Tatjana Soli - The Last Good Paradise

He remained in Lyon for two full weeks, staying at a threadbare hotel that turned his every waking moment into a tangible longing to return to the islands. He shadowed Lilou en famille from school to grocery, from dress store to bakery, day after day. She only returned her mother’s stony look.

Eventually Matilde was so exasperated by the gossip his presence caused that she forced Lilou to meet him at a café while she waited outside. This was labeled a major concession, in return for which he agreed to leave.

Up close, Loren could hardly recognize in this gloomy, timid girl the happy child taken from him.

“Titi and Faufau say hello.” Nothing. Could she have forgotten? “Why do you refuse to see me?”

She looked into her lap.

“I miss you, Lou.”

She stifled a sigh. “Please go away.”

“Why?”

She looked up, and there was that old blaze of passion in her eyes, not dead but merely banked to allow her to survive childhood. “You let us go.”

“I tried—”

“She believed you would come—”

“Blame your mother.”

“I … blame … you.”

After that, Loren left. He went back to the islands, never to return to France. Years later, when Lilou was an adult and Matilde passed away, the last link between them was broken. Until he got the idea of the webcam.

Would Ann find Lilou after he was gone? Tell her that he loved her and had never forgotten?

Ann’s specialty at the firm had been her speed at completing an assignment. She was also good at intuiting a client’s wishes even if he himself had not stated it outright. With the information Loren had given her, she did a web search for Lilou as soon as she left his fare . It was morning in France, and using her sat-phone, she was connected to Lilou’s secretary and then was given her home phone. When Ann described the nature of her call, there was silence on the other end.

Finally Lilou said, “That’s in the past.”

“Understood. I’m the messenger. But I felt you should know now rather than later.”

“You made a mistake.”

“May I say one thing, personally, not professionally?”

“If you wish.”

“Whatever happened, that’s done and over. Soon, very soon I’m afraid, he’ll be gone. He’s one of a kind. A special man. You’re a young woman, but I have a little more experience.” Ann sighed. “At the end, it’s the things we neglected to do, rather than the failures, that haunt us.”

“You were kind to call.” The line went dead.

* * *

By the third and last day of the ceremony, everyone on the island was in a state of perpetual hangover. The morning went by quietly with a breakfast setup of pancakes and fruit for two hundred and fifty, prepared by Javi.

An interesting shift occurred during the wedding extravaganza — Richard had owned the kitchen.

Although it was packed with Polynesian women doing their traditional dishes, speaking little English, Richard oversaw it all and commanded the place. Not a bowl or spoon, not an ingredient was touched without his okay. When Javi started working, Richard allowed it because the help was needed but only let him do prep. When Javi made one of his own inspirations without permission — a spicy raw fish ceviche — Richard tasted it, declared it excellent, then turned the whole plate over into the trash. The women tittered and shuffled off like a flock of beach sandpipers, averting their eyes. Men bumping noses like sharks. Javi’s eyes watered as if he’d been slapped.

“Don’t do this to me,” he whispered. “You’re like my brother.”

“A brother whose wife you fucked !”

The women hurried out the kitchen door.

* * *

After finding out about the affair, Richard in his anxiety-ridden, wide-awake-in-the-middle-of-the-night, deepest, darkest self had to admit that he had suspected, maybe even had known, but said nothing. Why? As much as he had suspected it was happening, he also had sensed when it was over. He had married Ann because he could not imagine spending his life without her. He’d asked Javi to be his best man. It wasn’t like he was above wronging those he loved. He’d allowed Ann to sacrifice for his dream. He’d ridden Javi’s charisma toward success, suspecting that by himself he wasn’t enough. What Richard had done these last years was to go into cowardly hiding. Richard had lost Richard, and who in her right mind could love that? He almost didn’t blame Ann. Almost.

Cooking on the island had made him see himself with more clarity than he’d had in years. So what if he was a modest man destined for modest success? It wasn’t so bad, accepting nongreatness, rejecting the siren song of fame, which required giving up the pleasures of the everyday for the possibility of existing in people’s minds. What else was fame other than that? What was this thing called greatness?

Ann kept talking about Captain Cook this, Captain Cook that, from the book she was reading. When he came home to England a hero after two long voyages, his name synonymous with being the greatest explorer in the world, Cook quickly left his comfortable house, his family, and went out again on a third voyage. Richard would have kicked back, moved to the country, and taken up dairy production — come up with a killer sharp Cook Cheddar — and allowed himself to be feted by the minor gentry, agreeing to serve as headpiece at county fairs and the like. What about enjoying Mrs. Cook’s company, because surely she was almost a stranger? But Cook didn’t do that.

What did Cook think on his final voyage as the wooden boat creaked out into the Thames, the wood bending and pleading in the water, that last dark morning, knowing at best he would not be back for years at best? Posterity knowing that he would not be back at all. Nope, that wasn’t for Richard. There would never be a Richard Island, or Richard Inlet, or even a Richard bridge or school. Or restaurant. He could live with that.

He hated to prepare meat — he admitted it. He also hated deracinating vegetables in the torture known as French technique, and frankly, one of the loveliest things on the face of this beautiful earth was a fresh, medium-crumb yellow cake. He licked his lips. And sabayon. He’d be making a lot more of both in the future.

The resort kitchen had been cleaned, and everyone had left for the concert. Dinner service had gone off like a charm. Richard put the finishing touches on the colossal wedding cake. He was never hungry for what he cooked for others, but always made a private little dish for himself; in the double boiler, he heated up egg yolks, sugar, and red wine, plus his secret ingredient that made it out-of-this-world. The beauty of sabayon was its simplicity and temperament — if one didn’t get the exact right temperature and whisk constantly, one ended up with curdled eggs instead of wine froth from the gods. This batch turned out sublime — velvety and perfumed. Richard ate the whole thing out of the pot with a wooden spoon.

Someone once told him it was foolish to love something so temporary, so destined to quickly disappear, as food, and his answer was, find me the thing to love that will last forever . He was going out on a limb here, but didn’t loving the creation make more sense than loving its mortal creator? All these star chefs — wouldn’t their tarte tatins outlast them, one and all?

It broke him up in a thousand ways, but he would leave Ann because it would be impossible to endure her disappointment in him and the man he planned to become.

* * *

To Loren’s despair, Wende had turned the live cam off again and relocated it to the stage to film the concert. The period of blank screen on the Internet would only increase eagerness, she claimed. The new songs that were being donated—“The White Whale,” “One-Eyed Woman,” and “Tuamotuan Melody”—were already recorded and ready for purchase and download for 99 cents each online. But before they went live, the wedding cake had to be cut.