Louise Doughty - Black Water

Kadek moved to let Harper pass. Harper saw that beyond the billowing linen was a young woman in a sarong and sash kneeling on the wooden planks at the far end of the veranda. She was lighting the incense sticks protruding from the offering in front of her. Beside her on the wooden planks was a bamboo basket. She did not look up.

Kadek glanced at her and said, ‘The ghekko, Mr Harper.’

Of course. He had forgotten that, a few days ago, he had mentioned being woken by the ghekko every night, its relentless chant. Kadek would have arranged for the young woman to come and place offerings on the veranda, to appease the gods and demons. It was all about signs and portents: everything signified. If you believed that, he thought, then didn’t it become a self-fulfilling prophecy? Whenever anything happened, good or bad, you could always look backwards for the sign.

He watched the woman bend over the offering, the care and attention with which she arranged the flowers. At first, he thought he was watching sceptically, but then the image came into his head of Rita in the rear-view mirror of the car that morning as he pulled away from her, her floppy hat, the way she had smiled when she had said, ‘I’m not going to press you,’ as if to undercut the sincerity of her own words: and from somewhere inside him came a sonorous, rattling sigh, the kind that comes involuntarily. He felt it in his ribcage and thought, now where did that come from? Kadek was folding the pillowcase, the young woman intent upon her duties — neither of them looked at him.

What should I say to this young woman arranging flowers on my porch? he thought then. There is nothing? No one cares? Your diligence is pointless? Go home and worry about all the other things there are to worry about because that’s all there is? No, the woman’s offering was valid, just not in the way she thought. He did not believe in the Invisibles: there were no ghosts or demons. He believed in men with machetes. But Kadek arranging for the woman to come, and the woman making the trek up here, was a way of them saying, we are concerned for you . He wouldn’t have noticed if she hadn’t come, after all, wouldn’t have remarked on it — what was he to them, a rich bule ? They would be paid the same wage whether the offering was made or not. The offering was made because they believed they had a duty of care to the stranger in their land. The spirits were their spirits, just as the gods were their gods. And he thought of Rita saying, as she got into his car on the day they went to Sanur, ‘God bless the Balinese,’ and he thought, for all my travelling and my knowledge and my world-weariness, I am the fool, perhaps, yes.

Inside the hut, he ate the breakfast that Kadek had left for him, thought briefly that Rita hadn’t eaten before she went to work, then opened the drawer of his desk and found the half-written letter to Francisca. He placed the letter on his desk and smoothed it out.

At the back of his desk, there was a metal ashtray, a copper-coloured one with semi-circular indents all around its edge, as if there was any chance a dozen people might want to rest a cigarette on it at the same time. Using that ashtray on his own had always struck him as a little poignant. There were two cigarette stubs in the tray, both bent and broken, nestling amongst the fine grey ash, very faintly kretek -scented. He wished there was a blush of lipstick on one of them, even though Rita didn’t wear lipstick. They would have looked touching, nestled together, if there was. In fact, they were both his. He had risen from bed after she had gone to sleep the previous night, very late, and sat at the desk and smoked two in a row, thinking that to go out onto the veranda might disturb her: and for the pleasure of sitting on the chair at the desk and hearing her breathing in the darkness as he smoked. He had thought the smell of smoke might wake her, even though he was in the far corner of the hut, but it didn’t. She sleeps so well, so deeply, he had thought. She’s really good at it.

He patted his pockets, located his lighter. He leaned forward and drew the ashtray towards him, then carefully shredded the letter to Francisca. He held the lighter downwards and set light to the shreds. The paper was so fragile the small flame made it dissolve into powder and smoke: one second a blue butterfly’s wing with blackened edges and the finest glowing orange rim, then nothing.

Outside, on the sun-struck veranda, he could hear Kadek and the young woman talking softly to one another. The door was wide open but because they were at either end of the veranda, he couldn’t see them. He heard the low murmur of their voices cease.

Then he heard Kadek say in English, loudly and firmly, ‘If you will excuse me, sir, I will see if Mr Harper is available.’ There was something protective in his tone.

Harper looked up as Kadek’s silhouette, dark against the bright blue of the sky, filled the doorway and he said, with no inflection in his voice, ‘There is a gentleman here to see you, Mr Harper.’

Harper stepped over the doorframe and out onto the veranda. Kadek did not return to folding sheets but stood a few feet back, respectfully. The young woman had disappeared. The offering she had left was glowing on the far end of the veranda, the scent of incense drifting out over the valley.

A white man of around forty stood at the top of the wooden steps that led up to the veranda from the path. He was dressed in slacks and an open-necked shirt and holding a black briefcase with steel clasps. There was something familiar about him.

Harper gave him a slow look.

He smiled at Harper but did not advance towards him or hold out his hand. ‘ Goedemorgen ,’ he said. ‘ Hoe gaat het met je? ’

Harper turned to Kadek and said, ‘Kadek, do you need to return the car or can I use it today?’

Kadek stood nearby. ‘That will be fine, Mr Harper.’

Harper looked at the stranger and then said in Dutch, ‘ Goedemorgen , I don’t have any decent coffee, or anything in fact, out here. Did you get a taxi from the village?’

‘I’ve come straight from the airport,’ the stranger replied, mildly.

Harper thought, at least they’ve sent someone businesslike, polite. At least we won’t have the bluster and false bonhomie of Henrikson.

‘Well, if you’ve come straight from the airport then at least I can take you to a decent restaurant,’ Harper said. His Dutch sounded odd and guttural to him now, as if he was speaking through a mouthful of small stones. ‘I’ll come down to the lane and tell your driver where to go, then I’ll follow.’

He could have taken the man to the cafe on the main street or the guesthouse bar on Jalan Bisma but he wanted to keep him away from anywhere that he associated with Rita. She had mentioned a new restaurant she hadn’t tried yet, a smart one, on the other side of town over the bridge. He couldn’t remember what it was called but he described the location to the man’s driver, then followed in the car Kadek had borrowed for him.

At that hour of the morning, the restaurant was deserted. They walked straight through to where a huge stone balcony overlooked the valley on the edge of the town, a broader view than the one Harper had from his veranda; the valley split wider here. Birds flew in the bright light as the greenery plunged beneath them, the river hidden by a density of banana trees and palms. They sat down at a table with a pink tablecloth, already laid for lunchtime later in the day, and a young woman brought them menus. Harper didn’t look at his, just put it down on the table and said to the young woman in English, ‘Black coffee, please.’

‘I’ll have the same,’ the man said, also putting his menu down on the table and leaning back in his seat. The young woman picked both menus up and turned away.