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‘And how do we spell that ma’am?’
‘With a Y and two Ss. A L Y S S A.’
Ped was signing campaign t-shirts, hats, yard signs, foreheads, copies of his book – at a volunteers’ party in Madison, Wisconsin.
After continuing his momentum with wins in Alaska and Hawaii, he’d ended the day with another resounding victory in Wisconsin, overtaking Hunter as the frontrunner.
His press secretary, Amanda Rosenthal, appeared at his side.
‘We need to leave sir, to make it for the interview.’
On the fifteen-minute drive to the Fox affiliate, his campaign manager gave him an update. Volunteers were signing up faster than work could be allocated, speaking requests were flooding in – enough to keep him tongue-tied at breakfast, lunch, and dinner until Christmas.
‘More than two-thirds of the invites are from women’s groups. They seem smitten.’
Patricia gripped his hand a little tighter, leaned into his shoulder.
‘How you gonna keep all these women at bay when you’re President, Ped?’
‘I think adoring women will be the least of our worries for the next few weeks, sir.’
Amanda had an irritating habit of snuffing out light-hearted moments with cold reality or nagging reminders to stay on message.
‘Now you’re the frontrunner, you can count on being one of the most scrutinized politicians on the planet. Journalists, bloggers, consultants, Hunter’s team, the Dems, they’re gonna hunt down every family member, old friend, enemy, cellmate, playmate, college roommate, locker room buddy, old flame you ever...
‘Thanks for the...
‘Not to mention political analysts and armchair shrinks. Those suckers are gonna toothpick over every word in every line of every speech or interview you give.’
‘I get the pic...’
‘Pick your nose, scratch your ass in public, it’ll be on YouTube, WhatsApp, Insta before you can...’
‘Thanks Amanda. That’s good to know. But what’s the lowdown on the interview I’ve got in about five minutes?’
The press secretary groaned.
‘They’ll likely go you over a vein for a vein. Had this mom on the show this afternoon, wanted to know if her son caught selling weed to his friends in school would get the lethal injection under a Garland presidency.’
‘So I’ll hem and haw again.’
‘You’re gonna have to start giving detail on...’
‘Didn’t appear to ruffle any feathers with the fine folks of this state at the voting booths today, Amanda. Or in Florida or Arizona last week. Any other last nuggets of wisdom you’d like to share?’
‘That you’re a damn fool wasting time on a local station when you could’ve had your pick of the networks after today’s result.’
Ped had his reason, and she was emerging from the entrance to the building as they pulled into the parking lot.
The singer-songwriter known as NatZ grew up in Milwaukee as Natalie Zhang and was already being tipped to add to her bulging trophy cabinet of Grammy awards at the next ceremony still months away. She had 150 million followers on social media, was in the middle of a 20-city tour, and called out as their entourages crossed.
‘Congratulations Mr. Garland.’
He turned, feigning surprise.
‘Thank you... Natalie.’
Her eyes popped. ‘Seriously? Like, you got my real name?’
‘Sure thing, Natalie Zhang. I’m a big fan. I often play the chord pattern to Cathedral Square when I’m kickin’ back, unwinding.’
‘The next prez of the United States rocks the keys? That’s wicked cool.’
‘A baby grand. Some folks would say I hit rather than play the keys.’
‘Awesome. Hey Mr. Garland...’
‘Call me Ped.’
‘I dig what you’re sayin’. Comin’ down on the pushers.’
She pointed a thumb back to the studio.
‘I just wrapped up this interview with a friend I used to roll with back at Tenor High. She OD’d.’
‘That’s truly terrible news. I’m so sorry to hear that.’
Natalie sniffed, wiped her nose on her sleeve.
‘Yeah. It’s seriously messed up. Her folks are totally crushed. Like I said, you’re spot on comin’ down hard on the pushers.’
‘We’re late sir.’
Amanda’s timing could be unbelievable.
Natalie reached out a hand, resting it on his shoulder.
‘I’d like to help Mr... Ped.’
‘Well, I appreciate that, Natalie. Look I’ve gotta go. I’ll have Vanessa here, my manager, reach out to your team. See if we can’t get together sometime.’
*****
There weren’t too many scenarios – outside being shot at and sex – that caused Jay’s heart to skip a beat. Queueing in line for immigration was one of them, particularly when the country he was entering had the death penalty. Even if you got to choose to stand or sit in front of the firing squad.
Jay smiled at the No Corruption signs on screens above the desks. Consoled himself that the Indonesian officials at Bali’s Ngurah Rai International Airport would be preoccupied looking for the sweaty brows and shifty eyes of drug mules and jihadists.
Still, given his history and attitude to laws that deserved to be broken, Jay was relieved when he and Bec cleared customs to reach the furnace of the open-air arrival hall.
The young man smiling above the handwritten Little Banana Guesthouse sign introduced himself as Komang.
Jay had spent a few weeks recuperating in Bali after a mission in West Papua several years ago, but it was Bec’s first visit to the Island of the Gods. She gushed – about the decorated bamboo Penjor poles arching across the roads, the scale and color of the Titi Banda statue of Rama and his band of monkeys, passing glimpses into temple compounds – most of the way to Ubud.
The town was busier than Jay remembered. Komang had raised his eyebrows when Jay asked him to drive through the center to introduce Bec to the island’s cultural capital. They soon learnt why. The streets were nose-to-tail SUVs with tinted windows, and motorbikes – helmets optional. Narrow sidewalks pulsed with iPhones, fanny bags, body ink. Boy-men lifted rocks the size of watermelons into bamboo baskets on the back of scooters. A European woman with botox lips and silicon breasts like some ageing porn star jogged past touts wearing traditional udeng headgear shoving pamphlets for dance performances into the hands of tourists outside Puri Saren Agung Palace.
A cultural mishmash. Satay and Starbucks, sambal and selfie sticks. Jay blamed Julia Roberts, whose movie Eat, Pray, Love lured tourists by the busloads to an Ubud already on the downslope of the idyllic curve.
The Little Banana Guesthouse was a couple of miles from the center of town. Komang, a son of the owner, led them through the intricately carved paduraksa gate, explaining how the stone Dwarapala statues on either side welcomed visitors with good intentions, scared away those with bad.
A path with white pebbles inlaid in the shapes of flowers led through the family compound with water trickling over stone fountains and shrines dedicated to various Balinese Hindu gods.
One of Komang’s sons steered a remote-controlled plastic car into Bec’s leg. Another, wearing a costume that looked like a cross between a frog and a llama, jumped out from behind a statue. Laughter spilled from the kitchen. This was Jay’s sort of place.
The guest rooms were at the rear of the property, with views over rice paddies.
At least its clean summed up Bec’s impression of their room, which to Jay was decadent compared to some of the dives he’d grown accustomed to in his former life.
‘The palm trees are clever. Look at the way the light plays through the green fronds.’
She was looking at an abstract painting on the wall above the bed. All Jay could see was a muddle of colored triangles.
After shedding the clothes they’d worn since India, showering, and enjoying a complimentary tea on the balcony, they picked up the keys to the Honda Megapro Jay had arranged to hire off Komang and went to work.
The resort where Charlie Scott spent the last night of his short life roosted in the jungle overlooking the Ayung River. The entrance was impossible to miss – NYALAHUTAN belted out in ten gold letters beside a life-size stone mural depicting a scene from the Ramayana. Fountains pretending to be waterfalls, marble pathways, lawns clipped like golf greens. Jay felt as out of place as he obviously looked, from the undisguised contempt in the face of the guy behind the desk in the lobby.
Then Bec opened her mouth, reminding Jay of the unlocking power of an American accent.
‘We’re looking for a place to stay when we come back to Bali next year, and you’ve been recommended to us.’
‘Of course.’
A woman floated into the lobby carrying a silver tray with iced rose waters. Another staffer materialized the moment Bec put her glass down, and guided them beside a crescent-shaped infinity pool wrapped round a restaurant and bar. Paths led down to secluded villas set into the hillside. They recognized the large four-room villa Charlie stayed in from the school of metallic fish flowing over a wall.
The open-air bathroom was three times the size of their entire unit back at the Little Banana. Jay lingered in there with the staffer long enough for Bec to shoot footage on her iPhone of the living area, private pool, and view from the veranda down to the river.
Back in the lobby, Bec made a show of interest in pamphlets for spa treatments – Jay’s cue. He leaned towards the front desk clerk.
‘Can I have a word in private?’ he whispered, pointing his thumb towards Bec, ‘so my girlfriend won’t hear.’
The man smiled, nodded, and led Jay through a side door.
‘The thing is, I’m going to propose to my girlfriend tonight. Do you by any chance make special arrangements for...’
‘A wedding?’
‘I was thinking honeymoon.’
‘Indeed, we do sir. Our honeymoon package includes a relaxing full body massage, aloe vera scrubs, rose petal bath...’
*****
Staff of the New York Times may not pose as anyone else when they are working as journalists. Nor, according to the Handbook of Values and Practices for the News and Editorial Departments, may they invade computer files.
Bec, a multiple prize-winning reporter, had left the Times after reaching the conclusion such rules were written to defend the status quo, protect privileged elites. Blind adherence to the law invariably disadvantaged the little guys and kept the bad guys in business. It was time to trust her own judgment, take control, play to the court of public opinion.
As soon as Jay and the desk clerk left the room, she returned the pamphlet on singing bowl therapy to the stand and slipped behind the desk. Yellow marigolds in a dish beside the monitor had Aristotle creeping into her vision as she examined the screen, relieved it was in English. There were tabs for room status, staff, maintenance, security... She chose central reservations system, then navigated to the date Charlie Scott checked in. They knew the names of his three American friends, but there was a fourth name listed as sharing the villa: Gusti Suardika.
