Mortified, he looked away. He had suffered humiliation, he’d thought, in the tower at La Défense. But this was the definition of true humiliation, a life with no choice but to relieve yourself in public. Remy’s eyes began to sting with the burgeoning realisation of his own privilege. He’d lived his entire life in the seventh arrondissement of Paris, fortunate enough to be born into a moneyed family. No opportunity had ever been denied him, except for the ones he sabotaged himself—as he’d done so comprehensively two months earlier.
‘Where I come from,’ Remy said quietly, turning back to Janelle, ‘there is no trash in the street. Everything is so … orderly. The Métro arrives on time, we don’t have to wait for anything. Except maybe for fresh baguettes at the bakery, but that is easy because everyone stands nicely in queues, you know? Not like here.’ He waved a hand at the motorists surging forward en masse. ‘I can see now how lucky I’ve been all my life. Without ever really truly appreciating it.’
Janelle’s eyes shone with recognition. ‘I feel that too.’
‘What I have in Paris, compared to what the people have here is …’ Indecent, he thought, shaking his head.
He cast a sidelong glance at Janelle, wondering how she might react if she knew the extent of his affluence. If he told her how, when he’d graduated with honours in economics from Dauphine a decade back, his parents had given him an entire floor of their apartment building in Saint-Germain-des-Prés. Just as they’d done for Camille when she’d completed her law degree. Remy had since acquired the Marais studio with the proceeds of his own hard work, but in all those years of striving, he’d never had to worry once about how to feed himself. In the world beyond the bus window, Remy could see, nothing came easily: food, shelter, work, or even basic human dignity. The poorest people of Bali were battling far more pressing problems than trifling aversions to heights or flying.
‘Janelle,’ he murmured. ‘I look out there, I see people just surviving. While we Westerners are worried about first-world problems. How many Balinese have ever gone parasailing or flown in an aeroplane?’
‘Hardly any, I imagine,’ Janelle said. ‘It’s too expensive.’
‘Exactly,’ said Remy, his disquiet growing. ‘People like us, we’re just wasting time. We should save up our fear for when something really goes wrong. We need to start living again.’
And caring again, he thought, watching Janelle nod in emphatic agreement. Why did I stop caring?
When he was at Dauphine, he’d harboured all manner of undergraduate dreams for a better world and thoughts as to how he might contribute to it. But these public-spirited goals had been increasingly sidelined during his decade of career development, his focus redirected from social equity to company equity schemes. The shift had gone unchallenged, he realised now, by a network of family and friends whose life philosophy was, for the most part, oriented towards the pursuit of security and comfort. It was a common and understandable desire, especially when children were involved, but did that make it right?
Remy stared out the minibus window at the potholed roads, dangerously low powerlines and newly built Western-style villas advancing like cancer across rice fields. Pak Ketut had told him that most of these villas were actually foreign-owned, the tyranny of Western wealth encroaching on prime agricultural land. What might this unstoppable advance of globalised growth be doing to local people and cultures?
Remy sighed, unable to answer his own questions. Being in Bali was reminding him of an uncomfortable truth: that the pursuit of wealth rarely occurred in a vacuum. That the very action of getting ahead invariably meant that others were left behind.
Janelle stood in front of the group, fidgeting with the cuffs of her blouse. She wore unusually warm clothes for the tropics: a long-sleeved shirt, blue jeans and, oddly enough, white cotton gloves, a beanie, a scarf, and a pair of fluffy boots. Remy was struggling to keep his t-shirt on in the heat, but this layered outfit was obviously part of Janelle’s passion talk. Positioned next to her, facing the audience, was a standing easel with a ring-bound set of laminated cardboard sheets resting on it. Handwritten in large letters on the cover sheet were the words For Bella.
Janelle nodded at Remy, and he bent down and activated an MP3 player placed beneath his chair, with speakers attached. Then he held up his iPhone and pressed record.
As the opening bars of Taylor Swift’s ‘Fifteen’ sounded, Janelle looked directly at the phone. ‘You’re fifteen, Bella,’ she said, over the strumming of country guitar. ‘Let me show you what I’ve learned at twenty-nine.’ She moved to the easel and turned over the first cardboard sheet, revealing the words:
The brain inside my head outshines the style of my hair.
Smiling shyly at the group, she removed her beanie and shook out her long hair. Annie gave a little cheer, but Remy wasn’t exactly sure why. Then, moving her head in time to the music, Janelle turned over the next cardboard sheet.
Sometimes a girl has to stick her neck out to be true to herself.
She started unwinding her scarf, a tinge of pink creeping up her cheeks, and tossed it aside. Then she began peeling off the gloves, one at a time. She turned over the next sheet, then held up her hands and fluttered her fingers.
These fingers aren’t manicured, but they’ve held the hands of the dying.
Cara clapped, and several others joined in. Janelle’s eyes glistened, and Remy wondered if the hands she’d held had been those of her father.
She fumbled with the buttons of her blouse and Remy’s eyes widened as she tugged it open. It fell to the floor, revealing a flimsy white camisole.
My heart is so much fuller than these breasts will ever be.
Henry whooped and whistled and Remy stared at him, hard. Janelle closed her eyes, as if to block out her audience, and began to sway rather stiffly. But slowly her face relaxed a little, and her movements became freer too. When she opened her eyes again, Remy beamed at her, trying to communicate the extent of his admiration. To his great relief, she smiled back, ignoring Henry altogether.
After turning over the next sheet, she lifted the edge of her camisole, revealing the luscious curve of her waist.
This belly’s not a washboard, but it can grow a miracle inside it.
Remy’s mouth went dry and he had to concentrate to hold the phone steady. The camisole floated to the floor and she stood before them in a white bra. Then she reached down and unzipped her jeans.
Why analyse the size of thighs—yours or mine?
She waggled her hips a little; then, turning her back on the group, slid the jeans down over her thighs. She playfully poked out her bottom and flipped over the next sheet.
If my butt looks big in this, the earth will keep on spinning.
(Because it’s not a race for winning, those magazines I’m binning, and I’ll just keep on grinning!)
Remy forced himself to chuckle along with the rest of the group, watching Janelle gyrate in white knickers.
She sat down on the ground, kicked her feet up in the air and wrenched off the jeans and fluffy boots. Pitching them to one side, she stood up and began to dance around the room. The group cheered her on, as she flipped over further pages at intervals:
Your body is a friend, I’ve learned, and one worth treating well.
Starvation is punishment, a type of living hell.
Does the world need thinner bodies, stronger muscles, whiter teeth?
Whatever’s on the outside, it’s always you beneath.
As the final bars of ‘Fifteen’ echoed around the room, she looked straight at Remy and the camera and formed a heart shape with her hands.
A stunned silence followed. Still standing in her underwear, Janelle lowered her eyes.
Suddenly, Annie leaped up and hugged Janelle, enthusiastically congratulating her. Cara followed, smiling broadly and murmuring appreciation. Pak Tony stood up next, moving towards Janelle as she hurriedly pulled on her jeans and blouse. When she was dressed, he enfolded all three women in his tanned
arms.
‘That was truly inspiring, Janelle,’ he said, then turned to the men of the group. ‘Wasn’t it wonderful?’
‘Stupendo!’ said Lorenzo, stepping forward to kiss her on both cheeks, while Henry shuffled forward and muttered, ‘Good job.’
Remy simply stood gazing at Janelle, not trusting himself to speak. When she looked at him, he pretended to check the video on his phone and then, rebuking himself as a coward, propelled himself forwards. But before their bodies could connect, he aborted the embrace. If he actually touched her, the whole room might know. He shook her hand clumsily instead. ‘I’ll upload it to YouTube from my phone, if you like.’
‘Oh, yes, please,’ she replied. ‘For Arabella to see.’
She smiled at him and her mouth kept moving, but he couldn’t take in the words, distracted as he was by her dazzling eyes, her bewitching beauty spots and the comfortable weight of her hand in his.
Suddenly it occurred to Remy that he had spent years—no, decades—of his life preoccupied wih banalities. But within thirty-six hours of meeting this spirited Australian woman—who not only cared about social issues but was courageous enough to try to change them—the extent of his own inaction had been exposed.
With a shiver of recognition, Remy dropped Janelle’s hand. He would never be indifferent again.
Later, after Annie had delivered her passion talk, entitled ‘The Dogs of Bali Matter’, Remy followed the others back to their accommodation block comprised of six adjacent rooms. All on the ground floor, with individual balconies overlooking an expanse of landscaped garden.
‘I’m off to Petulu with Pak Ketut now,’ announced Henry, as they crossed the neat lawn towards their rooms. ‘Does anyone want to join me? It’s only a twenty-minute drive.’
‘What’s interesting about it?’ asked Annie.
‘Well, apparently at sundown every day about five thousand wild herons fly along the main street. It’s supposed to be amazing and incredibly noisy.’ Henry shook his head. ‘In England a heron is a rare sight. I can’t imagine five thousand of them at once.’
‘I’m in, then,’ said Annie. ‘Do I have time to freshen up first?’
‘Of course,’ said Henry, stopping outside the door to his room. ‘But I daresay the birds won’t care what you look like.’
‘It’s not the birds I’m concerned about,’ said Annie, with an enigmatic smile. ‘I’ll meet you in the foyer in fifteen. Have a nice night, everyone,’ she called, before disappearing into her room.
‘Would anyone like to …’ Remy glanced at Janelle, then at the remaining members of the group, ‘have a drink on my balcony?’
Lorenzo looked apologetic. ‘I am visiting Lavinia at Shakti tonight for a couples ceremony. Tomorrow maybe?’ He opened his door. ‘Ciao.’
Cara shook her head too. ‘I’m tired. I’m just going to order room service and go to bed early. See you tomorrow.’ She retreated into her room.
Remy looked hopefully at Janelle.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but I need to call my brother and find out how Arabella’s doing today.’ She inserted her swipe card and pushed her door open.
Remy tried not to look disappointed. ‘I will upload your clip to YouTube tonight.’
‘Oh, thank you. Remember to …’ Remy could hear Janelle’s mobile phone ringing in the room beyond. She glanced over her shoulder. ‘Excuse me.’
‘No problems,’ he called, as the door slammed in his face. Remy stood there a moment, staring at the beige-coloured paint peeling in places around the doorknob.
Imagining, for a ridiculous few seconds, following Janelle inside.
What are you afraid of? Lorenzo’s words were audible over the tinkling of the holy man’s silver bell, but Cara continued to feign deafness. Staring into the deep pool of murky water into which she was supposed to slide, fully clothed, for a Balinese water cleansing ceremony, Cara heard the Italian repeat his question, louder this time.
They were the last two scheduled for the water cleansing. According to the presiding priest, the ritual would cleanse them of any residual fears from past lives and unnecessary anxieties in the present. Already they’d watched Remy then Janelle being blessed and submerged, followed by Henry and then Annie. When Lorenzo was midway through his ceremony, a tropical downpour caused the priest’s attendant to send the others away.
‘Hujan deras,’ she explained from under the plastic canopy shielding herself, the priest and their holy objects. ‘Heavy rain will make you sick. Go now.’
This had prompted the others, already wet and shivering, hurrying towards the changerooms for hot showers and dry clothes.
‘We will wait on the bus with Ketut,’ Pak Tony had called, before following them.
For reasons unclear to Cara, Lorenzo had stayed on after the completion of his ceremony to watch hers.
He lingered next to her now on the uneven, stony edge of the pool. His t-shirt was plastered across his chest, still wet from his submersion. The sarong tied at his waist showcased sculpted abdominal muscles, and his hair was slicked back into artful waves above designer aviator sunglasses. His entire body—as far as Cara could tell—was tanned and hairless. Were they born that way in Italy, she pondered, or did Lorenzo wax it all off? Whatever the answer, the Italian evidently engaged in far more personal grooming than she did.
A young Balinese woman, the priest’s attendant, materialised beside Cara and commenced the blessing. The woman’s elegant hands weaved around Cara’s face, setting flowers behind her ear, flicking holy water across her hair; she then poured a little of the water into Cara’s hands for her to sip from, and finally pressed uncooked grains of rice against her forehead.
Cara closed her eyes, tense and overwhelmed by the memories bombarding her. Locals said the pool’s depth was unknown, that it changed according to the whim of the tonya, a community of spirits who inhabited the river area that fed the sacred pool. The tonya were responsible, it was said, for the disappearances of at least a dozen children in the vicinity of the ravine.
How convenient, Cara mused, to be able to blame a supernatural cause for your child’s death. Rather than having to endure the crushing weight of your own guilt, like a prison sentence, for the term of your natural life.
She opened her eyes and stared at the swirling waters, wondering for the umpteenth time why she’d agreed to enrol in Fearless at all. She’d been pestered into it by Jasmine, the vivacious Canadian yoga teacher who’d become one of her few friends in Bali. If ‘friendship’ was even the right term for it. More than once, Cara had wondered if every expatriate connection she made here was merely a relationship of convenience, a camaraderie born of mutual foreignness.
‘Miss Cara,’ announced the Balinese attendant, ‘it is almost time to enter the water.’ The sound of the ceremonial bell grew louder.
‘Ready?’ Lorenzo asked Cara. ‘It’s colder than the ocean.’
Yesterday’s parasailing splash-down had been shock enough, but this murky, brown pool mimicked Manly Dam itself. The place where her beautiful one-year-old baby girl, Astrid, had accidentally wandered into the water. When would Cara ever be ready? She turned towards the Italian, ignoring her heaving stomach. Feeling drawn towards the water, as if by invisible hands.
‘You look unwell,’ said Lorenzo, frowning. ‘What are you afraid of?’
There it was, that question again.
‘Is it the water?’ he persisted.
Until four years ago, Cara had simply viewed water as a basic element of human life. She’d written extensively about droughts and water crises in the developing world, particularly in Africa, where she’d spent several years early in her journalistic career. Beyond that, she’d enjoyed water as a benign gift of nature, packaged in inviting forms like misty rain or cascading waterfalls, plump cumulus clouds or delicate snowflakes. How radically this easy relationship with water had changed forever, on the day of her daughter’s first birthday party.
Cara closed her eyes again
, shutting out the malevolent pool in front of her. The rocks, the mud, the reedy vegetation were all evocative, somehow, of that terrible day. She could remember, too, all the busy preparation beforehand, the idle worries about the weather and the last-minute discussion of alternative venues in case of rain.
But then a perfect day of sunshine had dawned, so bright it expelled all concerns. Hours of delight had followed, of champagne and laughter and photographs of giggling children, and flippant conversations about imagined futures. Little had Cara known that beneath that shining mirror of a day, danger lurked. Until it was too late.
She opened her eyes, but the image of that day didn’t disappear. Instead, the rustling sound of the steady rain in the jungle canopy above became the billowing of Astrid’s party skirt as she wandered into the water. The mossy rocks on the river bed were the last things Astrid saw before she slid into the incomprehensible gloom. The insistent, buffeting wind around her was Astrid’s final, gasping breath. The cloudy ripples on the water’s surface became a shroud of death that spirited away her rosy-faced daughter, returning instead a cold, blue-lipped corpse.
Unaware of anyone around her, Cara plunged forward. The water rose up to meet her, slapping her face and soaking her sarong, scarf and kebaya. She was sinking in her clothes, but she did not resist. She merely opened her eyes and blinked at the amorphous shapes beneath the surface. Bubbles rushed from her lungs with a queer, distorted sound, grazing her ears as they streamed past. When the bubbles finally stopped, she simply hung in the aquatic calm, her limbs drifting apart, as if disconnected from her body.
A splashing sound shattered the peace and hands grabbed her waist, hauling her upwards. They broke the surface together and Cara gasped for air. The priest and his attendant rushed forward, their faces alarmed.
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