The Last Good Paradise (25 page)

“Hmmph.”

“What is it?”

“A remote webcam.”

“What?”

“It films this stretch of beach twenty-four hours a day.”

“No way.”

“Yes way.”

“Why?”

That was the question that Ann had been pondering all those mornings alone, sitting behind the camera, watching it as it watched the beach. Why do it? Who would watch it? Undoubtedly the same people who would like to be there in person but couldn’t be, for one reason or another. But that didn’t entirely make sense either. While the scene was lovely, so were many others, and a live scene surely trumped a videoed one any day. Were people so jaded that live experience wasn’t adequate any longer?

It had to be something else. Something to do with why Ann trudged all the way there, when any other stretch of beach would have sufficed for solitude—the act of recording implied specialness. How many desires did one have independent of the constant barrage of images that brainwashed one? Was the live image of the beach any different from creating a sacred building? Did anything exist in the sacred building that didn’t exist elsewhere, or vice versa? The very act of putting it in the building, or recording it on a webcam, made one take notice. One carried a photo, a rosary, a lock of hair, a seashell—the religious referred to them as relics—for the same reason one watched this scene on the Internet: it signified an inchoate longing that was getting harder and harder to access in everyday life.

“Loren did this as a performance piece,” she said by way of explanation.

“Cool,” Dex said.

“Loren, that old snake,” Richard said.

“Right?” Ann said.

“That whole dropping out, being unplugged…”

“Uh-huh. But pretend you don’t know,” Ann pleaded, but the cats were far out of the bag. Who was she kidding? She had known that in telling them there would be a loss of control. She had accepted that devil’s bargain even if Loren had not.

“Let’s build a bonfire,” Dex said. “So they see it. Give people a thrill.
Planet of the Apes
time.”

“Fun.”

“No,” Ann said, horrified, but already they had tuned her out.

Dex and Richard passed a joint as they gathered kindling. Ann, defeated, went to sit with Wende. She hadn’t considered the repercussions of their commandeering her secret, taking it away from her, and co-opting the situation’s possibilities.

“A huge mistake,” Ann said.

“I jumped,” Wende said.

Ann closed her eyes. “Yes, you did.”

“You saw?”

Ann nodded. Events on the island had accelerated to mainland speed, too much to process before the next thing took its place, creating a perpetual state of low-grade anxiety. She didn’t want to admit she’d forgotten all about the jump.

“Are you mad about me marrying Dex?”

Ann rolled over and faced her in the darkness. “Oh, honey, I have no right to judge. You just seemed so sure of what you didn’t want.”

“What I almost did—it was my bon voyage gift to Cooked—but then I couldn’t.”

“Okay.” Ann was feeling her way through the murk of Wende’s explanation, unsure exactly what they were talking about but afraid to frighten away a confession.

“It feels bad. I was trying to be someone I’m not. I got scared. Cooked hates me, but I saved him.
His mother cooked for me
.”

They lay back in silence. They had formed some type of ad hoc dysfunctional twenty-first-century family unit. Ann gazed up at the stars. The heavens seemed to be spinning so fast she had to close her eyes. Yes, it felt bad. What kind of traitorous person was she, giving up Loren’s secret like a party favor, like a kid trying to be popular? A blaze of fire went up and turned molten behind her eyelids. The guys were screaming and dancing like madmen. Was there sound on the cam? Oh God, yes. She was angry with them, but most of all angry with herself. She was lacking in all the qualities she admired in others.

“I keep making mistakes,” Ann said.

“It’s like the song ‘You just keep trying till you run out of cake.’”

“Who wants to go skinny-dipping?” Dex shouted.

“I do, I do.” Wende jumped up and ran away.

The old Wende was back.

*   *   *

For ten years the camera had recorded … nothing, which was the whole point, but that night the first seminal images in a decade were of the backsides of two men in the darkness, burnished in the glow of a bonfire. For an hour that was it, a burning fire, because the nighttime view of the beach and waves, even on full-moon nights, was always indecipherable. The next picture—as graven in Robinson Crusoe cam’s history as the first flickering images on film—was the flame-lit figure of a naked blond woman running past the fire, laughing and giggling, being chased by a naked tattooed man with a tangle of black hair covering his face.

Dex and Wende were like children with a new toy. They sat in the sand, drinking and coming up with variety-show scenarios to stage in front of the camera.

“Leave it alone,” Ann begged. “You’ve had your fun.”

“No way,” Dex said. “We’re just started. Weren’t you begging us to stay a few more days?”

*   *   *

When they returned to their water-soaked
fares
late that night, the oil lamp in the dining area was still lit, and Loren was sitting up, waiting for them like a cross father. As they walked by, Richard wished him good night, but he held up his hand to stop them.

“You betrayed my trust,” he said to Ann.

Ann had regressed to her teenage years, living out all the things she had not done at the time. Having broken the rules, she just wanted the punishment to be swift. “They would have found it eventually. No one will notice.”

“Viewership has exploded. It’s gone to virus on the computer.”

“Viral.”

“Cool,” Dex said.

“It’s ruined.”

“More people are watching than ever,” Ann said.

“That was never the point. It’s turned into a cheap sideshow.”

Dex lit up a cigarette. “You could parlay it into advertising for this place.”

“It was supposed to be pure.”

“Look around. Your place is getting rough around the edges,” Dex said.

“People will forget,” Ann said.

Loren shook his head. “I’m pulling the plug. I want you all to leave the island.”

“No,” Richard answered. Ann was near tears, and even if he didn’t understand, he wanted to help her get whatever it was she was after. “I’m cooking. Dex is paying. Ann is looking after you. We’re not ready to leave just yet.”

“Besides, there’s no boat,” Wende added. “We’re marooned.”

Loren got up and without another word walked away.

He made a big production of wanting to be alone, but once he was back in his
fare
, ironically he longed to be in the company of people. He sat hoping that someone would come and disturb him so that he could act annoyed and too busy for whatever concerns they had. Sometimes the need for solitude was real, and other times it was a mere costume. Like all true recluses, he was simply waiting to be found by the right person.

Ann barged into his hut as he was pouring himself a tumbler of rum.

“Don’t be so mad,” she said.

“Judas. You came and betrayed.”

“What? Your public webcam? Was it really a secret? Isn’t the very concept an oxymoron?”

“It’s for Lilou.”

“Who is that? Your wife? Girlfriend?”

“My daughter.”

“You said you didn’t have anyone.”

“We haven’t spoken in years.”

“So how do you know she watches?”

“I know it here,” he said, and touched his hand to his heart.

Ann threw herself into a chair. She was confused and tired; her efforts at doing good, even for herself, were going nowhere. “It was wrong. I knew better, but I was desperate. Everyone was leaving.”

“You did what it took,” Loren said. “You Americans, always going around fixing the world.”

Ann started to cry.

“Tears won’t move me.”

She shook her head, unable to stop. “Me either.”

But tears did move him. Loren had already sold out weeks ago when he bought the Crusoe Cam domain name, allowing it to be commodified by views, if not dollars. So he told her the history of his coming to the islands—the real, unembellished version, which he had never shared before in its unflattering, unfun entirety.

“… After they took the girls away, I still called and wrote. It wasn’t as easy as today, with email. Did their mother give them the letters? I don’t know. Two years later, I received an official letter that Bette had died. Drowned in a bathtub. There were bruises on her body. My wife didn’t have the decency to inform me. Lilou never forgave me for not rescuing them.”

“How can you ever forgive me?”

He waved her words off, deep in the presenting of his case to an invisible jury. “Why didn’t they understand?
I
was accused of a perverted lifestyle. Things that would damage a child.”

“Children don’t understand logic. Neither do most adults. We want a magic fix.”

He slumped in his chair.

“Contact her. She has a right to know you’re sick.”

Loren poured another glass. “Did you know that there were a hundred thousand viewers just tonight?”

“Really?”

“And that Windy and Cooked were planning to bomb the main hotel? Titi told me while you were out on your night reconnaissance patrol. The islands are again at war.”

“Why would Wende—?”

“Cooked, that idiot, talked her into it. She wouldn’t arouse suspicion placing it like he would.”

“So that was it.”

“Youth is wasted on the young because they’re crazy.”

“You were young once.”

“And as crazy as they come.”

*   *   *

Ann woke refreshed the next morning, strangely unaffected by the copious amounts of alcohol she had ingested, the theatrics and meltdowns of the previous day. The damage from the storm had been minimal, anticlimactic compared to the human goings-on. Why did the calamities of others always have the effect of making one’s own problems more tolerable? It wasn’t exactly schadenfreude; it was more the relief of knowing no one’s life was perfect. Everyone struggled. One was not alone. On the island she had found a camaraderie she didn’t want to lose by returning to her old life in LA. When she was a little girl, her favorite game had been playing nurse—she bandaged nonexistent wounds and brought order to chaos. Here on this island, she felt that sense of usefulness returning. Was it pathological, her neediness to be needed?

Richard waved her off, too hungover to get out of bed. His face and arms were scratched from gathering kindling with Dex the previous night. His hair still smelled of woodsmoke when she bent to kiss him.

The public area was deserted, no sign of Loren, not that she had expected one, but no sign of Dex and Wende either. Not even Titi and Cooked were to be seen. The prospect of a solitary breakfast did not appeal to her. In the empty kitchen, she made a quick coffee and grabbed fruit, intending to head to her usual lounging spot behind the camera.

As she approached, puffs of smoke were rising above the tree line. When the camera came into view around the last curve of shoreline, there were Dex and Wende in front of another large bonfire. Both of them had red, watery eyes. Ann couldn’t be sure if it was from woodsmoke or spliff or some diabolical combination of the two. The air was fragrant with the resiny smell of pot.

“Hey, what’s up?” Dex said.

“I need a word with you,” Ann said to Wende. “In private.”

“Don’t worry,” Dex said. “We figured out how to turn the volume off the camera.”

“About the boat,” Ann said. “I thought you jumped to not get married.”

“What?” Dex said.

Wende took her aside. “Can we do this later in private?”

“What are you guys up to?”

“Nothing. A little performance art,” Dex said.

“We’ve been building the fire all morning.”

“Okay, give me some room.” Dex pulled some papers out of a beach bag and faced the camera. Theatrically, he kissed the first sheet and then let the flames devour it. The breeze blew the ashes horizontally, like a sideways snowstorm, out of frame.

“What’s this?” Ann asked.

“That is the latest song I wrote.”

“Why are you burning it?” Wende asked. “You never said anything about burning a new song. Is it that bad?”

“It’s called ‘Beautiful One-Eyed Lady.’ Inspired by Richard’s primo dinner last night. It’s probably the best piece I’ve ever done.”

“You have a copy?” Wende asked.

Dex fed the last page to the flames, then bowed and walked out of camera range. “What would be the point of that?”

“So that was the only one?” Wende said.

“Do you think I’m some narcissist? Faking it? It was a sign when we didn’t leave the island, when you fell overboard. The universe doesn’t want me to go back. This is good-bye to the band, to music. This time I’m doing it right.”

Wende ran to the fire, as if by sheer will she could pull out the pages intact. “You’re making a mistake.”

“I feel wonderful. I’m no longer a puppet to worldly desires.”

“You have no right!” she screamed.

“It’s my destiny.”

“It isn’t. Not anymore. You involve other people. It’s a gift, and you shit on it.”

Dex sighed. “Women.”

“You’re not so pure either. You complain about Robby, but a few years back you dumped him when you thought you could go out on your own.”

“You’re young,” Dex said, and turned his skinny back on her.

“Robby needs to make a living. He doesn’t have a rich dad and a trust fund to fall back on.”

“Stop it,” Dex said.

“I better leave,” Ann said.

“No!” Wende held her arm. “I want a witness. He doesn’t like to talk about all that because it doesn’t go with his image.” She turned to Dex. “I’ve sacrificed two years with you. It hasn’t been all games and fun. The best part of Dex Cooper is when he’s out on the stage playing music. You’re not much good any other time. I’m out.”

With that, Wende took off down the beach.

*   *   *

Dex couldn’t put out the flicker of doubt that she had ignited. She was screwing with his enlightenment. What do you do after being famous? It wasn’t like being an accountant, where you can retire. The only retirement from fame was obscurity. Nonfame. As in No Longer Famous. Thrown out of the club. Which, back to the Buddhist texts, pretty much came down to nonbeing. How did he like them apples?