by Tatjana Soli
Dex chimed in that the kidnappers needed a modern, macho look—they should wear Western shorts and T-shirts, and the coup de grâce would be face paint that obscured their features and made them forbidding to look at. Unfortunately, the face paint still left them recognizable, and Cooked made an executive decision that he would not allow his friends to sacrifice themselves. Coconut masks, or the whole thing was off. An unforeseen benefit of the choice was that the eerie blankness of the masks, with their hastily gouged-out holes for eyes, nose, and mouth, made the men’s appearance far more menacing than anything else tried.
Although chafing at the sudden restrictions, Wende agreed, with the caveat that the men get a little rougher with Dex while on camera. She also wanted a longer lead-in with drums to accompany their entrance. The incongruity of there being a soundtrack for a kidnapping would be ignored. “It will create tension and suspense before anything shows up on camera.”
It was slipping into the realm of musical theater again, but Ann held her tongue because at least with all the distractions everyone was too happily occupied to consider leaving.
* * *
The first moments of filming showed the usual rolling waves, but the chosen day wasn’t the optimal blue and sunny as usual, but gray and overcast. Moody. A shower threatened to close them down that afternoon. Out of these lemons, Wende decided to make sour-lemon martinis. Why not a whiff of Polynesian noir, the dark underbelly, the threat, of the islands? She wished, briefly, they could move to the gloomy, cannibal-rumored Marquesas for better street cred.
Drumbeats, faraway, could at first be mistaken for static, or the pulse of fear in one’s own heart. As the sound became distinct, recognition turned to uneasiness. It was too loud, too insistent; this wasn’t your pretty, rhythmic hula dance. It was BAM … BAM BAM … BAM BAM! BAM BAM BAM! It was hard and close and dangerous. A gasp—the realization that this was the sound of war drums, conjuring up every old movie where fleets of canoes, paddled by painted savages, raced through the waters to do harm.
The drum players stayed off camera—one didn’t want to evoke the Copacabana—but four men, dressed in the abovementioned shorts, American-sports-team-emblazoned T-shirts, and eerie coconut masks, carried a heavy log that they proceeded to stake into the ground. Next came eight men corralling a visibly shaken Dex ahead of them.
“Why eight?” Ann asked, thinking it was overkill.
“Scarier,” Wende said.
Through the whole process, Ann was mesmerized by the transformation of this young woman. All that talent and confidence had resided inside the veneer of a Girls Gone Wild participant. Ann had no reason to take any credit, and yet she was proud as a mother. Guess what? To the eye and the heart, if not to the brain, eight burly Polynesian men were better than two or three trussing up Dex, a cross-dressing Joan of Arc, to the log. How had she known that?
Right before the first rope attached man to wood, Dex made his choreographed Escape Attempt. They were supposed to let him go so far that he was off camera; he would be dragged back, kicking and screaming, for a reentrance of maximal dramatic impact.
Titi’s favorite uncle, Aitu, was paralyzed with stage fright and almost missed his self-appointed cue.
He was the one who loved movies and always insisted on going to at least two or three Jackie Chan action pictures when visiting Papeete. He dreamed of being a stunt man and felt he had missed his opportunity during the most recent remake of Mutiny on the Bounty because he had been stung by a jellyfish the day before filming, leaving his face bloated. This could finally be his big break—he was part of the gang bringing Dex in—but he had not been close enough to even lay a hand on him, much less get a close-up. How was he ever going to get noticed enough to play a Polynesian hero, the John Wayne of Tahiti, like that?
As Dex staggered by in a dead run, head down like a football player, Aitu suddenly came to life and grabbed him, unscripted. It was stupid, he reasoned, that a man of his size, strength, and stature, a kidnapper and revolutionary, would just stand there looking good and watch this scrawny haole go by. In fact, it was so illogical it might make the whole sham abduction look phony. Aitu tackled Dex, who, startled, winded, hurt, looked at him with wide-open, terrified eyes. What’s this? Right on, Aitu thought, and punched him in the gut with all the power of his two-hundred-eighty-pound frame, crumpling Dex onto the ground in a little girlie puddle.
Wende bit her lip. This was going way off script, commando filmmaking; there was no “Cut,” no “Let’s take that again.” This was live guerrilla theater—scary, raw, but real. Besides, it didn’t look like Dex would be moving on his own again for a while, so the damage was already done, might as well film it. Only after he had to be held up in order to be tied to the pole, limply collapsing unconscious against the ropes, did she begin to have second thoughts. His nose (broken by her earlier) had started to swell and bleed again. How had they managed to tie him up anyway? Kudos. It looked like the too-tight ropes were causing welts; his limbs were turning bluish. Perhaps a little overzealous in the binding?
Let’s go, people, let’s go, Wende thought but could not say aloud.
The prepared speech, delivered by the cousin of a cousin of Cooked who had gone to USC two years on a football scholarship and spoke passable English, broken enough to be even more threatening, went off without a hitch: “The reason we have kidnapped the famous Dex Cooper is to force the government to stop ignoring us. Other tourists will be in danger if our demands are not met. We demand the French government pay compensation to the veterans, their families, and civilians for health issues caused decades earlier and hidden by the government. We will hold him for twenty-four hours before avenging…” Yada yada yada.
Boilerplate. The original intention was that the kidnapping would be played like theater, like a reality show, and the only lure for viewers would be Dex’s celebrity. They never intended for it to be taken as real. Rather it was just a way to get people to tune in and watch. A YouTube extravaganza.
For the finale, one of the “thugs” made a slow promenade to the camera, and when his menacing coconut mask was mere inches away, a gunnysack was lifted to cover the lens. The sound of a stick bashing metal could be heard, and the screen went dead. The first time the picture went blank in ten years. The act was so violent, Wende felt her mouth go dry. Her stomach was quaky inside as if she had eaten something from the fridge slightly past its expiration date. In reality, the stick was off camera, banging on a trash bin, because they couldn’t risk damaging the real camera. Then Wende simply flipped the power switch off.
“Buy me a Coke and a bag of popcorn,” Richard said. “We’re going to Hollywood.”
“That’s a wrap, people. Good job,” Wende said. She had the most exhilarating feeling of her young life. Nothing—nothing—compared with this. She forgave Dex all those lonely nights while he was composing.
* * *
After untying Dex, they made their way back to the resort and were greeted by crowds who were curious about the filming. The extras signed autographs. Richard went off to check food prep for the evening’s meal. Ann and Wende helped the hunched-over Dex to his fare, where he collapsed like a loose pile of bones onto the bed, from which he would not move till the next morning. With prodding, it appeared two of his ribs were broken.
“We need to call the hotel doctor at the main resort,” Ann said.
“We film first thing in the morning,” Wende countered.
“A checkup. They don’t wrap broken ribs anymore. Just in case you know, there’s internal bleeding…”
Wende said nothing.
“You can’t let him die or something,” Ann whispered.
Dex, eyes closed, listened to the women discuss him as if he were a wildlife rescue project. A low moan came from his throat.
“Don’t worry, honey bunny,” Wende said. “You’ll be fine.”
“You’re not a doctor,” he said.
“Impressive job today.” Ann paused. “Except…”
/> “What?” Wende asked.
Ann didn’t want to be a wet blanket, but it bothered her that no one much cared about the cause the video was serving. Even some of the Polynesians seemed more caught up in the production values than the human tragedy it was highlighting. Wende puckered as if tasting something sour.
“The truth is that if we get the job done, it doesn’t matter what we think.”
Ann looked doubtful.
“Maybe it’s a generational thing, but what’s so great about earnest and ineffective? I’d rather have the job well done. If this gets the government scared of the bad PR and it finally pays up—great! Emotion? Take it or leave it.”
“I better go,” Ann said.
“Wait.” Dex painfully moved up the pile of pillows a few inches so he was only semisupine. “Cooked and Titi’s wedding is going to be a big celebration, right?”
“Sure,” Wende said.
“Why don’t we tie the knot at the same time? You couldn’t ask for a better party. We’ll get a license back home afterward.”
“Great idea,” Ann said, sensing it clearly was not. “I’ll go discuss it with Loren.”
“Wait,” Wende said. She stared thoughtfully down into her unglamorous, khaki-clad lap. “I’ve been thinking…”
It was true. Wende had gotten caught up and was having too much fun in the production of their little video. She had forgotten the message, forgotten Cooked, Etini, and the rest of the clan. She felt guilty and, more important, unserious.
Ann edged toward the door.
Wende sighed. “I’ve decided to go home and apply to film school.”
“That’s okay,” Dex said.
“No, it isn’t. Because I need to be selfish these next few years. You’re a distraction. Your life is too big.”
She got up and went to him, sitting on the bed and pressing herself against his chest. Tears rolled down his face, maybe for Wende, maybe from the pain of his broken ribs—it was hard to tell.
* * *
As the wedding party settled in for a long night of drinking and eating, Wende and Ann found the “actors” from that day and paid them in dollars, crisp hundreds from Ann’s bag. They had been on the island long enough that the bills took on a kind of Monopoly-money unreality. The pay was both thanks and bribe to show up again early next morning.
When they went to see Loren, he was sitting at his desk, staring at a blackened monitor.
“How’s it going?” Wende said.
“My island is a disaster. My life’s work is ruined. What do you think, little Windy? Diable.”
For a moment, Wende tried to see things from his point of view, but what was the point since it got in the way of the project? “We’re going on camera again at sunup. Then you’re back to normal broadcasting. Waves and such.”
“Nothing will ever be normal again. Do you know how many viewers we had this afternoon?”
Both women shook their heads, plotting how to leave as quickly as possible.
“Twelve million!” Loren screamed.
“Twelve?” Ann seemed doubtful.
“Million!” Loren said.
“Oh my God.” Wende sat stunned. “Think about it. Our production costs so far have been about two thousand dollars. By the way, Loren, we’re going to pay you for the use of your camera. Two days filming, two thousand dollars, twelve million viewers. Maybe I should skip film school and go straight into production.”
“Did you watch it?” Ann asked him.
Loren nodded. “The best part was Dex being punched by that brute.”
Wende shot up out of her chair. “I’ve got planning to do for the morning. Ann, when you’re done, find me.”
When the two were alone, they sat in silence.
Finally Ann asked, “Would you like an absinthe?”
He nodded, and she went to pour, carrying two glasses back.
“So what do you really think?” Ann asked. In her opinion, this was strictly home-movie stuff, amateur hour. No one would be at all interested, except maybe cult followers of Prospero and Dex. But whatever. Let them have their fun.
“It’s a circus. It is your Gilligan Island. Who in their right mind would take any of it seriously?”
* * *
News of the abduction of the lead singer for Prospero by a lost Polynesian cannibal tribe made the front page across most major newspapers the next morning—a huge, above-the-fold picture of Dex, freeze-framed off the video, looking broken and forlorn. It had made the dubious leap from the entertainment to the news section. They had buried the lede of the story; only at the end was the disclaimer that the incident had yet to be verified. But a celebrity picture was a celebrity picture. Newspapers sold more briskly. Sales of Prospero downloads skyrocketed, as did bootlegged copies of CDs in third-world countries. It was a slow news week before the Memorial Day weekend, and the networks decided to pick up the story. Reporters camped out in front of Robby’s mansion in Malibu; videos were played on YouTube; MTV aired old interviews of the band. Bogus comparisons were made to Michael Rockefeller’s disappearance off the coast of Papua New Guinea, and his probable demise by headhunters, even though the circumstances of Dex Cooper’s kidnapping at a luxury resort in Polynesia weren’t exactly a good comparison.
It was sobering that the abduction had been taken for real.
“Should we do a service announcement stating that this is a simulated abduction?” Ann asked. “That it’s a PR dramatization to bring attention to a real problem?”
“We never made claims. Ride it out,” Wende said.
The writer John Stubb Byron was now being interviewed on Fox News for his insights into the troubled rock star Dex Cooper. He provided salacious details of excessive drinking and drug use that were unfortunately all true. The rest could be read in his upcoming biography of the singer, being rushed to press.
“He was my hero,” Dex said.
When the White House press secretary fielded a question about the abduction of American citizens on French soil, whether it constituted an act of aggression or terrorism, he had no idea what the reporter was talking about. He covered by saying they were currently looking into the situation. Then they had to hurry and actually look into it before anyone discovered that they had not. When the French heard the press conference, they inferred that they were being insulted for not taking care of business. They jumped on the story that they assumed from the beginning was false, but now, true or false, if Americans believed it, it had negative tourist value. The first order of business was to pinpoint where the transmissions were coming from and put an end to them. If this was a hoax, people would go to jail.
Wende was geek enough to know that it would take some digital camouflage to keep the transmission location hidden for any length of time, so she contacted a guy friend, a hacker from Cutthroat, who agreed to scramble and resend the signal from Idaho to slow things down in exchange for front-row tickets to the next Prospero concert in Idaho. Done.
It shocked them that the hoax was being taken as authentic. Unfathomable four thousand miles away on a sweltering desert island to appreciate the effect as the story gained traction and grew bigger by the minute.
Ann’s worries that the kidnapping video would quickly be seen as fake, a piece of agitprop theater, morphed into the more troubling fear that it would be seen as real. What exactly were the legal implications of perpetrating a global prank? She was beginning to suspect that, even if the media didn’t believe in the video’s legitimacy, that wouldn’t stop them from acting on the story—it dovetailed nicely with the prevalence of reality shows and the meshing of news and entertainment for ratings: infotainment.
Experts in Polynesian anthropology were called in to identify from the video footage both the island and the specific cannibal tribe supposedly holding Dex Cooper hostage. News sources were totally bummed to find out that cannibalism in Polynesia had effectively ended in the islands by the start of the twentieth century. The experts were able to surmise that the white s
andy beach was not characteristic of the volcanic rocky cliffs of the Marquesas, but was more likely in the south, possibly in the Society or Gambier island chains, or in the even more remote east of the Tuamotu Archipelago.
The costumes confused the experts even more, until one particularly iconoclastic female anthropologist from a university in the Pacific Northwest recognized the costumes from a Papeete dance troupe she had seen a few years back in Seattle with an ex-boyfriend. She supplied corroborating evidence in the form of promotional flyers and a captioned picture in the Capitol Hill weekly entertainment newspaper.
The French government, mired in a deflationary economy, with an increasingly hostile electorate, totally believed in the video’s power to ruin consumer spending, and contacted their branch colonial counterparts to rev up the French military (We are losing tourist euros every minute as we speak!), intending to launch a military rescue mission once the exact location was pinpointed. If it was real, or thought to be real, they would be heroes. If it was faked, they would haul the perpetrators to jail.
The resourceful American paparazzi beat them all. Someone had a friend of a friend of the resort manager Steve, who received nice monthly payments for reporting on celebrity sightings on the island (higher for women, the most for topless), and who had nothing to lose now that Loren had screwed him over on his commission for selling the motu to the conglomerate that owned the main resort.
A group of paparazzi, all of whom thought the video was strictly a publicity stunt by a has-been rock band, didn’t care because Dex’s picture made the story lucrative to the tabloids, not to mention a free vacation for them. They pooled resources to charter a jet to deliver them to Tahiti by early morning, followed by network newscasters in their own corporate jets, who blindly aped the paparazzi for the entertainment angle to combat falling ratings, followed by newspaper reporters on Air Tahiti, riding in economy (many using their own frequent-flier miles), who were the only ones who actually understood or cared about the politics of the video, but their stories had been bumped for years because nuclear poisoning wasn’t “sexy” enough. Dex’s presence had just made it a whole lot more so.