Fragment #31 – 11 October 2014

This is the situation: D and his father had, in the wake of several alarming months which threatened to permanently estrange them, decided to take drastic measures and were now on the first day of a week-long stay in Bali, a holiday that was ill-defined in its purpose beyond attempting a reconciliation between the two, but which promised nonetheless to be an interesting experience.

The flight to Bali had taken eight hours, and during that time they had either ignored one another and watching the interminable entertainment that was grudgingly provided by the budget airline, or they made feeble jokes about the extreme cheapness of alcohol and food in Bali, and the beautiful and accommodating nature of the women. D’s father, perennially uncertain and carrying to the burden of being the father to an individual he had never properly been able to understand, after a few drinks provided by grim-faced air stewards had attempted to vocalise his desire that D take advantage of the loose moral situation in Bali, that whatever happened would remain between the two of them and go no further, and that seeing as the love between himself and D’s mother was, these days, more academic than actual, D should expect that his father, too, would look around and see what the party island had on offer.

When they arrived at the hotel D’s father poured them both a glass of Bacardi from the complimentary basked provided, and then, sipping as he went, he changed into a pair of hideous yellow swimming trunks.  He said he was going to the beach, that he wanted to read one seventh of his book on the Romanovs each day so that in the years to come he could link the plight of poor Nicholas and Alexandra with the sun and water and spiced fish of Bali, and that by doing this he would strengthen his memories of both.  D said nothing and let his father go without a word.

D, then, found himself alone in the resort town almost immediately upon arriving and, in lieu of following his father to the beach (he had his own books, but they had no similarities whatsoever to the kinds of books his father read), D walked the hot streets avoiding the traffic and sex-workers and eager young men holding laminated menus and teenage girls without feet who begged for amounts of money that D was able to quickly calculate translated to almost nothing at all back home in Australia and impossibly old homeless couples who blended in with the piles of brown and grey rubbish that lay everywhere, and stopped finally in a cool, dark establishment where, miraculous, there was only four other people including the bartender, and absolutely no Australians at all.

* * *

The above piece of writing comprises part of my fragments project, some of which are available on this website.  I intend to add new fragments piecemeal, not in any particular order, and as the occasion take me.

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