jolt was all just entertainment, our version of the perverted little boys who would eventually masturbate over Sarah's panty ads, but it had never caused us any serious problems.

Regardless of the usefulness of our newspaper habit in the greater schemes of the universe, it was something we shared, with one major difference: I was obsessive: I couldn't start a newspaper without finishing it, cover to cover. What a waste to read just a few articles and then chuck the rest. Maybe I had an insecure need to be up on current events, or maybe it was a neurotic tendency. Regardless, the need was real and strong.

But we read less than we shared what we read with one another, made fun of the writers and the characters they described and gagged out our own two-bit analyses. We never got far through the papers during the morning routine. So I'd take the paper with me to help fight off the public transit crush to work. But my itch to draw often got the better of me during the commute, so the paper went into my briefcase and came home with me again. It would join a pileup on the bedroom floor. By November the pile had become a double-helix cancer weaving its way around our double bed.

In the perfect vision of retrospect, I remain amazed that Sarah lasted as long as she did. The tension must have built slowly in her as she dodged the obstacles on our floor on her way under the covers, but she snuggled up to me every night without a word, perhaps afraid that I'd slip away just a little further if she failed to indulge my latest mania. And perhaps when that taut fear finally snapped she realized that she was meant to be my mania, my passionate obsession, not a scattered stack of latest happening snapshots of real-life violence, sex and celebrity that somehow didn't even resemble reality.

One morning I woke up to the sound of deep sighs and heavy ruffling. I had already missed most of the show because of my propensity for bottomless sleep. It took an earplug splitting calamity of action in the room to rouse me and it had to be intentional. She wanted to get caught in the act, but by the time I woke up my precious headlines, witty commentary, everyday opinion letters-to-the-editor, used car ads, career tips, wordy descriptions of far away places to visit and Mai Tais to try, were all on the curb, save a few stragglers.

The argument was not so much new as a variation on a theme. We had had the same argument about clothes, books, dishes, whatever clutter I could create to invade Sarah's sense of order, of a well-maintained space in which one could relax, read and think without attacks on the eyes by the scattered trinkets of a disorganized mind in the body of the man lying next to her.

For me, there was no freedom in this kind of living, this demanding need for things to be ‘just so.' That's not how nature functions, in rows and columns—closets to store things for later. It's a jungle baby and the wide-open spots are usually man-manicured. The expansion of the newspapers across our bedroom floor was the natural result of their adaptation to their surroundings, being in the right time and place in an evolutionary sense, much like humanity itself.

But Sarah wasn't satisfied with earthbound humanity. She wanted Heaven. I had told her long before that Earth is messy but it is paradise if you let it be. My words soaked her panties through. After body-breaking, mind-numbingly good sex to cap off that spirit-soaring date she told me my words had given her chills, that she had found a brother-in-mind. In that big-picture moment we were completely unable to see any potential personality conflicts, let alone worry about the minutia of everyday living together. The moment was too big and too magical for any of that.

I bet if you asked Sarah now, she'd still feel the same on that philosophy, that Heaven is here on Earth if you let it be. But like-philosophies rarely transform into like-practice, and apparently ‘just letting it be' did not mean I could just let my goddamn newspapers take over our bedroom like storm troopers, as if they had somehow earned a position as an equal species.

A THOUSAND HOURS AND TEN THOUSAND KILOMETRES IN CHAPTER 15

A
ccording to Robadise the case of the four child
deaths and the Rilaka man who killed them (some claimed that his weapon was black magic) had become a national issue, thanks to the state-supported media's love of rogue violence and swift vengeful justice. Therefore, nowhere in Indonesia was safe for Bumi, the new primary public enemy. Robadise's plan was to smuggle Bumi somewhere the Indonesian government couldn't reach him. He provided few details. He said only that the less Bumi knew about it the better.

“Here's the deal,” Robadise told him. “If you stay here you will die. I have friends who can save you from that, and save Yaty, Bunga and Baharuddin the pain of losing you. If it works, you can one day send for them. To be frank, it's a long shot. But staying here is certain death, and that would kill my sister and my nephew and niece. At least this way they have some hope to hold on to.”

Robadise explained that his friend in the navy was well connected with the Chinese human smuggling industry, run mostly by the
triads
, a word that sent shudders of recognition up Bumi's spine. Bumi's special circumstances complicated things, but for a high price, a
bao
, he could be sent somewhere he could be a free man.

“Think Bumi, no more hiding your books. No more living a lie. You can be yourself again.”

Bumi informed his brother-in-law that without Yaty, he could not be himself.

“This is your only hope, Bumi. Maybe you would rather die than leave your family, but think of their needs. This way they have hope, and maybe one day you can be reunited in a place that is free, where you can pursue your ideas, where your intelligence can be put to good use. Maybe you will become rich.”

This beast of a brother-in-law was a clever one. He either worked for Suharto or he thought Bumi an inadequate husband for his sister. Bumi was unsure who he feared most, Suharto, the
triads
or Robadise. “You've discussed this with Yaty?” he asked.

“Yes, Bumi.”

“And?”

“She reluctantly agreed.”

Reluctantly
.

As though he could read between the lines on Bumi's face, Robadise elaborated. “Of course she doesn't want to lose you, Bumi. But it is obvious to everyone—except maybe yourself—that we will lose you one way or another. We either lose you to God or we lose you to Canada.”

“Canada?” Bumi felt drunk as his mind clouded. Canada? The plan was insane. Canada.

“I shouldn't have told you that,” Robadise said. “You weren't supposed to know that much.”

“You couldn't send me far enough, could you, Brother?” Bumi said through pursed lips. He squeezed his eyes shut hard, straining his face until it was crinkled like his birth-face and tears were forced from his eyes. His chest heaved as he felt everything slip away, again. And now, fifteen years later, he remained utterly feeble and small in the face of the powers acting to move him. The
triad
.

He laid his head down on the floor and closed his eyes all the way, ready to submit to his fate and accept it as punishment for all his imagined deeds, and the evil he may have done, the things he had thought about that should never have crossed his mind.

“Canada is a good place for you to go, Bumi. Lots of coast, multicultural, easy refugee laws. Australia is almost impossible. And they treat refugees like criminals. Worse actually. They put them in internment camps worse than prisons. You don't even get a lawyer and most people there just want to die.”

Bumi knew exactly how they felt.

“I even hear that Suharto has spies in those intern camps. They report back to him about who is trying to get out of Indonesia and into Australia. So if Australia sends you home he knows it, and you die. Anyway, most likely you'd never get past their navy. They patrol the shoreline for illegals. Most likely you'd starve to death at sea or get sent back. You don't want that. The U.S.A. is difficult too. Everyone tries to go there and few succeed. Canada has very good odds, and it's too far for them to get to you. Besides, your politics fit better in Canada.”

With a rare intellectual laziness Bumi, who had never given much thought to the tribulations of illegal migration, and would have never guessed that Robadise had, retorted, “What has Canada contributed to the world? I don't remember reading any authors from there. Who do I know in Canada?”

“No one yet, but the Chinese smugglers have contacts there who can give you work. You'll need work to pay the fee to the
triad
.”

The more Robadise spoke the less optimistic Bumi became. If he survived his high-risk adventure, he would have to pay a fee equivalent to about sixty years' salary just to get to Canada.

“Try not to worry, Bumi,” Robadise said. “You'll make a much higher salary in Canada, even for menial work. You should be able to repay the debt in a few years. My father and I will help you with the cost as much as we can. Plus of course we'll take care of your family while you are gone. Once you pay off your debt you can send money home for them. When the heat dies down they can even join you. Legally.”

Bumi did not see how that was possible, but if the illusion of hope was what his family wanted, he would give it to them.

Time was not an ally in their cross-cultural, inter-jurisdictional ruse. Like a strict guard it only allowed Bumi time to wash, dress (in short pants and an undershirt on Robadise's advice) and treasure a quick embrace with his family. “Why can't you come with me, Love? And the children?” Bumi whispered, not softly enough.

He knew the answer, but Robadise supplied it again. “It's too risky already, Bumi. It had to be hastily arranged and at times you will not be travelling in the most comfortable conditions. It is a complicated and risky situation.” He pulled Bumi from his family, shoved a legal document in his face and had him sign it unread.

Yaty held back her tears and told her husband, “Be strong, stay alive, send for us when you can.”

The tears came hard and she said nothing more, just collected Bumi for a last trembling family embrace before Robadise confined him with handcuffs, ankle-shackles and a blindfold, shoved two plastic baggies into his pants and said, “Give one of these, only one, to each of the two people who ask you for a ticket.” Robadise led the severely confined Bumi outside and laid him down in the backseat of a car. Robadise returned to the house without another word.

It was surely the final betrayal. Bumi would now go to the gallows.

THE CAR ROLLED ALONG FOR A FEW MINUTES AND SLOWED TO A
crawl. Bumi felt a strong hand grab his collar, pull him upright and push him from the moving vehicle. He landed and rolled several metres on hard dirt.

He was grabbed again, hauled into another, more spacious vehicle and made to lie down. The ride from there was bumpy and saturated with the sound of a high-horsepower engine. He heard muffled male voices but could not understand whatever messages they conveyed until one stated quite clearly, “We're going to put you into a large wooden crate now, and cover you with fish. Don't worry though, there are holes in the crate and you won't be in it for too long. It will be easier for you if you relax and breathe easy.”

He was lifted by several hands, up then down onto a wooden surface. Cold slime hit his face and arms. Bumi squirmed and struggled against the disgusting weight of filth and the smell of too fresh fish, but it was heavy and his cuffs and shackles minimized movement. He would never get clean from this experience. He tried to cry out but the gag in his mouth was too tight. He closed his eyes and tried hard to turn himself off. All he could think of was the filth. Robadise would pay for this. He did not pray for forgiveness for wanting vengeance.

THE DISEMBODIED VOICE'S PROMISE WAS ACCURATE AND TRUE.
Bumi had counted to thirty-three no more than forty times when he heard the creaking of the top of his crate being removed. He was pulled quickly out of the crate and onto another hard surface. His cuffs were removed, then his shackles and lastly his blindfold. He squinted for half a minute, adjusting to the bright mid-day mid-earth sunlight, from which a profile of a Chinese man's face emerged.

“Hello,” the face said. “Do you have a ticket?”

Bumi reached slowly into his pants and found the two plastic baggies, pulled one, only one, out, and handed it to the face. He saw that the baggie contained a large wad of U.S. currency. A
bao
.

“Thank you,” the face said politely as the money disappeared from view. Bumi glanced around him and saw that he and the man were the sole occupants of a small fishing boat, no bigger than the boats of Rilaka. The face told Bumi, “We don't have much time, so please listen carefully. Your survival depends on you following instructions: in a few moments a large Indonesian Navy vessel will come into view on the west horizon, that way.”

Bumi saw that the face was attached to a torso, which also had arms, one of which was pointed into the setting sun. “The boat will come toward us and issue a warning to surrender or be fired upon. As soon as you hear that warning, jump into the water and swim due east, away from the Navy ship.”

Bumi coughed. Confused, he started scratching at his chest, trying to claw off the fish-slime.

“What are you doing?” the face asked.

Bumi stopped and looked back up at the face, still hovering over him and staring intently. “Did you say jump in the water?” Bumi asked.

He watched the face's lips move as a low horn cascaded over them, drowning out whatever they said. The horn sounded as lonely as Bumi, like the mating call of some beautiful species' last living member. Looking west toward the tragic beautiful sound, Bumi saw a distant large grey ship heading their way. He looked back to the face, which was still staring at him. “What did you say?” Bumi asked.

“I said ‘yes,'” the face said. “Jump into the water when you hear the warning to surrender. Put this on.”

Hands emerged from underneath the face and Bumi remembered that it wasn't just a face, but a full-sized man, though a short one. The hands held a bright orange life jacket, which Bumi accepted as he climbed out of his fish crate and onto the deck. He realized then that it was the first time he'd been on a boat since he was taken from Rilaka. The Chinese man offered Bumi a seat, which he accepted, and a cigarette, which he declined.

“How can I get this disgusting fish slime off me?” Bumi asked.

“Attention unidentified vessel,” the Indonesian naval vessel announced. “This is the Indonesian Navy on behalf of the Government of Indonesia. You are believed to be carrying a fugitive from Indonesian law. Please surrender now and prepare to be boarded. If you do not indicate your surrender immediately we will have no choice but to fire upon you.”

“Swim!” the short Chinese man ordered. To ensure that Bumi followed the order the man pushed him into the water, where he splashed about in a panic until the man joined him a few seconds later.

“That way!” the man ordered, pointing east, away from the vessel. Bumi obeyed his urgency, remembering that his life depended on it—unless his suspicions were correct, in which case he was following Robadise's elaborate plot into certain death. Reason told him otherwise, that if a cop wanted you dead there were easier ways than this, but even reason allowed for multiple justifications for his pessimism.

Bumi swam as best he could with the life jacket, and although he was a capable swimmer he was thankful to have the flotation assistance in the turbulent sea-waters. He judged that he was about twenty kilometres from the nearest shore, which was to his north if the man was being honest about the direction in which he was now swimming, and if indeed the sun on the horizon was setting and not rising.

He swam hard for about two hundred metres before he noticed that he was swimming alone. Looking back over his shoulder he saw no sign of the Chinese man. “You have ignored our first warning,” boomed the far-off megaphone voice of the navy ship. “We have no choice but to fire unless you offer a sign of surrender within thirty seconds.”

In thirty seconds Bumi was able to get another fifteen metres from the detonation. For a small vessel the explosion was enormous and far-reaching, and Bumi had to force himself underwater to avoid being hit with scattering debris. He held his breath as long as he could and when he emerged he looked back to see that the navy vessel had almost reached the burning corpse of the fishing boat. He was amazed by the speed of such a gargantuan machine.

The usually inverse points of Bumi's reason and his fear met at an apex and he was certain he would be caught. Either Robadise really had created an ingenious if overly complex scheme to kill him, or the man was in fact a very poor planner and in his earnest effort to save Bumi had steered him directly into the path of some of the most dangerous authorities in the country.

Bumi noticed that the vessel was slowing, and a small movement caught his eye as he himself slowed to a backward float, gently kicking his legs to maintain the illusion of compliance. He was still drifting east as instructed, if for no other reason than to please Yaty, who seemed to have maintained trust in her brother. The movement was none other than the Chinese man, who waved in surrender to the giant navy ship, which had come to a complete stop and had lowered a lifeboat that contained four uniformed men.