Hotel Bali

By Eva Fejos

One man. Four women. Seventeen mysterious years. Dóra, Gabi, Szilvi, and Judit: They were best friends in high school, but a terrible secret bound them together for life. After a delirious night ending in tragedy, they make a pact to leave the country. They must flee to where the past can’t catch up with them. But before they say good-bye, they vow to meet again in Budapest, seventeen years later. Life scatters them to four corners of the world. Dóra starts her new life on the Island of Bali, and though she lives in the land of Earthly Paradise, all she can think about is her unfulfilled, lost love. Szilvi secretly writes a novel in which their shared past plays an important role. Gabi is torn between two successful and charming men, while Judit finally gets the man she’d never even dared to dream of... Seventeen years pass and the date of their reunion draws near. Have they found happiness? Can best friends betray each other for the sake of love? What other surprises does their mysterious past have in store for them? Is it possible to forgive and forget? Eva Fejos is a reporter and novelist, author of eighteen best-sellers. She loves sunshine, coffee, chocolate, and travel, writes her novels in the evening and late at night, and hates getting up early.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Erawan Könyvkiadó
• Release date: Oct 3, 2016
• ISBN: 9786155469657

Book preview

Erawan Publishing House, 2015

Translated from Hungarian into English:

Ildikó Naomi Nagy

Copyright © Éva Fejős, 2008

English translation © Ildikó Naomi Nagy, 2015

© Erawan Publishing House, 2015

Contact:

facebook.com/fejoseva1 (Hungarian)

facebook.com/evafejos (English)

website: fejoseva.com

[e-mail]

Erawan Publishing House:

facebook.com/ErawanKonyvkiado

website: www.erawan.hu

[e-mail]

E-book version:

Adrien Béky

ISBN 978-615-5469-65-7

The story’s characters are a product of my imagination,

and they will live for as long as I keep them alive. smiley.png

Eva Fejos

 1.

frangi_1.jpg

Dearly beloved, we are gathered here together to join Giancarlo Costa and Sylvia Szabó in holy matrimony…

The words seemed to drift towards her from a distance, and she closed her eyes. Even with her lids lowered, she could see herself standing there on the main square, wearing a white silk gown that was more striking than anything customary around here, in Venzone. The style was unusual, and the fabric didn’t rustle like taffeta, but softly hugged her willowy, feminine body. If she’d open her eyes, she’d see part of the town’s old fortification wall, and beyond that, the endless Alps. This was an image she’d always dreamed of, ever since she was a teenager.

She finally opened her eyes and really did see the city wall in the distance, as well as the fountain surrounded by potted flowers in front of City Hall. There was a bicycle leaning against the fountain, and she’d parked her own there too. Bicycles, Venzone. She still hadn’t fully comprehended that she was actually here, and hadn’t the faintest idea if she’d made the right decision when she’d agreed to move, but she knew that the decision had been hers. And she could still change things if she wanted.

Un cappuccino, signorina, the waitress at the Alla Vecchia Concordia said as she placed a silver platter down on the terrace table. The sugar substitute sat beside the white coffee cup with the gilded handle. Szilvia smiled at the waitress. She’d only been coming here for two weeks, but the staff already knew that she took her coffee without sugar. She ripped open the small packet of substitute and poured the white powder into her drink. The foamed milk sat thick and regal on top of the coffee, and Szilvia watched as the powder slowly seeped under. She stirred her coffee, took a sip, and closed her eyes again. Not as good as in Rome on the Piazza del Popolo. Not at all: the coffee was better here on the sunny, cobblestoned main square of this little town. Though Udine, a much bigger city, was only a stone’s throw away, time seemed to have come to a halt here, just like anywhere in Rome. And that was a fact.

Ciao, Sylvia! called several locals in greeting: the owner of the shop decked out with lavender flowers; the newsstand vendor; her neighbor; a stranger… Some of them waved in passing, either on foot or riding bikes, and the shop owner even sat down to enjoy her own cup of coffee at the adjacent table.

Sylvia pulled out the daily paper from her bag and began reading. It was eleven in the morning, the sun was bright, and all she had to do that day was write up a commissioned article and wait until siesta, when she could have lunch with Giancarlo. She was a lady of leisure, almost, compared to the hectic days she’d spent in Rome. She had plenty of time to write her novel. Or daydream about her wedding…

We are gathered here together to join… she heard the words repeated in her head, and thought that perhaps this should have been the opening sentence of her novel. It was so cinematic. She saw herself, the change of location, the start of her new life as if she were in a movie, through the eyes of an observer, like a fly on the wall, positioned slightly overhead. And she was critical, as she always had been of herself any time she arrived to a turning point in her life or was involved in some kind of conflict. She stared at the faraway mountains and knew: this was true serenity, sitting here, observing the snow-covered peaks and the clouds that hovered like a fog below… But she still didn’t know if she’d made the right decision. When could a decision be considered right? You only find out the answer later, in hindsight. Right now, she saw an attractive, well-groomed, thirty-five year-old woman on the screen of her life’s movie sitting on the terrace of a café in a sleepy little town, conversing with the friendly strangers who lived there, calmly stirring her coffee, free to finally finish her novel… and start her life.

If she had been back in her old life in Rome, this same woman would be sitting in the editorial office of Giornata, would have been done reading through all the important Internet news sites, and would have decided on whom to interview for next week’s column. Then, she would have had coffee with a few colleagues, gone to an art show opening, or conducted an interview with the lead actor in a newly premiered play, or with an author whose book was soaring upwards on the bestseller lists. Whatever the agenda, she would have been running full throttle all day. Then in the evening, following a theater performance and a light supper enjoyed in the company of her friends, she would have written up her latest article or interview. Her cozy apartment on XX Settembre Street, which, though quite small, was in the middle of all the hustle and bustle, a location where everything converged. She was amidst the fun and business in a city where every day seemed like a special event.

Here in Venzone, it seemed like nothing ever happened. Festival season would be coming soon, as Giancarlo had already mentioned, but Szilvia could only sarcastically imagine what a festival might look like in this small city (more like a tiny village according to her standards). The nearest big city was Udine, but how different it was comparted to Rome. To her, Udine seemed to be in a perpetual state of siesta, and didn’t much feel like she was in any center of action… like she had been in Rome.

Previously, she would never have given up her little flat on XX Settembre Street. She had held onto it even while she was in a serious relationship years ago. The apartment was always a safe base; she hadn’t regretted keeping it. But now that Giancarlo had come thundering into her life and had asked her to make a decision, she chose him. Her instincts had guided her, not her mind. She knew that it was better to keep her mind out of this. If she’d listened to her head, she would never have left Rome. It had taken her so long to find that city in the first place and to realize she could live there. She had conquered plenty of obstacles before she managed to find herself and set up a life that was her own.

She took out her laptop. In Venzone, she was no longer working a regular job, but rather accepted commissions on a freelance basis. She contributed to a women’s magazine, for instance, writing book reviews about so-called women’s fiction. At first, she enjoyed the task, but now that she’d been here two weeks and she’d read five women’s novels, she felt that this wasn’t going to be as easy as she’d originally thought. Often, after reading the first few pages, she knew how it would continue, how the plot would unfold.

She switched on her computer. The woman sitting at the neighboring table called over to her: No pause for even a coffee break? Szilvia smiled at her and launched the word processing program. First, she thought she’d write up the critique that was due, but instead, she created a new folder. She gave all her folders Hungarian names, and this one was labeled Regény. Novel. She clicked open a file and a wave of letters washed over her. She was only at the beginning of the story, eighty-thousand characters in, though she’d started writing it so long ago… It was high time to continue.

She ordered a bottle of mineral water, and she was about to start working, re-reading what she’d written so far (she’d lost track of the storyline), when she heard something in her purse go: ping! She pulled out her cell phone. An electronic reminder flashed. She knew even without looking what the memo was about, even without opening the calendar. Why on earth had she even bothered to set this reminder in her phone last year? There was no way she could forget the date and location. They had burned themselves into her brain seventeen years ago.

June 30. Budapest.

That’s what the memo would have read if she’d have bothered to look. She had only one week left. One week to decide if she’d go or not. If she did go, all she had to do was hop in her car, and she’d be there in a few hours. Back home in Hungary. No, not home. Just: there. She hadn’t made a decision yet, though she already knew what she would do. It wasn’t the promise made long ago that impelled her, and perhaps not curiosity either, but something entirely different. It was the tormenting feeling that assaulted her from time to time on those hot, stifling nights in Rome, when even the fan wouldn’t bring relief, and she’d spend the whole night wide awake, bathed in sweat. Sure, she was curious. Curious to know about the girls… where they ended up, what became of them, and about how they recalled things. If they even remembered, that is. If they showed up. How would it feel, being all together again?

She was re-reading her novel, but she couldn’t concentrate on the story. There was something about to burst inside of her, and she knew she had to go, return to Budapest. Now that she’d started her new life at Giancarlo’s side in a drowsy little Italian city, it was time to face the reason she’d escaped from her hometown, her home country in the first place.

She absentmindedly tapped the PgUp and PgDn arrows on her keyboard, browsing her novel, and when the waitress reappeared, she ordered another cappuccino and a buttery roll to go with it.

frangi_2.jpg

I’ve made your reservations. I’ll send you the tickets via email. Make sure you review the dates to make sure they are correct. You’ll be leaving on an afternoon flight with Thai Airways from Denpasar, arriving to Bangkok at 8PM, and continuing on at midnight with British Airways. You arrive in London at dawn the next day, and as you requested, I reserved a place on an evening flight to Budapest, so you’ll have a stopover of more than half a day in London, the customer service assistant from the travel agency explained over the phone to Dóra.

The woman spoke English quite well, and after they’d reviewed the flight connection times, Dóra transferred money to the agency for the tickets, put her credit card away and stepped out of the office. She glanced vaguely at the carved Garuda bird statue standing by the door, walked along the narrow hallway, and found herself in the lobby of the main building. Suddenly, she was engulfed by the stifling, humid, tropical heat, and felt beads of sweat popping up on her back and chest. She took a deep breath, enjoying the moist air as it flooded her windpipe. She loved the feeling, adored it. Heat was her vital element. She worshiped the tropical, sultry, endless summer. The palm trees. And especially the ocean.

This lobby was different from those in hotels where she had been employed in the past. Here, the side walls were open. Colorful birds fluttered in and out, sometimes attempting to nest in the foyer’s enormous chandelier; the staff always got their brooms out on such occasions and did their best to deter the birds from their intentions. There was no air conditioning. Instead, a fan with wide paddles hung from the wooden ceiling, circulating the air. When the monsoon season set in, bringing periods of seemingly endless rain, the furniture was brought inside, and if there was a downpour, the staff rolled down the bamboo screens so the wetness wouldn’t burst into the lobby. But at the moment, the sun outside was brilliant, making the lobby seem dim, as if looking at a backlit photograph. A path to the right led towards the garden, the pool, the ocean, and the bungalows. When Dóra arrived to the lobby, the three receptionists behind the front desk brightened. She smiled and waved to them, and murmured to herself in Hungarian:

Good morning to you all.

Actually, it was nearly noon. The receptionists were sitting quietly, bored behind the desk, their idleness justified by the fact that there weren’t many new arrivals to the hotel at this time of day, and guests who had already checked in were either down by the water or cooling off in their air-conditioned rooms.

Dóra headed towards the main entrance first, then changed her mind and chose the steps leading towards the garden instead. She still couldn’t get over the fact that she was here, in this lush, tropical environment. Tall, leafy palm trees swayed in the garden; birds of paradise and other colorful, exotic plants sprung from their bases; verdant, dense shrubs lined the path; and the grass was pale green and thick, showing no sign that this was the middle of the dry season. Thanks to the irrigation system, of course, and perpetual maintenance gardening. When she first arrived here, she didn’t understand why the hotel required so many gardeners. Even now, she knew that there were at least twice as many than they actually needed, but that’s just how things were, and it was the same for all the jobs at the hotel. Initially, she’d tried to reform things. She tried to be tough. Later, she changed her mind, understanding that she had to try some other tactic, because the methods she had used in Europe or Australia hadn’t gotten her very far in this neck of the woods. Indeed, this was Indonesia, more precisely, the island of Bali, where things didn’t quite work the way she imagined they would.

Even now it was strange to her. She’d barely stepped off the paved path leading towards the pool, headed towards the bungalows, when the gardeners greeted her. When Dóra saw them for the first time after her arrival, sprawled out on the grass, talking and laughing, or watching the colorful, twittering birds gliding from bush to bush – all during working hours – well, she couldn’t believe her eyes. She had a very hard time accepting that this was the pace of work around here. The official explanation was that the stifling, humid air made you sluggish. Dóra had talked to a Chinese colleague of hers about this, and to Ian, an Australian hotel manager, who, before he’d taken on the management of the latest luxury resort at Nusa Dua, had been in charge of the Hard Rock Hotel on Kuta Beach. Both the Chinese colleague and Ian had been on Bali for a while, and did the best they could to pacify Dóra and talking her out of her reformation plans. There was no point in starting a revolution. She couldn’t fire her staff; it just wasn’t done on Bali. She would have to get used to the pace here.

But she didn’t take their advice, of course. She gave her employees an ultimatum, formulated precise job descriptions, and designated lengths for a trial period. At first, her staff smiled. Then, they laughed. But in the end, they became disgruntled. And they didn’t start working either faster or more effectively. One morning, Dóra woke up sensing that something wasn’t right. She didn’t hear the usual hubbub outside, but did hear a sort of chanting from a distance. The first place she checked was the restaurant. She saw that breakfast had not been prepared. There was no one behind the reception desk. Even the gardeners hadn’t begun their tasks. Leaves drifted on the pool’s surface. The cleaning carts were standing idle while the public areas should have been tidied hours ago. Every member of her staff was sitting on the steps of the main entrance, in between the two statues of deities dressed up in checkered attire. As it turned out, her employees were on strike and demonstrating against her. Miss Dora, Go Home! These were the words on their picket signs in English. Dóra stood at the top of the steps and stared at them. She could pretend to act tough, but Ian had been right. She would lose. Sure, she could hire another team, but could never change the Balinese mentality. It would be like trying to make a flexible reed out of a hard cliff. Even money wouldn’t motivate them. Dóra stood there at the top of the steps and gazed down at these people on strike against her, and it occurred to her that she’d never faced such an obstacle before. They never taught her how to deal with such a scenario at the training courses, the coaches never mentioned this, and even the group leaders never referred to it. And it needed to be dealt with immediately, here and now. It was seven-thirty on a January morning during peak season, and early rising hotel guests might appear at any moment, stomachs rumbling, asking for breakfast. They would wander into the restaurant and demand smoked salmon on a bed of ice, warm, crispy rolls, crab salad, cold cuts, and tropical fruits… Then they’d head out to the beach, where they’d want beach towels, clean lounge chairs, rice brandy, cocktails, and other beverages from the pool bar… And what about the new arrivals who would ask admittance to their rooms as soon as possible?

So Dóra made a choice. She spoke to her team in English, asking one of the receptionists to translate for those who didn’t understand.

Alright. It looks like I have to give in. And I will. For now, she said, falling silent for a moment. That means I won’t change anything if things continue to function as I expect them to. I won’t lay anyone off, and I won’t lecture you for taking extra breaks. In return, I expect everyone to get to work right this minute, because if the guests start complaining about the services, we can all look for new jobs.

This was the first defeat she suffered on Bali; nevertheless, the hotel functioned rather well from then on. And while the Balinese staff didn’t work any faster, the hotel guests got everything they expected from a five-star luxury resort in this Garden of Eden. They were extra patient with the dreamy-eyed local staff who seemed to move in slo-mo, perhaps because they felt like they had landed in the middle of an earthly paradise. After all, this was Bali, the Island of the Gods, and the charmed image of the island that had once existed in the minds of the general public slowly began to reinstate itself. Dóra had arrived on Bali well after 2002, which was the year a terrorist bombing on the main street of Kuta, the middle of the tourist area, had resulted in the death of several hundred tourists (mostly Australians) at the highly fashionable Sari Club. After this staggering act of violence, the number of visitors to Bali plummeted. Foreigners no longer believed that there could be any paradise on Earth where they could safely enjoy themselves – the precise goal the terrorists set out to achieve. But people are optimists, Dóra thought to herself with a smile, and they wanted to believe in Bali again. Tourism picked up, and locals once more began making their living from this field of business in great numbers. The various hotels and restaurants somehow survived the difficult years. Dóra remembered when she’d first arrived to the village of Canggu, on the shore of the Indian Ocean. The hotel next door had been nearly deserted. By now, it too was usually half-full. Under her management, the Dewata Resort, comprised of bungalows and a main building of rooms, had been yielding a modest profit for the proprietors for nearly six months.

Hello, boss! several gardeners called to her.

She waved to them with a smile and suddenly realized that she was no longer angered by their leisurely work pace. It seemed that slowly, after more than a year, she was starting to accept the fact that Bali was a different world.

Dóra continued her supervision round in the garden, and then headed down to the pool to make sure everything was running smoothly there too. At first, it had been strange that everything needed to be supervised personally; she couldn’t relay these small tasks to her inspectors. She’d realized that her employees accepted only her as their superior, especially if they saw that she kept her eye on everything.

After the rounds, she returned to her office and sat down in front of her computer. There was a crick in her neck. She must have slept the wrong position and cramped it. Her email inbox contained a message from Ian: See you tonight? We could watch the sunset in Sanur… or Kuta. I hear last night’s lobster haul was especially good. How about a taste test?

Dóra smiled. Since she’d moved to Bali, lobster was like fried chicken had been to her as a child. She was up for a lobster dinner anytime. Plus, Ian was a nice guy, and he didn’t speak that harsh Australian English. After she’d first moved to Sydney, she’d needed weeks to get used to it before she understood a single word.

Ian could have been a prospective love interest for Dóra, and she was working on, maybe, seeing him as one: the promise of something that might work out on a longer term. Not just longer. Long term. Period. But Dóra knew herself too well. At thirty-five, she had enough experience to know that her flighty spirit would take the reins and carry her off, just when she thought she could finally commit. This was part of the reason why she’d come to Bali, and why she’d accepted this job. Slowly over the years, she had moved further and further away from Hungary. Her first stop was Prague, followed by London and Brisbane, then by Sydney, until she landed in Indonesia. Bali seemed ideally suited to her flighty spirit. She was sure she could avoid the commitment trap here and wouldn’t need to fight off temptation. She knew even before she’d arrived that she – tall, fair-skinned, honey-blonde, bold and self-confident – wasn’t attracted to Balinese men. And she hadn’t been wrong. But then she met Ian. He was yet another man on the horizon. If the dreams plaguing her for the past seventeen years hadn’t started again, Ian might truly have been a promising love interest in her life.

But he never could be, because Péter’s face always appeared before her. Péter had been her true love interest, the promise of long term… which never came true. They never even had a chance. She’d looked up to him and wanted a future with him. It didn’t matter that she was only in her late teens and perhaps still very immature. If there was something she was sure of, it was the love she felt for Péter. She believed, imagined and hoped; she was positive that they would indeed have a future together. They would construct a life and a history together. But after the dream became a nightmare, they never ended up finding out what life might have been like together. Would they have been happy? Would their first night of passion hold out for a lifetime? Could the flare of love after a year-long platonic relationship really last? Dóra would never know. But she did know that Péter and this dream-turned-nightmare determined her relationships. They were the factors that made her unable to bond with anyone: as soon as her sensitive, female side emerged and showed any deeper interest in a man, her flighty spirit reared its head and doubted she would be happy with him on a long term basis, causing her to back out of the relationship. Dóra sometimes wondered if she should get professional help, but she didn’t really see the point. She already knew the root of her troubles without anyone having to tell her.

A new message flashed on her computer screen. It was from the travel agent sending her the e-tickets. Dóra opened the attachment and checked the arrival time. She would be arriving to Budapest on the evening of June 29th. She hadn’t been home for years. Her parents had recently visited her on Bali because she claimed to lack enough vacation time to get away. Of course, this was not true. She had plenty of vacation days at her disposal, but she only went to Budapest if there was no other way out. Each time she arrived to the Franz Liszt Airport, her stomach tightened up into a painful little ball. And when she wandered around the old neighborhood… she felt tense just thinking about it. She didn’t want to relive the pain again, the feelings of guilt, that heart-wrenching hopelessness she experienced each time she visited Hungary. She felt guilty about leaving her parents back when she was hardly more than a child, defiant and fearful, but staying was not an option.

Dorci, honey, you have everything you could want here. Why would you even think of heading out into the unknown? What’s this crazy idea you’ve gotten into your head? What’s this great opportunity in Prague you’re talking about?

Her mother’s weepy voice altered into an irritated tone when she realized that her eighteen year-old daughter was serious about leaving. They argued for days, but Dóra believed she had no other choice, and when her parents finally understood how dead set she was on carrying out her plan, her father’s sternness gave way. Her parents had always been able to balance their strength well: when one of them gripped the reigns harder, the other eased up. It was hard for Dóra to come to terms with what she had to face, because deep in her heart, she really wanted to stay. But her mind commanded: Go! She wasn’t sure she’d made the right choice when she left the safe, warm family nest behind, along with everything her parents had provided over the course of eighteen years. Yet she set out, only returning to Budapest at intervals few and far between, and each time she visited, she was tormented by fear.

But this time, she really had to return. There were only five days till departure. On June 30, she would have to make an appearance. She had made this promise seventeen years ago, and Dóra always kept her promises. And she was curious too, of course, though she already knew important basics. She wanted to see the others. She wondered if they would be