I picked a seat in the back on purpose. I even dozed off for a bit. Either it's the sleeping pills, or I had a rough night. Or flights just make me sleepy.
But now I'm awake and it feels like we've been flying about half an hour.
Jean-Louis was telling me last night about a group of Germans, but up there in the front seats I only see a man and a girl. Two people aren't a group, as far as I know. They're a pair.
That "group" of Krauts is yakking away in their native language. Their nonstop jabber woke me up. Weird-ass language.
As far as I'm concerned, they could just as well be speaking Thai--same result. I don't know more than ten words of German, and I'm pretty damn sure those two haven't used any of them yet, because I don't understand a damn thing they're saying.
Hey, you Krauts! I'm back here behind you, and I'm all eyes and ears. It's not nice to talk in a language I don't know. Why don't you switch over from German to English?
They piss me off. Seems like these cute little Germans only speak German wherever they go. If that's the case, it can only mean one thing: they're too lazy to learn other languages.
Yeah, it's clear: Germans are just lazy, shiftless slobs and... rude.
The girl talks a little less, but the guy next to her could talk your ear off. He never shuts up. I get that liver-stab again.
She turns her head for a second and looks straight at me, but he--a chubby man around fifty, fifty-five--doesn't even acknowledge me.
What the hell does a girl like her see in this old bastard? It's obvious they're together. A weird couple.
Sure, they're not holding hands or kissing, but I'm convinced the twenty-five-year-old is the girlfriend of the annoying fifty-five-year-old fatso. Thirty years apart?
Ugh! It's downright disgusting.
That age gap probably turns him on like crazy. A daddy--little girl kind of thing. And that's probably nothing new in Thailand. Of course they traveled all the way here, to the other end of the world, so they'd feel safer from prying eyes.
Well, my dears, the world's got its eye wide open--just three rows behind you.
On top of that, she's petite--absurdly skinny even for petite. By contrast, her darling is pretty hefty, with a belly that sticks out, and he's bald.
This German girl has the blackest eyes I've ever seen in my life. Like two coals set into a delicate, smooth face, white as milk. Or as chalk.
Her hair is cut short, only down to her shoulders. It's that wheat-blond color.
I don't have any special weakness for tiny women. I don't like them, I don't dislike them. I don't even notice them, usually. They seem like freaks of nature to me, and I avoid them. Back in my good years, when I was chasing skirts, I always appreciated solid women, well-built, with a big chest and a nice ass God made special so you'd have something to grab.
But this little girl has no ass, no tits... she's some kind of woman-child. Too grown to be a child, too small and fragile to be called a woman.
I decide the "group" of Germans isn't my problem. Chapter closed.
Hmm... a cigarette. Oh, yeah! I pat my pocket impatiently. I find the lighter too.
I'm dying to smoke a cigarette right now, but it feels weird to ask them. I don't want to ask anything from the satyr up front and his nymph.
The nymph looks a little pissed off or maybe just not in the mood. She answers the old bastard with nothing but "Ja" and "Nein."
Maybe she's mad, maybe she's sad... Maybe she's a bookworm and doesn't appreciate traveling. She's got the window seat, but she doesn't even pay attention to the gorgeous sky beyond the window.
Of course she's sad. I'd be sad too if I had to fuck old men for money. Oh, yeah, I think I'd be terribly sad.
I try to picture her kissing the potbellied guy next to her, sticking her tongue in his mouth, climbing on him like a cat, but--somehow--I can't even picture it.
Where's that airsickness bag? I feel like throwing up. I'm traveling with an alcoholic pilot, a tiny whore, and a potbellied satyr.
A cigarette... No, I can't pull one out and ask if I can light up. I just can't. I have my smoker's dignity too. The very idea of interacting with those two miserable bastards turns my stomach.
She looks at me again and stares at me for a long time. Like she's reading my thoughts.
Stop looking at me like that with those coal-black eyes. Okay? I'm not the slut on this plane. You are!
I said stop staring, you little cursed freak. For fuck's sake, eyes down!
I'm the one who looks away first. This creature has a weird stare. I'm glad I've only got one more hour and I'll be rid of both of them.
I have to smoke! I have to, or I'll die! I want nicotine!
I jump up abruptly. I hurry through the seats and open the little cockpit door. I barge in on a bored Jean-Louis.
"Jean-Louis, my friend, does your tongue still hurt? Can I smoke a cigarette in here?"
"Smoke two. Smoke as much as you want."
I light a stinking Marlboro and pull the smoke deep into my lungs. I blow it slowly toward the ceiling. Pure bliss! I go limp like a rag.
"Jean-Louis," I say, dizzy, "haven't you seen any fruit-flavored cigarillos around Malaysia? It's been like eleven days since I've been craving a cherry-flavored one."
"I don't know about that stuff. I've never touched cigarettes in my life."
"Why not?"
"I was told smokers die young, and I believed it."
The cigarette is goddamn divine, but it's missing something.
"You got anything to drink in here?" I ask timidly.
All of a sudden I scare myself. Then I freak out. I can't believe what I just said. I could've sworn I'd promised God something last night. I look around in terror. God is good. He still hasn't struck me down.
"Or--better--forget it!" I say quickly.
"Please don't mention drinking to me," Jean-Louis grimaces. "I'm nauseous and my head hurts like I'm going insane."
I take a deep breath and tell myself, confused, that God can't punish me for a vow made out of fear of the Frenchman and death. That vow doesn't count.
And anyway, He isn't vengeful. He knows damn well how badly I need a sip of booze. It's morning and I need to take the edge off a little.
Forgive me, Lord! You're good! You understand me! You know how much I love You.
Just one sip and that's it. After that I quit.
"But I wasn't asking for you, pilot. Oh, no! It's just for me. You don't honestly think I'd be capable of offering a drink to someone at the controls of a plane! No, sir--first we land, and only then I'll buy you one."
"Please don't make me talk," he complains. "My tongue hurts every time I talk."
"Maybe that chick with the wide pussy cursed you."
"Don't remind me of her," he sighs.
"So you don't have anything to drink in the cockpit?"
"No."
Goddamn it! What kind of pilot is this?
I sigh. I'm pissed off. I finish my cigarette and unwrap a sandwich, slowly, methodically. Jean-Louis shoots me an astonished look.
"A sandwich?" he blurts. "You're full of surprises this morning."
"If your tongue didn't hurt so bad, I'd almost give you a little piece too. They're really good. Here, take a whiff. See? Onion and pork. But you can't, because your tongue hurts, so I'm going to eat both of them."
The pilot reaches out his hand.
"Yeah, it hurts, but give it here. My guts are growling. Nobody can live on booze alone."
I finish my sandwich and light another cigarette. I watch Jean-Louis eat carefully, groan, and eat again.
"How much longer?" I ask. "An hour? Two?"
"What are you in such a hurry for?" he answers without enthusiasm. "Take it easy. We're going to make a little detour. That'll delay us a bit. I have to check something for the agency and then we're done. You'll get there anyway. Time doesn't matter."
I look at all the dials on the instrument panel, one by one, and I don't understand a damn thing.
Where's the gear shift? Where's the brake pedal? Where are the clutch and the gas? Does this thing have reverse?
"Jean-Louis, let me hold that yoke for a bit. You promised I'd get to fly too."
He swallows a big bite of sandwich, then explains that the plane is set to autopilot.
"Nice job you've got there, Jean-Louis. You get in the plane, take off, switch on autopilot, and that's it. What does that gauge show?"
"What gauge? Ah, that one? That's how fast we're moving over the ground. We're doing 130 knots right now," he answers, chewing.
I have no idea what knots are, and I'm not sure I care.
"And the other gauge?"
"The altitude we're flying at now. We're at 8,000 feet."
Knots? Feet? What idiot invented this bullshit? They don't use the metric system in aviation?
"What do you mean, 8,000 feet?" I say, pissed. "Talk normal! What's that in meters?"
"2,500 meters."
"Aha!" I go, still pissed. "Then why don't you say that? Why the hell are you using 'knots'? Yeah... so we're flying at an altitude of two and a half kilometers. Boring! Last time I flew at eleven kilometers. You know what, Jean-Louis? I thought we were going to do some maneuvers, turns, something interesting, but you're talking to me about knots, feet, autopilot, and other crap. I don't think I even feel like piloting anymore."
"But I wouldn't have let you anyway," he says, laughing softly, swallowing a bite of onion drowned in spicy sauce.
My eyes go wide and I stare at him. What the hell? What's this supposed to mean? He promised, didn't he?
The Frenchman coughs and a piece of sandwich flies out of his mouth. He picks it up with his finger off one of those gauges, pops it back in his mouth, and chews calmly.
"Flying isn't a game, mon ami," he explains, calm as ever. "I could lose my license just for letting you smoke in the cockpit. As for putting your hand on the controls, we won't even talk about that. I know I promised, but that was yesterday and yesterday I was drunk. Today I'm not drunk. You can touch the yoke over my dead body."
"That can be arranged easily," I say, pretending to be offended.
But the truth is, I'm not offended at all. It's like a weight got lifted off my chest. If the very idea of flying gets me this worked up, it's better to drop it. I'm probably not pilot material.
"Anyway," I say. "Let's talk about something else. What's the deal with those two over there?"
"What deal?" he says and shrugs. "Just two regular people. Tourists."
"That they're people, I figured out too. They haven't shut up for a second. Especially him. He's the talker. She seems more normal, but her boyfriend's got some kind of verbal diarrhea."
"You mean her dad."
"That's her dad?"
"I think so. That's what I think."
"What are you basing that on?"
"Nah, I don't know their family tree. They showed me their tickets, that's all. I say they're father and daughter. One hundred percent."
"That's what I thought too," I mumble. "Actually they do look alike. They're the spitting image of each other. The resemblance is striking. Still--how do you know that's her dad?"
"I don't know, man. I just figured. It's not in my job description to grill the damn tourists. I just pick them up where I'm told and I drop them off where I'm told. Period."
If the pilot's right and those two are father and daughter, that means I've got a problem. Yeah, my mind is dirty as hell! What a disgusting mess!
I light another cigarette, turn right, and stare absentmindedly out the window at the blue expanse beneath us. So that's what the Pacific looks like. Less than two weeks ago my ass was freezing and I was fighting with the building manager not to shut off my water, and now I'm flying in a seaplane, looking down at the Pacific.
God, it's wonderful to have money!
I don't know what the hell I could've done in Europe with the money from a miserable apartment, but out here, at the edge of the map, a few dozen thousand dollars means a year in paradise.
What an idiot I was not to come here sooner. If I can find a place to stay and food in Malaysia cheaper than in Thailand, then those 379 days of living like a king will stretch out nice and long. Maybe 500 days. Maybe 600.
Yeah, Tiberiu, let the Europeans stay in their cold, polluted Europe for as long as they want. From now on, I'm Malaysian. I'll get Malaysian citizenship too.
And if I run out of money... I'll marry a rich Malaysian woman and that's that. I'm European, I'm white... women in Malaysia will be all over me.
A pleasant drowsiness washes over me. I just sit there daydreaming about my bright future.
I stare out the window for minutes on end, but I can't find any difference between the Indian Ocean we left behind and the Pacific under us. No difference at all. All water... All blue... I get this vague feeling I just threw 800 dollars down the drain.
I call over my shoulder, "Jean-Louis, you slick bastard, where are those gorgeous landscapes you kept telling me about? Because all I see is water and more water. Huh? Jean-Louis?"
Jean-Louis goes all wise and silent behind me, so I don't bother with him either. Then I hear a nasty rasp and turn my head. The pilot's face is purple.
I jump up from my seat and stare in horror as he thrashes.
"Jean-Louis? What... Jean-Louis, what's wrong?"
I shake him by the shoulder and the guy throws me a glassy look. His mouth is wide open and he's choking. He lifts an arm with effort and gestures toward the back of his neck.
I get it immediately: the idiot is choking on a piece of sandwich. I smack him with my palm right on the back of the neck and the poor bastard slides off his seat like a rag. He stretches out full-length on the floor.
Oh my God! What's that move with the complicated name? The one you do when someone's choking on olives... what the fuck is it called?
"Jean-Louis!"
I pry his mouth open, shove my finger down his throat, and for a full minute I do everything humanly possible to yank that piece of ham or onion or whatever the hell it is out, but I find absolutely nothing.
I smack him again. No reaction.
"Jean-Louis, man, don't give up!" I yell into his ear. "Fight! Do something! Wake up! Open your eyes, man!"
Now he isn't even twitching anymore. I put my ear to his mouth. I can't hear him breathe.
I think Jean-Louis is dead. I'm not completely sure, but that's what it looks like. I feel for a pulse in his neck with two fingers like I've seen in cop movies and, just like in the movies, there's no pulse.
I'm drenched in sweat. I start trembling.
I stand up, eyes fixed on the body on the floor. I stare at him. Time passes, but I don't see any movement besides my own shaking.
I pull one of his eyes open and the pupil doesn't react to the light at all. Exactly like in the movies!
I understand all of a sudden. I'm standing next to a corpse!