Tatjana Soli - The Last Good Paradise

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.

Ann edged toward the door.

Wende sighed. “I’ve decided to go home and apply to film school.”

“That’s okay,” Dex said.

“No, it isn’t. Because I need to be selfish these next few years. You’re a distraction. Your life is too big.”

She got up and went to him, sitting on the bed and pressing herself against his chest. Tears rolled down his face, maybe for Wende, maybe from the pain of his broken ribs — it was hard to tell.

* * *

As the wedding party settled in for a long night of drinking and eating, Wende and Ann found the “actors” from that day and paid them in dollars, crisp hundreds from Ann’s bag. They had been on the island long enough that the bills took on a kind of Monopoly-money unreality. The pay was both thanks and bribe to show up again early next morning.

When they went to see Loren, he was sitting at his desk, staring at a blackened monitor.

“How’s it going?” Wende said.

“My island is a disaster. My life’s work is ruined. What do you think, little Windy? Diable .”

For a moment, Wende tried to see things from his point of view, but what was the point since it got in the way of the project? “We’re going on camera again at sunup. Then you’re back to normal broadcasting. Waves and such.”

“Nothing will ever be normal again. Do you know how many viewers we had this afternoon?”

Both women shook their heads, plotting how to leave as quickly as possible.

“Twelve million!” Loren screamed.

“Twelve?” Ann seemed doubtful.

“Million!” Loren said.

“Oh my God.” Wende sat stunned. “Think about it. Our production costs so far have been about two thousand dollars. By the way, Loren, we’re going to pay you for the use of your camera. Two days filming, two thousand dollars, twelve million viewers. Maybe I should skip film school and go straight into production.”

“Did you watch it?” Ann asked him.

Loren nodded. “The best part was Dex being punched by that brute.”

Wende shot up out of her chair. “I’ve got planning to do for the morning. Ann, when you’re done, find me.”

When the two were alone, they sat in silence.

Finally Ann asked, “Would you like an absinthe?”

He nodded, and she went to pour, carrying two glasses back.

“So what do you really think?” Ann asked. In her opinion, this was strictly home-movie stuff, amateur hour. No one would be at all interested, except maybe cult followers of Prospero and Dex. But whatever. Let them have their fun.

“It’s a circus. It is your Gilligan Island . Who in their right mind would take any of it seriously?”

* * *

News of the abduction of the lead singer for Prospero by a lost Polynesian cannibal tribe made the front page across most major newspapers the next morning — a huge, above-the-fold picture of Dex, freeze-framed off the video, looking broken and forlorn. It had made the dubious leap from the entertainment to the news section. They had buried the lede of the story; only at the end was the disclaimer that the incident had yet to be verified. But a celebrity picture was a celebrity picture. Newspapers sold more briskly. Sales of Prospero downloads skyrocketed, as did bootlegged copies of CDs in third-world countries. It was a slow news week before the Memorial Day weekend, and the networks decided to pick up the story. Reporters camped out in front of Robby’s mansion in Malibu; videos were played on YouTube; MTV aired old interviews of the band. Bogus comparisons were made to Michael Rockefeller’s disappearance off the coast of Papua New Guinea, and his probable demise by headhunters, even though the circumstances of Dex Cooper’s kidnapping at a luxury resort in Polynesia weren’t exactly a good comparison.

It was sobering that the abduction had been taken for real.

“Should we do a service announcement stating that this is a simulated abduction?” Ann asked. “That it’s a PR dramatization to bring attention to a real problem?”