Flame Angels

by Robert Wintner

He pleads that meaning will never be lost, and he should get his just reward before he dies.

  She laughs; only a fool would expect a reward for doing nothing, or worse, for failing. Yet she keeps hope alive with a kind word, asking if he’s lost weight, or is he standing at an odd angle. He thinks he can make the swim and will schedule it soon, but is still afraid of sharks.

  He invites his grandmother to the birthday soirée, so she begins early, sorting out couture to show herself to optimal advantage to a dashing waterman of forty.

  With Ravid on an errand in the truck, Moeava visits Monique, whose disconcerting habit is to stare at him as if he can’t sense it. He can’t ignore it and thinks her heartlessly amazed at his big, bulky body. So he makes haste, humbly inviting her to Ravid’s birthday party, the fortieth, a surprise. She shrugs and says yes, of course, then tells him that she got a call a short while ago on the office phone at Le Chien de Bonne Chance animal hospital for Ravid. She told the caller, a woman, that Ravid only sleeps there on some nights and could be found at his dive office, but she got the woman’s number in case Ravid needs it, or the woman doesn’t call the other number.

  Moeava calls the number, because a woman informed that her husband only sleeps in a place some nights may not call again. When Minna answers, Moeava says, “Ia orana, Madam.” He answers her questions on himself and on Ravid’s status and situation. She says it’s been nearly two years since she’s seen or spoken with Ravid, but she is still his friend and has news, but not to worry, because it’s not urgent news.

  Moeava says yes, he knows the party to whom he is speaking, and he’s happy to speak with her at last.

  She needs to know if Ravid wants his cat, because Gene, the woman who got his cat, still does, but the old beach houses where he lived are being torn down by a developer for a hundred and fifty new places in stucco with tile roofs in the 4 to 15 million range. Gene is moving to a condo that doesn’t allow cats. Whatever Ravid wants to do is okay either way, because she, Minna, can keep the cat, but that will require some adjustment for the cat, and she thought she should call.

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

  “I know.”

  “You send cat?”

  “I will, if that’s what he wants. But I don’t know if I can do that. But I might find somebody to bring her, for money. The flight is every week, and I should be able to find somebody sooner or later.”

  “Why don’t 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.” The silence rattles, 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?”

  “Not exactly, but that is his meanings. But 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 there’s 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 it is a surprise. We all surprise him. Listen — if everything does not work out so good, you stay chez grand-mère — at house of my grandmother.”

  Chez grand-mère? Hey, 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 an elderly feline like Skinny — four months caged in a hot, dusty kennel, and at her age, eleven already. 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, regarded as a sovereign republic in the mid-Pacific. Lucky Skinny.

  Minna feeds the family machine with annulment news at last. Now it can proceed, contingent on all signatories being present and safe delivery of the cat. A few phone calls, a promise or recollection, some small talk and official processing et voilà!

  Skinny is in. She doesn’t like any aspect of moving, beginning with the cat carrier with its waterproof floor and soft towel that bunches up at one end. She howls till Minna lets her out. What else can she do? Skinny doesn’t run away 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 soon closes her eyes and purrs.

  Minna wonders why she lied to her family about signatories and conditions — about an annulment when he’s not even met with a lawyer, or 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. Well, at any rate they can get things started. It’s got to happen sooner or later. And she’d just as soon get this task done with no harm to Skinny, which can only be ensured by a personal delivery.

  And it is great to get away, and Skinny is a unique travel companion, and he’ll be grateful for that, 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 on the weekly flight from Honolulu. Moeava offered a pick up in his boat at the ferry terminal in town, but Minna declined, opting to sleep over and take the ferry, because a small boat would be too much and make Skinny sick, which would be a real kick in the ass after everything else. Besides, hanging out till Sunday will better preserve the surprise — what fun. Besides, she may see how she feels and possibly 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?”

  “No. He has many friends, but he is like a monk with the diving and the pictures. I think he want to see you.”

  The crowded airport is hardly conducive to assessments, so she takes a cab into town, what the hell. She’ll risk a week of embarrassment and maybe humiliation, though she doubts he’d do that; 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...

  Well, maybe Ravid has 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 here? Oh, yeah. Annulment. We’ll definitely see to that.

  Or might the love return between herself and her...what? Her man? Her husband? What? She only wishes she’d brought Skinny down without calling on a quiet weekday instead of this stupid surprise party weekend. How annoying.

  But there’s only one flight per week. Oh yeah.

  In fact, the other guests share her annoyance, and so does Ravid, because every surprise party victim finds out and goes along. Nobody enjoys the ride, because it’s stupid, everybody pretending they don’t know about the birthday because they don’t care, or because the victim is hardly known well enough for anyone to know his birthday. It’s all a show meant to contrast with how they really feel: surprise!


  For he’s a jolly good fellow...

  Ravid 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?

  Glancing at the bill he said 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 think, to strategize a plan as it relates 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 are tangled in Slavic knots. But if it’s love, or could be, the truth will out. It must. At least this caller’s intentions are perfectly clear — well, maybe not perfectly clear, but they’re at least apparent.

  On the eve of this fortieth birthday, Ravid avoids reflection. Yes, it’s the beginning of his fifth decade. So what? It’s more importantly a night for image enhancement, so he escapes inside the 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 have the number? He thinks Moeava has done something stupid, but he won’t ask if Minna is on her way. Yet he feels fear in thinking she’s not. Maybe she called with bad news; this idea will not settle. In a few hours he’ll see Minna or no Minna. 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 Skinny aside till tomorrow.

  So it shapes up as a day of resolution with an annoying social gathering in the afternoon. It’s not so bad, with a fat manifest and the vigor to lead them on the dive of a lifetime — or point them in the right direction while he experiments on a zoom with intentional noise. A zoom? Under water? He’s come close to what he wants with a troupe of garden eels, swaying and bowing like ballerinas, and today might get the perfect shot.

  Uneventful on the tourist side, the dive could be a breakthrough artistically. For better or worse, Ravid would rather hit the software to see how far the perfection might go. He’d rather avoid emotions and be alone and for the most part content.

  But a man has to do what he’d really rather not do, so he dons the poker face and strides into the front office of the animal hospital with a big blushing grin for Monique, who does not yell surprise! She’s not there, nor is anyone.

  Maybe 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 the eels arch and shimmy, moving to the music they also hear.

  It’s a beautiful and eerie thought — good thing, since eerie beauty alone can balance his technical obsession. Well, a technocrat is not an artist, so caution is best, but technical excellence hardly calls for anxiety, really, when you...

  “Surprise!”

  Interruption is the artist’s nemesis. In this case it comes with shock, as through the door, to commemorate his birth, files the promenade of characters currently known, including Monique and Cosima with Moeava in tow. Hereata follows, or maybe leads, Minna, who chats with Oybek Navbahor, the fellow who could have croaked by now but obviously didn’t, since here he is. But he must be très pissed, yet though his pig eyes still slant inward, squinty and mean, he seems serene, gratified and...sociable?

  It’s warm and friendly — what’s wrong with this picture? Hereata’s worldview might be open-minded when it comes to Monique, because she could hardly be jealous of a big-hearted, scrawny woman so kind to animals. And Hereata is too developed for such petty behavior — or wants to be developed at any rate.

  But Minna is a challenge of a different spin. Just like the heat of summer and cold of winter can’t be fully recalled in their opposite seasons, so has Minna’s striking beauty lapsed in the memory of her chosen one. He sees her face, her features, her figure and fulsome personality fill a room with light and charm. Sure, she’s faking it in an awkward moment, yet she brings the old allure — the charm and mystique that was neither lost nor buried. He remembers the old question: was he the only one smitten by love? Not likely, though he alone was blinded.

  He flashes back to first feeling something other than repetition. Maybe that’s the difference between Minna and Hereata. The two women chat like girlfriends reunited — advantage Hereata in French and Tahitian, including her playful approach. She cannot completely hide her abiding apprehension that her clever web will soon unravel.

  She should win by rights, except that her loving, seductive self pales next to Minna’s amazingly firm and delectable body and shining light. So it’s the age thing or the fertility potential, advantage Minna, though no man in his right mind would want more humans in the world. Still, instincts press. Still, any preference would seem ill founded.

  But memory defaults to the moment, as if estranged spouses share a renewed air of innocence. Here is another first encounter with the same repercussion. Trembling within, fearful of uncertain intention, he wonders what he’ll do. Life and options pass before his eyes, till the old aloha pushes him forward. They approach warily yet according to custom. Joining hands briefly, they embrace with a kiss on the cheek and faint scents 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 niceties with a dash of canned humor.

  Hereata shifts to the other foot. Forcibly happy for the reunion she urges the two old friends to have a drink and something to eat. Ravid wonders. Did Minna say the visit is to secure the annulment, and that puts Hereata at ease? Or is Hereata...with Oybek? He’s a strange one, though closer to her age, and they met when she first escorted him to the boat just as she escorted Ravid on that eventful morning after the night of...

  “Oy,” emerges inadvertently as all roads converge at the summit, though it doesn’t feel like a summit, more of a canyon, but surely roads converge there, too.

  “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. Ower. You I owe.” He steps aside and bows as if for a head butt to the chest but then peers at the monitor, where garden eels pose in plié et pirouette, in synch with random fluidity as perhaps yet unimagined. “Achh! Is this you?”

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

  Oybek straightens and sneers, “Have you more?”

  Ravid matches that with a smirk, raising his palms 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 Ravid feared phantom beasts, Oybek also swam among merciless predators. That is, Oybek looks piggish and mean, and may be so by necessity of his calling, but his nature is open, more or less.

  Growing up short on looks and money but long on the adventurous spirit in Karakalpakstan, young Oybek explored shipwrecks in the desert, what had been Lake Aral in Moynac. Happiness derived from solitude; the other children teased and taunted the ugly little boy with hurtful names. Little Oybek could not reflect the hurt within. He looked cruel and threatening even then. What could he do?

  Like many boys with fantasies, Oybek knew he could be an ocean explorer one day. But epilepsy and a rare condition beefed him up with fleshy folds. Slogging onward as a b
oy and 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 had the best dive magazine in the region. The three divers in the region asked, “Compared to what?” Subscriptions remained low.

  Oybek wandered the tropical latitudes making friends where he could, including many women willing to accept money for what he wanted.

  With the rise of the internet, Oybek’s magazine pioneered phenomenal 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 catchy name soon shortened to Refart Magazine, calling for a fart joke or two at regular intervals, which also boosted readership.

  So Oybek moved to LA, where marine photographers competed with everyone else for acceptance and a break, which goes to show what the right address can do for image, credibility and esteem in the artistic community. And now you know the rest of the story, as far as it goes.

  Oybek Navbahor is now publisher of Modern Reef Magazine. “Please. My card.” He tells Ravid that the photos on these walls are 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 an exclusive. Ravid is flattered in a cold wash of fear. Oybek talks like a bullshit factory blowing smoke up the whole world’s ass, and maybe a tinge of buyer’s remorse inevitably will accompany the fame so craved. Well, Ravid Rockulz never actually wanted fame; he only wanted a rightful audience, what every purveyor of insight through artistic media wants. But fame is apparently a prerequisite to recognition. And so the kliegs blaze, as solitude, anonymity and youth are banished from the kingdom. Maybe.

  Oybek says you must move to LA, 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 the smart people and the women. He, Ravid, 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.