A Death in Bali. Nancy Tingley
and I put some distance between us.
Three men, hands on hips, consternation on brows, stood around an inverted bike. One was shaking his head. I stopped. They were just guys trying to fix a bike. None held a spear in his hand, or for that matter a phone. They were neither threatening nor dead. They had nothing to do with what had just happened in my life. They were familiar, bikers focused on the one thing that mattered, that bike.
The shopkeeper I’d been talking with caught up with me. He apologized to the one not wearing biking clothes, the boss, in Balinese, said something about the Giant ATX. All four of them scowled.
I took a deep breath. “Excuse me. You have a bike out here that I want to rent.”
“I’m sorry, Bu,” said the boss. “We need that bike for a tour that we are taking out tomorrow.”
I spun the front wheel of the bike they were repairing, picked up a wrench, and fiddled with it until it was fixed. It wasn’t a complicated repair, but they looked impressed, so I pushed my advantage. “It’s nowhere near as good as my Safire Pro, but it would do.”
I hated myself for bragging, but I had three brothers and I rode with men, so I knew that bikers respected one of their own. They looked stunned. I guessed they knew the stats for every bike in the world, even though the best ride they had here in Bali couldn’t compare to what was available in the West. “So how much is the rental on the Giant for two weeks?”
“I’ll be happy to help you,” the boss said as he accompanied me back to the storefront. “What did you do?”
I explained, then asked him about his favorite rides on the island. By the time I left, he and the men who had been repairing the bike had given me a list of rides and invited me to accompany them on a lengthy one they’d been planning. We exchanged numbers.
As I walked away, the bike at my side, I had the sensation of someone watching. I looked around for Tyo. Tourists sheathed in sarongs, hats, and sunscreen busied the sidewalk. Tyo was nowhere in sight. I stumbled and caught myself, the bike’s handlebars a strong horizontal keeping me upright. Crazy to think Tyo would follow to take care of me, then only watch from a distance. But he might follow unseen if he suspected me of murder. I couldn’t think why he would. My interrogation had been relatively brief.
I climbed on the bike and headed back to my bungalow and a nap. As I rode, I thought of calling Alam. Talking with him would be calming. But it was the middle of the night in California, and we had decided to use this trip to consider our relationship. I had told him I needed to spend some time apart. He wanted a commitment, and I needed to think about that.
4
Loud splashing and hollering from the pool awakened me from my afternoon drowse. My first thought was that maybe I should have taken that quiet bungalow at the far end of the compound. My second contradicted the first, as any more sleep and I’d be awake all night. My third was of blood glistening on a lovely, sharp blade. Veering from that last thought, I let my ears take over, listening to men laughing, water lapping against the side of the pool. A swim sounded good.
As I rolled onto my side I felt the hard amulet press against me. Sitting up, I pulled the silk bag out of my pocket and looked at it for a long moment. I turned it over in my hand, tested the strings that opened it. I thought, if I don’t open and examine it closely, it won’t mean anything. But that was magical thinking.
It felt hot in my hand, like metal in the noonday sun. I must have been lying on it, though I’d awakened on my back, in the same position I’d fallen asleep. Strange. I ran my finger over the bag, then yanked at the strings.
The tiny sculpture dropped into my hand. I took a single long look before I put him back. I’d seen him before, or a figure like him. My hands trembled as I pulled the strings tight to rid myself of his accusing gaze.
Shaken, I put the silk bag in my toiletry kit and prepared for a swim.
Looking at myself in the mirror, I cursed bathing suit makers for the thousandth time. Why can’t they make bikini tops to fit me? Not all large-breasted women wear a size 16; some of us are small-boned and petite. I readjusted the cups that were too far apart and revealed more than I wanted to reveal. No time to fix that now. No diving today.
By the time I got outside, the racket had died down and the men I’d heard lay dripping on lounge chairs. A French couple had taken over one end of the small pool, their chaises far from each other and their voices loud to cover the distance. The man’s intonation reminded me of an old boyfriend. A French boyfriend dimmed by the men I had known since.
A single chair crowded the narrow side of the pool, and another was set close to the men. About my age, though moments before they had been acting like they were twelve. I had no problem with being twelve; sometimes I was twelve myself. I headed toward the chair near them, the fragrance of the plumeria tree a remembered scent.
“The water’s great,” the shorter, hirsute one said to me in an American accent.
“I heard,” I said as I pulled the chaise so that it wasn’t too close to them.
“Did we wake you?” asked the other. Another American. He was tall, lean, and very tanned, which suggested they’d been in the tropics a while. His short hair revealed a single pierced ear with a tiny lapis earring. I noted that he didn’t have any visible tattoos, and probably none at all, given the size of his bathing suit. That was good. I don’t like tattoos; too permanent. I’ve sworn never to sleep with a man with tattoos or more than three piercings. Alam had neither.
“Wake me?” I rubbed my face to erase any pillow creases on my cheek.
He pointed and laughed. “You still have an earplug in one ear.”
“Ah. I thought you were making an insightful guess.” I pulled out the plug and stuck it in my bag.
“Maybe you just arrived?”
“Yep, jet lag.” And death, I thought as I arranged my towel on the chair. “Have you been here long?”
“No, got here a couple of days ago. Came from Thailand through Singapore. This is the finale of the trip. My name’s Seth, by the way.” He raised his hand.
“Randall,” said his friend.
“I’m Jenna. What do you do when the trip ends?” I took off my sarong.
“We have to get back to the States, to jobs.” Seth raised his beer bottle in a toast.
I held up the sunscreen in response, wondering if I needed it this late in the afternoon.
“We hope to jobs,” Randall said, sitting up a little as he watched me. He ducked his head toward Seth. “He has more interviews.”
The Frenchman burst out laughing, and his wife threw a towel at him.
“What kind of work do you do?”
“Just passed the bar.”
“And a last trip before the grind?” I asked as I stretched out, the chair feeling a bit like a ship at sea. Jet lag wooze.
He nodded. “This is our celebration. You?”
“Here for work and I’m taking advantage of the free flight by adding on a two-week vacation. Seeing the sights, enjoying the sun.”
“Your first time in Indonesia?”
“No, my family spent a summer in Bali when I was eight.”
“I imagine a lot has changed. What do you do?”
“Museum curator.”
“You’re working here as a curator?” Randall brightened, clearly impressed.
“No, no, I work in California, in Marin. I’m here to research Balinese paintings. My museum has a large collection, and we’re planning an exhibition.” I was conscious of them looking at me. “I think I’ll get into that water.”