Flame Angels

by Robert Wintner

  He senses a new motivation in her, not toward him or the curious lump in his skivvies but toward artistic potential, as a nun is drawn to a holy spirit, though an artistic spirit seems more palpable. He reminds her that the trip was her idea, and any success is hers to share. She demurs; she only tagged along. She hugs him for their shared success, enduring one thing and another. Little Dog barks.

  In the next few days come profiles — back to macro — of harlequin shrimp looking superior, mugging for the lens, arching between head and thorax to show off their intricate mouth mechanisms.

  A long-nose seahorse adult male spews seahorse babies from his stomach pouch. They look like larvae, rolling and tumbling in perfect miniature into life and chaos in currents, surges and hunger. A more orderly trio of brown-banded pipefish relax on a fuzzy rock two feet below the surface, blending into the dappled refraction, stretching their necks to the left and right.

  Focus, clarity, color and surprise — look, there! — are rendered in daily communion with Neptune’s minions. Content and composition vary and seem a function of repetition and luck. What else can it be, when you shoot a dozen exposures of the same fish?

  It’s attitude — what Desmond brought to Brubeck or Getz to samba. Take a blowfish common to the area, in the fourteen inch range. Similar to the porcupine boxfish in Hawaii and likely a first cousin, the Tahiti variety has shorter quills and darker coloration and is seemingly shy enough to blush. They pick a section of reef and tend to make a home there, shooing for cover on any approach, into one of a few hiding places nearby. This one saw Ravid ten yards out, with no tanks, and ducked out of sight. Surface drifting with mask, fins, snorkel and a camera with no strobes, on a mild current in available light, Ravid hovered on a gentle side kick, allowing the distance to close slowly, till the little puffer peeked out to see if the coast was clear, et voilà!

  Behold the face of innocence, surprise and concern, eyes wide, mouth open — classic youth in startled amazement, like a Norman Rockwell child but with a fish as the child, as part of a community and social order, in candid expression of self.

  A princely angel turns askew to foreshorten the color vortex on his flank, where black, turquoise and ivory swirl inward on a fire-orange field up to the gill plates. The head is hidden in deep shadow, except for the voltage arcing from the eyes in matching fire orange.

  A triggerfish poses before the sun to illuminate his chartreuse fin webbing and turquoise piping, all spines erect, charged by the inner glow.

  A trumpetfish fairly quivers, pre-pounce, while a speck waves goodbye. The fluorescence of the tableau can be explained as emotion-triggered chromatophor cells in the predator and bioluminescence in the prey, or it can be viewed as eternal light. Mercy takes mysterious forms. Flexible and godlike, with orbital eyes rolling fore and aft, up and down, above the long snout, the trumpet is as presumptuous as a seasoned winner. Lemon yellow is flecked with tiny diamonds for tubular flashes in shimmering waves on scales that articulate old Sol’s morning ablutions — except that we’re too deep here for sunlight or adequate shooting light without a strobe. But a strobe would light the entire scene and not spotlight the key players — sure, the aperture could squint to F22, but let’s think out of the net. Okay?

  Who would have imagined turning the strobe off so the chromatophoric light would remain visible? But low light would blur the image, with the aperture open too long, attempting to gather adequate light to get the image. Well, this shot was manual, with the camera braced against a rock made handy by Neptune, apparently equally amused at a trumpetfish holding still to avoid detection by the big marine mammal gently pressing his shutter button.

  The scene captures the interim between eternity, death and life in the arc from one electrode to another in a still shot containing movement. Friends watch the picture, sometimes turning to new angles. Then they move to the next shot.

  Soon the little room is packed wall-to-wall and wainscot to ceiling. The photos represent victory over the odds and over artistic challenge, yet they challenge the artist for more. The first tough question is where to go from here. The second question is just as tough: What the hell am I supposed to do with all these fish pictures? I mean, who wants to see them but my lesbian landlady, my aging girlfriend and my dog?

  The first question has many answers: extreme macro down to the nose hairs on a coral polyp, or seascape opportunities across the Society Islands, the Australes and even the Marquesas for big pelagics, but especially back to the Tuamotus and lagoons as yet untrammeled by the teeming tourist refuse yearning to be free. Makemo, Ranoga and Anaa, for starters, offer direct flights, cheap digs and as close as a diver can get to peace on Earth.

  So the second question, glib and cynical, is set aside. The best path is obviously forward, never mind the growing inventory; when recognition and a rightful audience at last materialize, a treasure trove of Neptune’s wealth will be ready for a grateful world. That should slow the pace of life as they know it — that should let them see, feel and know as the fishes do. Maybe then they’ll care for the irreplaceable reefs.

  Well, maybe they will. Maybe they won’t. No artist can vouch for the tastes and behaviors of the audience — especially these days, with the audience as callous, greedy and self-centered as any audience in history, unless it was always this bad but didn’t seem so bad without TV. Monique consoles him with art history; truly great artists are generally unknown prior to death. How can anyone be recognized until the end, when the world can see how the entire life has been lived? Which is really a great thing, leaving the artist free to roam and create without the nuisance of celebrity. Ravid is not consoled; he would appreciate an appreciative audience. What artist wouldn’t?

  In any event, Opus Rockulz will be on hand to support the cause both before and after the artist’s demise.

  And on that note the current bout of wondering, challenging, asking why and getting nowhere comes to an end. It’s time to get back to work. He’ll begin with Maupiti. He’ll go alone. Why not? Solitude is often the crucible for contact.

  He relents when Monique pleads. Why not take her again? For one thing, he won’t be tempted sexually, not that sex is a bad thing, though this trip won’t be for that, which is not to say that a trip couldn’t be for both, because, after all, art is not an athletic event, where sex beforehand is said to steal the athlete’s thunder. It can actually have the opposite effect on an artist, calming, enhancing focus. I love sex, but this won’t be that.

  On y va.

  They wade to Motu Auira across a lagoon three feet deep, shuffling to disturb the rays rather than step on them — most are hidden under a thin layer of sand but lift off and scurry along at the slightest provocation. Halfway across he asks Monique to hold the bags while he rifles for his mask, snorkel and camera stuff. She wants to know why this can’t wait till they settle on the motu, and then he can come back. He tells her she sounds like a wife as he slips into his gear and into the water to seek a ray or two at eye level.

  Naturally, the shots are expressive, with signature evocation, communication, documentation, color, focus, composition et al ad perfection. This is a symptom, a technically happy one but a practically challenging one. That is, with perfection as a baseline, how can the intrepid artist improve? Or the climber, swimmer, runner or rider? Given perfection, the challenge can atrophy, shriveling from possible breakthrough or failure to that which feels like another task.

  Monique brought her little music box and speakers. With a modicum of marijuana and a small cooler, the two friends are set to service a few pleasure centers in a luxuriant setting. And so they do, in intellectual and French liberation, naked on all levels, secured by friendship, gratitude and tropical wilderness.

  Sitting on her beach chair, Monique applies oil and splays herself to the sun. Ravid thinks she’s foolish, exposing herself to hazardous rays, and for what, no tan line? He, for one, prefers a tan line for its playful demarcation between what is reserved for special occasions an
d what is publicly revealed.

  She soon lifts her knees to ease her lower back, and he sympathizes anew with the sexual shortfall of some people, rendering them sexless and yet so defensive. With the curvature of a boy, her womanly wile is a work in progress. Maybe the right woman will come along and find her ravishing. Well, she’s ravishing enough in the big-hearted column, and, frankly, he didn’t mind one bit going along with her little experiment, though it proved awkward at the time.

  Staring at her oiled body as a gemologist might study a geode for facets, luster and complexity, he affirms his theory in this broadest of daylights, that a woman’s lips will be similar to each other in form and structure. Just so, Monique’s are thin, with no pucker. He feels certain her lower lips aren’t chapped, and he laughs aloud, wondering if the women in LA would cue up for nether lip injections.

  Well, of course they would, probably do. What a wonderful phenomenon to be far, far away from. Fairly lost in reverie, Ravid further wonders if private parts reflect the inner self — but surely such thoughts reflect inner confusion, obsession and failure to develop. Monique is tidy, with none of the stretching or distortion commonly resulting from childbirth or other abuses.

  In fact, she’s like an hors d’oeuvre, a small sampling to whet the appetite for the grand entrée. Well, he may be a man in a bind, but despite his shortcoming or because of it, he salutes, ten-hut! After all, Monique deserves more love than the clinical exercise at Rangiroa. Given the tropical balm, the sun, salt air and sultry rhythm, some decent buds and cold beer, and really, nothing could be nicer than a slow, comfortable screw.

  She sees the open book before her and laughs that he looks like a husband sprawled on a chaise longue, stoned, sunburned, drinking beer and listening to music. She ignores the salute, or maybe she thinks it normal.

  “This music is seductive. You know?”

  Her knees come together. Her ankles cross. He wonders why they do that but stays judiciously on point. “It captures a feeling I get at depth.”

  “Do you mean you’re thinking of video?”

  “No. I don’t mean anything productive. I’m trying to relax from that for a while. But I suppose it’ll come to that, because most ideas get fleshed out sooner or later, so we can make more stuff — even if it’s only art. At least making art is the least destructive of human behaviors...”

  “Only art? You talk like a Philistine. Art is second only to life. Art is why you are here. Art is why...why I... Your world is art. It takes care of you.”

  “Anyway, it doesn’t matter, because I don’t hear music down there. This music captures the feeling of how it would be if you were down there all the time — not coming out after a little while but living there. I think of that sometimes when I’m alone, especially on the rebreather, and it’s deep, you know, two-fifty or something, and a little darker, and there’s some current. I like it. I think I like it too much. I understand something then. I feel like I’m the only person alive to it. But I know it’s just a feeling, and the other six and a half billion people would disagree with me. They usually do.”

  She sits up with apparent concern. “That’s not good, I don’t think.”

  “Does it make sense?”

  “No. I hope it makes no sense to you too. I think you need a break, or something different for a while. I thinks this feeling you have indicates too much time on one pursuit. I think it is not good for you, and is not good for your art.”

  “You like my art.”

  She wags her head and shrugs. “I do. Maybe you are right. Maybe your depression is good for your art. Maybe you are a genius who will one day swim down and never come back, and the world will love you for your commitment.” She eases back down. “You can be famous at last.”

  “You think that’s what I want? You think I’m depressed?”

  “Of course you want it. And you are depressed. How could it be otherwise? What artist wants less? Why do you think fame is bad? I think not. You have none. Welcome to art.” What artist want less? Why you finks fame is bad? I finks not…

  “You’re right. I say I don’t care, because fame seems foolish; so many fools are famous in America. But yes, I think for me it would be different. I mean, my art is substantial, not just a downbeat behind some tits and ass. You know?”

  “Yes, and it is not just foolish in America. Anyplace with newspapers and TV will have famous fools. But a few great artist are famous too. Don’t forget. I think you will be. You might not even have to drown yourself to get it.”

  Again offering wise counsel on the merits and downsides of mental imbalance in artistic pursuit, her French view strengthens their understanding. He says he appreciates her insights and her influence. He speaks to her crotch as the knees re-splay, and her eyes close. “Monique...”

  “No, merci.”

  “Not even as a favor, between friends?”

  “No. Maybe some other time. Not today.”

  “You know that a day better than this will not come along.”

  “I would for you, as a favor. It means so much to you. I think it means too much to you.” She sits up. “I think...I think you convince yourself that you want to have me, but you don’t convince me. You merely want. You want every woman you see — maybe not every, but most. But you are not bad. You are not different. It’s what men do. I wish you could understand that you want for... ficky fick and not as a matter of romance.”

  “You don’t think I love you?”

  “I know you do. But not romance.”

  “You don’t want romance. We had no romance.”

  “No. Merci. Listen, I have an idea. I won’t tell it to you, but I think I would like to try a different man. If I don’t like him too, then I will let you do it.” I finks I will like to try a different man. If I don’t like him too, zen I will let you do it.

  “What difference does it make? We’re here.”

  “Yes. We are here. Now I will relax. Okay?”

  “Monique?”

  “Oui?”

  “I finks I am lesbian.”

  At last she laughs. Then she sleeps.

  Still he stares at her inner goodness. Her essence is as generous as her crotch is small; she is a giant among women, though a tad scrawny. He wonders if he could wake her gently with his tongue, allowing her to dispense with romance. He wonders when he’ll be able to stop convincing himself that his ploys are clever and correct. With her little snow bunnies melted to slush and the rest of her an oil slick, he accrues growth. Down periscope seems inversely appropriate. The insight is that pussy is good and will always be so but will become more elusive as the years pass, and he will one day have none and may well have nothing besides. By and by, nobody will want to be wakened by his tongue. Love must take other forms starting now, in a moment of reflection.

  Ravid loves Hereata but cannot fill her needs in the long term. Her company, her cooking, her womanly charms are vast, but her future is here. Her life is admirable and enviable; yet he still hopes he’ll one day be known, and so will his fish. And that’s the rub, that he doesn’t want fame but he does; that he loves Hereata but he doesn’t. One day it will end between them but it won’t. He wonders when, and if he’ll wait or end it soon on principle. He smokes more dope and drinks more beer and turns up the music and goes deep.

  Later, in the cooler evening, they talk of life and happiness. They lie under the stars and sleep till first light.

  They return home Sunday at noon.

  The intrepid diver/photographer sits and thinks, too late for morning energy, too early for a nap. He ponders and identifies another pursuit. He’ll research the natural histories of the reefs and species in French Polynesia along with the unique behaviors occurring there, to learn what migrations and other phenomena these reefs and atoll passes might host.

  An alluring euphoria at seventy feet or more is the typical symptom of narcosis of the deep. It removes a diver from common sense. The diver wants down, as if something waits there other than death.
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  It must have a different name at sea level. He’s not as stoned or depressed as an artist; he merely wonders what it would be like to ease on down a few hundred feet and out. Or maybe he knows, and, like an addict with a rising baseline, wants more of the feeling. Maybe the feeling is a happy alternative to the rigors of daily life. Or maybe he, Ravid Rockulz, is a world-class whiner, living in French Polynesia, working as a dive leader, pursuing his passion of marine photography with excellent equipment and access and calling it rigorous. He reminds himself of purity in art, and its removal from money.

  Maybe his dissatisfaction is chronic, a new version of the restlessness of youth, and maybe it’s not a bad thing or a thing to resolve. Maybe it’s an honest longing, what any fish flopping on a dock would feel, glancing at the edge so near yet unattainable.

  But wait a minute: I feel good.

  Minna Redux

  Even the big four-oh can pass quietly, if a man is careful. Ravid thinks life can begin at forty just as well without the folderol. Who needs it?

  But Moeava needs the serial number, the certifying dive shop number and other numbers from his certification card to complete the insurance application. Moeava sees the milestone birthday a few weeks out, and like an ill-advised boy he takes note and makes plans, inviting people to the surprise fortieth birthday party he will hold for his good friend Ravid — yes, that’s right, forty.

  He invites Cosima, in case she doesn’t yet know of Ravid’s old age or involvement with another woman. She must already know of both; she treats her loyal suitor so civilly these days. Maybe she appreciates his dedication. He asks for her favors as Ravid coached him to do, promising to make the swim right after. She assures him that such favors would be impossible. It would break the rules, making the prize meaningless.