Lorenzo’s head bobbed forward and he whipped it back up, his eyes snapping open. The gelato disappeared. The room was still submerged in semi-darkness, as it had been the previous night, their first in captivity. Two rickety lanterns hung on thin bamboo poles near the entrance to the café, offering some illumination. But their batteries were clearly dying, as the light was growing dimmer.
That morning, the power had been cut to the animal sanctuary, presumably by the police. Without air conditioning or ceiling fans, the café was stiflingly hot. After sunset, Lorenzo had watched from his position near the kitchen, salivating, as the guards gorged on perishables from the refrigerators. They’d left the tinned and packaged supplies untouched for future use. But they’d continued to use their phones and laptops, even in the absence of electricity; they obviously had plentiful supplies of batteries and independent internet access.
But how long can the siege last? Lorenzo wondered. And, aside from cutting the power, what exactly are the Indonesian and international authorities doing about it? As each bothersome hostage was escorted away by guards—including Annie, who’d been marched away on the first night—Lorenzo’s fear that an orderly resolution was unlikely had only increased.
The captives had eaten nothing for more than twenty-four hours. Many lay weak and unmoving on the floor, stirring only to take an occasional cup of water administered by the guards, scooped out of a bucket. Since he’d seen the guards refilling the bucket from a kitchen tap—reserving the stocks of filtered water for themselves—Lorenzo had reduced his fluid intake. If the time came, he didn’t want dysentery impeding his ability to flee. It was the dehydration, no doubt, that had triggered the mirages—the flying marshmallows, vanilla gelato and nonna Marisa’s stuffed olives.
He tried to put out of his mind what might have happened to Annie after she was led away. Having seen no sign of Pak Tony or Henry since the explosion, he could only assume the worst: that they were out there somewhere amid the rank piles of rubble, their bodies swelling in the heat. Contributing to the putrid smell that now assailed the hostages whenever they relieved themselves outside, in the communal trench on the south side of the café.
Janelle was slumped in Remy’s lap in the opposite corner of the room, barely conscious and suffering from a head wound. Remy himself was haggard with exhaustion, but continued to tend to her: propping her feet up against the wall, cradling her head, keeping her hydrated. He’d fashioned a bandage from his shirt, which was completely soaked through with blood. Infrequently, Remy would glance in Lorenzo’s direction. The Frenchman’s eyes were hooded with anxiety, and Lorenzo wished he could offer something more than a discreet nod.
Sitting next to Lorenzo was Cara, still alert, caressing Tito’s hair. The little boy lay curled in her arms, sucking his thumb, his eyelids flickering as he slept. After saying nothing for hours, during which time Lorenzo and Cara had worried about possible internal injuries, Tito had finally yielded to Cara’s repeated questioning in Indonesian—Bagaimana adik? Kamu baik-baik aja?
‘Namaku Tito,’ he’d said at last, his round eyes brimming with tears. ‘Di mana ibuku?’
Cara had translated, her voice tremulous. My name is Tito. Where is my mother?
She had pressed the boy to her then, murmuring consoling words that neither Lorenzo nor Annie could understand. Tito had stared up into her face with awe and, sensing perhaps he could trust her, began describing something of his background. He was older than he looked—already five, it turned out—and from Java. Merely a visitor to Bali, on holidays, like them. His home was in Bogor, south of Jakarta, with his parents, grandmother, two sisters and a caged bird called Budi. His parents and sisters had been sitting next to him at the bird show, he told Cara.
During the long hours of captivity, Lorenzo had watched Cara caring for Tito. Crooning softly to him with unfailing cheerfulness, showering him with hugs and kisses, helping him with his toileting and, perhaps most impressively, repeatedly steering him back from the brink of tears so as not to aggravate the guards. Lorenzo was moved to see such powerful maternal instinct at work. He wondered whether his own mother had related to him in such a way; he couldn’t recall much tenderness. And would Lavinia be like this, too, if she had her own child?
Cara’s care of the little boy, and her fluency in Indonesian, had not gone unnoticed among the guards either, and they’d started permitting her to take Tito to the toilet block, rather than insist he use the communal pit. One of the guards—a slight man with a lazy eye—had even dropped a handful of prawn crackers into Cara’s lap during the first night. Tito had gobbled them up greedily, then nestled himself into Cara’s arms again and fallen heavily asleep.
Lorenzo envied the small boy this deep unconsciousness; his own fitful snatches of sleep were filled with tormenting and outlandish dreams. Of grand buffets set with enticing dishes that turned to steaming horse dung when he approached. Of Lavinia, like the dread Medusa, with vipers writhing in her hair. Of a winsome model, standing bare-backed in a field of wheat, who growled like an angry dog at Lorenzo. With sleep offering so little respite, Lorenzo had taken to studying the guards’ movements instead. Trying to determine a pattern, or a potential flaw in their security measures.
When they’d first been herded into the café, Lorenzo was certain he’d counted six guards. Since then, four had remained in view. A pair were always stationed inside the café, another two near the bamboo bridge just beyond the entrance. He could only assume the other two were positioned elsewhere in the sanctuary. Perhaps keeping watch—or sleeping—in the owl house, Lorenzo concluded after studying the grubby site map he’d found in his pocket. The map’s close-up image showed the owl house to be an elevated structure with no windows—to avoid disturbing its nocturnal inhabitants, presumably—and tall ventilation slits that would be useful for surveillance.
The guards he could see swapped duties at regular intervals—dawn, noon, mid-afternoon, sunset and just before midnight—or whenever a tinny recording of the Muslim call to prayer sounded from the laptop they used near the café’s entrance. At each rotation, the two men stationed at the bamboo bridge would take up tasselled prayer mats and disappear down the path signposted Mushola—50m, which led behind the café. They would return fifteen minutes later and pass the mats to the other two men inside. Lorenzo had a feeling that those two, after prayers, swapped with the external guards, who would then return to the café and take up position near the bamboo bridge. But it was impossible to confirm this, as it was difficult to differentiate between the guards with their faces partially covered.
In one of their quick, whispered exchanges, Cara had told Lorenzo that she’d tried to eavesdrop on the guards’ conversations, but her efforts were thwarted by their use of Javanese, which she didn’t speak. However, she’d overheard them listening to Indonesian current affairs coverage of the siege and, once, heard two of them speaking on the phone.
‘They’re getting instructions from the outside,’ she’d whispered furtively to Lorenzo. The idea filled him with foreboding: an authority beyond the animal sanctuary, manipulating the guards like marionettes.
Lorenzo closed his eyes now, wishing it was over. Wishing, too, that he craved more than a mere end to the siege; a loving reunion with Lavinia, for example. She would be beside herself, he knew, not knowing if he was alive or dead. Keeping vigil somewhere, praying for intercession, applying pressure on the Italian authorities. He felt sorry for the pain his predicament would be causing her, but sorrier still for his proclivity that prevented their marriage from thriving.
He sighed, recalling the moment of truth in the Python Pit. How Pak Tony had cupped his ear and asked him to imagine the person he most wished was next to him. To Lorenzo’s chagrin, he had not pictured Lavinia. Nor nonna Marisa, nor his ageing mother, nor his estranged father, nor any of his dozens of friends across Europe. Instead, Lorenzo had imagined his favourite young models—Pietro and Valentina—writhing together in the pit, snakes sliding across thei
r naked glistening bodies. And in the centre of that heaving mass, Lorenzo had seen himself. Pietro on his left, Valentina on his right, his own tanned skin a foil to their evanescent beauty.
It had been a reflex response to a simple query. But the electric thrill it had elicited in Lorenzo had left him raw and vulnerable, unable to respond properly to Pak Tony; finally, he’d declared he could not answer the question. When Pak Tony had pressed him further, Lorenzo had retreated. For how could he explain it to others, when he could barely articulate it to himself? Was it even possible to express, without debasing it, the liminal state in which Lorenzo had lingered for most of his life? His words would be too easily misunderstood, too readily misused by ignorant people who failed to grasp the nuances. Only Lavinia came close to comprehending his infatuation with the sensuality of youth, yet even hers was an imperfect understanding.
The only terms available to Lorenzo were those he refused to use, comprised of coarse syllables and unsavoury connotations. Like paiderastia in Greek, evoking the most questionable of social practices in ancient Athens and failing to communicate the wholesome, elevated emotions that characterised his friendships with young people. Nor did he acknowledge it as paedophilia, a tasteless, modern term. For all the intoxication of proximity with his models, Lorenzo never touched them. He probed them with his photographic lens instead, savouring the intimacy this delivered. But he never, ever, attempted to possess them. Gratification could only demean the relationship, he knew, destroying the delicate erotic frisson engendered by his own unfulfilled desire.
Carnal relations were reserved for Lavinia, therefore. The grunting and groaning of grubby exposure, the power play of command and submission. It was the status quo of most relationships between consenting adults, it seemed, each manoeuvring to fulfil their own needs. And Lavinia, without question, knew how to meet hers, guiding his hands and tongue, or grinding away on top of him until her frenzied shrieks made her pleasure apparent to anyone within earshot of their apartment. Yet for all the predictable peaks and release of lovemaking with Lavinia, Lorenzo remained conflicted. The world could not countenance his deepest cravings. And neither, in truth, could he.
For years, the internal discord had been manageable, eclipsed by a thriving career and his easy compatibility with Lavinia. That part of himself he couldn’t quite trust—the part that confused and sometimes repulsed Lorenzo—had been compartmentalised. Until recently, when Lavinia started talking about nursery renovations, hypnobirthing and organic vegetable plots, and subconscious fears that might hinder conception.
His fear was not subconscious; Lorenzo knew this long before his arrival at the Fearless retreat. Before Monsignor Fattori had laid hands on him in Vatican City, Lorenzo had known exactly what was troubling him. What if I desire our child as it grows? The idea was repugnant, making him withdraw even further from Lavinia’s inane chatter about pregnancy, birth and babies. But the more he retreated, the more she pursued him. Accusing him of falling out of love with her, of dodging commitment, of selfishness, perfectionism and narcissism. All of which was probably true, Lorenzo decided, unable to explain the real reason behind his reluctance and helpless to appease her.
Their vehement arguments, interspersed with periods of silent attrition, had worn him down. Finally, fatigued and miserable, Lorenzo had acceded to Monsignor Fattori’s advice: Take some time, look within. What harm could that do? Acquiescing to Lavinia’s excitement about the Fearless retreat, Lorenzo had quietly begun to hope—to pray, even—that somehow, on a far-flung tropical island, something might shift for him. But within days of arriving in Bali, Lorenzo had realised that change was not a destination. However many fear safaris, guided meditations or group therapy sessions he completed, one thing remained constant: him. When the Fearless retreat was over, when the memories of Balinese sunsets began to fade, when he and Lavinia returned to their refurbished art deco apartment in a much colder Navigli, he would still be there. Janelle had summarised it perfectly in her passion talk gone viral: Whatever’s on the outside, it’s always you beneath. Lorenzo was the permanent, despicable denominator in their lives.
He opened his eyes and turned his head from side to side, rubbing his itchy neck against an exposed wooden beam in the wall behind him. He was covered in mosquito bites; all of the hostages were. If they ever got out alive, they would probably all die of some tropical disease. Lorenzo glanced at Cara, who continued to fan Tito, ceaselessly waving away the insects that encircled him. That was selfless love, the likes of which he couldn’t comprehend.
Watching Cara care for Tito over the torpid hours of their captivity, he’d been compelled to consider a question he had never asked himself before. In all his interactions with young models over the years, had he ever harmed a child? By legitimising his desire under the guise of photographic composition: Squat down, open your legs, undo that button. Look at me as if you love me. Like you’re scared of me. Like you’re hurt. Letting his eyes linger too long, and always taking a souvenir from the shoot—a soft ballet slipper, a whimsical hair ribbon, a colourful singlet—which he secreted at the bottom of his underwear drawer. But he never touched his models, he told himself, not even once. Surely no harm was done?
Cara looked up and smiled at Lorenzo. It was, he saw now, a beautiful smile. Yet in the early days of the Fearless retreat, he’d been quick to judge the Australian woman. Internally recoiling from her shabby appearance, her severity. Even when he’d learned the reason for it all, at the water cleansing ceremony—how she’d lost her only daughter to drowning—Lorenzo had wondered if perhaps she’d grieved too long.
How wrong he’d been, he realised, closing his eyes in shame.
Lorenzo.
He opened his eyes again.
Lorenzo.
He blinked and looked around. The guards were changing over for the midnight shift, and Cara was leaning towards him. He tilted an ear towards her. ‘It’s Friday tomorrow,’ she said. ‘That means longer prayers at lunchtime. That’s our chance.’
Lorenzo stared at her.
‘Through the bathroom window,’ she whispered. ‘Annie told me about it, before she … went. I checked it when I was there with Tito. We can definitely climb up. There’s a gap between the toilet block and the external wall, but it’s manageable. We can escape into the car park.’
He frowned, recalling the height of the wall around the perimeter. ‘It’s too high.’
‘Would you rather wait to be shot?’
Lorenzo glanced furtively at the guards. ‘But I haven’t heard any shots … they may not be killing the hostages they’re taking away.’
‘What else could they be doing?’ asked Cara. ‘Giving them a meal and a hot shower? They’re getting rid of the difficult ones, Lorenzo. Just as they did with the staff.’
Lorenzo winced. The group of staff members they’d glimpsed sitting with their hands behind their heads, immediately after the explosion, hadn’t been seen since.
‘Cazzo,’ said Lorenzo, losing his cool and raising his voice. He had no prior life experience that could help him make informed judgements now.
Two guards, newly arrived from their posting beyond the café, suddenly turned and looked in their direction. Cara began rocking Tito back and forth, shushing and patting him. The ruse seemed to work, as the guards resumed their conversation.
‘We have to escape,’ whispered Cara, out of the corner of her mouth.
‘But how?’ Lorenzo whispered back.
Cara focused her gaze on Tito as she spoke quietly. ‘At the midday changeover, the guards who finish on the bamboo bridge will go to the mushola to pray—for about half an hour, because it’s Friday. It’s fifty metres away, so there’s our chance. During prayers there are just two guards on duty here. We’ll have to distract them, then get everyone out through the bathroom.’
‘Distract two guards for thirty minutes?’ Lorenzo shook his head at the folly of it. ‘And what about the owl house guards? There’ll be another two guards there—and
they must be armed.’
Cara leaned closer. ‘I’ve checked and I can’t see the owl house from the toilets. If we can’t see them, they can’t see us.’
Lorenzo retrieved his site map and studied it in the dim light. Cara was right, the amenities block was a potential blind spot, obscured by the mushola and a large Birds of Papua aviary.
‘But … free everyone?’ He motioned to the hostages, some of them injured, many seemingly resigned to their fate.
‘We’ve got twelve hours to get the message around the room,’ whispered Cara. ‘We just have to figure out how to distract the guards.’
‘It’s a crazy idea,’ said Lorenzo sharply.
Cara looked crestfallen. She lowered her head and continued to fan the sleeping Tito.
After a moment, Lorenzo sighed. ‘Let me think about it.’
She implored him with her eyes, but said nothing more.
Overwhelmed by the enormity of the task before them, Lorenzo closed his eyes once more.
Under a groggy blanket of half-sleep, Lorenzo saw himself, four years earlier. Dialling a men’s health hotline, six months into his relationship with Lavinia.
‘How can I help you, Luigi?’ asked the voice at the other end of the line. He’d given a false name and location, fearing he might be traced.
‘I think I’m … attracted to children,’ Lorenzo said. ‘Girls and boys. In their early teens.’
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