God, I know I've been a two-faced asshole, but help me out! Virgin Mary, Christ, and whoever else is up there--help me! This lunatic is killing me! I promise I'll be a good Christian! I'll pay my tithe, and I'll show up every Sunday and sing in the choir! Where the hell are you, God, when I need you? Your servant is calling you!
For fuck's sake, my legs feel like they're made of stone. Why did I take sleeping pills?
"I know karate!" I warn Jean-Louis, mumbling.
"I'll show you karate!" he roars, flexing his biceps. "I'll show you right now!"
He's fucking insane.
"Heeelp!"
The beach is empty. Anurat's gone. I'm dead.
God, if you take pity and help me this time too, I swear I won't touch another drop of alcohol as long as I live. I'll be sober. I'll hate booze! And pills too! May the sharks eat me if I'm lying!
My legs suddenly come back to life, so I roll left and end up on all fours. I grab a handful of sand and fling it right in his face
"You little shit!" he screams.
I scramble away on all fours to save my life. Jean-Louis roars and lunges at me, but he crashes onto my lounge chair and goes down like a felled oak. On the way down, his chin smacks the edge of the chair. That unmistakable clack! His teeth snap together.
So God does exist! He just saved a Christian from the lion's den!
For a moment, the beach is quiet and peaceful again. The Frenchman slowly lifts his eyes toward me. He has the dazed look of a dog that got whacked in the head.
"I t'ink I..."
What am I, stupid? He's not fooling me. I stay on all fours, dignified as hell, at a safe distance from him. I watch him like a cornered beast. I know he's going to jump and kill me any second.
Jean-Louis spits and groans. He wipes the sand from his eyes and keeps spitting like he just chewed pepper.
"Damn you... you idiot! Ptoo! I bit my tongue!"
"You'll live, you pig!" I growl and snatch the empty bottle off the ground.
"You hit... hit me!"
"Of course I hit you, you lollipop-sucker!" I say, waving the bottle in the air. "I got a black belt in... hmm... something. I'll smash you before you can blink! I'm not scared of you! God's on my side!"
"It's se-rious," he moans. "I can feel it. I bit clean through it. My head went cra-zy. I saw stars... green ones."
"Oh, poor you... does it hurt?"
"Yes."
"I'm glad, you dick! You just found out life isn't fair. What can I tell you..."
When I see the mouthful of blood he's showing me, the hair on the back of my neck stands on end. I fling the bottle far away and crawl closer on all fours.
"Jean-Louis, stick your tongue out. Come on, open your mouth. That's it, good boy. Wider. Oh, Jesus, close it. So you didn't lie! Yeah... it's your tongue... you bit it a little."
"Is it... bad?" he asks me, scared.
"What are you talking about? It's nothing," I lie, and I feel like I'm about to faint.
The pharmacy is closed. Where the hell am I supposed to find a phone at this hour? A phone! If I don't call emergency services fast, my visa expiring will be the least of my problems.
The Thai doctor puts two stitches in his tongue and takes off. Jean-Louis is like a rag doll. I let him sleep in my bed. He groans and groans, then sleep hits him and he passes out face-down.
I find a lounge chair that's still intact on the beach. I try to doze, but the wind keeps torturing me until around eight and something.
Around nine, Saint Anurat shows up and I'm able to get a glass full of whisky. No, not for me. I've repented! I'm not drinking as long as I live.
I wake Jean-Louis up and make him gargle with alcohol, like the doctor recommended.
"Jean-Louis, what time did you say you have to take off? Because it's nine."
"At eh-leven thir-ty... to Kelantan," he moans.
"And are you still going or not?"
"I ha... ve to," he sighs. "I got a g-group of Gelman tourists. My bosses will kick me out if I d... don't go."
"Good. You're going. Come on, get up! How far is your seaplane from here?"
The Frenchman has a monstrous headache. I'm fine. It's true, my liver stings a little, but that means I still have it.
As for the pilot, there's not much to talk about. He groans like a damn pig and mostly just waves his hand around. Boarding's somewhere south along the beach, about two kilometers.
I leave him to pity himself, and I head out to hit an ATM.
I make a short stop at the Thai restaurant. I buy another pack of cigarettes and stock up on two spicy sandwiches, the kind with onion, thin slices of pork ham, and other hot garbage.
"Your friend gone!" Anurat informs me.
"Gone? Where, Anurat?"
"Left that way," he says, waving his hand.
"Fucking perverted Frenchman!" I yell.
I clear out of the hut fast, pay Anurat for the wrecked lounge chair, and I'm ready to go. Good thing I'm not hauling a hundred bags. See that, customs bitch? See, you cow? Life without baggage is simple and elegant: you pay and you leave.
I catch up to the unfortunate guy and wave the money under his nose.
"Here, Frenchman, I've got it! This is it. I'll give it to you after I get on the plane."
The guy's a little nervous, and I don't get why. I just showed him the money.
We walk in silence. A few minutes later I see a seaplane floating calmly, tied up to the dock. It's pretty big. It's huge--absurdly huge. It's the mother of all seaplanes.
Until around ten-thirty, Jean-Louis and another dark-skinned little guy check the seaplane outside and inside, bring some packages and a few crates, whispering in a mix of Thai and French.
The little guy comes over, points to Jean-Louis and says something with a grin, then clutches his head with both hands and pretends he's in pain. Jean-Louis shows him his fist, then looks over at me, annoyed. "The money? Where's the money, mon ami? Hand it over."
I count out eight hundred dollars in front of the Thai guy. Jean-Louis gives the little guy two hundred.
That's it, I'm broke. First thing when I get to Malaysia is I'm looking for an ATM.
I ask the pilot, "When does your group of Germans get here?"
"They'll get here when they get here. Why you in such a hurry? We still got 'til eh-leven thir-ty. Get up there and make yourself comfortable."
"Okay. How long's it take to get to Kelantan in this thing?"
"Ap-proximately two ours. Depends on the wind. Kelantan is beautiful, you'll see. Anyway, much more beautiful than here. You staying in Kelantan?"
"Uh-huh. The Andaman Sea doesn't sit right with me. It's too dangerous for me. I can't wait to swim in the Pacific. What are those?"
"What are those? Ah, those are the floats. We land on them instead of wheels."
"They're big."
"Yeap. The seaplane you see is the newest model in its class, and it has custom modifications. Including an enclosed cockpit for the pilots. A little je... jewel."
The guy doesn't seem so resentful anymore. That makes me happy.
"So is this what you usually do?" I change the subject. "Fly from Phuket to Kelantan?"
"No. I fly wherever the agency sends me. I pick clients up at A and drop 'em at B."
"Then the seaplane isn't yours."
"Are you stupid, man? It's the agency's," he says, with no enthusiasm, then points at two people coming toward us. "Look, here come my German tourists. Say goodbye to Phuket. In two hours you'll be in Malaysia."
I swallow hard and climb into his floating contraption. I hope the Frenchman pilots better than he talks. God, help me!