It sounded like one of Lavinia’s sessions at Shakti; his wife had been in raptures over the prospect of a week-long bonanza of fertility yoga, spiritual decluttering and ecstatic dance. When she’d described the final night’s sweat lodge with other prospective mothers, Lorenzo had been forced to repress his laughter. He dared not even smirk, given Lavinia’s mood around the topic of baby-making lately, which routinely made her snap at him or dissolve into tears or both.
‘After the intimacy workshop,’ Pak Tony continued, ‘we will head out for our second fear safari, at Paradise Animal Sanctuary. Home to the largest collection of birds and reptiles in Bali.’
Annie blanched. ‘Reptiles, like snakes?’
‘Let’s just say it’s a great opportunity to challenge our reptilian brains,’ said Pak Tony. ‘The part of us that’s responsible for our fight-or-flight responses.’
Annie still looked concerned. Lorenzo didn’t much like the sound of it either. His only prior contact with snakes was as accessories: skinned for handbags and belts.
‘Any other questions?’ asked Pak Tony. ‘Remy? You seem quiet.’
The Frenchman shrugged. ‘I am thinking about parasailing.’
‘Oh, please don’t,’ the facilitator replied. ‘Overthinking is the antithesis of action. You will have Janelle for support tomorrow.’
The pair looked shyly at each other.
‘If there are no further questions, let’s take a short break,’ said Pak Tony, motioning to a door at the side of the room. ‘You’ll find all kinds of fresh juices and natural treats at the buffet. I highly recommend the chai-spiced energy balls.’
Lorenzo glumly followed the group to the door. He would have preferred coffee and cornetti.
A verandah outside was shaded by bamboo thatching, offering some relief from the blazing sun. Remy bounded towards the buffet and began piling food onto a plate.
‘I am starving,’ he said, dipping a handful of carrot sticks into a tub of hummus. He leaned towards Lorenzo and muttered, ‘It is only day one, and already I am eating more vegetables than I eat in a week in Paris. Raw carrots are for rabbits.’
‘Tell me about it,’ chimed in Janelle. She took a crisp stick of red capsicum from a bowl and bit into it. ‘Yum, yum.’ She and Remy laughed together.
‘Where is the coffee?’ asked Lorenzo, staring at a bowl of brown powder. ‘This is not coffee.’ He pinched some between his thumb and forefinger and sniffed it, flinching at the aroma.
‘It’s chicory root powder,’ said Cara, pointing to a handwritten sign behind the bowl. ‘A bit like dandelion coffee.’
Lorenzo wiped his fingers on a serviette. ‘You cannot make proper coffee from flowers.’
‘Lucky I’m a tea drinker then,’ said Henry, riffling through a basket of tea bags next to the hot water urn. His face fell. ‘They’re all herbal.’
‘See? Everything is good for us.’ Lorenzo walked to the far end of the buffet, where a range of fruit was displayed. ‘I am looking for something sweet.’ He selected a waxy red fruit from a large silver bowl.
‘Jambu,’ said a voice behind him, and Lorenzo turned to find Pak Ketut, the driver.
‘Ciao,’ he said. ‘You are back already. Lavinia made it to Shakti?’
‘Yes, it is not far,’ said Pak Ketut, watching Lorenzo bite into the jambu and screw up his face at the tartness. He laughed. ‘It is sour?’
‘A little.’ Lorenzo threw the fruit into a thicket of bushes beyond the verandah.
Pak Ketut followed it with his eyes. ‘Very special to our children,’ he said. ‘We call them temple apples. After important ceremonies, the priest will give jambu to the young ones. They are like candies.’
Lorenzo felt awkward now, for throwing the uneaten portion away.
Annie appeared beside them, holding a piece of the same fruit. ‘What did you call them?’ she asked the driver. ‘Jembut?’
‘Missus Annie!’ The driver’s eyes widened. He took a step towards her and lowered his voice, looking furtive. ‘Please, do not say that word again.’
‘Jembut?’
The driver flinched.
‘What does it mean?’
Pak Ketut leaned towards her and whispered, ‘The hair … down there.’ He gestured at his sarong.
Annie stared at him for a moment. Then she threw back her head and laughed. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘Lordy, I need some language instruction! Do you think you could help me, Pak Ketut? I’ve been meaning to take some Indonesian lessons for months. I’d be happy to pay you.’
The driver thought about this. ‘There is no need for money. I will teach you some Bahasa Indonesia in the break times. But you must promise never to say that word again.’ He grinned. ‘You shocked me, Missus Annie.’
As the pair continued to chatter, Lorenzo drifted back towards the buffet. He selected a rice paper roll; it was floppy and cold, filled with unappetising vegetables, but he was ravenous, so he shovelled it into his mouth anyway. As he chewed, he checked his phone and saw a message from Lavinia: Please call me as soon as you can.
He moved away from the group and stood under a frangipani tree, holding the phone to his ear. After six rings he was on the verge of hanging up, when Lavinia answered.
‘Oh, Lorenzo, I can hardly breathe,’ she wept.
Lorenzo didn’t panic. Lavinia was emotional at the best of times. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘The kinesiologist did some muscle testing on me this morning. She told me exactly why we’re not getting pregnant.’ Lavinia’s voice sounded strangled with tears. ‘My core minerals are depleted because I was so thin as a model. I starved myself for years. It was good for my portfolio, but ruined my fertility.’
‘You’re not as thin as you used to be,’ he observed. It was true; since concluding her modelling career, Lavinia had gained almost eight kilos.
‘I know, I know,’ she wailed, ‘but the damage was done a decade ago. I am so angry. Why didn’t anyone tell me that being a model might murder my future babies?’
‘Now, amore mio,’ he consoled. ‘I am sure there is something we can do.’
‘Maybe.’ She sniffed. ‘I am eating a banana right now.’
He smiled.
‘I have a nutrition plan,’ she continued. ‘Maca, cacao, coconut oil, almonds, bananas … these are fertility foods to help create a supportive internal environment for our baby. You will have to help me, Lorenzo.’
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I am a banana specialist.’
She didn’t laugh. ‘I really want a baby, Lorenzo.’ Her voice wavered. ‘More than anything I’ve ever wanted my whole life.’
He didn’t know what to say.
‘Did you hear me?’ she asked.
‘Yes, Lavinia,’ he replied. ‘I understand.’
But he didn’t understand, he’d come to realise. He’d never been struck to the heart by the charms of other people’s babies, never been visited by paternal pangs. Life without children seemed an entirely palatable prospect: a life of artistic pursuit and purpose without having to perpetuate his genetic imprint. There was nothing distinctive about having children, he’d decided; the whole world was doing it, like a pack of rutting dogs. Perhaps it was more courageous not to do it, in fact. But Lorenzo could never say that aloud. Certainly not to Lavinia, and not even to his closest friends.
‘Thank you,’ said Lavinia, calmer now. ‘I have to go, it’s time for my belly blessing. There’ll be flowers and holy water and a Balinese priest.’ He could hear that she was smiling.
‘I’m sure it will be perfect,’ he said, smiling too. ‘Everything will turn out exactly as it should.’ Such sentiments could soothe her, he knew. ‘Ciao, amore.’
He slid his phone back into his pocket and stood for a moment, transfixed by the fallen frangipanis carpeting the earth. Pure white stars, once perfect on the tree, their edges now brown and curling in the heat. Nothing in life remained unblemished. Everything was subject to the inexorable cycle of birth, d
egradation, death and rebirth. He stooped down and plucked a large white bloom from the ground. For a moment he held it to his nose, breathing in its fragrance. Then turning back towards the pavilion, he tossed it away.
HEIGHTS
We are going to die, Remy thought, trying to ignore the burning sensation in the soles of his feet. Standing on the scorching wooden jetty, resisting the urge to urinate in his swimming trunks. He wasn’t sure which was more disconcerting: the rusted metal harness into which he’d just been strapped, or the Australian woman who’d been clipped in next to him.
‘Would holding hands make you feel better?’ asked Janelle, laying a hand on his arm. ‘I’m not sure I agree with desensitisation therapy. You must be terrified.’
‘Non.’ He shrugged her hand away, too nervous to explain himself in English.
A smiling Balinese man on the boat, presumably the skipper, was attempting to start the outboard motor. The man next to him, with a zoom-lens camera slung around his neck, tried to help. When their vehement yanks yielded nothing, a third man stepped down from the jetty to assist, a cigarette clenched between his teeth.
Instantly, tsunami-mind assaulted Remy, black and white images bombarding his brain like a manga cartoon. He watched the slim sheaf of cigarette ash drift in slow motion into the diesel tank and, a moment later, the Vesuvius-like eruption that spewed their bloodied body parts across Jimbaran Bay.
Remy gasped and closed his eyes, just as the engine sputtered into life. The smoker climbed out of the boat and stood next to them. ‘Going soon, boss,’ he said. ‘Okay?’
‘Not okay,’ Remy replied. But the man paid him no heed; he was too busy talking to Janelle in Indonesian. She was clever too, apparently. Watching her converse, Remy wondered absently why she hid her shapely figure in such an ugly long-sleeved top and board shorts.
The Balinese man nodded at the boat, which was now puttering away from the jetty. ‘Good luck,’ he said. ‘Smile for photos.’ He pointed at the photographer on the boat.
‘Terima kasih,’ Janelle replied.
‘I feel betrayed,’ said Remy tersely, watching their towline unravel as the boat moved further away from the jetty. ‘You are supposed to hate flying. Why are you so relaxed?’
Janelle threw back her head and laughed, exposing the smooth flesh of her neck. It made a disproportionately strong impression on Remy, perhaps because of how little he could see of the rest of her.
‘Parasailing isn’t flying. And it’s very safe, on the whole,’ she said. ‘There aren’t that many accidents. It’s not like skydiving or hang-gliding.’ She adjusted her helmet, prompting Remy to fidget with his. ‘I’ve done the research.’
He grunted. ‘But that towline is flimsy. And our harnesses are worn.’
‘True. But most parasailing accidents involve on-shore landings and high winds. We’ve got neither today.’ She waved a hand at the aquamarine bay, sparkling like an exotic jewel before them. ‘Just look at that.’
Remy could barely appreciate it. ‘Why do you … ?’ He gestured at the thick white substance on her nose, mimicking applying sunscreen.
‘Oh, it’s zinc. Not very attractive, I know. But it’s the only sunscreen that totally blocks out the sun’s rays. If I get sunburnt, I just turn a nasty red and peel. I don’t have that lovely European skin of yours.’
Had she just told him his skin was lovely?
The towline was taut and completely extended now. Remy glanced nervously at the two Balinese crew members standing on the jetty behind them, holding up the red-and-white striped chute between them. The wind was making it billow in places and Remy scanned it anxiously, checking for holes.
‘I suppose Europeans don’t wear zinc?’ Janelle laughed self-consciously and, with her index fingers, began to smooth the clay-like substance on either side of her nose.
‘Non. French women never wear it. And they do not wear … what is that?’ He pointed at the navy-blue long-sleeved top she wore over her swimsuit.
‘We call them rashies in Australia,’ she said. ‘It keeps out the sun.’
Remy shook his head. ‘French women, never.’
‘Oh, I’m sure,’ she said, wiping her fingers on the back of her hands. ‘And French women don’t get fat. And their children don’t throw food. That’s what the books say, right?’
He couldn’t tell if she was poking fun or annoyed. ‘But that is not … Oh mon dieu!’
His words were drowned out by the thundering of the boat’s engine as it accelerated away from the jetty and out towards the open sea.
‘Pull back!’ yelled one of the crew members behind them.
Remy and Janelle leaned back together, resisting the pull of the towline. Remy also tried to resist the darkening tunnel encroaching on his peripheral vision.
A man bellowed in his ear, ‘Three, two, one. Go!’
Janelle tried to take a few steps towards the edge of the jetty, as they’d been instructed in their pre-flight briefing, but Remy was immobilised. A second later the towline dragged them both towards the edge and they tumbled off, their legs entangled. Remy felt his left foot touch the water, then suddenly they lurched up.
He screamed and gripped the rubber handlebars of his harness, screwing his eyes shut as they rocketed skyward. From some faraway place, he noticed he sounded like a girl. Janelle whooped gleefully and Remy was reminded of what a girl really sounded like. Even so, he couldn’t open his eyes.
‘Wow,’ said Janelle, after a while. ‘Remy, it’s so beautiful. Take a look.’
Remy was aware that they were no longer shooting upwards, and now that neither was screaming, a curious quietness had enveloped them. The boat’s engine was a distant purr. Little else was audible beyond the occasional rustling of the canopy stretched above them. It was a curious sensation, floating blind and almost silent, buffeted by the sea breeze.
‘Are you alright?’ Janelle asked gently.
‘I can’t open my eyes,’ he said through gritted teeth.
‘Well, don’t look out there.’ Her voice was close and kind. ‘Just look at me.’
‘I’ll … try.’ Remy turned his head in her direction and opened his eyes.
The blue sky framed her face, strands of hair clung to her zinc-covered cheeks, and her eyes were wild with exhilaration. The breath emptied from his lungs; she was the most natural beauty he’d ever seen.
‘You’re okay, aren’t you?’ She beamed at him.
He nodded and, tentatively, looked down. His hairy, stubby toes dangled side-by-side with her perfect pedicure. Below them, white-winged seabirds wheeled in slow circles, riding invisible eddies. Further down, symmetrical wrinkles moved across the great blue span and a foaming wake stretched behind their boat, like a long lace bridal veil.
Janelle extended her hand again, and this time he gripped it gratefully. ‘Merci,’ he murmured. ‘Merci beaucoup.’
They dipped suddenly as the boat turned, but ascended again when it sped into a straight. Remy’s heart thumped faster with the altered sensation, but he no longer felt as though he might faint. On the contrary, he was beginning to feel energised. He was seventy-five metres above the sea and actually starting to enjoy himself.
Grinning at Janelle, he flapped his arms. Then he threw back his head and howled, like a wolf at the moon. She copied him, and they exploded into laughter. They carried on like this for some time, yowling like teenagers.
After a while, when their laughter quietened, they simply floated together in wonder, suspended above the sea. The light reflected mirror-like off the water, but if he squinted, Remy could just make out the hazy forms of distant islands. The splendour of the day was upon him—or perhaps it was the endorphin rush of drifting so high above sea level—and Remy felt as if his body was comprised of sunbeams.
Exhaling with a long sigh, he stopped resisting altogether. Sinking into the harness, he released his grip on the handlebars and let his hands dangle at his sides. The boat began carving out figures of eight beneath th
em and Remy soared serenely through the long, languid curves.
After several minutes, the boat turned back towards the jetty.
‘You’re alright, aren’t you,’ said Janelle, more a statement than a question this time.
Remy nodded, surprised too.
‘Looks like we’re landing soon,’ she said. ‘Which is a shame, since you’re doing so well.’
In a moment of insanity, Remy felt like kissing her. Instead, he simply nodded, mute with euphoria.
The driver reduced the throttle and they drifted gently downwards. Remy drank in the moment. The unblemished sky stretching to the horizon, the golden arc of beach dotted with cheerful umbrellas, the coconut palms standing like sentinels along the coastline. And, close enough to touch, an intriguing Australian woman with eyes like rare gemstones.
A second boat, manned by land crew, shadowed them as they descended further. It pulled alongside just as their feet touched the water. The engine was cut completely, and Remy and Janelle splashed down into the sea. Two crew members leaned into the water, unhooked them from the chute, and helped them clamber aboard.
The crew members chattered in Balinese as the boat puttered back to the jetty. Remy and Janelle sat together in the prow, dripping and ecstatic.
Over coffee at a small warung on Jimbaran Beach, the group’s parasailing stories gained new embellishments with every iteration. The six of them sat on long wooden stools, watched by a wizened old woman behind the counter.
‘It was incredible,’ enthused Annie, sipping on her Diet Coke. She nudged Henry, who was hunched over a coconut, sucking out the juice with a bamboo straw. ‘I didn’t really want to do it at first, not that I’m scared of heights, or anything. But Henry talked me through it the whole way, didn’t you? And while we were up there, we spotted a … what was it?’
‘A great crested tern,’ said Henry. ‘Common as mud around these parts, but fascinating to observe from above. I’ve only ever birdwatched from below. I wish I’d got a photo of it for my mate Jim. He’d be green with envy.’
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