I purposely chose a seat towards the back. I even dozed off a bit. Maybe it's the sleeping pills, or maybe I had a rough night. Perhaps flights make me sleepy. But now I'm awake, and it feels like we've been flying for about half an hour.
Jean-Louis was telling me about a group of Germans last night, but all I see in the seats in front of me is a man and a woman. Two people don't make a group, as far as I know, they make a couple.
The "group" of Germans are chattering away in their native language. Their chatter woke me up.
Dubious language.
As far as I'm concerned, they might as well be speaking Thai because the result would be the same. I don't know more than ten words in German, and surely they haven't used any of them because I understand absolutely nothing of what they're saying.
Hello! Germans! I'm here, behind you, and I'm all eyes and ears. It's not nice to speak in a language I don't understand. Don't you want to switch from German to English?
Damn! It annoys me.
It seems that dear Teutons, wherever they travel, speak only in their language. If that's the case, it can only mean one thing: they're too lazy to learn other languages.
Yes, it's clear: Germans are a lazy and rude people.
The girl speaks a bit less, but the guy next to her is in a talkative mood. He doesn't shut up at all.
My liver is stabbing me again.
The girl turns her head for a moment and looks directly at me, but he, a rotund man of about 50-55 years old, doesn't even notice me.
What did this young girl find in this old man? It's obvious they're together. An atypical couple.
It's true they're not holding hands or kissing, but they can't fool me! I'm convinced the 25-year-old girl is the girlfriend of the annoying 55-year-old man.
Thirty years difference?
It's downright disgusting.
He's probably terribly excited by this difference. A father-daughter type of relationship. Probably not something new in Thailand. Of course, they traveled here, to the other end of the world, to feel more shielded from the eyes of the world.
Well, dears, the world's eye is wide open here, just three rows back.
The girl is also petite, and she's excessively thin even for a petite girl. In contrast, her boyfriend is quite corpulent, has a prominent belly, and is also bald.
This young German woman has the blackest eyes I've ever seen in my life. They're like two coals set in a smooth, white as milk face.
Her hair is cut short, just reaching her shoulders. The strands are the color of wheat spikes.
I don't have a particular preference for petites. I neither like them nor dislike them. I don't usually notice them. They seem like oddities of nature to me, and I avoid them. In my heyday, when I went hunting for skirts, I always appreciated solid women, well-built, with a developed chest and a nice butt specially made by God to have something to grab onto.
But this little girl has neither butt nor boobs... she's like a child-woman. Too mature to be a child, too small and fragile to be called a woman.
I consider that the "group" of Germans doesn't interest me.
Chapter closed.
Hmm... a cigarette. Oh, yes!
I eagerly grope for the pack in my pocket. I find the lighter too.I'm dying to smoke a cigarette right now, but I don't know how to ask them for permission to smoke. I don't want to ask anything from the satyr in front and his nymph.
The nymph seems a bit upset or maybe unenthusiastic. She only responds to the old man with "Ja" and "Nein."Maybe she's upset, maybe she's sad... Maybe she's a bookworm and doesn't appreciate traveling. He let her sit by the window, but she doesn't even pay attention to the beautiful sky beyond the porthole.
Of course she's sad. I would be sad too if I had to hook up with old guys for money. Oh, yes, I think I'd be terribly sad.
I try to imagine her kissing the chubby man next to her, sticking her tongue in his mouth, and climbing on him like a cat, but somehow the image is too scandalous to form in my mind.
Where's that airsickness bag? I feel like throwing up. I'm traveling with a drunken pilot, a little slut, and a chubby satyr.
A cigarette...
I can't just take out the cigarette and ask them if I can light it. I simply can't. I have my dignity as a smoker too. The mere idea of interacting with these wretches almost physically sickens me.
The girl turns her eyes to me again and stares at me. It's like she's reading my thoughts.
Stop looking at me like that with your coal-black eyes. Ok? I'm not the floozy on this plane. You are!
I said stop looking at me, you little devil. Damn it, look away!
I yield first and look elsewhere. This being has a strange look. I'm glad I only have an hour left and I'll be rid of them both.
I need to smoke! I need to, or I'll die! I want nicotine!
I stand up abruptly. I stride quickly through the seats and open the small cockpit door. I barge in on a bored Jean-Louis.
"Jean-Louis, buddy, does your tongue still hurt? Can I smoke a cigarette here?"
"Smoke two. Smoke as many as you like."
I light up a damn Marlboro and take a deep drag. I blow the smoke slowly towards the ceiling. Bliss at its highest! I melt like a rag.
"Jean-Louis," I say groggily, "have you seen those fruit-flavored leaf cigarettes over in Malaysia? I've been craving a cherry-flavored cigarette for about eleven days now."
"I'm not into that stuff. I've never touched a cigarette in my life."
"Why?"
"I've been told that whoever smokes will die young, and I took it seriously."
The cigarette is goddamn good, but it's missing something.
"Do you happen to have anything to drink around here?" I ask timidly.
Suddenly I scare myself.
Then I horrify myself.
I can't believe what I just said. It's like I swore something to Someone last night. I look around in horror. God is merciful. He hasn't struck me yet.
"Or, better, forget it!" I quickly say.
"Please, don't mention booz," Jean-Louis grimaces. "I feel nauseous, and my head is killing me."
I take a deep breath and tell myself confusedly that God can't punish me for an oath made out of fear of the Frenchman and death. That's not a valid oath.
And besides, HE is not vengeful. HE knows how much I need a sip of alcohol. It's morning, and I need to perk up a bit.
Forgive me, Lord! You are merciful! You understand me! You know how much I love You.
Just a sip of alcohol and that's it.
Then I'll stop.
"But I wasn't asking for you, pilot. For me! Do you imagine I'd be willing to offer a drink to someone sitting at the controls of a plane! No, sir, we land first, and then I'll treat you."
"Don't make me talk," he complains. "My tongue hurts every time I speak."
"Probably your ex cursed you."
"Don't remind me of her," he sighs.
"So you don't have anything to drink in the cabin?"
"No."
Damn it all!
What kind of pilot is this?
I sigh deeply. I finish the cigarette and tactfully unpack a sandwich. Jean-Louis gives me a surprised look.
"A sandwich?" he exclaims. "You're full of surprises this morning."
"If your tongue didn't hurt, I'd give you a piece too. They're really good. Smell this. With onion and pork. But you can't, because your tongue hurts, so I'll eat them both."
The pilot reaches out.
"Yes, it hurts, but pass it over. My stomach is growling with hunger. No one can live on just alcohol."
I finish my sandwich and light another cigarette. I watch Jean-Louis eat carefully, groan, and then eat again.
"How much longer do we have?" I ask. "An hour? Two?"
"Why the rush? Take it easy. We're making a little detour. That will delay us a bit. I need 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 gauges on the plane's dashboard one by one and understand absolutely nothing.
Where's the gear lever? Where's the brake pedal? Where are the clutch and the accelerator?
Does it even have reverse?
"Jean-Louis, let me have a go at this steering wheel too. You promised I'd get to pilot as well."
He struggles to swallow a bite of his sandwich, then explains to me that the plane is set on autopilot.
"You've got a neat job, Jean-Louis. You get on the plane, take off, set the autopilot, and you're done. What does that clock indicate?"
"Which clock? Oh, that one? It shows the aircraft's speed relative to the ground. Right now, we're going at 130 knots per hour," he replies, chewing.
I have no idea what knots are, but I also don't think I care.
"And the other clock?"
"The altitude we're flying at. We're at 8,000 feet."
Knots? Feet? Who the hell invented this nonsense? Don't they use the metric system in aviation?
"What do you mean, 8,000 feet?" I say irritably. "Speak in plain language! What does that mean?"
"2,500 meters."
"Aha!" I say, annoyed. "And why don't you just say that? What's with the 'knots'? Hmm... so we're flying at an altitude of two and a half kilometers. Boring! Last time we flew at 11 kilometers altitude. You know, Jean-Louis? I thought we were going to do some maneuvers, turns, some interesting stuff, but you're only talking about knots, feet, autopilot, and other crap. I don't feel like piloting anymore."
"But I wouldn't let you anyway," he says, laughing softly and eagerly swallowing a piece of onion with spicy sauce.
I widen my eyes and look at him in amazement. What do you mean he wouldn't let me? What's this? 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 from one of those clocks, puts it back in his mouth, and chews calmly.
"Piloting is not a game, mon ami," he explains calmly. "I could lose my license just for letting you smoke in the cockpit. And as for touching the joystick, let's not even discuss it. I know I promised you, but that was yesterday, and yesterday I was drunk. I'm not drunk anymore today. You can touch the joystick only over my dead body."
"That can be arranged easily," I say, pretending to be upset.
But the truth is, I'm not upset at all. A weight has been lifted off my chest. If the mere idea of piloting excites me to this extent, it's better to let it go. Probably I'm not cut out for the pilot profession by God.
"Anyway," I say. "Let's talk about something else. What's the deal with those two over there?"
"What do you mean? Two people like all people," he says, shrugging. "Tourists."
"I could tell they're people too. They haven't shut up for a second. Especially him. He's the chatterbox. She's somewhat more normal, but her boyfriend seems to have a motor mouth."
"You mean her old man."
"That's her old man?"
"I think so. Her father. That's what I believe."
"On what basis?"
"Well, I don't know all their family tree. They just showed me their tickets and that's it. I think they're father and daughter. One hundred percent."
"That's what I thought too," I grunt. "They actually look alike. Like two peas in a pod. The resemblance is striking. Still, for the sake of discussion, how do you know that's her dad?"
"I don't know, man. I guessed. My job description doesn't say I have to pry into tourists' lives. I just pick them up where I'm told and take them where I'm told. Period."
If the pilot is right and those two are father and daughter, then I have a problem. Yeah, I have a terribly dirty mind! What a mess!
I light up another cigarette, turn to my right, and absentmindedly gaze out the window at the expanse of blue below us. That's the Pacific, I suppose. Just two weeks ago, I was freezing my ass off and arguing with the building manager not to cut off my water supply, and now I'm flying in a seaplane and gazing at the Pacific.
God, it's wonderful to have money!
I don't know what great thing I could have done in Europe with the money I got from a miserable apartment, but in these parts, on the edge of the map, a few tens of thousands of dollars mean a year of Paradise.
What a fool I was not to come here sooner.
If I can find a place to live and eat in Malaysia at a lower price than in Thailand, then my 379 days of leisure will extend for a long time. Maybe 500 days. Maybe 600.
Yes, Tiberiu, let the Europeans stay in their cold and polluted Europe as much as they want. From now on, I'll be Malaysian.
I'll even get Malaysian citizenship.
And if I run out of money... I'll marry a wealthy Malaysian woman and it's sorted. I'm European, I'm white... all the women in Malaysia will melt for me.
I'm engulfed in a pleasant feeling of laziness. I daydream 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 Ocean below us. Not a single difference. All water. All blue. I have the vague feeling that I just threw $800 into the water.
I say over my shoulder, "Jean-Louis, slick, where are those magnificent landscapes you were talking about? Because all I see is water and more water. Huh? Jean-Louis?"
Jean-Louis is silent like a sage behind me, so I don't bother with him either. Then I hear a gurgling sound and turn my head. The pilot's face is purple.
I jump abruptly from my seat and watch in horror as he struggles.
"Jean-Louis?! What... Jean-Louis, what's wrong?"
I shake him by the shoulder, and the man gives me a glassy-eyed look. His mouth is wide open, and he gurgles. He weakly raises an arm and gestures toward his neck.
I understand immediately: the idiot is choking on a piece of sandwich. I slap him on the back of the head, and the poor man collapses like a ragdoll from his seat. He sprawls out on the floor.
Oh my God, how do you do that maneuver with the complicated name? The one... for those who choke on olives... What the hell is it called?
"Jean-Louis!"
I open his mouth, quickly stick my finger down his throat, and for a minute I do everything humanly possible to get that damn piece of ham or onion or whatever it is out of his mouth, but I find absolutely nothing.
I slap him again on the back of the head. No reaction.
"Jean-Louis, man, don't give up!" I shout in his ear. "Fight! Do something! Wake up! Open your eyes, man!"
Now he doesn't even struggle anymore.
I lean my ear to his mouth. I don't hear any breathing. I think Jean-Louis is dead.
I'm not entirely sure, but that's what it seems like. I palpate his neck with two fingers, as I've seen in cop movies, and just like in the movies, he has no pulse.
I'm drenched in sweat. I'm seized by a strange tremor.
I stand up, staring at the body below. I watch closely. Time passes, but I don't see any reaction other than my own trembling.
I open one of his eyes, and the pupil doesn't react at all to the light. Just like in the movies!
I understand suddenly.
I'm standing next to a dead man.