Fearless Page 9

  She stood with her arms crossed, glowering at the driver. Even in anger, she was exquisite. As a teenager, she’d been plucked from obscurity in her native San Gimignano and thrust onto the catwalks of Milan. Now aged thirty-two, Lavinia still drew attention in their home suburb of Navigli, where the locals gaped at her as if she were a celebrity. She wasn’t—after retiring from modelling at twenty-eight, Lavinia had been only moderately successful in her new career in fashion design. Yet she always carried herself with such an air of entitlement. It was one of the traits that had attracted Lorenzo in the first instance; he’d described it to his friends as magnetism, charisma, assurance.

  Pak Ketut fidgeted with his wristwatch. ‘Pak Tony has asked me to bring Mister Lorenzo into the workshop at the morning break,’ he said. ‘That is only thirty minutes to wait.’

  ‘No!’ Lavinia shook her head in frustration, then looked at Lorenzo with her palms turned upwards. ‘Coglione!’

  Lorenzo could only assume that Pak Ketut’s knowledge of Italian expletives was limited. ‘Lavinia …’ he murmured, trying to placate her. ‘Surely we can wait?’

  ‘Knock on the door again,’ she demanded.

  Lorenzo lowered his eyes, noticing the granite pavers on which they stood and the fine green moss leaching out between them. Over the past three years, he’d grown used to the sensation of staring earthwards while Lavinia held forth from her own personal podium.

  After a moment’s silence, he looked up again. The driver’s hand was trembling, poised above the polished teak handle of the elaborately carved door. He tapped lightly, but louder than before, then took three steps backwards. He waited for several minutes, imploring Lavinia with his eyes. Detecting no movement on the other side, he raised his hand and rapped once more, louder this time.

  The door swung open and Tony van de Jaager strode out. Lorenzo recognised him instantly from the Fearless website; in person, there was a sleek, leonine quality about him. Tony smiled, his flawless white teeth almost blinding Lorenzo, then turned and spoke to the driver in Indonesian. Looking increasingly cowed, the driver nodded. When Tony had finished, Pak Ketut promptly disappeared down a path leading into the gardens of Puri Damai.

  ‘So this must be Lorenzo and Lavinia? I am Pak Tony. It is so nice to meet you both,’ he said, shaking their hands. ‘I do not speak Italian, I’m sorry. But you two have very good English, I’m sure.’

  ‘We speak no Dutch either,’ said Lavinia, smiling.

  Lorenzo noticed Pak Tony’s eyes lingering on Lavinia’s face a little longer than decorum would ordinarily allow. He was used to this kind of reaction: when exposed to Lavinia’s beauty for the first time, people simply had to stare awhile, before affecting nonchalance.

  ‘We are very sorry to disturb the session,’ Lorenzo began, gesturing to the pavilion door. ‘Lavinia is due at the Shakti Centre for an appointment, before her workshop starts tomorrow. She wanted to meet you before she goes, because this is … a joint commitment for us, as you know.’

  ‘Of course.’ Pak Tony smiled. ‘The Shakti Centre has such wonderful healers, you will be in good hands. Let us know how you are doing there, Lavinia. There may be some resonances between Shakti and Fearless. Or you may choose to attend some of Lorenzo’s sessions here, to keep things flowing for you as a couple.’

  ‘Oh, that is exactly what I was thinking,’ gushed Lavinia, clasping Pak Tony’s hand for a moment as if poised to embrace him. ‘I’m so happy to meet you, but I should find a taxi now.’ She motioned at her suitcase, a flamboyant pink colour, which sat alongside Lorenzo’s muted grey duffel bag.

  ‘Allow me,’ said Pak Tony, moving towards a large bronze gong suspended from a bamboo strut. ‘Ketut can take you there, it is no trouble at all.’ He lifted a small mallet and struck the gong.

  Before the vibration had ceased, the driver materialised from the garden again. He listened to Pak Tony’s instructions and then, placing his palms together, bowed to Lavinia. ‘This way, Mrs Lavinia.’ He took up her suitcase.

  ‘Yes, but I must do this first.’ Lavinia flung her arms around Lorenzo, pressing her lips to his. The driver averted his gaze. ‘I love you,’ she murmured, her dark eyes moist. ‘Remember why we are doing this.’

  Lorenzo nodded, a little embarrassed.

  ‘Ciao.’ She pulled away and blew him another kiss.

  Lorenzo watched his wife follow Pak Ketut down a cobbled path leading to the resort lobby. She turned and waved to him once more, before disappearing behind a row of snow-white hibiscuses.

  ‘Well, Lorenzo,’ said Pak Tony, nodding towards the door, ‘are you ready to face your fears?’

  Lorenzo picked up his duffel bag and conjured a smile. He followed the facilitator into the airy pavilion, where a handful of people sat in a circle on the bamboo floor.

  ‘Everyone, this is Lorenzo,’ announced Pak Tony. ‘The missing Italian piece of our puzzle. All the way from Milan.’

  ‘Ciao,’ said Lorenzo, raising a hand at the group.

  Some of them smiled and nodded, while others murmured a greeting. A large, jovial-looking woman called out ‘Hi there!’ and Lorenzo contemplated fleeing immediately.

  Pak Tony motioned to a board hung on a wall nearby. ‘There’s a list of everyone, but let’s do some brief introductions. Take a seat, Lorenzo.’ He nodded at a space in the circle next to the woman who’d just called out.

  As he sat down, she extended her hand. ‘I’m Annie,’ she said in an American accent. He couldn’t help staring at her strawberry blonde, bouffant hair.

  ‘Lorenzo,’ he replied, shaking her hand.

  The others introduced themselves in turn: a pale Englishman called Henry, an amiable Australian named Janelle, a hirsute Frenchman called Remy, and Cara, another Australian, who looked thin and rather unkempt.

  ‘For your benefit, Lorenzo,’ began Pak Tony. ‘Among us we have a fear of flying, a fear of public speaking, a fear of heights, a fear of intimacy, and a fear of death—I mean, snakes.’ He smiled at the American, who did not smile back. ‘And those are only the fears we have labelled. There may be others we don’t recognise, or don’t want to acknowledge, deep inside us.’ He looked pointedly at Annie again, then turned back to Lorenzo. ‘So, could you please tell us a little about what brings you to Fearless?’

  Lorenzo felt suddenly light-headed. It had been an exhausting series of flights from Milan, transiting in Rome and Doha for several hours apiece; he felt as though he could sleep for two days. Still, he stood up, noticing for the first time a gap on the other side of the pavilion where a wall should have been.

  The windowless space framed dense jungle that fell away into a gorge beyond. Insects hummed and finches flitted between twisted lianas. A branch moved beneath the weight of a small, squirrel-like creature which stood up on its hind legs for a moment, as if listening. Lorenzo watched its bushy caramel-coloured tail swirling from side to side, before it darted up the curved trunk of a coconut palm. He resolved to take out his camera later, when the heat receded, to capture some of this tropical beauty.

  Pak Tony and the group were waiting for him to speak, he realised.

  ‘I am Lorenzo.’ He hesitated. It had been difficult enough explaining the issue to family and friends in Italian back home, never mind describing it in English to a group of strangers in Bali. ‘I am here with my wife, Lavinia, because … we are having trouble making a baby. We have tried for three years already, since we were first married. We have had all the medical testing. I am thirty-eight, she is thirty-two, and the doctors can find nothing wrong. Now they suggest IVF, but Lavinia does not like these interventions. She prefers a natural process.’

  He cleared his throat. ‘Two months ago we went to Vatican City to see a priest we know, Monsignor Fattori. He is friendly with my family for many years. You may not believe …’ He glanced around the group. ‘Many people in Italy say Monsignor Fattori has the gift of spiritual insight. When we visited him, he laid his hands over Lavinia’s womb and said, “Th
ere is fear in your relationship.” He told us to go away and consider our fears, because perhaps they are stopping our pregnancy.’

  Lorenzo exhaled, feeling awkward about speaking of such issues in public. ‘We did some research. Lavinia found the Shakti Centre here in Ubud, which helps women prepare for childbirth. Then she found Fearless, to help me face any fears about fatherhood.’ He stopped, hoping he’d said enough.

  Pak Tony gazed at Lorenzo with his unsettling blue eyes. ‘And do you have any fears about fatherhood, Lorenzo?’

  Lorenzo suddenly realised that until now, no one had actually asked him that question. Lavinia had simply planned their trip to Bali and booked them into the retreats, presenting it to him as a fait accompli.

  ‘Friends say that having a baby is magnificent,’ he said, ‘but that it also changes your relationship.’ He could still remember the words of his best friend, Nico, a year after his daughter was born: A baby relieves you of your wife’s love and your manly dignity. ‘So maybe I am afraid of these changes.’ Would that be sufficient? he wondered.

  ‘Are you?’ Pak Tony’s steady gaze continued to bore into him. ‘Or do you think you might have other subconscious fears about fatherhood?’

  Lorenzo glanced out at the jungle again, and then, finding the glare oppressive, averted his eyes. It was not a light conducive to photography after all, he decided.

  ‘Well, if I do have subconscious fears, I don’t know about them yet, do I?’ he said. ‘That is why I am here.’

  The facilitator nodded but clearly wasn’t finished with him. ‘And could it be, Lorenzo, that you don’t fear fatherhood itself, but that you fear failing as a father? Many competent people feel overwhelmed by the prospect of parenting. It’s a big responsibility and it can make you feel very out of control. And to some extent, you are—you can’t predict anything about this new little person who comes into your life, and once they’re there, you can’t send them back.’ Pak Tony smiled again. ‘Particularly given that you’ve been so successful in your professional life, Lorenzo, perhaps you fear failure as a father?’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Lorenzo. Pak Tony’s gaze encouraged him to say more, but he remained silent.

  Eventually the facilitator said, ‘Well, thank you, Lorenzo. Let’s get started with our introduction to mindfulness. Every morning for the duration of the retreat, we will commence with a group meditation. I will guide you through our first visualisation now, as a practice session. Please lie down.’ He motioned to a set of yoga mats laid out in a sun pattern, encircling a small wooden stool. ‘Heads in the middle, feet at the edge.’

  Lorenzo hung back for a moment, watching the rest of the group take their places. Then he lay down on the last mat available, between the hairy Frenchman and the overweight American. Pak Tony moved into the centre and sat down on the stool.

  ‘Close your eyes now, please,’ he said. ‘Let’s take some deep breaths together. Inhale, one … Exhale, one … Inhale, two … Exhale, two …’

  Lorenzo closed his eyes willingly, despite having no prior experience of meditation. The nature of his work had always seemed antithetical to mindfulness: the photographic glorification of branded accessories, within frenetic deadlines and for exorbitant fees. He had shot for all the major fashion houses and magazines in Europe—iconic wristwatches, signature sunglasses and dazzling jewellery, framed against smooth canvasses of flawless skin. These professional labours afforded Lorenzo the financial buffer to pursue his real photographic passion, a far more whimsical photography of inference. Of timid eyes, half-closed and averted, of buttons drifting open at the chest, of porcelain-white thighs partially exposed in fields of wildflowers. The beguiling curve of a neck or the sensual allure of a scapula captured by a timeless, hazy lens.

  Pak Tony’s voice slowed as he counted, and Lorenzo felt his breathing settle into an easy, circular rhythm.

  ‘Imagine there is a shining sphere of light entering the room above you,’ began Pak Tony. ‘Warm and comforting, it is a sphere of love, and it is hovering above you, gradually descending.’

  A sphere of love? Lorenzo’s rational mind objected. Then, in the grip of extreme tiredness, he abandoned all resistance.

  ‘The light is golden and soft, it can never harm or burn you. It is moving closer and touching the top of your head …’

  Lorenzo could almost feel his scalp tingling beneath the glow.

  ‘It is entering your head now,’ Pak Tony continued, his voice somnolent, ‘and this sphere is carrying warmth and love down through your body, relaxing all of your muscles as it passes along your neck and spine, into your arms and fingertips, through your chest, heart and abdomen, then into your hips and pelvis.’

  His body felt weightier against the floor, Lorenzo noticed.

  ‘Now you can feel the sphere’s warmth at the base of your spine and flowing down into your legs. Your thighs are heavy against the floor, your knees have surrendered. Your ankles, your feet, even your toes are heavy … And now your whole body is totally relaxed. You are enfolded in the pure light of love. Stay with that feeling for a while.’

  Lorenzo floated in comfortable silence, carried by his breath.

  After a while, Pak Tony spoke again. ‘I want you to imagine that you are in a completely safe place. A place where no one is judging you, where there is no risk of failure in some way. A place where you are accepted for who you really are. It might be a real place you have visited in your life before, or a place in your imagination. What does this place look like? What does it smell like? Who is with you in this place—or are you alone? What is the nature of this place where you are recognised and loved for who you really are?’

  Lorenzo found himself in his grandmother’s kitchen in San Cristoforo. Sitting on nonna Marisa’s lap, his back pressed against her soft, generous folds. Watching the long-handled knife she held—his small hand resting on top of hers—as it sliced cloves of garlic on a large wooden chopping board. The pungent smell of oregano and basil hung about them as she regaled him with fanciful tales—of potatoes that sprouted legs, picked up their peelings and bolted out of the kitchen; of acrobatic sausages that turned somersaults, as she stuffed their skins with pork; of tomatoes and olives that constructed an elaborate catapult using her skillet, a soup ladle and a can opener, then launched themselves out of the kitchen window to freedom.

  Lorenzo could hear a child’s high-pitched laughter, his own delighted giggling at her stories. Her warm flesh wobbled as her arms enveloped him, her lips smattering his cheeks with damp kisses. He heard again the pet names she’d showered upon him long ago: tesoro, piccolo, cucciolo. He could even taste the titbits she’d fed him as she cooked: slabs of freshly baked bread dipped in olive oil, crumbling hunks of stracchino cheese that melted as she put them in his mouth, smooth strips of chargrilled eggplant lying like ripe purple tongues on a greasy cooking tray.

  ‘Now I want you to stand up in that special place.’ Pak Tony’s voice made Lorenzo’s eyelids flicker, and a feeling of longing lodged itself as a dull pang in his chest. ‘And I want you to imagine that you have a small glass bottle hanging on a string around your neck. This is a magic bottle that can capture the beautiful feeling of being truly cherished. I want you to reach out now and take a bit of that wonderful feeling into your magic bottle. As you put the lid back on, consider what that feeling looks like. Does it have a colour, or a smell?’

  Lorenzo slid down from his grandmother’s knee and turned to look up at her kindly heart-shaped face. Her long white hair was secured at the nape of her neck with a mother-of-pearl hairpin, her cocoa eyes twinkled with a light reserved for Lorenzo alone, and she nodded approvingly as he showed her the small glass bottle hanging from the sandalwood rosary beads slung around his neck. He waved the bottle in front of her ample bosom and noticed, as he inserted the cork stopper again, that the vapour inside was a pale pink colour. A fruity perfume emanated from it, the scent of the delicate climbing roses that grew rampant across her garden walls.

&nb
sp; ‘Grazie, nonna,’ he murmured.

  She nodded again, beaming at Lorenzo and cupping his cheeks with her soft hands.

  ‘Now,’ Pak Tony continued, ‘I want you to take that bottle and carry it with you into a different place. A place you fear in some way. It might be a place where something frightening has actually happened, or a place where you fear something might happen. I want you to hold fast to your magic bottle as you enter that place of fear, because it gives you protection and immunity …’

  Lorenzo felt his nostalgia for nonna Marisa turn into a cold, hard lump wedged at the back of his throat.

  It was one of his father’s worst rages. He was standing in the kitchen of their run-down apartment in Salario, untastefully decorated in country style by his well-meaning mother, listening to the sound of his parents arguing. As his father’s fury intensified, Lorenzo turned and fled to his parents’ bedroom, running past the hunting trophies framed along the hall: the mournful-eyed doe, the magnificent stag, the massive Sardinian boar.

  He threw himself into the tall mahogany closet, burying himself at its base, trying to conceal himself beneath his mother’s shoes. Piles of winter boots, moccasins, high heels; if he lay like a corpse, Papa mightn’t see him. Papa’s rages were unpredictable, only erupting occasionally. But when incited—fuelled by a long afternoon drinking grappa with his friends—it swept through the house like a tornado, leaving behind it a trail of wreckage and Mama’s inconsolable tears.

  Their voices moved closer and Lorenzo closed his eyes.

  ‘Faith?’ his father bellowed at his mother. ‘You have pine cones in your head! Faith won’t help our bank balance!’

  The closet door was wrenched open and Lorenzo held his breath. But when he felt his father’s iron grip around his ankle, he couldn’t help but cry out. Shoes flew in every direction as Papa pulled him out of the wardrobe. Lorenzo’s head connected with the cold tiled floor; dazed, he let go of the magic bottle. It rolled into the dark void underneath his parents’ bed.