The Last Good Paradise: A Novel

by Tatjana Soli

  Ann barged into his hut as he was pouring himself a tumbler of rum.

  “Don’t be so mad,” she said.

  “Judas. You came and betrayed.”

  “What? Your public webcam? Was it really a secret? Isn’t the very concept an oxymoron?”

  “It’s for Lilou.”

  “Who is that? Your wife? Girlfriend?”

  “My daughter.”

  “You said you didn’t have anyone.”

  “We haven’t spoken in years.”

  “So how do you know she watches?”

  “I know it here,” he said, and touched his hand to his heart.

  Ann threw herself into a chair. She was confused and tired; her efforts at doing good, even for herself, were going nowhere. “It was wrong. I knew better, but I was desperate. Everyone was leaving.”

  “You did what it took,” Loren said. “You Americans, always going around fixing the world.”

  Ann started to cry.

  “Tears won’t move me.”

  She shook her head, unable to stop. “Me either.”

  But tears did move him. Loren had already sold out weeks ago when he bought the Crusoe Cam domain name, allowing it to be commodified by views, if not dollars. So he told her the history of his coming to the islands—the real, unembellished version, which he had never shared before in its unflattering, unfun entirety.

  “… After they took the girls away, I still called and wrote. It wasn’t as easy as today, with email. Did their mother give them the letters? I don’t know. Two years later, I received an official letter that Bette had died. Drowned in a bathtub. There were bruises on her body. My wife didn’t have the decency to inform me. Lilou never forgave me for not rescuing them.”

  “How can you ever forgive me?”

  He waved her words off, deep in the presenting of his case to an invisible jury. “Why didn’t they understand? I was accused of a perverted lifestyle. Things that would damage a child.”

  “Children don’t understand logic. Neither do most adults. We want a magic fix.”

  He slumped in his chair.

  “Contact her. She has a right to know you’re sick.”

  Loren poured another glass. “Did you know that there were a hundred thousand viewers just tonight?”

  “Really?”

  “And that Windy and Cooked were planning to bomb the main hotel? Titi told me while you were out on your night reconnaissance patrol. The islands are again at war.”

  “Why would Wende—?”

  “Cooked, that idiot, talked her into it. She wouldn’t arouse suspicion placing it like he would.”

  “So that was it.”

  “Youth is wasted on the young because they’re crazy.”

  “You were young once.”

  “And as crazy as they come.”

  * * *

  Ann woke refreshed the next morning, strangely unaffected by the copious amounts of alcohol she had ingested, the theatrics and meltdowns of the previous day. The damage from the storm had been minimal, anticlimactic compared to the human goings-on. Why did the calamities of others always have the effect of making one’s own problems more tolerable? It wasn’t exactly schadenfreude; it was more the relief of knowing no one’s life was perfect. Everyone struggled. One was not alone. On the island she had found a camaraderie she didn’t want to lose by returning to her old life in LA. When she was a little girl, her favorite game had been playing nurse—she bandaged nonexistent wounds and brought order to chaos. Here on this island, she felt that sense of usefulness returning. Was it pathological, her neediness to be needed?

  Richard waved her off, too hungover to get out of bed. His face and arms were scratched from gathering kindling with Dex the previous night. His hair still smelled of woodsmoke when she bent to kiss him.

  The public area was deserted, no sign of Loren, not that she had expected one, but no sign of Dex and Wende either. Not even Titi and Cooked were to be seen. The prospect of a solitary breakfast did not appeal to her. In the empty kitchen, she made a quick coffee and grabbed fruit, intending to head to her usual lounging spot behind the camera.

  As she approached, puffs of smoke were rising above the tree line. When the camera came into view around the last curve of shoreline, there were Dex and Wende in front of another large bonfire. Both of them had red, watery eyes. Ann couldn’t be sure if it was from woodsmoke or spliff or some diabolical combination of the two. The air was fragrant with the resiny smell of pot.

  “Hey, what’s up?” Dex said.

  “I need a word with you,” Ann said to Wende. “In private.”

  “Don’t worry,” Dex said. “We figured out how to turn the volume off the camera.”

  “About the boat,” Ann said. “I thought you jumped to not get married.”

  “What?” Dex said.

  Wende took her aside. “Can we do this later in private?”

  “What are you guys up to?”

  “Nothing. A little performance art,” Dex said.

  “We’ve been building the fire all morning.”

  “Okay, give me some room.” Dex pulled some papers out of a beach bag and faced the camera. Theatrically, he kissed the first sheet and then let the flames devour it. The breeze blew the ashes horizontally, like a sideways snowstorm, out of frame.

  “What’s this?” Ann asked.

  “That is the latest song I wrote.”

  “Why are you burning it?” Wende asked. “You never said anything about burning a new song. Is it that bad?”

  “It’s called ‘Beautiful One-Eyed Lady.’ Inspired by Richard’s primo dinner last night. It’s probably the best piece I’ve ever done.”

  “You have a copy?” Wende asked.

  Dex fed the last page to the flames, then bowed and walked out of camera range. “What would be the point of that?”

  “So that was the only one?” Wende said.

  “Do you think I’m some narcissist? Faking it? It was a sign when we didn’t leave the island, when you fell overboard. The universe doesn’t want me to go back. This is good-bye to the band, to music. This time I’m doing it right.”

  Wende ran to the fire, as if by sheer will she could pull out the pages intact. “You’re making a mistake.”

  “I feel wonderful. I’m no longer a puppet to worldly desires.”

  “You have no right!” she screamed.

  “It’s my destiny.”

  “It isn’t. Not anymore. You involve other people. It’s a gift, and you shit on it.”

  Dex sighed. “Women.”

  “You’re not so pure either. You complain about Robby, but a few years back you dumped him when you thought you could go out on your own.”

  “You’re young,” Dex said, and turned his skinny back on her.

  “Robby needs to make a living. He doesn’t have a rich dad and a trust fund to fall back on.”

  “Stop it,” Dex said.

  “I better leave,” Ann said.

  “No!” Wende held her arm. “I want a witness. He doesn’t like to talk about all that because it doesn’t go with his image.” She turned to Dex. “I’ve sacrificed two years with you. It hasn’t been all games and fun. The best part of Dex Cooper is when he’s out on the stage playing music. You’re not much good any other time. I’m out.”

  With that, Wende took off down the beach.

  * * *

  Dex couldn’t put out the flicker of doubt that she had ignited. She was screwing with his enlightenment. What do you do after being famous? It wasn’t like being an accountant, where you can retire. The only retirement from fame was obscurity. Nonfame. As in No Longer Famous. Thrown out of the club. Which, back to the Buddhist texts, pretty much came down to nonbeing. How did he like them apples?

  Dex gave a fake bark of a laugh that sounded more like a sob. “Women.”

  Ann felt awkward staying but feared leaving him alone. Undecided, she sat on the sand. There was a bit of Girl Scout and do-gooderism in her that mirrored Richard’
s.

  After a long period of silence, Dex asked, “What do you think?”

  “Wende? Gone.”

  “I can’t live without her.”

  Ann didn’t know for sure how to take this, but he seemed sincere enough to worry. It was like reasoning with a child’s outsize emotions.

  “Go after her then.”

  He shook his head.

  Pride, she thought. Men. “Start by rewriting the damn song at least. Wende is a muse, and you’ve insulted her.”

  She studied Dex. Fame had the effect of making one self-conscious of observing its object, but they had been living in close proximity for more than two weeks. Now it was hard to equate this guy with that fame. One on one, it disappeared. Dex’s face was aged and craggy—he looked like a cowboy in a cigarette ad, except instead of a hat, there was spiky, dyed-black hair and an ear bolt. It was hard to explain, but somehow Dex added up to more than the sum of his parts. He oozed sexuality; he was like a human USB port, appealing to a great variety of women. Ann was disappointed to find herself ever so slightly preening.

  “If things work out with Wende, do yourself a favor and get a prenup. I’ll draw it up for you.”

  She would omit the fact that his potential fiancée was a would-be terrorist, not to mention reckless in jumping out of a boat and almost getting Cooked and him drowned.

  “Never,” he said.

  “Why not? You’ve been married five times before.” She knew because one night in Loren’s office she had googled him and read the gossip columns. Was she stalking him?

  “Six times. That would be like starting the game betting you were going to lose.”

  “You’ve never had a prenup?”

  “It’s glorious supporting a village.”

  “We better head back.”

  Dex nodded and helped her up. They walked along in silence.

  “Richard lied to you. He didn’t mean to, but he did. There is no restaurant. It’s a long story … I took some money. We’re in hiding.”

  “Cool, so you guys are outlaws!”

  “White-collar, corporate kind of ones.”

  “Those are the most deadly kind. My dad was a CEO.”

  “So Wende was telling the truth?”

  “A hell of a pedigree.”

  “Can’t be that bad. What did his company do?”

  “They made deals. Sold banned pharmaceuticals to third-world countries for record profits. Backed a supplier of depleted uranium-ammo for the Gulf War, then denied its side-effects. Were involved with financial institutions and hired a PR firm that manufactured public opinion to go to war in the Gulf. Possibly masterminded the story about Saddam’s men pulling babies from incubators in Kuwait. The usual stuff.”

  “That couldn’t be your father?”

  “It gets better. Not only did he buy his own bullshit, he sent his oldest son to Kuwait to fight. Even after Harry’s death, he never admitted he was wrong … I miss Harry every day of my life … I’ll never forgive him for that.”

  They stood watching the waves.

  “I like you,” Ann said. “I mean you. Not DEX COOPER. You’re nothing like I thought you were.”

  Dex bowed his head, flushed with pleasure.

  “I lied, too,” Ann said. “We did meet.”

  “I knew it! I never forget a pretty face.”

  “At the Troubadour with my best friend, Lorna. You bought us drinks. Whiskey sours? Whenever I order one, I remember that night.”

  “What else happened?”

  “You had us drive you home. Your license had been revoked … You suggested things.”

  “Sure I did.”

  “You kissed Lorna, and we went home. Sometimes, over the years, I regretted it wasn’t me.”

  Dex shook his head, smiling. “I was bad news back then.”

  “You’re right.”

  “Man!” he said. “We two are seriously messed up.”

  “I don’t feel messed up. Not right now.”

  Close up, Ann noticed the details of Dex’s tattoos: a long twisting dragon around his arm, and a bitten apple on his shoulder (Wende’s doing?). She did a double take. “What’s that?” she said, using the tattoo as an excuse to touch his skin with her fingertips. A shiver went through her. The only other man to affect her that way had been Javi.

  “That was a joke my first wife, Jamie, played on me,” Dex said, grabbing her hand and clamping it under his armpit so Ann had to walk sideways, like her arm was being swallowed by a cuddly alligator. “Eve and the apple? Temptation. She did it in the mid-’80s when the computer company was about to disappear. How did we know that they would turn things around, that the logo would become the most recognized one in the world?”

  “Funny.”

  “Kids think I’m pushing Apple products. Like I’d turn my body into a corporate billboard.”

  “Get it lasered off.”

  “Then I’d be cowing to the pressure of their imaging. Do they own the apple fruit? I think not.”

  He had extraordinarily big hands, elegantly shaped, with long tapered fingers. In another life, he could have been a concert pianist; the span of his fingers easily could cover the interval of a thirteenth on a keyboard. What would those hands feel like on her hips?

  Silence dropped between them, and again there was that electricity thing from their touching, and she needed to change the mood fast.

  “Is Dex short for Dexter?”

  “Dex is made up. Dex is nothing. Dex is reinvention. Couldn’t go by Adam Knowlton and be associated with the old guy, right?”

  He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed it. Then he held her arm as he started to trudge into the surf.

  “Hey, no, I don’t want to go swimming.”

  He had her in knee-high when he let go. Before she could turn away, he splashed a wave of water with his big paddlelike hand.

  “No fair.” She splashed back.

  “Oh, Ann, don’t you know by now nothing in this world is fair?” He grabbed her from behind around the waist to drag her in deeper. “I’m the big bad shark.”

  If he kissed her now, she would let him. If he kissed her, she would kiss him back. She would gloss the past, undo regret, and when she was a grandmother someday, she would not be sorry that she had not kissed DEX COOPER.

  She doubled over, laughing, trying and not trying to get out of his grip, when she heard a voice calling.

  “Dex, honey, I’m sorry.”

  Wende, puffy-eyed and repentant, waded into the water with shuffling, babyish steps, totally unfazed that her boyfriend had his big pianist’s hands all over another woman’s semibared body. Ann was sure that a jealous girlfriend wouldn’t last very long in Dex’s world, what with women flinging themselves at him and making themselves available. Still, it irked her that Wende considered her beneath the possibility of jealousy. Or maybe she considered Ann too much of a friend to have any doubts of her loyalty?

  “Oh, lovebug,” Dex said, releasing Ann. The water frothed in his hurry to get to tear-smeared Wende. They hugged. Wende mouthed, “I’ll tell you later,” over his shoulder. Dex picked her up, and she wrapped her golden legs around his waist. They didn’t stop kissing long enough to notice Ann’s hurried departure down the beach.

  * * *

  The somnolent morning passed. The main resort didn’t have a boat to spare, so they were effectively stranded until one could be procured from Papeete. No supply runs, no snorkeling trips, no sightseeing. Worried about the cost of new repairs necessitated by the storm, Loren insisted the replacement be a used one, so the wait could stretch out even longer.

  “What if someone gets sick?” Richard whispered to Ann.

  “We’re all healthy. Except for Loren.”

  When they showed up a few hours later for lunch, Dex and Wende had big smiles on their faces. Wende yawned and said she was going for a nap.

  “You promised we’d talk,” Ann insisted.

  “Give me an hour,” Wende begged off.

&
nbsp; * * *

  Revved after the friction of Wende, still tingling from his two near-deaths in the boat, chastened by the burning of his last song, Dex took a notebook and some pens and went into one of the back, uninhabited bungalows. It was still soggy from the storm and smelled of mildew, but he was glad for that. He deserved hardship. He had promised Wende he was going to rewrite “One-Eyed Lady,” but before he did, there was something else he needed to do, a sort of testimonial. He was deeply committed to the idea of marrying Wende, just as he had been to each of his wives in his last six marriages; he needed to figure out how he could make her the sixth and last Mrs. Dex Cooper. He paused and took a sip from the bottle of rum he’d swiped from the bar.

  The 5 Women I Married (Before Wende, Who I Love the Most)

  In Reverse Chronological Order Because It’s Easier That Way

  Giselle: I called her my Gazelle. Marriage length: 2 years. Only lasted that long because I was on tour and couldn’t get to my attorney. Age difference: 21 years. Children: 1 daughter. Giselle was a model, a beautiful girl, but she had a German accent so thick I couldn’t understand her most of the time. Liked schnauzer dogs. She was as tall as me and had big feet. Seriously gorgeous body. Always smelled of expensive perfume. When I open a bottle of Must de Cartier even now I get an erection thinking of her. Terrible in bed. Hated to be touched, went rigid as a board. Don’t think she liked me so much either. Definitely not as much as the schnauzers. Hated the music and the band. Loved opera, polka, shopping. Turned shopping into a competitive sport.

  Micaela: Alan’s (the ex-drummer’s) ex-girlfriend. Marriage length: 5 years. Only that long I think so she could irritate Alan. Age difference: 15 years. Children: 3 boys. Household: 5 dogs, 3 cats, a string of polo ponies (hers). Hot and fiery Argentinean. Never didn’t want to have sex, especially when we were fighting. Left many, many scratches and bites, so many that people asked if I had been in bar fights, but (see above) who’s complaining? The makeup people did complain at the extra work. Had to go to the hospital one night from an infected bite and have an antibiotic shot. Much drinking and much drugging. Rehab. In, out, in, out. Hated the band (especially Alan), jealous of the music, always smashing my guitars when she sensed I’d been with other women. An effective deterrent when you are talking about Fenders, Gibsons, and Rickenbackers.