Reefdog

by Robert Wintner

  “I’m calling you right now, as we speak. This is a call that we’re on. We’re in the moment, which is a great achievement, you know. I’ll call you again when I have more news. Okay? Now I have to go.”

  “Okay, go to your next important moment. Be well.”

  “Yes. And you.”

  He feels better when the call is done and he’s back in his bungalow. He knew she couldn’t hear him a few nights ago, but she would have heard what became of her son and spent her days in those bleak hours prior to sinking. Still, he’d called her by name, so maybe she saved him, a psychokinetic force to reckon. She has the psycho part down and can drive strong men to irrational behavior. She can be a world-class pill, a neurotic of notable perseverance. Add her strident instincts for motherhood, and she might control things from afar. God knows she’s tried for years.

  Then again, some mothers lose their cubs. Mothering skills range from casual to fierce. Maybe some can conjure against the odds, against reality… But the depth and darkness, the troughs and crests, the visions of imminent…

  So the sweat rolls into rivulets that converge to streams and rivers flowing to a shallow estuary that rises on night squalls pushing inland from a troubled sea. Waves break over the rustling fronds, and the moon rises. A man hangs on, sinking into middle age in violent resolution. Which is only the force of nature displacing the foolishness of youth.

  Who knows? Maybe the next part will be easy.

  A Night on the Town

  Daydreams are better, not so violent, and they fade with the afternoon to dusk and twilight. He wanders in the eaves, in pleasant deprivation and thoughts. Basha Rivka Rockulz did not marry Zviki Rahnoose but got a son. “Meeting that bum was the best day of my life.” She sang a little ditty to make her whimsical disclosure: “First comes the son, then comes marriage… Who cares? You got your health!” A son was all he had given her before he left, before Ravi could walk. He walked back to Lebanon for a piece of hashish or a whore and a nice cup of mint tea. Good riddance. So what should she do, let her only son struggle with the name of a stranger? The father called himself Lebanese but wasn’t—nor was he Syrian, Iraqi, Iranian, or Saudi. Thank God and praise Allah too. He claimed Armenian but could have been Jordanian, Omanian, or a Buckeye. Who knew?

  And the initial attraction? “What got the romance underway?”

  “You talk like a crazy man.” Was Old Dad crazy too? And a leg man? But really, a fellow would rather not think of Mother that way.

  At peak physical condition, give or take, lying down, he feels strong as ever, more or less, with some road wisdom in the mix. He’s a man of notable skill with a handsome face, in the prime of life. The optimal view grants the benefits of a few doubts. But what should a man think, that it’s all downhill from here?

  No, he should look up. Life begins at forty, two years off—okay, a year and a half—and livelihood should be resolved by then. A man should have rent and groceries dicked at forty—are you kidding? He should hit forty in stride, with the dough rolling in, so he can focus on his work. He’s not an ivy leaguer and has no birthright or family ties or social connections or collegiate associations. He came up the old-fashioned way, on his wits—not too sharp in the recent past unless fate played a hand. Never mind. Wits fare better than a silver spoon any day. A year and a half should be plenty of time.

  The future begins with definition of self and the mark he’ll make—no, scratch that. No marks. No footprints. Only nature’s sweet embrace will linger on a path chosen long ago. He hasn’t ignored his calling; he merely failed to see it. Now he sees the work ahead, though a look back looks good too. He misses Skinny one minute to the next, and he could go back and forget this little chaos. He could be home in time for Sunday’s charter, or Monday’s for sure, legal—what can they do, the local mishpocha? He’s one of them. By law!

  But no. He cannot go back any more than a wish upon a star can deliver comfort. Life goes forward. The past is written, unavailable for reshaping, except to the right-wing media, remembering what never was. Otherwise, life is present tense, and he must grasp the moment just so, not too firmly, not too light.

  Only a handful of people in New York were too stupid or jaded to see the beauty in his shots, not to mention technical excellence. Plenty more where they came from. No shortage there of suits filling space, killing time, fantasizing the vagabond life in Tahiti. The true artist pursues his work, no matter who says what in New York. The true artist is often unpaid, with amateur virtue intact to the end, like Vincent. Only the work survives. By forty, a man is no longer imagined but has become who he’ll be—who he is. He’s a man of means or spirit, a common man who takes pictures of fish on his way.

  The eaves reveal merit and downside. He may work in obscurity, manually for money, but he’ll work artistically for life. It doesn’t matter. What could he be on a vibrant reef, famous?

  Which brings him back to the place and fish tumbling like colored shards in a mirrored tube, but beautiful symmetry in the eaves is not guaranteed in the world. What would he do, given a choice? How about a tropical island as yet unblemished, with a job and reefs? I’ll take it! Already he hears people complain of too few tourists, too little spending. But whining is human nature. In America they whine when gas goes up twelve cents a gallon, like God killed their first-born. Three dollars a gallon or six; who cares? Let ’em skateboard.

  Or scoot—he’ll get a scooter and ride the perimeter road to new reefs. He’ll go to bed early, eat and drink at home and head over to Papeete to be away. Then what? Bad question is what, leading to nowhere but the first step. A person reborn to prospects might stumble, but the path remains clear. He will not resist. He’s a dive instructor: reefdog for hire. He’s older than many instructors and more seasoned. On the inevitable question he’ll chuckle: I don’t know, seven hundred dives a year. Twelve years. Fifteen. What’s that, times seven? Maybe ten thousand dives. So? I’m learning.

  He’ll also learn local currents, drops, surges, wildlife, and weather. Not speaking French is more perfect still since nobody speaks underwater. He has his gear and can borrow tanks. And his camera and lenses will show extra value, recording what is going away as it could be saved. That’s why he’s here, meaning here on earth. The shutter may open on something great, given the man behind the camera.

  So he feels good, better than a man so challenged should feel. The feeling seems natural, but who would waste time wondering why he feels good? Tomorrow he’ll begin. The French know about life and mystical import on wine, cheese, and a baguette. Hold the pâté for now. And the place may be spared the onslaught for another lifetime or two. Inevitable loss seems as sad as mothers losing cubs, but he’ll be dead by then. What a relief.

  How’s that for feeling good? So he comes down from the eaves to dress and walk into the world. At the road, he turns left—no, right—on his way to dinner, something French, as rich and extravagant as the future. Descending into the atmosphere of a more manageable dream, he feels his heat shield cooling, rattling less, his glide pattern smoothing toward touchdown, a water landing of course.

  Early moonrise feels lucky, as the white bulb lights the grassy shoulder. Traffic is sparse, and two miles feel productive and illusory. But enough of doubting; he comes to a resort hotel that looks good in moonlight and beyond his needs. Perfect. What’s the alternative, saving ten bucks by walking back to eat across the road? Ten bucks is half a tip on any given day, and the days will come again.

  The seafood and French buffet cannot be justified. So he pays the forty dollars, hearing Mother encourage it. What the hell, a man who gets married, swims from the aggregation buoy at night, moves to French Polynesia in a handful of days, and plans his future on an afternoon shouldn’t blink at forty clams. Or cocktails at seven bucks each, so he has three in the bar since the buffet won’t open for another twenty minutes because the French eat late and three drinks absolve all doubt. They flow, the first on a shudder, the second with a twist, the third with a
bow wake on mirror-flat seas…

  Then it’s time to eat, which all living creatures must do—but to survive as he has done and then to eat as the French do is another match made in… not heaven because he would not repeat the experience any sooner than he’d stare at the face of God, but he has seen something awful and divine, so the match could have been made in the heavenly realm, on Neptune’s choreography.

  He makes a mental note to come back tomorrow for a word with management on swordfish and its mercury toxins, black tumors and the awful by-catch of turtles, birds, and marine mammals killed wantonly on swordfish long lines, as if anybody should suffer one more minute in blissful ignorance of the murderous carnage or the black, slimy poison excised in the kitchen before cooking the swordfish. Tonight he’ll simply pass on the swordfish, scrunching his nose and wagging his head at the woman behind him, so she might catch on and pass the word. He makes another mental note to learn the French word for tumors and the words for by-catch, leatherback turtles, marine mammals, seabirds, and crying fucking shame.

  He laughs and so does the lady behind him.

  He forks a steak—a tough, cheap cut, so he chews a piece slow as a minute in the pitch-dark depths…

  Stop!

  Everything else is perfect: fillets, scallops, shrimps, salads, spinach, and broccoli and these little pastry shells with delicious things inside and Caesar salad, fruit salad, pasta salad, and tabbouleh. Sliced cukes in yogurt with dill, sliced tomatoes with olive oil and garlic, cheeses, baguettes, and—sadly but also scrumptious—lobster tails and crab. Three trips seem in order, or five, with an evening to span, so he settles in to dine like a Buddhist with a most honored guest, his newly minted self.

  But wait! Never sentimental, he bows his head to a private God who can be called for personal favors if the begging is sufficiently strident and the need sufficiently needy. Oh, the Holy, Holy, Holy One was frequently paged, questionable existence notwithstanding. Ravi gives thanks to the ether and feels the moments, this sequence no different than the other, even if he’d drifted the wrong way and could still be treading, and this is merely…

  Stop!

  He shudders and exhales to join the rising steam. He inhales the perfect scents of sweet and sour and gives thanks to the plants and animals who made this meal possible. He lapses to the fear of all living things just prior to passing. Or would that moment have already passed to awe and wonder?

  He eats.

  Never have taste buds stood so tall in tribute to sheer, shameless flavor. He can only nod at the waitperson’s suggestion of the hotel special wine for the evening, continuing his immersion into the extreme opposite of recent encounters…

  But enough! Let it go.

  And he lets go of letting go as well because bad things fade at the same pace as good things, the same pace as life itself, as the first sip of Bourgogne Burgundy Blanc displaces all things with goose bumps on taste buds. Anything more on the happy side of life would make a grown man cry. But he won’t cry. He laughs aloud as onto the pool deck serving as a stage walk six dazzling women and, not to burden a random encounter, a lead woman whose shape, face, and essence trigger a feeding frenzy of insatiable eyes that don’t exactly bug, but then they do. This fantasy seems foolish to say the least, not to mention irrational—or insane—scoping a woman at this juncture. What’s the chance of repetition in romance? Slim to none because nothing is the same. The mirror universe is merely an idea. Yes, he was out to dinner when he met what’s-her-name. So what? This isn’t out to dinner like that. This is way the hell out to dinner, like this.

  He laughs aloud but stops when she drops her rhythm for a personal scan, for a nipple slip, loose ties, open zippers, and the safety checks triggered by your casual tourist pervert laughing for no reason. On a misstep she blushes in staggering beauty, and he laughs again at the maddening wonder of random events. He shakes his head to show that he’s not laughing at her but at life’s crazy turns. He’d thought Minna—that was her name—was beautiful, with the legs, hips, ass, tits, face, grace, and the rest. But he was wrong; she was harsh, with the liquor, dope, slutty sex, and greaseballs. Who knew?

  And who minded the slutty sex at the receiving end? Nobody is who—nobody who matters anyway. The trashy stuff could not factor on first sight of Minna Somayan, though the 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—maybe that’s the crux—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 because the watery realm called Oceania was buffered against missionaries. Missionary modus operandi was to convert the chief or king so the flock would follow. But it didn’t work so well down here, where island nations confederated, and a converted king came to Jesus alone. Over a century later, the southern hemisphere is free of big sugar, price supports or massive ownership by sugar/missionary families. The spirit remains free of resource allocation, and so are bitterness and regret in shorter supply. Maybe that’s the difference in one beauty and another.

  From first pee-pee in his diapers to the final pissing his pants, a man will err and go on. He’ll bear no shame, and a lesson recently learned will not be soon forgotten. This feels different, with luxuriant color on a cleaner canvas. This dazzling dancer doesn’t seem like a mental case, but Basha Rivka would call her just that, with the coconut shells on her bazoombas and her pupik jiggling like Jell-O. 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 pupik 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, with a hint of… what is it? Dill? Yes, dill! Till a mouthful and eyeful are nearly too much—don’t speak, but ogling with a full mouth is okay, as every doubt sinks to inky depths.

  At night.

  So Ravi savors flavors, swaying like a cobra in synch with his charmer. And why not? Why wouldn’t a man in his prime ogle a nubile woman in her paean to fertility?

  She is Vahineura, but family and friends call her Cosima. She dances for love—of music and movement, which is better than money. It’s a pittance at any rate and could hardly match the art of the thing. She touches the nerve by which Ravi feels his future in art, with no return but the purest love in the world.

  Her day job is manual and pays another pittance. She answers tourist questions on things they may buy, like hand-carved vase holders, pareos with Gauguin prints, black pearls, calendars with naked women and men of splendid beauty, sundresses, T-shirts, guide books, and stuff. Ravi looks glum, and she asks why. He shrugs forlornly, and she says, “But I also dance.”

  Her gossamer touch makes him tense because he’s sensitive. He wants to remember this scene rather than recall it. He says a chachka shop for tourists means that it’s begun, the noising up and dumbing down, the effusion and clutter. Signs, pamphlets, barkers, and con men will spread like fungus on the common sense of life till hideaways are no longer hidden, names of reefs and fishes, histories, and legends, people and myths get boiled down to babel and stocked on a thousand racks so tourists can disgorge the wonders you simply must see. The overstock will go to the dump to make room for next week’s load.

  Where lush vegetation teems in virtually visible growth, front-enders and closers in boiler rooms will gouge thousands with great 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 talk like a man who’s been to war. It’s not like that here. Business is very slow. The shop
only exists for 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. I didn’t know. It’s French.”

  “It’s universal.”

  “What is chachka?”

  “Trinkets. Unnecessary stuff.”

  “What’s 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.” She falters. “Maybe you’ll see.” Maybe he sees. Maybe regal notions are common in tropical climates, among the girls who wanna have fun. Let her cast a spell of love or something or other. Any bear would stick his nose in this honey pot. But circumstance will come later, past laughter and chiding, on the way to losing and finding himself again—after what he’s been through.

  The last long swim altered his outlook, but what a prize. That is, Vahineura’s troubled relationship with reality includes her pledge to any man who swims Cook’s Bay after sunset and swims back before sunrise; he will earn the cherries. What else can a young woman of paltry means offer? She is a queen in need of a king. Or something.

  She will share her fantasy in monotone, revealing her delusion that the rightful king will claim his crown. The offer is long-standing—since she reached the age of consent, if not reason. “You’ll have sex with any man who has the balls to make the swim? You know balls? Les oeufs profonds?”

  “Tu es drôle, mon pauvre Ravi. Who 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!”

  Will he get the cherries without the swim? Or is he not in the running? He doesn’t ask because logic seems incidental. She’s luscious and warm, aloof yet accessible and oddly disconnected—look who’s talking. Never mind; she’s not like the other one, not even close, unless you count the quirks and bold moves where least expected—and the character malfunctions revealed on a long swim.