In a state of bliss, Richard stood at the kitchen door, watching his delirious diners. He held a bottle of wine and periodically took a deep slug. “The discovery of a new dish confers more happiness on humanity than the discovery of a new star.”
He would not tell Ann until the night was over, but he, too, had done some soul-searching over the gas-ignited flames of the six-burner stove — like Dex and Wende, he also would leave tomorrow. His time on the island had been a reprieve, but it proved what he already knew — cooking was his life. Hopefully Ann would follow, or she would not. Now that his decision was made, he felt relief mixed with sadness.
This had been the only thing resembling a vacation that he and Ann had ever been on. His previous boredom, worrying, marking time, was now replaced by impatience that he had not enjoyed himself properly. Even as he cooked his swan song of a last meal, he wondered if he should agree to another three days since technically, as Ann argued, they would be free. He had not gone drift diving yet. Since he was cooking, contributing, getting inspiration for a whole Polynesian-inspired series of dishes, perhaps he could justify staying a bit longer? But then he thought of Javi mired in all his problems. Self-inflicted, but did that hurt any less? What kind of friend, what kind of family, abandoned his own in time of need? He was a little chagrined by Ann’s callousness toward Javi. No, he would go home tomorrow.
They sat around the table, red-faced, sweating, emitting a raucous laughter that was gut-busting, rib-breaking. More bottles of wine had been drunk than there were people — Titi counted. Richard ran out, his face sweaty and red from the heat of the stove, for quick bouts of eating before he ran back to the kitchen for the next dish — Jalisco-style sweet corn pudding.
“It’s good? You like?” he said.
“You could be French,” Loren declared, staring down dreamily into his plate. “It is divine.”
Richard glowed, in possession of himself for the first time since they had arrived. He would stay and fight for his wife.
Loren burped. “Excuse me, I was just recalling … Aren’t there steaks in the freezer?”
Richard looked at Ann a minute. She held her breath.
“Not for this chef.” He signaled to Wende, who rose unsteadily to her feet.
“Quiet everyone,” she yelled from the kitchen door. “We have a surprise.”
Richard appeared behind her, carrying a three-layer cake smothered under fluffy coconut frosting, burning with so many candles it gave the appearance of a bonfire. Surely he didn’t put all thirty-eight candles on? Richard made his way to the table, staggering under the weight of his love offering. Wende brushed back plates and silverware with her arm, knocking over bottles, breaking glasses in her drunken haste.
“It’s Ann’s birthday!”
Dex stood up, holding the table for balance, and sang “Happy Birthday,” jazz-style. He then sang the Police’s “Roxanne,” except his version was “Oh, Ann.” She was living out her teenage-girl dream. This was as close to groupie nirvana as she was getting.
The cake was huge, gigantic — disproportionate to the occasion, of which there was none. It was the size of a happy couple’s big family and circle of friends, of a successful restaurant and thriving law practice, of raised gold lettering on the door of a corner-view office, of a big McMansion, chemically induced triplets, fancy cars, and all the many people hired to keep the whole thing afloat — not so different, in fact, than this resort. Not. The cake was a lie, and even if she pretended to be happy about it, she couldn’t, because even if all those things had been true, she had a premonition that these weren’t even close to being enough. They were the fast-food solution to happiness. Besides, her birthday had been two weeks ago.
“It isn’t my birthday,” she said aloud, staring into the frosting that was so deep and thick one could drown in its curling rosettes.
“Of course it is,” Richard said. “Or maybe it’s the day I fell in love with the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. In her pink satin dress, scared of the thunder. I’m celebrating that day.”
“No, it seriously isn’t,” Ann said.
“Chicks hate getting older,” Dex said.
“‘Chicks’?” Wende said. “You actually use that word?”
“We’re here on borrowed time. Time and money we don’t have,” Ann said.
“What about the money bag in your room?” Titi asked.
“We’re all here on borrowed time,” Loren said. “‘Where do we come from? What are we? Where are we going?’”
“That’s original,” Richard said. “Put it in a song.”
“No, man,” Dex said. “That’s the name of Gauguin’s masterpiece.”
“Pass the cake, chick,” Wende said.
“Hey!”
“Don’t ‘Hey!’ me.” She ate big dripping forkfuls of coconut frosting. Dieting was another thing she had done away with since she had become politically sensitized. The cake was the final straw that broke the camel’s back as far as she was concerned. Look what Richard did for Ann, and look what Dex wouldn’t do for her. “Did you ever hear the joke about how dogs resemble their owners?”
The table was silent. Wende was in a dark place no one wanted to follow.
“These scientists want to test out the idea. They get these three dogs. One dog belongs to an architect, one dog belongs to an accountant, and one dog belongs to a rock star.”
“I don’t think—”
“Let it go, Ann!” Wende snapped (Ann, the one everyone loved; they only lusted after her). “So the scientists bring the architect’s dog into a room with ten bones, and he builds a pyramid. ‘Wow!’ the scientists say. They bring the accountant’s dog into the room and give him ten bones, and he divides them up evenly. ‘This is amazing!’ the scientists yell. Then they bring the rock star’s dog into the room and put ten bones in front of him.”
“Babe, let’s stop—”
Wende does not stop — the pitch of her voice cants higher. “They bring the rock star’s dog into the room and put the ten bones in front of him. He pauses, licks himself, crushes the bones up and snorts them, fucks the other two dogs, then ODs.”
Wende ran away from the table.
Dex coughed. “Wine does that to her,” he said.
* * *
The night wore on until Titi now counted three empty wine bottles per person, a mathematically impossible reality considering that included her, and she didn’t touch alcohol. Dex and Wende reconciled (apparently wine did do that to her because she held no grudge; she was riding a pendulum between the old and new Wende). Loren came out of his fare with a ring of small halved coconuts threaded through a piece of rattan.
“Birthday present. It’s a shark rattle. The noise, it reminds sharks of birds feeding on small fish. They rush to join the pleasure.”
“It never occurred to me to want to attract them.”
“Only call when you are ready.”
“It’s not my birthday,” Ann said, but no one seemed to care.
Wende wanted to dance, so Dex brought out his fancy satellite radio. Loren made a face at this breach of the rules, but he was in no position to police them. Dex tuned the radio to a local station, but instead of music there was an announcement:
“Tahiti and surrounding islands … preparing for a category one hurricane. The demonstration timed to coincide with the arrival of a French delegation set to hold hearings concerning reparations … canceled.”