Glumly John swirled the last half-inch of beer in his bottle, “Okay, yeah, you're right, Doc. It's my family, not yours. Lucky me.” He finished the beer. “I'll collar Nick and find out what the hell is going on. How'll you get back to the hotel?"
"I'll hop a ride on le truck. "
John nodded. “All right, you go ahead, do your shopping, have a nice lunch, and go on back and lie around in a hammock all day. I'll deal with my screwball family."
Gideon beamed at him. “Now that,” he said, “is what I call a first-rate idea."
John left the Renault in the parking area beside Nick's sprawling white house and walked around to the French doors that opened onto the beachside terrace in back, which was the way all but strangers entered. At the edge of the flagstone terrace in the feathery shade of a couple of tall, slender mape trees, his aunt Celine-Nick's wife, the mother of Maggie and Therese-was standing at an easel, her back to him, an artist's palette hooked over one thumb, a brush in the other hand, and a second brush between her teeth. She was contemplating the half-finished oil painting in front of her and the immense panorama of sea and sky beyond. Once a famous island beauty who had even had a brief juvenile career in a few Hollywood movies, she was now a chubby, twinkling little woman of sixty with thinning black hair, forever dressed in a capacious, all-concealing, flowered muumuu from which her small, round arms stuck out like a couple of dusky sausages.
When she heard him come up she turned. Her face lit up. “Hello, you!” she cried in the rich Tahitian lilt that she had never lost, although she had spoken little but English and French for decades. Like John's mother, she had been born in Tahiti to Chinese parents who had come to work as laborers on the great Atimaono cotton plantation, and Chinese had never been more than a second language to her. “Hey, why you still so skinny? She don't feed you?"
Daintily, and somewhat absentmindedly, she proffered her cheek to be kissed. He kissed it, smiling. Celine was a good-natured, garrulous woman, but usually a little remote as well; not in an aloof or offensive way, but as if in a reverie of self-absorption, as if there were always something intensely interesting on her mind, only it never happened to be you or what you were talking about at the time.
Her approach to painting had some of the same quality, Celine, who lived three months of the year in Paris and the rest in Papara, unvaryingly painted French pictures when in Tahiti and Tahitian pictures when in France. She claimed it stimulated her creativity.
She took the brush from between her teeth and gestured at the painting. “So tell me, what you think?"
True to form, with a sparkling Polynesian seascape of lagoon, foaming reef, and limpid, cloud-studded blue sky spread out in all its glory before her, she was painting a picture of Notre Dame Cathedral from a dog-eared postcard tacked to an arm of the easel.
Looks great, Celine. You get better all the time."
"Don't bullshit me,” she said, but she beamed. “Hey, you early, boy. Nick said you not coming up till later."
"Well, I wanted to ask him a couple of things. Is he in the house?"
She shook her head. “No,” she said, “up at the farm. In the shed, I think. That man in one hell of a mood."
"Well, with poor Brian-"
"No, everybody feel rotten about that. This something else. What you do to him last night?"
"Not a thing, Celine. He probably just missed his beauty sleep, that's all."
"Well, he goddamn mad today,” Celine said, her attention returning to the painting. She chewed her lip and scowled at it. “Now where the hell I gonna find vermilion in this dump, you tell me that."
"Nice talking to you, Makuahine makua, ” John said fondly. “Look forward to seeing you later."
"Just gonna have to use lousy cadmium red instead,” she said and stuck the brush back between her teeth.
In the half-light of the drying shed, a large, round-bellied Tahitian looked up at John from his knees, where he was rolling a coffee bean in his fingers, having picked it from one of the amber mounds that were being systematically spread by a couple of workers with blunt wooden rakes.
"The boss? Yeah, he down below, by the furnace, You got to go outside and come in again. Hot as hell down there."
"Thanks,” John said.
"If you selling something, don't bother, come back another time."
"That seems to be the general opinion.” John smiled. “I guess you don't remember me, Tari."
The Tahitian took another look. His neutral expression changed. “Oh, hey, the boss's nephew, right? How you doing, John?"
"Fine, how about yourself? Running the place yet?"
Tari Terui was one of Maggie's “projects.” The son of a man who had himself worked on a coffee farm all his life, he had been with the Paradise plantation for fifteen of his thirty years, starting as an unskilled laborer on the loading dock and eventually working himself up to a crew chief, which seemed to be as far as his vocational aims went. But Maggie had seen some spark of intelligence or aptitude in him and had gotten him, against his own judgment, to enroll in the technical college in Papeete. To everyone's surprise but hers he had stuck to it, seen it through, and emerged with a certificate in hotel management and tourism, the closest thing to a management degree that one could get on the island.
Since then he had been her shining example, and she had nursed and groomed him all the way to his present job as production foreman, the highest position that had ever been held at the farm by a native Tahitian. Now, John had heard, she had him in mind for bigger things still. Last week, when Nick had begun to wonder how he was going to replace Brian at the farm, she had argued that he would have a hard time finding a better operations manager than Tari Terui, or one who knew more about the coffee business. Given a little coaching and a month or so to learn the ropes, he would do a wonderful job.
Nick had surprised her by promptly accepting the idea, and Tari had now been the official heir apparent for going on two weeks.
"Oh, be a while before I'm ready to run things,” he said, getting to his feet. “Not till Thursday, anyhow.” And he laughed, but with a nervous little hiccup that suggested less assurance than the words did.
Despite his accomplishments, Tari had always struck John as a simple soul, a big, likeable islander who had been goaded by Maggie, with all good intentions, to a level he would never have wanted or reached on his own; a man who was in over his head or who thought so at any rate, and dearly wished himself back hefting bags at the loading dock with the other kanakas. As a result, under the friendly exterior and the high-pitched giggle there was an edge of uneasiness. If anything, John had seen it grow sharper over time.
Well, what the hell, it was Tart's life. If he didn't like it up there with the big boys, all he had to do was say no thanks. Nobody was forcing him. Still, he couldn't help rooting for the guy.
"Ah, you'll do fine, Tari. You know more about coffee than all the rest of them put together. So Nick's in a bad mood, huh?"
"You said it, brother."
"How bad? On a scale of one to ten."
"Oh, I don't know. Around seven hundred?"
"Thanks for the warning. See you later, Tari."
This was starting to get worrisome, John thought as he walked around the shed to the other entrance. Nick could be just about the most stubborn, contrary man in the world when he felt like it, and John wanted some answers-now, before Nick had time to concoct some kind of elaborate, cockamamie story. Obviously, a little psychology was called for, a little buttering-up.
A little coffee-talk.
Chapter 13
"Hi there, Unc,” he said, nephew-like and chipper. “God, don't you love the smell of coffee beans?” He inhaled deeply, swelling his chest. “Nothing like it."