The Far out Café

By Stuart Chambers

The End-No it isnt!
During the fall of 1969 Daniel Dyer stands alone at a still point between the disappointments of
his childhood and an incredibly uncertain future. He is a boy from Yorkshire, living in America
who has been abandoned by his father and then his mother and has signed up to fi ght with the
US army in Vietnam. The Far Out Cafe is full of characters and events: a blues singer, a Cuban
called Guerrero and another called Compay, with his head full of conspiracy theories, Birdmen,
a chapel dating back to the 2nd century, an isolated island, a pack of marauding sharks; one of
mythical proportions, a psychotic Soviet called the Generali, a barbaric guard called Rusanov and
his syphilitic assistant, Yefrem.
This is not merely a story about the atrocities of war. Its a story about who Daniel meets when he
has been left for dead; a boy called Angel and a girl called Beth. Its about the way we live our lives
and what happens when we place our Faith in God when things go horribly wrong. Its a savage
yet tenderly lyrical story about an unforgiving time and indestructible love.



I sat down, cleared my mind, and The Far Out Caf blew it apart. Its a really great story and
its told in such a surreal way, it messes with your head so much, delightfully so, but what really
caught me is the sense of magic and mysticism that is woven into the story. A huge story that has
roots in an even greater and deeper meaning. The spiritual clashed against the brutality of men is
incredibly powerful. Good to fi nally be challenged by a modern book that gives the mind a great
workout. In fi lm terms, very Stanley Kubrick
- David Popescu - Hooligan Filmworks, Canada

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: May 9, 2012
• ISBN: 9781468504880

Stuart Chambers

Stuart is a fi lm and video Producer. He has lived in the Middle East for over 30 years. He had his fi rst script broadcast by the BBC when he was seventeen. He has written and produced numerous documentaries’ including a fi lm for the Qatar National Day that tells the personal stories of four families who suffered terrible tragedy when disaster struck their region. Kashmir, Beirut, New Orleans and Banda Aceh could seldom have appeared on the same travel itinerary but they were all on Stuarts: Seventeen fl ights, nine countries and a total of fortyfi ve thousand miles; a journey of epic proportions to some of the most isolated parts of the world where he would uncover stories of real courage and dignity and survival against the odds. Stuart is equally at home shooting a hi-end TV commercial with a large fi lm crew or out on location with a director with camera on his shoulder. He was born in Yorkshire, works in Dubai and lives in Romania with his wife and family.

Book preview

© 2012 by Stuart Chambers. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 04/27/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4685-0486-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4685-0487-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4685-0488-0 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

PART ONE

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

PART TWO

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY-ONE

PART ONE

ONE

South China Seas: December 1974

It was the birdmen who found him; on one of the remotest islands on the earth.

Isla de Christos is a primitive outpost ringed with bone white coral atolls pounded by furious waves. It is probable the main island did not have visitors until the twelfth century when a Malayan tribe settled on the eastern bay. The Spanish arrived in the sixteenth century on the western coast and to this day the descendants of the Spanish and the Malay live on in a tiny fishing village called Hope. There are two smaller islands in the archipelago: Isla de Locura (The Island of Insanity) and Isla de Tranquilidad (The Island of Sanity). Interestingly, the French landed on Isle of Insanity in the early fifteenth century; they nicknamed the island Isle Merdeuse (Shitty Island) and moved on.

TWO

There is a craggy outcrop that is dedicated to him. There is a girl who has planted lavender bushes on the craggy outcrop and does so to this day. There is a shack on the craggy outcrop; and on each of the supporting beams there are mementos: his dog tags, a serviceman’s badge, a Union Jack flag hung upside down, a photograph of him on stage with Mick Jagger and a Chicago blues singer, the singer has written on the picture, ‘Shine on crazy diamond’.

THREE

They were careful people, the men who found him; willowy and wood-crafty; they carried rosary beads as well as spears.

They circled the man and they clapped their hands to wake him:

Who you are? they asked. Who are you?

I don’t know, I don’t, he thought, but on the third day, for one brief moment, he opened his ragged eyes:

Daniel, he said. My name is Daniel, you, who are you?

My name is Moses Joseph, the birdman said.

They brought a mask of tawny coloured clay that they had mixed with a bitter-smelling sap; they wedged balls of a different salve into his wounds. The man winced and they hushed him. They bound him carefully in spun linen and then they hoisted him seventy feet above the jungle canopy into a cloud-shaped tree; he looked like a tiny pupa hanging from a web and they were abnormally cautious as they laid him out on an elegantly carved table.

The top of his forehead had been badly seared but the rest of his face had escaped relatively intact; his right arm was so badly swollen that the younger birdmen would have pierced the blisters had Moses Joseph not halted them.

He is not ready for us, not yet Moses Joseph said. We have to help him.

He talked of the nurse on the Isla de Christos, the elf-faced girl with bristle black hair that he called the Christian sister; he surrounded the soldier with cowries. And when some days had passed he lay him carefully in an ornately carved bark canoe and took him to the girl that he called Little Sister.

He knew how she worked, there was power in the way she washed her hands, the way she cleansed up to her elbows.

You have heard the story of Dan ‘Yel, Moses Joseph asked?

No, what is the story? Daniel asked. How does the story end?

Moses Joseph smiled. You will see, it is true it is destiny that brought you here, he said. But it is you who will define the details.

He thought it only right that a man called Dan ‘Yel should go to ‘Bethlehem’.

FOUR

The man they called the Generali watched on as they neared the shore and said. Find out what this bastard round-eye is doing here.

Beth shook her head

Tend to him

I will not tend to him, Beth said and she can tell that the Generali is annoyed.

Tend him, the Generali ordered, and find out all you can or I will brick you both up and feed you his shit and sorrow until he dies.

Beth looked at the Generali with some contempt. Everybody knew that the man they called the Generali, had been a bookkeeper in a light-bulb factory until he came to the island.

FIVE

The Generali’s attendants called the patients back to the asylum by blowing conch shells. There had only ever been four patients in the small island clinic and not one of them was older than sixteen. They sit grim-faced in ill-fitting pink-grey-striped pygamas and sandals that have been soled with strips of rubber cut from Soviet Army tires. Only Daniel is hidden, he sits in his underground cell and stares at the slime-black walls.

The man they called the Generali is Uzbek; he spends his nights polishing a Soviet proficiency badge, 3rd class. On this particular night he shines the buttons on his uniform. He has made a decision; he leaves his candle-lit cell and ferrets down crumbling corridors to the place where the attendants sleep; there are two attendants; one gap-toothed, brawny soldier called Rusanov who wears a red-black chequered eye-patch and a swarthy boy called Yefrem.

The Generali kicks the bunk of the brawnier of the two attendants. He does not like brutality; he has Rusanov for that.

Get dressed, the Generali says, and get check on him again.

The asylum walls were toad-green and peeling like decomposing skin. Only one of the boys was fully awake, he sat almost foetal-like, looking utterly tired; he made crazy lolling movements with his head; he nodded at Rusanov as he passed, and said Who the round-eyes? Rusanov did not reply.

Answer me?

Rusanov wagged his finger at him. I think not.

You will one day thought the angel boy

The younger boys in the bunks around him looked uneasy.

Daniel could only move one hand; he touched his face; his side and then his legs before he fell back.

I need toilet, he shouted but if people heard him they did not respond. He called the nurse’s name. Beth, he shouted, and stopped to listen before he called for her again. When Rusanov arrived he came in wielding a hand-hewn baseball bat.

Coochy coo, he said. It’s me, not Beth.

He pinned Daniel to the ground, ripped the dressing from Daniels chest and left.

Daniel is purple-black; the yellowing wound in his shoulder is heavy with water. When the rain falls the earth stinks and fills with filth, and the faeces of dead men float around Daniel’s legs.

Above Daniel’s cell black rain clouds queued up like bunched taffeta. Coward, Daniel shouted, Kill me now if it pleases you, and prayed that they would do it soon. Just do it he shouted.

The Generali sat at a desk with a Tokarev pistol within reach of his right hand and a bottle of Baltika beer in the other. He pushed the beer toward Daniel and toyed with a loose brown-tipped tooth; he was a meaty man with a rigid stain of Hitler type hair that lay like a dead raven’s wing across his forehead. The Generali teased the beer closer to Daniel who sniffed the neck and then drank it down. The Generali changed his tack again. Take more, the Generali said and Daniel looked surprised. I think that you are nobody, he said, but you wear the dog tags of a dead man and you seem scared. Do you want a cigarette? the Generali asked and Daniel nodded.

Would you like to do this the easy way? The Generali asked.

I normally take the hard way.

The Generali laughed before he said, Here’s my problem. I’m due to leave this shit hole in three days time and you can believe me when I say that I want to go. Two, you are not American and three, your name is not Daniel as your dog tags claim and before you say anything you should know this. Daniel dies on 19th December 1974. He does and that’s in two days time. Sentenced to death he whispered. His call Sign was Gunfighter. He was aged twenty. Height: 5ft 8ins. Weight: 75 Kilos. Hair colour blonde. He had green eyes and his only identifying marks was a tattoo of skull and crossbones on the chest. Occupation: Signed US Infantry. Decorations: None. That’s you, you scrawny bastard.

I’m not dead yet, Daniel said.

Not quite, that’s true but play ball and I might deem an Army Commendation Medal suitable to appease your grieving mother.

Is there another way we can do this? Daniel finally asked.

We can do this whichever way you want.

I’m not Yank, that’s true enough. I came into this war by accident. I wore the dog tags I was given. As what we all did. You should believe that.

I do, the Generali replied, Drink more beer and let’s talk some more. There is no rule that says that you cannot take what you can get whilst you are here. Bring more beer, the Generali shouted and added, I can be an asshole too.

Would an asshole give me beer? asked Daniel

The Generali had three white-faced, pink-balled monkeys in a large bamboo cage that ran the full length of one wall. Fruit eaters, he said, two males, one female; I am starving them to see what will happen next. He opened a drawer and shook a photograph from an envelope onto his desk; he passed a photograph of a familiar face to Daniel.

You know this man?

Compay, Daniel thought, he looked at the picture and shook his head and was on his back in seconds.

Don’t, the Generali said, I’m more of a bastard than you can ever imagine but if you do play ball I will give you more than beer and cigarettes; and your mother will believe you died a hero. All that I ask is that you tell me who this man is, he continued, Answer me. Daniel retched and nodded.

Do you understand me?

Yes.

Good, said the Generali. Let’s start again. Do you know this man?

No, he said and spat blood onto the floor.

That’s not a good answer, not when you were doing so well the Generali said. Do you believe in God?

You either know God or you don’t, it’s not about believing, he said, unsmiling with gobs of bloody saliva hanging from his mouth.

Pray that you know him well, some quirk of fate may have saved you this time but it will not happen again the Generali said and drained the second beer. Daniel’s eyes were swollen but he could pick out the two attendants that stood by the door. They were armed with old pump-action shotguns; they lead Daniel to a door that was opened with the hiss of solenoid-operated locks. Daniel had assumed that he was to be taken back to his cell but the attendants marched him down to the shore and lashed Daniel to a pierced steel plank, the type that would be used to build a temporary runway, and hoisted him up high. He was fifteen feet up when the Generali stepped into the clearing beneath him. If you cry out, he said, I will shoot you, and he lifted the Makarov pistol and fired three shots at the perforated steel. One of the bullets winged Daniel in the leg and Daniel writhed but he did not cry out.

Good, the Generali said. I have seen what Rusanov and Yefrem are capable of and I pray that I never see these things again, but if I can give you advice, my advice would be that you think carefully this night and tell me all about yourself. Daniel hung in silence and watched the line of red ants that marched toward his wounds. A mangy dog was sitting at the Generali’s side. When the ants began to feed on Daniel’s wounds he had summoned strength and shouted.

I don’t know the man and my name really is Daniel And sometime in the night the Generali had stood beneath him looking red-eyed in a sweaty vest.

Your name really is Daniel?

Yes.

You worked with the Special Forces?

Yes.

Why?

Crazy people do crazy things.

Delta Forces?

Nope, not crazy enough.

Tell me who the man in the picture is? the Generali said.

I don’t know who the man in the picture is. I never met him in my life

Think again Daniel. the Generali shouted. Don’t think that the world will help you.

They took him down in the morning and beat him until he was barely conscious and tossed ice-cold water in his face to wake him up so that they could beat him again. The attendants laid into his ribs with their home-made baseball bats, then held Daniel down and forced a funnel into his throat and when the rust-coloured liquid was in him they watched until his eyes were popping. The Generali forced Daniel to his feet; allowed him to use his shoulders as a crutch.

Thank you, Daniel whispered sarcastically; the drugs were working and the Generali laughed. You will not thank me, he said not when you see what happens next. The Generali had dark shadows under his eyes. Daniel winced as he closed his own.

You must have always known that you were doomed to die.

We all know that, no one gets out of life alive, Daniel said.

When what looked like a torture bed was ready the attendants took Daniel by each arm and strapped him to the bunk. They restrained Daniel with leather belts; they blindfolded him; they thrust a rubber truncheon into his mouth. He flinched when the attendant attached the pads to his temples; his heart was pounding. The Generali told him to be quiet; he set the dials and punched a button and the small room filled with a high-pitched buzzing sound. Daniel’s back arched; he was gasping like a fish on searing sand. The Generali thrust his hands on Daniel’s shoulders to hold him down; spittle bubbled and foamed from his mouth. The sound of the buzzing left the room and Daniel twitched; his eyes were staring when they removed the blindfold.

The Generali calmed him. Tell me about the man in the picture, he said but Daniel could do no more than weep. I don’t know who he is, he wept as the Generali closed his staring eyes. I don’t know.

The Generali stood like that for some moments before he slipped out of the room; for the first time he believed that the prisoner that they called Daniel could tell him nothing more. Daniel’s head and legs continued to twitch. In the shadows the young nurse cried and when the Generali returned he said, So your name is Daniel Dyer and you come from Yorkshire. Your father died when you were a baby and your mother’s name was Joan and you suck your thumb when you sleep; that doesn’t tell me very much, does it. Oh and you pissed the bed. I think it’s time you tell me so much more, like what some malfunction British boy is really doing in this war.

SIX

Daniel is back in the cell; he rolls over in the mud, he clasps his ribs; he moves with the unease of a broken fighter; he tries to sleep. He coughs up blood. He stands when he hears the sound of the attendants approaching his cell. He blinks back the light as the small door to his cell is pushed open; he fights the urge to lash out when he sees Rusanov who is in uniform. That can only mean that something has changed. He wipes the back of his patchy corn-coloured hair and large goblets of sweat sting the blooded crusts around his eyes.

He squints as they lead him up the shore: one leg seems slower than the other. Beth walks with him: she is a pretty girl with an overly large nose and an impish face. There is great wonder in her tiny black-brown eyes and she knows how to use her eyes. She is no more than seventeen; her hair is damp; her jet black fringe looks like a ridge of thorns. Daniel is concentrating on her eyes and the way they seemed to talk him. Her eyes are defiantly strong, yet scared at the same time.

Take this, she says, take it, she pleads and slips the tip of a tiny blade between Daniel’s fingers.

Move, the attendant barks and binds Daniel’s legs with twine.

I am here to remove his dressings. That’s what the Generali ordered," the nurse says by way of a distraction.

Daniel watches the nurse; you might know how to use your eyes, he thinks, but you don’t understand what goes on behind mine.

I have switched the injection the Generali will give you, Beth whispers. You will get adrenalin instead of a sedative. She lowers her head and then looks down and does not look up for some time. It’s all I can do."

It is Daniels turn to understand with his eyes. He is thick-set and handsome, with oddly set eyes; to Beth he looks like someone advertising men would have used to sell a multitude of useless products.

The Generali’s hands are greasy; he wipes them on a crust of bread. He rips the needle from the plastic pack; he takes Daniel by the neck. Be strong, he says, There’s no dignity in dying like a baby. He squeezes Daniel’s flesh and pushes the needle in, I want you calm.

He then talked quietly to Rusanov:

Take him back and leave him where the rest of them were killed. The attendant looks uncertain.

We should ransom him, he says.

Do as you are told, Rusanov. Just take him away and dump him. Break him into pieces if you have to but make sure he doesn’t come back.

Daniel is avoiding the Generali and looking directly at Beth but she won’t look at him as they lug him into the hull of the boat.

Time to say good bye, the Generali says.

From the window only one boy stands on tip toes and tries to watch what happens next; the one that they call Angel. Killed in Act… CHUN or got away; he sings over and over. He knows the man they call Daniel; he does not want Rusanov to take him away. Apart from Angel’s dirge there is no sign of war around them; a fat moth flits noiselessly around him as gathering wisps of cirrus clouds ribbon the darkening sky.

Be brave, Beth whispers.

Thank you. Daniel replies. Beth holds onto the side of the boat until the seawater reaches her thighs.

Don’t talk to him, the Generali says

Don’t tell me what to do, she says.

Beth’s eyes are narrow tear-filled slits as the boat rocks on the sunlit waves. For the love of God, she thinks and wades back to the sand.

Get him out of here, the Generali orders.

The Generali takes Beth’s arm. He won’t come back, trust me, he whispers.

Yefrem watches from beneath the bows of a banyan tree and in a way he is pleased. We can finally go home now, he thinks; thank Mother Russia our work is done here.

Beth can only stand and reminisce.

She had found him on the beach and she would always remember how she halted him with an outstretched arm. Help me please, he whispered; on his knees and trying to stand.

No, the nurse called Beth had said.

For the love of God, he begged and she went to him and pointed toward the sea.

No, she said. Go. Take the blood you are dripping on our sand and go.

We were told the war was over, she thought. That’s what the Generali told us, the Vietnamese killed the Americans, the Vietnamese were Soviet trained. The Soviet leaders were paid in American dollars."

Fine, he said. Then just let me rest.

Daniel was close to death; his face is bloated; the back of his tunic had burned away and one shoulder hung a little. Beth watched the way Daniel tried to move and in a way she admired the way he defied his pain. He held his side and while he was kneeling a semi-opaque shaft of sunlight formed a halo on his head.

The nurse looked at him. You have to go, she whispered. We cannot help you.

You’re an islander, he barked; what has this got to do with you?

We don’t have an island because of you. This is your war, not mine; its lies, its lies, it’s always lies, she said and her face was defiant.

Forgive me, he said, all I ask is a place to rest.

No, she said.

Help me, he begged.

No, they sent men like you before, ‘Let us look after you,’ they said, and when the islanders looked dubious, they killed the men; they raped the women; they took the children into the woods and shot them down with steel-tipped bullets. You know what steel-tipped bullets do? she said. A man could take four before he dropped, a child could take three, and she crossed her chest. How did you get here? she demanded.

The birdmen, they brought me here, he said and he held out his hands and the nurse saw the mark on the back of his right hand and branded crudely into the flesh was the mark of the cross. I don’t want to die, he said and Beth saw the way that his mouth trembled as if he were about to cry.

Don’t talk to me of birdmen, she said. The birdmen have been gone for hundreds of years.

I’m sorry, he sighed.

Sorry, what does sorry bring, what does sorry buy for me? she shouted.

He hung his head. Please. His voice was kind; her face was not.

Daniel held his ribs and tried to breathe.

The Generali hissed from the tree line, Do as you are told Beth.

Beth finally said. I will do what I can, and she led Daniel off the beach to a darkened shack. The timbers creaked as she opened the door and led Daniel down the well-worn steps; there was a black rubber sheet on the floor that she wiped and used to cover a mean looking iron bed. She found morphine tabs and jabbed one into his thigh. Daniel cannot know that she has no formal training.

We have no anaesthetic, Beth said.

Then work fast, he moaned. I need the toilet. Daniel said.

Piss here, she said.

I can’t, it hurts too much.

Why? she had asked and he shook his head.

Look for yourself, he said.

My God, she said as she cut open his trousers. This is going to hurt.

Let it hurt, he said but he winced as she peeled away the film of burnt skin from his testicles.

I never meant to bring trouble, he slurred.

Be quiet.

Are you really a nurse?

What difference does it make?

The feel of the swabs is like acid on his flesh. She whispered, Don’t think of me, it is you that we have to mend. She worked with soft bird-like hands and a deft razor scraping away the remaining scraps of cloth that had welded to his legs. She worked until her tunic was soaked with sweat and the work that she performed was close to a miracle.

Reviews for The Far out Café

[haidji-1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

SurvivorsCan you ever heal from war, or will you always be searching for another battle?Is peace really what you want in your life, or do you need to find a new reason to fight for something?Stuart Chambers goes deep inside his characters, to find out each one's answers to these and other questions.You'll want to keep reading this book until you have the answers to all the questions.