There are moments on the bus when you wake up with a start and see rain in the darkness, fire in the wombs, a glow in the jungle distance. It takes you a minute to remember where you are, where you’re going, how you got here. A week ago, I was on the border of Tibet on rendezvous with Roi, my Israeli informant. A week before that it was Shanghai, tied up in a chair, tangoing with my old dance partner, Jack Sour.
I don’t usually do sit-down interviews, but when I do, it’s usually in a room without windows. Flecks of spit were spraying me as Jack barked beneath the glow of a flickering bulb, my arms and hands tied in Gordian knots. He grabbed my face and forced my lips open with one hand, popped the cap off a bottle of water, and poured it down my throat.
“Refreshing, isn’t it?” Jack smiled. “That water’s straight out of the Yellow River.”
I gurgled and coughed, spluttering liquid from my mouth.
“You know how this goes. I ask a few questions, you put up a fight, I torture you. It’s all so boring. Why don’t we just skip it this time and you tell me what the hell you’re doing in China so we can all go home?”
“There some kind of problem with me being in China? It’s a free country, isn’t it?”
“Not the last time I checked.”
“Tourism sure is booming though.”
“That it is. So where are you thinking of heading? Maybe I can show you some brochures.”
Jack reached behind him on a table and proceeded to beat me senseless with a bundle of tour guides and slapped a Lonely Planet across my face to top it off.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN CHINA?” he roared.
“Research,” I grinned toothlessly.
“Research?”
“For a novel.”
“A novel?”
“Still working on the log-line.”
“Name me three novels it’s a mix of. Go!”
“It’s a travel novel! Think Eat, Pray, Love, except from a guy’s perspective. I’m calling it Fuck, Drink, Shit. I eat street food with hookers.”
“Sounds like a real culinary adventure.”
“A journey for the taste buds and the spirit.”
An awkward silence.
“It’s a shame, Sam. You and I have so much in common. If only there were a way for us to work together. But unlike you, I’m not looking for a way out. I’m taking destiny into my own hands.”
“The path to prostitution is more like it,” I forced through bloody teeth. “Why am I not surprised?”
Jack snorted.
“Do I look like a cheap whore to you, Sam? I’m talking big bucks. Or in this case, yuans. Agents for the highest bidder. Truthfully, it’s kind of a turn-on to have all those warlords throwing money at you. I’m not one to disclose numbers, but let’s just say it’s going to be a very merry Christmas.”
“So who’s giving you the yuans, huh? Taiwan, those ungrateful fucks?”
“So close, and yet so far,” Jack smiled indulgently, shaking his head. “Who’s the king trying to get back in his castle, Sam?”
“His Holiness?” I choked in spite of myself.
“Don’t tell me you’re one of those Free Tibet fucks, Sam. I always knew you were gullible; I just didn’t know you were so naive. Were you hoping to get blessed by the Dalai Lama? Hear that disarming chuckle of his? Newsflash, Sam! He lives in India!” Jack laughed and grabbed a fistful of my hair, pouring more of the Yellow River onto my scrunched-up face.
Resistance training against waterboarding is virtually nonexistent, even for a super-agent. There’s an automatic panic button triggered by millions of years of neuro-evolution which never seems to end. A minute of this and I tapped out, jiggling my feet as a sign of surrender.
From one archnemesis to another, I almost wanted to tell him everything. I wanted to tell him things I could never tell anyone, about My True Love, about how she visited me every night in my dreams, and about this strange feeling that I’m fated to end up somewhere in the belly of the whale, but at that moment, all I could do was splutter, gurgle, and do my best imitation of Guantanamo Bay.
“You just don’t get it, do you Sam? What use are you in this world without some kind of purpose? The only reason they keep you alive is so you do the job that they don’t want to do. And of course, there are a million of those jobs, and even more millions of you, so why not let you crawl all over each other and gouge each other’s eyes out in the process?”
I tried to cough out something patriotic, like “freedom,” but all that came out of my mouth was regurgitated lung water.
“No one has the patience for water torture anymore,” Jack mused. “I mean the old kind: Chinese water torture, where you’re tied flat on a table with a spiel letting a single drop of water fall onto your forehead every couple of seconds. It literally drives you insane. Tied up. Unable to move. That pressure just building and building until finally. . .”
Jack made a “pop” with his mouth.
“Couple months later, you’re lucky if you even know your own name. Nowadays everyone wants it in a rush. No one gives a damn if you get some truth mixed in with invention. Everyone loves a good Hollywood plot, just as long as it’s enough to fill the seats. We record it, they forget it, and it all gets lost in history until it becomes reincarnated as propaganda. Men get moved around, the stocks go up and down, but the system stays in play.
“It’s all just a game, Sam. You already knew that, or else you wouldn’t be trying to escape. Everyone plays the game. There’s no way around it. But let’s be fair. I won’t kill you unless I have to. It’s nothing for me to let you run around like a fool. There’s nothing you can do to interfere. But as you and I have had a long history, I know better than to just let you wander into my path carelessly. I had to let you know I’m here. You need a little angst now and then in order to accept uncertainty.
“You know what the sad thing is, Sam? All those people out there, awoken, and yet completely numb. Pretty soon, agents like us will become worthless. We won’t have to put the mask on them anymore. They’ll do it themselves. They’ll give you the thumbs-up sign and tell you to start pouring.
“If only we didn’t need to matter, Sam. Can’t you see? No one gives a damn. But you’re different, right? Your experiences have been siphoned through a unique funnel as narrow as those slits you call your eyes. You’ve seen the world differently, because the world sees you differently, and in the end the human spirit endures. AND THE ACADEMY AWARD GOES TO. . .”
Jack paused to make a juvenile farting sound with his tongue.
“Don’t make waves, Sam. You’re a pencil-pusher, not a creator. Do your fucking job. The history books have already been written. The parts have already been taken. Take it apart and they’ll burn you at the stake. Don’t go looking for your Hollywood ending.
“You want a story? Here, read this. In it, you are you. You’re not invisible as you so often complain. Here you are. The hero speaks to you. Hi. You speak in reply. You are a good guy. You help the hero (me), who time and time again blows you away with his selfless honor and bravery. You, on the other hand, are constantly worried about losing face. . .”