Tatjana Soli - The Last Good Paradise

“Moruroa” was the spelling used by native people for the island. It meant, ironically, Big Lies. The French misspelled it “Mururoa” on purpose to make it obscure and secret. That whole corner of the archipelago was off the map for tourists, as off-limits as a locked room in a house.

Cooked knew of an old man who used to work there for the government, sorting out the three or four pieces of mail delivered each week for the foreign workers. It was a long day filled with nothing, which suited him fine. He used to swim each day in the lagoon, then catch a fish for his lunch. The day before the planned detonation, the island was evacuated, the scientists leaving behind instruments to measure the power of the blast. The explosion registered at least ten times bigger than Hiroshima before the instruments were destroyed. The old man went back with officials three days later and was shocked. All the plants gone. The little secondary island with the barrier reef disappeared. The metal tower behind the bunker on the atoll melted and lying flat like an oil slick. Not believing their claims that the island was safe, he quit his job. Those who stayed on had long since died.

The outrigger made it through the pass, surrounded by motorboats filled with paparazzi hanging out at all angles like uncouth savages, yelling at them, furiously trying to get a picture of Dex or the mystery lady’s face. No one was much interested in Cooked’s presence.

They pulled alongside the yacht; Ann, Cooked, and Dex climbed up a ladder. The crew’s captain, Shawn, came and shook hands with them. He was young and blond, a surfer from Southern California turned captain. His job was to be ready whenever his billionaire boss got the urge for the boat. Which wasn’t often. Luckily the boss was on a rare family trip, and had the boat docked while they stayed on Bora-Bora. Shawn’s clothes were pressed. He and the ship were immaculate, and in comparison, Ann felt the three of them looked a little ragged. They must appear much like Loren had first appeared to her weeks ago, weathered and a bit disreputable. They stood on deck and waved good-bye to the crew of the outrigger; Shawn revved the engine and left the paparazzi in a cloud of fuel exhaust.

Cooked could not believe what he saw on the boat. Everything was trimmed in shining teak. When they went into the cabin, there was air-conditioning and a flat-screen TV with 346 channels. A refrigerated wine cellar. A full bar. A steward came and served them champagne. Dex and Ann collapsed on the white leather sofas. At first Cooked was intimidated by these surroundings, especially being waited on instead of serving. He had to remind himself that Titi and he were now owners of a resort. He would have to get comfortable in the world of guests. He downed the champagne in one gulp.

“I’d like a beer, too, please,” he said.

“Coming right up, mate.”

“And a Coke. With ice.”

“Righto. Do you have a preference for lunch today?” the steward asked.

“Chocolate milk shakes,” Cooked said. “Hamburgers, fries, and more beer.”

“Could I shower first?” Ann asked.

“I’ll show you to your suite. And Mr. Cooper, Mr. Garrett expressed the desire for some autographs as a memento of your stay on board. For himself and his kids. He says the autographs might make them listen to music from his youth for a change.”

A jab, but Dex rolled with it. “You got it.”

They were just sitting down for lunch when a siren went off. They went to the window to see a military speedboat approaching. Shawn came inside. There was a definite cloud on his former imperturbable sunniness.

“They’re ordering us to stop.”

“Ignore them,” Dex said.

Shawn’s voice was quavery. “They said in no uncertain terms— torpiller —is that ‘torpedo’? They want to sink us?”

“Unbelievable!” Dex’s eyes glittered. He was having perverse fun. Deep down he didn’t believe they’d dare mess with him. The strength of a superstar was the ability to both mock and believe in one’s own legend.

Cooked, on the other hand, was struck silent. All his life the French had bullied his people. The police could mean only one thing — bodies would be beaten and bruised, his most likely. A jail cell in Papeete probably already had his name on it.

Ann was angry. She didn’t know their rights exactly, but it was clear they were being intimidated.

Shawn closed his eyes. “Between us — and I’m trying not to be a downer — the baddies always win out here.”

So Cooked, Ann, and Dex were taken into police custody, regretfully before getting to eat lunch, and transported to a trawler that had been pressed into service for police use.

“I’ll be here waiting for you,” Shawn yelled theatrically after them.

In the meantime, the paparazzi had intercepted radio messages and caught wind of what was going on. They raced after the police boat as it pulled up to the trawler, photographing the three of them climbing the rope ladder up to the two-story-high deck. They took the dramatic footage of Dex frowning, a police officer holding his arm.

“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.