Reefdog

by Robert Wintner

  He breathes like a distance swimmer, gushing forth to this angel of understanding that he’s only human, that every life is beset, but he’s had a run that is wrong. Buried in the rubble of what had been a lovely life of days, he felt death as a presence to test or kill him. He survived but lost his will and frankly felt so indifferent, now that…

  Survival was a delusion—a void, without happiness, without hope, with overwhelming loss and regret on every rise—proving that he did play out, but he’s still alive, like a mouse in the paws of a cat. The eating is inevitable. Mice know that. He feels his soul going away, lost. “That guy tonight—that was good. That’s how I used to be, you know, which makes me think I might recover, as you said. But…”

  But he’s not the man who got put over at the aggregation buoy. How could he be, with death beating in his heart for so long? He’s lived apart ever since, a spirit divided, watching from outside, failing. No more house and home, no job or friends. “And my cat, Skinny, who I love, and she loves me too. She knows me, and we have this routine we still carry on, and it’s painful. I miss her so badly.”

  He sobs, bringing the tale to Tahiti, where he can’t tell down from up, which feels like vertigo, which is why she saw fatigue and confusion, as a woman of logical perception will do. He rolls her way. She sobs for his loss but cannot absolve it. They caress. “Come. You need a friend. You are not a mouse. You will eat the cat.”

  He would rather not think of Skinny in that way, but friendship is so long gone and seems to restore him. Following her lead yet again, he sips the aperitif; call it liqueur de frangipani avec citron. Make that lime. Where did that come from? Wait. It’s frangipani and nitrous oxide. Or maybe it’s just the oldest remedy of all…

  “What is nitrous oxide?” she whispers.

  “Juth one hit an’ it doethn’t even mather…”

  “Mmm…” She seems to comprehend. “How did you know?”

  “How thith I dow wha?”

  “Mmm… I wanted your lips… there.”

  “Lucky gueth…” Yes, and a hard-worked waterman eases into snug harbor. It feels like love; so profound is the comfort. She is not like Minna Somayan in any way but gives like an angel on a day of displacement, in and out go the good and the bad. Easing him over and rolling on top she towers like a giant in the land of little people and lopes to the peak in long strides, laughing or crying, he can’t tell which, though she too seems restored. He catches up, and she cries, as some women do. “Thank you, Here… uh… Herea…”

  “Hereata.”

  “Hereata. Thank you. I won’t forget you.”

  “Forget me?” She sniffles and wipes her nose. “You just met me. How can you forget me already, after what I have shown you? Me. You never met anybody like me.”

  “No, I haven’t. You’re right. I only…”

  “Sh… I know.” She snuggles, easing him in to home sweet home. She finds his lips for a goodnight kiss, their first.

  Where the Sky Meets the Sea

  Ravi dreams of a scraggly little cat who shows her age in a puffy face nose to nose. “Meow!” She demands snacks and affection in the wee hours, but affection alone will do for a while if administered just so, softly stroking her chin. Pressing his finger, she marks. Today is her birthday. She’s only nine and mine all mine.

  So at two he whispers, “Happy birthday, dear Skinny,” and he laughs; she’s so cute, with such a sense of humor. He wills his birthday wish and wishes her beside him. She purrs, affirming her presence. Or is that the fuller lass nearby? Maybe the skinny one uses the other as a medium for the message. Why not? “Meow,” she arouses him, but who cares? It’s a mode of expression most available to healthy men. It’s not sexual, and it’s nobody’s business but their own. He loves his cat, and if that’s not okay, you can chob’m’n tuchas. Or kiss my ass if you’d rather. She has none of the attributes he seeks in sexual liaison. He gets a boner when he scratches her chin. The End. So what?

  Besides, here comes another lovely dream of Hereata, not even turning his way but leading the way once more to a perfect docking. This too is love. Warm and dry makes special dispensation to the warm and wet. Most species relish the exchange, but human people seem most driven. What is about humanity, with its penchants for killing and fucking and sport? Analysis is brief, soft, and scented. Lightning bolt tattoos cross her shoulder blades in dim light. He reaches around, and they mate like turtles on the surface, and it’s not so bad… to be human…

  They part and drift, back to lovely sleep until four and again at six when sunbeams peer into the window on another rise. Facing this way or that doesn’t matter, as a new day solidifies on logical conclusion. Frequency may reflect the strife and turmoil of recent days. Does a man go to seed near the end? Is love so strange, a skewed pleasure meant to compensate for life? How long can a waterman swim against a current? Then again, it doesn’t seem so bad with such a… such a…

  What was that?

  Footsteps in size twelve muddle poignant questions on life and its rare blessing. A few days up, Ravi will learn that he did not suffer interruptus but reservatus, in which tab A remains in slot B but becomes noodle C, slithering ignominiously to oblivion. In flagrante triggers several scenarios, including Ravi’s jump out of bed and into his pants, grabbing his shirt on the fly. Or he could hide under the covers or crawl under the bed or into the wardrobe or continue flying out the back door or the window if the window opens. It must, or out the front door. Oh, hello. Beautiful morning.

  Potentials resolve in mere moments after Moeava counts flip-flops on his porch. But who is to say this man is her husband? He could be a brother or cousin or lodger. Or gardener. She has a garden. Then he’s inside, much bigger than his shoes suggested, big in the head, the neck, the arms, shoulders, belly, butt, thighs, and calves. Polynesian girth is genetic and from poi because taro is a complex carbohydrate, key to survival in many tropical climes. The life/death interface is still fragile, as the big man stares at the people in bed—presumably his bed, one of the people likely his wife who opens boldly. “Eighteen years I care for him, and to this day I care, but for what, so he can act the fool and try to kill himself?”

  To whom does she speak? To the big man? In the third person?

  “Care for me still?”

  “Nothing happened. This boy will tell you. I could not bear to see him ruin what we had. But he still tries.”

  “What we had?”

  “We had a home. Each other, till you threw everything away. We live in Paradise, for you a fool’s paradise.”

  “You don’t know where I was.”

  “Trying to swim across Cook’s Bay to claim your nasty prize is where you was. Postponing again because you scared is where you was. Doubting delivery of the little biddy hen is where you was.”

  “Was not.”

  “Was! You know it. I know it. This boy knows it. So don’t deny it. You are caught red-handed. Be a man, not afraid like you was all night!”

  It’s not hutzpa but chutzpah, with a guttural cchh. It’s both Hebrew and Yiddish but converts to any language or culture among those who have it. Hereata has it. With classic chutzpah, she is naked in bed with a non-spouse, engaging in sexual copulation at the moment of apprehension. It’s a textbook setup. Guilt is real, just as the sky is blue and sunrise is in the morning. Chutzpah begins with counter accusation that the intruder is the culprit who becomes guiltier on momentum. If still enjoined, the practitioner may verge on extreme chutzpah, applying pressure. Fear can be part of chutzpah, in the extreme.

  Moeava hangs his head. “I was not afraid.”

  The successful practitioner allows no slack: “Oh, you were afraid. Or you would not be here. You would be drip-drying on your way to the chicken coop.” She laughs. “He likes the scrawny parts.”

  “I was not afraid. It was windy. And choppy. I was smart.”

  “It’s windy and choppy every time you try. Why that?”

  Ravi backs from the lair as the big man t
urns to go. Then he’s gone, his footfall fading down the dirt road. She rolls over with a laugh, “Did you see that?” She reaches for her playmate, but all is lost.

  “No. No more. Please, for God’s sake.”

  “Because of that? He’s like a son. I raised him. Did. No more. He gave this up. This! So he could risk his life for one little fick with that nutty putain. Do I need a man like that around here? A man who insults me? A man who throws my wisdom out the window? A man with less regard for his most important person than for one little rooster spit because that is all he would get. Then he would get the no, no, no, I have a headache, no more, not now, si’l-te-plaît. No. Now come here!”

  “No, please. You raised him like a son, but you must see his point of view: this is painful for him.”

  “Who knows more about love? You? I don’t think so. A son never got more love than Moeava. I mean love, you crazy man. You’re all alike. You think of one thing only. Now come here.”

  “No.”

  Her solicitous smile is a tad grotesque in first light. Defiantly radiant, she beams with the dawn, though her new day is already long in the tooth. Yawning like a hippo, she shows moderate dental care and great spirit—and appetite. She laughs, so sleepy and horny all at once, first thing. Can you imagine? She moves in, as if the night had only begun, but he’s played out, out to the porch and off to the left, dazed and doubtful on a new day that looked so promising only last night.

  She waits her turn, then hikes it for a squat, aiming expertly as ever a woman could. He turns politely away. She fills a basin with fresh water to splash here and there and brush her teeth, calling out that he’s welcome to share. Back inside she slips into her dress and visits the mirror for a few strokes of the brush and lipstick, and she’s ready again—still willing for a morning go, after all.

  But they move to the front porch and onto the road of life, kindred souls getting by, and he laughs at the way of things. Suddenly aware that her dress is inside out, she tells him nothing here is funny.

  “You said your friend was after… one little fick?”

  “I did not. I said Moeava is after it. He’s not my friend. You got it wrong. What he’s after is a tiny sliver of the cake you had last night.”

  “Why would she give herself only once?”

  “I’m not an attorney. You’ll have to ask her. But do you really think you’d be happy eating the neck and the feet once you had the breasts and thighs? Do you really think she could satisfy like I can?”

  Ravi gazes on her primal force. “No. I don’t think she could provide the same as you.”

  “Then tell me why you ask, not one hour after giving it up for the fourth time in one night? Four times! Almost five. Why?”

  Ravi doesn’t know why, but he’ll know soon. “I can swim that bay.”

  She stops. “Yes. I think you can. Over and back in the dark. But you won’t. Why would you?” Cars pass, but few people stare at the odd couple because the place is French. People have sexual relations and heated discussion by the road. It’s only natural. He hopes a potential employer won’t see him, but such concern is residual baggage from a culture of constraint, where nosy people take note and gossip.

  On a new tack, she wraps her loving arm around him. “God is my witness. I will fuck you four more times in one night when you swim the bay and back. Not before. Don’t worry if you think you can’t, not the swim but the other. I have ways, as you well know.”

  “Hey. I was joking. I have no need to swim that bay anytime.”

  “You don’t want to fuck me four times?”

  “I don’t want to swim the bay.”

  She steps ahead on the steep shoulder. “We shall see.”

  The hotel steps look cracked, chipped and stained, leading up to a fading edifice in need of paint, new siding and general sprucing. She takes his hand in a set piece, in daylight, showing off her catch as any angler would. He doesn’t feel caught, but he squirms. He doesn’t want the photo from last night; he wants his room across from Taverua.

  “Come.” She opens the office, starts the printer, plugs in the camera and waits. Fidgeting with a loose thread, she remembers. “My God. I’m inside out.” Giggling like a schoolgirl, she crosses her arms to grab the hem and lift the dress overhead for another revelation in the light of day. Tummy in, chest out, she titters, “I think you make me crazy.”

  Another go might be good at some point, and it’s only been an hour. He steps to the lobby window to block onlookers, but nobody looks. They’re French. They see a woman, dressed or not. They see a man unshaved, hair mussed. He is tolerated and he smiles. “Coffee?”

  “Mais oui. Almost.” She hits a key and the photo slides out. It shows a tired man beside a dancer with coconuts on her chest. “Put that on my list. She needs salad bowls instead of coconuts. Ha!”

  At a table in the corner, she says breakfast is a perk. “Food and Beverage is not even here, but our friendship is strong.” How far back do they go? But this is not jealousy because he’s free of that, always has been. She scurries to the buffet for pastries and coffee. “They love me here.” She engorges a pastry. “Mmm! C’est très bien!” The faces of a new friend are many. She pushes crumbs into the hopper.

  “Hereata.”

  “Mmm! You got it right! You know my name!”

  “Of course I know your name. Do you know my name?”

  “Mmm… Mais oui. Tu t’appelles Raaaa Veed!”

  “Okay. Call me Ravi.”

  “Okay.”

  “Hereata. Does the hotel have a dive boat?”

  “We have a boat. Yes. You want a job. I know.”

  “Yes. I want a job. That’s what I do. I take tourists diving.”

  “Yes. I know the dive manager. He is also the captain. You met him very briefly, but he will remember.”

  “I did? Last night?”

  “No. Not last night. This morning. Moeava is the manager. And the captain. It’s his boat.”

  The Danish are soft and cloyingly sweet. She says Moeava’s boat is bigger and faster than any boat around, with the best reputation and a full manifest every day from the best hotels, whose guests tip the best. She takes his hands. “It will be the best boat for you.”

  “But he’s your husband!”

  “My husband? C’est mon fils. He is my son.”

  “Your son? But he’s…”

  “What? Believe me, no son wants to see his mother do what I did for you, but he wasn’t made to watch, and besides, every son wants his mother relaxed, so she can be nice to the people around her. You did that for me. And for him. So you should get a job on his boat, after all.”

  Random events seem inevitably linked. Another cup brightens the moment, and the pastry tastes good again. “Does he need somebody?”

  “Mais oui! Of course we need somebody! I just told you. It’s been difficult with that strange female taunting him with her little parsley patch. It’s not my place to tell him, but I can’t help it. I’m his mother. I worry. Who needs to swim a bay at night?” The short answer is nobody unless a bay at night is the only route to the sparse parsley of his dreams. Moeava could be nineteen or thirty or thirty-five. He looks older from some angles, which would make Hereata thirteen when he was born. “Come. Finish. I have a cot in my office.”

  Ravi sees her meaning, till she reaches over to ruffle his hair. “Hey. I’m joking too. You rest. Till later. Tonight. Maybe I’ll get off early, but don’t worry if I can’t. We’ll get an early start anyway so you can get your rest. You are tired, and my needs are simple—I have a job and a place to live, unlike you. I need only love, which isn’t always simple, but it can be. I think you may be l’homme gentil to make it so. You will see. We understand simplicity. I am not French. I am Tahitian, but influence is everywhere. You know?”

  “I can imagine.” At least this situation should not be life threatening. She ruffles his hair again. It’s annoying, till she moves deftly into scalp massage. In a minute she says it’s time to v
isit Moeava at the dock, and he follows to the future of her making. Her son? The best boat around? It feels awkward and untrue, a fantasy that cannot last. The morning goes gray with clouds from the north, and he laughs; the bay is so flat.

  “Tell me what is funny.”

  Swim this bay? I could drift this bay. “Nothing is funny. I laugh at how things go.”

  “Yes. It will go.” She squeezes his hand at the walkway by the over-water bungalows. “Eight hundred dollars per night. Plus a hundred dollars for meals. Plus tax.” He’ll not soon move in those circles and doesn’t want to, preferring basics and a reef. “We can stay here.” She squeezes again for the fun times ahead and murmurs, “You are not dead, and this is no dream. This is Paradise, what you came to…”

  From the lavish digs they cross a vacant lot to a dock with a shack at the end. The boat sits opposite where Moeava sorts lines, shackles, bumpers, and anchors. She stops on another squeeze and leans in. “Nous sommes ici. Bonne chance, mon amour.”

  “You’re not going to introduce me?”

  “No. You are a man. He is a man. You make your introduction. He will hear you. He will see. No need for Mommy. No more.”

  “Unless he wants to swim the bay for parsley.”

  “I know what is best.”

  Moeava watches the lovers up the dock. She takes her leave without a kiss, leaving Ravi alone, yet again with nothing to lose. Anyone with sea time knows that if the best boat doesn’t work out, another best boat will need help. No sweat, except for the beads forming in the usual places. It’s last night’s liquor and fitful sleep and the strange bed and a woman of indeterminate age and effusive needs.

  Do I smell like B.O. and pussy? I’m not ready. Ah, well…

  He wipes his forehead and smooths his hair. He’d rather shower and change, and a dump wouldn’t be bad. But the door opens now. It won’t be his first job interview on the fly. Confidence is second nature for seasoned dive crew. That’s the stuff. Besides, many Frenchies stink and don’t brush. So? “Hello. Bonjour.” He speaks from a few steps out.