Monique whimpers over raw files on his laptop and again over finished prints at home. On another faint fibrillation, she congratulates his success; one day she will say she knew him when he had nothing but was already a great artist. Like a nun drawn to Holy Spirit, she is French and drawn to Art. He reminds her that the trip was her idea, and success is hers to share. She demurs; she only tagged along. She hugs him for his soft strength, enduring one thing and another. Little Dog barks.
In the next few days come family portraits—back to macro—of harlequin shrimp, haughty and mugging for the lens.
Long-nose seahorse male spews seahorse babies from his pouch. They squirm like larvae and roll and tumble in perfect miniature to current, surge and hunger. A more orderly trio of brown-banded pipefish relax on a rock two feet deep, blending with dappled refraction, stretching their necks left and right.
Clarity, color, and surprises come daily among Neptune’s minions. Subject and composition vary, but the trend is drama and clarity, angular insight and incandescent emotion as a function of repetition and luck. What else can it be?
It’s the hours and hours and then some. It’s love, what the jazz crowd calls attitude—what Desmond brought to Brubeck or Getz to samba. Take blowfish in the fourteen-inch range. Similar to porcupine boxfish in Hawaii and likely related, the Tahiti cousin has shorter quills and darker coloration and is also shy enough to blush. He’ll pick a reef and make a home, shooing for cover on any approach, like he does on seeing Ravi ten yards out and ducking out of sight. Snorkeling with his camera and no strobes on a mild current makes for liberation and a pleasant change of pace on available light—sunlight, softly radiant and perfectly metered. Ravi hovers, countering the current with a gentle side kick, camera raised and ready, allowing the distance to close slowly, till little puffer peaks out to see if the coast is clear, et voilà!
Behold the face of innocence, eyes wide, mouth open. Classic youth in startled amazement is like a Norman Rockwell child but with a fish as the child in a candid expression of social order.
Emperor angel turns to foreshorten his flank, where black, turquoise and ivory swirl in a vortex, with the head in deep shadow, except for the fire-orange voltage arcing from the eyes.
Triggerfish poses in sunbeams that suffuse his chartreuse fin webbing and turquoise piping, spines erect, with inner glow.
Trumpetfish freezes, pre-pounce, while tiny speck waves goodbye. Fluorescence can be explained as bioluminescence in predator and prey, emotionally triggered—or shining with eternal light. Mercy takes mysterious forms. Flexible and godlike, trumpet rolls his orbital eyes up and down the long snout, presumptuous as a seasoned winner. Lemon yellow and flecked with tiny diamonds, he shimmers in Sol’s morning light—except that it’s too deep for sunlight, and strobes would burn the key players, even with the aperture squinting at F22. So what? So he thinks outside the net is what.
Who could imagine turning off strobes to preserve chromatic light? Low light could blur the image on prolonged exposure. So he goes manual, bracing the camera against a rock and hoping trumpetfish stays still to avoid detection by the marine mammal gently clicking his shutter.
Eternal Interim is a still life that moves. Ravi pretends to be busy, watching friends watch the picture and turn to new angles, as a faint fibrillation of his own makes him tremble. Soon the little room fleshes out, wall-to-wall and wainscot to ceiling. The photos represent victory over the odds and a challenge for more. Where to go from here? When does more become enough? Worse yet: What the hell am I supposed to do with all these fish pictures? Who wants to see them but my lesbian landlady, my aging girlfriend, and my dog?
Extreme macro goes to the nose hairs on a coral polyp, as wide angle captures seascape across the Society Islands, the Australes, and Marquesas, where big pelagics cruise. Then it’s back to the Tuamotu lagoons as yet untrammeled by teeming tourist refuse yearning to be free. Makemo, Ranoga, and Anaa offer direct flights, cheap digs, and peace on Earth. Questions of when and what are simply set aside. The best path is forward. If an audience gathers, Neptune’s treasure trove will enrich a hungry world—will slow the pace of life as they know it when they see like the fishes do.
Or they won’t. No artist can know, especially these days, with the world as callous, greedy, and self-centered as ever in time, unless it was always this bad but had no media. Monique consoles on art history; great artists are generally unknown prior to death. Recognition is best at the end, with the body rotting and the body of work complete. Meanwhile, without notoriety, an artist is free of nuisance. Ravi is not consoled; he would appreciate an audience. What artist wouldn’t? In any event, Opus Rockulz will support the cause sooner or later, maybe. He begins anew with Maupiti. He’ll go alone. Why not? Solitude is often the crucible for contact.
But Monique pleads: Why not? He doesn’t know why not, even as she pledges silence, translation, local know-how and no demands.
On y va.
They get a ride from the airport to a lagoon and wade across to Motu Auira. It’s only three feet deep, so they shuffle to disturb rays rather than step on them—most are hidden under a layer of sand, but they lift off and scurry at the slightest provocation. Halfway across he asks her to hold the bags while he rifles for his mask, snorkel, and camera. Why can’t they settle on the motu first? Then he can come back. He says she sounds like a wife and slips into his gear to seek a ray or two at eye level.
With signature evocation, light and focus come perfection at wading depth. Then they wade on across and make camp. On a plateau of technical excellence, he ponders his approach to more perfect perfection. Monique relaxes with her music box, some marijuana, and a small cooler. Following her lead in life as it relates to art, he joins in servicing a few pleasure centers in a luxuriant setting. Why not? Not ten minutes in, he has a stunning stingray series in the can. It’s time for a break, for intellectual and French liberation, naked on all levels, secure in friendship and tropical wilderness. Success is grand and abundant on many levels.
Monique oils up and splays to the sun. Ravi thinks she’s foolish, and for what, no tan line? He prefers a playful demarcation on the special reserves. She drifts, lifting her knees to ease her lower back. Framing and composing her crotch as if for artistic study, he hopes the right woman will find her. He didn’t mind the little experiment, awkward and unnecessary as it was. Like a gemmologist examining facets and luster, he affirms consistency of form, even on one so thin. Are her lips getting sunburned? Unstretched by childbirth or traffic, she’s pert and fresh as an hors d’oeuvre, a small sampling to whet the appetite—but then what? He salutes is what because she deserves more than a quick experiment. Given the sultry setting, the bud, and cold beer, he thinks better data may be available.
She opens her eyes and says he looks like a husband, stoned, drinking beer and listening to music. And chronic.
“This music is seductive.” She stares back. He feels tantric, but her knees close. Her ankles cross.
She chides, “You are staring.”
“I’m trying an idea. Do you realize that making art is the least destructive of human behaviors?”
“Art can be self-destructive. It is not life. It is a drug.”
“I love it, maybe too much. I sometimes feel like the only person alive to it. I want to stay down there sometimes.”
She sits up. “That is not good.”
“Does it make sense?”
“No. I hope it makes no sense to you too. I finks you need a break, I finks zis feeling is not good for you and is not good for your art.”
“You like my art.”
“Maybe your depression is good for your art. Maybe you are a genius who will swim down one day and never come back, and ze world will love your commitment. But be careful.” She eases back down. “You can be famous at last but cannot enjoy it.”
“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 do care, but so many fools are famous in America. I think for me it would be different. My art is substantial, not just a downbeat on some tits and ass. You know?”
“Yes, and it is not just foolish in America. Any place wis newspaper and TV will have famous fools. But a few great artist are famous too. Don’t forget. I finks you will be. You might not have to drown yourself to get it.”
Her French view is sound. He appreciates her insight and speaks to her crotch as the knees re-splay, and her eyes close. “Monique…”
“No, merci.”
“As a favor, between friends.”
“No. Maybe anozzer time. No today.”
“A better day will not come along.”
“I would for you, as a favor. It mean so much to you. I finks it mean too much for you.” She sits up. “I finks you convince yourself that you want to have me, but you don’t convince me. You merely want. You want every woman you see—most of them. You are not bad. It’s what men do. I wiss you will learn of romance as you have learn of art. It is not… ficky fick.”
“You don’t think I love you?”
“I finks you do. But it is not romance.”
“You don’t want romance.”
“But I do. Merci. Listen to me. I have an idea. I won’t tell it you, but I finks I will like to try a different man. If I don’t like him too, zen I will let you do it.”
“We’re here. Now.”
“Yes. We are here. Now I will relax. Okay?”
“Monique?”
“Oui?”
“I finks I am lesbian.”
At last she laughs. Then she sleeps.
Could he wake her gently with his tongue to show romance? He wonders when he’ll stop being so clever. With her little moguls melted to slush, he achieves growth in shrinkage. Sex is good but will one day cease. His tongue will wake nobody then, so romance must take other forms, starting now. He loves Hereata but he doesn’t. He doesn’t want fame but he does. One day they will separate but they won’t. He smokes more dope and drinks more beer and goes deep.
In the evening they cook and talk by a fire. They sleep under the stars till first light.
They go home Sunday at noon.
He sits and thinks, too late for morning, too early for a nap. He searches natural histories of reefs and species in French Polynesia, to see what other phenomena these reefs and passes might host.
Rapture of the deep occurs at seventy feet or below. It steals common sense. A diver wants down for more of the perfection available there. It must have a different name at sea level. He’s not stoned or depressed; he merely imagines great depth, moving out. Like an addict, he wants greater dosage. Or maybe he’s a whiner in French Polynesia, living his dream and calling it inadequate and rigorous. Artistic purity means no money and he feels at a loss, past the restlessness of youth and still grasping—or gasping like a fish on a dock, seeing water so near but unattainable.
But wait a minute: I feel good.
Minna Redux
The big four-oh can pass quietly if a man is careful. Ravi 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 Ravi’s certification to complete the insurance form. Moeava sees the milestone birthday coming up and takes note and makes plans, inviting people to the surprise fortieth birthday party for his good friend Ravi—that’s right, forty.
He invites Cosima, in case she doesn’t know of Ravi’s old age. She treats him better these days, maybe appreciating his dedication. He asks for special favors as Ravi coached, promising to make the swim right after. But such favors are impossible. They would break the rules, making the prize meaningless. He says meaning will not be lost, and soon he will die.
She laughs. Only a fool would expect a reward for doing nothing or failing. Yet she keeps hope alive. Has he lost weight? He’ll make the swim soon, she says; she knows it. Meanwhile, he invites his nana to the birthday soirée, so she begins the forced march toward optimal advantage in feminine presentation.
With Ravi gone in the truck, Moeava visits Monique, who stares in grim resolve. So he makes haste, inviting her to Ravi’s surprise fortieth. She says yes, of course, and tells of a call to Le Chien de Bonne Chance Animal Hospital. A woman asked for Ravi, so Monique said he’s only there some nights. She got the woman’s number in case Ravi needs it or the woman doesn’t call back.
Moeava calls the number and says, “Ia orana, Madam.” He answers questions about himself and Ravi. She says it’s two years since she and Ravi spoke, and she has news, not to worry. Moeava says yes, he knows the party to whom he is speaking.
She needs to know if Ravi wants his cat because the old beach houses where he lived and Gene still lives will be torn down for a hundred fifty new places in stucco with tile roofs in the four to fifteen million range. Gene is moving to a condo that doesn’t allow cats. Whatever Ravi wants to do is okay because Minna can keep the cat, but she thought she should call.
Moeava says yes, Ravi will want his cat. “He talks about her, you know. Very strange.”
“I know.”
“You send cat?”
“I will if that’s what he wants. Or I might find somebody to bring her, for money. The flight is every week, and I should find somebody sooner or later.”
“You bring the cat. We will have une grande fête to celebrate his old age. Forty. Terrible.”
“I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
“You might be correct. He talk about you too.” Rattling on the line is probably a long distance malfunction. “Oh, he talk about you good. He say you very beautiful and perfect in beginning.”
“He says that, beautiful and perfect?”
“That is his meanings. I think he want to see you more with the cat on your arm. Besides, how he will feel if anything happen to the cat?”
“Yes, but only one flight a week from Honolulu. I can’t stay a week.”
“One week not so long. You like this place. Three weeks from Sunday. Okay?”
“I have no place to stay.”
“You stay in his room. You and him and the cat. And the dog.”
“He has a dog?”
“Yes. Little Dog. You all get along. You not fight like cats and dogs. Ha! The dog only want to smell the cat from behind.”
“She likes that, but I won’t surprise him. Not for a week.”
“You must. It is why you call, no?”
“No. I don’t know. But I won’t surprise him.”
“But we all surprise him. Listen—if everything does not work out so good, you stay chez grand-mère—at house of my nana.”
Chez grand-mère? How bad could that be?
“Maybe. I have to make some calls. But I don’t know.”
•
So it is that Minna arranges for Skinny’s move to Moorea, re-engaging the political wing of ohana Somayan. French Polynesia’s quarantine on domestic dogs and cats would surely oppress any feline with four months in a hot, dusty kennel and at her age, eleven already. But the Tahiti quarantine is waived for those countries without rabies, like New Zealand and a few others, but not the United States, except for one state, which is not a sovereign republic in the mid-Pacific but could be.
Of greater import is that annulment can proceed at last, contingent on all signatories present. Some phone calls, a promise, small talk, and official processing et voilà!
Skinny doesn’t like any aspect of moving, beginning with the cat carrier with its waterproof floor and soft towel that bunches at one end. She howls till Minna lets her out. What else can she do? Skinny doesn’t run down the aisle but nestles on Minna’s chest, watching clouds out the window. They look familiar, though strangely near. Is this kitty heaven? She closes
her eyes and purrs.
Why did Minna lie to her family about signatory stipulations and annulment when he’s not even met with a lawyer? She doesn’t think he’s met with a lawyer. He would have made contact. And why did she agree to a stupid surprise party instead of a simple phone call to see how things stand? He probably has a tight-ass girlfriend anyway who’s heard all about the crazy wife—make that ex-wife for all practical purposes. At any rate they can get things started. It’s got to happen sooner or later. And she’d just as soon get Skinny moved on a personal delivery. It’s great to get away, and Skinny is a good travel companion. He’ll be grateful and not so mean, and that alone is a good excuse to go along with the surprise. So? Who cares? Still, a week is a long time to spend alone in an exotic place.
Minna and Skinny touch down in Papeete late Saturday. Moeava offered a pickup in his boat at the ferry terminal in town, but Minna opted to sleep over and take the ferry because a small boat would make Skinny sick and be a real kick in the ass after everything else. Besides, hanging out till Sunday will preserve the surprise—what fun. Besides, she may get back on board the ferry after handing off the cat. “I might not stay.”
“Pourquoi no?”
“Pourquoi do you think? Does he have a girlfriend? Do I really want to hang out near that for a week?”
“He has many friends, but he is like a monk with the diving and the pictures. I think he want to see you.”
On the cab ride from the airport into town, she assesses a week of it. She doubts too much embarrassment or humiliation; he seemed so soft when he left. Yeah, soft in the head, but who can blame him? Fucking Darryl. What was I thinking? But don’t start again. Serves that lolo right, ending up with Eunice—three hundred pounds of toothless tita, and for what? One little ten-pound baby? And to think…
Has Ravi had time to sort things out and be himself again? Could he turn down the full meal deal? No way. But he did and might again. What am I doing? Oh, yeah. Annulment. We’ll definitely see to that.
Or might love return to her and her… what? Her man? Her husband? She wishes she’d brought Skinny on a quiet weekday instead of this stupid surprise party weekend. How annoying. But there’s only one flight per week. Oh, yeah.
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