by
TAJ
He slipped in quietly between the raindrops. The hostel master was sound asleep in the little room that served as an office, kitchen and bedroom. The visitors were talking in the adjacent dormitory. No one heard him come in.
"Let's have the wine here," said the French. "I know it is the California, but my mouth is so dry."
"That's because you smoke too much," said the American. "And those cigarettes are terrible. Worse than French even. I can's imagine who came up with the idea of mixing clove and tobacco. And then putting a ring of red sugar around the filter. It makes me sick just thinking about it."
"There is no filter," said the French. "But you are right. It is not French. Gitanes is my preference, only expensive outside the Duty Free. Now, the wine if you please."
"Be careful. The cork isn't in too tight."
There was the sound of a bottle rolling across the hardwood floor of the dormitory. He opened the door just a crack and could make out the glow of a cigarette at the far end of the room. Now the voices could be heard more clearly.
"Are you really leaving for Jakarta tomorrow?" the American asked.
"That depends," said the French. He pulled out the cork and took a long drink from the bottle. "The weather may change, n'est-ce pas? I could stay another day or two. Maybe longer. But if I must be inside, I would rather not this rat-trap hostel and your California wine. What good is Bali when the beach is wet like the sea?"
"I'm afraid you chose the wrong time of year for an Indonesian holiday, mon ami," said the English. "From now until the end of next month, it'll be rain almost every day. You should have stayed north for another month or so. Thailand perhaps. Now there's a lovely country."
"Bah! Thailand? That filthy, infestious place? I tell you, I was trapped in Bangkok three days to get out of there. Rains cut all the rails and the highways. The planes they were grounding. The only way I could find was a relief ship of water and rice and charcoal for the cholera victims south. And I hate to travel on the sea. It makes me have the bad stomach."
"Oh, you can strand me in Bangkok anytime you like," said the English. "Why, Thai women are among the best in the world. Even before you can get your key in the door to your hotel room, some little lady has grabbed you from behind. And by the time you get the door open, she has your trousers down around your knees."
"Yes, yes. And she gives you everything you ask, and even something you don't ask. I was three weeks in and out of the clinic in Singapore. I never know such pain."
The American and the English laughed. He opened the door just a little wider and could see a tall, slender bottle in silhouette near the bed where the cigarette still glowed.
"Oh, you think it is so funny, yes? But I tell you, you never go back to Bangkok after such an experience. The good, yes it is good. But the bad is so bad. At one shop in the evening district, I tried the Buddha stick. So this is the Thai drug, I think. So nice. Better even than the hashish libanaise. But then in the next morning, where is my Polaroid? I tell you, it is no place to live and no place to stay, even for the holiday."
Crouching silently behind the door, he couldn't see their faces. It was too dark and they were too far away. Their words and the sweet smells of wine and spiced smoke were all that reached him on the moist air that passed out of the dormitory. He would have to listen a bit longer and wait for his chance to move in.
