Reefdog

Home > Other > Reefdog > Page 25
Reefdog Page 25

by Robert Wintner


  Oybek apologizes again for any bad impression. Ravi says, “No. I am the one to apologize. My anger makes me a fool. I can’t bark and lunge at every stranger.”

  “I am happy to hear you say this,” Oybek says—I love you say and honor you this.

  “But you were an asshole. That night at the buffet. You were wrong.”

  “Yes,” Oybek laughs. “Asshole me. All the time but especially drink. Not good. Please forgive. But, please, I not asshole in dive. Only bad diver, me. But you, you good man. Thank you for save me.”

  •

  A rich and happy life has many endings, and even the last one may lead to another beginning. The final curtain may fall on one act and rise on Act One. Emigrate? Immigrate? Who knows where things go or come? Being or not can get problematic with no flesh and love unless it also endures in a form as yet unimagined. That stuff can go either way—plenty time to worry later. For now, anybody can be happy once he’s logged enough heartbreak. Ravi Rockulz feels blessed, or maybe he feels that a blessing is near, as his pages turn to what comes next.

  The new chapter begins only three hours hence when the guests are gone, each farewell an effusion of best wishes and love. Hereata whispers, “You never told me she was so beautiful.”

  Well, of course he did, but rather than correct her, he says, “You are so beautiful.” She blushes, and all is well, or might be better later. Oybek bows, shakes hands with his host, wishes him the very happiest of birthdays and leaves with his paramour.

  With the place secure, doors and windows shut, Skinny is allowed to wander the room, read the scents and take note. Little Dog is allowed in with strict instruction to lie down and stay. Stay. You stay.

  The former loves disrobe like locals getting ready for sleep. They pause at the bed. Then comes what neither can remember from the past: the soft kiss. He wants to assure her that this is going nowhere but shouldn’t matter, really—no, not that it shouldn’t matter, but it shouldn’t hurt anyone, considering what they… But he finds the better part of explanation again in silence and in fear of blowing the brief moment. She wants to say that they may give of themselves with no commitment but also fears that any words could discourage him, that he may abandon hope. So they sway on the precipice.

  They recline. A few more tears fall for what’s been lost, the inevitable impasse and the chance for peace. Who knows?

  Night falls on shipwreck survivors washed up on a distant shore, hugging the warmth between them. With a whimper in the wee hours, she asks if he’s in love with Hereata.

  “She took care of me, and I love her for it, yes.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  “I am not in love with Hereata.”

  She says he might not believe her, and that’s his choice, and she’s learned these last two years that she must respect his choice. But she never loved Darryl and she never did those things. “I know what he told you, but it’s not true.”

  “What?”

  Never, ever—and, in fact, she only allowed da kine once, back when she was nearly fourteen and didn’t know notting—I mean, anything. She wants Ravi to hear this—whether he believes it or not because she knows how his mind works, or used to work, and how little things that shouldn’t bother him build up inside, and then they do bother him. And she doesn’t want that, so she needs to stop the pain before it starts. Because it hurt her too—hurt like crazy because he had the soft touch of a pneumatic jackhammer, I mean Darryl did, and besides that, he was gross and ugly.

  She didn’t want to do it.

  He forced her and thought she loved it because she never called the cops. “And that’s the truth. I swear it. I had to tell you. I know you think I’m evil, but I’m not. I don’t want to sound like a victim, but Darryl is nothing. He did a mean and ugly thing. It’s like when you step in dog poo, you know? You wipe it off, but it still stinks for a while. But it goes away. I mean you don’t throw your shoes away. You know?”

  Ravi wonders what could possibly possess a woman—a wife—to describe another man in gross terms to her husband.

  Minna knows what all men think they must hear in order to let a thing go—even as they glom onto the sordid detail they think will stop their minds from churning.

  Ravi takes a brief moment to sort the images and gets hung up on a tough one: “What is the da kine you only allowed once?”

  “Oohh no—not like that. Not that. Only coochy kine.”

  Which moves things along to what must be easier, which is the lingering scent on her shoes. He sighs. “One time? And he get all strung out for life?”

  “Hey. Some guys, you know. They cannot let go, ever.”

  No. They can’t. Lucky I’m not one of them. I mean, I can live with that, for now, even if Darryl is thinking of Minna and his one go this very minute so hard he’s squeezing tears from the corners.

  He rolls to the side so she can see his forgiveness in refracted moonlight—even as stray pangs interrupt this program. But they melt away too, as all will in the watery bye ’n bye.

  She sees. She smiles back, wondering if he bought it, hoping that he did and that they might finally have peace, whatever their legal status. Is that too much to ask?

  No, it’s not too much, though life presents regular tests to all seekers, so they may apply what they’ve learned. On the one hand, they’ll see if attraction survives—not on firm bodies or lusty potential but in the light shining between them. On the other hand, they must keep a few things buried, events and regrets that will undermine spiritual growth, until those things have time to decompose and fade away, as some things should.

  The first opportunity for ending and beginning comes in the morning on learning that Moeava blocked the day off, no trip. With intuition and foresight, he anticipated a hangover but did not likely foresee his windfall of women. On the surface, it looks impulsive as a fling, inebriate and fun, a casual ménage, with derring-do, surprises, demands, and good cheer among newfound friends. Except that sunrise finds the trio waking but unwilling to untangle the fondness stumbled into.

  Realizing his role as a practical functionary in the drama playing out, Moeava grows worldly wise, evolved since yesterday when he was merely big and lonely. He offers no detail or flourish, not the first hint or tease, nothing but an affirmation of great good luck to have two girlfriends who like each other. On second thought, he corrects himself: Monique has both a girlfriend and boyfriend who get along and may someday like each other.

  “But you already liked Cosima. Since before we met—long before, I would think.”

  That may be, but the one-way affection of yesterday is as removed from last night as flat water from pitching seas. Cosima lacks experience and initiative. Monique provides all of the above. Cosima does what Monique says. Monique likes to watch, and Cosima likes her watching. Neither cares if Moeava watches, so he watches for a while, but nobody minds if he takes a little snooze while they play together. They wake him up, sooner or later.

  Wait a minute. She didn’t lack initiative with me. But he accepts again and again as necessary, though some scenes shimmer for a long time. Never mind. Monique is oldest and wisest and best suited to lead the way, to manage needs and gratification, and let’s face it: friends bonding in love are better than one man’s satisfaction. What a relief. What a show. N’est-ce pas?

  Moeava will not belabor complexities of dominance, submission, or reciprocation other than Monique’s first rule of respect: that nobody requires anybody else to swim the bay, night or day.

  •

  The morning stretches to casual brunch and a spontaneous outing to Taverua reef, which is different than an old life resumed.

  Minna has a week and then another. Their schedules merge. Growing affection is balanced by Hereata’s lingering regret and adaptation.

  Oybek is gregarious, magnanimous, unctuous, and tedious on heightened self-esteem. He calls Hereata the love of his life. She demurs. He speaks of greatness and showbiz. Loser tourists have blown smo
ke up Ravi’s ass for years, flaunting their wares far from home. Talk of wealth, name-dropping, and personal questions mark the common commuter in quiet desperation. The smoke billows from LA too, but LA is where success waits around the corner, any corner anytime. Could you be part of my new project? Fuckinay, baby, you might know Spielberg. I do. Do you?

  Granting the benefit of all doubts, Ravi does not think Oybek a loser, even as Oybek talks about a decent advance, nothing too big, say twenty grand, which will be peanuts next to what they’ll soon do, but it should get the lovebirds by for a couple of weeks. Oybek reviews immediate needs for their migration to LA.

  Ravi laughs.

  Minna smiles at his laughter.

  Oybek softens the situation with his own bedside manner; they won’t need to stay in LA forever, though many artists do, for the wonderful social life, the artistic and intellectual stimulation. Duration can be decided later, though a few years will be necessary to get things going.

  Ravi feels foolish asking the obvious question: “If it’s that easy to make millions, what are you doing here?”

  “I discover you! I make millions, yes, with a property—you! Without a property, I make nothing!”

  Ravi is made to feel more foolish when the fleshy fellow explains the obvious, that an underwater photographer living in LA will take far more photos underwater. That sounds typically deluded and maybe stupid, and he feels more foolish still, conversing with last year’s foe, who this year blows smoke up his ass. Make that smog. Or was that the year before last already? At the foolish summit is the ridiculous subject of LA itself and the pros and cons of living there as a prerequisite to artistic success. LA feels like a joke or a curse or a laughable, pitiful reality.

  Oybek says that Ravi’s reef artistry will span the globe from French Polynesia to the Andaman Sea before it dies, to the Maldives and Truk—ooh and the Red Sea. “You have been there?”

  “I am from there.”

  “Iloji yo’q! I knew it!”

  Oh, man. This guy is strange.

  The day before returning to LA, Oybek hands Ravi a check for twenty thousand dollars. Ravi holds it gingerly, asking about a contract or some assurance that this is not a debt.

  Oybek laughs too loud and says not to worry because he knows the difference between an advance and a debt. He promises a contract soon that will satisfy all parties and secure a prosperous future. If you don’t like it, don’t sign it! In the meantime, spend the money. Enjoy.

  And don’t worry; the money will be made back because Ravi has been officially recognized for genius, which is what Oybek does for a living. Do you understand this? Could a seasoned professional be so wrong? Yes, he could be, but he’s not been wrong yet, and some of his picks were far less certain than this one.

  “Look this!” Oybek beams, pointing at an octopus peeking electrically over a boulder.

  Well, yes, the octopus shot is remarkable, so Ravi accepts ovations of greatness. Who knows? Maybe success can be guaranteed. Twenty grand is more than Ravi ever made in one day or had at one time. He can’t yet retire, but he doesn’t want to. So he rests easy and ponders the future. Such is the power of a solid C-list operator.

  The next month passes in reverie, what younger lovers envisioned only two years ago. Ravi dives and shoots in the mornings. Minna helps at the animal hospital. She notifies her family and the other hospital that she’ll remain on extended leave, and that the annulment is off. She won’t spell it out but leaves it to them. Better they figure it out than hear the bad news.

  She visits a medical care facility to see about a job and hits the language barrier. So she begins French lessons and attempts the new language in her daily life. She thinks she can get it until Ravi makes the official announcement: they will depart Tahiti soon, to live together as a married couple—in LA, to gain a solid footing in marine photographic art, but only for a year.

  Or two.

  Or maybe not because it may all vaporize and so many things do with regard to fortune and art, except that the move gains momentum and feels like it’s on, even as the smoke billows up their ass and tickles. They giggle, happily sharing a wisp or two, and then giggle more when Ravi says he’s had so much smoke up his tuchas that he can’t even fart without coughing.

  Oybek’s revenge would be huge, if that’s what this is. But Oybek is a self-made man—in show biz, which is also known for smoke and hugeness. So? Jump on!

  Why practice French if the show is moving to LA?

  Don’t worry; you can practice anything you want in LA.

  Does a Mother’s Opinion Count for Nothing?

  Well, yes.

  And no. Of course Basha Rivka’s two cents is worth every penny because she is the mother after all, and let’s face it: you only have one mother, and if you don’t factor her views and assessments on the big picture, then her wisdom and experience are wasted.

  Wasted! Your choice.

  Yet in the practical sense, what difference can it make at this juncture? On the bright side, Basha Rivka is pleased; Los Angeles is a cultural hub, where a young man can be with his own kind at last, even if a proper wife is temporarily beyond reach.

  Okay, so he married a sh… a lovely girl who just so happens to be go… not Jewish. If she makes babies and is good to Ravi, then they should both live and be well. Besides, once she sees the light, she may convert, for the children’s sake.

  “But tell me something, Ravi. Aval tagid li, hi be-herayon?”

  “No, Mother. She is not pregnant.”

  “Why not?”

  “Should I put her on the line?”

  “I’m asking you.”

  “Maybe she’s a virgin.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised. Yes I would. Tell me when.”

  “When what?”

  “When I can come to LA to visit my grandchildren.”

  “It will be at least nine months from now.”

  “God willing.”

  “At least.”

  “From your lips.”

  “We’ll begin right away. Make your reservation.”

  “I knew you would make me happy. Someday.”

  “You did?”

  “I hoped for the best. It’s all I can do.”

  And so he tells his poor, lonely mother of his productive efforts in Tahiti, leading to his discovery as the foremost marine photographer in the world. One of, at any rate.

  “Foremost, no less.”

  “That’s what Oybek says. He knows. He does this for a living.”

  “So now you might make a living too, still with the bubbles but with some shekels too. Did you cash the check?”

  “Not yet. I don’t want to deposit it here and then try to get it out.”

  “How do you know it’s good?”

  “How do you know it’s not?”

  “When will you listen? Will you do me a favor? Do I ask my only son for so much?”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Cash the check.”

  “Why?”

  “So you know. So you’re not such a schmendrick all the time, bouncing around like a… like a what?”

  “Like a rolling stone. No moss.”

  “You said it.”

  “Okay. I’ll cash it.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “And please, let me know when.”

  “Yes, I’ll let you know.”

  Little Dog Laughed

  Ravi’s first trip to LA is not speculative. He is spared the charade of being in the neighborhood and dropping in casually, the one-act play so often required of young artists with worlds to conquer in LA, as if budding talents will emerge, given a random chance. He touches down on terra firma with rubber on the road right now. He is direct from the exotic reaches of the world with mysteries to share.

  The flight is surreal, revealing the greatest mystery: He’s giving up Oceania for Urbania? Or would that be Suburbania? It’s like trading Tahiti for LA, except ther
e ain’t no like about it.

  Los Angeles sprawls in layered excess with horrific symptoms—talk about smoke. Within the blur come seeping scabs, fresh wounds, and lesions to all horizons. Cars, billboards, lights, noise, filth, perversion, cement, garbage, chrome, glass, disease, and people in the millions upon millions rush for more of the more and more. Clogged arteries squeeze the flow to a trickle till it stops at stubborn sludge—or races madly for short stretches, people delivering themselves and their wares everywhere all the time. Barren of innocence and nature, the place buzzes and stinks, steams and festers. Breaking News is that a brand new freeway gunslinger has shed the bonds of polite company and is trying to soothe his rage by shooting commuters one lane over. Six more lanes feel crazy, wild, and free; ten more lanes make even more sense in a hundred-grand roadster, pedal to the metal on a downshift to goose the redline and really show some stuff. Oh, baby! This is me! Who the fuck are you?

  With the brainpan awash in azure blue, here comes LAX and the very best hospitality Inglewood has to offer, as long as you breathe shallow, stay alert, and carry a compass. Not to worry; Oybek is sending a car, so never mind the yellow-brown cloud covering creation like a dirty blanket or the masonry cap on everything or the teeming ambition or general neurosis or specific psychosis oozing out the pores of the place with enough sweat, grit, and desperation to slump a tropical waterman.

  What’s that smell?

  But give peace a chance; LA is not an open sore, not as different from French Poly as shit from shinola. It looks and feels different—make that sci-fi screaming insane different. Yellow-gray over a scabby crust coming into LAX is only the beginning. Then you’re in, so to speak, in easy access to a vibrant urban center with many major sports teams, millions of fans, a dynamic cast of characters, trillions in net worth, and of course much, much more. LA gets a bad rap on population density, road rage, homicide, and perversion, but eccentricity is pivotal to showbiz. Personal identity is a linchpin of survival in a garish, colorful system. Any reef suffers if residents out-need the resources at hand, but it’s only growing pains, and people will find more of what they need. Reality rolls in like a set of huge, breaking waves.

 

‹ Prev