Reefdog

by Robert Wintner

  At night.

  Which should make an impression, but Ravi the rockhead has a fatal appetite for tender leg. But can all women be mental? Probably not all, only the ones he meets. He takes cold comfort in consistency but feels bona fide stupid. A healthy appetite is not wrong and can provide happiness for others, and a young dancer’s fantasy may be a curse, and he could end it by claiming the prize—like the guy who cut through the sticker bushes to kiss Sleeping Beauty. The winner won’t be much older than Ravi. Two elderly fellows tried and failed already.

  I’m not old. I can swim that bay on my back. Besides, she had to be relieved when those old guys drowned. Neither was wealthy. At least I got potential. Well, I got no flab.

  But why would anyone drown in that pond? It’s a mile, maybe—unless drowning was easier to tell than disappearing with no trace. But pondering the pond will also come later. Sooner, on a day pleasantly resolved, Vahineura approaches. “You are laughing at us. Why are you laughing? What do you see that’s funny?”

  Eating his third pass, Ravi puts a forefinger in the air, clears a swallow and shakes his head. “I am not laughing at you. I am laughing at… life. At my life and the… I don’t want to give the wrong impression, but I… I laugh at the turns my life has taken in the last few days. Please, forgive…”

  “What impression is the right impression?”

  “You’re a beautiful dancer. I’m sorry if you thought I…”

  “You looked, and you laughed.”

  “With delight.”

  She smiles because he said the right thing; so few men do. “When the show is over, we invite our guests for pictures. Perhaps you would like a picture to send home.”

  She pegged him as a tourist. That’s okay, and he says yes, a picture would show his mother he’s having fun.

  “Did you bring your camera?”

  “Yes, but it’s for diving, for underwater pictures. It can take regular pictures too, but I don’t have it here. It’s too big.”

  “All right. You can use our camera. See that woman there?”

  Fate paints a picture on simple strokes. Yes, he sees that woman, the dancing troupe’s matron, more middle in age than he is but well preserved, tawny with a slight cushion but firm and obviously formerly svelte, like Aunt Hadi, who was not Mother’s sister but a friend. Hadi let Ravi watch if he pretended to sleep and only peeked through eye slits when she played with herself. Here she is again, still affable and affectionate.

  “She is Hereata. You will love her. It’s only Polaroid, a thousand francs, about twelve dollars. You’re here for pictures underwater?”

  “Yes. I am here for that.”

  “Good. I am Vahineura.”

  “Ravi.”

  “I don’t mind if you laugh at us. I only wanted to know why.”

  “Laughter sprang from my heart, which is different than laughing at you. You see?”

  “I see. I see you later. Comme ça?”

  “Yes. I mean, oui.”

  She drifts back to the stage. His appetite is gone, or at least changed. Besides, hardly a spare cubic centimeter remains in the old breadbasket. Pubic centimeter? That’s disgusting, but men in emotional turmoil can display incorrigible behavior, often as pussy hounds. Or is that unbearable? Either way. Speaking of sweets, some pineapple upside down would align nicely. She smiles at him, connecting dots, feeding potential.

  So things round out on a lesson: Get out and mix it up or stare at the walls. It seems so clear until a meatball rolls from the buffet in loud jams drooping below the knees because the waistband is below the butt crack. This guy could have a load in his crotch with nobody the wiser. He offsets with gold nuggets—a watchband and matching rings and earrings and a beefy nugget necklace demonstrate success in the Russian mafia. Maybe he sells timeshare on the Caspian Sea to former Commies who like vacations, want vacations, need vacations.

  Russian is the profile, but what else do you have with a bald head, pudgy hands, lumpy shoulders, thickness overall, and a borscht accent? He swills what is clearly not water and watches like Nikita Khrushchev on steroids at the General Assembly, ready to pound his shoe on a table. Fleshy folds bunch between the head and the neck. He takes a stance, arms folded, legs apart. On his left butt pocket is USA above an American flag. Below the flag: We’re #1! The other pocket is a dive flag—diagonal white stripe on a red field—making him one more macho idiot with a scuba certification card to prove it.

  The diphthong/glottal mix sounds Slavic or Curd or maybe Slobbovian. He’s drunk, keeping his little world safe for bad taste. His date is heavily rouged and confused. She goes along, apparently hired. The scene is ugly but avoidable—till he blocks Ravi’s view.

  Let it go, Ravi murmurs and does, through the photo op. Then he steps up to the meatball’s video camera with a smile. He no speaka too gooda de Française but says, “Vous êtes trop gros pour une fenêtre mais très parfaite pour une porte, n’est-ce pas?”

  The thick man rises, as the matron steps between them like a referee. She instructs, “Arrêtez, Monsieur.” But the glove is thrown and calls for a response. So the two men glare till the thick one lunges past the matron, who hooks his ankle. Ravi sidesteps to make room for the sprawl, which would be all she wrote, ending the spat with manageable loss of face. But the drunk is up to his knees on another go, so the matron plants her toes in his ribs. “Ne pas ici, Monsieur! Not in my show. Not in front of my guests. Go home now.” She hovers, discouraging a third lunge, and three bouncers in triple XL lead him out. He looks back, his brow set on revenge.

  What is it about me?

  She turns, “What is it about you?”

  “Thank you, but I didn’t start that. He stood in my way when…”

  “Yes. I saw him. Here.” She hands him a card with a two-digit number. The Polaroid ran out of film, so she went to point ’n shoot for quick and easy prints, but he’ll have to wait until she can finish with the guests. Each gets an embrace and a Polaroid. He stands by, watching his special dancer blush and blink on her way out.

  The crowd thins and cleanup begins. He decides to come back later for his photo because he needs a walk home on lifts and headers to sort the days and details on a freshening breeze. Seas are figurative, unlike those of the recent conundrum. This turmoil is part of a pattern, and it must change. Why does a man attract trouble at every turn? A blustery night may clarify the why and wherefore of things. Why couldn’t he close his eyes and let a meatball take his meatball video and roll away to his meatball room where he could slip into his meatball hooker and his meatball dream?

  “I am Hereata,” the matron says.

  “Yes. I know. I mean, the dancer…” He indicates the exit.

  “You mean Vahineura.”

  “Yes. She told me your name.”

  “I saw that, too. I’m sure she told you more than my name, and I must advise you…” But she stops short of advice. Flexing her supple self in subtle provocation, she suggests the unavoidable, that grace is merely typical to a fulsome woman in a clingy dress, heels, lipstick, and womanly wherewithal. Body language is a harmless amusement, really, a cultural ornament to please the eye. “Come. We make a print for you. So you can send it home, and they will see you having fun.”

  He follows through the lobby to an office, where she squats to rummage for the power button or look for a pencil she dropped last week. Who knows? Her dress rides up, and she swears that God invented computers for revenge on sinners, and if this merde hotel weren’t so cheap, it would get one of those printers where you just stick the thing in, et voilà! But no…

  “I can come back tomorrow, please. It’s not a problem.”

  “Your family should see you having fun, so they don’t worry. Or your friends. That way you avoid a bigger problem.”

  “How do you know my family will worry? Or my friends? Why do you think I’ll have a problem?”

  “Maybe I guessed and got lucky. Whose family doesn’t worry? What friends don’t want to hear from yo
u?”

  “Still, I can come back. Better in the daytime.”

  She stands up. “Okay. I think you’re right. What’s your name?”

  “Ravid.”

  “Rabid?”

  “No. Ravid, with a v. And it doesn’t rhyme with rabid. It’s rah-veed. Veed! But call me Ravi. Okay?”

  “Okay. Ravi,” she shrugs. “Where you from?”

  “I came here from Hawaii.”

  “I don’t think you were born in Hawaii.”

  “I was born in Morocco, but I’m from Haifa.”

  “You’re an Arab?”

  “I’m Israeli. It’s a long story from long ago.”

  “But you came yesterday from Hawaii?”

  “Yes. How do you know it was yesterday?”

  “Maybe I guessed and got lucky. It’s Sunday. You look new. I don’t know. You look familiar. I think I know you.”

  “We’ve never met. I would remember.”

  “I don’t mean that we met.” She proceeds to more earthly tasks.

  How else might she know him? He’ll sort that as well on the blustery walk home. “What else do you know?”

  “Young. Confused. Handsome. Lonely.”

  “Are you psychic? You are correct, but I was so hungry and had such a good meal, and I was having fun. I thought the… uncertainty didn’t show, at least for a little while.”

  “I’m more logical than psychic. I see what there is to see. You looked hungry all right.”

  “And you?”

  Such a question prompts eye contact and feminine flex in an expressive woman. “What about me?”

  “What about you? What are you? What do you feel?”

  “What do you see?”

  An equally open-ended question prompts caution in a man of seasoning who senses a door opening. He can’t quite see inside but she seems friendly, and she’s connected to tourism in a high-end hotel. What a person to know. So he looks and says, “Good looking. About my age. Generous, brave…”

  “You think I’m brave because of that scene? You don’t know tourism. Besides, it’s not brave if you’re not afraid. I had backup. That man was drunk. What could he do?”

  “Sorry. I thought you were brave. Not every woman could kick a guy in the ribs. And I do know tourism. I’m a dive instructor.”

  An eyebrow rises. “Come. I’ll buy a drink. I want to hear. You can help me wind down. You know how it is on the late shift.”

  Another drink seems unnecessary, and he begs off; he’s too tired and his belly is too full. She suggests a cognac as digestif. He nods because a drink with a mature woman in tourism may bode well. “Okay, you can buy a drink if I can buy one too.”

  Soon they relax at the bar, free of life questions, staring at their drinks. The silence could be awkward for people who just met, but it’s not. “They say silence is golden, but it can be a wall between people who have nothing to share or have trouble in their hearts. But when it passes easily, it means we’re compatible. Do you feel it? I think I’ll know you for a long time.” She turns to him.

  He smiles and says yes, a friend would be good. Her angular cheeks, Polynesian lips, dark skin, and compelling cleavage heave gently, and she blinks like a beacon on good anchorage… He laughs short; would that be sandy bottom or loose slag over hardpan?

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Not nothing. You laugh. Tell me what.”

  He watches his drink and says, “It’s different here. Less of some things. More of others. I think I like it.”

  “Hmm. It’s more French here. Not so Christian, like Hawaii.”

  “Yes… Why did you warn me? Or start to warn me.”

  “I didn’t warn you. You practically picked a fight with that man.”

  “Not about that. About the dancer—what’s her name?”

  “Oh, Cosima—Vahineura. She’s a nut, that’s why. She already got two guys dead and broke a bunch more hearts. And for what? A nut.”

  “Why warn me?”

  “Because you’re a man. I think you been through enough.”

  “What do you think I’ve been through?” He swallows half his cognac. “Now you’re guessing.”

  “Maybe. But I know what a tired man looks like. I told you: You look confused and tired. A man your age shouldn’t look so tired. Life tired. I don’t know what you been through, but I think it was tough. Physical tough, mental and emotional. Yes? No?”

  “How old am I?”

  She squints in scrutiny. “Thirty-eight, going on fifty-two.”

  He slides a hand over his hip pocket to feel his wallet. Well, she guessed and got lucky. So he looks a bit tired. “How old are you?”

  “Younger than you. Only forty-eight.”

  He laughs, downs his drink and signals the bartender, knowing the trick the sauce can play and loving the sauce for its trick. “Are you psychic?”

  “I think so. I see that I weigh less than you do, too.”

  He scans, thinking their weights close enough for a wrestling match. He would suggest two out of three falls but holds back. “Do you see reason? Direction?”

  “Sometimes. But I told you: What I see is more logic than psychic. Did you forget? You can see for yourself. My visions are ordinary, not extraordinary. What’s strange about seeing things as they are?” She shakes her head. “I’ll let you know when I see something.” They watch their drinks, comfort settling between them until she relents. “Okay. I see water. The ocean.”

  “So? We’re surrounded.”

  “At night.”

  He moans.

  “That’s all for now. It isn’t happy. I see this because you’re showing me, and you’re telling me as well. It’s not psychic. That’s why I warn you about Cosima. I don’t like to say things about a person who may be nice inside where it counts, especially one of my dancers, not my best dancer, but she’s learning, not so clumsy as she was. You’re a man, and I know what happens, and I saw what happened when she spoke to you.” So she tells of Vahineura—Cosima—and the curse/fantasy that a man will swim over and back between sunset and sunrise to claim her.

  He won’t ask about depth, current, sea creatures, and shoals but holds his cognac to the candle. “Is water ever happy?”

  “Of course it is. You of all people should know that.”

  “I should. But I think it’s not sad or happy. It’s only… efficient.”

  “Efficient does not mean it’s unhappy. Don’t be foolish. No man should get so tired, especially a man your age, who may recover.”

  Or he may not, yet he warms to her common sense—her optimism feels informed. The bar closes. Her small house is in a field below a piton, a short walk up. She’s nice and smart and also on edge—a far edge—but her manner and presence make her flat-out doable at closing time. So he asks the tough question: Would he pick the same tomato in daylight, sober? Stop. Take your petty needs home in the dark and let a friendship be. “I’m staying in a bungalow by Taverua.”

  “That’s two miles down!”

  “Yes. On a beautiful night for a walk.”

  “With squalls? No moon? I think a tired man is a dangerous man.”

  Slouching into a downpour does not seem so invigorating as a while ago, but he’s seen worse. He follows her out, comme ci, comme ça, happily adrift on dry land. The rain starts at the top step and pours by the bottom. “Come! My house is near.” He faces foul weather or perhaps another failure.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You can stay at my house. No funny business. Do you hear?”

  “Yes, I hear.” Maybe it’s best. But how could it be—but she takes his hand to lead the way, downwind. “You’re so sad and drunk. Venez! Vite!” So they head up the road in the dark on a rocky shoulder in the rain and traffic. She chatters over life since before the road got paved, when it was dusty or a mud bog, but paved will kill you quicker. She’s walked it for years, often in worse conditions.

  Yes, he’s familiar with the changing world
. At least the side road is still dirt. She grasps his waist and points a flashlight, like he’s convalescent, headed to the infirmary. Dim light and dancing shadows favor a seasoned woman. On the porch she steps out of her slippers and regrets the dark, but who knew she’d drag the cat home? She laughs and turns on the light, and he sees boots, size twelve. “Effective, don’t you think? A woman learns these things.”

  Inside is brighter. It’s a roof over four walls with a kitchen table and chairs and a couch that unfolds to a bed. She points out back at the salle de bain, telling him to pee-pee from the porch to the left on his way out, not to the right—sur la gauche, pas à la droite—where her garden is trying to grow. He would ask if she also makes pee-pee from the edge but knows that she does, “but only in bad weather,” she says, frittering over no rest for the weary, wet clothing, and catching her death, even in Paradise, where such things still happen.

  She disrobes casually as an anecdote, peeling the clingy dress to reveal the truth of the situation, so the parties of the first and second part can dispense with speculation. It’s normal, after all. Wet clothing must come off. She says the place sleeps very well, and they’ll walk back up in the morning for his picture, so his family can see him having fun. She plucks a towel from the wall to dry herself. She’ll walk back up anyway for work, so it’s no trouble. Tossing him the towel she crawls under, keeping to her half. He watches like a statue but follows here too, turning to hide the awkward truth of his relationship with the world at large. Burdened by youth and feeling better than in recent days, he crawls alongside, keeping to his half, hoping to avoid obtrusive behavior. Silence is again natural and eases the strain. He reviews the meatball, the buffet, the long walk back to his bungalow, until she rubs his arm. “Go ahead. Tell me.”

  Her touch is warm, her hands soft. He would rather close his eyes to feel it, but he’d fall asleep. So he sighs, opening the book of fate. It begins on the restlessness common to spirited people everywhere. He was out to sort things out when a beautiful woman walked up and… turned life into heaven… and hell. The ex-boyfriend came around shooting, and he got deported, after the boyfriend kidnapped and tied him and put him in a little boat and went way out and threw him overboard at night, and he swam in… four or five miles… at night.