Under the Bali Moon

by Grace Octavia

  “No rice for you, either?” Adan asked.

  “I don’t get it. I can’t eat rice for breakfast. Sue me!” Zena held up her hands.

  “I agree. America wins this battle. All of Asia loses! I mean, rice for breakfast?”

  “Do you think we should wait to eat with Alton and Zola?” Zena asked.

  “Nah. They’ll resurface when they want to. You know young’uns don’t need breakfast,” Adan joked. “And anyway, I’m glad to have you to myself—”

  Zena cut Adan off with a sharp eye and a suspicious, “Why?”

  Adan went on uneasily: “Because I wanted to go over today’s exciting schedule with you and get some ideas from you about the wedding.”

  “Oh. I thought all these things would’ve been handled.”

  “Nah. I’m trying to be more fluid in my old age.”

  “Fluid?”

  “Yeah. Look, I’m trying to figure out if the wedding should be in the little temple they have down the beach or just on the beach.”

  “Shouldn’t that be up to Alton and Zola? Perhaps we can let them make that decision?”

  “Good point. Well, do you want to read something during the ceremony? Like a poem?”

  “Again, let’s let them plan that,” Zena said.

  Adan looked surprised, as if Zena was driving a hard bargain. “I guess I just want things to be really nice for them.”

  “If they want things to be really nice, they’re old enough to see it through. You’ve done enough. Hell, I’ve done enough. I’m just here to support them and have fun,” Zena said. “Now, tell me about all the exciting things we have planned for today.”

  “I will. But first, I want you to answer a few things for me.”

  Zena didn’t respond. In fact, she turned to look away from Adan. His words, his tone, made it clear that they were edging into a conversation she was avoiding.

  “Why didn’t you meet up with me in Atlanta?” Adan asked the back of Zena’s head.

  He waited a second, and when she didn’t say anything, he added, “I really, really wanted to see you.”

  Zena exhaled and looked down at her food. “I was busy,” she said softly.

  “No one’s that busy.” Adan’s voice was softer. He actually sounded hurt. “Like all day... I called you all day.” He laughed uncomfortably.

  Zena looked over at him. “Okay. Fine. I didn’t want to see you. That’s why I kept saying no.”

  “Why not?”

  “Why does it matter?”

  “It matters because I care,” Adan said as Zena pretended to return to her eating. “I truly wanted to see you.”

  “For what? You said you wanted to meet about Alton and Zola and the wedding—well, I’m here and they’re getting married. Everything is fine.” Zena stuffed a forkful of scrambled egg into her mouth.

  “What if I wanted more? What if I had other reasons for wanting to see you?”

  His words made Zena so nervous that she felt her mind go blank. She kept stuffing her mouth with food. At some point, she stopped chewing and was just stuffing. She couldn’t decipher what Adan was saying and had no idea how she could respond.

  Adan didn’t stop, though. His voice lowered and soft, he added, “What if I wanted to spend time with you. Like a date?”

  Her mouth filled with food, Zena now knew what she wanted to say, but she couldn’t. She wanted to curse and scream. To holler. A date? He had to be kidding. But eggs and bacon and fruit were in the way. Trying to struggle it all down her throat, Zena began to cough.

  Adan leaned over to her and patted her back. “You okay? You okay?”

  He slid his other hand onto Zena’s arm to calm her. His touch sent charges through her body. While she was choking on the food, Zena instinctively went into action, getting up and pushing Adan and his concerned face away from her.

  Soon, the chef and the housekeeper were trying to help, too, but Zena held them all off with one finger pointed at Adan, demanding that he stay away. The red hibiscus had fallen from her ear as she stammered to clear the food from her throat.

  Then, she felt arms weave around her waist and lift her from the floor. She tried to get free from the tightening hold, but it got tighter and tighter, forcing her stomach in and up.

  Whoever was behind Zena started jerking her body up and down and telling her to breathe. In seconds, the food lodged in Zena’s throat came barreling out to the floor and landed in a squishy splat.

  “Uhhh!” was the collective sigh when they observed the regurgitated eggs and bacon and fruit.

  The arms around Zena’s waist let up, and she turned to see that it was Adan. Alton and Zola were standing next to him.

  “You okay?” Zola asked.

  “Yes. I’m fine,” Zena said.

  “Are you sure you’re fine? You were choking,” Adan pointed out, now looking at Zena incredulously as the chef and housekeeper, who were standing beside him, scrambled to get the vomit mess cleaned up.

  “Yeah, I’m good.” Zena narrowed her eyes on Adan. “Thanks.”

  “Guess my brother saved your life,” Alton said with pride.

  Zola exhaled. “I’m glad Adan was here for you. Look, we were coming to get you guys. The driver is here.”

  * * *

  Adan scheduled Mahatma House’s private chauffeur to show the foursome the best of beautiful Bali. So, through much of the morning and leading into the afternoon, Adan and Zena, Alton and Zola, sat in the back of the minivan, crisscrossing Bali’s complex terrain as they visited popular and off-the-beaten-path attractions that covered massive mausoleums, dramatic sculptures, seedy swap meets and ancient rice fields that reminded them all of the roadside plantations throughout the deep South back home. While the heat outdoors might have initiated a “keep the kids indoors” weather advisory in Atlanta, crowds of Balinese workers, Australian expats, and tourists from throughout Asia and Europe packed the streets and sidewalks so tightly they seemed to contribute to the stifling conditions.

  Loading in and out of the van, Zena tried most often to sit beside Zola, who had been rather quiet through most of the day. Zena could feel that something was bothering Zola, but she didn’t want to force the issue and seem too concerned. Of course, she wanted to know what was going on, but she had her own issues to contend with. The word date had been bouncing around in her head since they left Mahatma House. More specifically, two words: date and Adan. They sounded like opposites in her thoughts, contrasting ideas that she didn’t want to connect. Did Adan mean to say date? Was he serious? He certainly seemed serious. He did sound as if he meant it. But how could he? How could he want to date her? Why? Zena tried to pluck these questions from her thoughts, but every time she looked at Adan, or heard his voice throughout the day, they all came rushing in. And soon, date and Adan didn’t sound so opposite at all. And Zena hated that.

  At one of the many four-way stops where the minivan was caught in a traffic jam mosh pit of cars and mopeds and motorcycles and trucks and pedestrians and wild dogs, all seemingly going in every direction—both on-and off-road—Zena leaned into Zola and commented that even though Zola was a bad driver in Atlanta, she could be a great driver in Bali. This didn’t even get a giggle out of Zola.

  “Something wrong?” Zena asked.

  “No. I’m just a little tired. I think the heat is getting to me,” Zola confessed, and this sounded quite plausible.

  They’d just left a monkey forest reserve where more than six hundred wild macaques had taken over a Hindu temple and become a real-life Planet of the Apes episode. While the wild and not-so-humble monkeys provided lots of laughs and camera ops, after an hour walking through the gardens, Zena and Zola had split a gallon of water in the parking lot as the foursome waited for the chauffeur to return.

  Adan was sitting in the fro
nt seat beside the driver. “Well, I hope you’re not too drained. We’re about to hit these waves,” he said, turning to face Zola and Zena. “Abdul tells me Padang Padang has the best surfing in Bali. Isn’t that right, brother?” He nodded to the driver, a portly bald man with scaly dark skin that had clearly seen too many days on the beach.

  “Yes, Mr. Adan. Exclusive beach in Bali. Best waves,” he replied.

  “Oh, I don’t know. I haven’t been surfing in a while, and I am kind of drained after all this sightseeing,” Zena complained, still parched and a little dazed herself. The heat here added a kind of malaise that was hypnotic.

  “Really? You can’t be serious. Little Miss West End Swim Community Center Champ 2000 and 2001 doesn’t want to surf?” Adan pressured Zena as he grinned at her.

  When Adan’s mother realized Zena and Zola couldn’t swim, Mrs. Pam immediately took it upon herself to see that the girls attended the free swimming classes offered at the local community center. While Zola got the hang of it quickly and became an average swimmer, Zena excelled at the sport and became competitive, going to local and state swim meets, where she usually lost but delivered a strong effort to represent their community. When Zena got to Bethune-Cookman, her love of swimming transitioned to surfing the waves at Daytona Beach. She even joined a black women’s surf club, the Soul Surfing Sisters, and Adan came down to Daytona to see a few of her team’s exhibitions.

  Adan went on, “You came all the way to Bali, to some of the best beaches in the world, and you’re not going to hit the waves the first chance you get? Some things done changed, Soul Surfing Sister!”

  Zena laughed at Adan’s memory, and she felt herself blushing, so she cut her laugh short.

  “Well, I’m game, bro,” Alton said, giving Adan a high five for his idea. He was sitting in the middle row by himself. “My love can get a few pictures of me on the board. Caption reads: Dread in the Water!” He shook his wild auburn dreadlocks as Adan laughed.

  Zola hadn’t. “What do you mean, ‘get a few pictures’?” she asked.

  “You’ll be on the beach, right?” Alton said, confused. “You don’t surf.”

  “I have surfed,” Zola argued.

  “When?” Alton asked.

  “In Cancun when I went for spring break with my sorors.”

  “Okay,” Alton acknowledged carefully. Now he was clearly sensing Zola’s tension. “But this isn’t some small beach in South America. This is the big time. Real waves.”

  “She okay,” Abdul said, cutting in with his broken English. “Padang Padang good waves.”

  “See. I can handle it,” Zola said.

  “You know it’s not safe for you,” Alton added, concerned. “Why are you doing this?”

  “If you go surfing, I’m going surfing, too,” Zola replied, crossing her arms over her breasts with some newfound energy surrounding her.

  Alton and Adan looked at Zena for a response, but she shook her head. She certainly didn’t want to be on Adan’s side.

  “Don’t look at me,” she said. “I’m not her mama.”

  “But you know she’s not a good swimmer,” Alton argued.

  “No. I know she’s not the best swimmer, but she’s a good swimmer. She can surf like anyone else. She can do anything she puts her mind to,” Zena added.

  Zola looked over at Zena with a new awareness in her eyes.

  “Well, ladies,” Adan resolved, wisely turning back around to face the road ahead, “I guess we’re all surfing, then.”

  Alton sighed and stared at Zola. “I can’t believe you. You’re not ready,” he said.

  Zola reached over and slid her hand onto Zena’s lap, where no one could see. Zena felt Zola’s need for warmth and covered her sister’s hand with her own.

  * * *

  Abdul was right. The surf point at Padang Padang was like nothing Zena had seen: white sand stretching for miles against rolling waves that hit the shore unbroken and rough. Walking the strand to the surf shop, she watched bummy and new and professional surfers look out at the tide with privilege and expectation at a new wave coming in seconds. The beach was packed with sunbathers, too. Families of tourists had set up camp with beach umbrellas and coolers filled with overpriced imported beer they’d purchased from street vendors.

  Zena saw how someone could spend her life out here with the sun and wind and waves. This was someone’s heaven.

  In the dressing room at the surf shop, Zola was struggling to get into her wet suit. She stumbled about on the wet clay floor. There was no ceiling. The sun overhead felt like a heating lamp.

  “Getting a little thick, huh? Maybe you need a bigger size,” Zena said. She was already in her suit, smiling and sitting on a bench as she watched Zola struggle.

  “Maybe you need to kiss my thick ass,” Zola joked before giving the suit one final tug to get the zipper up. She exhaled to let her stomach loose and turned to look at herself in the mirror. “There we go,” she said. “All ready.”

  “Got that right. Let’s go show these Douglass boys how it’s done,” Zena said, standing to leave the locker room.

  “Hey, Z. You remember what you said in the van?”

  “What?” Zena stopped to look at Zola.

  “About me—about me being able to do whatever I put my mind to.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you mean it?” Zola asked.

  “Why are you asking me this? Of course I do. Don’t I always say that to you?”

  “No. Not the way you said it just now.”

  “Come on,” Zena said. “I’m always telling you that I believe in you.”

  “Yeah, but most times it’s when you’re trying to give me a pep talk—like to do something you want me to do. Not what I want to do,” Zola pointed out. “When it’s something I want to do, you say I can’t do it. Or it’s stupid. So, I always figured maybe you didn’t mean it.”

  “I mean it always,” Zena said, seriously feeling the weight of the moment. “You’re a bright and driven woman.”

  “Thanks for coming with me,” Zola said for probably the tenth time, but this one time it sounded different. And then she also repeated, “I couldn’t do this without you.”

  Zola linked arms with Zena and began pulling her to the shore, where Alton and Adan were waiting with their surfboards.

  “Hey, can I ask you something?” Zena started, hanging back a bit.

  “What’s up?”

  “Did—” She paused before saying “Adan,” as if maybe she shouldn’t be saying his name. “Did Adan like say anything about me?”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. Anything?”

  Zola looked off to recall. “He did say something about wanting to see you, like when we were back in Atlanta. He said he was trying to hook up with you, but you kept saying you were busy.”

  “He said, ‘hook up’?” Zena repeated.

  “No.” Zola chuckled. “That doesn’t even sound like Adan.”

  “I’m serious. What did he say? Like, exactly?” Zena pushed, while trying so hard to sound uninvolved, but her words and demeanor belied her intentions.

  “Just that he wanted to see you, I think. To get up with you. You know?”

  “Did he use the word date?” Zena stared at Zola as if her response could solve so many issues in the world.

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so.” Zola scrunched up her face. “Maybe. He could’ve.” Zola stopped pondering and looked at Zena. “Wait—why are you so concerned? You turned him down. Are you having second thoughts?”

  “Hell no,” Zena answered, hardly giving Zola time to finish her question. “I just wanted to know.”

  * * *

  Once the foursome was in the water and surfing along the beach break waves, it was quite clear to Zena
that Abdul was wrong about the skill required to surf Padang Padang. The water was aggressive and filled with barrels ahead—water tubes created by rolling waves.

  One of the instructors at the surf shop came out and gave Zola a short lesson, one Alton tried to avoid but then jumped in on because he clearly needed it after being knocked off his board a few times.

  While Zena strategically kept her eye on Zola, noting that she was doing rather well on the waves and holding steady on her board, she and Adan charged the clean waves toward the middle of the beach break. They raced out, paddling quickly on their stomachs to get in the lineup with the other experienced surfers. Sometimes, the waves came between them and Zena couldn’t see Adan, but when they subsided, there he was looking over at her smiling every time. She could see his brown arms moving around beneath the crystal clear water. He lifted his hand and pointed ahead toward the ocean. There was a barrel coming right toward them.

  They hustled to their feet. Zena found her balance more quickly than she expected. Right foot over left. Lean right. Lean left. Ride the wave. Breathe. Balance the water in her body with the sea. She couldn’t move against the water. If she did, she’d lose her balance. Come crashing down in the middle of the barrel, her body going one way, the board going the other.

  Then Zena found herself in the middle of the barrel, an aquatic house in icy baby blue and emerald green all around her. She was standing on her board, measuring her weight, redistributing, trying to stay in the water house, but then she let go. She wanted to see it. To stop trying to be in it—and just see it.

  She looked at the water spinning around her. Though it felt as if time had stopped, it was moving so fast, and this would only be her home for a few seconds. It was a magical moment for any surfer. Through the wave she could see the ocean, the shore. She looked to her left, and on the other side of a clear door of water there was Adan, standing upright beside her on his surfboard. His hand was reaching toward her. She tried to reach back toward him, but then the wave closed up and the sea spit Zena out in a yawn.

  She fell to her board and wrapped her legs around the body, a rogue move one of Zena’s surf instructors taught her to stop the board from spinning out beneath her.