He waits for the translation and the group murmur to rise and fall, then he turns to the thickset man. “You will be reported to the police for terroristic endangerment of every person here. Good luck with that. We have your hotel and credit card number, so don’t worry about the authorities being able to contact you. Now, as far as you and the bends, I think you’re at risk. Are you feeling any stiffness or soreness yet?”
The big brow bunches to the center of the big head.
“Well, you’ll know soon enough. Remember, no physical exertion. No beating off in the shower. Okay?”
The bigger man turns to his tormenter quizzically, subdued yet with growing concern.
A woman leans forward. “Is it okay to walk on the beach?”
Ravid shrugs. “You should know. You may have nitrogen in your system. If it seeps out too quickly over the next few hours through the tissue of least resistance, like joint tissue, you get the bends. The variable is stimulation. How much stimulation? You tell me. Maybe you can stay calm. I don’t know. If your blood pressure goes up, and you got too much nitrogen in your bloodstream...” He shrugs and pouts. “Capiche?”
With a crooked smile, she nods.
Ravid moves forward. The helmsman regards him with a glance and a smile to indicate satisfactory completion of a difficult day at the office — and maybe relief that he’s not the only fuckup in this outfit. The second dive is shallow, brief and boring, but completes the task.
Back at the dock farewells are perfunctory with small doses of forced humor; and no, the frogs don’t tip. Ah, well, the crew share a laugh at any rate when the meatball lumbers cautiously up the dock, pausing to rest, leaning on the handrail, mumbling what must be epithets in an unfamiliar language.
Moeava murmurs to his new partner, “Hey. That guy. Do you think he will bend?”
Ravid smiles at this new and more delicate form of pidgin. He shrugs, “He could. I’d give him fifty-fifty.” Then he turns to his partner with a rhetorical but specific question: “Would you like to find out if he does?”
So they put the boat to rights and hose off themselves and drive the twelve miles around to the hotel that faces the channel near the motus. They have a few beers in the bar till dusk, reviewing the dive and how to make it better and the godforsaken current that somebody local should have known about, which is why they call it local knowledge, which is an oxymoron in most cases but can make or break a dive business. Moeava reminds Ravid of what went right, and they review different sites for tomorrow’s dive, not really discussing the evening’s outing except for casual reference to checking things out.
Three beers in, the hugely breasted, heavily rouged woman who was the thickset man’s date a few nights ago takes a seat at the bar. Ravid nods and gets a receptive smile for his efforts, so he nods again to the bartender. She orders “the usual,” which looks like the working girl’s favorite toddy: top-drawer vodka, make that a double, straight up. It may be a prearranged deal, with the bartender serving water with a kickback, but who cares?
More importantly, she agrees in mere minutes to remove her clothing if requested and provide sexual relief to anyone for fifty thousand francs, or five hundred dollars, whatever comes first. Okay, she’ll do it for three hundred — okay, one fifty, because it’s not for Moeava, no offense, but anybody that big can’t get a discount; come on. She balks on learning that the friend is Oybek, her fairly recent date of not so many dates ago. She gives in to coaxing and a pledge of additional work in the future.
Ravid then visits the hotel sundries shop for two bottles of sparkling wine at the low end, La Vie en Chartreuse, bottled in Cambodia, and a small container of hot muscle liniment, because any stimulant or stimulation can trigger the bends in a diver who has absorbed too much nitrogen. He instructs Charisse to visit Oybek’s room, get the bubbly into him and then do him up like no tomorrow — “Like a Wild West bronco buster, baby. Can you do that?”
“Can I do that? I am professional. I can do more than that.”
“Good. Get him excited. He’s been depressed, and we really want to snap him out of it.”
“I don’t feenks he is depressed. I feenks he is...how you say, malade.”
“That would be ‘sick.’ Tonight will be a surprise, on us, and he can’t know. After the hoochie coochie you get him into a steaming shower and rub this stuff all over him. Make him feel good. Oh, he turns into a pussy cat when you do that.”
“You know this?”
“Yes! He broke up with his girlfriend — he didn’t tell you? A lovely woman. She looked like you, in the, you know, face and such. He stopped taking his hot showers and using the liniment, so, he got depressed.” Charisse is confused, till Ravid shrugs. “They are the things he loves in life. We want him happy. When he’s happy, he’s a wonderful fellow.”
She rolls her eyes. “I feenks one hundred fifty will not — ”
“Okay, two hundred. But, when you get him in the shower and get him rubbed all over, then give him the...you know.” Here Ravid makes the vulgar gesture, jamming his tongue into his cheek while pursing his mouth around an imaginary shaft grasped in one hand. But Charisse is a professional and accustomed to charade as euphemism for commonly ordered services.
Ravid and Moeava don’t doubt that Charisse will do the work, but Ravid stipulates a hundred dollars up front and the balance on fulfillment. Then they go to see if the recipient is in. It’s fun, a prank, and yes, it’s good to act out. Communication is difficult with Oybek, but Charisse gets into the goodwill spirit of generosity and healing.
Oybek is pleasantly surprised and willing to receive. God knows he spent enough. She says it’s a slow night for her and she can’t stop thinking about their amazing night and his generosity.
He demurs in Slavic slur, with charades showing that generosity comes from his heart. She eases in.
Ravid and Moeava relax against a tree, close enough to hear voices through the louvers. Ravid whispers that Charisse is either offering the freebie or a discount.
Moeava laughs. He hadn’t thought of that but feels that he would also maximize profits if he were in a position to sell pussy. “Why not? I would like to fuck every night and get paid. But why not make more?” As a boat whore he can only charge once. They laugh in another moment of male bonding, and Moeava lights a joint from his pocket. He smokes a third of it before holding it out with the question, “You like marijuana?”
“Yes. I believe I do.” Ravid inhales his first removal from challenging, brief moments since leaving everything behind, and is returned posthaste to a doper’s homecoming.
They soon hear small arms fire — the corks popping — and a few minutes after that come the grunt and grind, the call for more, yes, more, don’t stop, don’t stop, yes, more, now there, there, there, and so on.
The nap is next, then Charisse rouses Oybek for the hot shower. He grumbles that she should go, let him rest. She smears the hot sauce all over, and he moans. They hear the shower and Charisse tittering that it’s sooooo nice, and she has an idea how to get him ready for another go. Her singsong is as lilting as a cabaret singer’s. She wants his big, delicious self over here, and bring the bubbly. Then the louvers give up only the sound of cascading water.
Ravid is very stoned. He wonders aloud whether they have wasted their money by providing liquor and sex for a menace to society. Moeava shakes his head. “No. Not my money.”
Ravid shrugs. “Yeah. Well. Maybe it’ll be a good lesson for a reactionary prick.”
“Yes. That is what I think also. He is a reactionary prick.”
“Not him. Me. Maybe it will teach me to lay off the revenge thing and spend my money more wisely, like on pussy and liquor for me.”
“And me.” They laugh at the aging joke.
“Not your money...”
Then comes a withering lament wringing itself like a rag, and not one caused by sexual satisfaction. The two rise and step to the window. They see Charisse open the door and run out, quickly dressed,
dabbing with her towel, which she drops a few steps out.
Moeava turns for a quick exit but Ravid says, “Wait.”
He ducks through the passage between the bungalows to the door and sees the big man on the cheap sofa, not exactly in convulsion, but quivering on the verge, in thickening steam. Moeava steps closer to see. Ravid says, “Medium case. I’ve seen worse. I think he won’t die. Unless he’s got other problems. Hard to say. I think muscle guys like that show it worse than normal people. Come on.”
“Should we call somebody?”
“I don’t think so.”
Oybek moans and mutters what could be gibberish or the Ukrainian national anthem, breaking into staccato yelps. Ravid tells Moeava to lend a hand, and they roll the helpless hulk toward the back of the sofa, to better muffle the sound. They turn off the shower and stroll back to Moeava’s small truck.
Ravid suggests another beer on the way back. Moeava pulls onto the road and says, “You really something. You get that guy. For good. Now you want more beer.”
“That guy got himself.”
“I like that. I like how you do that. You all American.”
Ravid declines. “No. I’m not American. I never was. I only like what it stands for. What it stood for.”
Moeava giggles and slaps the steering wheel. He giggles that he wants to be more American, like Ravid; it was just so fucking perfect, man. C’est fucking parfait!
“Hey, look,” Ravid says. “It’s not great. It’s a personal problem. It’s never been great. Okay?”
“What ever you say. Okay?” They ride in silence, till Moeava slaps the wheel again. “Man!”
Ravid says, “I wish we hadn’t done that.” Because it’s bad enough that he behaves like a psychopath, let alone teaching someone that it’s cool. Or satisfying. Or acceptable. So regret sinks in for a few more miles.
“You know what I think?” Moeava is reflective.
“No. Je ne sais pas quoi tu penses.”
“Pas quoi; ce que. Je ne sais pas ce que tu penses.”
“Mais oui. I don’t know what you think. But I wonder what you think.”
“I think you got no regret. I think you say regret, so nobody think you crazy. Nobody but me is think anything anyway. Je pense que tu es mal, et tant pis. I think you crazy no matter what you say. That guy got the bends is crazy aussi. Everybody un peu mal, but he much worse crazy. Il est trop mal. Il est mal, froid. I think deep down inside, dans ton coeur, you want to hurt that guy. You need to hurt that guy. May be kill that guy. You say, il est mort, peut-être; tant pis. I think you would not be so good at hurting him, if you did not want to hurt him. It was good. Man. It was very good.”
“And why do you think I need to hurt people?”
“I don’t know. But I think I find out pretty soon.”
“I think I need help. And pretty soon you will too.”
“I think you help yourself already. Not so bad. Don’t worry. We don’t need no stinking regret. Ha! Hey. You see that one, with the guys all farting?”
Moeava is a contradiction, an oaf on the one hand, incisively insightful on the other — as if the one is a ruse, a clever pretext by which to highlight the other. Maybe he’s stupid like a fox. Lingering distrust compels Ravid to double-check most of the big man’s work, especially where life and limb could be at risk. Another uncertainty lingers on personal assessment: Ravid is a waterman of renown at home, but he’s far from home with no renown. So what has he become? What’s become of him? What continues to well up from deep inside? Home can be anywhere with friends and a family forming up, and maybe this is it. But surely more will come.
Well, the path is simple enough. Ravid thinks himself a stand up guy who swung at a curve ball — make that a meatball coming out of nowhere, emissary from a screwy world requiring screwy responses. That’s all. Yet Moeava’s correction hits with a twinge of realization that among Ravid’s primary developments is a superior skill at revenge.
Moeava can move at depth with surprising alacrity, supple as a bull walrus and just as graceful, submerged. On the surface he splashes, his outsized limbs too heavy for sleek movement only minutes into a swim. Out of the water he lumbers, bulky and self-conscious. Resigned to the fact that nothing will improve his swimming skills short of losing a hundred pounds, he slowly opens to hints here and there.
“Look.” Ravid coils a line in slow motion, verbally dismissing the idea of laying a figure eight to better avoid tangling on a rapid payout. “If you lay it right, it won’t tangle, and it looks better, and you won’t trip on it. If it’s a dock line, look...” He throws the quick half hitch, the braking half wrap, the trucker’s hitch for securing big stuff with no slack. Finally comes the indispensable bowline that won’t tighten under load. This one should be practiced a few thousand times, till it’s mindless, and the hands alone can tie it without engaging the brain.
Ravid swims near Moeava from the boat to the drop. Grasping Moeava’s deflator he deflates the BC, settling the big man a few inches deeper in the water. Moeava catches on. On the bottom he can move the anchor and twenty-four feet of chain more easily than two smaller men, moving the bottom tackle away from the coral to give it a wide berth, setting the anchor in a sandy patch. Moeava tacitly understands the importance of preserving that by which a livelihood is derived — that for which love should be felt and returned.
When the big shark stays gone, Moeava swears that the beast appeared four or five times in the week prior to Ravid’s arrival. Ravid hesitates to elaborate on what might be magic, which seems natural to him but to others might sound strange. He says the big tiger may have had a food source nearby and hung around till it was gone. It’s their pattern, what they do. Ravid asks if Moeava knows his animal spirit. Moeava laughs and thinks it over. Then he shrugs, “Je ne sais pas, mais... je sais qu’il n’est pas Ma’o.”
“Pourquoi pas?”
“Because. He scare the shit from me. I mean she. She scare shit from me.”
Ravid nods. “Moi aussi, mais...that’s the point. That’s the test. The magic. If your animal spirit was the Easter bunny it would be easy. And you’d get money under your pillow for every tooth that fell out of your head.”
“That would be la petite souris.”
“Same difference. It would have no power. Rien! It would be warm and fuzzy, great for a kid, but not for you. It would present no fear and require no faith.”
Moeava ruminates. “Why must my spirit guide be fearful? What’s wrong with the Easter bunny?”
“Fearsome. And yes. The Easter bunny is a rabbit. It hides colored eggs.”
Moeava is skeptical. “So what? I was happy then. I like the Easter bunny. I want to take the Easter Bunny for a boat ride. Not Ma’o. Fuckeen’ haoles. Always try to change things around to their way, with the fear and the guilt... Hey. No offense.”
“None taken. I’m not haole.” Moeava squints through one eye. “I’m Jewish.” Moeava huffs. “You scoff. But it wasn’t the Jews who came here or to Hawaii to steal resources or convert native people to the correct religion.”
Moeava ponders, then goes to the cooler that was stocked before sunrise. Holding the lid open, he says, “The Jews did something wrong. You know this. Everybody pissed off at them.”
“Not everybody. Only those in need of a scapegoat.”
Moeava shrugs. “I don’t know. I think it has to do with the money. You know how everybody talk about getting Jewed.”
“Are you getting Jewed?”
“Hmm... I don’t think so. But I don’t know. Am I?”
“I don’t think so too. But don’t worry; you can’t help yourself from offending me. So I take no offense. Haoles. Jews. It makes no difference who you blame for your troubles, as long as it’s not yourself. Right?”
Moeava chews this bone and finally agrees. “I think you are right. It is the others who are most to blame.” Then he makes his final dive of the day, under the ice, colas and juices to the bottom and the Hinano six-pack sunk there
hours ago for this moment. Done with glad-handing and with clearing and rinsing the gear and the boat, sorting and stowing the stuff, Moeava comes up with the common treasure of the charter trade. He pops two and offers one, “It is good that you understand these things. In the future we will work better together because of your understanding. I like to say many things that could give you offense. But they won’t, because you understand.”
They glug two thirds on a synchronized inhale that seems ceremonial. They sigh on absorption of life itself. “I understand,” Ravid confirms with a raucous belch.
Moeava ups the ante by belching a scale and two chords. They laugh like men, bonded.
So the friendship develops with the stone-ax simplicity of their forebears. As inveterate heterosexuals they likewise understand that this bonding is different from romance, which may be as fast but is more complex, often involving sexual contact and intimacies of the heart in a delicate exchange rife with pitfalls, minefields and bad taste — with gaffe, omission and too much or too little, too late.
None of that here.
Moeava woofs his fried bananas and farts out loud. Ravid tells him he’s disgusting, then dribbles poisson cru on his white T-shirt, at which Moeava observes, “You eat like an animal.”
Flame Angels Page 33
