Билл Пронзини - The Paradise Affair

When they weren’t discussing themselves or each other, they held forth on what was obviously their second favorite conversational topic — the coming U.S. annexation. Gordon Pettibone was all in favor of it; it was bound to increase the Far East trade and the profits therefrom, he said in vociferous tones, and serve to bring in more “good American business interests to help civilize this heathen place.” Most of the other American and European residents also supported annexation, Lyman among them, though his position was more moderate; unlike Pettibone, he had not been a staunch supporter of the Reform Party of the Hawaiian Kingdom or a member of the Committee of Safety that had deposed the queen and overthrown the kingdom five years ago.

Philip Oakes, on the other hand, was against the annexation, whether in principle or simply because it nettled his uncle Sabina couldn’t tell. He preferred the Islands just the way they were, he said, not overrun with tourists and opportunists who would change both the face and character of them. Margaret agreed with him. So, for that matter, did Sabina, though she kept the opinion to herself. John had nothing to say, either; it was plain to her, if not to any of the others, that he was hardly even listening.

It was a relief when Pettibone and Oakes took their leave — the former after declining Margaret’s invitation that they stay for a traditional Hawaiian dinner, the latter after a clumsy attempt to kiss Sabina’s hand that she avoided. Once they were gone Lyman said to John, apologetically, “I’m afraid our neighbors can be a bit hard to take at times. I hope you and Sabina weren’t too uncomfortable.”

“Not at all,” he lied.

“I must say I’m relieved they didn’t stay to dinner. Margaret, why did you invite them?”

“Well, I was sure Gordon wouldn’t accept — he loathes Hawaiian food.”

Sabina said, “He doesn’t seem to like native Hawaiians very much, either.”

“I’m afraid he doesn’t, and I can’t imagine why — they’re wonderful people. His houseman, driver, and groundskeepers are all Chinese. So are all the non-Caucasian employees of his firm.”

A racist, Sabina thought, in addition to his other unpleasant character traits. It must be something of a chore for the Pritchards, Margaret especially given her passion for the Islands and their indigenous people, to have men like Pettibone and his nephew residing in such close proximity.

Dinner, prepared by Kaipo and served by Alika on the lanai, was quite to her liking. It consisted of several dishes with exotic names — a noodle soup called saimin, chicken with pineapple, shrimp in coconut milk, and haipu, a coconut pudding, for dessert. A traditional dish called poi, a thick brownish paste made from mashed taro root and eaten by using one’s index and middle fingers as a scoop, was her least favorite — an acquired taste that she might but John would never acquire. His horrified expression after one scoop made both Margaret and Lyman laugh.

Coffee and a pipe for John, a cigar for Lyman completed the meal. But they didn’t tarry long past sunset. The night had become very humid, very still; even the sea and land birds were quiet. The stillness and a palpable electric current in the dead air presaged a coming kona storm. Just how fierce it would be was impossible to predict.

The first thing John said when he and Sabina entered the guesthouse was “It may have been a mistake lodging here.”

“Why? Are you concerned about the storm?”

“No, no, that’s not the reason.”

“What, then? The three-mile trolley ride into the city?”

“Not that, either. The trolley is tolerable.”

“So are these accommodations — more than tolerable. And the Pritchards are splendid hosts.”

“Yes, but their neighbors leave a great deal to be desired. Especially that crapulous fop Oakes. He kept looking at you the way a fox looks at a sitting hen.”

“Really, John. A hen?”

“You know what I mean. As if he’d like nothing better than to eat you.”

She laughed. “His first attempted bite would be his last.”

“He’s a cussed rake. I don’t like or trust rakes.”

“You were a bit of one yourself, once upon a time,” she reminded him.

“Never with another man’s wife,” he said, scowling. “He had better not make advances to you when I’m not here.”

“He won’t, he wouldn’t dare.”

“Don’t be too sure.”

“But I am sure,” Sabina said. “He may be a rake but he’s not a nitwit. He knows the Pritchards wouldn’t stand for a guest being subjected to that kind of funny business. Neither would his uncle, for that matter. Mr. Pettibone rules him with an iron hand.”

“I didn’t like Pettibone, either. Blasted self-important windbag.”

And a Lothario himself despite his age, Sabina thought, assuming he and the comely Miss Thurmond were in fact cohabiting. Lechery must be an inherited family trait. A good thing John had not been present to witness the way Pettibone looked at her at their first meeting.

“Well, you needn’t be concerned about me,” she said. “You know perfectly well I can take care of myself in any situation.”

He admitted the truth of that.

“Subject closed. Shall we go to bed now? It has been a long day and we both need sleep.”

They did not get very much of that needed sleep. The kona storm struck in the dead of night, a sudden onslaught of heavy rain and howling wind that immediately woke her. John, too, and he was usually a heavy sleeper. The continual ferocity of the blow kept them awake until it finally began to abate some three hours later. They both slept again then, Sabina fitfully. When she awoke to gray daylight, her nightdress and the bedsheets were sodden with perspiration. The storm had failed to ease the sticky heat; if anything, it had left the air even more sultry — so much so that Sabina felt as though she were trying to breathe under water.

John was still mired in restless slumber. She drew back the mosquito netting, washed from a basin of fresh water, dressed in her thinnest blouse and skirt, and went out onto the screened porch. The sky was the color of dull pewter, though no more rain clouds were visible overhead or on the horizon. Trees and other vegetation glistened wetly in the morning light, still monotonously shedding droplets of rainwater. The path that led to the main house was strewn with leaves, pieces of fruit, a torn-off palm frond. Far out near the reef she glimpsed high, foaming waves. The panorama, so pleasant the day before, was now mildly depressing.

She was sitting lethargically in one of the rattan chairs when their hostess appeared to see how they had fared. Margaret was as smilingly cheerful as ever; Sabina had to make an effort to match her good humor. The storm had not been as powerful as it might have seemed, she reported; the damage it had done to the property was minimal. Her answer, when Sabina asked if there might be other storms before the end of the kona cycle, was “It’s likely, yes. But perhaps not as severe.”

Her suggestion for dealing with the present enervating humidity was to remain quietly inactive. That was what she and Lyman intended to do even though they were acclimated to it. Later, perhaps, they could all go for a swim if the surf gentled enough to permit it.

Kaipo brought breakfast, but Sabina had little appetite and only picked at it. She did read the copy of one of Honolulu’s newspapers, The Pacific Commercial Advertiser, that Kaipo also brought. There was much in it about the Spanish-American war, though the news from Cuba was several days old and not enlightening; the primary focus, naturally, was on the comings and goings of American warships, the arrival of a garrison of troops at Pearl Harbor and their effect on the local economy.