Reefdog

by Robert Wintner

  “I didn’t mean right now for the swim.”

  “Oh! No, I have to work! I told you. After that, okay. I get off ten thirty. All finish by eleven. Okay?” She takes his silence for affirmation and drifts. Time winds back to forty beats per minute. Or is that the clop, clop, clop of high heels from the opposite direction? The step adjusts to avoid cracks like dissonance in a Monk tune, and she rounds the corner with a practiced leer. She steps up and takes his hand. “Come with me. Smoking that stuff will make you stupid. I want to feed you. Then I want to show you something.” So he sighs and goes, glancing at Moeava watching out the window. How long has he been there? Moeava nods, so maybe it’s not to worry.

  She leads the way to a new lair of lavish comfort. This is not the future foreseen. He will soon learn that she’s fifty-three, not so old, considering a grandson of twenty-six. But age is incidental on the way to seeing what she has to show, which is a honeymoon bungalow over a former reef that was cleared for construction then dragged back in hopes of recovery, to amuse discriminating travelers. It’s painful to imagine but feels like a dream with a viewing window in the floor and a light on the little fishes, so cute.

  Hereata’s inflamed gum won’t give her a minute’s peace till she removes an incisor and bridge and sets it in a glass by the bed. The top third of her hair is also removed to a lampshade on the escritoire. Her nail clippers hack a stubborn overhang, big toe, left side, as she moans with satisfaction. Then it’s time for the entrée: himself. But all that stuff is manini, in another pattern that’s not bad because a man will choose sex and room service over sardines and a bush bird any day. Are you kidding? He could be dead tomorrow. Or someday.

  Fifteen years his elder and past her prime doesn’t matter; she’s so generous with a bevy of moves and a mini-fridge. She easily trumps a book and a long shot. Better to jump to princedom than to grovel in the pond. Better to slip into fancy bedding with a hostess of means than swim a bay in the dark. This is not the thrilling adventure of a new woman or a game second go. It’s a routine. She rides like seasoned crew, rolling delectably to the ocean swell…

  From the aftermath and sleep, he wakens to see the clock: 10:30. 10:31. 10:32. He watches the minutes and knows that sexual relations with Cosima will be better in a day or two when they’re fresh. And he sighs, free of the silly pursuit. But he can excuse himself for something or other—not beer because it’s in the mini-fridge with the snacks. He could go for a walk—that’s it, a walk. Then he’ll be back.

  Yet she grasps a leg and another leg and oozes over, plying the back muscles to the neck and shoulders as she turns him for the pin and puts him back to sleep at 10:42.

  The sun rises on a nameless man with no coordinates in luxuriant comfort floating anonymously. He remembers: it’s a top-drawer bungalow, thanks to what’s-her-name, Here… Hera… the unusual woman who gets him up at will, which seems odd for one so elderly. How does she do that? Eyes open on cue as the hostess with the mostest looks up with a weary grin. That’s how. Reality jams into overdrive. Mascara runny as erosion rivulets, a missing tooth, and service orientation make it memorable. Ah, Paradise. This is what happened. It could be worse. Coffee and Danish served at the front door are excellent. So he showers, eats, and bids adieu on a kiss and gratitude for another full boat. He’ll take it easy tonight at his place and see her bye ’n bye, maybe tomorrow.

  She caresses his cheek. “You are right. Tonight is Thursday. Buffet dance. All you can eat. Very late. But you are wrong. Tomorrow I leave. You will not see me.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Away.” She turns away. “I’m going away.” That means he’ll have time to find a place to live, with a kitchen. “You won’t see me.”

  “I heard you. You’re going to Papeete?”

  “Yes.”

  “And then you’ll come back?”

  “I haven’t decided.”

  “What are your choices?”

  “It’s not up to me.” Oh, no—what he must not ask is whom, in fact, it is up to. Her charms are so rich around dusk, only to murk at dawn. “I said it’s not up to me.”

  “Yes. I heard. What are the choices of whomever it is up to?” Well done, asking the obvious question yet avoiding the trap.

  “I suppose one choice is to have me stay away. I suppose the other choice is to have me come back and see what I have to show then.”

  This too is a skillful parry. To avoid the mortal repartee, he says, “Very good. I’ll see you when you get back.”

  “Yes?”

  “Why not?”

  “What do you mean, ‘why not?’ You’re so ungracious, after all that I show you. I can tell you as well: the over-water bungalow is rare and will not happen often. We will be at my house. You can move in at that time.”

  “It’s too small.”

  “No. It’s just right. Moeava will be living at the dive shop.”

  “He can’t stay at the dive shop.”

  “It was his idea.”

  “I won’t be the reason he moves out of his own house.”

  “It’s time. He’s twenty-six already.”

  “He told me twenty-nine.”

  “He lies. He needs psychiatric help, but it would cost more than the lies. Who cares how old anybody is anyway?”

  “You make a good point. But I’m not ready to move into your place, even if he wants to move out. I want my own place. I just got here. I need to get my life in order first.”

  “Qu’est-ce que c’est premier? Qu’est-ce que c’est vie? Is this not the life? A very good life, I might add. A life many people all over the world would envy. Tahiti. Me.” She sits up, chest out.

  “You sound like my mother.”

  “She must be a smart woman.”

  “Yes. She’s neurotic too. Always insisting.”

  “We want what’s best for you.”

  “Many people do. But I’m not so dumb as I let on. Trust me on this—we’ll get along, but not every day and night. I appreciate what you have to show, and I want to keep that appreciation fresh.”

  “I think you want to chase girls.”

  “Maybe. Who knows? You seem confident in your hospitality.”

  “I am. It’s true. You would be foolish to give this up. You might think me old and fat or uncouth, any of those things men think once they get rid of their stuff—oh, they think they can do without for an hour or two. Then it’s honey, baby, where are you? Am I right?”

  “Yes, you are right. And so am I. We understand our love.”

  She perks. “Don’t say that.”

  “You’re right. I shouldn’t say that.”

  “Unless you mean it.”

  “Okay. I’ll be more careful.”

  “Come here.”

  “No. I have to go. We’ll fuck again on Saturday if we don’t get a better offer.”

  “I hate that word.”

  “It’s better than love, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Fool.”

  “Toujours, ma cherie.”

  The Future Thrust Upon Us

  Hereata’s benefits and demands are compelling and consequential. Coming home feels familiar and secure when it occurs as a duet. Comfort displaces challenge when the world steps back, and a man can relax. She’ll be sixty in a few years, which may account for her focus. He can’t blame her or meet her need. For now, a man and a woman provide for each other, accepting the terms of peace because she’d rather have some sugar instead of none.

  He’ll find a place of his own to avoid moving out later. How would she feel at sixty, with a man of forty-five? Never mind. The bungalow near Taverua is not a home. Better to find a place now for stability and to keep things fresh.

  So after the morning charter and with no divers booked for tomorrow, time opens up. And so does fortune when a wayward reefdog meets another dog—an underdog who works Taverua. Bungalow to restaurant, this tail wagger seeks goo-goo talk and hand-outs. He might get a shout or a shoe, but what’s a dog to do? Ravi
shouted twice to stop him from following after sharing a Danish, but give a dog a break. Expressive and quick, the pup seems a mix of black lab and something smaller. A terrier with a stepladder? By this time Ravi knows the manager/owner, who calls out, “Hey! Do you want that dog?”

  “I can’t have a dog. I have no place to live. But if I did…”

  “Okay. I thought maybe… I’ll call for the pickup. He begs my guests. We can’t have it.”

  “But he’s so cute. Look at him. Just a little dog.”

  The dog wags and jumps all the way up to lick Ravi’s chin.

  “A dog needs a home. He can’t stay here.”

  “What will happen when they pick him up?”

  The manager/owner shrugs. “What will happen is what happens in these things. Believe me, my friend, we have no shortage of dogs.”

  “Could you keep him as a mascot if he had his inoculations, and he gets neutered? I will have that done. Your guests love him. A dog is good for business. Most of them miss their own dogs. If that little dog lives here, they’ll take pictures of him. He’ll be on the Internet. He could get more hits than Lindsay Lohan on a DUI.”

  “What is a Lindsay Lohan?”

  Ravi smiles, affirmed in this new place. But the manager is too busy for sentiment, “We can’t have him here. I have too much to do. You may ask at the humane place if they need another dog, but look around. They don’t. Nobody does.”

  The dog heels, pressing his face to Ravi’s knee, as only a smart dog would do. A tourist says she’s going past the animal clinic, and they sometimes find homes for dogs, and she can give them a lift. The dog jumps in, sensing home at last; never mind that it has no walls, furniture, dishes, yard, or anything but the bond. Never mind that home is a car; it’s where the heart is, and a dog’s heart is with the pack, at that moment defined. Obvious to the dog is that life starts now. They ride in back. “What’s his name?”

  Ravi thinks briefly. “Little Dog. I call him Little Dog.”

  “Little Dog? Not much of a name. But cute.”

  “It fits.” Little Dog tongue-lashes his new pal. Ravi wipes his face, scoffing but pulling the dog close.

  Two women at the humane place do not need another dog, not with a dozen dogs out back in eight kennels, four dogs coming in and many more in need of shelter. One woman is a volunteer who speaks only French. The other is speaks spotty English and French slow enough to follow. She knows a woman whose uncle is looking for a dog for his farm on Huahine.

  “They don’t have dogs on Huahine?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How do you know Uncle won’t… eat the dog?”

  “We don’t think that will happen. People really don’t do that here.” We don’t finks zat weel happen…

  “They really don’t? Does that mean they sometimes do?”

  “He probably wants a dog to bark if someone comes onto the place. We cannot know more than that.”

  “Will Uncle get him inoculated?”

  “Yes, the dog will be inoculated and neutered in the near future.”

  Little Dog tries another lick. “Can I have a minute to think?”

  “Of course you can.”

  “Um… I’m looking for a place to live. Is there a paper that would list places for rent?”

  “You may do better driving around. Most people with a place to rent will post a sign.”

  “I don’t have a car, but maybe I can use my friend’s truck.”

  “Look.” Behind her is a bulletin board with notices in French. One says, À Louer, ici for a room with good light and ventilation, une salle de bain et une cuisine for three hundred XFP per day, or three dollars and twenty-five cents US.

  “Do you know where this is?”

  She puffs her lower lip. “Regardez là. Ici. You are here.”

  “Do you take dogs?”

  More annoyed than amused, she says, “Mais oui!”

  And in that brief moment, roommates find a place. Ravi suspects esoteric powers at play in his home search. How else could he be so lucky so fast? She interrupts with news that Little Dog will be liberated soon. Did she smirk? A three-button reveal on her snowy white chest shows two low moguls where bunnies perch. The chilled landscape blends with the smug certainty above, in stark contrast to Hereata’s hearth fire. But the landlady seems curiously committed to others, so Ravi seeks reason. “I know it’s different for dogs, but he trusts me, and I have a hard time… And he’ll be with me if we could forget the… you know?”

  “Monsieur, I do not know. Can you ask in a different way?”

  Ravi scissors two fingers. “Fixed. The dog. I have a hard time.”

  “Monsieur, it is no different with dogs and humans. They should be, as you say, fixed—tous les hommes. Are you seeing how many dogs suffer? Be happy that your dog has a home. And he will not lose sleep over that same little flesh that cost you so many nights. We can schedule you for Tuesday. Okay?”

  Little Dog leans in, happy to be discussed. How did she know? “You mean schedule the dog.”

  “That is all we can do for now.”

  With tentative cheer, he asks her to call a taxi, please. Hereata glows next to her anemic rectitude and will be back tomorrow to represent the womanly wing of the feminine party: Oui! Oui! N’arrêtes-pas! He smiles in anticipation, but Monique tells him to walk back for his things because a taxi could take an hour, and it’s only four miles, and he can stick his thumb up and maybe get a ride. “Don’t worry, the dog can stay here.”

  “I thought you were going to say to stick my thumb up my ass.”

  “Vous n’êtes pas drôle, Monsieur.”

  “No. I’m misunderstood. It happens, as you must know. Vous n’êtes pas drôle non plus.”

  “We’re very busy now. Okay?”

  It’s more than okay; it’s a home and roommate before lunch. She’s humorless. So what? So he says merci, bon, and walks out, no need to one-up: he feels so good. Little Dog is also pleased to head out on the next adventure. Ravi picks him up to share the plan and carry him back in. Monique takes the handoff to a kennel behind her. Little Dog howls on Ravi’s second exit. So he goes back in to see if a tail is caught in the door and says maybe he’ll walk with the dog and explain the ground rules. Monique huffs, handing the dog back on a leash. “I finks he is explain to you already.”

  They soon come to a quaint place serving lunch in a family fare with folding tables and chairs on gravel under a thatched roof supported by log pillars. Camp stoves and serving bins smoke and steam, and a dog on a leash is welcome. Ravi is surprised when the dog sits and waits but doesn’t beg. With soft jaws he lips morsels into the choppers. “Where did you learn this?”

  Packing and checking out are quick, and the four miles back is faster when a flatbed truck pulls over.

  The new room is small, not so primitive as the fare at lunch or fundamental like Vincent’s room but similar to both. Twelve by fourteen is room to spread out. The counter on one side has a hot plate and sink near a small fridge. An electrical converter facilitates American plugs by eliminating one pole, changing 220 to 110 by using the ground as a neutral, I think. Turning on the laptop is tense, mais voila! Artistic endeavor will have the benefit of software.

  A small market five minutes up sells beer, bread, cheese, sardines, crackers, mustard, eggs, lettuce, and legumes. Dinner is steamed and spritzed with olive oil and a bit of pepper, green or red, and perhaps some salt—et un peu de poivre, vert ou rouge, et peut-être du sel. And sliced onion—oignon—and a head of chou-fleur. It’s not so bad for a newcomer. The bigger market is back down past Taverua, and the trip occurs weekly in Monique’s car. Ravi and Little Dog ride shotgun and keep their yaps shut.

  •

  And so our story ends, insofar as any story will. Even passing from the flesh is often no more than a milestone. A narrative will meander on retelling as drama ferments. Ravi Rockulz’s life in a new land transits happily ever after on a routine of artistic pursuit.

&
nbsp; Nothing is entirely smooth, however, starting with Little Dog’s separation anxiety when parted from his one and only. He shrieks but stops when Ravi returns. Returning right now supports bad behavior, even as the bond grows stronger. Setting Little Dog on his lap he explains that he must leave for work, to dive with tourists and little fishes for money for dog food and crackers, and he’ll be back later. Pointing to himself and saying his name, he then points to a paper cup and jumps off with his fingers to dive down and…

  Little dog watches the silly charade and barks when Ravi sucks his cheeks in and purses his lips like a fish, then he lunges for a tongue-lashing. Ravi takes it and tells him to stay. Stay and be good. And be quiet in the room or hang out in the yard with the other dogs. Little Dog barks again and heads out to the yard.

  Other problems come and go like sunrise, sunset. Hereata tolerates the dog, pondering the mystery of love. She spends more time in the mirror as if to meet the challenge.

  Day in, day out find rhythm. Warmth, color, and scent abound in people, a dog, flowers, forest, and reef. Hereata waiting and cold beer give succor to a tired man. Her kindness restores him. It’s not romance but comfort, like marriage, and it’s good, giving a time and purpose to the season—a season of compromise on the spirit of youth but with profound healing effects. She lets other freedoms ring. Little Dog likes to watch but falls asleep, the scene is so predictable and bourgeois. So what? Fuck buddies is a crude phrase best avoided, but they are friends who dine and fuck. Which isn’t to call things bad or good but some of each, like life. So who needs to call anything?

  Submersion, on the other hand, is a passion reborn with a mistress who loves Ravi Rockulz all the more. Purpose, pictures, and life gain focus. Income relieves pressure, and days feel tropical in the traditional sense. Honing on what he loves, he comes home at last.

  A man can bog down in lofty imagery. Better to dive with no expectation but a reef view. With repetition comes insight, and style takes form. Like a backhand, a syntactical pattern, the opening slice of an appendectomy, a riff at four beats to the measure or seeing fish, he learns that top shots and back shots are boring. You dove on some fish and scared a few. So what? Face shots emerge in phase one, till he realizes that mug shots are too skinny…