‘If the person is no longer alive,’ he continued, ‘you can still write them a letter. Explain what they meant to you and how you plan to honour them in the future. We’ll discuss later what to do with that letter. But for the time being, just write it, then keep it in a safe place.’ He smiled. ‘Any questions?’
Henry raised his hand. ‘I want to call someone in England, but it’s quite early in the morning there. What time are we meeting up again?’
‘Four o’clock at the bird show. But don’t concern yourself with time zones, Henry. Take a chance.’ Pak Tony grinned. ‘Risk waking someone up, tell that person exactly how you feel. Be authentic and vulnerable, because that is how love thrives in the world.’
Henry was not at all convinced that Jim would appreciate an emotional declaration before sunrise on a Wednesday morning.
Pak Tony glanced around the group. ‘If there are no more questions, please complete your intimacy bridge and we’ll meet again in roughly thirty minutes for the Bali Birds of Prey show. Think of it as a reward for all your hard work today.’ He waved a hand towards the exit of the Python Pit. ‘It’s a spectacular demonstration of instinct. I’ve seen it dozens of times before, but I never get sick of it. The amphitheatre is a short walk from here. All of you may leave now, except for Lorenzo.’ He nodded at the Italian. ‘You and I will stay in the Python Pit a little longer.’
As the rest of the group began filing out of the Python Pit, Henry saw the Italian shake his head. ‘Are you alright?’ Henry asked in a low voice as he passed.
Lorenzo turned and, for a second, Henry saw untrammelled fury in his eyes. Henry recoiled, surprised to see the relaxed, cool Italian so unsettled. Why was he so angry? Then the Italian shrugged aimiably and Henry was left wondering if he’d simply imagined it.
Emerging from the Python Pit, Henry squinted in the glare. The afternoon was shimmering and cloudless, with a steady line of tourists still streaming through the iron gate at the entrance to the animal sanctuary. The Fearless participants began wandering in different directions across the grassy concourse.
Janelle and Cara moved towards a gift shop, pausing near a pond to watch a raft of brown and white ducks, with unusual crests on their heads, waddle out of the water and across their path. Remy headed to the public toilets again—Henry could only assume he was suffering from Bali belly—while Annie followed the signposts down a path leading to the amphitheatre, mushola and owl house. Henry pondered what a mushola might be, then spotted a drinks stall. A wiry young man sat behind the bright red wooden trolley; two large cooler boxes were perched on top of the trolley, shaded by a frilly-fringed umbrella. As Henry approached, the seller stood up and lifted one of the lids to display its contents.
‘Selamat siang,’ Henry said, inspecting the drinks. It was a greeting Cara had taught him.
The seller smiled. ‘You speak Indonesian?’
‘Hardly,’ said Henry, selecting a bottle of iced tea. Withdrawing a handful of coins from his pocket, he opened his palm to the seller. ‘I don’t know much about your money, either.’
He let the seller pick out the required amount, then glanced at the man’s name tag. ‘Terima kasih, Yanto,’ he said, and noticed the man’s eyes for the first time. One was slower than the other and partially closed. Henry wondered if it was a birth defect or the result of an injury.
‘You’re welcome,’ said the man, smiling again.
The Balinese are always smiling, Henry thought, but how can they be happy? People like Yanto, standing all day in the scorching sun, selling drinks to sweaty Westerners.
Henry looked down at the remaining coins in his palm and held them out to the seller. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘I don’t know how much it is, but you can have it.’
The seller looked confused.
‘Take it,’ said Henry, placing the coins in a pile on the second cooler box. ‘Consider it a tip.’ It couldn’t be much, he knew, and he certainly wouldn’t miss it.
‘Terima kasih.’ Yanto slipped the money into his pocket.
‘Kembali,’ said Henry, mimicking Cara’s pronounciation. You’re welcome. He began fumbling with the cap on his iced tea. Why are products wrapped in layers of impenetrable plastic? What has happened to old-fashioned screwtops? The world’s gone security mad, Henry thought.
‘I can do it,’ said Yanto helpfully, reaching forward to assist. With a single wrench, he broke both the outer and inner seals.
‘You are strong,’ observed Henry. ‘Stronger than me. Which part of Bali are you from, Yanto?’
The man shook his head. ‘I am from East Java.’
Henry recalled the words of the taxi driver who’d driven him from Denpasar airport some five days earlier, and his indignant tone when describing Javanese workers taking Balinese jobs.
‘Do you like Bali?’ Henry asked, swigging on his tea. It was far too sweet, but deliciously cold.
Yanto’s smile remained fixed. ‘I go back to Java soon.’
‘For work?’ Henry swallowed another few mouthfuls, then proffered the drink in Yanto’s direction. ‘Would you like some? You must be hot.’
Yanto shook his head. ‘I am fasting. I go to Java next week for Lebaran. At the end of Ramadan, our fasting month.’
‘You’re fasting now?’ Henry didn’t think he could survive a single day in the tropics without eating or drinking. ‘That must be quite a challenge.’
A tourist approached the drinks stall and Henry took a step back. She was dressed skimpily in a neon orange bikini top and tight denim shorts. Her skin was burnished copper, and her flat abdomen was studded at the navel with a glitzy green stone. So much of her flesh was exposed, Henry hardly knew where to look.
‘Coke,’ she said brusquely, thrusting a ten-thousand-rupiah note at Yanto.
He opened his cooler box, retrieved a well-worn glass bottle and passed it to her. ‘Fifteen thousand, please,’ he said, averting his good eye.
‘What?’ The tourist’s voice was indignant. ‘I’ll give you ten thousand.’ It was difficult to identify her accent: Russian, perhaps.
‘I am sorry, madam. It is fixed price.’
The woman sniffed. ‘That’s convenient.’
Henry couldn’t contain himself; his odyssey wouldn’t allow it. ‘It’s one American dollar,’ he said, smiling at the tourist. ‘You’d be hard-pressed to buy a soft drink for that price where you come from, wouldn’t you?’
The woman harrumphed and fished around in the pocket of her shorts for the additional five thousand rupiah. Finding it, she tossed the note onto the cooler box and turned to leave.
‘Excuse me, madam,’ Yanto said, his tone apologetic. ‘Please bring back the bottle when you finish, for recycling?’
The woman looked disdainfully at him. ‘That’s the most expensive Coke I’ve bought in Bali. I’ll decide what I do with the bottle.’ She flounced away, the curve of her buttocks visible below her tiny shorts.
Overcome with a desire to apologise on behalf of all Westerners, Henry held out his empty iced-tea bottle. ‘I’m sorry about that,’ he said. ‘She was very rude to you.’
Yanto took the bottle and placed it in a plastic vat behind him, waving away the flies that swarmed around the receptacle when he opened it.
‘We’re not all like that, you know,’ Henry continued. ‘Some of us just shouldn’t be given passports.’
Yanto turned back to Henry. ‘That lady has much money, but no modesty.’
Henry stared at him for a moment, imagining the inclusion of a human decency test in the issuing of passports. ‘Quite right,’ he said. ‘Well, enjoy your trip back to Java. If I keep going this way—’ he nodded at the path that Janelle and Cara had taken—‘is it very far to the Birds of Prey show?’
‘No, very close.’ Yanto seemed to hesitate. ‘But the show is … not so good. The birds do not always obey their trainers.’
‘Really?’ Henry recalled Pak Tony’s gushing assessment. ‘I’ve heard it’s spectacular.’
‘Better somewhere else, like Keramas Beach.’ Yanto nodded towards the park’s exit. ‘Only twenty minutes from here.’
Perhaps Yanto has seen the show too many times, Henry thought. ‘Thanks for the tip, but I’m meeting friends there. Goodbye, Yanto.’
He waved to the seller and followed the path, humming to himself. Feeling refreshed by the iced tea, relieved to have escaped the Python Pit, and buoyed by the prospect of speaking to Jim, he peered with interest at the enclosures he passed: eclectus parrots, wreathed hornbills, palm cockatoos, Pesquet’s parrots, and birds of paradise. None of the birds were particularly animated in the heat, but they seemed to be well cared for, with large perches and lush foliage for shade. Their feeder boxes were overflowing with papaya, banana and sweet potato, as well as protein sources such as eggs, crickets and caterpillars. Water was provided in small pools on the floor, mimicking ponds or puddles in the wild.
Then suddenly, he saw it, perched on a knotted branch at eye level. He checked the information plaque on the enclosure, just to be sure. He was right: it was a Bali starling.
He stood motionless, marvelling at its loveliness. A mere tuft of white, smaller and finer than he’d expected, and with a long drooping crest, black-tipped wings and graceful tail feathers. A fetching diamond of bare blue skin framed its eyes, giving it an ethereal look; he understood now why the Balinese considered it a symbol of purity and royalty.
He stepped forward to read more of the plaque. Less than forty Bali starlings remained in the wild, it said, despite recent releases from captive breeding programs. Poachers remained a major threat to the birds, whose gentle, trusting nature made them prized catches both locally and internationally. An additional handwritten note was affixed to the sign: It is breeding season. Bonzo and Rozina may be antisocial at this time.
Henry looked around the cage to try to spot the other member of the pair, but clearly the bird had hidden itself out of sight. Perhaps mating season wasn’t going so well then, he mused. Reaching for his mobile, he took a shot of the Bali starling and sent it to Jim. Then he checked the time: it was almost eight o’clock in Derbyshire now. Not too early for an intimacy bridge, he decided.
He dialled Jim’s home number. Within three rings, his friend answered.
‘Bigfoot!’ said Henry, grinning. ‘Guess what? I’m standing a metre away from a Bali starling. And he’s having about as much luck with the ladies as I do.’
‘Beets?’ Jim cleared his throat. ‘Where are you?’
‘Not in the jungle,’ Henry replied. ‘In an animal sanctuary. Some lovely birds here, too.’
‘But … why?’
Henry knew exactly what Jim was thinking: that bird sanctuaries gave non-birders access to the world’s avian exotica without them having to work for it.
‘I’m stooping to new lows. It’s actually part of this thing called Fearless, a fear-facing program I’m doing. Believe it or not, I’ve just held a three-metre python in my bare hands.’
‘Jesus, Beets.’ Jim sounded genuinely impressed.
‘And this morning, I had a tooth-filing ceremony.’
‘A what?’
Henry laughed. ‘Actually, I’m ringing because I …’ He faltered. ‘Been redecorating anyone’s place lately, Bigfoot?’
They laughed. Jim had a habit of rearranging items in Henry’s flat just to annoy him. The last time Jim had overnighted in Twickenham, Henry had found his neat canister of pens secreted in the vegetable crisper—two days later.
‘How are you, anyway?’ asked Henry.
‘Fine. Nothing to report. Nothing like what you’re up to, anyway. Just about to head in to work. Boring as shite.’
Henry hesitated, trying to summon the courage to say what he’d intended to. Yanto appeared on the path, pushing the unwieldy drinks trolley towards the amphitheatre, clearly pursuing the crowds. Henry nodded at him as he passed, but the seller didn’t respond.
‘Bigfoot, I’ve got something to tell you. It’s part of this Fearless program, so don’t worry if it sounds a bit odd.’
A streak of white behind some bushes caught Henry’s eye. An ivory peacock was scratching in the soil, its lacy tail feathers cocked in a magnificent fan.
‘It happened when I was holding the snake, you see,’ Henry continued.
‘When you were … holding your snake?’ Jim sounded incredulous.
‘Not my snake.’ Henry chuckled nervously. ‘They gave me a big python to hold, you see, then they asked, Who do you wish was next to you right now? And I didn’t think of Mum or Dad or Pam, or even Tessa the Titan.’ This was the frivolous name they’d invented for a buxom cashier at their local cinema, before Henry had moved away from Derbyshire to Twickenham. ‘I thought of you.’
Jim said nothing.
Henry listened hopefully into the silence. A group of Asian tourists strolled along the path, and he flattened himself against an enclosure to let them pass. Then he followed the peacock into a small garden with hedge-lined paths that led circuitously back to the concourse.
After an excruciating minute, Henry spoke again. ‘You there, Bigfoot?’
‘Yes,’ Jim replied.
‘Look, the thing is …’ Henry swallowed hard. ‘My family life was a bit off when I was young, with Pam’s kidney disease and everything. My parents weren’t really there for me—they couldn’t be, you know? Then I started birdwatching and you came into my life and it was like oxygen for me, Bigfoot. I could finally be myself. What I’m trying to say is …’ He took a deep breath.
‘You fancy me?’ Jim’s voice was tremulous.
‘No! Jesus, Bigfoot.’ Henry was mortified. Then he was struck by an appalling thought. ‘Why … do you fancy me?’
Jim snorted. ‘You’re too hairy for my liking.’
They both laughed.
Wandering back onto the concourse, Henry saw Lorenzo striding out of the Python Pit, carrying an envelope in his hand. Pak Tony had evidently forced the issue of the intimacy bridge.
‘You had me worried for a moment, Beets,’ said Jim.
‘Why?’ protested Henry. ‘Why can’t a man tell his best friend how he feels without being accused of wanting to sleep with him?’
Jim sniggered. ‘I’m used to the stiff upper lip, I suppose. Men don’t normally … talk like this, do we?’
‘Why not?’ asked Henry. ‘Women do it all the time. Telling their friends they love them and all that guff. No one assumes they’re lesbians, do they?’
‘Good point,’ said Jim.
Pak Tony emerged from the Python Pit too and began jogging in the direction of the amphitheatre. Spotting Henry, he grinned and waved before disappearing down the path leading to the bird show.
Henry paused next to an enormous, ancient-looking fig tree and lowered his voice. ‘You’re my best friend, Bigfoot. I love you, in a totally asexual bromance kind of way.’
‘Alright, that’s enough.’ Jim guffawed. ‘I feel the same way about you, but I never want to sleep with you.’
‘Understood,’ said Henry. Standing in the shade of the fig, he peered along the path after Pak Tony. Only a solitary Asian tourist remained, taking photographs of the albino peacock.
‘I’ve got an idea, actually,’ said Jim, with a mischievous edge to his voice.
‘Uh-oh.’ Henry wondered what was coming.
An excitable announcement over the PA system signalled the commencement of the bird show. Music blared in the background, punctuated by rousing applause. Henry didn’t want to be late for the show, but surely Pak Tony wouldn’t begrudge him a heart-to-heart intimacy bridge with his best friend?
The peacock turned around on the almost empty path and began walking towards Henry, pursued by the Asian tourist. Lifting a foot and pausing a moment, as if testing the earth’s solidity, before replacing it carefully on the cobblestones.
‘I’m thinking of joining you in Bali, if you’ll have me,’ declared Jim.
‘Really?’ Henry was surprised. ‘But … what about Beth? And
your job?’
A crackle of interference rasped in Henry’s ear and he jerked his head away from the phone.
In that same instant, it flew out of his fingers.
The sky pulsed with savage yellow light and a series of dull cracking sounds reverberated around the concourse. The earth rippled and a wall of flying debris slammed into him, hurling Henry behind the fig. He lay there in the dirt, stunned and winded, staring up at the dark green leaves and eddies of white feathers billowing around him. Plumes of dust clouded his vision, settling on branches and buttresses and his own motionless body.
Breathe, he told himself, realising that his mouth was wide open. A pall of dark smoke descended. All was eerily silent, bar a faint high-pitched ringing in his ears.
Breathe. His eyes were streaming. He closed his mouth and tried to swallow. An intense pain stabbed at his left shoulder, on which he’d fallen heavily. For a moment he fancied that Jim was standing in the curling smoke beyond the fig tree.
For God’s sake, breathe.
His chest heaved, and with a wheezing shudder, air and smoke and dust rushed into his lungs. A pungent, sickly-sweet smell filled the air, of scorched human hair and firecrackers on New Year’s Eve.
All at once, sound stampeded into his ears. The wild screeching of birds, the demented whooping of gibbons and the cries of human distress. And coughing and gurgling noises, of which he was the source. Suddenly he realised he couldn’t feel his limbs.
Whimpering with fear, he wiggled his fingers and toes. Warm fluid seeped down his legs.
I’m bleeding.
He lifted his head but could see very little without his glasses, which had flown off his face. He tried to scan his flattened body, his breath rasping. Seeing no obvious blood, he realised it must be urine he could feel. Judging by the dreadful screaming he could hear, others were not so lucky.
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