Tatjana Soli - The Last Good Paradise

A resort couldn’t serve as one’s spiritual home. Solitude at this level was prohibitive. Besides being totally fake. Maybe Richard and she could find their own island, rent a small hut? Surely there was someplace where they could go native, become recluses, live off the land? Could this technically be called an early midlife crisis?

On the morning of the seventh day, she was worried over the distinct possibility that she was going a little nutty in her splendid isolation.

Loren was fiddling with a telescope he had brought out. When she asked him about it, he said it was for the Transit of Venus that would occur in two weeks.

“It won’t happen again for another hundred years.”

“We’ll be long gone from here by then. Two more weeks. What would that cost?”

As she prepared to leave for another day of beach watching, Loren stopped her.

“When we sent the latest charges, they were refused. Your card is maxed out. Can you give me another one?”

A pause.

“Is there a discount for cash?” she asked.

He looked at her quizzically. “We’ll work something out.”

“Is that offer of a picnic still good?”

* * *

They waded around to a sheltered cove the color of jade on the other side of the motu . Ann lagged behind, slipping on the algae-draped stones. After watching her grow more and more frustrated, Loren set the basket high on a rock and returned to help her, cupping her elbow and directing her steps.

“Don’t put your weight down till you feel around with your foot for a secure hold.”

She rested her hand on his shoulder and followed his footsteps.

Leaving her to read in the shade under a tree, he spearfished in a deep tidal pool. Although Cooked was supposed to catch something that day, if what Loren caught was big enough, it would serve for dinner. The last few days Cooked had come in empty-handed, besotted by their busty guest, and upsetting Titi, who then lagged at her work. At least that distraction was better than his messing in politics. A good boy, but in that direction lay only doom. When had truth and justice ever coexisted for any length of time?

If Loren could get them to marry and settle down to work the resort, Cooked would forget the rest. That was why he turned a blind eye to their long nonworking afternoons. His wedding present would be the title to the property upon his death. Wasn’t there a lovely, poetic justice in that? A small enough present with the huge debt owed and the dwindling revenues, but that was in the future. Loren had more immediate problems to keep him occupied, and what he longed for that moment was to get his mind off everything.

Her eyes were green, mocking. Eyes that her husband no longer looked into? Was that the problem? She made him feel unsure, self-conscious, alive. Not the type to be pushed around. Seduction was a great game he never tired of, like hunting the most elusive reef fish. A thrill when the spear impaled it, but also an immediate sorrow. Once caught it was not the same thing at all.

The hideous khaki walking shorts made her look like a British female birder. They ballooned up around her legs and hips like a bun smothering a hot dog, denying her figure. He imagined the shape of her ass underneath like a sculptor shaving away layers of marble to uncover the masterpiece waiting to be revealed.

* * *

She looked up from her book, Stevenson’s South Seas Tales . She always read thematically on trips, although this once she was woefully underprepared (having reread The Moon and Sixpence four times already) and was at the mercy of the communal library, where her current read had been stashed away among the donated pulp thrillers and romance novels of past guests. Loren was crouched still as a statue, resembling a huge egret; his whole body tensed as he watched what lay beneath the water.

Her agreeing to lunch was partly embarrassment at the denied credit card. She sensed it might be best to make him an ally, but also she realized she had judged him unfairly. He was not the shallow, beachcomber gigolo she had labeled him. At dinner he made intelligent and witty conversation, but it was when he felt unobserved that she was most interested. Then his face took on a deep melancholy, making it clear that he was more than his circumstances. Just as she wanted to amount to more than hers.

A true host, he took his cue and made her comfortable by their mutual silence. Neither of them was a talker. Time passed so slowly and peacefully that by two in the afternoon, Ann was starved for both food and conversation. When she went with Richard anywhere, he exhausted her by not being able to sit still, always reaching out for lifelines — eating, searching for restaurants, talking to chefs, even grocery shopping — anything to avoid inaction.

“Ready for lunch?” she shouted.

“Thought you’d never ask.”

Loren opened a nice bottle of Montrachet. As he plied the corkscrew, she noticed the first joint of his ring finger was missing.

“Fishing accident?”

“Polynesian rite of mourning,” he said.

She waited, but he said no more. She spooned out shrimp-and-papaya salad. The trip was turning out to be altogether not a poor exile. Luxurious. Not like poor Crusoe eating his goats.

A real gadfly, Loren entertained her with tales of the stupidity of local politics in Tahiti, which he knew plenty about, and misbehaving guests, including Eve. He enjoyed her laugh.

“You have found a good life here.”

He nodded.

“Was it hard, leaving everything behind?”

He didn’t know her well enough to say that in his experience what people left behind ended up being much less important than they thought. It was a kind of ego, imagining one’s life irreplaceable and unique.

Loren had long practice at framing his story so that it both amused and obscured. People came to the islands to ditch reality at least for a few days. They did not want a sad-sack story. Nor did he intend to provide it.

“In Paris, I worked as an artist briefly. Sometimes I miss that.”

“An artist?”

Loren shrugged. “I fell in with an avant-garde group. I needed money, so I thought I could pull off installations like others were doing. It worked for a time. But when I came here, no regrets.”

“Do you still do art?”

“The urge has left me.”

“Can it just go away like that?”

“It’s an appetite like any other.”

“I lied earlier. We’re escaping, running away from trouble. The credit card issue won’t be resolved, but I have cash.”

Loren waved off her apology. “I came here to escape also. It worked for me — perhaps it will for you.”

“What a relief it would be. Escape. I already feel healthy just not being connected.” Lightning should strike her for telling such a pointless untruth.

* * *

Ann had gone alone into the plunge pool the night before and felt around the grassy bottom with her feet till she retrieved the sat-phone. She had overheard Dex say how waterproof they were, and indeed, when she snuck down the dark beach and called Lorna, she answered on the first ring.

“So how is it?” Lorna said.

“You’ll never guess who is here.”

After they had exclaimed over Dex, Lorna admitted that things were not going well.

“Javi’s ex hired a barracuda. They are slapping all kinds of charges together against the three of you. Collusion, fraud, etc. Harassment, plain and simple. I’m trying to settle this thing. Get some dirt on her. Sit tight. It might take some time.”

“How’s Javi holding up?”

“Out of his mind to talk to you guys.”

A thought occurred to Ann that she realized was the real motivation for her call. “Don’t sleep with him. He’s fragile.”