Of course Minna Somayan was a walking, talking, living, breathing milestone in the life of any man. That she could pick that man at will and was perfectly, perhaps casually, cognizant of her power could have been perceived as arrogant, but the man in question didn’t see it that way at all. Like a poor working stiff who buys a Lotto ticket on his way home from the grind, he had won the jackpot of her love. Neither home nor life would ever be the same. How could they be? To Ravid Rockulz, she epitomized luck in all things and perfection in womanhood, running the gamut from emotional, spiritual, fulfilling, loving and simply wondrous to be around to the sheer scent, taste and essence of her. Always happy, sharing, giving, Minna came on from ten paces out, sweetly aromatic as the perfumed blossoms she wore, pikake, plumeria, tuberose or gardenia. She opened her arms like a tropical larder on arrival to reveal her luau on wheels, and what wheels they were: from the tips of her toes, on which he experimented with his mouth, never yet in life so motivated to touch seemingly disparate senses and body parts, on up to her ankles, calves, thighs and so on, but never far enough, never quite gaining his fill. The wonderful exasperation left him panting with the fatigue of a man in early life, recently arriving at square one of All Meaning.
Like a lone climber at the top of the highest mountain in the world, he jumped for joy and a few more inches of altitude.
The when and where of his future became incidental overnight to who and what, to any time, any place. He hated to press the issue on sexual felicitation, didn’t want to plead on behalf of an appetite and need hitherto unknown that now charged to life like a monster, a famished monster — or, worse yet, like a growing boy — but it wasn’t necessary. Their communion occurred as naturally as sundown, as ten, midnight, four and first light, because love, like time, is a constant, always there, unchanging and steady — even right after breakfast, home for lunch and mere minutes after quitting time.
But Ravid and Minna shared a notable observation in this phase of amazement and anarchy, in which the rigors of etiquette and moderation were rent asunder. Each had reached the pinnacle of satisfaction in the past, however briefly. Ravid had actually spoken to himself during one exchange not so long ago with a lovely tourist woman whose name escaped him for the moment. During the event, he’d pledged to his heart of hearts that this is it, my one and only, true love, forever and ever, don’t stop, and so on and so forth. Yet separating the man from his seed also served to separate the man from his sentiment — returning the man to his better senses, such as they were. He knew clearly in a moment that she wasn’t it. She demonstrated expertise in fundamental friction on primed genitalia.
That exchange with Marcia, the clinical psychologist from San Francisco was recalled for its generosity, its skill level and more: It proved the hazardous potential for false correlation in the love game, in which a man must consider love with caution. That is, a blowjob can be lovely and perceived as a loving experience. But it may also be, simply stated, a great blowjob and nothing more or less.
On the reasonable side, a sated man is rarely romantic, proven by the aftermath of Marcia’s special gift; the confused woman with impressive credentials and skills indeed provided clarity between love and delusion.
But here was the real article at last, true love, one and only, forever and ever and on and on. No sooner did one of these young folk whimper at the apex than the other would follow, so synchronous was the appetite, timing and communion between Ravid and Minna. Then came proof that this was the real McCoy, meaning eternal love and not just your standard squishathon orgasm medley with someone who merely looks and feels great — which it was, but with a brand-new twist that rendered desire immortal. Ravid suffered an impatience as yet unknown, a restlessness for the next hour or maybe only twenty minutes to hurry up and pass so that his youthful vigor could restore itself for another go, because he couldn’t get his fill, not with any opening of her beautifully innocent self or with all of them, even as they oozed his effusions of love. Which would sound disgusting without the love, but with the love was purely loving and natural.
Naturally, for most women, the need for cuddles was predictable, yet here too a difference overlaid the usual: She pledged her love verbally for eternity and got down to specifics of her life, its emptiness without him, her willingness to give him anything in all ways in exchange for his love, foremost of which would be her undying love.
Between such exhaustive bouts of spoken pledge and unbridled lust they slept like the dead, or rather like people fatigued from a lifetime of love, even if theirs had lasted only a day or two. They snored like winter bears, mouths open, awkwardly splayed, drooling, their faces wrinkled with pillow imprints and in all manner graceless as the lumps of flesh and bone all souls are born into and then wear out till the day they depart. They woke to see each other in reality, in less glorious light than the dazzling first blush they’d shared; yet this reality seemed more glorious for the drive sustained. Then they mounted up for a most wondrous reawakening.
Of course such a dreamy and rigorous regimen of physical and emotional endurance could not continue indefinitely, not if they had any hope of growing old together, which was the road they had already chosen to walk, hand in hand. Ravid sighed, not certain if he was dreaming or awake but fairly confident that it didn’t matter — Crusty Geizen had yelled in front of people once that he, Ravid, was a menace to society, such a bumbling idiot that he could fuck up a wet dream. Ravid had nearly cried, but now he laughed; maybe this was it, the ultimate wet dream, and he was pulling it off, so to speak, but boy oh boy, would he ever be disappointed, waking up from this one. Well, he didn’t think he could, because this was what became of him, what would become of him. Marriage had seemed unnecessary for the two decades since he’d first discovered women and women had made themselves available for sexual adventures and more; the adventures had been plenty enough, thank you very much, and with fondness, adieu. Except for what’s-her-name with the spiky white hair.
Boy, good thing she split.
And nothing had changed: Marriage still seemed unnecessary, a socially contrived by-product of something far greater than a formal ceremony. Marriage was a convenience, a device invented and promoted by the female faction to underscore what had been agreed upon and was fervently hoped to actually exist. Naturally the female faction wanted happiness on both the practical and technical levels, which, let’s face it, would secure everyone against that time when age and gravity would remove them from the nubile graces. Well, so be it. Here was a classic example of love that seemed destined for immortality. Here was a woman that Ravid could not for the life of him imagine ever wanting to lose. It was just that simple. And if life in society could be easier with a conventional bourgeois formality, then let it occur. It still wasn’t necessary, but he flat didn’t care.
It happened quick as a wink, hardly an hour or two after a rousing exchange of passion and competitive lack of inhibition perhaps triggered by her absence; she was off working the swing shift at the hospital after a half day of regular work and a few afternoon classes. She came home to announce that she’d received a promotion. It brought no money or benefits or whatnot, but it was nonetheless recognition of her skills, commitment and service. She would be Volunteer Coordinator, which she wasn’t even sure she wanted to be; it would take so much paper pushing and mean less time on the ward, where she could make her biggest contribution, but still, she’d give it a chance, because doing a good job would make her a shoo-in for administrative bonuses once she got her nursing degree.
Ravid surged with pride because his woman was far more than beautiful; she was recognized as a key player, just like he was. And so, proudly, he disrobed her and made his own greatest contribution, which she called a benefit after all. Then they ravaged the pornography potential between them and reached the summit in a chorus of celebration.
Ravid had rolled over and drifted off as often as most men do, but the unique nature of his satisfaction roused him to greater levels. So he rolled off the bed and stood before his player and messy CD collection, deciding on something different to capture the rare mood, something he hadn’t heard in a while, which meant something from the bottom of the pile. That’s where Annie Lennox had wound up, in spite of his love, and because of it. But time and fresh, new love had healed the pain. He scoffed at the notion of missing Annie and again at not even remembering her real name. In case-closing finality, he did ponder the great potential for fun with Annie and Minna together — with himself in the center, of course. Ha! Hey, Annie would go for it. Maybe she’d be back. Maybe not. Who cared?
So he spun the disk and dove back onto the bed, advising his love to listen to a favorite song of all time. Oh, sure, he’d loved it for years in Bob Marley’s original form, but this rendition by Annie Lennox could really bend his knees — and play tricks on his heart like an echo off a canyon wall. He thought he heard a distant warble in harmony with the his stereo and turned to Minna as she brought up her own volume in perfect syncopation, in the rhythm and lilt of love.
He could only listen until he had to move in the flow of a mighty current. Any man caught in the frictional flow knows that love is illusory, that brief, deep emotion may not actually source from the heart but from the hub of physical gratification. Ravid had been swept into those eddies and undertows before; he knew. Yet in that moment he knew something else, something greater, perhaps, as a man in a dream under water can know how to breathe between the water.
He saw her as a mirror image of himself. She seemed to see the same thing.
“You want to marry me?” he heard himself whisper in a dreamy sigh at the dream date beside him, as if the last breath of an old life drained out of him directly toward the object of his new life. He verged on tears, as this simple question brought them to an emotional summit of perfect sense — and he laughed; getting married seemed so much easier than another fuck. Let life together begin so they could relax for a change.
“Oh, God!” came the dreamy response beside him. And so they agreed to become one more immutable force of nature, like sun up or lush, tropical growth, flowing inexorably as love until something had to give.
Neither wanted to wait in vain or in any way. They wanted the dam bursting between them to flood their little village in rapturous immersion in each other.
Their wedding set the tenor of love everlasting, though the ceremony itself seemed so incidental that it nearly made them laugh, like it was a goof, a thing to get out of the way, so unnecessary that it hardly warranted more than fundamental recognition — certainly not a hoedown. Expedience and efficiency would be much better. Then they could have a major shindig next week and announce their betrothal. Who would be invited? That was easy: everyone. In the meantime, their love was their relief.
Minna revealed new skills that made her all the more endearing. In perfect pitch and communion with the gods of sweetness and harmony, she could sing, and so she did, while pursuing with administrative dispatch the Justice of the Peace. She found him and made an appointment for a small, private ceremony at the cottage the following afternoon. Skinny would be the witness — her acquiescent meow triggered wild laughter — and though she fit the bill on all qualifications at home, the State required a human witness. So Ravid called his old colleague and mentor, Carl Geizen, with a “Mayday! Mayday! Mayday!...”
Again the lovebirds squealed with laughter; it was so much fun, though Crusty didn’t think it one bit funny to call mayday if you weren’t really going down.
“Hey, Crusty. Cut me some slack. Okay? I want you to be my best man. Okay?”
“You want me?” Buoyed by this gesture of friendship, Crusty agreed and canceled his whale watch the following afternoon. “I only had four. They got on other boats.” Crusty showed up in a three-piece suit still serving as a point of pride, though he wore it more for funerals than for weddings. Threadbare and baggy, he rounded out his uptown ensemble with a mermaid tie.
“Was that your bar mitzvah suit?”
“Yeah. If that means ‘fourth marriage and shit-faced drunk.’” Like an old man with a lazy shuffle, he stepped to the line, ready to witness.
The magistrate also stepped up — holding a bible with a red ribbon bound in it as a place marker, which Ravid had never seen in an Old Testament. So he said, “Can I see that, please?” And there before him were the words that would bind him forever to his one true love in the eyes of Jesus. “Oh!”
“What?”
“This says ‘Jesus.’ I’m Jewish.”
“Good news: Jesus was Jewish. In fact, he was the king of the Jews.”
Ravid didn’t know whether to brain the guy or tell him to get out, so he glared. Then he said, “Aren’t you a civil servant?”
“Yes, I am.”
“And this is a civil ceremony?”
“I pick my own ceremonies.”
“That’s fine. You pick your own ceremonies, and I’ll pick mine.”
“Pardon me,” Minna intervened. “We want a non-denominational ceremony.” She looked at Ravid. “Is it okay if he mentions a higher spirit?”
“Sure. A high spirit is okay.” Ravid nearly asked if she was alcoholic but held off, fearing she might be.
Never mind. With intuitive sense she informed the magistrate that she was Buddhist, and surely he understood that.
“A higher spirit is okay,” the magistrate replied, “but the son of God is not okay?”
“I don’t want that,” Ravid interjected, stepping up, drawing the line. “I can’t have that. Will you go along, or not?”
The magistrate looked at Minna. Minna touched his forearm, “I’m Hawaiian. We might do this again with a kahuna. We won’t have Jesus there, either.” Then she smiled at Ravid, indicating their like minds in this and all things. “Jesus would want us happy.”
So the magistrate went against his ingrained inclination by disclaiming responsibility if the ceremony did not stand as a result of substituting a higher power for Jesus.
Ravid squinted and said, “Look, no Jesus. Okay?”
“Jesus is God,” said the magistrate.
Ravid glared, no longer wondering if the magistrate might be mental but whether this signal was casual. Maybe it indicated something wrong in allowing this strange man to make the legal bond. He could get the dive boat and a licensed captain and go three miles out, which would be cake, unless the captain’s license needed greater tonnage to make it heavy enough for marriage, or if it was twelve miles instead of three, which would put them out in the channel and make everyone pukey, especially Skinny — he laughed again.
Let it go.
So too the magistrate sensed something or other in Ravid’s glare and shrugged, “Okay. It’s your funeral — I mean, wedding.”
“What a jerk,” Ravid said. The magistrate also laughed, so Ravid told him, “Your humor is offensive and not funny. You’re willing to insult people because they don’t believe exactly as you do.” The magistrate raised both eyebrows and shrugged again, as if confirming what a good Christian must do.
Ravid wanted to grasp him by the neck with both hands and shake him up a little bit to show him how the Israelis would handle it... Not really, only kidding, though this would definitely affect the tip. Fuckinay, I know about tips and what a smartass gets for his pocket at the end of a trip. Fucking asshole.
“Shall we?”
“Okay.”
And in mere minutes it was done, cast in stone and written on paper. Minna served musubi but with pork, not Spam. Ravid let it slide — she didn’t know, and actually he didn’t care; he only felt the pangs of an evil presence and many other presences in the ether, including his mother and many forebears who would not have anticipated pork at a wedding of their own.
Let it go.
He poured champagne.
He tried a summer roll, or was it a spring roll? He could never remember which was fried and which was soft. These were soft, with raw vegetables rolled up in rice paper wrappers, which wasn’t gratifying like the fried stuff but refreshing in its way, till Minna said, “Oh, no. Sperm.”
Crusty glanced over from the opposite side as Ravid asked, “What?”
“Oh, nothing.” She tinged slightly.
“What?”
“Look. See. It’s alfalfa sprouts inside. Eww.”
“You said...‘sperm.’”
“That’s what it tastes like.”
“What are you talking about?”
Now fully blushing, she attempted to clarify concisely so they could forget her poorly timed comment and move on, because it was nothing, and it slipped out carelessly. “Oh, you know, when a woman performs, you know, on a man, and eats the sperm, it tastes like alfalfa sprouts.”
Crusty’s eyebrows rose to that swell. Ravid looked down. “No. I didn’t know that.” How did she know it? He looked at the exposed cross section of his unfried and unrefreshing spring roll, not exactly checking for sperm, but then he tossed it into the perimeter hedge as if it was tainted — with sperm, or at least with the taste of sperm. The taste of sperm? Who ever tasted sperm? Well, I mean, except for my sperm. But she never complained about that, not the taste or the amount. In fact, she... Hey, they all taste it sooner or later and know about the alfalfa sprouts too. It’s like two aspirin and vagina juice for the guys. Never mind. Let it go. A mongoose would find the spring roll and surely celebrate the joyous day as well.
So maybe it was time to move on — with life and whatnot.
Skinny got a shrimp, a scallop and a squid stacked vertically like the fa fa restaurants that charge ninety dollars for the exact same cat snax. Crusty finished his bubbly and then one more, thank you, taking the edge off one thing and another, easing into the lovely, beautiful afternoon. The magistrate took a sip and his leave. Crusty finished the bottle and cried; he was so happy for the lovebirds and so taken by this gesture of friendship for all time. Then he fell asleep on the lanai, on a chaise in the shade.
So the scene eased into wedded bliss, beginning in that first hour with a contentment that transcended hunger, thirst and desire. Propping the pillows on the headboard, Ravid lay back with his beloved in his arms. In silence they watched the minutes slide by. They dozed, sharing a dream of love, as if such profound peace was tantamount to consummation.
They woke near nightfall, with Crusty clearing his throat at the foot of the bed. With fond farewells they wished each other long futures and a safe drive home. Crusty shuffled out to his car, far from the fluidity of his professional element, high and dry, not yet aground but still an apparently old man.
Resuming their place in bed, they stared at something other than minutes sliding by — or maybe it was the minutes passing far more deliberately, as if challenging the newlyweds to know what would come next. A lovely, casual fuck filled with love seemed most obvious, and with an entire lifetime dead ahead, they could hardly begin tapering so soon, especially on their wedding night. Ravid vowed with confidence that he would make no concession to mortality or waning vigor for many years. He knew that the flesh would fade long before the hearts and minds, and when that time came he would be prepared to accept it. Till then he would live life to the fullest, fending off the inevitable for as long as he could.
Skinny leapt from the dresser to the chair to the nightstand and onto her place at the end of the pillow, complaining, maybe demanding another entrée. Or maybe she was jealous of the new level of frenzy on the bed; it was so focused on another. Her strained “Meow!” translated lucidly to the tough question, “What’s got into you?” Ravid laughed it off like a man removed from reason and rolled to where she perched, gazing up with the answer: This woman was what had got into him. He tickled her chin — the cat’s — and she purred, so the world wasn’t too far askew.
Until a week into matrimony when Minna said she had to be away for a few days, not to worry. Here too he thought the better part of honor and obedience was to let it be, to forego the explanation. But a husband should know. So she explained that everything had happened so suddenly that she needed to go stay with her family and ease them into what had taken place. He looked puzzled. “You didn’t tell them?” She shook her head — but he knew that, or would have, had he thought for a minute about her family and its absence. But he didn’t, because, frankly, it felt like a full house already.
“We eloped, you know. You can’t tell your family you’re going to elope. Once you tell them, you have to invite them. Boy, you don’t know anything, silly.”
Well, she had a point there, and he’d been spared the mishpocha, or rather the ‘ohana, for who knew how long. Maybe they liked to hang out; maybe they’d still be there, sucking down the Coors Light and chopping up a few chickens and rabbits for another round of hekka in the carport, had they known. For that matter, who knew what the hell a Jewboy from Haifa had walked right into?
Okay, so go. Then come back.
Okay, and just that quickly she vanished. Relief and depression rotated. Well, it was relief from unmitigated happiness round the clock with mind- and member-numbing love. Depression came naturally too, because he did love her. He recalled savoring his old life for so many years, which was good and bad. And now it was better or worse, as the saying went.
It was a joke on board when Ravid forgot to latch the safety cable closing the gangway when the last passenger came aboard. Harmless comments drifted down the deck, about Ravid needing to lighten his load, or wanting to lose a few overboard. Nobody laughed or said boo when he left a tank valve closed, putting the diver in the water with an empty buoyancy compensator, so she sank, sucking on a dead reg. He snatched her back up from four feet down — okay, six feet, no big deal. Did she really, honestly think that kicking and screaming under water would improve her chances for survival? Did she honestly believe for one, single heartbeat that he would let her drown? What was that? I’ll tell you what: Not the first shred of faith, is what.
Is that the same as faithless? No. It’s not.
Did she not have a certification card legally allowing her to dive with compressed air? Did the card not indicate the successful completion of training? Did the training not begin, proceed and end with, Think and act. Don’t react? Was she not familiar with three quick releases that would have removed her buoyancy compensator and its lead weights in two seconds flat? Short of thinking and applying her training, did she not have the power in her legs and adrenaline in her heart to kick back up to the surface? Of course she did, and he could hardly be blamed if the power and adrenaline were displaced by the mush between her ears to the point where she flat fucking forgot the simple design, meaning and benefit of quick release. Come on, three clicks and out. And up...
Well, he could be partly blamed, but not wholly. How could anyone suppose that buying passage on a dive boat would relieve them of fundamental responsibilities in safeguarding their own lives? She hadn’t even checked to see if her air was turned on.
Fortunately, Ravid’s mutterings were minimized by more pressing demands. His group descended, in need of leadership. Other mutterings occurred when Ravid was under water with the rest, but damage was minimal. It was a rare day of no tips. Who cared? Tomorrow would be good for another boatload — plenty more tourists where these came from, enough for a few more days, weeks, months and years as necessary. Tomorrow would bring more tourists with valid training and maybe this time the wits to use it. Tomorrow would absolve a dive leader of his moment of inattention by virtue of letting it sink to the depths.
Solitude at home should have allowed a love-bent man to regenerate and relax. But the old routine closed in as it had for some time, even with all wants so recently fulfilled: food, drink, sex, love. Things seemed worse than ever with her absence. I need a few days to explain things to my family. What? That she’d married a haole? Worse yet, she’d married one of those pale-complexioned people who eat Christian babies for Passover. Well, maybe that would be a recommendation as Minna’s family saw it. Who knew? Ravid laughed out loud, tossing a bow line, imagining Minna’s ‘ohana muttering pidgin approval over a husband who ate Christian babies. Still, she’d shown no sensitivity to his needs, no deference to his position. She’d left, and that was wrong. Then he realized that he, Ravid Rockulz, waterman of the world, was married and, better yet, in love.
Well, you can’t avoid the judgment of others, and he knew he would face a gauntlet of others with his explanation of marriage to a shiksa — and worse, a...whadayacallit, Charlie Chan, Genghis Khan, what’s-his-name Odd-Job shiksa. That would be the gauntlet of one, swinging her weapons from all directions, beginning with the children not yet born to Ravid and what’s-her-name — and what would they be? And how would they know, and so on, to emotional fatigue, to set the stage for the most pressing question, in spite of the challenging logistics: So when, tell me, do I get my grandchildren?
The next day wasn’t so bad, till Ravid stared at the unknown as if for meaning or knowing as the boat came up from the water askew on the trailer. Somebody yelled, so he yelled back, snapping out of his stupor, to back it down for straightening.
Well, these and other anxieties were easily assuaged by a single image, which was Minna. Minna smiling. Minna sleeping. Minna happily chatting. Minna listening. Minna riding on top. Minna whimpering, oh, oh, oh.
Ravid smiled again, hoisting empty tanks.
Still haunted by his wife’s initial scolding on men and their overbearing needs, still cringing at the taste of alfalfa sprouts, he stifled the obvious questions, knowing many more questions would surface in the months and years ahead, in which he would get to know his wife. Two weeks already felt like long ago. Minna smiled in his recollection, touching a finger to her lips and then to his. She could do that; ease a pang with a fingertip in the softest touch imaginable.
Hardly an hour later, alone in his cottage with his second beer in hand and four more in the fridge, he faced an afternoon and sundown of chronic assessment. It wasn’t natural for one being to so thoroughly occupy the thoughts of another, and he would surely think of something else, by and by.
“Meow.”
“Yes, I’ll think about you. I always do, but you know it’s not like that with you and me. I mean, you’re Skinny. I mean...” I mean, this is nuts. That one, what’s-her-name, was right — actually reasoning with a cat; it’s bonkers. But it isn’t, really, with a cat as reasonable as you, Skinny. But still.
Slowly rotating each image of the wanton fornication of recent days and nights, his mind’s eye moved in a full-circle pan to catch every angle and ramification like they do in the movies that are mostly about nothing but star the two young people everyone wants to fuck. Or maybe everyone wants only to watch them fuck. Anyway, savoring his recent repast and foreseeable future, he viewed Minna as a gift that kept on giving, as youthful fantasy applied to the highest and best use. Scenes from the last two weeks replayed with gifted directing, and he wondered where they might take the action hence.
His heart warmed on reward and promise, on a future looking good for love. So he pondered new approaches to new perversions doused in love. Reviewing the archives of sexual adventure, he knew he’d been blessed, living high among the rock stars, pro athletes and politicians, in easy access to excellent women. Dive instructors were as forgotten far inland as the sea itself, but dive leaders alone could showcase their wares as a matter of course, letting the women shop wantonly, as women like to do. The other big difference between watermen and rock stars, athletes or politicians was the caliber of women — women on vacation weren’t groupies collecting notorious names to their crotch notches, nor were they sickly, pale, raggedy females with stapled nipples and tattooed cootch clawing their way backstage — women who looked tolerable after a rock concert, a few beers and some drugs, in the dark.
No, these were regular, everyday women of all ages, women who took care of themselves, running the offices of the world, building careers and, yes, taking care of children — good-looking women who hid nothing. How could they? And here they were in the tropics, looking 100 percent great in the light of day, with a fanciful yen for something sinful but harmless. Where better to shit far from your own backyard than three thousand miles from home, or six? Who better to fix in your crosshairs than the bronze man up front with the rippled stomach and bulging Speedos? Was he not easy to gaze upon, the focus of everybody’s attention as he casually explained the rules for not dying on the dive ahead? How fluidly he moved among so many people and so much equipment, his orders, guidance and leadership as fat-free as his sinewy body.
More than one lovely thought bubble had asked if that was a facecloth rolled up in those Speedos, or was he happy to be here? And wouldn’t it be a lovely view, up and over the ripples on that stomach to those gray-green eyes? Oh, and those eyebrows, so dramatic over that nose. You wouldn’t really call it hooked, though it does have a bit of a bend in it, but really, you’d honestly have to call it cute, especially framed by those sandy, sun-bleached curls.
Many women had observed Ravid. Some had offered themselves subtly, and others abruptly, point blank, though rarely without courtesy and etiquette. A woman might flirt, letting her eyes do the talking or leaning in to accentuate her cleavage, which was easily dismissed. Or she might be a career woman, pressed to him by the ambient urgencies around them, murmuring, “Are you free later?”
To which he would smile, less friendly than sternly, and say no, he was not free later. In the beginning he assured them, “I am not a womaner.” That disclaimer ceased when a woman laughed and gently corrected him.
“That’s ‘womanizer.’”
“Womanizer?”
“Yes. You mean you’re not a ‘womanizer.’ I love that. I love that you turned me down. Let me tell you what I had in mind...”
And so from time to time in moments of need and natural remedy to the pressures of life, Ravid had succumbed to temptation, had given in to guidance with a beginner’s mind — had learned the ways of lust. But never more than once a week, except for rare occasions, like early departure followed by mid-week arrival, the knockouts going and coming, back-to-back, as it were, which was hardly desirable in emotional terms, but who could stand the loss without pondering compensation? Ravid had endless coaching from the cruder crew who stood no chance and envied his position. But he easily dismissed their bad advice, because necessity was one thing and disrespect was quite another.
Yet in simple response to nature’s bounty, he came away from those anonymous, sultry encounters depleted and, worse, depressed at the shortfall of a tourism career. Many dive instructors worked it like a hot buffet, snatching a fresh dish every few days from the lunch carousel, happy to pass the years with no emotional encumbrance or sexual boredom. Would that qualify for a routine Basha Rivka would call “regular,” allowing the moss to grow? Maybe, but who could know?
Well, an abundance of women hadn’t worked so well for Ravid, who fell in love too often and regretted most departures for the loss of company, companionship and sex. He could avoid tourist women and minimize his losses for a while, till he’d have to bag one or let himself be bagged — either way, he’d feel the loss again with small consolation that the right woman would come along in time.
Ravid’s pattern of quickly falling and then regretting his love’s departure had earned him the nickname “Avid Ravid,” which made no sense if you pronounced his name correctly, which the clever fellows never would, but who cared anyway? Still, he could not disguise the mourning after. Avid Ravid stuck like a nickname can, because it was polite and harmless and accurately profiled his vulnerability. For better or worse, it underscored the pattern, and newly arrived women took heed of the name, inferring that Ravid was avidly loving, which he was. Are you kidding? With a body like that? And those Speedos? So the seven-day cycle would often begin anew.
Ravid Rockulz nevertheless had lived outside the realm of most dive crews, as neither a womaner nor a womanizer. He’d spent most evenings alone, reading a photography book or learning a new piece of equipment or software, or working his images. Occasionally he watched a movie or went to a bar for the single reason a bar should be visited, which was beer, retail in a social setting. His singular approach appealed immensely to the women who took note, as it had to Minna Somayan. Ravid regarded these women as deep water people cruising in schools to better maintain the game spirit, out for some fun. Everyone was free to engage as necessary in the spawning ritual — just as Minna had done. So what was to ponder or wonder or scrutinize?
He’d found life amusing, even if some days required a dash more imagination. What life didn’t? He hadn’t pined away for a woman to steal his heart but stayed busy, filling his time productively, keeping the learning curve steep in the bold new dimension, digital. With a beginner’s mind, he went along with new technology just as he would go along with any prevailing current. He waited for something to change, to make his passion more accessible — and look what came along. No more film expense, no more hesitation on hundreds of shots.
In enviable context the hot and cold social flow changed from tedious repetition to glittering romance. Gone was the morning wake up, looking over to see a very nice woman sleeping sweetly and thinking yes, pussy is a convenient thing to have nearby. Should I make breakfast?
Now I shoot digital, he thought, waking up alone, looking over at the empty pillow beside him and wondering what she could be doing, eating, thinking, smelling, hearing, doubting or loving right now this moment. What the hell was going on here?
Only a fool does good works for commensurate return; good works are their own return, fulfilling the practitioner with unique warmth and well being, if he’s good. Any other return is gravy, which was not to call Minna Somayan a lucky bonus on a life well lived but rather a precisely fitting puzzle part in the many-layered scheme of things. Ravid loved the Hawaiian culture, its reverence for and unity with the elements, stemming from the ahupua‘a system, whereby the king granted land according to skill and need. So fishermen got coastal land, farmers the rich hillsides upcountry.
Sure, modern times and big development with heavy traffic and population had put people on edge. Gridlock, overcrowding and high prices caused many local boys to bandy epithets like “fucking haole,” meaning “white” in modern terms but technically meaning anyone from somewhere else, making the Hawaiians themselves the original haoles and making the Japanese sugar workers more-recent haoles, though they never called themselves fucking haoles, even back in sugarcane days when they had no birthright.
Well, everyone here came from somewhere else, though some cultural groups don’t want to talk about that. They do want recognition as the best navigators and fisherman the world has seen, guided by the constellations, even as the stars slid across the sky. The first kanaka o’ kekai navigated by water temperature he could feel by hand. He navigated by current, by wave action and by watching the dog in the bow, who could smell land. Hey, you can’t be known for open ocean navigation by sheer wits to get here and call yourself native too, but Ravid begrudged them nothing.
As for mean-spirited boys, they could be found anywhere in the world, of any descent.
Beyond history and its current interpretation, the Huna way remained stable, predating the golden rule. Firstness might have counted for very little, but Huna reflected a wisdom of the ages with its golden precept of aloha, the practice of taking care of each other, of the ‘aina, or land, of the ebb and flow of resources in their seasons. And regardless of what spirit was lost in the angry boys, the Buddha spirit survived them.
The scent of flowers had preceded the woman Minna. She had come his way with smiling eyes to care for him as he would care for her, which felt karmic and eternal. If this was love, he hated and loved it. How could anyone feel so bound to another person and enjoy it?
The important point was that a man aware of his effect on women had the confidence to answer the tough question when one such as Minna Somayan came along: Why me?
The answer seemed just as concise: Why not? She was obviously, amazingly beautiful. He wasn’t bad looking and had better manners than most, so that was the answer to the question. They’d met by chance. Yes, she’d taken the initiative, but that seemed natural too, since anything he could have said would have sounded like a line, one of the thousands she must have heard before. And besides, she was good at taking initiative, at applying what she called her “regal presence.” It made things okay. It made things good.
So why am I thinking about this?
Because she didn’t say where her family lives or how long she would be gone or what earthly reason she could have for not taking me along — me, the husband in this story of marriage.
This isn’t jealousy, because I don’t suffer from that.
Or at least he never had in his liaisons over the years, on many occasions of heartfelt contact and sexual service with the loveliest women he’d known.
Oh, yeah, and I was trying to think of what hole to try next, which is stupid, because you can’t come up with a new hole just by thinking.
Some of those women had boyfriends at home; some had husbands, and some children. A few had grown children, and some had grandchildren, though that hardly excluded them from the lovely column. All went home by the weekend, back to their real lives, leaving the dive guy behind — or rather taking him home too, vicariously, a beautiful man starring in a tropical fantasy.
He hadn’t wanted the part, and so took it sparingly, relative to the offering at any rate. He took it with sanguine forethought for the consequences of the aftermath. He regretted the paucity of women in the tropics who served beyond the service trades. Not that he didn’t count several maids and waitresses among his close friends. He did. More important here, however, were his choices and habits that fairly proved him free of jealousy.
This wasn’t that. This was love. He wanted to know everything about her right now. For example, he wanted to know about her past with men and boys, intimately speaking, though not down to macro, with the sordid details, deep penetration and possible perversion, and certainly not about alfalfa sprouts. He just wanted to know her more generally, which wasn’t jealousy but curiosity. Surely she’d had boyfriends, and surely all the pleasures she’d shown him had been shown to others before him. You don’t get those skills out of nowhere.
Yes, the imagery of her with another brought its moments of doubt and pain, but that too was free of jealousy. He was further spared that most rancorous of emotions by her apparent evolution, spiritually and culturally. So she’d engaged physically with another human. So what? Given her status and ranking among women, would not this other man, or men, reflect equal development of character? Ravid thought he would. Or they would. Or did. His base curiosity was based on concern for her welfare. Did some other hard-driving dick fail to sustain the gentle, loving touch? That didn’t seem likely, given the elevated plane of her former boyfriends. But he wanted to know. That was all it was — not a preoccupation on another dick going in and out.
Hey, let it go.
Yeah, fine, but this still didn’t add up. This was supposed to be more than a fling, more than a romp on the other side of the world, anonymous and noncommittal. They all went home by the weekend. Knowing nothing of in-laws and family diplomacy, Ravid sensed something he hadn’t yet considered.
Family complexity and images of former boyfriends were tough. But everyone who ever got married deals with a transitional period. Sure, it usually takes longer than a few days, but should she not view his place as home? Sure, it was a ramshackle rental. But shouldn’t a place be incidental to the players, just as marriage is a formality following love? Well, in time these things would sort themselves...
Or not. And just as a sailor should avoid whistling or hoping for wind, so should a lovelorn man avoid the yen to know everything.
Why?
Because he might find out.