Flame Angels

by Robert Wintner

  His eyes open on cue as his hostess with the mostest looks up from the old stomping grounds with a weary grin. Reality is fixed on comfort and jams into overdrive. Her mascara runny as erosion rivulets on a hillside and her missing tooth give him pause; Oy vey... Yet oblivious to all but happiness shared, she bows her head to redeem his ticket on a brand new day.

  In acceptance of what destiny has brought his way, he throws the sheet back.

  Why?

  Why to watch, of course. Ah, Paradise. This is what became of me. It seems excessive and pathologically focused, but you know it could be much worse. Coffee and Danish served at the front door are up to those standards of excellence established here and now, and without ceremony he bids her a most wonderful day and adieu, which makes her happy, perhaps because he does not hesitate or cower like he did the first time.

  No, because the future warrants acceptance, whatever it decides to be, and if this is it, so be it. So he kisses her on the lips, thanks her for another full boat and tells her he’ll take it easy tonight at his place, but he’ll see her bye’mbye, tomorrow.

  She smiles sadly, caressing his cheek. “No. 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.” Hereata turns away, sits on the bed and hangs her head. “I’m going away.”

  Okay. So the pattern will be short-lived. Some patterns are brief like that. This one was a nice respite from the rigors of transition, of making new friends in a new place, which process has not really begun, except for Moeava, maybe, but look at the progress made in a very short time. Things are settling into place. With Hereata gone tomorrow, maybe some time will open up to find a real place to live, a place with a kitchen and a TV. Except that it would only have French programming. Okay, scratch the TV, except that it would serve as a good teacher of the French language, or could if the shows were any good.

  “I’m going away. You won’t see me.”

  “Yes. I heard you.” Ravid isn’t sure what to say next; she apparently doesn’t want to elaborate, or she wants him to ask. “Are you going to Papeete?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can I ask you where you will go from there?”

  “I haven’t decided.”

  “What are your choices?”

  “I don’t feel that it’s up to me.”

  Oh, no — what should not, must not, cannot be asked at this juncture is whom, in fact, it is up to, unless this little volley is part of the pattern. Hereata’s many comforts and charms feel so ineluctable around dusk, only to be counterbalanced soon after dawn with tough, demanding questions.

  “I said it’s not up to me.”

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

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

  This too is a skillful parry; what can he possibly ask back, whom is him? So to avoid the knockdown drag-out repartee that could well establish this other, avoidable pattern, Ravid says, “Very good. Then we’ll meet again on Saturday?”

  She turns to him with her most loving smile. “Yes.”

  “Here?”

  “No. 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 has to move out of his own house.”

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

  “He told me twenty-nine.”

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

  “Well, 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 a lucky man for having. Tahiti. Me.” She sits up and turns his way.

  “You sound like my mother.”

  “She must be a smart woman.”

  “Yes. She’s neurotic too. Always insisting, you know?”

  “She only wants what’s best for you.”

  “Yes, well, many people do. But I’m not nearly so dumb as I let on. Trust me on this — we will get along much better, you and I, if we come together as often as we want but not every day and every night. I know a few things, like my appreciation of what you have to show me, and how to keep that appreciation fresh.”

  “I think you want to chase girls.”

  “Maybe. Who knows? Maybe not. You impress me as a confident woman who doesn’t need to worry about that, not with your hospitality resources.”

  “Yes. It’s true. You would be foolish to give this up. You might think me old and fat, or uncouth and unkempt, any of those things that 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, sweetie, darling, where are you? Yes? Am I right?”

  “Yes. I think you are right. And so am I. I think we’ve reached a wonderful understanding. In our love.”

  She turns to him. “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

  Learning the benefits and demands of life with Hereata, Ravid knows that her charms and comforts are equally inviting and consequential; such is the way of love with a woman. He loves her charms, both the heartfelt and the sexually gratuitous. And he wants to give in, as a matter of choice and of practicality.

  Coming home is a feeling acquired by giving and receiving till familiarity takes over. The homing instinct is developed. The placebo is physical, and becomes part of the data relating to the esoteric senses of security and caring. Comfort and stability displace life’s challenges; homing occurs when a solitary person becomes part of a duet. At home, the old world and its questions fall away, so a man can relax and rejuvenate.

  But a controlled experiment must also factor practicality; she’ll be sixty in a few years, which shouldn’t count for much if he loves her. It does influence the data, however, because he can’t vouch for his staying power — can’t indicate forever, can’t deny that he’s driven by comfort and convenience. With departure premeditated, he fails to match her level of commitment. He can’t blame her for what she wants, or burden himself for not providing it. In the meantime they have what each can provide the other, which is back to the placebo, every predisposed scientist’s nemesis.

  It’s not like she gets no return, however briefly he may stay. She does, and it counts for plenty, because Hereata would choose some sugar for a few nights over none at all. A year or two would be better still. So? Can a rational man make a short-term commitment to a real woman?

  He’ll use her absence to mutual benefit, at any rate; use it toward finding a place of his own. They can still fuck, or make love, each to her own, in accordance with the needs of the other. They’ll likely engage as frequently as cohabitants would, but with more fervor. Besides that, he won’t be moving out when she gets too old, which isn’t a nice thing to think but is practical, because a man and woman of
more similar ages would more likely age together naturally. How would she feel at sixty, living with a forty-five-year-old man who still needs a rousing round of you-know-what? Which isn’t to say that Hereata won’t be viable at sixty; she will be, I think.

  Never mind. Anything will be an improvement over the bungalow across from Taverua, a godsend at the outset but providing nothing of home, not to mention economy, freedom and independence.

  So he works the morning charter and feels a daily routine taking shape with Moeava and himself. They meld cohesively as working crew. On deck and on the dive site they communicate more efficiently; fewer words underscore greater understanding.

  With Hereata gone, no divers are booked for the next day, which means no money but allows time for finding a place.

  Here too, fortune smiles on a wayward waterman with a weakness for underdogs, in this case a small dog among many strays, without resources, without hope. Like those recently on the road, this little dog has the wits to eke out a living from tourists at Taverua. From week to week, bungalow to restaurant, this tail wagger soon determines who might be good for a handout, a pat on the head, some goo goo talk and leftovers. Or who might be good for nothing but a shout or a shoe.

  Ravid shouted twice to keep the dog from following, after giving a chunk of Danish, which he shouldn’t have done, but give a dog a break. He’s so expressive, smart, unimposing and quick-witted, his thirty pounds of personality indicating a mix of black lab and something smaller. Who knows? A terrier with a stepladder? By this time, Ravid is friendly with the manager, who is also the owner, who works hard to ensure a living for himself but not the dog.

  On the morning Ravid seeks housing, he must yell again at the little dog not to cross the road. Hearing this, the manager/owner yells at Ravid while running out to the parking lot. “Hey! Do you want that dog?”

  “Well, no. I can’t have a dog. I have no place to live. I would take him if I did.”

  The manager stops and shuffles. “Ah. Okay. I will call for the pick up then. He begs all my guests. We can’t have it.”

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

  The dog wags his tail, smiles and jumps up to nose Ravid on the chest.

  “Yes. But a dog needs a home. He can’t stay here. We can’t take care of him.”

  “What will happen when they come to 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.”

  “Would it be possible for you to keep the dog as a mascot if he were medically sound, with all his inoculations, and he gets neutered? I will have that done. He is cute, and your guests love him. A dog is good for business. You know 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 Lindsay Lohan?”

  Ravid smiles, affirmed that he has chosen the right place to call home.

  But the manager is too busy for sentiment — “No. 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.”

  By this time the dog is heeled, his face fondly pressed to Ravid’s knee with faith, as only a smart dog can convey. A tourist with a rental car says she is going past the animal clinic, and they sometimes find homes for dogs, and she can give them a lift.

  Yes, they can make time for that, which the dog takes to mean that a home is found at last; never mind that it has no address, no walls, furniture, dishes, yard or anything but the bond. Never mind that the home is a car, an abode on wheels. Because home is where the heart is — and a dog’s heart is with the pack, at that moment defined. Equally obvious to the dog is that a life of adventure awaits, starting now. They ride together in back. “What’s his name?” asks the woman behind the wheel.

  Ravid squints as if at the fine print. He can’t quite make it out, so he shrugs, “Little Dog. I call him Little Dog.”

  “Little Dog? That’s it? Little Dog? Not much of a name.”

  “It’s what I call him. I think it fits.”

  Little Dog tongue-laps approval of the new name. Ravid wipes his face, scoffing at the behavior but then pulling the dog close to absolve guilt.

  The two women at the humane place are in no way in need of another dog, not with a dozen dogs out back in only eight kennels, four dogs coming in and many more dogs in need of shelter. One woman is a volunteer who speaks only French. The other is the owner and speaks English, and her French is slow enough to follow. She may know a woman who will take this dog, Little Dog, because her 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?” This question is a test, to see if the woman responds in disbelief.

  But the woman says, “We don’t think that will happen. People really don’t do that here.” We don’t feenks that weel happen...

  “What do you mean, they really don’t? Does that mean they sometimes do?”

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

  “Will uncle get him inoculated?”

  The woman assures him that the dog will be both inoculated and neutered in the near future.

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

  “Of course you can.”

  So he briefly thinks before turning back, “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.” She points behind her the bulletin board festooned with notices in French. One says, À Louer, ici. The details list a single room with good light and ventilation along with a salle de bain et une cuisine for three hundred XFP per month, or three dollars and twenty-five cents US.

  “Do you know where this is?”

  The woman puffs her lower lip and says, “Regardez là. Ici. You are here.”

  “Do you take dogs?”

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

  So it is that roommates find a place. Ravid suspects Little Dog’s esoteric powers account for success in forty minutes acquiring a new home with a landlady so pale, frail and supportive. The landlady interrupts this reflection with news that Little Dog will be scheduled soon for liberation from the consummate burden. With clinical curiosity Ravid looks up, sensing odd satisfaction in her. Her creamy white torso, revealed by a blouse worn mostly open, is a stark plateau where two snow bunnies, not yet adults, blend with the low rolling landscape. Her boyish chest is like a Dali still life. Nothing tilts or slumps yet the scene indicates movement through contrast. Ravid ends his examination with lack of interest. What a relief.

  This slight woman is a different kettle of fish from Hereata’s force of nature. While Hereata demands this and that, immutable as a torrent, this little zephyr seems guilelessly intent on lost dogs and cats, which is admirable. No matter what curiosity or mordant pleasures she may take in her petty comments, she is saving lost souls, forgotten souls, souls who count for amazing love in the world. Beyond that, she has provided salvation and a home for a man and his dog with no hesitation. Still, Ravid wipes his mug to better press for reasonable compromise. “I know it’s different with dogs than humans, but he trusts me, and I have a hard time, you know... If it’s not required, since he’ll be with me now, if we might forget the...you know?”

  “Monsieur, I do not know. I do not know the question so I can’t know the answer. Can you repeat it a different way, please?”

  Ravid moves two fingers like scissors. “Fixed. Him. The dog. I have a hard time.” Ravid squirms from the mid-
section to help her get the picture.

  She gets the picture. “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 piece of flesh that cost you many nights. We can schedule you for Tuesday. Okay?”

  Little Dog leans in, happy to be discussed with concern.

  “You mean schedule the dog.”

  “I’m afraid that is all we can do for now.”

  With quivering uncertainty toward this new place called home, he asks if she might...be so kind as to call a taxi. He speaks softly, more like a fop than like the real man that he is, conceding the point. But the sexist overtone and bitterness seem inappropriate. Is that what she wants? A world of constraint, highlighting what is wrong? I’ll take anarchy any day, beginning with Hereata, her molten presence so ageless next to this tiresome rectitude. Hereata will be back tomorrow. I’ll show her the new place and let her speak for the womanly wing of the feminine party — then the pressures of manhood can be ventilated, with gratitude I might add.

  Ah! Oui! Oui! N’arrête pas!

  Monique is both the proprietor of the clinic and the new landlady. She proceeds with the work at hand, advising her new tenant to walk down the road to gather his things, since a taxi could take an hour to arrive, and it’s only four miles, and he can stick his thumb up and he may get a ride, but he probably won’t. “Don’t worry, the dog can stay here.”

  Ravid blushes — “I thought you were going to tell me to stick my thumb up my ass.”

  She also blushes but doesn’t laugh. “Vous n’êtes pas drôle, Monsieur.”