Kyle’s silent, then: “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Do you think it’s essential for me to get out of here?”
Robinson’s surprised. “I just assumed. I mean, you can’t like
this
…running. Sure, you’ve been lucky so far, gotten a grace period. But how long do you think you’ve really got? I give you my info on Kuo at least you’ve got a fighting chance. All you’ve got now is
chance
itself.”
“This type of thing…this trade…it’s really
done?
”
“It’s becoming more and more common. Identity is the new currency of the world.”
Kyle thinks,
Christ. Somehow, the death of hard cash has led to the rise of the self.
“You’ve been involved with it before?”
“No…but I know people who have.”
“Did it work?”
“Wouldn’t be here if it didn’t.”
Kyle bites his lip. “I don’t know…” He can’t look Robinson directly in the eye. “I need to think about it…”
“I want us to help each other. I do. But I can’t wait around either.” Robinson rips off the corner of a napkin, scribbles down an address and phone number, and passes it to Kyle. “That’s my hotel.”
Kyle takes the paper, recognizes the address, and slides it back to Robinson. “I know it.”
“Kyle…think about what I’m saying,” Robinson says. “I mean,
really
think. We both need this. Equal risk, yes. But equal reward also, if it works out.” Robinson stands, pushes his chair in. “Someone else needs a partner too.” He glides over to the dancing Violet but turns back to Kyle one more time. “Hope to see you.”
K
yle sits inside a Buddhist temple surrounded by unarmed UN peacekeepers—a contradiction in terms, if you ask him.
The temple is an austere place of worship, not a tourist attraction. A towering pink Buddha rests atop a rusted altar surrounded by charcoal-penciled verses from the Dhammapada, gold bowls, and scented candles. A carpet before the statue is covered with dozens of the city’s homeless, huddled together and drenched in sweat.
Kyle stares at the statue of Buddha and is reminded of the innate respect he’s always had for Buddhism, a religion far closer to a philosophy in that it offers no sturdy solutions, only endless questions and quixotic steps that, even if completed, don’t guarantee self-enlightenment. There’s little to recommend it to those who find no comfort in
doubt
as the essence of spiritual catechism.
Kyle wants to call somebody, reach out for advice, talk to someone he trusts and ask:
Should I do this? Should I take Robinson’s offer?
But he knows the answer: He shouldn’t. You never feel the need to call someone for advice when you know you’ve got a solid plan. No one ever calls a friend and starts the conversation by saying:
I’ve got this terrific opportunity. I can’t say enough positive things about this course of action. But I’d just like your opinion on it.
He looks at the homeless sprawled on the temple’s carpet and thinks:
The only difference between them and me is that I haven’t run out of people to sell myself to.
Kyle intones the name over and over: “Julian Robinson. Julian Robinson.”
Robinson was right about one thing. All Kyle’s been doing for the past year is enacting a sun-drenched rehearsal for death.
Kyle looks up at the Buddha, its face stripped of false worldly illusions, and thinks about what the West—his people—have done to Buddhism. They turned a religion based on nullifying the self and becoming an objective universal eye into an exploration of the self that can be combined with
exercise.
Christ,
he thinks,
is there anything we can’t commercialize?
But there is. There is one thing that cannot be totalized and absorbed into the system: Death.
Julian Robinson. Julian Robinson.
K
yle sits before his computer sipping an Angkor beer and straining to keep his eyes open. He types a string of terms into a search engine, rubs his eyes, and gets up from the desk.
He walks into the bathroom, turns on the bare bulbs encircling the tiny square mirror, runs the water until it turns cold, cups his hands, fills them with water, and bathes his eyes.
The cold feels good against his swollen lids. He blinks back the water dripping down his lashes and then washes his eyes one more time.
He goes back into the bedroom, looks at the search results, and begins to read.
There are photos of Robinson at various telecom conferences. He’s standing with government employees in charge of information regulation. Kyle clicks on more images. Pictures of Robinson with prominent European businessman, always either boarding a private plane or entering a bulletproof car.
Kyle opens up articles written by Robinson for trade journals, several of which are in German. Luckily, Kyle remembers enough German to be able to read them.
The first two deal with how Europe’s overregulation is hindering sales and halting progress in the telecom industry. The last article is about the radical possibilities for political and personal emancipation in Asia and the Middle East as a result of technological innovation. It’s a cogent, well-argued piece. Kyle’s impressed with Robinson’s writing skill, even though Robinson seems to be wearing the garb of a technological utopian primarily to bolster sales.
Robinson appears to be legit, to be telling the truth about his identity.
Kyle closes down his computer, lies on the bed, and feels the potential for sleep. It’s not that Robinson’s offer has relaxed him. It’s that for the first time in a year, he feels like he has an option. He can take it or not, but an actual option, a potentially viable way home, has been presented.
K
yle turns on his back.
Awake for the past few hours, resting with his eyes closed, now he feels like reading. He stretches his arm to the nightstand, and his new book isn’t there. He thinks back, realizes he left Armand’s in such a hurry yesterday that he forgot it.
Shit.
He looks at the stack of books in the corner. He’s read them all, several times; their spines are cracked and broken.
He doesn’t like the idea of visiting the same location twice in two days, doesn’t like setting up an obvious pattern, but if he waits for Armand to deliver his new book, he’ll have that bloated scion of former colonialists drunk and singing outside his window at two in the morning, waving the book around like a white flag.
He throws his legs over the side of his bed, and his feet find his shoes in the dark.
K
yle slides his sunglasses on and slips out the back door of the hotel. The sun’s hardly pushed through the clouds, but it’s boiling out. Even the banyan trees seem stunned, their branches straight, rigid with surprise, the leaves wilting, thirsty for water still a month away.
Kyle walks the block, sweating through his shirt after a few steps, keeps his eyes trained for a tuk-tuk. Today he won’t argue with the driver. Today he’ll happily accept a lift.
His mind wanders; images blur, dissolve into a stream of heightened blues and desiccated browns, the color scheme of his surrounding world, shanties and baked dirt.
Peripheral movement gets his attention, returns him to the present moment. The severe, elongated shadows of two men thrown against the slum steel give him pause.
This is what I get, taking the same route twice in two days.
He starts to pick up his pace. Could be nothing. All shadows are suspicious at first.
Calm down,
he thinks.
Get in a tuk-tuk, get to the market, get to a crowded place.
Then two bullets graze the side of his ear and lodge themselves in the wall a few feet ahead.
H
e takes off in a sprint, looks back for a flash, and makes out two men dressed as tourists. Khaki shorts, garish polo shirts, baseball caps, and Bluetooth earpieces. The hallmarks of what Kyle calls mercenary casual.
The humidity enters his lungs and harpoons his heart, sending it into overdrive. He can’t keep up this pace on an open street. He needs to get somewhere populated.
He takes another look back. The two men are dangerously close. The only thing weighing them down are ill-fitting ankle holsters mummified in tube socks.
Two thoughts cross Kyle’s mind and battle for space. First:
He found me. Fucking Chandler finally found me.
Second:
I hope these two have scruples about shooting civilians because they’re about to be swimming in them.
Kyle knows where to lead the chase. He has one advantage over his pursuers: he knows the city, knows its nooks and crannies like a longtime resident.
He takes a hard right into a cardboard city and is greeted by a lake of sewer water over a foot deep. The smell rising from the fetid pond is noxious. There’s a dozen naked children flopping around in the sludge, playing with a stripped mattress someone tossed in there.
Kyle stifles the urge to scream at the children,
Stop. You’re all going to get fucking cholera.
He rushes through the puddle, trying not to breathe in, hoping brief contact with the water doesn’t eat away the skin on his ankles and heels.
He hears the two guys splashing through in pursuit, cursing the water, the smell, the fact they’re wearing shorts.
He doesn’t look back, keeps up his pace, side starting to hurt.
He cuts left and crosses into an open area, a space of slanted shanties sinking into the mud like the earth is trying to drag them back home.
The ground is a suction device. Kyle’s shoes can barely trudge through, his soles dragged down into the grimy glue.
Then another obstacle thwarts his run.
People.
A seemingly endless stream, shuffling, too weak and too hot to move as fast as Kyle needs them to. They circle him and start begging once they see the color of his skin. Their hands outstretched, supplicating, the guttural cry of naked need:
“Please…please, help us…”
He wishes he had time for pity. Instead, he rockets himself into the deepest section of the crowd, shouting out “Sorry” when forced to toss people aside to clear a path.
He makes it through the huddled mass and careens into the center of town, which looks like a Greek polis after the Romans invaded. Groups of people stand around smoking cigarettes and gambling. Fires burn in trash cans so people can cook. Clotheslines everywhere, hundreds of them, towels and drying clothes acting as dividers between shanties.
Kyle runs through what seems like a solid mile of linens. As he inadvertently rips the poles from the earth, women rush up, start screaming and hitting him. He’s ruined the only means of privacy and property demarcation these families have.
He hears the two tourists behind him:
“Move. Move!”
Residents scatter, knock up against them. Everyone’s pissed. Too many white people fucking up their property for one day. Time to fight back.
One of the residents yells,
“Gun,”
and the chaos kicks up another notch.
The tourists curse aloud, can’t get off a clean shot at Kyle in the middle of this.
Kyle’s plan is working, but he needs to change things up. Open space has given him an advantage, but he can’t run like this any longer. His knees are shaking and his breath rattles, the dirt and humidity causing his lungs to overflow with phlegm.
He dives into a squatter’s shack and lands on his side in the middle of a makeshift classroom. An American NGO worker armed with only a dry-erase board and some secondhand copies of Babar books is trying to teach the slum children how to read. Fifty kids are crammed into this tiny, slanted space.
The teacher rushes over to Kyle, furious at his interruption. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? This is a charity operation,” she says, as if somehow
that
should provide insurance against an international felon diving into the middle of her reading lesson.
Kyle ignores her, fishes in his pocket, and pulls out a ten-dollar bill. Even the smallest kids know what it is. That’s the beauty of money.
Kyle dangles the bill in the air and says:
“Follow me. Come on. Follow, follow!”
The kids rise from the floor in a screaming cluster and take off after him—the capitalist Pied Piper.
The NGO worker can’t stop her class from stampeding. Her screamed entreaties of “Stay here, stay right here” fall on deaf ears.
Kyle leads the pack of children to the entrance of the shack and tells them to stay. He motions with his hands and keeps saying it.
“Stay. Stay. Don’t move. Do not move.”
He drops the ten-dollar bill into the mass of screaming kids, turns, and heads back inside.
K
yle’s khaki-clad pursuers come to a sudden stop when they hit the barricade of Lilliputian limbs. They try to push inside, past the kids fighting to be the one to get to hold the ten dollars.
Finally, one of the men loses his cool, decides to clear the doorway the old-fashioned way: violence. He fires two shots into the air. The bullets are a muffled burst, their sound absorbed into the vacuum of humidity.
But the kids get the general idea and scram back toward the classroom.
The two men get through the doorway, draw their guns, look left, right, aim at nothing, curse in unison, and then see Kyle at a rickety structure climbing a set of shaky homemade wooden steps that lead to an equally tossed-together upper level.
The men charge the staircase and ascend single file, taking two steps at a time. They’re catching up to Kyle, who’s just a few feet ahead, can barely keep going. He’s not a trained mercenary. He’s a cubicle dweller trying to catch his breath.
The staircase moans from the force of three pairs of feet stomping on its back and bones.
Kyle gets closer to the top. The men a few steps behind.
Their combined weight proves too much. The moan turns into a sustained wooden shriek. The stairs splinter at the seams, begin to buckle.
Kyle hits the second story and dives to the floor.
The other two aren’t as fortunate. Before they have time to jump, the banister snaps, the steps cave in and devour their ankles, and then the entire improvised staircase follows suit, collapsing in on itself and crashing to the ground, burying the men and their tourist wear in a grave of diseased wood.
Kyle peers over from the safety of the second floor, sees his pursuers entombed, and, after the initial euphoria of survival passes, he realizes:
There’s going to be more. No one ever sends just two people. I’m completely blown here.
Only one option left now.