Workaday, and then Tomorrow

Hermit crab is a messy eater—good for anemone riding on top, who snags debris and provides camouflage and may attract small fish. Hermit/anemone friendship is based on mutual benefit.

Moray and jack cruise in joint venture to find a burrow and stake out the entrance and exit. Prey exits from one or the other, and chance will balance the catch.

Surgeonfish pluck algae from turtle’s back, as turtle gets cleaned and soothed by the gentle touch.

Cleaner shrimps snack blithely in moray’s maw on tidbits, and moray gets a dental cleaning.

Ravi and Moeava share means and know-how. Tolerant and flexible, they give and take with tact and difficulty. A new operation needs time to get the word out. And a free day will ease the veteran back into routine. A trial dive seems best because Moeava is likable, which counts for nothing or worse at depth, where things can change. The morning schedule further defers to need, with Hereata at the dock first thing, wrapped in a pareo to accentuate her best and soften the other. She is no contender in Cosima’s league but can still throw the knockout punch on lips and nipples, fluffed and highlighted. With six for tomorrow, the boys are optimistic, kind of. Moeava is a certified diver, but so are a million nimrods flashing C cards, kicking heads, blowing off tanks in a few minutes, grabbing octopuses, or glomming some narcosis and going deep.

Moeava might be sound and should be trainable. They head out to a pass, but anchorage and tide are hard to read. Ravi follows the chart plotter to fifty feet, to keep things simple. In mild current on sandy bottom, they set the hook and go over. They check the anchor, signal okay and meander into the current. It picks up, bringing groupers and lemon sharks with a few Galapagos sharks in the mix. A few more sharks fade in and out of visibility. When the current gains to a knot, they work another hundred yards then drift back, until Ravi clears his mask and spews blood. It could be congestion from bad diet or liquor, but then comes the headache.

Rising slow as he dares, he skips the safety stop because it was hardly sixty feet, and time may be short. At the surface, a hock and a snuk gush with bloody snot. He feels it coming and rolls onto his back to avoid drowning, as delirium takes over—as he flops intermittently to face up and now down.

A test has been failed, as other tests arise. Moeava can’t move too well or cross-chest carry another diver in gear or tow Ravi by the scruff and make progress against the current. He could ditch the gear but fears the loss. He squeezes Ravi into place, as if to prevent the rollover. Ravi gurgles, so he heads for the boat. Finally, awkwardly aboard, he ditches his rig, cranks the engine, shags the anchor and motors over to drag Ravi onto the swim step. Ravi convulses and pukes blood.

Moeava blows blood too, and carbon monoxide is the easy call. Ravi moans on the ride back—he cannot work with anyone so dangerously dim. Moeava ties off as he’s learned to do, as Ravi shuffles to the compressor. It’s not so old and chugs along, pumping tanks to three grand. Welded exhaust extensions get the smoke twenty feet from the fresh-air intake to avoid monoxide poisoning, but somebody wrapped each weld with resin. It slumps, thick on the bottom, thin on top, crazed from sunlight, letting pinhole jets of exhaust into the mix near the compressor. He glares. Moeava sees. “Shit happens. You know that. From what I hear, you’re an expert.”

Like siblings they swat and insult through the basics of clean air compression, no carbon monoxide allowed. Details of ultimate consequence are reviewed as welds are cut and ground clean, re-welded and covered with fiberglass roving, matt, and more roving, with epoxy in three light coats between layers, then duct-taped against sunlight. On groans, curses, and admonitions, the lesson sinks in as their lovely life together takes another step.

•

Moeava cops to the mistake. Shit does happen, but it shouldn’t always happen. He pledges care and picks up the slack on prep, driving, docking, anchoring, fueling, servicing, and cleaning the boat. He sees the potential and need at hand. He does not own the boat but would like to. He leases from an old friend of his nana. Ravi can’t trust his work without review: engine oil, hull plugs, the outdrive leg, lines, knots, thimbles, shackles, seizing, anchor, spare anchor—the minutiae a dive leader depends on.

Ravi is clear on Hereata’s recruitment campaign. He doesn’t mind. Tit for tat is fair play. In the catbird seat all along, he got a job made to order, or it could be, and the money should pick up. The two-tank fare times six, times three hundred would be great, and it’s a full boat the next day.

Distraction continues with the meatball and bad intention. Hereata struts alongside, trussed again to advantage for the good of mankind, with the heels, the lift and spread a man can admire. Bound for glory, she virtually demands that we all just get along. “You will have a wonderful dive experience.”

Moeava steps up to grab the thick fellow’s dive bag. “Get on. We go already.”

Ravi stows and begins the briefing. Moeava translates on depth, bottom time, buddies, hand signs, what might be seen or expected. Long ago regarded for local knowledge, no casualties and the seal of approval from the Crusty one, this drill is perfunctory and French. He skips the details and for laughs eats a banana and drops the peel, pretending not to see it, so he can step on it and barely avoid breaking his neck because the French love slapstick. But a man picks up the peel and flings it overboard, and they laugh like hyenas. This might take a while. Ravi plays it straight, looking overboard for his banana peel. They watch.

Then it’s off to the pass. He only dove the first half, but snaggle-tooth lemons should come in for a sniff; hammerheads will cruise around the corner, and Galapagos may dart in on a dare.

The current is stronger on the surface and sweeps to another current, heading out. Currents this strong can’t be resisted, except by fools. Tourists assume that the crew knows conditions, so they wonder why he’s taking so long, like he’s stumped or worried. “Spring tide. Everybody comfortable with current?” Moeava puts it in neutral and translates. Ravi tells him: “No anchor, drift and watch the bubbles. Sixty feet. Fifty minutes, and we come up with the boat right there. Okay?” He watches Moeava till the big man turns away. Donning more like a cat burglar than a Degas dancer, he sits on the rail. “Backflip. Okay?”

Moeava helps with fins, air valves, and regulators; it’s like checking for mittens, lunch money, and nametags but worse. Ravi emphasized the back roll into the water all at once so they can stay together. They stare until Moeava says three words, and they nod. Once in the water—dans l’eau—they will descend quickly. Holding his mask and reg in place, he rolls back. They follow with a few kicks to heads and regroup at the stern, where they share the okay sign and descend. Ravi eases into the drift, signaling to follow close. He can’t hear the engine, and the current is gaining. He can’t slow down and can only hope Moeava will keep up. Above all, he stays calm.

The little troupe speeds along, with nobody hanging onto a passing rock or trying to go back. A hammerhead cruises past, which counts for a highlight only a few minutes in. They wend along the bottom from sixty feet to seventy, going outside the dive plan but in less current. Eighty feet on a sixty-foot plan is iffy and ninety is what Crusty would call fucking with the phantom. But ninety gets them under the current, and a gang of mantas approach in single file. A female leads twelve males in the manta love chain. They swoop within inches, securing all fares on drama. Tips should also peg the meter, and word-of-mouth will add value in the birth of a reputation. Should I tell them about my perfect day, with four hours of work and a round of golf?

Less secure is the rest of the dive, off plan, improv, and maybe out to sea. Fifteen feet for three minutes might be a dicey safety stop, given goofballs, meatballs, and current. Local knowledge would be valuable, if he knew someone who had it because Moeava is local without the knowledge. Let’s take this one step at a time.

He signals slow ascent and at thirty feet sees the anchor coming down at a slant because Moeava is feeding the rode slowly over while steering and peering over the side. Give the boy some credit. The anchor hangs behind the boat at fifteen feet. Or is he trolling? The divers gather as instructed, but air expansion in six buoyancy compensators ascending from ninety feet to fifteen hurries the rise because every diver dumps on the way up, unless he doesn’t. A waterman wishes he’d gone into sales or construction or anything. He won’t get bent if he can stay down. Something feels, wrong, or is that just part of a pattern?

He scurries among them, seeking dump strings. But each releases a trickle, and they rise—until he sees the meatball grin or wince, hard to tell. The fleshy man is pressing his inflator in short bursts to offset each dump and keep the group ascending until the dive leader cures the problem. A meatball might tussle on a pool-deck stage, but underwater he’s flotsam.

Ravi pulls his knife. The meatball throws his arms up in defense. Ravi would puncture the BC to secure the safety stop. The lost BC can be charged to the meatball’s credit card. Maybe. Or maybe Ravi Rockulz will be looking for a decent boat in Cucamonga or Timbuktu, where crews snigger over a load of tourii, bent and drowned, ascending from ninety feet on a sixty-foot plan and lost at sea, where some may still be, in parts or globs of lumpy shark shit. The blade flashes. A BC can be stitched over a new bladder—who cares? But the meatball kicks away and shoots to the surface. The group settles back to fifteen feet, hugging the anchor.

Soon all are on board, murmuring over the shark and mantas and the safety stop that wasn’t so safe. Most keep an eye on the thick fellow who mopes and the lean fellow who sits beside him and speaks. “That was great. Wasn’t it?” Moeava translates. Most mumble agreement. Ravi tells them what happened. “We got out of our plan. That’s never good. But look—” Reaching for his gauge, he points out maximum depth, ninety-three feet because a challenge will come down to facts and witnesses. “Our dive plan was to sixty-five feet, but we got in a current with manta rays. Ninety-three feet for twenty-four minutes calls for a safety stop at fifteen feet. Three minutes would do, but we stayed five—all but one of us. So we’re within safe limits, and I anticipate no problems. But we take precaution. Okay?”

He waits for the translation then turns to the thickset man. “I will report you to the police for terroristic endangerment of every person here. Good luck with that. You’re at risk for decompression sickness. Are you stiff or sore yet?” The big brow bunches. “You’ll know soon enough. Remember, no exertion. No beating off in the shower. Okay?” The bigger man is subdued with concern.

A woman leans in. “Can I walk on the beach?”

Ravi shrugs. “You should know. You may have nitrogen in your system. Stimulation can be tricky. How much stimulation? You tell me. Maybe you can stay calm. If your blood pressure goes up on too much nitrogen…” He shrugs and pouts. “Capiche?” He moves to the helm. Moeava regards him with a glance and steps aside, relieved that there’s more than one fuckup in this outfit. The second dive is shallow, brief and boring, ending their first day at the office.

At the dock farewells are again perfunctory with forced humor; and no, the frogs don’t tip. Ah, well, the crew laughs at any rate when the meatball lumbers up, pausing to lean on the handrail, mumbling Slovakian. Moeava says, “That guy. Do you think he will bend?”

“He could. Fifty-fifty.” Ravi turns with a game question: “Would you like to find out?”

So they put the boat to rights, hose off and drive twelve miles around to the hotel facing the channel near the motus. Over a few beers in the bar, they review the depth and godforsaken current that somebody local should have known. Moeava recalls what went right, and they determine sites for tomorrow.

Three beers in, the heavily rouged woman from a few nights ago slides in at the bar. Ravi gets a receptive smile for his stare, so he signals the bartender. She orders “the usual,” which looks like the working girl’s toddy: top-drawer vodka, make that a double, straight up. It may be prearranged, with the bartender serving water with a kickback, but who cares?

She agrees to perform as requested for fifty thousand francs, or five hundred dollars. Okay, three hundred—okay, one fifty because Moeava is too big for a discount; come on. But this is for Oybek, her recent date. She relents on a pledge of more work in the future.

At the sundries shop nearby, Ravi buys two bottles of sparkling wine, La Vie en Chartreuse, bottled in Cambodia, and a small container of cobra liniment because stimulants trigger the bends. Charisse will visit Oybek, get the bubbly into him and do him up like no tomorrow—“Like a bronco buster, baby. Can you do that?”

“I am professional. You don’t know what I can do.”

“Good. He’s depressed. We want to snap him out of it.”

“I don’t finks he is depressed. I finks he is… malade.”

“Tonight is our special surprise. After the hoochie-coochie get him into the shower and rub this stuff all over. Make him a pussy cat.”

“Oui, mais ze pussy cat c’est moi, Monsieur.”

“Yes. But he broke up with his girlfriend—didn’t he tell you? Such a martyr. She looks like you.” Charisse is confused, till Ravi assures. “This is what he loves. He’s a wonderful fellow.”

She rolls her eyes. “I finks one hundred fifty will not—”

“Okay, two hundred. But, when you get him in the shower and get him rubbed all over, then give him the…” Ravi jams tongue to cheek, pursing his mouth on the imaginary shaft, in hand. Charisse needs no charade. Nobody doubts her skill, but Ravi stipulates a hundred now and the rest later. And it’s off to see the wizard. It’s only a prank, and it’s good to act out.

Oybek is difficult at the door, not in the mood and not hospitable, but Charisse coos that she can’t stop thinking about him and his grandeur. He demurs in Slavic slur. She eases in.

Ravi and Moeava lean on a tree near the louvered window in back. Ravi whispers that she’s either offering the freebie or a discount.

Moeava laughs. He hadn’t thought of that but thinks he too would maximize profit if he could sell pussy. “Why not? I would fuck every night if I could get paid. Why not make more?” As a boat whore, he can only charge once. They stifle their giggles, bonding as men, and Moeava pulls a joint from his pocket. He lights up and inhales a third of it before offering. “You like marijuana?”

“I believe I do.” Corks pop inside and soon begin the grunts and groans and yes, don’t stop, yes, there… La petite mort is silent, till Charisse wants a shower. He grumbles to go, let him rest. She smears hot sauce on him, and he moans. She titters. She finks she can get him up for another go, over here. Bring the bubbly.

Very stoned, Ravi wonders aloud if they have wasted their money on a menace to society. Moeava shakes his head. “Not my money.”

“Maybe it’ll be a good lesson for a reactionary prick.”

“Yes. May be. He is a prick.”

“Not him. Me. It should teach me to lay off the revenge and spend my money more wisely, like on pussy and liquor for me.”

“And me.” They laugh again, until the lament. They peek in as Charisse leaves half dressed, carrying the rest of her things.

Moeava turns to go. “Wait.”

Ravi ducks between bungalows and around to the open door. The big man on the sofa doesn’t quite convulse but quivers on the verge. Steam pours out the shower. Moeava steps up. Ravi says, “Medium case. I’ve seen worse. I think he won’t die. Unless he’s got other problems. Hard to say. Muscle guys show it worse. Come on.”

“Should we call somebody?”

“I don’t think so.”

Oybek mutters what could be gibberish or the Ukrainian national anthem. Then he yelps. They roll the hulk to his side, so his face is into the sofa to muffle the sound. They turn off the shower and head out to Moeava’s small truck. On the road, Ravi suggests another beer. Moeava says, “You really something. You get that guy. For good. Now you want more beer.”

“That guy got himself.”

“I like that. I like how you do that. You all American.”

“No. I’m not American. I never was. I like what it stands for. What it stood for.”

Moeava slaps the wheel and says he wants to be more American, like Ravi; it was so fucking perfect. C’est fucking parfait!

“It’s not great. It’s a personal problem. It’s never been great.”

“Whatever you say.” They ride in silence, till Moeava slaps the wheel again. “Man!”

“I wish we hadn’t done that.” It’s bad enough behaving like a psychopath, let alone teaching someone else. Regret sinks in for a few more miles.

•

“You know what I think?” Moeava is reflective.

“No. Je ne sais pas quoi tu penses.”

“Pas quoi; ce que. Je ne sais pas ce que tu penses.”

“Mais oui. I don’t know what you think. But I wonder.”

“I think you got no regret. I think you say regret, so nobody think you crazy. Nobody but me think anything anyway. Je pense que tu es mal, et tant pis. I think you crazy no matter what. That guy got the bends is crazy too. Everybody un peu mal, but he much worse crazy. Il est trop mal. Il est mal, froid. I think deep down, dans ton coeur, you want to hurt that guy. You need to hurt that guy. Maybe kill that guy. You say, il est mort, peut-être; tant pis. I think you would not be so good at hurting him if you did not want to hurt him. It was good. Man. It was very good.”

“And why do you think I need to hurt people?”

“I don’t know. But I think I find out pretty soon.”

“I think I need help. And pretty soon you will too.”

“I think you help yourself. Don’t worry. We don’t need no stinking regret. Ha! Hey. You see that one, with the guys all farting?”

•

Moeava is a contradiction, an oaf on the one hand, insightful on the other—as if the one is a ruse, a clever pretext to highlight the other. Maybe he’s stupid like a fox. Lingering doubt compels Ravi to double-check most of his work, especially where life and limb are at risk. Other doubt lingers on personal assessment: Ravi is a known commodity at home, but he’s far from home. So what has he become? What’s become of him? What still wells up inside? Home can be anywhere with friends and a family forming up, and maybe this is it. Or maybe he’s doomed to repetition. He thinks himself a regular guy who swung at a curve ball—make that a meatball out of nowhere in a screwy world calling for screwy response. That’s all. Yet Moeava’s correction hits with realization that he is superior at revenge.

•

Supple as a walrus at depth, Moeava flounders on the surface and lumbers up the dock. But he opens up to guidance. “Look.” Ravi coils a line slowly, dismissing the figure eight, to avoid tangling on a rapid payout. “Lay it flat. No tangle. It looks better, and you won’t trip on it. Look…” He throws a half hitch, a braking half wrap and a trucker’s hitch for securing with no slack. Finally comes the bowline that won’t tighten under load, advising his boss to practice till it’s mindless, till the hands can tie it without the brain.

Ravi swims alongside and dumps the big man’s BC by half to settle him a few inches deeper. Moeava strives for coordination. On the bottom, he can move the anchor and twenty-four feet of chain easier than two smaller men, moving ground tackle away from coral to sand, preserving livelihood.

When the big shark stays gone, Moeava swears she came twice in the week before Ravi arrived. Ravi takes it as a compliment and says a tiger shark will stay near a food source till it’s gone—or will come around with a message. Does Moeava feel it, the kinship? Moeava laughs. “Je ne sais pas, mais… je sais qu’il n’est pas Ma’o.”

“Pourquoi pas?”

“Because. She scare shit from me.”

Ravi nods. “Me too, but…that’s the test. If your spirit guide is the Easter Bunny, you’re a pussy. You get money under your pillow for teeth falling out of your head. Is that what you want?”

“That would be la petite sourie. Et oui.”

“Same difference. It’s warm and fuzzy, great for kids, but not for men. With no test, you get no faith.”

Moeava ruminates. “Why must I be afraid? I like Easter Bunny.”

“Easter Bunny is a rabbit. He hides colored eggs.”

“What is the problem? I was happy. I want to take Easter Bunny for a boat ride. Not Ma’o. Fuckeen’ haoles. Always tryin’ change things around, with fear and guilt… Hey. No offense.”

“None taken. I’m not haole; I’m Jewish. And this isn’t my idea.”

“Pshh…”

“You scoff. It wasn’t the Jews who came to steal resources or convert people to the correct religion.”

Moeava stoops with a grunt to open the cooler. “Jews did something wrong. You know this. Everybody pissed off at them.”

“Not everybody. Only those in need of a scapegoat.”

“I don’t know. I think it has to do with the money. You know how everybody talk about getting Jewed.”

“Are you getting Jewed?”

“Hmm… I don’t think so. But I don’t know. Am I?”

“I don’t think so too. But don’t worry; you can’t help yourself from offending me. So I take no offense. Haoles. Jews. It makes no difference who you blame for your troubles, as long as it’s not yourself. Right?”

Moeava chews this bone and finally agrees. “I think you are right. It is the others who are to blame.” His final dive of the day is under the ice and colas to the bottom for the Hinano six-pack sunk there hours ago. Done with glad-handing, clearing and rinsing, sorting and stowing, he pops two and offers one. “It is good that you see this. I can say many things to offend you. But you will understand.”

They drain two-thirds on a synchronized glug and sigh in harmony. “I understand,” Ravi says, ending the ceremony on a baritone belch. Moeava ups the ante on a scale and two chords. They laugh like men, bonded stronger still. So friendship forms on the stone-ax simplicity of their forebears.

Moeava woofs fried bananas and farts out loud. Ravi calls him disgusting and dribbles poisson cru on his T-shirt. Moeava says, “You eat like an animal.”

“I am an animal.” They agree, drink beer, and tell jokes. It’s easy, until Cosima comes lolling, casual as Ma’o but more posed, possibly angling. She’s an eye-popper but not a bonding event; Moeava laid claim; Ravi acquiesced. But it won’t settle. Ravi has a woman, a zesty wench with zero inhibition. Yet he salivates at the dish nearby. Who but a fool would risk everything and hurt a friend? Not that a dive job is everything, but it’s all he has. And for what? Some parsley? Let’s face it: parsley is best in butter, oozing, bitter and chewy, a perfect garnish for baby red potatoes or life. He ignores Cosima in a sheer blouse for the good of his friendship with Moeava and for fun. Moeava grew up with topless women but squints like an astronomer at a little man on the moon. Ravi works on, cleaning regulators.

She approaches her admirer, scratching an itch on a breast. “Have you been swimming lately?” She turns to Ravi, “Not you. You don’t have to swim. Just him because he can’t.”

Ravi won’t look. “Why is that? Do you want him to drown?”

She thinks it over. “He can drown in water, or I can drown in blubber. He has a better chance. No?”

“So what? I get a freebie?” She giggles. “I thought it was a magic spell, and you are the prize. If you give it away with no swim, the big winner only gets second. Not so good.”

She hurries off like a waterspout but more huffy. Stuck on a shrinking view, Moeava concedes, “Second prize. Not good.”

“Wouldn’t be bad. She’s plenty prize to go around. Besides, she’s crazy. You don’t want to be number one if she’s crazy.”

Moeava wants to be nothing but number one, so he fetches another beer. “You girlfriend or wife, whatever she is, got used up by a… malade before you met her. You don’t mind? Why you here?” He lumbers off to avoid the friction. Ravi tinkers with a reg. Did Hereata tell him everything? Does he doubt that Ravi could pluck and eat this little peach in a blink with no regret? Loyalty goes so far, Mssr Moe. You pay an honest wage for honest work. I throw a lifetime of experience into the bargain. At my age with my know-how, Mssr Moe, which is mechanical and nautical and social and touristic too. I throw in some loyalty, no extra charge. But we have reached a point. You can’t swim the bay, night or day, so why worry? Why taunt me?

Except that it wasn’t a taunt. It was self-defense. Ravi would not regret eating Moeava’s peach, but he’d hate the sticky aftermath. Still, it’s easy to ponder the skittish woman. He blows out the reg, screws the case back on, shags another beer, and sits. Day is done, not a bad day and not so different from the old days, except for missing the old crowd and options forming up. But slow times are part of transition, settling in, getting connected, enjoying less as a means to more. He’s not looking at death or dead ends, and a sixty-watt bulb is enough to read by. Or he can walk up the road in the dark. Or have some sardines and head over to Taverua for another beer and perhaps a recent divorcée in reasonably good shape. Or he could sit right where he is, into the night and following day, waiting for the future to begin. He recalls a similar funk, in his beater Tercel. That was worse, with the girlfriend, make that wife, and her crazy woes. That funk led to scar tissue. This one is nothing. Things are working out, shaping up.

He perks to a scent and sees boys under the tree by the picnic table, laughing and smoking like a small factory. He moves slower than only a few years ago—maybe twelve years or fourteen. But he’s spry enough for a hit or two to pad his cell. The boys are game, passing to the new guy—the old guy—who steps into the circle of universal language. Soft as cashmere, time slows…

He drifts back to securing things and looks up to where he wouldn’t look before. She’s back to tell him there’s no show tonight so she’ll work in the gift shop. She removes her blouse and skirt to change into her pareo for work—and to steal his better sense. She says her job is menial and pays a pittance.

He shares his hope to build the dive business with Moeava and engage his camera soon. They trade details on identity and goals, like urban professionals in a chic bistro, clearing the way to sex, to uplift a day or an hour. But this is tropical and remote. She repeats her special dispensation that he need not swim the bay because she knows he can. He’s very stoned and can’t tell what comes next. He’d like to duck in for quick sexual relations and pretend it never happened, which seems easy. But he reminds her that giving herself without the swim would undermine the spell. She says he would not be excused but would make the swim later.

“How about now?”

“It’s not dark.” He laughs again, as if laughing at her, and so he is. She’s so serious and nutty, and a quickie seems like a terrible hurry on such a feast, and he feels the crosshairs on him, as if he learned nothing. Moeava is no whacko cousin. He’s a harmless blala who may be a brother in need. But the devilish rack is ready to poke him in the eye…

“I didn’t mean right now for the swim.”

“Oh! No, I have to work! I told you. After that, okay. I get off ten thirty. All finish by eleven. Okay?” She takes his silence for affirmation and drifts. Time winds back to forty beats per minute. Or is that the clop, clop, clop of high heels from the opposite direction? The step adjusts to avoid cracks like dissonance in a Monk tune, and she rounds the corner with a practiced leer. She steps up and takes his hand. “Come with me. Smoking that stuff will make you stupid. I want to feed you. Then I want to show you something.” So he sighs and goes, glancing at Moeava watching out the window. How long has he been there? Moeava nods, so maybe it’s not to worry.

She leads the way to a new lair of lavish comfort. This is not the future foreseen. He will soon learn that she’s fifty-three, not so old, considering a grandson of twenty-six. But age is incidental on the way to seeing what she has to show, which is a honeymoon bungalow over a former reef that was cleared for construction then dragged back in hopes of recovery, to amuse discriminating travelers. It’s painful to imagine but feels like a dream with a viewing window in the floor and a light on the little fishes, so cute.

Hereata’s inflamed gum won’t give her a minute’s peace till she removes an incisor and bridge and sets it in a glass by the bed. The top third of her hair is also removed to a lampshade on the escritoire. Her nail clippers hack a stubborn overhang, big toe, left side, as she moans with satisfaction. Then it’s time for the entrée: himself. But all that stuff is manini, in another pattern that’s not bad because a man will choose sex and room service over sardines and a bush bird any day. Are you kidding? He could be dead tomorrow. Or someday.

Fifteen years his elder and past her prime doesn’t matter; she’s so generous with a bevy of moves and a mini-fridge. She easily trumps a book and a long shot. Better to jump to princedom than to grovel in the pond. Better to slip into fancy bedding with a hostess of means than swim a bay in the dark. This is not the thrilling adventure of a new woman or a game second go. It’s a routine. She rides like seasoned crew, rolling delectably to the ocean swell…

From the aftermath and sleep, he wakens to see the clock: 10:30. 10:31. 10:32. He watches the minutes and knows that sexual relations with Cosima will be better in a day or two when they’re fresh. And he sighs, free of the silly pursuit. But he can excuse himself for something or other—not beer because it’s in the mini-fridge with the snacks. He could go for a walk—that’s it, a walk. Then he’ll be back.

Yet she grasps a leg and another leg and oozes over, plying the back muscles to the neck and shoulders as she turns him for the pin and puts him back to sleep at 10:42.

The sun rises on a nameless man with no coordinates in luxuriant comfort floating anonymously. He remembers: it’s a top-drawer bungalow, thanks to what’s-her-name, Here… Hera… the unusual woman who gets him up at will, which seems odd for one so elderly. How does she do that? Eyes open on cue as the hostess with the mostest looks up with a weary grin. That’s how. Reality jams into overdrive. Mascara runny as erosion rivulets, a missing tooth, and service orientation make it memorable. Ah, Paradise. This is what happened. It could be worse. Coffee and Danish served at the front door are excellent. So he showers, eats, and bids adieu on a kiss and gratitude for another full boat. He’ll take it easy tonight at his place and see her bye ’n bye, maybe tomorrow.

She caresses his cheek. “You are right. Tonight is Thursday. Buffet dance. All you can eat. Very late. But you are wrong. Tomorrow I leave. You will not see me.”

“Where are you going?”

“Away.” She turns away. “I’m going away.” That means he’ll have time to find a place to live, with a kitchen. “You won’t see me.”

“I heard you. You’re going to Papeete?”

“Yes.”

“And then you’ll come back?”

“I haven’t decided.”

“What are your choices?”

“It’s not up to me.” Oh, no—what he must not ask is whom, in fact, it is up to. Her charms are so rich around dusk, only to murk at dawn. “I said it’s not up to me.”

“Yes. I heard. What are the choices of whomever it is up to?” Well done, asking the obvious question yet avoiding the trap.

“I suppose one choice is to have me stay away. I suppose the other choice is to have me come back and see what I have to show then.”

This too is a skillful parry. To avoid the mortal repartee, he says, “Very good. I’ll see you when you get back.”

“Yes?”

“Why not?”

“What do you mean, ‘why not?’ You’re so ungracious, after all that I show you. I can tell you as well: the over-water bungalow is rare and will not happen often. We will be at my house. You can move in at that time.”

“It’s too small.”

“No. It’s just right. Moeava will be living at the dive shop.”

“He can’t stay at the dive shop.”

“It was his idea.”

“I won’t be the reason he moves out of his own house.”

“It’s time. He’s twenty-six already.”

“He told me twenty-nine.”

“He lies. He needs psychiatric help, but it would cost more than the lies. Who cares how old anybody is anyway?”

“You make a good point. But I’m not ready to move into your place, even if he wants to move out. I want my own place. I just got here. I need to get my life in order first.”

“Qu’est-ce que c’est premier? Qu’est-ce que c’est vie? Is this not the life? A very good life, I might add. A life many people all over the world would envy. Tahiti. Me.” She sits up, chest out.

“You sound like my mother.”

“She must be a smart woman.”

“Yes. She’s neurotic too. Always insisting.”

“We want what’s best for you.”

“Many people do. But I’m not so dumb as I let on. Trust me on this—we’ll get along, but not every day and night. I appreciate what you have to show, and I want to keep that appreciation fresh.”

“I think you want to chase girls.”

“Maybe. Who knows? You seem confident in your hospitality.”

“I am. It’s true. You would be foolish to give this up. You might think me old and fat or uncouth, any of those things men think once they get rid of their stuff—oh, they think they can do without for an hour or two. Then it’s honey, baby, where are you? Am I right?”

“Yes, you are right. And so am I. We understand our love.”

She perks. “Don’t say that.”

“You’re right. I shouldn’t say that.”

“Unless you mean it.”

“Okay. I’ll be more careful.”

“Come here.”

“No. I have to go. We’ll fuck again on Saturday if we don’t get a better offer.”

“I hate that word.”

“It’s better than love, n’est-ce pas?”

“Fool.”

“Toujours, ma cherie.”