The Paradise Guest House (3 page)

Jamie puts her fork down. The sound it makes against her plate reverberates in the quiet garden.

Dewi retreats a few steps, then turns and walks away.

A blackbird perches on the edge of the table, and Nyoman swats at it. It flies away, squawking.

“I am so sorry,” Jamie says finally. Of course, that’s why he’s a host. There are so many of them. Widows. Widowers. Survivors.

She closes her eyes and sees the face of a blond Australian girl, her mouth open in an unending scream that still pierces Jamie’s sleep. The girl’s dress caught a lick of fire from a burning wall, and in an instant she was consumed by angry flames. Jamie pushes the image from her mind.

“My wife will come back to me another time,” Nyoman says, his voice cheery. “Perhaps as my child.”

“The Balinese believe in reincarnation?” Jamie asks. She should know. She should have learned about Bali. But she has kept herself busy, trekking in Chile, in Morocco, in Bhutan.

And then she remembers an evening on the beach when Gabe explained the Balinese belief in reincarnation. His voice
was soft in her ear, and all around them candles flickered in the dark night. The moment fades as quickly as it appeared. Maybe that’s why she can’t trust her memory of Gabe. It’s as hard to catch as a lightning bug. And yet she feels the weight of it, pressing on her.

Nyoman clears his throat. “Yes. Children are the reincarnation of their ancestors,” he tells her.

“And that helps you in your loss?” Jamie asks.

“Yes,” he says. “But there is still a small hole inside me that reminds me I am alone when once I was a man with a beautiful wife.”

Jamie stands under the shower for a long time. Sleep will not come, and yet it’s already two
A.M.
When the hot water runs out, she lets the cold water sting her skin. Then she towels off and lies naked on the bed.

There’s a fan overhead and it clicks as it circles, as if it catches on something. Jamie’s mind keeps getting caught on something, too. How did she escape memory for so long? She’s an expert at her job, Queen of Constant Motion. Her tour guests ask for longer hikes, higher mountains, more-challenging rivers, and she says:
yes, yes, yes
. They’re adrenaline junkies, and the minute the high wears off there’s another adventure that beckons.

Now she lies still, like a dead woman. No, if she were dead, her mind wouldn’t race like this. Her heart wouldn’t drum in her chest.

Her skin is slick with sweat. Why doesn’t the damn fan create a breeze in this room?

Miguel pushes his way into her consciousness. She can almost see that petulant scowl on his face.
Remember me
.

She had come to Bali with him a year ago, crazy in lust with the Chilean guide she had met in Torres del Paine six months before. She had convinced him to come along on her business trip—all the hotel rooms were paid for, and she had enough frequent-flier miles to get him a free flight.

She remembers sex in the large white bed in the large white villa at the luxury hotel in Seminyak. A swim in their private pool. A monkey leapt on the wall separating their villa from the one next door. He watched them making love on the futon, poolside. When they were done, he jumped up and down as if applauding. Somewhere there’s a photo of that monkey, stashed deep inside a box that Jamie never opens.

She and Miguel hiked Mount Batur on their second day in Bali. A local guide picked them up at one in the morning to make the long drive to the volcano. The guide spoke little English—the three of them silently climbed the trail in a cool darkness that thrilled Jamie. Our tour guests will love this, she thought. They reached the top of the mountain at six in the morning, just as the sun broke the horizon. The vivid green landscape of forest and rice paddies brightened with the first rays of sunlight.

On the way down the mountain, Jamie and Miguel ditched the guide. When they came to a waterfall, they stripped off their clothes and swam in the cold basin at its base. Miguel led her behind the curtain of water and they found a cave there, sheltered from the spray. They ducked inside and watched the water tumble in torrents in front of them. The sound was astonishingly loud and urgent. And yet there was something so
peaceful about their hideaway. When Miguel kissed her, she thought: Can I love this man?

Above her, the fan whirs and clicks. Whirs and clicks. Her mind catches on memories, halts, drags, and then moves on.

A noise wakes her. Someone’s tapping on the door, a light, insistent sound. She feels the hot pressure of a headache coming on, the dull ache of pain in her arm. Even in her sleep, she cradles her arm as if it were still broken.

It must be late—the room is full of light. She lifts her cellphone—9:30
A.M.
She slept for five hours.

Another knock at the door.

“Yes!” she calls out. “I’m coming.”

She stumbles out of bed, wraps herself in a cotton robe, and opens the door.

Nyoman stands there, holding a tray of food.

“Breakfast,” he says.

She’s a mess in her robe, her hair scrambled from sweaty dreams, last night’s makeup smeared on her face. She must look as crazy as he did yesterday. They’re spiritual twins.

“Thank you,” she says, and starts to reach for the tray.

“In the garden,” he tells her, stepping back. He turns and walks toward the table in the middle of the garden.

“I’ll be right out,” she calls, shutting the door. She needs coffee.

She takes a quick shower and throws on linen pants and a T-shirt. She runs a comb through her long auburn hair, then brushes her teeth and looks in the mirror. Her eyes are bloodshot, her face pale. Her scar runs from her eyebrow to her jaw,
a thin white line that curves like a comma. The doctor told her that she shouldn’t spend time in the sun, that her scar will burn and change color. She’s not sure she cares.

Again, a knock on her door.

Impatient, she throws it open.

“I’m coming,” she says, and Nyoman turns around and leads her to the garden.

The table is set with a plate of unusual fruit, a bowl of yogurt, a glass of watermelon juice, a basket of rice cakes.

“Looks great,” she says. “Coffee?”

“Tea,” he tells her, and walks away. Where’s his smile this morning?

The teapot perches proudly on the table.

She sits down and takes a deep breath. Now that he’s gone, she’s glad to be awake and sitting in the middle of her private paradise. She nods good morning to the elephant god in the fountain. He’s got a bird sitting on his head, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

There’s no sign of any of the family—they must already be at school or at work. The sun is out, but Jamie sits in the shade of a banyan tree, and for once she hasn’t started to sweat. She hears the trill of a bird, something she doesn’t recognize, and looks up into the tree. She can’t find the bird, but its call is answered by another bird, in the next tree, and suddenly it’s a symphony up there. Her shoulders relax.

She eats her meal slowly. She doesn’t want to leave.

“Barong in three hours,” Nyoman tells her, reappearing at her side. He reaches for her empty breakfast plate.

She has no idea what he’s talking about. Must be something on the itinerary.

“You want more tea?”

“I’ve had plenty. I’ll go walk around town,” she says. “Thank you for breakfast.”

“I come with you,” Nyoman tells her a little forcefully.

“I’ll be fine on my own,” she says. It’s a line she says so often, but this time she’s not sure that it’s true.

The boy and his dog look up, both faces full of delight, when she walks through the gate. They stand at once and cross the street to greet her. One day in Bali and she’s got a frigging family.

“Good morning, miss!”

“Morning,” she says flatly. She needs to ditch him, and fast.

“I give tour?”

“I’m just taking a walk,” she says. “I’m good on my own.”

He’s already following along, like an eager puppy, his own eager puppy like a persistent echo.

She stops mid-street.

“I’m taking a walk by myself,” she says.

He offers a mischievous smile. “You did not sleep well? You still a little bit not nice?”

“I’m always a little bit not nice,” she explains.

“But Bali is beautiful! Bali is paradise!”

“You work for the tourist bureau?”

“I work for you! You tell me what to do and I do it.”

“I want you to walk in the other direction. I want you to do whatever young boys do in Bali. Go to school. Work in the rice paddy.”

“I am fourteen. Done with school!”

The street is filled with Balinese men and women, most
headed toward the center of town. She feels a flash of fear, but she pushes it away. For a year now she’s hated crowds. But Gabe taught school in Ubud. He might still be here. She’ll join the morning stampede. She needs to lose the kid, somehow, and then plunge into the heart of town.

In the distance, a neon light flashes
BALI BALI CAFÉ
.

She thinks: coffee.

“I do have a job for you,” she says, turning toward the boy. His eyes open wide—this kid is desperate for either money or attention. Both, perhaps.

“You want marijuana? You want a man?”

“No!” And then she laughs. “Is that what most women want?”

“Western women funny,” he says, smiling. “Western women want many things.”

“I want—” He is suddenly her genie. Three wishes. I want to sleep without nightmares. I want a medical miracle to cure Larson. I want to go back in time and, when Larson tells me to travel to Bali, I tell him that I’m allergic to paradise.

“Yes, miss?”

“I want coffee. Can you find instant coffee for me?”

“Coffee.” He looks disappointed.

“Is there a store somewhere? I’ll give you money.”

“Sure, miss,” he says, the smile gone from his face.

She takes her wallet out of her pack, pulls out some rupiah, and gives them to him. It is worth ten dollars to get rid of him. She’s sure she’ll never see him again.

“Meet me here at noon. Okay?”

“I am Bambang,” the boy says.

“Bam-bam?”

“Bam-
bang
! It is my name. What your name, miss?”

“Jamie.”

He bows. “It is very great pleasure to meet Jamie.”

She bows back, smiling at his well-practiced English.

He tucks the money into his pocket and runs down the street. The dog keeps pace at his side.

Jamie finds herself still smiling when he is gone. Bambang.

She looks around—there are throngs of people on the main street in front of her. Ahead, she sees the central market, a teeming mass of color and noise. She takes a deep breath and then slips into the tide of people, as if catching a wave.

As she passes a store, she sees a rack of straw hats, some with wide floppy brims, and realizes she could use one. Already the sun is beating on her head, and her headache is making a fast return. She steps into the store, which smells of incense and oranges. A short heavyset woman greets her with a loud voice. “Hello, hello. I help you.”

“Can I try on a hat?” Jamie asks.

“Yes, yes,” the woman says eagerly. “Very good price. Only one hundred thousand rupiah.”

Jamie steps up to the rack and chooses a hat with a yellow bandanna tied around the crown. It fits her perfectly.

“I give you better price,” the woman says, as if Jamie had been bargaining with her. “Morning price. Only seventy-five thousand.”

“Yes. That’s good.”

Jamie reaches into her backpack and realizes in a panic-fueled second that her wallet is gone. She scrambles through the contents of the pack, finally emptying everything onto the counter in the shop. Passport. Cellphone. Camera. Notebook. Eyewitness Travel Bali guide. Sunglasses case. Lip gloss.

No wallet.

She slaps her pockets—all of them are empty.

The damn kid. How could he have gotten it? The pack was on her shoulder the whole time.

Except when she pulled it out to give him money.

“You have problem, miss?” the woman asks, watching Jamie stuff everything back into her pack.

“I have big problem,” Jamie says.

She heads for the door.

“Hat!” the woman shouts.

Jamie’s still wearing it. She takes it off and puts it on the head of a giant bronze Buddha that sits happily at the front door. The hat fits him, too.

It’s noon and she’s waiting. She already combed the streets of Ubud, looking everywhere for the kid. He won’t show up with her coffee, asking to be caught, but she can’t think of anything else to do. She’ll wait for fifteen minutes, then—well, she doesn’t know what she’ll do next.

What an idiot. A smart traveler hides money in different places and keeps a credit card tucked somewhere apart from her cash. She has always been that smart traveler in the past and has always advised her clients to do just that. She must be more rattled by this trip than she realized. When she changed money at the airport yesterday, she put it all in her damn wallet without thinking. At least her passport is here—in fact, she’s surprised the boy didn’t take that, too.

“You lucky, miss,” a voice says, and she spins around.

Bambang stands there, a mile-wide grin on his face, holding out a jar of instant coffee.

“Where is it?” she asks, her voice loud.

“Here,” he says, waving the coffee. He reads from the jar. “Folgers instant coffee.”

“My wallet,” Jamie says.

“You gave me one hundred thousand rupiah. I have change,” he says proudly, waving the bills in the air. He’s standing too close to her, and she wants to pummel his sweet face with her fists.

“You swiped my wallet.”

The boy takes a step backward, as if already struck by her words.

“No,” he says, his smile fading. “I take money you give me.”

The dog whines, feeling Bambang’s fear.

Jamie eyes him. Why would the kid show up again? Another scam?

“Listen,” she says, softening her tone. “You give it back. I’ll pay you well.”

“I no have wallet,” he says, his voice pleading.

“Twenty dollars,” she tells him. “Give me the wallet and I won’t go to the police. I’ll give you twenty bucks and my promise. You go free.”