Chapter Ten: Invitation To The Dance
“In the Society Islands the suggestion of romance is never far away.”
• • •
The barbecue on the beach had been fantastic: the best food he had ever tasted. If only he had not looked such a dork.
The boats had left the sharks - and whichever other fish had cared to partake - to their breakfast and, like the teenager quickly bored of its first fix of excitement and ready to experience a fresh adrenaline rush, had moved on to waters anew, anchoring off one of the numerous, small motus - or islands - which surrounded the main lagoon, for lunch.
Tuna, which Stuart had previously only associated with cans and a choice between sunflower oil or brine, had suddenly become the nearest earthly equivalent to ambrosia. The thick steaks of fish looked charred and grey, where they had been smoked over the open fire, but the fibrous flesh fell apart invitingly at each experimental prod of his fork, each layer shelving off along natural fault lines, like great blocks of ice sheering away from the main glacier, clean and regular, revealing yet more tender meat beneath. The taste was divine. In his rational mind, Stuart knew that the actual, physical flavour of the tuna was only a small part of the whole taste experience of that particular moment in time, which externally was the delicate combination of blue sky, bright sunshine, warm sand, cooling breeze, crystal clear, shallow waters, and green hills beyond, plus internally, the lasting exhilaration of the snorkelling, the adrenaline high, the sense of relaxation; of freedom, but the tuna represented something whereby he could somehow package all this loveliness together and store it away as a lasting, single memory. It was Proust’s madeleine. It was the orderliness and efficiency of the human filing system; the mental flag which pulled down menus to a dozen other emotions and experiences. It would be the thing that he would look back upon and remember most clearly: the tuna was fantastic that day. The salad was quite nice too. And the company.
“A bit more to your left.”
“There?”
“No, to your left. Left.”
“There?”
“That’s it. No, it’s still there. You’re going to have to rub harder.”
“I can’t rub any harder.”
“Use a bit of spit.”
“There, is that any better?”
“No. It’s still there.”
“Oh, I give up.” Stuart threw his hands up in the air in a display of mock frustration. “I’ll just have to wait until I get back to the hostel and can look in the mirror and use some proper soap. Does it look really stupid?” he asked, anxiously.
Jenny inspected his face critically, trying, and ultimately failing, to contain a smile, “Pretty stupid, actually.”
Stuart’s shoulders sunk, “Typical.”
Jenny tried to sound more reassuring, “But your glasses hide it a bit.”
“Really?”
“No.” She collapsed in a fit of giggles again.
Jenny’s mirth caught the attention of a young Australian bloke from one of the other boats, who strolled across the beach towards them, gnawing on a chicken drumstick. “Hey, what’s up?” he called cheerily, changing his expression to one of surprise on seeing Stuart, “What happened to your face, guy?”
“Nothing,” said Stuart, moodily.
Jenny was still in high spirits, though, and went on to explain, “It’s from his face-mask. He put it on over his glasses and because the salt water got in, it reacted with the rubber seal and has now left this black impression all around his eyes.”
“OK. OK,” said Stuart, trying to halt the explanation.
“You look like a panda,” said the Aussie, compounding Stuart’s misery.
“Just hope you don’t suffer from Chi Chi’s mating problems,” said Jenny suggestively.
Oh, yes! The tuna was good that day.
• • •
It was just another perfect evening in paradise. The sun had just slipped beneath the horizon, previously having emblazed the sky with a brilliant montage of deep reds and bright yellows, momentarily illuminating the small, solitary cloud with a blaze of glittering gold, such that it looked as though its lower rim was bedecked with sparkling jewellery. The only sounds were the constant lap of the waves sucking back on the pale sands, pulling, seducing the fine powders to join them in a watery dance, and the rustle as the slightest wind blew through the topmost fronds of the palm trees. And a powerful detergent and a good scrub had removed the last vestiges of the stain from Stuart’s face. He sat, alone, on an upended log, protruding from the sands, gazing out across the flat expanse of water, allowing random thoughts to drift in and out of his head, or not at all, as he chose. How many colours in the night-time sea? How hard to try to reproduce them in a painting. Not just a simple palette loaded with shades of blue. There were greens, reds, the white flash of foam, areas of unreflecting black. Constantly moving. It would be impossible to capture them. Should he have wanted to. That octopus had been so weird. To think that was somewhere out there, still, now. Thank goodness the boatman put it back. It was interesting to see, but better out there swimming in the sea, or skulking under a rock, than on one of our plates at lunch. That tuna, though. Wow. That was something else. Wonder what Jenny meant by that panda gag? Could she fancy me? Maybe? No, surely not? Although, she did agree to come along to the thing tomorrow night. But, there will be lots of us there then, so it is not as though she is just coming to see me. She did say yes, though.
“Deep in thought?” Her voice was like silk.
Emerging from behind the line of palm trees, her shadow as long and as graceful as the tallest, slender bole, the sway of her hips as sensual as the evening breeze, Corrie appeared in silhouette against the lights of the dormitory behind.
“Where’s Norbert?” Stuart did not know what it was about the situation that made him feel nervous, but after this morning’s embarrassing episode, he suddenly felt guilty to be alone in the beautiful Swiss woman’s company.
“I’m here, Stuart.” Another shadow stepped forward and took life. It was like two stealthy big cats, revealing their presence and circling around their cornered prey.
“Have you been there long?” Stuart asked.
“Not long,” answered Corrie.
“Did you see the sunset?”
“No. Was it spectacular?” asked Norbert.
“Yes. Yes,” stumbled Stuart.
“Are you going to the celebrations tomorrow night?” asked Corrie.
“In Viatape?”
“They are supposed to be among the best in the whole of French Polynesia.” said Norbert.
“Yes, I’m planning to go.”
“We have hired a car,” said Corrie.
“Oh, yes.”
“Why don’t you come with us?” suggested Norbert.
“I was ...” Stuart was not sure if he wanted to mention Jenny, but found himself unable to come up with an excuse on the spur of the moment, without falling back on the truth, “I was planning on going with someone.”
“A friend?” said Corrie, the emphasis heavily on the last word.
“Yes.”
“Bring her too,” said Norbert.
“But ...”
“There is room for us all,” said Corrie.
“All?”
“Myself and Corrie,” said Norbert.
“Mike,” said Corrie.
“Stefan,” said Norbert.
“Ian,” said Corrie.
“And you and your ... friend,” said Norbert.
“Oh,” said Stuart, seeing a way out, “it’s too many people. You’ll be too squeezed in. Jenny and I ...”
“Jenny?” questioned Corrie.
“... we can make our own way there.”
“As you like,” said Norbert.
The two shadows were visibly retreating back into the darkness of the hostel’s gardens.
“Perhaps we shall meet you there, tomorrow?” suggested Corrie.
“Y
es, perhaps” stammered Stuart, noncommittally
“Good night.”
“Good night.”
“Till tomorrow.”