I step out of the cockpit and close the door nice and tight behind me.
The two of them are just a few steps away. I don't even need to clear my throat dramatically to catch their eyes. The German guy and the German girl are already staring at me like I just poked my head out of a tomb, which isn't far from the truth. We're in a flying coffin.
I greet them both and nod, smiling. Not a twitch from the other camp. Just four eyes studying me without blinking.
I wonder how the hell you say in German, "We're all going to hell"?
So why the hell are you not saying a word now, Tiberiu? Say something.
God, I would've loved to speak Goethe's language fluently, so I could communicate easier with these two poor bastards. There's an icy silence hanging in the air. It's a little awkward. Goddamn this language barrier!
I probably don't look great, but I feel calm and at peace with my fate. I hope that's rubbing off on them. Who needs words anymore?
Anyway... I'm going to try to be friendly. Can you form lifelong friendships in moments like this?
"Uh... hello," I say. "I... I was in the cockpit." I wave a hand and point at the door behind me. "Cockpit? Comprende? I'm really sorry I don't know your language, good people. If I knew German, I'd tell you how complicated it is to drive a fucking plane like this. A ton of buttons and gauges."
The fat German guy just stares at me. He looks weird as hell with that bald head. Yeah, bald men look strange. Lord, please help me never go bald!
But why are these two staring at me like that? It pisses me off. Maybe they think I'm crazy.
"I'm not crazy!" I announce, scowling.
The guy coughs, then says in fluent English, "Nobody said that, sir."
"Whaaat!" I exclaim, suddenly cheerful. "Well look at that, you guys speak English too! Very nice! Wonderful! So you can read Shakespeare in the original."
And he goes mute. Stares at me and clams up, dead silent.
"And since we're on the subject of reading," I continue, hope in my voice, "does either of you know how to read the indicators and gauges on a plane? I mean... have either of you taken flying lessons?"
"No," he answers, blinking a lot.
I clear my throat. I can feel the hoarseness creeping in.
"I figured you hadn't. Of course you hadn't. Neither have I. What a coincidence! Look at that... we've got so much in common. I know English, you know English. I can't fly a plane, you can't fly a plane. We could be friends for life, right? By the way, my name's Tiberiu."
The girl and the man look at each other, then both look back at me.
"I'm not sure I understand," the girl says softly. "Did something happen?"
"Oh, nothing, nothing. I was just saying." I look at them and grin, full of good cheer. "One more question and then, I really won't say another word, okay? Have you met Jesus yet?"
If I wanted their attention, looks like this time I got it.
"We have, of course!" he answers. "We're both Catholic."
"Bravo, beautiful!" I say. "Sir, allow me to congratulate you one more time for your English. It's impeccable. You know... English is the language of the... future."
I look at him with mild interest. What future? The truth is, I'm glad he's going to die. What a bastard! Hey, Kraut... you knew English the whole time, and you didn't even ask me what time it was. You deserve to die because you're arrogant and have no manners. Yeah, you deserve it. You and that kitten sitting next to you.
"But I don't understand something," he says.
"What exactly?" I ask, curious.
"Why do you want to talk about Jesus?"
"Well... why? Why, why?" I say. "Just... no special reason. We're making a little conversation. Maybe we clear things up about... the afterlife. If it exists, if it doesn't exist... stuff like that."
The Germans are looking more and more frowny at me. Goddamn if I understand why anyone would frown at a discussion about Jesus.
"Friend," the man says coldly, "Thanks for the thought, but the young lady and I have already met Jesus."
"Not yet," I say, grinning. "Not yet, my dears. Practically, none of us have met Him yet. But the pilot--" and I gesture toward the door "--he's met Him for sure. Personally and directly. Right now he's having a chat with Jesus."
The guy shoots the girl a quick look, then--fat as he is--he springs up and hurries to the cockpit door.
"Mann ist tot!" he shouts.
"Bingo!" I say, laughing. "Those are three of the words I know in German. Yes, friend, the man is 'tot'. Meaning he's dead! He's kaputt! (Oops--that's my fourth word.)"
The German runs to the tail of the seaplane and comes right back with a small suitcase. He sits next to Jean-Louis, lifts his shirt, then pulls out a... hmm... a stethoscope. He listens to the dead man, feels him, moves him around.
The girl stares at me for a long time, then stands up and goes into the cockpit too. Even though they're both chattering in German, this time I know exactly what they're talking about.
"No use," the German says. "He's dead."
"Yeah, he's kaputt real bad," I confirm serenely from my seat in the back. "Hee, hee!"
The fat guy glares at me and says, pressing each word one by one, "What did you do to this man? He has at least two broken ribs."
"Possible. Actually, probable! Yeah, I think I broke some ribs."
"Then why are you laughing?" the girl asks, scared.
I answer honestly, "Sometimes I react backwards. I laugh when I should cry and... and the other way around. It happens to me especially when pilots die in the planes I'm in. But I think both the laughing and the crying will pass pretty fast. This flight won't last much longer."
"I'm a doctor and I'm going to testify when we land!" the German threatens me. "I promise you, you won't get away with this!"
Well damn. I hadn't considered that. And the German's right! At first glance--a superficial one--it looks like I killed the Frenchman. I blink, surprised. I wonder what a Malaysian prison looks like on the inside.
I answer, bored, "You said 'when we land,' doctor? Bravo! You hit the nail on the head! Here's a tip: the dead guy there on the floor is the smallest problem we have. This--" and I point at the plane's control panel "--this is a problem the size of a house. You know why? Because none of us had the decency to take flying lessons. That's right! How long can a piece of shit like this fly before the engines... stop."
The girl says calmly, eyes on her phone clock, "We left Phuket at 11:30. We were supposed to reach our destination in two hours and a quarter, meaning around 13:45. Right now it's 13:07."
"So?"
"So we have 38 minutes."
"Extraordinary!" I exclaim, crossing myself. "Bravo! That's what I call German precision. That means we have enough time to say our prayers and dictate our wills to each other. Doctor! You'll have more work. You've got to write a statement for the police too. Still, for the sake of truth, I'm telling you with my hand on my heart: the pilot died of natural causes, choking on a piece of sandwich. You can believe me. I was there."
"I believe you," the girl says quickly. "Now both of you help me move as many things as possible toward the tail. If we lighten the nose as much as we can, we gain a few extra minutes of flight."
The girl's logic seems flawless. We haul everything we can toward the tail, fast. At the end, me and the doctor grab Jean-Louis by the hands and toss him like a sack of potatoes on top of the pile of luggage.
"How much time?" the German asks the girl.
"29 minutes."
"Okay," I say, "we're done with that. Anybody got another constructive idea. Ideas, ideas, ideas. Where are the life vests?"
We find them. We put them on. It's the first time I've seen a life vest up close. Each one has a tiny little pocket on the upper left, a flashlight, and a plastic whistle tied on with a string. Down at the bottom there are two metal cylinders and two cords.
I look at the drawings on the yellow vest and realize I'm supposed to pull the cords, so I pull both at once and--poof!--I puff up like a hedgehog.
"That's not how you do it," the doctor tells me. "What's wrong with you? You inflate it when you get in the water, not now."
"I know, doctor, but when we hit the water at a thousand kilometers an hour, the inflated vest will cushion at least some of the shock."
He looks at me with pity.
"You think so? The human body is over 80% water. If our speed is too high, on impact we'll explode like ripe tomatoes, whether we hit water or concrete."
"Seriously?" I mumble, pale. "That sounds pretty fucked up! I've got another idea then: I propose we reduce the plane's speed. We shut down the engines, slow down, and we wait to descend nice and easy to about fifty meters, then we jump."
"Nein! Have you ever seen how a polished stone hits the water? If we jump, that's exactly what'll happen to us. No way. But you can jump if you feel like it," he adds quickly.
"That takes the cake!" I say, irritated. "No matter what idea I have, you say it's no good. Fine, I'm done. Don't count on me anymore."
"We're much safer if we stay in here, inside," the girl says. "Besides, after impact it's very important to stay as close to the aircraft as possible."
"Why?"
"Because every plane has a transponder."
"Aha! How did I not think of that? Stay close to the transponder, great idea! Uh... what's a transponder?"
"A device. It emits radio signals to the control tower. With the radio signal, rescue teams will find us. At least I think so."
"And I bet there's a black box too," I add. "Doctor," I tell him, turning to him, "when they recover the black box from inside a shark's belly and listen to the cockpit recording, you'll realize I didn't kill anybody and you'll apologize to me."
"I don't really think this seaplane has a black box!"
"Yes it does, doctor, all planes have one! And if we're looking for a killer, I think you're the killer."
"Me?" the doctor explodes.
"Yeah, you!" I say. "How was I supposed to know you're a doctor? You spoke only German the whole time and I don't understand German."
"And what exactly did you want me to do?"
"You could've introduced yourself in English right from the start: 'Hello, good afternoon, my name is Fritz and I'm a doctor! I've got a bunch of diplomas and specializations in human medicine. But more than anything, people--I know first aid!' But you didn't, so you're a killer!"
"That's the biggest stupidity I've ever heard in my life!" he snorts. "You should've called us right away when you saw he was choking."
"It didn't come into my head! But if I'd known you had a stethoscope and a scalpel on you, I would've called you. Come on, stop trying to wriggle out of it, you're sharing a cell with me!"
"Both of you, stop," the girl says. "Enough!"
"But Eva, don't you hear what insane bullshit this man is saying?"
Aha. The skinny one's name is Eva. Cute name.
"We only have 17 minutes," she says. "I'm going to the cockpit and I'll try to contact someone by radio. There has to be a radio."
I warn her, "Be careful not to deactivate the autopilot! If you start yanking the yoke up and down, we won't have to worry about our pension plan anymore."
The girl disappears into the cockpit, and I'm left with the doctor and Jean-Louis. I lift Jean-Louis's shirt and cover his purple face so I don't have to see it anymore. Then I turn to the doctor and say, "Here. Shake my hand. I want us to part on good terms. I'm not a murderer. Jean-Louis will confirm it in a few minutes."
"Maybe you're not a murderer, but you're seriously screwed in the head!" he says, shaking my hand without enthusiasm.
"You know what?" I yell. "You piss me off! You really want to send me to tour Malaysian prisons?"
"I hope with all my heart you see them, yes!"
"You goddamn German! What interest do I have in killing my own pilot mid-flight?"
"Suicide," he answers sharply. "You seem a little... disturbed up there!" he says, pointing at his temple. "You stare at people, you talk about Jesus and the afterlife, you laugh when you should cry... a lot of things are starting to line up."
"I'm not crazy. That's just how I am! Anyway, thank you for managing to make me laugh. Look, I admit you've got humor. German humor, dry!"
"And breaking two ribs on a corpse--what kind of humor is that?"
"I was desperate, you fat bastard! You... you... watch out! I'm starting to feel desperate again!"
"Yeah, tell me about it! Do you think I care?"
"But understand once and for all, man, I didn't need to travel a million kilometers to kill myself in a plane. I could've done it nice and calm at home, in my living room, on the eleventh floor. And I wouldn't have had to meet an alcoholic pilot, a doctor-cop, and his blonde daughter."
"Eva is not my daughter."
Aha! So in the end she's not his daughter. Then what is she? His girlfriend? That means she's not available, goddamn it!
Whatever, it doesn't matter... anyway, I've got maybe ten minutes left to live. In ten minutes you can't pick up a girl. Or can you?
Hmm, I was right: I really do have a sick mind. Look what I'm thinking about with one foot in the grave. Or in the water. Or in prison. Brr... prison.
What else is there to say? Nothing. If I survive, I'm going straight to prison. Everybody's "little girl!" A European, white little girl. They'll line up for me.
Yeah, I'm definitely going to prison. All roads lead to me. The Malaysian police will have the easiest case in its history. I'm about to start believing I'm guilty myself.
I can already see tomorrow's headlines.
Oh, no! Better death. There's nothing else to say. What can I say now? I sink into a wise-old-Chinese-man silence. From the nose of the plane I can hear the girl making radio calls, but no answer comes.
"Eva, how many minutes?" I shout. "Because I'm out of patience!"
"13!" she says. "Help, we're passenger flight Phuket--Kelantan! Can anyone hear me? We need emergency assistance! The pilot is dead. We only have fuel for 13 more minutes of flight! Mayday, mayday! Can anyone hear me?"
"Bravo, girl," I whisper. "Even I couldn't summarize it better."
I calm down, close my eyes, and start to pray. Every now and then I stop and cross myself again, just in case. I kneel beside Jean-Louis's body and take that cold hand, lovingly.
"Frenchman, put in a good word for me with the One Upstairs, yeah? Don't be a selfish pig, okay? I'm coming too, and we'll have a drink. First round's on me! Don't start without me!"
I sit there, gloomy, on the luggage next to the dead man. This whole story is starting to bore me. It's taking too long. Why don't we die already and be done with it? Why?
Time crawls.
I read somewhere that patience is a virtue, so I sigh and wait.