“How long have you been here?” asked Tom.
“Okay, the story, quick,” said Pete. “We’re from Australia, we came here seventeen years ago and built the club from scratch.”
Beryl explained, “The Taveuni Reef Club.”
“Yeah,” said Pete, drawling the word. “It’s a club with no membership dues, but a club all the same. You don’t come here unless you know what you’re doing. We take expert divers only, there’s no instruction, and the best come from around the world. The reef out there has coral fans—”
“That are six feet tall,” said Beryl.
“And when you’re down below, you can look up sometimes and see the bellies of a thousand tuna going down the channel. We’re like you people, we gave up the rat race, as they call it, and followed our dream, to make money at what we did for fun, and what we did for fun was scuba dive. We have a boy, Alan, he’s sixteen, and I expect you’ll meet him soon enough. He’s the boy I wanted to be, and I’m the father I wanted to have.” Pete finished this self-congratulation with an astonishing giggle, a tee-hee-hee, just that. This repulsive trill convinced Tom that Pete’s story, in its general outline, was true, but about the father’s pride in his beautiful son, he knew that Pete was lying.
The couple poked about the boat, declared her “clean enough for the job,” and so the business was set; Pete and Beryl would let them stay here on the island “until we all get sick of each other or until the business fails,” and the Mimesis would take resort guests, up to six of them, for late afternoon-sunset cruises. The Pooles would split the receipts fifty-fifty, and feed the Mimesis crew four nights a week, drinks half price.
...
That night, Jan told Tom, “I don’t trust them.”
“Does Eddie?” asked Tom.
“Not really. Neither do you.”
“No. What prime souls are they?”
“He’s a chopped salad of chastised priest and vengeful disinherited firstborn, with some hunter thrown in for the fat.”
“And Mrs. Poole?”
“Beryl is the neglected younger sister of a pasha’s second-favorite concubine.”
“You’re making that up.”
“I don’t know what she is. She’s strange. How about that for a category? Strange?”
“That fits all of us.”
“And that’s why we’re friends.”
“But we don’t like her, and if she’s strange and she’s one of us, then we don’t like ourselves.”
“That’s what makes us strange.” Jan set an emphasis on the word.
Tom thought about Jan’s appraisal, and the way that both of the Pooles incited images of displacement, firstborn, second-favorite. What did Jan know about them? What did she know about Tom? Why were the Pooles in Fiji? Their reasons could be no less complicated than Tom’s, the past sin, need to escape, nowhere to go. The self is everywhere.
The resort’s guests, spending hours underwater, eagerly gave themselves over to the crew of the catamaran. In the late afternoon, a wind came down the channel, and the boat reached its noisy hull speed. With so little draft, Eddie raced above the coral heads.
Jan, wanting to know more about Alan, invited him to sail. He was quiet on the boat, but he jumped to every task. She told Tom, “I don’t get him. I don’t understand him. But you, Tom, have been studying that boy. You’re not ready to say, though, what you suspect.”
She was right. Tom had watched Alan, but nothing yet added up. The boy kept to himself and seemed to have few friends. Tom saw him early most mornings, when he paddled a blue kayak through the lagoon carring a spear gun. He always returned with fish. And during the day, Alan was always moving, always doing something, hauling gear to the dive boat, carrying furniture in or out of bungalows, varnishing the teak in the main lodge. There were a dozen other white children like Alan on the island, most of them the children of innkeepers, but whatever their society, Alan either wanted no part of them or they, sensing his difference, kept him out of their games and conspiracies. He seemed perpetually on a quest, as though every moment were the crucial test of an initiation ritual. The boy didn’t seem to mind his isolation from the gang; or rather, whatever burdened him filled his inner life with more than enough noise to cover the buzz of rejection. Besides, the other children went to school, while Pete and Beryl followed a course of home tutoring. When Tom asked why, Beryl answered, “Are you an expert on education? Are you a father?”
Tom answered, “No.” This was no time to tell her his story, how he had been a father of beautiful children and, by his own agency, had thrown them away.
“Then you don’t know. You don’t know what schools are like, do you? You don’t know what they teach.”
“It’s been awhile since I was in school.”
“Right. It has been. We’re teaching Alan all he needs to know. And don’t interfere. It’s our way.”
...
After four weeks, with fresh changes of guests every six or seven days, Tom saw the visitors as the Pooles must have seen them, as on a moving scroll. Tom said to Jan, “This isn’t a pleasant life.”
She said, “It could be, but it’s not for them.”
One evening after dinner, while Tom and the Dodges played a game of darts in the lodge, an American threw a paperback against the wall, cursing. Pete looked at the book. “Stephen King, Insomnia, page five-fifty-four, eh?” Alan was nearby, doing his math homework.
“Yes,” said the American. “How did you know?”
“It’s a goddamn crime!” shouted Pete. “I can’t stand this anymore!” He grabbed the book.
Tom saw Alan watching his father while pretending to keep his eye on his work.
“Here it is, you were on page five-fifty-four, and then the next five pages are missing.”
“Right,” said the American. “But how did you know? I brought this book with me. It’s not your copy.”
“They’re all the goddamn same, mate. All the same. It’s how they print them. And obviously no one complains, that’s what scares me. No one complains! It’s the world. It’s the whole badly made world. That’s why I came here, to get away from the badly made world, but it follows me. It follows me.”
The American looked at his book. “It was printed this way? A few pages didn’t just fall out?”
“That’s what I thought the first time. That’s right. I thought, It’s the glue. But it’s not the glue. I’ve taken these books apart, it ain’t the glue. It’s the printing. Alan, how many is that?”
Alan looked up. “I dunno. Fifty?”
“Try seventy-five.”
The American didn’t understand, exactly, and Pete explained. “They’re printing them badly. Missing pages. Some books are worse than others. It’s mostly the popular writers, your Stephen Kings, your Elmore Leonards, your Patricia Cornwells. They can’t print ’em fast enough, and they get greedy and sloppy.”
The American put a hand on Pete’s arm. “It’s just a book. I’ll get another.”
“Sorry for the temper,” said Pete. “Let me buy you a drink.”
On the sunset cruise the next day, Tom asked Alan what was really happening with the books.
“Why are you asking me?”
“I saw you looking at your father yesterday. While he was yelling, you were happy. I hadn’t seen you smile until then.”
“Why are you watching me?”
“Tell me about the books.”
“They’re badly printed.”
“You’ve seen seventy-five books with missing pages? I haven’t.”
“You don’t read the right books.”
“I saw something in your eyes when your father was talking. Contempt and satisfaction. That’s a brutal combination in a sixteen-year-old boy.”
“He told you his story, did he?”
“Yes.”
“Leave Australia, follow your dream, make money doing what you’d do for fun? That story?”
“Yes.”
“And you think it’
s a good story.”
“It might be. I couldn’t tell.”
“I can’t help you.”
...
A few nights later, Tom sat on the Mimesis deck, looking at the stars, when he heard Alan on the beach, talking to a British nurse who had been on the Mimesis the day before. She was in her late thirties and, unusual for the Reef Club, alone. The men had circled her from the moment she arrived, because she was independent and easy to look at, but she kept them at a distance, eating with the group but returning early to her bungalow. And perhaps the men hated her for not letting one of them into her bed.
Their voices weren’t clear, but the two of them, the boy and the woman, frightened Tom, and he was curious about what his fear would uncover. He slipped down the swim ladder and swam to the beach to get a better view. He hoped his movements would be lost in ripples. He crawled onto the sand and listened from behind a tree.
“Oh, God, it must be neat to live out here,” said the nurse. “Really neat. Swiss Family Robinson, my my my, how delicious, now pure. I’m probably the first person to say so.”
“Not the first.”
“I can’t imagine how many times people have told you that you and your mom and dad are the Swiss Family Robinson, that you’re the child boy Friday, or Peter Pan in never-never land, or Huckleberry Finn. I can’t imagine. And until tonight, no one has ever said so to make fun of you, have they? What’ll you write in your journal tonight? ‘Dear Diary, she was making fun of me and she was mocking my mother and father.’”
Alan said, “Well, the island is all I’ve ever known.”
“I know who you are. You don’t have to be so polite.”
Alan was quiet. Tom knew the use of silence as a weapon in these latitudes, letting the atmosphere fill in the spaces. Warm breezes muffle the need to say whatever is on your mind. Tom hoped the nurse wouldn’t use the silence to excuse herself, to get back to the bar.
“How old are you?” she asked.
“I’m sixteen.”
“You know who you remind me of?”
“No.”
“Of course not. You don’t know who I know. But I’ll tell you. My husband.”
“You’re married?”
“We’re getting a divorce. As if there’s any other reason for me to be here alone. I could have a boyfriend if I wanted. But not now. Maybe you, though? Huh? Are you my new boyfriend?”
She stood up from the bench and walked into the water, up to her knees. A coconut fell, pushing dry fronds aside and then landing with a thump. Overhead, fruit bats whistled.
“It’s so disgustingly what it’s supposed to be,” she said, “but this isn’t a pretty island. It’s not like Bali.”
“That’s what people say.” Alan joined her in the water.
“Oh, I insulted your pwetty pwetty island. I made a big insult. So sorry. Have you been to Bora-Bora?”
“No, but people say that’s prettier, too.”
“Now, that’s a beautiful island. That’s a classic. There’s no grandeur here.”
“These aren’t volcanic islands. Bora-Bora was a volcano.”
“Whatever.”
“I’m sure a lot of places are prettier than Fiji. I’ve seen the pictures.”
“And your mommy and daddy haven’t taken you to any of them.”
“Not yet.”
“Ah, yet. Yes. So there’s hope.”
“Someday. When I’m older. My parents don’t like to travel.”
“You’ve never left the island.”
“Yes. I’ve been to Suva. I’ve been to Viti Levu. I’ve been to the Yasawas.”
“Those are all islands in Fiji. You’ve never been to New Zealand or Australia?”
“No.”
Silence for a moment, and then she asked, “Do you know why I left my husband?”
“Maybe you’d better tell me.”
“Because he’s just like you.”
Up at the lodge, a man began to shout, “No, no, no, no, no.”
The woman asked, “Why are you smiling?”
“It’s a nice night.”
“It’s always a nice night here. That’s not why you’re smiling.”
“I don’t think you’re being very fair to me.”
“Fair? Was my husband fair to me?”
“I don’t know. I never met him.”
“He loved me, but there was someone else. Of course there was, but otherwise he was perfect.”
“I’m sorry.”
“What were you doing with my book?”
“I was reading it.”
“You’re lying. I don’t know what you’re up to, but you’re lying. My husband is like you. You have the same aura he did at your age, and I know because I met him when I was your age. We were together for a long time. I’m going to try not to let those years turn into a waste because of the way they died. It actually doesn’t matter to me, really, whatever it is you’re up to. Just remember this moment for the rest of your life, that someone busted you for who you are.”
“Why are you saying all of this to me?”
“As if you didn’t know,” she said, and she slapped him across the face. The noise surprised both of them, and she said “Ah” as though she hadn’t known her rage until she felt the sting on her palm. Tom could feel the pain in the noise, and then Alan cried.
“Shut up,” said the nurse.
“It hurts.”
“What do you know about pain?”
Alan ran up the steps to the lodge. The woman yelled after him, “Don’t play your little game, you son of a bitch. I know what you’re doing. I know who you are.” She yelled that thought a few times, and then returned to the water, and sat down. The water came to her breasts. She muttered to herself, “I know who you are. You can’t fool me.”
Beryl Poole was running down the steps to the beach as Tom was about to leave his hiding place. Alan was with her. The nurse heard them but stayed where she was. Beryl walked through the water and faced her. Alan followed.
“Alan, tell me again, what happened?”
“She hit me,” said the boy. He fell into his mother’s arms for a hug.
“That’s disgusting,” said the nurse.
“What did you do to my son?” asked Beryl.
“It’s between us.”
“That’s not an acceptable answer.” She asked Alan, “What did you do to start this?”
“I didn’t say anything. She’s crazy. She says I remind her of her husband. And she slapped me.”
His mother said none of this made sense. She looked down at the nurse. “Why did you slap him?”
“You can lie to me, you can lie to him, but you can’t lie to yourself.”
“I don’t know what happened, but you’re drunk. Go back to your room. You’re not happy, and we want our guests to be happy. We’ll put you on the morning plane and pay you back for the days remaining.”
“Why was he in my room this morning?”
Beryl asked Alan, “Were you working?”
“Yes.”
Beryl explained. “Is that what this is about? My son works. He’s not like the boys where you come from. He works. He has a key and does a job here.”
“Why was he tearing the pages from my book?”
Beryl had no answer.
Alan looked down the beach and saw Tom in the moonlit shadow behind the tree.
When Tom returned to the boat, he told Jan and Eddie what he had seen and heard. No one could make sense of it.
“He’ll be here soon enough,” said Tom.
In an hour or so, the boy paddled his blue kayak to the Mimesis. Eddie tied the line to a cleat, and the boy was with them.
“What was that about?” asked Tom.
“It’s impossible to explain.”
“If it really was impossible,” said Eddie, “then you wouldn’t be here. You want to tell us. So tell us.”
“You don’t know about my parents,” said Alan. “What would you think of them if I told you
they came here to kill the Fijians?”
Jan said she wouldn’t know what to think. “I might think hard about why their son would tell such a story.”
“It’s the truth,” said Alan.
Tom said, “I think I believe you. Why don’t we just listen and decide for ourselves.”
“Based on what?” asked Eddie.
“Based on what he tells us,” said Tom. “If it fits what we already know or what we already suspect.”
“All right,” said Jan. “I won’t interrupt.”
Jan made tea, and the three gathered on the soft hammock between the boat’s hulls.
Alan waited for them to settle and began his tale. “Killing the natives. That’s what they expected to do. There was no date. Something had to happen in the world first, an apocalypse, the war of all against all. And this anticipation didn’t begin with my father, it was a family tradition. My father’s father was American, like you, and he came to Australia to escape everything that was evil at home. He wasn’t looking for a farm and self-sufficiency, he just hated the Jews and the blacks. He was disappointed in Australia. It wasn’t different enough. When he died, he said it hadn’t been worth the change.
“My mother and father met in university. They fell in love because they were both politically right-wing. There weren’t many like them. They believed in the gold standard and in a flat tax. The flat tax was everything. They set up card tables outside campus events, asking people to sign petitions in support of the flat tax. Next to the signature you had to put your phone number, and later, one of my parents would ring you up and ask to see you. They wanted converts to join them in the Australian Flat Tax Association, AFTA. I think they finished with about twenty people in the group. They all wrote letters to the newspapers, offering the flat-tax solution to every social problem. The AFTA men wore a white shirt, a tie, and pressed pants. They were careful to turn at right angles when walking in public. Everyone knew they were crazy.
“My parents’ inability to register enough new members to the group convinced them that the message of truth would never spread, because people don’t want to save themselves, because people love being slaves to a progressive tax system that punishes the people who work the hardest. That a nation could live in slavery to such an unjust system was proof to my parents that the end of the world was coming, a political end, not a religious end. They finished university and had to make a living. They bought a map store from a woman whose husband had built the business but died suddenly, at fifty-one. My parents didn’t know much about maps, but they saw possibilities in the business. The store did well, actually, better than they expected, because they hated it. They hated getting up in the morning and hated closing the shop at night. They hated all of the mail. They hated paying bills. They hated it so much that they worked harder to save the business from their contempt for it.
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