Tatjana Soli - The Last Good Paradise

“Why is that?” Richard asked as Ann pushed past him and walked into the room, pleased with the open-air lava rock shower, the grass-bottomed plunge pool with flowers floating on top. So this was what white-collar exile looked like.

“They predict a few raindrops.” Loren looked up to the spotless sky and shrugged. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know.”

“It’s better this way … too much trouble. Let the damned tourists stay in Papeete and go shopping.”

“We’re tourists,” Richard said.

“That reminds me. The main resort got a delivery from the airport.” He brought out a battered FedEx envelope from his canvas bag. “This cost a small fortune to get here. It must be important.”

Richard and Ann stood back as if the thing might bite. Finally, she took it and ripped it open the way one ripped off a Band-Aid, fast, to cause the least pain. It was an expensive Iridium sat-phone, like those used in documentaries about climbing Everest, where mountaineers conveyed heartfelt final words in a tent in a blizzard on the vertical face of the southeast ascent. She turned it on and saw 278 missed calls from Javi. She turned it off and for good measure threw it in the plunge pool.

Loren raised his eyebrows.

“We came here for an unplugged retreat. We do not want to be connected.”

“Then you are in the right place after all.”

As they stood on the lanai, Richard wondering if Loren was waiting for a tip, they could see a couple snorkeling in the lagoon. They surfaced, took off their masks, and kissed. Not just a peck but a deep, long, breath-stealing suck that made the watchers on the lanai suddenly feel like voyeurs. The two cavorted in the water like a pair of lusty porpoises, and then, with a scream, the girl swam like crazy for the beach. The man chased after her. Ann felt a cold sweat break out under her arms, remembering the dark throb of the shape beneath her in the lagoon at the hotel. How appropriate that her vacation began with her witnessing a shark attack.

When the girl reached the beach, she tumbled, laughing. She was tanned, topless (this was a French protectorate, after all), her breasts perfectly round like plastic fruit, powdered in sand. The man rolled over her. Her thong was like a piece of blue ribboned floss between her buttocks. Loren and Richard stared, dry-mouthed.

“Loren!” the girl yelled, revealing a high-pitched, girlish voice and the fact that they had known they were being watched, had in fact been performing for their audience. “You should have seen the sharks following your boat! It was crazy!”

“It’s always that way,” Loren yelled back. “They wait and hope for the pretty girls to fall in.”

“Amazing,” Richard whispered.

“What?” Ann said.

“Nothing.”

“Then they take a big, juicy bite,” Loren said.

The man standing beside the girl was tall, skinny, and cadaverously pale, spider-webbed with tattoos over his arms and legs.

“That’s Dex Cooper. A rock singer. Too much trouble. And that’s his naked little friend.”

“Dex Cooper?” Ann had never chronicled for Richard the infamous noninterlude with Dex.

* * *

Alone in the bungalow, Ann struggled to find a satisfactory hiding place for the money bag. The room was a simple thatch box, with a canopied bed, an armoire of rattan, and a wicker table and chairs. Everything open, no locks on the doors or windows, so that she despaired of hiding it and considered digging a hole outside. Did they have wild animals there? Boars, monkeys?

Richard pointed out that the water table was so high it might soak the money. “Carl said that’s why they can’t bury bodies on atolls,” he said.

“Who’s Carl?”

“The pilot. Traditionally they either burned bodies on raised pyres, sent them out to sea, or ate them.”

“Thanks.”

“We could ask if there’s a safety-deposit box.”

“Why didn’t I think of that? Do you think he has a dozen? Do you think it would look suspicious?”

In a panic she stashed the bag on top of one of the overhead beams, gambling on the unlikeliness of the location, while Richard unpacked and wiped down all the surfaces with his antibacterial sheets. Later Titi congratulated her for using the typical native storage system — slinging a rope over a rafter and hoisting a bag overhead. Ann decided the motu was small enough that, statistically, the thief would be found out. But what about the risk of rain, wind, insects, and who knew what else? There was always the unforeseen lurking. What if she and Richard drowned or got eaten by sharks? What if they were killed for the money, their bodies disposed of in any of the myriad ways Richard had just described? What then?

“You’re being paranoid. We haven’t done your hormone shots for days,” Richard said.

“I threw them away.” On the last night in Los Angeles, she had stood in her bathroom with the package of syringes and ampoules and thought, no more. One could only endure so much, and she needed to feel like herself again. Maybe she would start over when they returned home. Or maybe she wouldn’t.

Although Richard wouldn’t dare show it, he was relieved. Giving the shots had been oppressive, and enduring Ann’s moods even more difficult. “So now what?”

“I haven’t gotten that far,” she answered.

* * *

At sunset the group was called to the beach for the shark feeding. Not knowing the ritual, Ann peeked outside as Cooked blasted away on a conch. On the right side of his bare chest, a descending series of triangles were tattooed from shoulder to waist, continuing on under his only clothing, a loosely wrapped pareu. He looked like a travel brochure. In fact, a year before, Cooked had been paid to do an ad for a local soda, and his likeness on posters over all the islands caused a flood of fan mail and a big boost of orange soda sales. Titi had torn the fan letters up.

He waved at Ann. When Richard and she reluctantly made their way to the beach, Loren invited everyone into the water, then went to the kitchen for the feed. The bearded man and the knitting woman were nowhere in sight. Only Richard and Dex stepped forward, shaking hands as they stood waist deep in water. The girl had put on a bikini top so skimpy that it seemed more an accessory to her nakedness than a cover. A wrap clung around her hips. A belly button ring with a pendant spelled out WILD in diamonds.

“Hi, I’m Wende,” she said. “With an ‘e .’”

“Ah,” said Ann. “Yes, you are.”

“Oh my God,” Richard screamed. “Something’s bit me!”

Dex bent down and looked through his mask. “It’s just a gray saying hi. He bumped his nose against you.”

Ann looked away, embarrassed for her husband. Standing beside Dex, it was hard not to make unflattering comparisons. Dex had that uncanny rocker juxtaposition of not being physically handsome and yet being achingly sexy. No, it was more than that. His fame overwhelmed the reality of him. One had to concentrate hard either on who was in front of you or what you knew about him. Putting the two together was as head-splitting as wearing 3-D glasses.

“Please, Ann, Windy, go in,” Loren yelled from the kitchen.

“He refuses to get my name right,” Wende whispered.

“What if a shark attacks?” Ann asked.

Loren picked up a rifle from behind the kitchen door and waved it. “Boom, boom. Dinner.”

Ann frowned. If she feigned sickness, would they be entitled to a refund? Maybe they could still go on to New Zealand or Thailand.

“I thought Polynesia was all about peace and love,” Wende said.

Ann nodded in sympathy. “Looks can be deceiving. What about Cook, Crusoe, cannibalism?”

The men put on snorkeling masks and waded out into chest-high water, then squatted down. Again, Loren high-stepped like a comical bird straight into the water as he had at the hotel pool, this time holding a basket of fish remains. Ann saw this was his shtick, how he entertained people. The blade of a black fin rose and then submerged along the surface of the water. She closed her eyes.