31. Seminyak
My iPhone had taken to reminding me of the last trip I took with my father and the week we spent in Bali. Eight years on, his face kept appearing in the featured-photos notification, transporting me back to the island. The most recent photo was taken in the Ubud Monkey Forest.
We had come to a clearing. I’d read there were over three hundred long-tailed macaques in the sanctuary, and I’d been distracted by their playful dance. One sat on a ledge while its mother picked its fur, and I was struck by this sedulous movement, this act of cleaning, caring. To be loved, remembered. Dad kept calling out to me, urging me to keep up. We walked up stone steps, slipping between moss-covered statues. It was warm, humid even. Flowers bloomed around us. Brilliant yellow. The rainforest was dense and fertile and bursting with tourists.
At one point, Dad asked to get a picture, passing his phone to a woman nearby. He slung his arms around me. We smiled. The stranger counted down with her fingers and we both beamed harder.
“I think you’ll like these, young man,” she said as I approached to collect his device. “It’s so nice. I wish my older brother would’ve taken me on holiday. You’re so lucky.”
In the photos, I came up to his shoulders. They were broad, tanned, filling out a singlet. His cap shaded half his face, but the light had caught the brilliance of his smile. My mouth was newly metal – braces fastened on several months earlier, little red brackets matching my acne. Dad airdropped the pictures to my phone.
* * *
We spent most of our time by the pool – Dad reclined on a lounger, the sun glistening off his chest, one leg extended, the other at an angle. His navy Speedo separated him from most of the men around the pool, the kind of swimwear the boys at school would mock you for.
We sat quietly, contemplative. It was in these moments that I didn’t know what to say. The distance between us was more than just centimetres. I’d roll onto my back and pick up my Nintendo, absentmindedly catching Pokémon, trying to focus, the sun warming my skin.
He liked to jump in the water and float to the swim-up bar, where he’d order drinks and motion back to see if I wanted one. One afternoon, he struck up a conversation with a guy who couldn’t have been much older than him. The man had tattoos crawling down his arm and neck. He wore black Speedos and had a similarly toned body, unlike Micky, Mum’s partner, who slumped in fleshy folds. Dad chuckled, sipped his drink, ordered another. The man laughed along. They looked over at me. Dad was nodding. Hidden behind my sunglasses, they didn’t see me watching.
* * *
Sometimes we ate at the resort, sometimes we found a hole in the wall. Dad always knew where to go. One night, we went to a warung. We had to duck under low-slung powerlines to get there, and even though Seminyak was vibrant and unfamiliar, it gave off the impression of a small village.
My skin was burnt and the walk was uncomfortable. Dad laughed when he saw me and handed me a bottle of Aloe vera spray. “Always happens to the best of us,” he said, before promising me it’d develop into a nice tan, like his.
All I wanted was to go to my room and lie on top of damp sheets. I squirmed while he ordered. The food arrived in little wooden bowls – babi guling, grated coconut over steamed vegetables, lemongrass skewers, ginger-infused rice. The flavours frolicked on my tongue.
“We’ve still got three days here,” he said between mouthfuls.
He asked if there was anything I wanted to do, maybe the waterpark or a Sulawesi cooking class, but all I could think about was the sun’s angry fingerprints pressed across my skin.
“I’d like to get something for Mum. It’s her birthday soon.”
He clasped his hands together. “How could I forget. She’ll be thirty, yeah?”
Thirty seemed so far in the future that it didn’t feel like an actual age.
Dad picked up his Bintang. “To Lucy, wonderful woman, brilliant mother. God, we were fucking young.” He chinked my bottle of water. “You’ll be fourteen in no time.”
I mumbled something I can’t remember.
Dad continued. “There’s so much to look forward to.” He was animated, almost bouncing. “Every year of youth is an exciting new adventure. The older you get, the more you realise how few people care, how little there is to look forward to, how much time you’ve wasted, each birthday seems like one step closer to…” He paused and slurped his beer.
There was something on the tip of my tongue I’d been wanting to ask for three years. “Do you think you’ll ever move back to Melbourne?”
“I don’t think so,” he replied.
I pressed further. “Why not?”
“When you leave somewhere, I have the feeling you don’t belong there anymore.” He gazed into the distance before looking back at me, his eyes crystalline.
Several motorbikes zoomed past. Their whirring rumbled through the restaurant.
* * *
I wriggled all night. In my dreams, my father came to me in flashes. Shadows across his face, the black pupils of his eyes enlarged, the strobe flashing. He couldn’t see me, standing in the distance, watching him move back and forth, thrusting to the music, trapped by the sounds. Reds. Golds. Sticky limbs brushing together. I yelled out to him. He wore a wide, easy smile and retreated with someone into the heaving dancefloor. In his absence, the dream took on a nightmarish quality.
In the morning, my back had bloomed the colour of beetroot juice. When I spoke to Mum, she sounded agitated. How could he forget to give you sunscreen, how could he be so stupid, God, he’s so irresponsible, keep your shirt on, stay in the shade. I listened to her frustration, told her I’d be careful, and that I’d be late to breakfast.
There was a large window at the end of my room. I opened the gauzy curtains and noticed how the resort came alive in the morning light. People were already down by the pool, securing spots, flattening out stripey towels and leaving books. The heat shimmered.
At the pool, I wore long-sleeves and stayed under a tree while Dad bounced around the deep end. He was a floating charm, making his way to the swim-up bar, ordering drinks. His friend was already there, sipping on a Bintang. He had other friends around him – they looked like a matching set of Ken dolls in pastel Speedos, tattoos decorating their golden arms. Dad laughed along with them, and I yearned to leave my shelter.
“You hungry?” he asked when he came to check. I nodded and he ordered me a pizza before returning to the group.
Several hours later, I began to feel ill. It started as a burp. My stomach clenched and I sipped from a bottle of water to stop the heat prickling up my neck. The pizza curdled in my stomach – it had come out soggy, small discs of salami slathered in stretchy cheese. I paced my room, turning the aircon up so chilled air washed over my inflamed skin.
The sour bile hit the back of my throat. I rushed to the toilet, where I flooded the bowl in yellow chunks. I heaved again, groaned through the bursts, my hair stuck to my forehead.
Dad got me another bottle of water and flicked off the light when he left. He mentioned something about dinner, but I was pale and feverish and could only mumble a reply. I rolled onto my back and tried to breathe.
Shadows lengthened the wall. I dozed, drifting between restlessness and lurching. I sprayed more aloe, wet the pillowcases, and returned to the bathroom several times, until, overcome with exhaustion, I passed out.
Moonlight spilled into the room when my eyes opened to the sound of giggling, wet smacking sounds, feet shuffling. Dad’s interconnected room unlocked. More wet noises. Two men grunting. The low, urgent, fast commotion of bodies coming together. Dad pleading, begging. I shut my eyes and pretended to be asleep.
* * *
I’ll never forget the disappointment I felt the next day when I couldn’t find him anywhere. When I queried his whereabouts at reception, they told me he’d left with several guests to catch a sunrise boat and go scuba diving. I didn’t want the staff to see me cry, so I trudged across the lobby to the restaurant.
My stomach had hollowed out, and I was weak, raw. The sunburn had faded and my palm no longer left a mark when I pressed it to my chest. The buffet was spread out before me – white bowls filled with fruit, croissants and pastries piled onto wooden boards, condiments, bacon, eggs. All of it made me queasy. I toasted and lightly buttered a slice of bread, poured out some apple juice, and made my way to the patio overlooking the beach.
The day loomed large and unfamiliar. I thought about ringing Mum, but I didn’t want to worry her. I didn’t want to get Dad in any more trouble. I could take off to the markets. I could ask someone to take me to the waterpark. I could visit the temples or take surfing lessons or see the monkeys again. But I didn’t know the way to the resort. Another day to pass with languid abandon. I left the buffet and made my way to the beach.
People strolled around the edge of the water. The sea was smooth and a luminous uniform blue scattered with shifting patches of brightness. From here, it stretched forever, meeting the lips of a pallid sky. I walked past the perimeter of the resort, then sat down and dug my feet in the sand. Looking back, the resort appeared smaller, the buildings swallowed by palm trees. People lazily dragged their feet, dipping their toes in the water while several kids splashed around, their parents calling out, chasing after them. I pictured the monkeys from the forest, the mothers cleaning their young, plucking their fur, licking their heads.
When I remember the trip, I try to think of the monkeys. Our trip to the forest when it was just us under the canopy, his arm around me, and how we were mistaken for brothers.
* * *
For our final dinner together, we went to the hotel restaurant. My skin was itchy and peeling. Dad wore a pink singlet and ordered crab. He filled the conversation with loose talk about our trip and whether I was excited to go home or return to school. He carefully pulled apart the shell and fished out the flesh. He didn’t take his eyes off me. I felt a beating in my chest.
“I’m so glad we got to do this,” he said.
“Me too,” I mumbled, picking up my Coke and using the straw to swirl the ice around the glass.
“Part of why I wanted to take you here is because I need to tell you something about work.” He chose his words carefully. “I wanted us to have this time together because I’m not going to be around for much longer.” He said this with water in his voice. A small choke. “I’ve accepted a role with an investment bank in America. They’re flying me out to Los Angeles in a few weeks.”
An ache tugged at my chest. I gripped the glass. “Does Mum know?”
He ignored that. “It’s not going to be forever, just a few years while we launch this new platform.”
“Maybe I could have Christmas over there with you?”
“Maybe, mate, maybe.” My father never called me sweetheart or darling or honey. He didn’t value terms of endearment.
* * *
“The next time I see you, you’ll be all grown up,” he told me when we were at the airport. We took a couple of selfies. If I’d known these would be our last photos together, I would have smiled and held him closer. I would have remembered the way his arm pulled me in. I would have remembered his scent – maybe it was the ocean, maybe it was sweat.
From time to time, I look back in my camera roll and picture those moments together, where I’m about to board a plane, anxious for the flight, unsure of what to say. We’re both facing into the phone, but I’m not looking at the camera. He’s grinning, but it’s a rictus sort of smile. He’d go to LA, he’d have his success, he’d live his dream.
He’d return to me in flashes. Those propulsive moments where he was on the dancefloor, chatting to hirsute men; where he was laughing and happy and free. He never saw me shouting out for him, rushing across the room to find him, to hold him, to pull him back to the present. He’d always be moving back and forth, thrusting to the music, trapped by the sounds. He belonged to that world like an insect embalmed in amber.
He waved me off. I wove around families with large suitcases and two women with surfboards zipped in silver bags. I ducked through the security gates, and when I looked back through the glass, I saw only my reflection.
Zachary Pryor is an award-winning short story writer based in Melbourne, Australia. In 2021 he was longlisted for the Richell Prize for Emerging Writers and he's been plodding along working on his debut novel ever since. A lifelong passion for books has inspired his Instagram account where you can stay up to date with what he's reading: @literature_lad