|
When I look back, I can see how the divorce snapped my moorings. I abandoned my job, my debts, cleaned out my accounts
and left in my wake a shameless, hand-scrawled fiction about ending it all. I crossed the Pacific, making my way from Tahiti
to Puka Pongo in a DeHaviland Beaver float plane, the pilot and I smoking a fat Jamaican spliff and signaling our arrival
at the lagoon by buzzing the territorial governor's mansion. From the air the island looked like Eden. I half-expected a canoe-borne
armada of topless native girls to paddle out to greet us. My euphoria led me to purchase a makeshift hardware store/bar
from a rheumy old physician named LaCroix. "Tropical Paradise," as he called it, squatted under a clutch of typhoon-lashed
palms, little more than corroded sheet-metal and a thatched roof. Steel-guitar music blared from a plastic radio with foil
taped to its antenna. The place was a smugglers' smorgasbord of Aloha shirts, pilfered booze, black-market weapons, surfboard
wax, Cuban cigars and hula-girl calendars from the 1970s. Walking on the hot coral beach out back required sandals cut from
truck-tire treads — which LaCroix offered, of course, in an unmatched heap that overflowed from a giant clam shell.
He taught me to mix frozen tropical drinks adorned with paper umbrellas. We settled on a price of $10,000 American for the
lot, but I insisted that he throw in a vintage Jeep with the remnants of a white star flaking from its hood. I soon
began to sense that I'd been swindled. The islanders behaved as if LaCroix still owned the place. He held court daily at his
favorite table, fleecing shirtless urchin divers at games of Blackjack and cribbage and squandering his winnings on tumblers
of plantation rum. His hacking filled the room with stale cigar smoke, and the frequent bickering between his half-bald parrot
and tremulous monkey, Celine, drove me to the edge of madness. To brace myself for each day, I'd roll out of my hammock and
shuffle down the cobblestone main street to Mama-San's for some scrambled eggs, luaued pig and a quart-sized carafe of Pina
Colada. If I lingered for a cup of coffee, I'd return to find that LaCroix had jiggered the lock and let himself in.
The only time I saw the endeavor as anything but a horrible mistake was the morning I parted the swinging doors and discovered
a full-lipped British tourist, who called herself Sybil, whispering in the old doc's ear. Her eyes were a cool indigo, her
hair a tangled mass of orange curls set off by a pair of black coral hoops. She wore an oversize Hawaiian shirt with the sleeves
sliced off, belted with a frayed hemp cord, her bosoms cupped in its flowery embrace. Its tails served as a slit skirt, revealing
a splendid flank that showed no evidence of underwear. Her airy London lilt and squirmy energy riveted my attention
— until I heard LaCroix mutter something about an "arrangement" involving the Jeep. "If you need a Jeep, my
dear, you'll have to deal with me," I interjected. "The doctor no longer owns one." She glanced sideways at LaCroix,
who glared at me. On a hunch, I started mixing her a Mai Tai. Her languid strut across the bar left the old bastard speechless.
She settled onto one of the stools to negotiate, and within 20 minutes we picked up a blubbery native boy named Takoo from
a hut behind the hotel and went bouncing up a rutted track toward the island's high volcanic rim. Once again, I felt
snookered. Sybil grabbed my bottle of rum and sat in the back with Takoo, chilling my humid notions of romance. Still, I tried
to make the most of the opportunity. "That foggy spot up ahead is where the steam still seeps from the depths of the
volcano," I yelled, wrestling with the wheel as the tires sent loose rubble clattering into the crater. "Legend says that
if you wake the fire goddess you'll enjoy an evening of enlightenment, hallucinations and unparalleled sexual prowess."
I began to tell Sybil how Takoo's ancestors had developed a taste for "the long pig," devouring the first sailors unlucky
enough to make landfall on the island, then looked back to discover her brazenly engaged in returning the favor. Takoo reclined
in a carnal trance, arms draped over the roll bar like a living crucifix, as she set his belly rolls a-quiver with her forehead.
The sea breeze plucked at the flapping tails of her shirt, confirming my suspicions about her lack of lingerie. When I tapped
the brake to get her attention, she nearly gagged. Takoo's eyes bulged with alarm. "Heads up!" I barked. "We're almost
there." The road necked down to a neglected footpath that vanished into a tangle of draping vines and broad-leafed
rain-forest palms. I yanked the hand brake and jammed the tires against the bank to keep the Jeep from rolling toward the
abyss. Rumor had it that few ventured up the mountain in the decades since the war, and menace hung in the air like
the sulfurous haze in the pit of the crater. A faded sign served as a reminder that unexploded ordnance still strewn about
the jungle floor threatened to vaporize any hiker who dared to tromp around the unmapped pig trails without a guide. Still,
I'd been seduced by Sybil's cryptic hints of treasure-laden burial caves — and the promise of debauchery inspired by
the crater's slutty diety. Takoo stepped down glumly and tugged at his trunks. Prodded by Sybil's heel, he broke into
a trot and disappeared down the trail. "If what that buffoon told me is true, this will be worth the wait," she said, lighting
a slender cigarette. Minutes passed, and I began to ponder some intriguing ways we might pass the time. Then a far-off
" Whoomp!" shook the ground, followed a few seconds later by the sickening splat of a slab of steaming bloody meat
on the hood of the Jeep. "Holy shit!" I shouted. I bailed out of my seat and flopped to the ground, whimpering and
quivering. Sybil flicked an ash, leaned over the windshield and sniffed. She glared at me with contempt. "Bacon," she said.
"A pig must have stepped on a mine." I rose to my knees, peered over the edge and met the acrid stench of scorched
boar bristles. At that moment Takoo sprinted wide-eyed from the jungle, clutching a small leather sack. "He found
it!" Sybil yelped. "The little bugger found it!" She snatched the bag from his grasp and poured out a handful of pearls. Takoo
vaulted into the seat beside me, jabbering in a language I couldn't understand. Back at the Tropical Paradise, the
tale made LaCroix erupt with laughter. Sybil sat at the bar toying with the pearls and swilling Bombay gin from a bottle.
"What's so bloody funny?" she demanded. "Well, Takoo's probably worked that mother lode for the last time,"
LaCroix said. Intrigued, I asked him if any more loot might remain in the caves. "Caves?" he said, holding
one of the translucent baubles to the light. "Takoo's a pearl diver. He finds at least a dozen of those things a week." He
arched a bristly eyebrow in Sybil’s direction. "That is, when he's actually working, instead of using that 'ancestral
burial vault' rubbish to swindle silly tourist girls out of a little romance. These things are worth about 10 bucks
apiece around here." His glance fell to Sybil's thigh. "More than enough, I'd venture." Sybil tugged her shirttails
toward her knees. Her chin quivered and her eyes narrowed. She swept the pearls from the bar with the back of her hand, then
clomped over to a samurai sword that hung above the bar and yanked it free of its nails. "That conniving pervert!
" she snarled. She swung the weapon over her head and lopped a blade off the ceiling fan. The monkey shrieked and ran
chattering out the door. The parrot muttered, "Oh, shit." Sybil stalked out into the night, sword in hand. LaCroix
chuckled. Walking behind the bar, he produced a fresh set of cards, dealing us each a hand of poker and laying a 10-spot on
the table. I laid down my money and sat across from him. "I should never have let you go up there," he said, "You could
have been killed. But I have a rotten streak that I have to indulge once in awhile. And you have to admit that you left me
little choice in the matter. By the way, you didn't, um …" "Well, no," I said. "There was no opportunity with
that kid around. His nerves went to hell after that horrible blast, and he was squalling to get back to town. I was hoping
tonight … if you hadn't sent her after him with that cleaver." The cries of a gull pierced the silence. I got
up and closed and latched the door. "It's just as well," he said. "It seems she's picked up a dose of the local
itch from one of her playmates. When you rudely interrupted us this morning, we were negotiating over a prescription
and a ride to the pharmacy in Cooks Landing." I shuddered. A pearl gleamed in the torchlight. I plucked it from the
floor and rolled it around in my palm like a ball of mercury. "By the way," LaCroix said. "Don't let too many of those
things fall through the cracks. Some of them are actually worth a couple hundred dollars apiece … if you ever make it
back to the mainland." He dropped the one he'd been fondling into his shirt pocket and extracted a silver flask. "Scotch?"
he asked, tipping it toward me. I admired its scrollwork, savored a few swallows and handed it back. He smiled, laid down
his cards and dragged my money across the table. He picked up the centerpiece candle, touching the flame to one of his Cohibas.
"Shuffle the cards, my friend," he said. "I believe it's your deal."
|
