78 Living on an Island (1/2)

Susanto followed Cruz's boat along the beach until he came to the cliffs that lined the southern shore. When he and James climbed onto the rock, he saw that Cruz had changed course in the meantime. The boat was no longer following the coast, it was headed out into the ocean, steering for Pitcairn Island.

Susanto stayed on the cliff for a long time, watching the boat through the binoculars. A couple of times he saw Cruz turn around and raise his binoculars to his eyes and look back. They waved at each other, and Susanto thought he could see Cruz grin. The boat kept getting smaller and smaller, and soon enough it wasn't possible to tell Cruz apart from the crew, and the sun was more than halfway to its resting place beyond the water.

It was time to go back to the camp. It didn't take long, since they cut across the island instead of following the shore. The sun shone down from a cloudless sky; insects buzzed and chirped and hissed; the plant life rustled mysteriously.

As he walked, Susanto fell into a near-mystical state. He saw himself as a human speck moving across a speck of land lost in an enormous ocean. And he wasn't even human, most of him! Those clever scientists in their white coats had established, beyond any doubt, that 52% of the cells existing in a human body were property of various microorganisms that were pleased to call that body their home. More than half the cells inside anyone belonged to someone else! What was more, changes in the body's guest population were responsible for most of the illnesses that affected its human host.

Rafi Susanto was a man with feet firmly on the ground but right then, as those practical feet of his trod on the wilderness of Henderson Island, he felt elevated beyond his normal state of consciousness. Could it have been caused by his rare emotional state? He'd felt longing when he was looking at Cruz sail away into the ocean.

As a rule, he didn't long after or for anything or anyone, including money, which was the only thing he loved. He was a genius, and he was just six years old when he discovered the basic rule governing human relationships: whoever cared less had more power. Subsequently, he'd never allowed himself to become crazed by money, like people who came close to orgasm when they saw their investments had paid a record profit.

He who cared less had the power. Susanto smacked money around like some bitch that had displeased him, and money obeyed him: it came crawling to his feet, licking its nose and begging for forgiveness that it had been away for so long. Of course, all of his money smacks were strategic smacks, administered with the right force, at the right time, and in the right place. Wasn't timing everything? Everything and everyone had a time of birth, and a time to die; a time to flourish, and a time to wither.

They got back to the camp just as the sky was turning red, right on time for dinner. It consisted of grilled fish and coconut kernels. As Susanto ate, he thought: so this is what my life has come to. All that effort and struggle, everything I did, thought, dreamed - to end up on an island in the middle of nowhere, grateful just to be alive, to be able to eat, drink, fuck...

No, not fuck. The whores' makeup supplies had ran out, and the life of castaways clearly didn't agree with them. When he thought of fucking one of them, his dick tried to disappear into his body. Without makeup, without their fancy leather and latex and lace, they looked exactly who they were: a bunch of empty, soulless women whose lack of morals and skill at sex had made them temporarily successful in the money-making game.

He thought about the tears he saw on the faces of the two whores that had been fucking Cruz. He was sure they had been crying not because they'd been intimate with Cruz and felt sad to see him go; they had been crying because his departure made them feel lonely and helpless. People didn't cry because of the pity they felt for other people. People always cried because of the pity they felt for themselves.

This last thought made Susanto aware he had been guilty of pitying himself. He recoiled at that thought. He firmly believed self-pity a mark of cowardice, and a total waste of time. Worse, self-pity destroyed lives. He'd known many talented guys that allowed their lives to be sucked down the vortex of self-pity. He wasn't going to go there. He was Rafi Susanto, a multimillionaire on his way to become a billionaire.

That was when he knew he would have to make another trip to the New World. He was scared shitless when he thought about it, and that was exactly why he had to do it. The New World had made him feel helpless and afraid, the two emotions that he hated most. He was Rafi Susanto! A conqueror! A winner!

Besides, he really wanted to check out the timon thing. If what Cruz had said was true, the part of the New World they had accessed was rich in timon. Susanto had no doubt timon would become the most valuable commodity ever, beating gold or diamonds hands down. Forget about being a billionaire: he would become an instant trillionaire once he secured a supply of timon! He had to see with his own eyes what Cruz had seen: a cave whose walls were composed entirely of timon. Or something. A beach of timon sand would work, too.