A Drink Called Paradise by Terese Svoboda
Authors: Terese Svoboda
Tags: A Drink Called Paradise
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because the crew for a drink called Paradise got tired of me playing the piano backward at night, because all I could get in the seashells was car roar and not waves.
You want another story?
I like you, I say.
You wouldnât look at me someplace else.
This is an island, after all, I say. Tell me the story, I say. You have to keep inventing or else the island closes in, goes cold with too much truth.
He looks out his window. The first white woman to set foot on this island was the mistress of a Captain Goodenough, who wasnât quite good enough, and so he left herâin payment of a debt. Or in a hurry? Who knows? Or had he just had enough of her and wanted to exchange her for an island woman? Or did she give him syphilis and he knew it?
She liked the place, she wanted to stay.
Whatever. Anyway, she got herself in trouble immediately. Whoever couldnât have her fought with the rest until they realized nobody was having her. They decided to solve the problem most democraticallyâby eating her. A little of her for everyone.
Sex and food, men are always getting them confused. So, what about it? Are you trying to warn me? Iâm the dainty little dish set before the king?
Iâm not a bit drowsy now.
Donât think you can help, he says, and he pushes me toward the door.
Hey, I donât know any more about you, I say.
Youâll think of something. He frowns, patting his chest where a cigarette might be.
Ahaâan addict? I say. I know you better already.
Oh, no, not me. He grimaces.
Veelu waits outside. She canât look in, there are no windows except toward the water. She can only listen. I walk past her with the swagger of someone who knows more than she, of someone who has heard his stories and understands what he means.
Later, Iâm sorry.
This week I will stay in the water up to my neck until the boat comes, and in the meantime the island will wash off and I will have nothing to fear. Besides, I will drink and eat nothing, especially not drink. I will be safe.
I am sane. I am sane. This is the sane thing to do.
I slump into the water, just letting my nose and mouth stick out, but Iâm so white, white-faced and white-headed, that I canât be a rock or a seal or a post. I wish for Harry and his whiteness beside me, a hundred Harrys dimpling the lagoon so I canât be picked out by color, so I canât be picked out. Oh, if I have to be here, let me be fitted with the parentheses of a tourist, the ones that let you not be where you are and not be at home at the same time, the ones that are safe.
Ngarima says a stupid girl canât stay in the water all the time like a dog with bugs. Youâll get sick and weâll be blamed, she says. She asks how I am.
Fine, I say. Just in for a morning dip, I say.
Ngarima has been slapping what I think is rope against a rock. She watches me.
Whoâs more interesting than me? Here, when I open my mouth, everyone else shuts theirs. Here, when I say Iâm going nuts, nobody says anything until two hours later, when someone asks, Is this where the nuts are?
I am not facing Ngarima. I am answering her with my face to the sea, as if I should not take my eyes off it, as if a boat will pass by if I do. If only I could climb to the top of the tallest coconut and keep watch and stay in the water at the same time. What was screaming this morning? I ask, half submerged.
A pig. Pigs donât like to die.
I clear my head from the water. Just a pig. Good, I say.
It was the pig you gave your bottle of soy to, that fat one.
That one? Oh, yes, right. I did buy a bottle of soy sauce. I shut my mouth. That pig was happy with that soy sauce. What about its bottle? I arch my neck over the water to see if itâs still afloat. Things do float against the morning brightnessâis that a bottle? Or Temu?
I canât tell.
We are having a celebration, she goes on. For you, she says. And for the other one, Harry. We
You want another story?
I like you, I say.
You wouldnât look at me someplace else.
This is an island, after all, I say. Tell me the story, I say. You have to keep inventing or else the island closes in, goes cold with too much truth.
He looks out his window. The first white woman to set foot on this island was the mistress of a Captain Goodenough, who wasnât quite good enough, and so he left herâin payment of a debt. Or in a hurry? Who knows? Or had he just had enough of her and wanted to exchange her for an island woman? Or did she give him syphilis and he knew it?
She liked the place, she wanted to stay.
Whatever. Anyway, she got herself in trouble immediately. Whoever couldnât have her fought with the rest until they realized nobody was having her. They decided to solve the problem most democraticallyâby eating her. A little of her for everyone.
Sex and food, men are always getting them confused. So, what about it? Are you trying to warn me? Iâm the dainty little dish set before the king?
Iâm not a bit drowsy now.
Donât think you can help, he says, and he pushes me toward the door.
Hey, I donât know any more about you, I say.
Youâll think of something. He frowns, patting his chest where a cigarette might be.
Ahaâan addict? I say. I know you better already.
Oh, no, not me. He grimaces.
Veelu waits outside. She canât look in, there are no windows except toward the water. She can only listen. I walk past her with the swagger of someone who knows more than she, of someone who has heard his stories and understands what he means.
Later, Iâm sorry.
This week I will stay in the water up to my neck until the boat comes, and in the meantime the island will wash off and I will have nothing to fear. Besides, I will drink and eat nothing, especially not drink. I will be safe.
I am sane. I am sane. This is the sane thing to do.
I slump into the water, just letting my nose and mouth stick out, but Iâm so white, white-faced and white-headed, that I canât be a rock or a seal or a post. I wish for Harry and his whiteness beside me, a hundred Harrys dimpling the lagoon so I canât be picked out by color, so I canât be picked out. Oh, if I have to be here, let me be fitted with the parentheses of a tourist, the ones that let you not be where you are and not be at home at the same time, the ones that are safe.
Ngarima says a stupid girl canât stay in the water all the time like a dog with bugs. Youâll get sick and weâll be blamed, she says. She asks how I am.
Fine, I say. Just in for a morning dip, I say.
Ngarima has been slapping what I think is rope against a rock. She watches me.
Whoâs more interesting than me? Here, when I open my mouth, everyone else shuts theirs. Here, when I say Iâm going nuts, nobody says anything until two hours later, when someone asks, Is this where the nuts are?
I am not facing Ngarima. I am answering her with my face to the sea, as if I should not take my eyes off it, as if a boat will pass by if I do. If only I could climb to the top of the tallest coconut and keep watch and stay in the water at the same time. What was screaming this morning? I ask, half submerged.
A pig. Pigs donât like to die.
I clear my head from the water. Just a pig. Good, I say.
It was the pig you gave your bottle of soy to, that fat one.
That one? Oh, yes, right. I did buy a bottle of soy sauce. I shut my mouth. That pig was happy with that soy sauce. What about its bottle? I arch my neck over the water to see if itâs still afloat. Things do float against the morning brightnessâis that a bottle? Or Temu?
I canât tell.
We are having a celebration, she goes on. For you, she says. And for the other one, Harry. We
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