Flame Angels

by Robert Wintner

  Who knew?

  And who minded the slutty sex when he alone was at the receiving end? Nobody is who — nobody who matters, anyway. None of that sordid, trashy stuff could be fairly factored at first sight of Minna Somayan, though the heavy baggage was hard to ignore on the way in from the aggregation buoy. At night.

  But this beauty is different, below the line and pure Polynesian — and maybe that’s the crux — that the difference is not in the Polynesian but the purity. After all, Tahiti and Tonga, Samoa and the Philippines, Fiji and the Cooks are hardly a hand span on the globe. How different can beauty be? Minna looked pure, so who can tell if this beauty has cooties too?

  But she’s likely free of the pop culture pollution smothering Hawaii and its purity, because this watery realm called Oceania was spared the terminal greed that came in the missionary wake. The missionary modus operandi across the Pacific and around the world was converting the chief or the king so the rest of the flock could come to Jesus — with everything of value as a first tithing. But the scheme didn’t work so well down here, where the island nations confederated loosely, and a converted king came to Christianity with a paltry entourage and little more. Over a century later, the southern hemisphere is free of Big Sugar with federal price supports or massive ownership by the sugar and missionary families. Just as purity of spirit — untrammeled by intrigue and corruption — sustains itself, so too are bitterness and regret in shorter supply here.

  Maybe that’s the difference between one beauty and another.

  A man in middle age knows that mistakes are part of life; from the first pee-pee in his diapers to the last piss in his pants, he will err and go on. He will bear no shame at any point in life, unless he makes the same mistake twice because he learned nothing the first time. Well, the lesson recently learned will not be soon forgotten, but this time feels different, with luxuriant colors applied to a cleaner canvas.

  Everyone develops complexities that someone, somewhere would think strange. Anyone without complexities may in fact be the odd person out, the dysfunctional example, the lone marcher to the separate drummer. Calling this dazzling dancer a mental case off the cuff would be unfounded, but then Basha Rivka would call her just that, with the coconut shells over her bazoombas and her pupick jiggling like Jell-O for all to see. Yes, and mothers are often right — and wrong. That’s why children leave the nest, to make their own mistakes and get smarter, having an adventure or two, like this one, with its jiggling pupick and garlic mashed potatoes with tarragon and lobster tits, I mean bits...and hip gyrations to make a young man smile, and, I think, olive oil? Yes — ah! So good! So savory, with a subtle, sweet hint of...what is that? Dill? Yes, dill! Till a mouthful and eyeful are nearly too much — don’t speak with your mouth full, but ogling with your mouth full is okay, with every inhibition, hesitation and doubt left back in the inky depths.

  At night.

  So Ravid savors the flavors, his head swaying to the beautiful dance like a cobra swaying in synch with a charmer, in a sensual choreograph of longing. And why not? Why wouldn’t a man in his prime ogle a nubile woman in her paean to fertility? He feels confident and visible, certain that she sees his potential.

  Her name is Vahineura, but her family and friends call her Cosima. She dances for love — of music and movement, which is better than doing it for the money, which is a pittance at any rate and could hardly match the art of the thing. She touches a nerve with this artistic concept, the one by which Ravid has already rationalized his future. He too will accept no income to speak of in exchange for the purest love in the world, which is love of art.

  Vahineura’s day job is manual and pays another pittance. She answers questions for tourists about the things they may consider acquiring, like hand-carved vase holders, pareos with Gauguin prints, black pearl jewelry, calendars with naked women and men of splendid Tahitian beauty, sundresses, T-shirts, tourist guide books and stuff. The retail scenario saddens Ravid, and she asks why the sudden gloom. He smiles forlornly.

  But she touches him, because she knows. “Don’t forget: I also dance.”

  Her gossamer touch triggers the soft alarm, because he’s a sensitive man, maybe the sort she’s had in mind, and she guesses that he’s homesick. He wants to remember this scene rather than vaguely recall it. And he denies her assumption, insisting that he’s never felt more at home. He’s sad because a chachka shop for tourists means that it’s already begun, the noising up and dumbing down, the effusion and clutter of words, signs and tourist pamphlets, of barkers and con men that will spread like fungus to displace the common beauty and sense of life in Polynesia, till the hideaways are no longer hidden, the names of reefs and fishes, the histories and legends, the people and myths will all be boiled down and homogenized to tourist-speak, printed en masse and stocked and restocked on a thousand racks, carried in hand by tourists speaking of the same wondrous discoveries you simply must see.

  The overstock will get hauled to the dump to make room for next week’s load.

  Where once teemed lush vegetation in virtually visible growth will come front-enders and closers in boiler rooms designed to gouge tourists for money with ultimate good cheer. Do you want vacations? Do you need vacations?

  “You are so right!” the young dancer agrees, covering her mouth with her fingers, then touching his arm again. “But you are wrong. I would never let that happen here. You know? You talk like a man who’s been to war. It’s not like that here. Business is very slow. The shop only exists to satisfy the hotel guests. I don’t think it makes money. How could it? It’s so slow. And it’s only souvenirs. You know that word?”

  “Yes. Everyone knows that word.”

  “Oh. Well. I didn’t know. It’s French.”

  “It’s universal.”

  “What is ‘chachka’?”

  “Trinkets. Unnecessary stuff.”

  “What could be wrong with a little thing to remember your holiday by?”

  “What do you mean, you won’t let it happen?”

  “I wouldn’t. Why would I?”

  “What could you do to stop it?”

  “I have powers here.” Yet here she falters, treading lightly on uncertain ground. “Maybe you’ll see.”

  Maybe he has already seen. Maybe a reach for majestic connection and magical power is a common claim in tropical climates, among the girls who wanna have fun. Well, let her cast her spell of love and understanding of something or other. Any bear worth his salt would stick his nose in this little honey pot.

  But learning of her unusual position and outlook will come later, past laughter and chiding on the way to Ravid losing himself once more, on the way to finding himself again — and after what he’s been through.

  The last long swim was indeed tiring and altered his outlook forever, but he rarely viewed such a prize as this. That is, Vahineura’s unusual and often disturbing relationship with reality contains her pledge to reward any man who can swim Cook’s Bay an hour after sunset and then swim back an hour before sunrise; he will earn the cherries. What else can a young woman of apparently paltry funds offer? She is a queen in need of a king. Or something.

  Ravid will hear this fantasy rendition of reality in monotone, the teller freely revealing her delusion and pathology along with her hope for the right king to claim his crown. The offer is apparently long-standing — or has stood since Vahineura reached the age of consent, if not reason. “You mean that you are available to any man who has the balls to make the swim. You know ‘balls’? Les oeufs profonds?”

  “Tu es drôle, mon pauvre Ravid. Who has ever heard of profound eggs?”

  “I thought you liked me.”

  “Oh, but I do.”

  “But you want me to swim that bay at night?”

  “No! Not you!”

  He wonders if she will give herself to him without the swim, or if she means that he’s not in the running to claim the prize. He doesn’t ask, because her purity and/or sanity become incidental to her compelling
, nonverbal persuasion.

  She seems normal when she’s not speaking, aloof as an emerging teen yet accessible once warmed up, eager to display her social disconnection — hey, look who’s talking. Never mind; what’s clear is that she’s not like the other one, not even close, unless you count the quirks and uncertainties along with the bold moves where least expected. Which ought to count for something, especially in light of reviewing these same character malfunctions between the aggregation buoy and the south shore. Which was a sparse light, indeed.

  At night.

  Which should have made an impression, but maybe it didn’t, because Ravid the rockhead has a fatal appetite for tender, young leg. But can all the women be mental? Well, probably not all, only the ones he finds. That should be a consolation; he fails so miserably at his true calling, yet he’s so consistent in his failures. Maybe he should set out to bang every nutty young woman below the equator. Then he could be a huge success. In the making, at any rate. Never mind. A healthy sexual appetite is not wrong and can often provide happiness for others. Besides that, the young dancer’s fantasy may well be a curse that won’t end till somebody claims the prize — like the guy on the horse who finally struggled through the sticker bushes to kiss Sleeping Beauty on the lips. The winner won’t likely be an old man, or not much older than Ravid, though two elderly fellows tried already and failed, tolerable men with the fatal distraction.

  At least I wouldn’t put my pee-pee in the pickle slicer by choice. Oh, sure, the cosmic crowd would say that it’s all free will. Hey, go fish on that one. What, should I be a monk? Besides, I’m not old. I can swim that bay on my back. Besides, those old guys drowning were a relief for the fair maiden. Neither one was wealthy. At least I got potential. Well, I got no flab.

  But why would anyone drown in that pond? It’s a mile, maybe — unless “drowning” was easier to tell the immediate family than disappearing with no trace, if you get my drift.

  But insight and prognostication on the “pond” will also come later.

  Sooner, on a long day pleasantly unwinding to a beautiful evening, Vahineura brings her luminous self to speaking range. “You are laughing at us. Why are you laughing? What do you see that’s funny?”

  Halfway through his third go at a sixteen-inch dinner plate, Ravid puts a forefinger in the air, clears a swallow and shakes his head. “I am not laughing at you. I am laughing at...life. At my life and the.... I don’t want to give you the wrong impression, but I...I laugh at the turns my life has taken in the last few days. Please, forgive...”

  “What impression is the right impression?”

  “You’re a beautiful dancer. I’m sorry if you thought I...”

  “You looked, and you laughed.”

  “With delight.”

  She smiles because he said the right thing; so few men do. “When the show is over, we will invite the guests to have their pictures taken. Perhaps you would like to have a picture taken that you can send home.”

  It’s discomforting that she recognizes him as a tourist; he’s been residential for so long. Well, it’s a small town, so she probably knows he’s new. He assures her that a picture would please his mother by showing him healthy and having fun. “Yes. I would like that. My mother would like that.”

  “Did you bring your camera?”

  “Yes, but not here. It’s a real camera, for diving, for underwater pictures. It can take regular pictures too, but I don’t have it here. It’s too big to carry around.”

  “That’s all right. You can use our camera. See that woman right there?”

  And that’s how fate paints a picture, on simple strokes as seemingly inconsequential as butterfly wings aflutter.

  Yes, he can see that woman, the matron of the svelte dancing troupe, in the aftermath of her own svelte years, more immersed in middle age than he is. Admirably preserved with a glowing, tawny complexion and a bit of cushion but still firm, she may have a svelte curve left here and there. She reminds Ravid of his Aunt Hadi, who wasn’t his Mother’s sister but a friend of lusty stature who let young Ravid view her on many nights, as long as he pretended to be asleep and only peeked through eye slits, even when she played with herself. And here she is again, still affable and affectionate as ever.

  “She is Hereata. You will love her. It’s only Polaroid, but it only costs a thousand francs, about twelve dollars, or thirteen. You’re here to take pictures underwater?”

  Ravid’s head rocks side to side, uncertain of viability on his stated purpose in life. “Yes. I am here for that.”

  “Good.” She offers her hand to shake. “I am Vahineura.”

  “Ravid.”

  “I don’t mind if you laugh at us. I only wanted to know why.”

  “You made laughter spring from my heart, which is different than laughing at you. You see?”

  “I see. I see you later. Comme ça?”

  “Yes. I mean, oui.”

  She drifts back to the stage casting a sweet smile over her shoulder. The interlude has quelled his appetite. Besides, hardly a spare cubic centimeter in the old breadbasket remains, and food for thought rounds the meal nicely. Pubic centimeter? That’s disgusting, but you know what they say about men in emotional turmoil: indomitable pussy hounds are what they become. Or is that unbearable pussy hounds? Either way, the profile fits. So what the hell? Speaking of sweets, a slice of pineapple upside down would align nicely with the tenor of the evening, flavoring the balance of the show, in which a good dancer becomes gifted in every way. Or is she only incorrigible? She smiles again, connecting the sparkling dots, feeding the potential.

  So the evening rounds with the utmost lesson in life: It’s for the living. You have to get out and mix it up, or you have nothing but walls and a roof surrounding your introspection. Such clarity flowing forth seems unlikely to bottleneck, but random events occur in the strangest places and can indeed clog the flow.

  Or so it seems when a meatball who is not part of the dinner buffet stands out among the tourists. He is a meaty meatball wearing loud jams — baggy shorts going below the knees with the waistband riding below the butt crack. This guy could have a load in his crotch with nobody the wiser. Setting off this show of slovenly indifference are an array of gold nuggets — a watchband of gold nuggets with a matching ring and a beefy nugget necklace to prove success in the Russian mafia. Maybe he sells timeshares on the Caspian Sea to former commies who like vacations, want vacations, need vacations.

  That is, he looks Russian, which may be a generalization, but what else do you have with a bald head, pudgy hands, lumpy shoulders, an overall thickness and an overbearing accent? Oh, and the clear liquid he swills that is clearly not water.

  Like Nikita Khrushchev on steroids with a gold nugget earring, he watches intently, like the dancers are the General Assembly and he might need to pound his shoe on a table. Fleshy folds pile up where his head meets his neck. He stands to make a point, arms folded, legs apart, with “USA” on his left butt pocket above an American flag. Below the flag: We’re #1! But he’s neither #1 nor American. On the other butt pocket is a dive flag — diagonal white stripe on a red field — making him one more macho idiot with a scuba certification card to prove it.

  The fellow’s diphthong/glottal mix of Slavic and Curd, or maybe Slobbovian, indicate zealotry of a different stripe, or stripes with polka dots. Maybe he loves the American way, or he’s anti-American. Either way, the guy is loaded for bear, American style, confrontation his apparent means of gaining his point. He scans like a sentry, keeping his little world safe for bad taste, seeking an opening for preemptive war. His date is a hugely breasted, heavily rouged woman who seems confused with cross-cultural disjunction. She goes along, because she appears to be hired.

  Ravid avoids patriotism; it’s so removed from nature. Patriotism motivates the uninformed to war against others, which may slow the rate of human population growth but hardly makes up for the natural destruction most wars cause. Besides that, geopolitical borders have no re
gard for species or habitat. This thick man is passé and avoidable — till he stands in front of Ravid, blocking the view. A fellow might take it as a taunt.

  Let it go, Ravid murmurs and is able to do so.

  After the show, he goes for the photo op, as he said he would. It takes only a minute, and once he’s posed for his happy photo with the beautiful dancers, he walks into the line of sight of the meatball’s video camera, smiling into the lens.

  The camera is lowered to reveal a beefy scowl and unspoken threat. Ravid no speaka too gooda de Française, but he gets by. “Vous êtes trop gros pour une fenêtre, mais très parfaite pour une porte, n’est-ce pas?”

  The fat but muscular man steps up as if to better hear or to hear a clarification. The matron steps between, placing an open hand before either like a referee. To the thickset fellow, she instructs, “Arrêtez, Monsieur.” But the glove is thrown and calls for response. So the two men glare till the thick one speaks in rough, threatening language as he moves assertively past the matron, who hooks his ankle with her foot and sends him sprawling. Ravid sidesteps to make room for the hard landing.

  Which would be all she wrote, ending the little spat with an awkward but manageable loss of face. But the big man is up to his knees on a second effort till the matron plants her bare but sturdy toes in his ribs. “Ne pas ici, Monsieur! Not in my show. Not in front of my guests. Go home now.” She towers over him to discourage a third lunge, or maybe he’s discouraged by the three bouncers in triple XL, who assist the surly man out, practically lifting him by the arms as he looks back with a brow set deep on revenge.