The Last Good Paradise (29 page)

Inexplicable also how everyone accepted her new authority and her wish to take control of things. Dex’s muse had been retired for all time. The confiscation of the
WILD
pendant had been prescient. Gone were the bikinis and short shorts, the leather corsets and platform shoes. She borrowed oversize T-shirts from Dex, and Ann’s lady-birder Bermuda shorts. She tucked her hair up under a baseball cap. Her new outfit announced Serious.

*   *   *

Members of Titi and Cooked’s extended clan began to arrive. Mostly by motorboat, they came packed in tightly like sardines, wearing colorful printed dresses and shirts in celebration, carrying baskets of provisions for the feast. Dancing, music, and singing started before they stepped on the sand. Loren borrowed a boat for supply runs. Ten people arrived in the morning. By nightfall, one hundred bodies had pitched themselves inside and around the
fares
, kitchen, dining area, and beach. From splendid isolation the place morphed to happy wedding/refugee camp.

Titi and Cooked got caught up in the celebrations, and now it was Wende rather than Loren who was the taskmaster.

“We need to rehearse, Cooked,” she nagged.

Her transformation included not flirting or even acknowledging their past relations, which made Titi very happy and Cooked morose.

“Remember,” Wende told him, “this is for the cause.”

He swayed, already too far gone on good wedding rum.

“I want a casting call. Bring all the biggest, strongest, meanest-looking guys you got.”

“They will be identified by police.”

“Way ahead of you—we’ll put masks on them.”

“It should be me,” Cooked said, posing for his martyr poster. If he could push soda sales, why not revolution?

“Not you. You’re the hero. You are the future owner of this resort. You can’t be the bad guy.”

“But—”

“I need to conference with Dex now, please.” She tapped her shapely foot, dismissing him. Another surprise—how enjoyable it was to work on a purely business level and not go to the personal. Indeed, after taking meetings with Dex, Cooked, Titi, and some of the male relatives about the casting call, after going over supply logistics with a haggard Richard, who was now overseeing food service for more than one hundred and fifty people, with another hundred threatening to descend on them, Wende and Dex retired to their
fare
, exhilarated and drained, but did not discuss the schedule for the next day, as was witnessed by about twenty nosy Polynesians peeking in through every available crack in the windows, doors, and walls.

The truth was they had nothing to discuss. They were both naturals, but Wende was only just realizing that there was no aphrodisiac like a job well done. After exhausting themselves on each other, they lazed postcoitally.

Dex lay propped up in bed as Wende straddled him, kissing him on the lips, then pulled away.

“Forgive me for what I’m about to do.”

“For what?” Dex asked as she hauled her arm back and slugged him as hard as she could, breaking his nose.

*   *   *

The count of the wedding party the next afternoon had ballooned up to somewhere north of two hundred and fifty people. The empty strip of beach in front of the resort now resembled a squatter’s slum. Tents had been erected, umbrellas and
palapas
stuck in the sand, corrugated iron roofs installed, buffet service set up in the dining area, latrines dug in the jungle center to accommodate the unaccustomed, unsustainable size of the island’s new population. Islands were fragile. One took everything one needed to them, left with everything on the way out.

*   *   *

The first broadcast was of a bruised—partly natural (see Wende), partly made-up (Wende again)—and fatigued Dex trussed up like a turkey, pushed along by a tribe of Polynesian men who looked a cross between scary B movie henchmen and Samoan gangsta rappers. There had been heated arguments during rehearsal: Richard and Ann thought the full warrior dress of grass shirts, anklets, armbands, and masks looked either like a historical documentary (think Rockefeller in New Guinea) or low-budget musical theater (Bakersfield dinner-house-theater version of
South Pacific
). The cast bravely elected to take off the masks and wear only headdresses. Although the main problem should have been that this now enabled them to be ID’d, instead what bugged Wende was that their peaceful expressions, their gentle prodding forward of Dex like a prized pig, gave the lie to their supposedly savage, brutal intent.

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.