by Anne Ostby
At the water’s edge she spots Jone with the net gathered around his shoulders ready to fly out over the glittering turquoise surface. He’s wading out, the water comes up to his waist, his wavy hair sticks out from under a worn baseball cap. A few young boys aboard Vessel of Honor are sorting tools. Ingrid can tell the morning catch was sparse; that’s why Jone is trying a few rounds with the net. She stands still, soaking in the sight: his strong arms flinging the net in an arc through the air, the net sailing out, opened by the wind, before landing on the water’s surface, settling into a silent grid.
Ingrid has never known the sea. She’s never experienced how it needs and takes, and gives back unconditionally. But now something in the movement of Jone’s shoulders makes her take a deep breath. The muscles tensing, casting out the net, a constant challenge: see if you dare to deny me!
Inside Ingrid, Wildrid kicks off her flip-flops. She feels the sulu billowing around her legs as decisive footsteps take her to the water’s edge. Hasn’t she always had a sailor in her, narrowing her eyes into the wind and trimming the sails with stiff fingers, her hair flapping in the breeze? Wildrid has stood there with kelp around her ankles, gripping the knife in salty, sore hands, gutting fish after silvery fish, scraping out innards with deft motions. She walks out to Jone, grabs the net dancing like a spiderweb on the waves, and pulls it in alongside him in a rhythm they both know.
—
Ingrid quickly dries her sweaty palms on her sulu and smiles at Jone as he wades in toward her, his net bunched up on his shoulder: “No luck today?”
The fisherman shakes his head and suddenly it’s there, the laughter with no purpose or meaning. It rumbles out from somewhere in his powerful belly, rolls up his chest and into his face, his meaty cheeks scrunching up his eyes. The laughter rolls back and forth under his skin, billows out of his broad nostrils. The boys on the boat join in, guffawing with their pink mouths wide open; one of them places his foot on the bow and throws his arms wide so suddenly that Ingrid thinks he’s going to fall in.
“No,” Jone finally manages to get out. “Nothing today, ma’am.”
She turns around and heads back; the man with the fish rainbow in his hand is still under the tree. She buys the orange-red one, a gaping coral trout that gets a stump of nylon rope threaded through its gills before it’s handed to her and she thanks him: “Vinaka!”
—
Ingrid takes the long way home. She walks along the beach to the outskirts of the village, where the last houses stand uncomfortably close to the garbage dump. Plastic bags grow out of the sand, rusty oil barrels, buckets of paint, a washing-machine drum, cracked plastic watering cans, rotted pieces of rope covered in slippery seaweed, and bottles, hundreds of bottles. Fiji Water is one of the country’s proudest exports, but this is the other side of the coin: tons of empty plastic bottles with no system for recycling them. Ingrid keeps walking, leaving the beach and cutting across an unkempt field of cassava onto the road. Two little girls stand guard over a simple shed filled with pyramids of yellow papayas. The smaller one, with lighter skin than her older sister and golden streaks in her curly brown hair, speaks up: “Pawpaw, ma’am? Two dollar bunch.”
Ingrid pulls out a green bill bearing the portrait of the British queen and gets a plastic bag with four papayas in return. There are several papaya trees in Kat’s backyard, but Ingrid can’t resist the little fruit stand, the first of many she passes along the village’s main road. Papaya and long beans are in season now, so papaya and long beans are what everyone tries to sell to each other. And to kaivalagi like her, thinks Ingrid, who’s sentimental enough to let a purple dress, a pair of dirty legs, and big eyes under golden brown bangs win her over. She smiles at the girls, but only the younger one smiles back. Her sister is already busy refilling the empty plastic dish with four new pieces of fruit from the pile on the road beside her.
—
Cling! Clang! Cling! The harsh sound of metal on metal thuds a rhythmic accompaniment to her steps as she walks the last stretch back to the farm. She’s passed the church and the chief’s bure with the horizontal beam atop the thatched roof; she can glimpse the cocoa plantation on the ridge behind the school. The young boy outside the corrugated metal shed crushing kava in the large mortar is barely taller than the iron rod he pulses up and down. Over the constant motion of his arms his face has no expression; it takes patience to mash up the stringy kava root to a fine paste. After a few months in Korototoka, Ingrid has learned to recognize the village’s sounds. The birds’ hysterical welcome to the new day when darkness loosens its grip. The flurrying stampede of the schoolchildren’s feet when they take the shortcut in front of the house and down along the beach in the morning. The secretive rustle in the tops of the coconut palms. The chirping of the geckos from the ceiling above the porch. The sound of hymns in three-part harmony pouring out through the open church doors on Sunday. But to Ingrid it’s this heavy, rhythmic thud from the coarse metal bowls outside every other house that is the heartbeat of Korototoka. Piper methysticum, the intoxicating pepper, is hammered into submission before it is mixed into the brew that’s guzzled, seeps into the blood, and becomes part of the stories and songs at the tip of everyone’s tongue. The bitter brown drink that bears holy truths and keeps honorable myths alive. The thud of the pestle in the kava mortar is the echo of the waves, Ingrid thinks. The rhythm of the dance underneath it all.
Ingrid’s feet haven’t done much dancing. But here she can feel new possibilities opening up. With a glistening coral trout in her hand and four papayas slapping against her thigh, she can hear herself giggling. She pictures Kjell’s worries spelled out in black typeface on a gray screen: “precautions…secure your possessions…” She dangles the bag of papayas from her wrist and nods to the man stacking a pyramid of watermelons outside his store. You should come here and check out the security for yourself, Kjell, she thinks with a smile on her face. Take a trip to Fiji, put on a bula shirt, and learn to laugh from the innermost part of your belly!
Ingrid has thought about it for weeks and waited for Kat to bring it up, but one night on the porch she blurts it out herself.
“Chocolate.” She lets the word glide around in the air on a test flight. It’s not really a question, more of a contented sigh after a good dinner. “Have you thought any more about it, Kat, what you mentioned in your letter?”
Kat looks up from her book. “Hmm?”
“Chocolate,” Ingrid says again. “You said something about that in your letter. That maybe we could extend the cocoa production into making chocolate. Was that something you and Niklas were planning to do?”
Kat removes her glasses and slowly shakes her head. “Planning…well, I don’t know. We might have fantasized about it. Niklas wanted to. He used to talk about learning how to make it, taking a class or something. Getting someone here who could advise us on training and investing. It’s quite a big step, after all.”
“So what is it that’s required?”
It’s Wildrid who pipes up. A dense, pleasant aroma dances in her nose; a sweet golden taste fills her throat. Her tongue runs along her teeth; her mouth is filled with saliva and she gulps it down.
Kat takes a second to think. “I’m not really sure of the details. I think the beans have to be fermented and dried, then roasted and crushed to separate the kernels from the shells. Then they’re ground up, and…no, you know what, I just don’t know enough about it. Is it that the cocoa butter has to be separated from the cocoa mass? And then there’s something about cooling. It’s supposed to be pretty painstaking work full of sensitive processes.”
“Don’t you want to try it? Oh, Kat, can’t we try it?” Wildrid gets out of her chair, her face lit up with enthusiasm. “Making our own chocolate, just think how amazing that would be!”
An astonished silence, full of possibilities. Lisbeth sits on the bottom step with her gaze fixed on Kat; the cigarette between Sina’s fingers has burned out. Maya twirls her bulky hat between her finge
rs as she gently nods her head.
“Healthy chocolate!”
Lisbeth has suddenly got to her feet too, gesticulating with her skinny hands. “Dark, low-fat chocolate. Healthy food is trendy!”
“Yes!” Wildrid’s excitement grows. “Kat’s Cocoa, Kat’s Chocolate—it makes sense, right? We could make something totally unique. Nothing complicated or superexotic. Just clean, pure, simple. Good for your happiness, good for you!”
“Good for your happiness?”
Sina’s laughter is scornful, but there’s something different in her eyes. A desire to jump in, to partake in the enthusiasm spreading across the porch at Vale nei Kat.
Lisbeth’s voice is animated: “Yes, happiness! With the image of Fiji that people have back home—pure raw materials, crystal-clear water—we can market the chocolate as…pieces of happiness!”
Ingrid looks at her in surprise: pieces of happiness? Is this really Lisbeth talking?
Kat has the same reaction: “Wow, Lisbeth! Have you been taking night classes in sales and marketing or something?”
Lisbeth turns red but stays standing. “No, I…Linda’s done a few things like this, so…”
The mockery is gone from Sina’s voice; it is replaced with something tentative, an offer. “I know nothing about marketing and I’m clueless about chocolate. But I do know something about working hard and never giving up.”
“Good! We all do. So then the question is whether Kat wants to give it a try.”
The sulu billows around Ingrid’s legs; her hands are planted firmly on her hips. In just a few minutes a new business concept has been launched in Vale nei Kat, and the director’s chair looks to be empty. If Kat will be the main investor, Ingrid would be happy to act as manager.
“You mean, whether I have the money.”
Kat’s voice is full of laughter. Does she think the idea is dumb? Ingrid looks around quickly: are they all just kidding her? But no: Lisbeth’s cheeks are still flushed, Sina looks determined, almost stubborn, and Maya…she hasn’t said anything?
“We’ll need beautiful packaging,” Maya says, and places the hat back on her head. “I’m actually not so bad at drawing.”
Ingrid turns back toward Kat—is this all just a wild fantasy? She pushes Wildrid aside. If this is going to be more than babble and daydreaming, she has to talk seriously to Kat. Here we are again, she realizes. The circle around Kat. Our ideas, our plans, they all have to be filtered through her: Is this important? Is it worth something? But it’s different this time. Our reliance on her is concrete and quantifiable. Without Kat’s ability to invest, it won’t go beyond airy dreams on the porch steps.
“Why not?” Kat says. “Why in the world not? Didn’t I say we were going to take chances together? Let’s start by finding someone who can give us some advice, and we’ll take it from there.”
Her laughter starts in the pit of her stomach, rolls around in her mouth, and showers over them in wild bursts. Throws them onto a carousel that spins around so fast Ingrid has to hold on to the railing with both hands.
15
Ateca
Something’s happening to Madam Lisbeth, Lord—have you seen it? Her face looks happier, and it’s been a while since I’ve seen her in front of the mirror craning her neck over her shoulder like an ibis. I think she was talking to her daughter on the computer yesterday; there was a young lady on the screen who looked like her. There are good things in store for Madam Lisbeth, Lord. Like the little papaya tree at the bottom of my yard. It hasn’t borne fruit yet, but I can see the flowers. Something is on its way.
—
Mosese isn’t happy, Lord. The ladies want to make chocolate, they say, and I know what Mosese is thinking. When something new comes in, the kaivalagi often throw away the old. Dear God, don’t let the ladies get rid of Mosese. Comfort his old heart so he won’t have to be afraid.
—
I don’t know what all this chocolate business means, but you can see I have hopes for Vilivo too, Lord. Maybe he can learn what’s needed, so he can help out? Let him find work, so he can support himself, become an adult, and start a family.
In Jesus’ holy name. Emeni.
16
Lisbeth
Lisbeth bends forward to get a better look at her earrings in the mirror. The miniature seashells, pink as the inside of a baby’s mouth, dangle from her ears on thin silver hooks. Paired with her white blouse and dark purple cigarette pants, they add a perfect dash of tropical flair to the outfit. She’d planned to wear the lilac-colored top with skinny shoulder straps, but had to reconsider when she found the nasty tear from the side seam to the fabric in the front. She’d never noticed it before; how could it have happened? The top is completely ruined. She’ll have to wear the white one instead. Lisbeth pulls her shoulders back and surveys herself one last time, satisfied. Even Linda would approve.
She’d been nervous to talk to her daughter on Skype yesterday. She was relieved that Linda seemed to want to talk, but anxious about her sharp tongue. Her emails have been full of recriminations—“Mom, what are you actually doing down there?”—and her own responses have been vague and evasive. But the wave of chocolate that washed over the porch the other night has awoken something in Lisbeth. Hadn’t she been head of publicity at their student newspaper back in the day? Hasn’t she often thought that Harald should have been more aggressive with marketing and presentation, even in his dreary construction materials business? She never pushed her ideas on him, and he was never interested. From the start Harald made it clear that her duties were at home, with the house and the kids. She didn’t give it much thought when Joachim and Linda were little; the days were busy and she was living the prize she’d won. When the kids were grown up, the days grew longer, and she offered to pitch in at the store, but Harald didn’t want to hear it: “You at the checkout? That’d give them something to talk about!” When she explained that wasn’t what she had in mind—she had ideas for modernizing the product selection, maybe freshening up the store decor a bit—all he did was laugh: “You don’t know the first thing about this, Lisbeth.” She’d bitten her tongue, and instead filled her days with the women’s league, the bridge club, and as a Red Cross volunteer. But when Linda came to visit one day and showed her the syllabus for the marketing class she’d just signed up for, Lisbeth could feel herself getting interested. Consumer behavior, product planning—she knew what these things meant! Why couldn’t Harald see that this would be great for the store? She’d ached to take it further, but as soon as Linda had shut the door behind her, Harald had shrugged and turned back to the TV, and market orientation and sales channels retreated into a dusty corner with all the other things that would never come to pass. But chocolate! Lisbeth has butterflies in her stomach. The sweet delight in her mouth, the smell, the rustle of the paper. Kat’s Chocolate: oh dear me, this could be so fabulous!
And the conversation with Linda had exceeded all expectations. Her daughter had been surly at first because Lisbeth hadn’t quite understood what her job entailed: “I don’t work at a fitness center, Mom. I’m in charge of product development and campaign strategy for the whole brand. For all the B FIT studios nationwide!” But when Lisbeth explained the chocolate idea to her, something in her demeanor changed. “That’s great, Mom! This actually sounds really cool! Let me think about it and talk to some of the people in charge here.” A tone in her daughter’s voice that Lisbeth hadn’t heard before. A tone she reserved for people she took seriously.
Lisbeth presses her hands to her face and feels her cheeks burning. I want to be part of this, she thinks. If this is actually happening, there’s going to be a place for me in it too.
Vilivo carries, organizes, delegates; he’s been tasked with driving Lisbeth and Sina in to Rakiraki so they can go shopping. It’s December, and Vale nei Kat is hosting a Christmas party. It was Lisbeth’s casual question that set the whole thing in motion: “What do you eat for Christmas here, anyway? What’s the traditional dish?”
“Lovo,” Ateca replied. “We make a huge lovo with all kinds of good things—pork and chicken and fish. And dalo, of course. And palusami,” she added, her tongue darting across her lips. “Spinach cooked in coconut milk. That’s the best of all.”
Lisbeth hadn’t been tempted right away, but there was something enticing about it: pork and chicken, whole grilled fish. A rich bounty, setting the table for a feast. That’s something she knows well! If there’s one thing Lisbeth Høie is good at, it’s throwing a big bash! Kat wasn’t hard to convince, and so it was settled: a Christmas party at Vale nei Kat. With a lovo.
“Buy more of everything,” was Kat’s only piece of advice. “Everyone will come.”
—
Sacks of onions and coconuts are dragged onto the truck. Bundles of roro leaves and tavioka, bunches of big brown heads of dalo on their stems; the root vegetables look like dirty, oversized lollipops. Pork chops in greasy waxed paper, whole chickens, large colorful fish she can’t identify. Lisbeth lets Vilivo handle the negotiating with the stallholders while noting that the selection of dinner napkins in Rakiraki is rather scarce. She’s looking for purple ones, for Advent, but has to settle for green, and matches them to paper tablecloths in pink, which is the closest she can find to yuletide red. She complains to Sina, who doesn’t seem that interested in the problem, her eyes fixed on the small mountain of vegetables piled in the back of the truck: “For goodness’ sake, how many people are coming, after all? Are we really supposed to cook all this food?”
But Lisbeth isn’t worried about the cooking. “Ateca will help us,” she says. “Kat says she’s rallying a bunch of women from her church to lend a hand. But what do you think we should do for centerpieces?”