by Tatjana Soli
“Handcuff me,” Dex said to the officer.
“There is no need for that.”
Dex stopped walking.
“Come along.” The policeman nudged.
“Handcuff me,” Dex growled.
The policeman glanced over at the paparazzi flotilla. “Pute for publicity, eh?”
The paparazzi below were feasting on the dramatic showdown, which would make front page twice in one week in several papers in Australia and the United States.
“Easy, Dex,” Ann said.
The pictures of the babies were in the forefront of Dex’s mind. The stories of all Cooked and Titi’s relatives and their cancers. He was fighting for them, but this force of oppression, this lowly policeman, was trying to stop him. The baddies always win, like his father, who got paid to make sure of it, but not this time. No. Dex’s arm moved of its own volition, more as an extension of this line of thought than a premeditated act of violence. As he punched the policeman smack in the nose, what he really connected with was his father’s legacy of deceit. No! Not this time!
The paparazzi were having the feast to end all feasts, the mother of all photo ops, living off the fat of the land. Beyond their wildest hopes, this was a career milestone. A few contemplated having the colossal amount of money they were sure to get wired into their accounts and taking the month off to stay in the South Pacific. And then it got even better.
A policeman who was restraining Cooked lifted his baton and, with a balletic half-pivot, clubbed Dex.
Dex disappeared from view as Ann started screaming.
Unscripted emotion was pure gold.
When Dex rose a minute later, a trickle of blood ran down the side of his hairline—he refused the handkerchief to wipe it off—and, yes, he was a publicity slut, playing this for all it was worth because publicity was the mother’s milk of public opinion: You know me; therefore, I am. Maybe in the far dark past people actually did value the perfect rose blooming unseen on a deserted mountainside, maybe just its existence was enough, but in the modern age every perfection, every event, big or small, significant or not, only counted if others knew of it. Dex faced the paparazzi head-on like an inspired preacher confronting his inflamed congregation. This time his face wasn’t the face of Dex Cooper, Rock Star; his face was now a banged badge of solidarity with the Polynesian people, Ma ‘ohi, and not only with them but with the oppressed all over. He was the self-anointed new Bono. He was stoked, and as the police pushed him inside, away from the PR disaster this was becoming for them, he raised one skinny, tattooed arm and gave the paparazzi the peace sign.
* * *
The commandeered trawler had huge freezers belowdecks filled with thousands of frozen-solid tuna awaiting their long voyage to the grocery stores of the world. The decks were brownish and slippery, and a smell permeated the boat—a mix of public bathroom, fertilizer, and freshly opened cans of cat food.
They were held in a kind of Soviet-style conference room, with dingy Formica tables nailed to the floor and bare lightbulbs in wire cages overhead. Within the closed room, the air heated and expanded the dead-fish smell to toxic levels. The police ignored Cooked and started questioning Dex and Ann.
Cooked was used to being snubbed in his own land, a second-class citizen in his place of birth. Even during civil protests, he didn’t count. Foreigners controlled them, and other foreigners, benevolent ones, championed them, but they themselves were treated like children or pets, incapable of participating in their own emancipation. Cooked turned his back on the whole proceedings, and stared at the blank scuffed wall instead.
After an hour of haranguing back and forth, Ann determined that there was no point in going farther on their trip. If they approached the off-limits zone, the police informed them, they could be legally arrested. If they resisted, their very nice borrowed yacht would be either impounded or sunk.
As the police conferred about what to do with them now, Ann noticed Cooked staring at the wall in a trance. Something had come over him—he was acting strangely.
A sailor came in from outside and whispered in the police chief’s ear. He frowned. “Mr. Cooper, it appears you have a visitor.”
Dex said nothing, thinking it was a trick. Sneaky police. He was thinking of various scenarios from Casablanca and Blade Runner.
“Where is the visitor?” Ann asked.
“In a boat below. We’re denying boarding.”
“Nice.”
Dex, Cooked, and Ann went back outside under escort and looked over the side of the ship.
“Robby?” Dex yelled.
Ann saw a blond, muscled version of Dex. Robby was the golden boy of the band, the heartthrob of the good girls while Dex appealed to the bad ones.
“Thought you needed some help,” Robby yelled up. “I’ve got our lawyers here.”
“I’ve got my lawyer here already. Go on to the island and wait for us.”
No denying it—Ann was proud.
Cooked felt a strong wind wash over him. This was what he had waited for in vain the night of his vision quest on the rock, his hoped-for, Laura Vann–inspired statement. The truth was nothing had happened that night other than his own determination. Now he was literally inspirited. The ancestors entered him in the form of a shark. Without another thought he sprang up on the railing and dived overboard in a perfect arc that the paparazzi captured for all time, and that would be used for the cause of independence and later as a promo poster for the resort, and even later for tourism to the islands, and that his and Titi’s children, and then their grandchildren, would hang proudly in their living rooms.
The police, shocked, stood paralyzed for a moment—did this qualify as an escape attempt?—before unholstering their guns and firing into the water.
Luckily they were poor shots.
Cooked bobbed up a few hundred yards away with only a nick on one ear. He was pretty sure he could swim all the way back to the island he felt so pumped. That lasted until he realized he was bleeding and then he began to flail as Robby’s boat raced to pick him up. The police, spooked and demoralized, released Dex and Ann with a warning, and they hitched a ride with the paparazzi back to the yacht.
“You guys missed lunch,” Shawn said, as if this was the most ordinary of days. “Hungry?”
Cooked, at peace after having done his bit for the ancestors, lay bandaged on the sofa, eating from a bag of potato chips while watching a ball game on the big screen.
Ann was the one who now trembled. “You could have been killed.”
Cooked shrugged. “Cheeseburgers.”
“You got it,” Shawn said. “Where we headed to?”
“Back to the island,” Dex said.
“Too bad the outrigger is gone,” Ann said.
“No problemo,” Shawn said. “I’m teleconferencing with a sweetheart named Wendy over at the resort. She said she’d order it up.”
Dex sized up yet another potential rival.
Hours later, as a Technicolor sunset plastered the sky in gaudy oranges, reds, and purples, a tired Dex, Ann, and Cooked were paddled to shore. Loren had relented and allowed the paparazzi to land, and they had been partying with the wedding guests. The story was over. The reporters had been thrilled when Robby showed up earlier, and he had already done dozens of interviews talking about the band’s evolving role in world humanitarian crises.
“Because we’re about more than the music, right? We’re about the people.”
Now, the paparazzi, drunk and stoned, full of roast pork and breadfruit, dutifully marched down to the water at Wende’s request (coupled with the threat of expulsion) to record the victors’ landing.
As the outrigger came closer to shore, Cooked stood in the boat, an undignified wad of cotton gauze on one side of his head, to wild cheering, drum beating, and flower throwing. Even Wende approved the spectacle. When Dex made a move to stand also, Ann reached out and held him back. This was Cooked’s day.
* * *
Earlier, when Robby had jumpe
d out of the boat along with two of Prospero’s attorneys, Wende just gave a short nod hello. From the old days, she suspected, rightly, opportunism on his part. A call had come in from Shawn that the yacht was headed back, and she was on her way to tell Richard and Titi the good news. Yes, she was extremely relieved—she surely didn’t want them getting radiated, or whatever it was—but the impresario within her was the smallest bit disappointed in the loss of a climax for the story. As dramatic as the paparazzi’s live feed of the police trawler had been, basically Dex, Cooked, and Ann had gone on a daylong joyride in a yacht. Now that Robby had shown up, stealing the thunder so carefully built up, who knew how that would affect public sentiment?
The wedding guests, despite the language barriers, were enjoying the paparazzi and their infinite capacity for alcohol, which even by Polynesian standards was truly impressive. Preparations were under way for the nuptial ceremony the next day that would last three more.
Was her project over? Wende lamented, watching the women weaving wedding mats from banana leaves. She didn’t want to turn National Geographic and film that. There would be a feast of native foods, drumming and dancing. There would be … Why not a concert with Dex and Robby? A benefit concert that featured the new song, with the money it earned going to victims of the radiation poisoning and a legal defense fund seeking reparations from the government. Wende forgot all about Richard and Titi being reunited with their loved ones, and ran back to give Robby a lavish hug and make nice.
* * *
When Cooked readied himself to jump out of the canoe, the eight “cannibals” were there to greet him. They had converted tomorrow’s wedding throne into a king’s throne—decorated with palm fronds and a feathered headdress at the back. They carried him to shore because a hero’s feet should not touch water. He was disappointed that Titi wasn’t on shore to kiss him. The paparazzi, bloated with photographic riches, snapped a few pics for their personal photo albums, then went back to their carousing. For many of them, this was the best assignment they had ever been on, probably would ever be on, and they were making the most of it.
Forgotten, Dex and Ann helped each other off the boat and through the water. No one was there to greet them. A young boy was plunging tiki torches into the sand and lighting them. A young woman in a pareu walked by and offered them fruit juice. They sat in the sand and toasted.
“Today was way cool,” Dex said.
Ann smiled. “It was.”
“Who would have thought the thing would grow so big?”
“We accomplished something.”
Wende walked up nonchalantly, as if they had been hanging out there all day. “Have fun on the boat? Robby and I need to talk with you real quick, Dex.”
“Ann and I are having a moment.”
“Oh. Sorry. Sure.”
Wende moved off with her clipboard, which now was an extension of her body, keenly aware that in the past Dex never had cared about marking their moments. Strike that—that was the old Wende. What mattered were rehearsals. It was all well and fine to get sentimental, but it was time to move on to the next thing. And if that worked out, great, then move on to the one after that, ad infinitum. They were going to have to start immediately if they were to have a chance of performing the concert before the momentum faded.
Dex and Ann sat side by side on the beach. They faced the east, which was dark. The fiery brilliance of sunset was behind them.
“Do you think there is anything back there for us?” Ann asked.
“That’s home,” Dex said, waving his arm out in front of him. “That is the direction of hope, of dreams, of happiness.”
A pause.
“Are you sure that’s east?” Ann asked.
Wende was seething by now and wondered if they were stoned. Precious minutes were going down the toilet. Did no one want to be serious about anything?
“You guys are looking south. Nothing between you and Antarctica.”
* * *
After Cooked was congratulated by all two hundred and fifty guests and even some of the drunk paparazzi, after he was slapped on the back so many times he felt bruised, after he was toasted with so many shots of moonshine that he was seeing double, Titi finally rescued him and took him away to their honeymoon fare at the quiet, secluded corner of the beach that was no longer quite so secluded, amid much joyful crowing and howling. When she shut the door and closed the blinds against peeking kids, Cooked experienced his first moment of peace. She unwound his bandage and discovered the tiniest divot had been taken from the top of his ear, like a mouse’s nibble out of a piece of cheese.
“I’m so proud of you,” Titi said, and her pareu, as if of its own will, dropped, revealing the naked, oiled gift of herself.
Beyond exhaustion, Cooked felt vanquished but in a good way. He could only stare at this girl whom he had known and loved all his life, who tomorrow would be his wife. He had done okay today, he thought. But even if he hadn’t, she would still love him.
“I haven’t had much rest,” he said, hedging his bets.
“I’ll do all the work.” She smiled, the crescent of her smile glowing, an interior moon.
Cooked had been able to endure the humiliations of the past days only because of her.
She pulled him to her.
Later, when they lay in the plunge pool to cool off, she fed him cut-up chunks of Bounty bars, his favorite treat.
“It will be good after the ceremony is over and everyone leaves. They mean well, but they’re trashing the island,” she said.
“How will we manage alone?”
“Loren will stay. He belongs here.”
“They expect us to fail. Get us to sell cheap.”
“Don’t worry,” she said, kissing his arm, his neck, then starting all over. “Today you were my hero.”
* * *
Ann sheepishly went in search of Richard, disappointed that he hadn’t been waiting at the beach to greet her. She found him in the kitchen with Javi and a dozen Polynesian women, involved in the monumental production of a wedding feast. She stood in the doorway, and he and Javi saw her at the same moment.
“Ann!” they said simultaneously, turning to look at each other rather than her. Neither came forward.
“I’m back,” she said, stating the obvious to the void of silence that hung between them.
“Good,” Richard said, and went on stirring.
“Richard?”
He didn’t move.
“What’s wrong?”
“I told him I love you,” Javi said casually as he kept chopping.
She looked at him, furious. “Why did you come here?”
Javi shrugged. “I missed you guys.”
Lorna had straightened everything out with the creditors, the ex-wife, and the loan sharks (she had enough underground connections that this wasn’t beyond her purview). Although Javi omitted the fact that he had used the money she loaned him partly for a little R & R in Tahiti and Bora-Bora before continuing on to see them, he had taken full responsibility, declared bankruptcy, and sold every last thing, even returning the beautiful new Corvette, to satisfy everyone. Everyone, that is, except for them. Technically they had spent their money at their own discretion. Was it his fault they wanted to live it up?
“I’m a new man,” Javi said. “As in brand-new. No credit. I’ll be working restaurants the next decade to catch up. But you guys are free and clear.”
“Free,” a relative term when they had just dropped a major chunk of change at a five-star luxury eco-resort for almost three weeks. Not including the sizable bar tab, first-class airfare (was it a time to go economy?), and incidentals. Everything in the restaurant had been sold off at ten cents on the dollar. The space was now occupied by a Pilates studio. There would be no resurrecting the restaurant. El Gusano was dead.
“Well, that settles that. I’m heading back to LA,” Richard announced.
The “I” instead of “we” was a noticeable omission to all three of them.
&nbs
p; “Don’t blame Ann,” Javi said, but Richard raised his hand to stop him, then walked out.
“What’s eating him?”
Ann looked at Javi. As if the restaurant wasn’t enough, he had just ruined her marriage. Of course, it had been her fault, too. At the time of the affair, Richard and she were splitting up. Sure, it had been a questionable judgment call, she had made a mistake, but people do. Ten years of good behavior afterward didn’t count for anything? Life was messy, and she didn’t know if she wanted to spend the rest of hers with someone who didn’t understand that. She would have forgiven him. But had she?
* * *
Ann and Richard sat on the beach, surrounded by families settling in for the night, spreading blankets on the sand to stretch out under the stars. It was obvious that the simple Tuamotuan lifestyle was unavailable to them. And yet.
“It meant nothing,” Ann said.
“Then why didn’t you tell me?”
“Javi loves you. As much as he is capable. You and I were about to break up. You were cold and distant after your trip to France, and I thought you’d fallen in love with a girl. It happened, and then it was over. Why hurt you? We were doing fine.”
“I should have been told.”
“You needed Javi for the restaurant.”
“Look where that got us.”
“Things happen. We’re adults.”
Richard pounded his fist in the sand. “I’m not.”
She had to bite down hard on her cheek not to smile. “Maybe I’ve babied you too much.”
“You lied to me.”
“Like you lied to me all these years about your problem with meat. That’s what happened to you in France, wasn’t it? Don’t you think that was a pretty important detail to omit?”
“Sorry if I can’t compete with almost being contaminated by radiation while hanging out with a rock star.”
“What about your lusting after Wende? Your eyes almost pop out of your head every time she walks by.”
