Sunken Fish - Chapter 54
Escaping from the jaws of death (1)
Forty-five minutes' drive away, Berhali was trying to explain to two police officers why he was wandering alone on the highway at night.
The police pointed their gun at him and shouted, "ID card!"
The gun barrel moved slowly, like a stray dog sniffing around.
Beryl fumbled in his pocket, wondering whether he should show them his American passport. In some countries, it's a symbol of honor. In others, it could be a death sentence. He'd been warned to say Canadian when asked about his nationality and to smile amicably.
Perhaps he should say he was born in England. But then he realized that the Lanna people hated the British colonists of the past. The police might beat him to a pulp because of his British origins, and then continue beating him because he was an American citizen.
Let's not even talk about England; although the evening breeze was chilly, he was still sweating profusely. The tall policeman snatched the passport from Berhali's hand, staring at the blue cover with its gold lettering, then examining the photograph. Both policemen looked at Berhali with scrutinizing eyes. The photo was taken seven years ago, when his hair was still black and his cheeks were more taut. The shorter policeman shook his head and muttered something that sounded to Berhali like a death sentence.
Actually, he was cursing his companion for putting down his bottle and coming to this dark field. The tall policeman flipped through passports, checking the various entry and exit stamps: to England, to America, to France, to Indonesia, to ski in Canada, to give a speech at a club in Bermuda, and then back to England—that was after his mother was diagnosed with cancer. His mother was a difficult person and hated all the women he dated. She refused all treatment, saying she wanted to die with dignity.
He then traveled to Australia and New Zealand for puppy workshops, and his last trip to England wasn't for his mother's funeral, but to celebrate her birthday and the fact that she showed no signs of cancer. It was a miracle. In reality, there had never been cancer, just swollen lymph nodes; she had suspected this possibility because she always seemed to have good luck.
Berhali had prepared for her death, even agreeing to all her demands, because he thought he would never have to keep them. Now she's calling to remind her son that he promised to take her on a trip to Africa to make a special program about wild dogs, with her narrating.
She said they'd go right away. Good heavens! Now, perhaps there's no need to worry about the Africa special anymore. There was no more Berhali. He imagined his mother weeping, lamenting her constant bad luck, her son killed in the Kingdom of Lanna because of a foolish passport misunderstanding.
The short policeman finally found the entry stamp from the Kingdom of Lanna. He showed it to his partner, and they were about to loosen their grip on their guns. The muzzles of the guns slowly lowered, and Berhali felt a sense of relief, almost wanting to cry.
The short policeman asked a question, and Berhali used all his international communication skills, gesturing like he was performing a pantomime: walking on the road, then a car roared away, he grabbed his knees and ran, pointing to a ditch and rubbing his shoulders.
The police complained in Lanna, "This foreign fool is even more drunk than we are."
Where are you going?
The tall policeman asked Berhali in Lanna. Of course, Berhali couldn't understand. The burly man produced a map and asked Berhali to point out his destination. But to Berhali, the map was like a treasure map of ants on the ground, its maze-like lines leading nowhere. Besides, even if he could read a map, he wouldn't know where the tour group was.
This is the advantage of a tour group: you don't need to make any plans and you don't have to take any responsibility for the trip: you don't need to know about transportation, reservations, hotels, distances between attractions, or how long it will take to get to the next attraction.
Of course, before leaving San Francisco, he briefly glanced at his itinerary to see what fun awaited him. But who could remember the names of cities he couldn't pronounce?
Mandala was the only place he could remember wanting to visit.
Berhali wanted to try again: "The tour guide's name is Walter, Walter, and the car says 'Golden Land Travel Agency' on it. I fell while walking, understand?"
"Idiot?" The tall policeman started laughing, muttering something to his partner, and they burst into laughter like madmen.
Beryl had several years of experience studying animal behavior. Through observation, analysis, and hypothesis, he guessed they understood his American swear words. Like all young men, they enjoyed the swearing; it was part of male nature, regardless of race.
Now all he had to do was acknowledge their reaction and seize the opportunity. After they stopped laughing, Berhari nodded and pointed to the road: "The idiots went that way, and I'm here. They left, leaving me here."
"Being with you two idiots," he muttered to himself.
Five minutes later, Berhali and the tall officer arrived at their command post, a small hut at the intersection of two roads. The checkpoint ahead had already closed, and there was no need to monitor traffic now. Berhali began repeating what he had just said to the other two officers. After they laughed, Berhali took out a roll of money and asked them if it was possible to hire a car.