Dane Huckelbridge - Castle of Water

For Sophie, it was to be the most romantic leg of an already exceedingly romantic vacation. She and Étienne had delayed their honeymoon because of time and financial constraints—starting an architecture firm in Paris had proved taxing on both, and the AutoCAD licenses alone had put them several grand in the hole. But the date was set for a late March departure, some three months after their wedding, and when it arrived, they were understandably elated. The first week was spent on the main island of Tahiti, at a beachside resort rife with coconut palms and equally coconutty drinks. Mornings were devoted to making love in bed beneath the gauzy veil of their mosquito netting, and afternoons to walking along the beach, discussing architecture and making plans for the future. Étienne wanted to live in Paris indefinitely, but Sophie at least entertained the notion of returning to the south one day, maybe even to the Hautes-Pyrénées, where she had spent her summers as a girl. Either way, they had several happy years to figure it out. In the meantime, they had a promising little firm in the tenth arrondissement, several new contracts for respected cultural institutions, and another full week of tropical leisure ahead of them, to be spent on an even more idyllic island in the Marquesas that Sophie had read about in a brochure.

“Regarde,” she had whispered to a half-asleep Étienne while in bed together in their flat in Paris. “Jacques Brel lived there during the last years of his life. C’est un paradis. ”

“Oui, ma chérie,” he had drowsily assented. “Allons-y.”

Barry’s voyage was also a celebration of sorts, albeit one of separation rather than joining. A separation from many things, as a matter of fact. For while Sophie had been doggedly pursuing her passion in Paris, Barry had been halfheartedly bobbing along as a middling bond salesman in New York. Actually, halfhearted may be generous. Barry hated it, loathed it, despised it with a passion. Yet somehow he had become resigned to that existence, a far cry from his childhood in Cleveland and an even farther shout from his grandparents’ farm in southern Illinois. But it just seemed the sort of thing one did after Princeton, even with a degree in art history, and he had been initiated unenthusiastically into the world of Excel spreadsheets and client meetings and unpleasant bar nights, while quietly dreaming of far different things.

Things like Gauguin paintings, for example. And when the tensile cord of his being finally snapped and his conscience could take no more, Barry remembered that selfsame Polynesian island whose name Sophie had uttered in bed (“Hiva Oa, Hiva Oa” . . . just saying it made his spine tingle). In a burst of resolve, he had decided to go, and with good reason: The singer Jacques Brel wasn’t the only francophone who had spent the last years of his life there—the little speck in the Marquesas had served as the painter Paul Gauguin’s final resting place as well. When Barry quit his job at Lehman Brothers, his boss had called him an idiot. When he told his girlfriend, she had informed him that his odds of making it as an artist were one in a million, as she packed her things and walked out the door. But when he whispered his new path to himself, the gods said, Well done .

Naturally, there was some trepidation. Quitting a fairly lucrative career in his midthirties to become a painter wasn’t the most fiscally prudent decision he had ever made, and giving away most of his savings to the United Way (honestly the only charity he could think of) was probably an even worse one. But if he lived frugally, he knew what remained in his bank account would sustain him for a few lean years, and the art supply store across the street from his new apartment downtown sold canvases on the cheap. Nervous but pleased with himself, and giddy with possibility, Barry felt a celebration was in order, something to commemorate a bold new adventure and provide ample inspiration for the creative period ahead.

The island of Hiva Oa was not easy to get to. But from Tahiti’s smaller airport in Papeete, there was a single-engine prop plane that made the eight-hundred-mile flight to the Marquesas twice a week. Sketchbook, oil paints, and pastels in hand, Barry had stood waiting at the airstrip, half a world away from home, beside a young French couple who had booked the same flight as he. The husband introduced himself as Étienne and seemed serious but personable. As for his new wife, she was very pretty but strikingly aloof. Sophie, she had said her name was, and beyond that, she did not divulge much more. They were dressed quite appropriately in their Deauville finest: cutoff shorts, espadrilles, and matching Saint James T-shirts. Barry, on the other hand, was still wearing the same clothes he had donned for his last day at the office and felt distinctly out of place in the South Pacific. Oh, well. He would have plenty of time to invest in cargo shorts and tan-giving tees when he arrived in the Marquesas. And he was looking forward to it.

The sun spilled down and the palms did their thing, and after a half hour of waiting, a rattletrap Cessna droned up, its rust-flecked wings shimmering in the heat that rose off the tarmac. From its cockpit, a groggy-looking man in a Hawaiian shirt and sunglasses beckoned them aboard.

“That’s our plane?” Sophie asked worriedly, and in French.

“Oui, c’est ça,” answered Étienne. “But don’t worry, it will get us there.”

Over the course of his life, Étienne had been correct on many counts, from his suspicion that the attractive brunette in his architecture class in Montpellier might like to join him for coffee to his conviction that it was better to set out and start a small firm of his own. But in this instance, regarding the reliability of the single-engine Cessna 208 and the integrity of its custodian, Étienne could not have been more wrong.

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