Paradise News

by David Lodge

  The lights in the cabin were dimmed, and another film began. Bernard was sure he had seen more films in this one day than in the last three years. This time it was a romantic comedy in which two rich and beautiful people, who were obviously destined to fall in love with each other, managed, by dint of a series of improbable misunderstandings, to postpone that conclusion for an hour and forty minutes. This even Bernard recognized as a very old plot. What was novel to him, and slightly shocking, was that both hero and heroine were shown in bed with other lovers while the story unfolded: it had not been thus in the films at the Brickley fleapit. He watched the movie with mildly prurient curiosity, doubly glad that his father was asleep.

  After it finished, he too dozed for a while, until awakened by a change in the note of the engines and a sinking sensation. They had begun their descent. Outside and below, the darkness was still total; but after some little while the plane changed course and tilted, he looked out of the window, and there, miraculously, was a shape like a many-stranded necklace of light thrown down on the black velvet of the ocean. He shook his father’s shoulder.

  “Daddy, wake up! We’re nearly there.”

  The old man groaned and awoke, licking his lips and rubbing his red-rimmed eyes.

  “You must see this. It’s amazing. Change places with me.”

  “No thankyou, I’ll take your word for it.”

  Bernard stared, fascinated, out of the porthole, pressing his nose to the glass and cupping his face to screen out the cabin lights, as the plane sank towards what must be Honolulu. As they dropped through the sky, the shimmering strands of light defined themselves as tower blocks, streets, houses, and moving vehicles. How astonishing it was, to discover this brilliantly illuminated modern city, pulsing like a star in the black immensity of the ocean. And how miraculous, really, that their aircraft had felt its way unerringly across the thousands of miles of dark water to this haven of light. There was something mythical about it – the night sea journey – though the other passengers stretching and yawning around him seemed to take it all for granted. The plane dipped and banked again, and the “FASTEN SEATBELTS” signs flashed red.

  The night air at Honolulu airport was like nothing Bernard had experienced before, warm and velvety, almost palpable. To feel it on your face was like being licked by a large friendly dog, whose breath smelled of frangipani with a hint of petrol, and you felt it almost instantly on arrival, because the walkways – stuffy glazed corridors in most airports, mere extensions of the claustrophobic aircraft cabin – were here open at their sides to the air. He and his father were soon sweating again in their thick English clothes, but a light breeze fanned their cheeks and rustled in the floodlit palm trees. A kind of tropical garden had been laid out next to the terminal building, with artificial ponds and streams, and naked torches burning amid the foliage. It was this spectacle which seemed to convince Mr Walsh that they had finally arrived at their destination. He stopped and gawped. “Look at that,” he said. “Jungle.”

  As they waited beside a carousel in the Arrivals hall, a beautiful brown-skinned young woman in the Travelwise livery came up to them, smiled brilliantly and said, “Aloha! Welcome to Hawaii! My name’s Linda and I’m your airport facilitator.”

  “Hallo,” said Bernard. “My name’s Walsh and this is my father.”

  “Right,” said Linda, ticking off their names on her clipboard. “Mr Bernard Walsh and Mr John Walsh.” She gave them the quick, quizzical appraisal to which Bernard was getting accustomed. “There’s no Mrs Walsh?”

  “No,” said Bernard.

  “Okay,” said Linda. “When you two gentlemen have collected your bags, will you gather with the rest of the group, please, over by the Information Desk, for the lay greeting.”

  That was what it sounded like to Bernard. He experienced a sudden spasm of foolish dread, that some garbled version of his personal history had preceded him to Hawaii, and that a committee of parochial worthies had been organized to welcome him, or embarrass him. “Lay greeting?”

  “That’s correct, it’s inclusive. You’re staying at the Waikiki Surfrider, right?”

  “Yes,” said Bernard, who had decided that it was too late, and they were both too tired, to try and locate Ursula’s apartment tonight.

  “There’s a bus waiting outside the terminal to take everybody to their hotels,” said Linda, “right after the lay greeting.”

  While they were waiting for the carousel to deliver their suitcases, Bernard investigated his Travelpak, and found in it two vouchers, each for “One lei value US $15.00.” It didn’t take him long to work out that lei was pronounced “lay”, and was a garland of flower heads threaded on a string. In the crowded concourse many newly arrived passengers were having these objects flung over their shoulders by friends and professional greeters, with acompanying cries of “Aloha!” He passed Sidney the heartcase and his wife Lilian in the act of being thus festooned by two smiling young men with close-cropped hair and neat, furry moustaches. “You shouldn’t have, Terry, we get them free, they come with the holiday,” Lilian was saying to one of the young men, who replied, “Never mind, Mum, you can have two. I want you to meet my friend, Tony.” “Pleased to meet you,” said Lilian. She smiled with her false teeth, but her eyes looked anxious.

  The other Travelwise passengers gathered dutifully near the Information desk, as instructed. Nearby was a metal rack displaying free newspapers and tourist brochures. The title of one of these publications, Paradise News, caught Bernard’s eye, and he picked up a copy. Its contents were something of an anticlimax, consisting almost entirely of advertisements, with specimen menus, for various quaintly named local restaurants – the El Cid Canteen, The Great Wok of China, The Godmother, The Shore Bird Beach Broiler, It’s Greek To Me. A small advertisement in the bottom right-hand corner of the front page struck a different and less cheery note: “How to Survive the Break-Up of a Relationship. Read this book. It will help you stop feeling guilty. It will restore your confidence. It will help you get on with your life.” Bernard surreptitiously tore the panel from the newspaper and slipped it into his breast pocket.

  “Found something interesting?”

  Bernard looked up to see Roger Sheldrake eyeing him.

  “It might interest you,” said Bernard, indicating the masthead of the newspaper.

  “Paradise News! Magic! Where did you get it?” Sheldrake hastened over to the rack and helped himself greedily to the free literature.

  Linda the facilitator now reappeared, carrying a large cardboard box full of leis, which she began to distribute to the passengers in exchange for the vouchers in their Travelpaks. When she came to Cecily and her husband, she said, “You’re the honeymoon couple, aren’t you? Did you order the Hawaiian Wedding Song?” “No we didn’t,” said Cecily, quickly. The other members of the party looked with new interest at the young couple. Beryl Everthorpe said, “Fancy that, and us on our second honeymoon,” and Lilian Brooks said, “I thought there was something about them,” and the girl in the pink and blue tracksuit said, “What a romantic idea for a honeymoon, I must suggest it to Des,” and Dee said, “If you ever get a honeymoon, it’ll be in a tent halfway up Ben Nevis.”

  Just before Linda reached Bernard, he was lassooed from behind by a garland of moist, sweet-smelling white blossoms. Startled, he turned to confront a small, brown, wrinkled, elderly lady with pink-rinsed grey hair, wearing a long, loose flowing gown, like a toga, printed with large pink flowers. Her fingertips and toes gleamed with nail polish of the same hue.

  “Aloha!” she said. “You are Ursula’s nephew, aren’t you?” Bernard admitted that he was. “I knew it, as soon as I set eyes on you, you have her nose. I’m Sophie Knoepflmacher, I live in the same apartment block as Ursula. And this must be her brother, Jack. Aloha!” She tossed a second lei over the head and shoulders of Mr Walsh, who recoiled a half-step in alarm. “I guess you know what aloha means, don’t you?”

  “Hallo, I presume,” Bernard ventured
.

  “Right. Or goodbye, according to whether you’re coming or going.” The little lady gave a brief cackling laugh. “Also, I love you.”

  “Hallo, goodbye, I love you?”

  “It’s like an all-purpose word. Ursula asked me to give you the keys to her apartment, so I thought I’d better meet you.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” said Bernard. “Actually, we have got a hotel room booked …”

  “Where?”

  “The Waikiki Surfrider.”

  “You’ll be more comfortable at Ursula’s place. More space. Your own living-room and kitchen.”

  “Well, all right,” said Bernard. Since Mrs Knoepflmacher had taken the trouble to meet them, it seemed the sensible, and the courteous, thing to do.

  “Let’s go, then. I have my car in the lot outside. You guys must be exhausted, huh?” She addressed the question particularly to Mr Walsh.

  “I was exhausted in Los Angeles,” said Mr Walsh. “I don’t know the word for what I am now.”

  “It was his first flight,” Bernard said.

  “No! You’re kidding! Well, I think you’re just wonderful, Mr Walsh, to come all this way to see your poor sister.”

  Mr Walsh received this tribute as if it were only his due, but was perceptibly gratified. Bernard explained to Linda that they wouldn’t be needing transport, or any more leis, and they set off in single file, Mrs Knoepflmacher leading Mr Walsh and Bernard bringing up the rear with a baggage trolley. Mrs Knoepflmacher left them standing on the pavement outside the terminal while she went off to fetch the car, her pink robe rippling in the breeze.

  “Nice of her to meet us,” said Bernard.

  “What’s this her name is?”

  “Knoepflmacher. I think it means button-maker in German.”

  “Is she German, then? She doesn’t sound it.”

  “Her family would have been, originally, or her husband’s. German Jews, I would guess.”

  “Oh.” It had been a mistake to mention this. There was a certain frigidity in Mr Walsh’s voice. “Can I take this thing off?” he said, plucking at his lei.

  “I don’t think so, not yet. It might seem rude.”

  “I feel like a bloomin’ Christmas tree, standing here.”

  “It’s the custom of the country.”

  “And a daft one, too, if you ask me.”

  Roger Sheldrake, with a garland of yellow blossoms round his neck like a Lord Mayor’s chain, came by, preceded by a man in a peaked cap carrying his luggage. He stopped and turned back to speak to Bernard.

  “The Wyatt have sent a stretch limo for me,” he said, pointing to a strangely distorted vehicle parked at the kerb, extraordinarily long and low-slung, like something seen in a fairground mirror. “Jolly nice of them. Can I give you a lift?”

  “No thanks. Somebody is picking us up,” said Bernard.

  “Well, see you around. Don’t forget to give me a ring.” The chauffeur was holding open the door of the limousine. Bernard glimpsed dove-grey carpet and leather upholstery inside, and what looked like a small bar.

  Soon after this sumptuous vehicle had driven away, Mrs Knoepflmacher appeared, clinging to the wheel of a racy-looking white Toyota with retractable headlights. She was so small that she had to sit on the edge of the seat to reach the pedals.

  “It’s nice and cool in here,” Bernard commented, when they were settled inside.

  “Yeah, it’s air-conditioned. Mr Knoepflmacher passed away the day he took delivery,” said Mrs Knoepflmacher. “He drove it to Diamond Head and back, and he was so pleased with it, you wouldn’t believe. He passed away in his sleep that very night. Brain haemorrhage.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” said Bernard.

  “Well, at least he died happy,” said Mrs Knoepflmacher. “I keep the car as a kind of memento. I don’t drive much, to tell you the truth. I can walk to most places I want to get to in Waikiki. What car do you drive, Bernard?” She pronounced his name in the French style, with the stress on the second syllable.

  “I don’t have one.”

  “Just like Ursula,” said Mrs Knoepflmacher. “She never learned to drive, either. It must run in your family.”

  “I have a driving licence,” said Bernard. “But I don’t have a car at the moment. How is Ursula? Have you seen her recently?”

  “Not since she left the hospital.”

  “Ursula has left the hospital?”

  “Yeah, didn’t you know? She’s in some kind of private nursing home, out on the edge of the city. It’s a temporary arrangement, she said. She didn’t seem to want me to visit her. She’s a very private lady, your aunt, you know, Bernard. She doesn’t give much away. Not like me. Lou always used to say I talk too much.”

  “Have you got the address?”

  “I’ve got the phone number.”

  “And how is she?”

  “She’s not too well, Bernard. Not too well. But it’ll do her a world of good to see you two guys. How you doing back there, Mr Walsh?”

  “All right, thanks,” said Mr Walsh dourly from the back seat.

  They were driving sedately along a broad, busy motorway, with the sea distantly visible to their right and steep hills or small mountains, dark humped shapes sprinkled with the lights of houses, to their left. Green exit signs flicked past with names on them that struck Bernard as quaintly genial, like streets in a children’s storybook: Likelike Highway, Vineyard Boulevard, Punchbowl Street. Mrs Knoepflmacher pointed out the sky-scrapers of downtown Honolulu before taking a turnoff marked Punahou St. “Seeing as you’re malihinis, I’ll show you Kalakaua Avenue.”

  “What’s a malihini?”

  “First-time visitor to the islands. Kalakaua is the main drag of Waikiki. Some people think it’s gotten tacky, but I think it’s still kinda fun.”

  Bernard asked her how long she had lived in Hawaii.

  “Nine years. Lou and I came on a vacation about twenty years ago, and Lou said to me, ‘This is it, Sophie, this is paradise, this is where we’re going to retire to.’ So we did. Bought an apartment in Waikiki to spend our vacations in and rented it for the rest of the year. Then when Lou retired – he was in the kosher meat business, in Chicago – we moved out here.”

  “And you like it?”

  “Love it. Well, I did while Lou was alive. Now I’m kinda lonely sometimes. My daughter says I should move back to Chicago. But can you imagine facing a mid western winter again, after this? All I need here is a muu-muu, the whole year round.” She plucked at her flowing pink robe, and glanced at Bernard’s tweed sports jacket and worsted trousers. “You and your father will have to get yourselves some Aloha shirts. That’s what they call the Hawaiian shirts with the splashy colours and the jazzy patterns, that you wear outside your pants. This is Kalakaua.”

  They were driving slowly along a crowded thoroughfare, lined with brightly lit shops, restaurants, and vast hotels that towered out of sight. Though it was nearly ten o’clock at night, both pavements, or sidewalks, as Mrs Knoepflmacher called them, were thronged with people, most of them casually and scantily dressed, in shorts, sandals, tee-shirts. They were all shapes, sizes, ages, complexions, sauntering, staring, eating and drinking as they walked, some hand-in-hand or with their arms round one another. A melange of amplified music, traffic noise and human voices penetrated the car windows. It reminded Bernard of the crush around Victoria Station, except that everything looked much cleaner. There were even familiar names on the shopfronts – MacDonalds, Kentucky Fried Chicken, Woolworths – as well as more exotic ones: The Hula Hut, Crazy Shirts, Take Out Sushi, Paradise Express, and signs that he couldn’t decipher because they were in Japanese.

  “Well? Whaddya make of it?” Mrs Knoepflmacher demanded.

  “It’s not quite what I imagined,” said Bernard. “It’s very built-up, isn’t it? I had a mental picture of sand, and sea and palm trees.”

  “And hula girls, huh?” Mrs Knoepflmacher chuckled, and nudged Bernard with her elbow. “The beach is
just back of those hotels,” she said, waving to her right. “And the girls are inside, doing floor-shows. When we first came here, you could see the ocean between the hotels, but not any more. You wouldn’t believe the construction that’s gone on since then.” She raised her voice and turned her head: “So, do you like it, then, Mr Walsh?”

  But there was no reply. Mr Walsh had fallen asleep.

  “Poor man, he’s exhausted. Never mind, we’re nearly there.” She turned left off the dazzling thoroughfare, crossed another main road and entered a quiet residential street at the end of which a dark canal glimmered. “This is it, one four four Kaolo Street.” She steered the car down a ramp, into a basement car-park beneath the apartment block, and stopped rather abruptly.

  Mr Walsh woke in a panic. “Where are we?” he cried. “I won’t go in another aeroplane.”

  “It’s all right, Daddy” said Bernard soothingly. “This is where Ursula lives. We’ve finally arrived.”

  “Aye, but will I ever get back home alive, that’s what I’d like to know,” said Mr Walsh piteously, as they eased him out of the back seat of the car.

  Ursula’s third-floor flat was small, neat and immaculately clean, decorated and furnished in a conventionally “pretty” style, with many knick-knacks and ornaments displayed on shelves and occasional tables. The air inside the living-room was hot and close, and Mrs Knoepflmacher immediately threw open a pair of long windows that gave access to a shallow balcony. “Most of the residents have had air-conditioning installed,” she said. “But I guess Ursula thought it wasn’t worth the expense, seeing as how she doesn’t own the apartment.”

  This information was a surprise to Bernard.

  “No, she rents. It’s a shame. One of the big condo developers is interested in this site, and they’re going to have to make a very good offer to buy us all out.”

  Bernard stepped out on to the balcony. “You mean they’re going to knock down this perfectly good building and build another one? Whatever for?”