Minna Redux

The big four-oh can pass quietly if a man is careful. Ravi thinks life can begin at forty just as well without the folderol. Who needs it?

But Moeava needs the serial number, the certifying dive shop number, and other numbers from Ravi’s certification to complete the insurance form. Moeava sees the milestone birthday coming up and takes note and makes plans, inviting people to the surprise fortieth birthday party for his good friend Ravi—that’s right, forty.

He invites Cosima, in case she doesn’t know of Ravi’s old age. She treats him better these days, maybe appreciating his dedication. He asks for special favors as Ravi coached, promising to make the swim right after. But such favors are impossible. They would break the rules, making the prize meaningless. He says meaning will not be lost, and soon he will die.

She laughs. Only a fool would expect a reward for doing nothing or failing. Yet she keeps hope alive. Has he lost weight? He’ll make the swim soon, she says; she knows it. Meanwhile, he invites his nana to the birthday soirée, so she begins the forced march toward optimal advantage in feminine presentation.

With Ravi gone in the truck, Moeava visits Monique, who stares in grim resolve. So he makes haste, inviting her to Ravi’s surprise fortieth. She says yes, of course, and tells of a call to Le Chien de Bonne Chance Animal Hospital. A woman asked for Ravi, so Monique said he’s only there some nights. She got the woman’s number in case Ravi needs it or the woman doesn’t call back.

Moeava calls the number and says, “Ia orana, Madam.” He answers questions about himself and Ravi. She says it’s two years since she and Ravi spoke, and she has news, not to worry. Moeava says yes, he knows the party to whom he is speaking.

She needs to know if Ravi wants his cat because the old beach houses where he lived and Gene still lives will be torn down for a hundred fifty new places in stucco with tile roofs in the four to fifteen million range. Gene is moving to a condo that doesn’t allow cats. Whatever Ravi wants to do is okay because Minna can keep the cat, but she thought she should call.

Moeava says yes, Ravi will want his cat. “He talks about her, you know. Very strange.”

“I know.”

“You send cat?”

“I will if that’s what he wants. Or I might find somebody to bring her, for money. The flight is every week, and I should find somebody sooner or later.”

“You bring the cat. We will have une grande fête to celebrate his old age. Forty. Terrible.”

“I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

“You might be correct. He talk about you too.” Rattling on the line is probably a long distance malfunction. “Oh, he talk about you good. He say you very beautiful and perfect in beginning.”

“He says that, beautiful and perfect?”

“That is his meanings. I think he want to see you more with the cat on your arm. Besides, how he will feel if anything happen to the cat?”

“Yes, but only one flight a week from Honolulu. I can’t stay a week.”

“One week not so long. You like this place. Three weeks from Sunday. Okay?”

“I have no place to stay.”

“You stay in his room. You and him and the cat. And the dog.”

“He has a dog?”

“Yes. Little Dog. You all get along. You not fight like cats and dogs. Ha! The dog only want to smell the cat from behind.”

“She likes that, but I won’t surprise him. Not for a week.”

“You must. It is why you call, no?”

“No. I don’t know. But I won’t surprise him.”

“But we all surprise him. Listen—if everything does not work out so good, you stay chez grand-mère—at house of my nana.”

Chez grand-mère? How bad could that be?

“Maybe. I have to make some calls. But I don’t know.”

•

So it is that Minna arranges for Skinny’s move to Moorea, re-engaging the political wing of ohana Somayan. French Polynesia’s quarantine on domestic dogs and cats would surely oppress any feline with four months in a hot, dusty kennel and at her age, eleven already. But the Tahiti quarantine is waived for those countries without rabies, like New Zealand and a few others, but not the United States, except for one state, which is not a sovereign republic in the mid-Pacific but could be.

Of greater import is that annulment can proceed at last, contingent on all signatories present. Some phone calls, a promise, small talk, and official processing et voilà!

Skinny doesn’t like any aspect of moving, beginning with the cat carrier with its waterproof floor and soft towel that bunches at one end. She howls till Minna lets her out. What else can she do? Skinny doesn’t run down the aisle but nestles on Minna’s chest, watching clouds out the window. They look familiar, though strangely near. Is this kitty heaven? She closes her eyes and purrs.

Why did Minna lie to her family about signatory stipulations and annulment when he’s not even met with a lawyer? She doesn’t think he’s met with a lawyer. He would have made contact. And why did she agree to a stupid surprise party instead of a simple phone call to see how things stand? He probably has a tight-ass girlfriend anyway who’s heard all about the crazy wife—make that ex-wife for all practical purposes. At any rate they can get things started. It’s got to happen sooner or later. And she’d just as soon get Skinny moved on a personal delivery. It’s great to get away, and Skinny is a good travel companion. He’ll be grateful and not so mean, and that alone is a good excuse to go along with the surprise. So? Who cares? Still, a week is a long time to spend alone in an exotic place.

Minna and Skinny touch down in Papeete late Saturday. Moeava offered a pickup in his boat at the ferry terminal in town, but Minna opted to sleep over and take the ferry because a small boat would make Skinny sick and be a real kick in the ass after everything else. Besides, hanging out till Sunday will preserve the surprise—what fun. Besides, she may get back on board the ferry after handing off the cat. “I might not stay.”

“Pourquoi no?”

“Pourquoi do you think? Does he have a girlfriend? Do I really want to hang out near that for a week?”

“He has many friends, but he is like a monk with the diving and the pictures. I think he want to see you.”

On the cab ride from the airport into town, she assesses a week of it. She doubts too much embarrassment or humiliation; he seemed so soft when he left. Yeah, soft in the head, but who can blame him? Fucking Darryl. What was I thinking? But don’t start again. Serves that lolo right, ending up with Eunice—three hundred pounds of toothless tita, and for what? One little ten-pound baby? And to think…

Has Ravi had time to sort things out and be himself again? Could he turn down the full meal deal? No way. But he did and might again. What am I doing? Oh, yeah. Annulment. We’ll definitely see to that.

Or might love return to her and her… what? Her man? Her husband? She wishes she’d brought Skinny on a quiet weekday instead of this stupid surprise party weekend. How annoying. But there’s only one flight per week. Oh, yeah.

The other guests share her annoyance, and so does Ravi because every surprise party victim finds out. Nobody enjoys the ride because it’s stupid, everybody pretending they don’t know about the birthday because they don’t care because the victim is nobody, really. It’s meant to show how they really feel: surprise!

For he’s a jolly good fellow…

Ravi found out when Hereata shook the phone bill in his face, asking how he could spend forty dollars on a phone call—a phone call! And to whom, might I ask—et à qui je demande—was you calling, anyway? But it wasn’t him who made the call, so he couldn’t very well know whom anybody was calling, as if she didn’t know. Ask Moeava.

So she asks and finds out and grows despondent, holing up dans la salle de bain, moving from the mirror to the toilet to see and to think, to strategize a plan as it might relate to a woman’s needs, a real woman with plenty left to give, if only a man could be man enough to stand and receive. With practicality as her co-pilot, she invites a guest of her own, an admirer of proven zeal, whose many ovations may warrant a response, even if his phone calls get tangled in Slavic knots. But if it’s love, or could be, the truth will out. At least Oybek’s intentions are clear—or apparent.

On the eve of this fortieth birthday, Ravi reflects on the start of his fifth decade. So what? More importantly, it’s a night for image enhancement, so he escapes to software, where an hour or three can vanish in no time. He hasn’t asked Moeava about the call to Hawaii because he recognized the number and thinks it was a call returned. How else would Moeava get the number? He thinks Moeava has done something stupid, but he won’t ask if Minna is on her way. He fears bad news, and the idea will not settle. He’ll soon see Minna or not. Either way, the next forty years will start clean, starting tomorrow with a lawyer. There: it feels good to resolve what’s waited too long. They both deserve it and are far enough removed to see it through. He sets thoughts of Skinny aside, till tomorrow.

The day shapes up for resolution, with an annoying gathering later in the afternoon. It’s not so bad, with a fat manifest and the vigor to lead the dive of a lifetime—or point them in the right direction while he experiments on telephoto with intentional noise. Telephoto? Underwater? He comes closer than ever to a troupe of garden eels swaying like ballerinas and might be getting the perfect shot for yet another breakthrough. He would rather hit the software for more perfection after the dive. He’d rather be alone and mostly content. But a man has to do what he’d rather not do, so he hoses down and cleans up and with a poker face strolls to the front office with a grin. Monique does not yell surprise! She’s not there. The place is empty. He misread the clues—what a relief. How much better the afternoon and evening will be in solitude with what he loves. It’s fun to get it right, given raw images so close to the mark already. And here they are, downloading in a choreography by Neptune himself. One frame to the next, garden eels arch and shimmy, moving to the music they share.

It’s a beautiful and eerie thought—good thing since eerie beauty is the point of technical obsession. A technocrat is not an artist, but technical excellence is a basis, really, when you…

“Surprise!”

Interruption is the artist’s nemesis. And through the door to commemorate his birth, a promenade sallies forth. It’s Monique and Cosima with Moeava in tow. Hereata follows Minna, who chats with Oybek Navbahor, who could have croaked but obviously didn’t since here he is. But he must be très pissed; his pig eyes slant inward, squinty and mean, yet he seems serene and… Sociable? What’s wrong with this picture? Hereata might be open-minded with Monique because she can’t be jealous of a big-hearted, scrawny woman so kind to animals, after all… But Minna is a challenge of a different stripe. Just as summer heat and winter cold can’t be fully recalled in their opposite seasons, so has Minna’s beauty lapsed in the memory of her chosen one. He sees her fulsome self and feels her fill the room and remembers yet again. Sure, she’s faking through the awkward moments, yet she brings the old allure—the mystique that won’t go away. He wasn’t alone in love, though he alone was blinded.

He flashes back. Minna and Hereata chat like girlfriends, avoiding the difficulty between them. Hereata leans on Oybek playfully but cannot hide her apprehension. She should win by rights, and Minna seems to agree. But memory defaults to an air of renewal. It’s another first encounter with repercussion coming on. What can he do? Options pass before his eyes till the old aloha comes out. They approach warily yet according to custom. Joining hands, they embrace with a kiss on the cheek and faint breath exchanged. He says she looks well. She says he’s staying fit, too, for an older man.

And they know it’s over—that two people forfeit their chance of revival on the first utterance of suburban nicety with a dash of canned humor. Hereata shifts to the other foot. Forcibly happy for the reunion she urges old friends to drink and eat. Did Minna tell Hereata of annulment, and that puts Hereata at ease? Or is Hereata… with Oybek? He’s a strange one, though closer to her age. They met when she escorted him to the boat on that eventful morning after the night of…

“Oy!” All roads converge at the summit—or the canyon. “Nyet. Oy. Bek. Bek. Oy-bek. Zank you so big for save life of me when I die from conwulsion and you roll me so I breathe. You, I owe.” He bows as if in a head butt to the chest but then stops to gaze at the monitor, where garden eels pose in plié et pirouette, in synch with random fluidity as yet unimagined. “Achh! Is this you?”

“No. It is not me. It is a photograph of garden eels. I took it this morning, but it’s not corrected.”

Oybek straightens and sneers, “Have you more?”

Ravi matches with a smirk, raising a palm like the pope to indicate the rest of the gallery and his world.

•

So our story ends again, insofar as stories ever end, even when the characters die, as they do that very moment, never again returning to life as they knew it.

Oybek is urban by choice. Where Ravi feels comfort among sea beasts, Oybek also swims among predators. That is, Oybek looks piggish and mean, and may sometimes be, but only by necessity of his calling. His natural self is open, more or less, and strives for more and gains traction, tooth and nail or by whatever means necessary.

Growing up short on looks and money but long on adventurous spirit in Karakalpakstan, young Oybek explored shipwrecks in the desert, what had been Lake Aral in Moynaq. He found happiness in solitude, away from the other children who teased and taunted the ugly little boy with hurtful names. Oybek did not allow the hurt within. He looked cruel and threatening even then, as nature made him and as a mode of self-defense. What could he do?

He would be an ocean explorer one day. But epilepsy and a rare condition beefed him up with fleshy folds. Slogging onward as a young man must, he began the first dive magazine in Uzbekistan with photos from divers around the world. He copied the photos from other magazines till he claimed to have the best dive magazine in the region. The three divers in the region asked, “Compared to what?”

Oybek wandered tropical latitudes making friends where he could, including women who could provide what he wanted.

When the Internet emerged, Oybek’s magazine pioneered reef photography combined with photos of those women. Reef Art Magazine Online went global a year prior to litigation for artistic theft. But the reef shots were great, in the meantime, and so were the women. The name soon became Refart Magazine, with fart jokes to boost readership. The jokes were great too, like the one about the divers who had beans just before…

Oybek moved to LA, where marine photographers competed, just like everyone else, for a break, which goes to show what the right address can do for credibility in art. And now you know the rest of story, so far. Oybek Navbahor is the publisher of Modern Reef Magazine. “Please. My card.” He calls the photos on these walls superb, world class, fantastic, worth a fortune, just say the word and then you watch, the best he’s ever seen, not so much technically because everybody gets that these days, but in another way… a way that is… what you might call…

“Artistic.”

“Yah! Artistic!”

Oybek wants exclusive rights. Ravi is flattered in a cold wash of confusion and fear. Like a factory in Novotroitsk, Oybek blows smoke up the whole world’s ass. So a tinge of buyer’s remorse and a double dose of embarrassment and humility accompany the courier delivering the message so craved. Well, Ravi Rockulz never wanted fame; he wanted a rightful audience, like any artist would. But fame precedes recognition in a mixed up media world. And so the kliegs blaze as solitude, anonymity, and youth are banished from the kingdom. Oybek finds his stride.

He insists that Ravi move to LA, now, before his prime is over. Forty already! Because life in LA is the greatest, and living there is necessary if you want to make it as an artist. Besides that, LA is amazing, with smart people and women. Ravi must live in LA to turn his wonderful artistry into money. Who knows how much? A few million, anyway. That’s annual—did you think it otherwise? Why stick around in a place like that if you only make it once? That’s with proper management. It’s not like you can get off the plane and see the cashier for your check. Oh, it’s work, but so lovely.

Oybek is a seasoned C-list technician who knows the score, starting with the value of a million bucks, which ain’t what it was; come on.

Ravi can’t believe; the guy is so smarmy, so strange and smutty. But he can’t stop hoping. He’s heard the rant on money and power—it comes to zero every time, finito, rien, caput! Only a bona fide loser wears his power on his sleeve. Yet Hereata’s slow motion nod says something else, like she checked this guy out. How could that be?

Well, she has an ear for his thick talk and translates when nobody else can. His pig eyes smile on her, and so do Ravi’s. He may never sample her wares again, but he’s off the hook, and maybe he will. In the meantime, she won’t wear out like a bar of soap. Will she?

Minna sees. Minna knows. Minna stores for later use as necessary.

So the party begins with misunderstanding buried like a hatchet so new understanding can blossom like sunflowers; they laugh at what has happened and what’s to come. Yes, Oybek appears to be threatening, but it’s only the shape of his face and what those muscles do. He also winces in the mirror, but it’s the threat of no threat and honestly facilitates success in the entertainment industry. He still feels terrible for pushing the wrong button on his BC inflator and putting those people at risk. He felt worse spoiling the gift sent to his room, but the epilepsy was in remission for many years, so he was surprised at the symptoms and the surprise gift—and here he is relating his two surprises at a surprise party!

With great good cheer comes Cosima’s poisson cru et ahi tartare. Moeava promotes beer and good things to eat and rolls marijuana, so the festive air is unavoidable. Except for two former loves, who take time outside to catch up and confirm their status. Ravi is content. He says Monique thinks he might be cracking up, but his mental disturbance is focused on art, what he wanted all along. The path is beautiful and revealing, and he thinks the direction correct.

Minna got her nursing degree. She quit the gift shop and volunteers at the hospital and will soon become full-time staff and got recommended for intensive care. She loves the recognition of her intensive skills and may take the job. It pays more but not so much—surely not enough to make a career. Besides that, the ICU guys are really crazy; it’s so much life and death on a bunch of TV monitors with lights and bells like Vegas, and it’s all night and all the time and what not, and you can hardly blame them for being crazy because they don’t call it intense for nothing. The craziness actually balances the crazy scene.

But something about that floor, with the need and the rush, pulls her in for now. And the service—you would not believe how lame the hospital is, leaving the patients completely out of the process, leaving the ICU staff to console and counsel, though they’re not supposed to because of the liability, but sometimes you have to offer a comforting word or go crazier. So, yes, she might do it for a while. For the experience. You know?

He knows, sensing emotion in the depths. This highly regarded birthday on which life will begin begins with pride for what she does, who she is—or rather who she has become. In conveying his pride for her, he chokes up. He can’t tell why. On a new tack to clear the airwaves, he assesses medical services here in Paradise. Or would that be here in the moment? The airwaves won’t clear.

Why is she here?

So he defaults to predictable charm, telling her he’s proud of her and happy to see her and this and that, and they too stick like a bone in his maw.

She gets him off the hook saying Skinny took to international travel like a veteran, napping on her chest or staring at clouds and what not.

“Skinny?”

She thought he knew. It’s only natural that Skinny sleeps it off. But he doesn’t know because it’s a surprise. She leads him to the front office where Skinny sits in a kennel, nose to nose with Little Dog. Little Dog whines.

Skinny hisses.

“Little Dog.” He points to the far corner. Little Dog retreats. He pulls Skinny from the kennel and holds her eye to eye. “Skinny.” She meows, demanding an explanation, after the things he said and so many sweet nothings. He slumps with regret for what feels like the neglect of a loved one. With his face next to hers, he breathes her scent. She purrs. He cries; it comes so easily and he’s not sure why, but of course he knows why.

Minna hugs them both, but the sobs build to a tumult, too much for Skinny who wiggles to get back into the kennel. So the two former loves entwine and take cover till the bad part goes away. Minna’s bedside manner is not what it was. Well, maybe later on that issue. For now, they struggle for absolution on more seasoned ministrations.

But the difference between them runs too deep for absolution in a minute of surface skills. Her speech is still clipped, too fast with many clichés—never mind. It’s her touch that has changed, tapping into comfort, easing the discord, letting go of guilt, loss, and pain in a process of sorting and release. She talks about the old neighborhood. “What a scene. Man, that Gene. She refused to move from her beach house, even though she was only renting and couldn’t stall forever because they brought in the court guys, but she needed more time to find a condo that would allow a cat. Because she promised, and she really loves you. I’m not sure why, but she thinks you’re the greatest guy who ever got roughed up on South Maui. She loves Skinny, too. Man, you think you’re all broke up and feeling huhu; you should have seen Gene carry on. And poor Skinny—she didn’t know whether to be happy or sad. She traveled like a pro. I think she’s happy now. I don’t know how you do it.”

He laughs. He touches her face. He sees what happened to her and to him. It should be back on. Why not?

She doubts it. How could it be? We don’t need another knock-down drag-out of the rough stuff or the bumpy aftermath. It was bad enough one time. Neither one rushes into legal needs, but that doesn’t mean it’s a romance revived. So it’s a push, on the fence, teetering this way and that, and that’s where it sits by tacit agreement, as if avoidance of tough issues is what they lacked all along. Of course any modern counselor would diagnose repressive denial, and that might solve their problem in the short term but can never be the basis of a successful relationship, much less a marriage.

But these two veterans of the headlong rush don’t need a counselor to know that they can’t salvage a life together with a few hours of footsies. So they set life aside. They seem to accept the outcome, one way or another, which a different counselor might diagnose as advanced behavior, allowing an issue to resolve on time and manners, by distracting themselves from potential pain with more productive behavior, in this case setting Skinny up with water and a piece of poisson cru rinsed and cut into bits. And another. Because the best remedy for most ailments is giving to a greater cause, and Skinny is the perfect greatness—so small, so expressive, so fuzzy, demanding, and cute.

They watch her eat.

Ravi arranges a shirt as a nest in her kennel. She curls up and watches them back. He puts a hand on her head and she meows, then purrs. Then she sleeps. Holding hands again like kids sharing an adventure, they let go and return to the party. The gathering has gained momentum, loosening up from initial stupidity and stiffness, becoming animated and interesting.

What harm in holding hands? Or resting an arm on a shoulder or around a waist? Or brushing fingertips or the other’s skin? No harm at all, and it adds dimension to the soirée, challenging the audience to observe obliquely and murmur discreetly. So the narrative plays out to an audience enrapt, straining and waiting to see which ending the players will choose.

An equally compelling subplot is Moeava, a professional diver sharing life and times with two women who listen attentively while watching each other. Cosima and Monique must be acquainted but behave as if just introduced. They scan each other while touching the man between them, fondly or vicariously; who knows? The giant diver regales them with know-how, close calls, and exotic encounters, his sheer size the perfect protection some women crave. Don’t they? Curiosity demands discretion here too, though conjecture is rampant. Who will go home with whom, and who will be on top?

Ravi stares from within his own sphere of doubt and wonder till he sees Hereata happily, spuriously engaged. She also sees and knows, her sad smile an epitaph to what might have been—or what used to be. The strange new guy is on her like a shadow, like he knows her from experience. So Ravi steps up to put an arm around her and tell Oybek she is among the wonderful people of the world. Oybek’s agreement is hard to watch; he assures that he is well aware, fully informed, absolutely apprised, sated, glutted, and yadda, yadda, licking his chops like a giant lizard over some delicious ducklings. Oybek is not your average friendly fellow. Ravi wasn’t so wrong to draw the line, but a dash of self-redemption is in order and feels redemptive one more time. Will they become friends? Who knows? Stranger things have happened. In showbiz.

Oybek apologizes again for any bad impression. Ravi says, “No. I am the one to apologize. My anger makes me a fool. I can’t bark and lunge at every stranger.”

“I am happy to hear you say this,” Oybek says—I love you say and honor you this.

“But you were an asshole. That night at the buffet. You were wrong.”

“Yes,” Oybek laughs. “Asshole me. All the time but especially drink. Not good. Please forgive. But, please, I not asshole in dive. Only bad diver, me. But you, you good man. Thank you for save me.”

•

A rich and happy life has many endings, and even the last one may lead to another beginning. The final curtain may fall on one act and rise on Act One. Emigrate? Immigrate? Who knows where things go or come? Being or not can get problematic with no flesh and love unless it also endures in a form as yet unimagined. That stuff can go either way—plenty time to worry later. For now, anybody can be happy once he’s logged enough heartbreak. Ravi Rockulz feels blessed, or maybe he feels that a blessing is near, as his pages turn to what comes next.

The new chapter begins only three hours hence when the guests are gone, each farewell an effusion of best wishes and love. Hereata whispers, “You never told me she was so beautiful.”

Well, of course he did, but rather than correct her, he says, “You are so beautiful.” She blushes, and all is well, or might be better later. Oybek bows, shakes hands with his host, wishes him the very happiest of birthdays and leaves with his paramour.

With the place secure, doors and windows shut, Skinny is allowed to wander the room, read the scents and take note. Little Dog is allowed in with strict instruction to lie down and stay. Stay. You stay.

The former loves disrobe like locals getting ready for sleep. They pause at the bed. Then comes what neither can remember from the past: the soft kiss. He wants to assure her that this is going nowhere but shouldn’t matter, really—no, not that it shouldn’t matter, but it shouldn’t hurt anyone, considering what they… But he finds the better part of explanation again in silence and in fear of blowing the brief moment. She wants to say that they may give of themselves with no commitment but also fears that any words could discourage him, that he may abandon hope. So they sway on the precipice.

They recline. A few more tears fall for what’s been lost, the inevitable impasse and the chance for peace. Who knows?

Night falls on shipwreck survivors washed up on a distant shore, hugging the warmth between them. With a whimper in the wee hours, she asks if he’s in love with Hereata.

“She took care of me, and I love her for it, yes.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I am not in love with Hereata.”

She says he might not believe her, and that’s his choice, and she’s learned these last two years that she must respect his choice. But she never loved Darryl and she never did those things. “I know what he told you, but it’s not true.”

“What?”

Never, ever—and, in fact, she only allowed da kine once, back when she was nearly fourteen and didn’t know notting—I mean, anything. She wants Ravi to hear this—whether he believes it or not because she knows how his mind works, or used to work, and how little things that shouldn’t bother him build up inside, and then they do bother him. And she doesn’t want that, so she needs to stop the pain before it starts. Because it hurt her too—hurt like crazy because he had the soft touch of a pneumatic jackhammer, I mean Darryl did, and besides that, he was gross and ugly.

She didn’t want to do it.

He forced her and thought she loved it because she never called the cops. “And that’s the truth. I swear it. I had to tell you. I know you think I’m evil, but I’m not. I don’t want to sound like a victim, but Darryl is nothing. He did a mean and ugly thing. It’s like when you step in dog poo, you know? You wipe it off, but it still stinks for a while. But it goes away. I mean you don’t throw your shoes away. You know?”

Ravi wonders what could possibly possess a woman—a wife—to describe another man in gross terms to her husband.

Minna knows what all men think they must hear in order to let a thing go—even as they glom onto the sordid detail they think will stop their minds from churning.

Ravi takes a brief moment to sort the images and gets hung up on a tough one: “What is the da kine you only allowed once?”

“Oohh no—not like that. Not that. Only coochy kine.”

Which moves things along to what must be easier, which is the lingering scent on her shoes. He sighs. “One time? And he get all strung out for life?”

“Hey. Some guys, you know. They cannot let go, ever.”

No. They can’t. Lucky I’m not one of them. I mean, I can live with that, for now, even if Darryl is thinking of Minna and his one go this very minute so hard he’s squeezing tears from the corners.

He rolls to the side so she can see his forgiveness in refracted moonlight—even as stray pangs interrupt this program. But they melt away too, as all will in the watery bye ’n bye.

She sees. She smiles back, wondering if he bought it, hoping that he did and that they might finally have peace, whatever their legal status. Is that too much to ask?

No, it’s not too much, though life presents regular tests to all seekers, so they may apply what they’ve learned. On the one hand, they’ll see if attraction survives—not on firm bodies or lusty potential but in the light shining between them. On the other hand, they must keep a few things buried, events and regrets that will undermine spiritual growth, until those things have time to decompose and fade away, as some things should.

The first opportunity for ending and beginning comes in the morning on learning that Moeava blocked the day off, no trip. With intuition and foresight, he anticipated a hangover but did not likely foresee his windfall of women. On the surface, it looks impulsive as a fling, inebriate and fun, a casual ménage, with derring-do, surprises, demands, and good cheer among newfound friends. Except that sunrise finds the trio waking but unwilling to untangle the fondness stumbled into.

Realizing his role as a practical functionary in the drama playing out, Moeava grows worldly wise, evolved since yesterday when he was merely big and lonely. He offers no detail or flourish, not the first hint or tease, nothing but an affirmation of great good luck to have two girlfriends who like each other. On second thought, he corrects himself: Monique has both a girlfriend and boyfriend who get along and may someday like each other.

“But you already liked Cosima. Since before we met—long before, I would think.”

That may be, but the one-way affection of yesterday is as removed from last night as flat water from pitching seas. Cosima lacks experience and initiative. Monique provides all of the above. Cosima does what Monique says. Monique likes to watch, and Cosima likes her watching. Neither cares if Moeava watches, so he watches for a while, but nobody minds if he takes a little snooze while they play together. They wake him up, sooner or later.

Wait a minute. She didn’t lack initiative with me. But he accepts again and again as necessary, though some scenes shimmer for a long time. Never mind. Monique is oldest and wisest and best suited to lead the way, to manage needs and gratification, and let’s face it: friends bonding in love are better than one man’s satisfaction. What a relief. What a show. N’est-ce pas?

Moeava will not belabor complexities of dominance, submission, or reciprocation other than Monique’s first rule of respect: that nobody requires anybody else to swim the bay, night or day.

•

The morning stretches to casual brunch and a spontaneous outing to Taverua reef, which is different than an old life resumed.

Minna has a week and then another. Their schedules merge. Growing affection is balanced by Hereata’s lingering regret and adaptation.

Oybek is gregarious, magnanimous, unctuous, and tedious on heightened self-esteem. He calls Hereata the love of his life. She demurs. He speaks of greatness and showbiz. Loser tourists have blown smoke up Ravi’s ass for years, flaunting their wares far from home. Talk of wealth, name-dropping, and personal questions mark the common commuter in quiet desperation. The smoke billows from LA too, but LA is where success waits around the corner, any corner anytime. Could you be part of my new project? Fuckinay, baby, you might know Spielberg. I do. Do you?

Granting the benefit of all doubts, Ravi does not think Oybek a loser, even as Oybek talks about a decent advance, nothing too big, say twenty grand, which will be peanuts next to what they’ll soon do, but it should get the lovebirds by for a couple of weeks. Oybek reviews immediate needs for their migration to LA.

Ravi laughs.

Minna smiles at his laughter.

Oybek softens the situation with his own bedside manner; they won’t need to stay in LA forever, though many artists do, for the wonderful social life, the artistic and intellectual stimulation. Duration can be decided later, though a few years will be necessary to get things going.

Ravi feels foolish asking the obvious question: “If it’s that easy to make millions, what are you doing here?”

“I discover you! I make millions, yes, with a property—you! Without a property, I make nothing!”

Ravi is made to feel more foolish when the fleshy fellow explains the obvious, that an underwater photographer living in LA will take far more photos underwater. That sounds typically deluded and maybe stupid, and he feels more foolish still, conversing with last year’s foe, who this year blows smoke up his ass. Make that smog. Or was that the year before last already? At the foolish summit is the ridiculous subject of LA itself and the pros and cons of living there as a prerequisite to artistic success. LA feels like a joke or a curse or a laughable, pitiful reality.

Oybek says that Ravi’s reef artistry will span the globe from French Polynesia to the Andaman Sea before it dies, to the Maldives and Truk—ooh and the Red Sea. “You have been there?”

“I am from there.”

“Iloji yo’q! I knew it!”

Oh, man. This guy is strange.

The day before returning to LA, Oybek hands Ravi a check for twenty thousand dollars. Ravi holds it gingerly, asking about a contract or some assurance that this is not a debt.

Oybek laughs too loud and says not to worry because he knows the difference between an advance and a debt. He promises a contract soon that will satisfy all parties and secure a prosperous future. If you don’t like it, don’t sign it! In the meantime, spend the money. Enjoy.

And don’t worry; the money will be made back because Ravi has been officially recognized for genius, which is what Oybek does for a living. Do you understand this? Could a seasoned professional be so wrong? Yes, he could be, but he’s not been wrong yet, and some of his picks were far less certain than this one.

“Look this!” Oybek beams, pointing at an octopus peeking electrically over a boulder.

Well, yes, the octopus shot is remarkable, so Ravi accepts ovations of greatness. Who knows? Maybe success can be guaranteed. Twenty grand is more than Ravi ever made in one day or had at one time. He can’t yet retire, but he doesn’t want to. So he rests easy and ponders the future. Such is the power of a solid C-list operator.

The next month passes in reverie, what younger lovers envisioned only two years ago. Ravi dives and shoots in the mornings. Minna helps at the animal hospital. She notifies her family and the other hospital that she’ll remain on extended leave, and that the annulment is off. She won’t spell it out but leaves it to them. Better they figure it out than hear the bad news.

She visits a medical care facility to see about a job and hits the language barrier. So she begins French lessons and attempts the new language in her daily life. She thinks she can get it until Ravi makes the official announcement: they will depart Tahiti soon, to live together as a married couple—in LA, to gain a solid footing in marine photographic art, but only for a year.

Or two.

Or maybe not because it may all vaporize and so many things do with regard to fortune and art, except that the move gains momentum and feels like it’s on, even as the smoke billows up their ass and tickles. They giggle, happily sharing a wisp or two, and then giggle more when Ravi says he’s had so much smoke up his tuchas that he can’t even fart without coughing.

Oybek’s revenge would be huge, if that’s what this is. But Oybek is a self-made man—in show biz, which is also known for smoke and hugeness. So? Jump on!

Why practice French if the show is moving to LA?

Don’t worry; you can practice anything you want in LA.