drunk beyond the abilities of mere alcohol.
Outside, across from the pool filled with fluorescent-suited children, stood Loren, tattered shorts the color of driftwood riding low on his narrow hips, talking with the hotel manager. Ann didn’t care for his type, or the type he seemed to be: a hustler, maybe a dissolute, once-upon-a-time gigolo? Blasted good looks. Unlike the tourists—doughy white and sunburned pink, swaddled in garish tropical prints—Loren’s dry, weathered self blended in naturally on the island. And yet, in the middle of all the high spirits of tourists on vacation, the laid-backness of the natives and expats who lived there, Ann sensed that for the three of them—Loren, Richard, and herself—things were deadly serious. Loren’s sepulchral gaze across the pool alarmed her. She was pretty positive she didn’t want him as their host.
* * *
Loren had had it with Steve, the manager. Loren’s collection of huts rustique had a loose reciprocal agreement with the main resort. Alone, the place was too financially unviable in its remoteness to be kept supplied, despite the steep price tag for the eco-experience of existing without electricity—as in no light, air-conditioning, TV, computer, WiFi (yes, he did have to explain that)—and with the ban on cell phones equipped with long-range GPS satellite, as well as children under eighteen. They had worked out a symbiotic relationship because Loren did provide an expérience sauvage , and there was a certain clientele that hungered for that exclusive, minimalist luxury. Ironically, two decades before, Loren had had the real experience he was now selling on these same beaches, minus the mosquito-net canopy beds, plunge pools, and gourmet dinners. For him it had just been the magic of grilling fish over a fire and sleeping on a mat.
The problem was that Steve wanted to tack on another 10 percent for groceries and alcohol.
“You’re killing me,” Loren said.
“Listen, my costs are going up. If I don’t pass them on, I start losing money.”
“Occupancy has been bad. I’ve had to refurbish some bungalows. Bad timing.”
Steve frowned. Steve was a prig. In his thirties with salt-and-pepper hair and a soft voice, he could have passed for an English butler except for the Polynesian shirt and flip-flops.
“I’m not running a charity for you out there.”
“How long have you been in the islands?” Loren asked, knowing beforehand the answer. “Let me explain to you. I am your bling. Your celebrity bait. I’m what brings out the travel writers for their castaway experience. Without me, you’re just another tiki lodge with second-rate food and a fake pearl farm with low-grade product brought in from the Philippines. No Lindsay Lohan, no Sarkozy. No New York Times travel spreads, no Travel & Leisure awards, no Le Monde , not even TripAdvisor. Comprenez-moi? Do you hear me?”
Steve’s face had gone boiled-lobster red. He resembled a balloon under pressure of bursting.
“I’ve been here over twenty-five years,” Loren said. “I’ll be here long after you’ve packed up your bags and gone back home. What I require is loyalty. And I repay it. Otherwise I cut you off. I’ll get you fired. It will be so bad, you’ll never want to see sand again the rest of your days.”
“I’m going to take a loss on everything I give you,” Steve squeaked out.
“I’m glad we have this understanding. If you ever get a lady friend, the stay’s on me. On your next pickup from the airport, I need you to give Cooked’s brother, Teina, a lift.”
“Where’s he been?”
“He just got out of prison in Papeete. Long story you would rather not know.”
“Wonderful. You want me to be your mule and run drugs, too?”
* * *
A beach ball rolled up and bounced against Loren’s ankle. He picked it up and tucked it under his arm while he finished talking with the manager, who appeared to be suffering sunstroke. The children in the pool
Outside, across from the pool filled with fluorescent-suited children, stood Loren, tattered shorts the color of driftwood riding low on his narrow hips, talking with the hotel manager. Ann didn’t care for his type, or the type he seemed to be: a hustler, maybe a dissolute, once-upon-a-time gigolo? Blasted good looks. Unlike the tourists—doughy white and sunburned pink, swaddled in garish tropical prints—Loren’s dry, weathered self blended in naturally on the island. And yet, in the middle of all the high spirits of tourists on vacation, the laid-backness of the natives and expats who lived there, Ann sensed that for the three of them—Loren, Richard, and herself—things were deadly serious. Loren’s sepulchral gaze across the pool alarmed her. She was pretty positive she didn’t want him as their host.
* * *
Loren had had it with Steve, the manager. Loren’s collection of huts rustique had a loose reciprocal agreement with the main resort. Alone, the place was too financially unviable in its remoteness to be kept supplied, despite the steep price tag for the eco-experience of existing without electricity—as in no light, air-conditioning, TV, computer, WiFi (yes, he did have to explain that)—and with the ban on cell phones equipped with long-range GPS satellite, as well as children under eighteen. They had worked out a symbiotic relationship because Loren did provide an expérience sauvage , and there was a certain clientele that hungered for that exclusive, minimalist luxury. Ironically, two decades before, Loren had had the real experience he was now selling on these same beaches, minus the mosquito-net canopy beds, plunge pools, and gourmet dinners. For him it had just been the magic of grilling fish over a fire and sleeping on a mat.
The problem was that Steve wanted to tack on another 10 percent for groceries and alcohol.
“You’re killing me,” Loren said.
“Listen, my costs are going up. If I don’t pass them on, I start losing money.”
“Occupancy has been bad. I’ve had to refurbish some bungalows. Bad timing.”
Steve frowned. Steve was a prig. In his thirties with salt-and-pepper hair and a soft voice, he could have passed for an English butler except for the Polynesian shirt and flip-flops.
“I’m not running a charity for you out there.”
“How long have you been in the islands?” Loren asked, knowing beforehand the answer. “Let me explain to you. I am your bling. Your celebrity bait. I’m what brings out the travel writers for their castaway experience. Without me, you’re just another tiki lodge with second-rate food and a fake pearl farm with low-grade product brought in from the Philippines. No Lindsay Lohan, no Sarkozy. No New York Times travel spreads, no Travel & Leisure awards, no Le Monde , not even TripAdvisor. Comprenez-moi? Do you hear me?”
Steve’s face had gone boiled-lobster red. He resembled a balloon under pressure of bursting.
“I’ve been here over twenty-five years,” Loren said. “I’ll be here long after you’ve packed up your bags and gone back home. What I require is loyalty. And I repay it. Otherwise I cut you off. I’ll get you fired. It will be so bad, you’ll never want to see sand again the rest of your days.”
“I’m going to take a loss on everything I give you,” Steve squeaked out.
“I’m glad we have this understanding. If you ever get a lady friend, the stay’s on me. On your next pickup from the airport, I need you to give Cooked’s brother, Teina, a lift.”
“Where’s he been?”
“He just got out of prison in Papeete. Long story you would rather not know.”
“Wonderful. You want me to be your mule and run drugs, too?”
* * *
A beach ball rolled up and bounced against Loren’s ankle. He picked it up and tucked it under his arm while he finished talking with the manager, who appeared to be suffering sunstroke. The children in the pool
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