Twenty blue devils

Chapter 18

The setting was better too. Dinner was al fresco, on a lush, rolling lawn that formed a promontory extending two hundred feet seaward from the house, hanging ten feet above the beach and reminding Gideon of nothing so much as a gigantic seaside golf green. Along one side, a stand of coconut palms and elegant, gray-green mape trees had been thinned out to make a pleasant, shaded grove, and there, just out of range of falling coconuts, the Polynesian feast that Nick had promised was being prepared by a busy team of Tahitians in tank top shirts, shorts, and baseball caps. Driftwood fires smoldered in two longitudinally split fifty-gallon oil drums set on pipe-metal frameworks, and mahimahi steaks, sliced pork, and huge Taravao Bay prawns were just beginning to sizzle on the grills atop them.

A few feet away, fresh palm fronds had been laid over a twelve-foot-long table to serve as a base for trays of fruit- neatly sliced papaya, watermelon, pineapple, and coconut-and a variety of native goods: poisson cru, the lime-marinated tuna salad that was Tahiti's version of sashimi; fafa, a dish of taro greens, chopped chicken, and coconut milk that would have passed muster in a soul-food restaurant; and a few other fruit, vegetable, and seafood combinations that Gideon couldn't name. About the only nod in the direction of Europe was the substitution for taro root and breadfruit of thin loaves of crusty, flaky French bread, which the bakers of Papeete had long ago learned to make almost as well as their counterparts in Paris. That and the well-stocked bar.

By the time that Gideon and John arrived, it was plain that the bartender, a coffee-guzzling Tahitian who contributed the sole touch of formality by wearing a waiter's white jacket over his shorts and Bart Simpson T-shirt ("Don't have a cow, man"), had been keeping busy. The Druett clan, nibbling crudites and sipping their drinks at a large, round table, gave every appearance of being well-oiled. The laughter, loud talk, and heated debate were audible from a hundred feet away, and when the two men came into sight they were warmly greeted by Nick-warmly enough for Gideon to feel a few pangs of guilt about not being forthcoming with him-steered to the bar, and then hauled off to be welcomed by, and in Gideon's case introduced to, the others at the table.

There were six of them altogether: the three that Gideon had already met-Celine, Maggie, and Nick himself-along with Nick's other daughter, the beautiful Therese; John's older brother, the imperious Nelson Lau; and John's deadpan, ironic cousin, Rudy Druett, the roastmaster at Whidbey Island, who was in Tahiti for the time being, holding down some of Brian's old responsibilities and helping to prepare Tari Terui to shoulder them on his own when the time came.

Playing in the grass in the care of a nanny a few yards away were the Twin Terrors, Claudette and Claudine, Therese's daughters, two mumpish, fat-cheeked, un-terrible-looking little girls in pink-and-white frocks who refused outright, despite their grandfather's urging, to address Gideon as Uncle Giddie, which suited Gideon just fine.

He was accepted more readily by the adults, but naturally enough it was John who got most of the attention. Therese, every bit as meltingly lovely as John had told him she was, hugged him for a long time, bowing her slender neck to press her face sweetly into his shoulder before she let him go. John, embarrassed but pleased, clumsily stroked her hair and murmured a few words. But the brotherly embrace with Nelson, Gideon couldn't help noticing, was less spontaneous, a mere momentary resting of the fingertips on each other's upper arms, with a good foot and a half of open space between the two men.

Their greeting was equally restrained:

"John,” Nelson said, his cool tone rising slightly.

"Nelson,” John replied in kind.

When everyone was seated again, with Gideon tucked between Celine and Rudy, there were a lot of questions for John-about his job, about Marti, about when they were going to start having a few little Laus-and from there the conversation turned to general family reminiscences and eventually to stories about Brian. It had been a week now since the news of his death, and enough alcohol had been consumed so far tonight to make the atmosphere more jolly than mournful, more like a wake than a funeral.

Nick, dressed in the work-stained shorts he had been wearing that afternoon, plus a striped tank top and a faded, curly-brimmed Boston Red Sox baseball cap, basked in his dual role of paterfamilias and number-one storyteller. Gideon, with little to contribute, sat back and sipped his Scotch-and-soda, put the reason that he was in Tahiti more or less out of his mind, and gave himself over to enjoying the anecdotes, the shared affection that flowed around him, and the people themselves. Interesting people, wonderfully different from the quiet, undemonstrative uncles and aunts that had made the Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners of his childhood such excruciating ordeals to a boy of eleven or twelve; he could still remember entire meals, or so it seemed to him now, when the only sounds from a dozen diners had been the steady, private clicking of forks and scraping of knives on the plates.

Not so the Druetts and the Laus, who were animated and spontaneous enough for three families. True, they had their idiosyncrasies-maybe Nelson was a little too self-important, and Maggie was a little too brusque, and Rudy a little too vinegarish, and Celine a little too self-absorbed…but they were a lively, entertaining bunch-and they all seemed genuinely fond of John (even Nelson, in his own superior way) and for that alone he liked them.

This relaxed and pleasant interlude went on until a private dispute between Maggie and Nelson grew too loud to be ignored. They were arguing about Tari Terui, and Maggie was flushed with anger.

"If you're saying that Tari is-embezzling, or-or-"

"Oh, spare me,” Nelson said. “I'm not accusing him of being a crook, for God's sake-"

"So what are you accusing him of?"

"Of screwing up, if you'll pardon the expression. The man is simply-and I've said this from the beginning, I don't think anyone can deny that-the man is simply not capable of handling figures. In the few weeks that he's had access to them, our books have become an incomprehensible mess. He finds something that doesn't make sense to him in accounts payable, and rather than come and ask someone in a position to know, he ‘corrects’ the entry, so that naturally it is no longer consistent with either the purchase order or the invoice-"

"You've never given him a fair chance, you've-"

"May I say something?” Rudy interrupted. “Unprecedented though it may be, Nelson is actually making a cogent point. I've been concerned with Tari's-shall we say, whimsical- approach to the finances myself."

"Then why aren't you helping him instead of telling us? You're supposed to be coaching him, not criticizing him behind his back."

"I've been trying, Maggie,” Rudy said, “but getting the man to understand is an ordeal approximately on par with a double root canal. No, worse. It's like having to sit through an entire performance of Cats."

"I'm not saying it's his fault,” Nelson cut in. “It's a well-known fact that the Tahitian numerical system lacks-"

"Oh, balls,” Maggie said disgustedly.

"People,” Nick admonished quietly. “We have company."

But Nelson was just warming up. “Let me give you just one example-our account with Java Green Mountain. We owe them for four thousand pounds of beans, duly purchased at $12.45 a pound and due at the end of the month. That's $49,800."

"Nelson…” Nick said a little less patiently.

"Only our friend Mr. Terui took it upon himself to ‘correct’ it for us. I suppose you could say he made only one teeny mistake, shifting the decimal point one little place to the left. But what would the result have been if I hadn't caught it? We would have sent Green Mountain a check for $4,980 and not the $49,800 we owe them."

Nick burst out laughing. “Hey, I like the guy's approach. Maybe we should put him in charge of the books."

Predictably, this failed to amuse either Nelson or Maggie.

"You don't want him to succeed,” Maggie said hotly. “Neither of you, not really. You just-"

Fortunately, one of the workers yelled “Chowtime!” from the cooking area at this point, whereupon everybody headed for the buffet table, most of them making a detour at the bar first. Gideon refreshed his Scotch, then helped himself to rice, string beans, and grilled mahimahi, surprising and perhaps offending the server by declining her offer to dress the fish with coconut milk hand-wrung from a clump of pulverized coconut wrapped in cheesecloth. Coconut milk was the one staple of the sweet, pleasantly bland Polynesian diet that Gideon could do entirely without. No doubt it would look pretty good if you were perishing of thirst on a desert island, but it was hardly something you'd use to spoil a two-inch-thick chunk of nicely seared mahimahi.

"Hey, Gideon,” Celine said as she resettled herself beside him with her plate, “why you think my hair's so thin?"

"Oh, it's not really that-"

"Sure, it is. You a scientist. Guess."

"Well, it's hard to say. In a lot of people-"

"Tennis."

Gideon studied his Scotch, “Tennis,” he said.

"That's right, tennis. Used to play all the time. Douglas Fairbanks teach me. Junior, not father. You looking at the number-one player, Papeete Racquet Club, 1948, ‘50, ‘51."

"But how,” Gideon asked, intrigued now, “did tennis affect your hair?"

Celine laughed. She had tiny, rounded teeth, like little pearls. “Not tennis, God love you. Too many showers with lousy shampoo.” She shook her head ruefully. “Didn't have no Vidal Sassoon back then. Oh-oh, they at it again."

This last was a reference to Maggie and Nelson, whose arena had now shifted to the French plans to renew nuclear testing, suspended since 1992, at Mururoa atoll, southwest of Tahiti. Nelson was all for them because of the economic benefits that a renewal of testing would bring.

"And what about the radiation?” Maggie wanted to know, having more than recovered her composure since the earlier dispute.

"Poppycock,” said Nelson. “Do you seriously think, for one moment, that the French government would put our lives at risk? Don't be ridiculous."

Maggie looked pityingly at him. “Unbelievable,” she said through a mouthful of prawn.

Nelson waggled a finger at her. “Can you point, in all honesty, to a single verified illness from all the previous tests?” Nelson demanded. “Has a radioactive cloud ever once passed over Tahiti? Has it? Has it?"

Aside from a faint similarity in the set of their lips, Nelson was about as different from John as one brother could be from another. Where John was big and beefy, Nelson was compact, with small, feminine hands and feet; where John seemed to take up more space than his size strictly demanded, Nelson seemed to fill less; where John was generally easygoing but easy to ignite, Nelson seemed to operate at a constant, irritable simmer. And altogether unlike John, he appeared to be totally devoid of humor.

Add the finicky little mustache-two dainty, symmetrical, upturned commas-to everything else, and John's older brother put Gideon in mind of nothing so much as a pompous fussbudget of a hotel manager in morning coat and striped pants; the little man who postured and sniffed behind the reception desk (and said things like “poppycock” and “don't be ridiculous") in one old Hollywood comedy after another, only to end up being put inevitably in his place by a suave and impeccable Cary Grant, or David Niven, or Katharine Hepburn. Huff and puff as he might, there was simply something about Nelson that made it hard to take him seriously.

Even now, while his finger remained leveled magisterially at the space between Maggie's eyes, she continued to chew away at her prawn, unruffled. “If those tests are so safe…” she finally said when she was good and ready, then chewed some more.

"Yes,” an impatient Nelson prodded, “if those tests are so safe…?"

"…then why don't they blow them up over France?"

There was a splutter of laughter from Nick and the others. Nelson merely stared at Maggie. “If you're not going to be serious,” he said scornfully, “I don't see the point of discussing it any further."

"Good!” Nick said, whacking the table. “It's about time “

"Besides,” Nelson went on, addressing the group at large, “there's something else we need to talk about.” He waited for the others to quiet down and listen, which they didn't. “We have a new offer from Superstar."

That got their attention. A near-perceptible current sizzled around the table. Conversations stopped in mid-sentence. Forks were laid on plates. Faces that had been relaxed and open-countenanced a moment before, abruptly looked shifty and cunning. Gideon and John exchanged glances, both thinking the same thing: maybe the connection between Superstar's offers and Brian's death wasn't so far-fetched after all. Half the people around them looked ready to kill over it right now.

"Um…Superstar?” Maggie said off-handedly.

Nelson nodded significantly. “In this afternoon's mail."

"For God's sake,” Rudy said, “don't those people ever give up? What do they want to give us now, Rockefeller Center?"

"No,” said Nelson, “as a matter of fact-"

"Now, wait.” Nick was on his feet and leaning over the table, his long arms propped on sandy-haired knuckles (in a strikingly simian manner, Gideon couldn't help observing).

"This is a family dinner, not a corporate business meeting. And we have company-"

"John's not company,” a tipsy Maggie said, raising her glass to her cousin.

"Well, Gideon is. There's no reason this can't keep till tomorrow morning."

"I won't be here tomorrow morning,” Nelson said. “There's a chamber of commerce meeting in Papeete."

"All right, Wednesday."

"Sorry, I'll be in Hawaii Wednesday,” Rudy contributed. “Pacific Growers meeting."

"All right, Th-"

"No can do,” said Maggie. “Training sessions morning and afternoon."

"They've asked for an answer by the end of the week,” Nelson said.

Nick was starting to show his frustration. “Well, that's too damn bad,” he snapped, “they just might have to wait. For Christ's sake, we're having dinner! You think John and Gideon came all the way out here to listen to us hash over company business?"

Good question, Gideon thought; he wouldn't mind the answer to that himself. What had they come for?

"Hey, don't worry about us,” John said with another sidewise glance at Gideon. “Go ahead and talk about it. It'll probably take less time than arguing about whether you should or shouldn't talk about it."

At that Nick capitulated, taking his seat and throwing up his hands with a sigh. “Go ahead and talk, what do I know?"

Now Nelson stood up. “As I see it, it's a relatively straightforward proposition."

It was. Superstar Resorts International, of Omaha, Nebraska, had upped its offer for the property by a generous ten percent, said amount to be-

"What about the training center?” Maggie interrupted.

"The earlier stipulation still stands. Two acres to be set aside as a training and placement institute for young Tahitians interested in entering the hotel and tourist industry. Adequate funding to be provided."

Maggie jerked her fist with boozy satisfaction. “All right!"

"And that's it, really,” Nelson said. “Other than the money, the earlier offer holds in its entirety. What's your reaction, Nick?"

Nick inclined his head thoughtfully. “It's a lot of money…” Maggie, Rudy, and Nelson started speaking at once, with Nelson carrying the day through sheer tenacity. “Not only is it a lot of money, Nick, but it's the right time to get out of the coffee business. Are you aware-"

"Out of the coffee business and into what?” Nick asked.

"What about Bora Bora?” Maggie said. “What about that destination resort you're always talking about building on the Bora Bora property? With this kind of money, couldn't you just up and do it?"

Nick gave it some thought. “Maybe I could at that,” he said quietly, and the look in his eyes made it clear that the idea had its attractions. Nick Druett was an entrepreneur at heart, Gideon realized, not a coffee baron, or a land baron, or any other kind of baron. For men like Nick, the possibility of something new, of something big, of making something from nothing, was what got them out of bed every morning.

"Not me,” said Celine flatly. “I'm not going to Bora Bora. No art supplies on Bora Bora. No nothing on Bora Bora. Tahiti is plenty bad enough."

"But you wouldn't have to live on Bora Bora, Momma,” Maggie said. “You could live anywhere. You could-"

"May I just finish my point?" Nelson cut in. He was still standing at his chair and he spoke directly to Nick. “I think it's time for us to take a good look at market trends. Has anyone besides me given any thought to the fact that coffee consumption, worldwide, has been going down, not up? That despite all the talk about a coffee boom, people consume less than half of what they did thirty years ago? That the world market has been stagnant for decades? That with Japanese demand driving up prices and higher wages driving up costs, the profit window for growers shrinks every year? I grant you, Paradise is doing fine for the time being, but all the same-"

"All the same,” a mocking drone interrupted, “the reports of coffee's demise are greatly exaggerated."

The comment had come from Rudy, on Gideon's right. One of the three Caucasians at the table-the others were Nick and Gideon-he was the only one there who was from the “other” side of the family, being the son of Nick's dead brother, and the only one who had spent most of his life in the continental United States as opposed to Tahiti or Hawaii. As a result he had contributed little beyond droll, oblique footnotes to the family reminiscences.

He was far from oblique now, however. The only stagnant part of the market was the robusta sector, the others were crisply informed; the big industrial roasters, the Folgerses, the Maxwell Houses. The arabica sector, the specialty growers and roasters, were doing better than fine, and not just for the time being either. They now had twelve percent of the market, up from less than one percent only a few years ago, and were still climbing, with Paradise near the front of the pack. As for coffee prices, when had they not been going up and down and up again? Back in the eighteenth century it had been $4.68 a pound for ordinary green beans, four times what it was now- had they known that?

They hadn't. “Even so-” said Nelson.

But Rudy wasn't easy to cut off when he chose not to be. Did they know that the coffee industry employed almost thirty million people in one capacity or another? Would they care to guess what the earth's most-traded commodity just happened to be?

"Coffee?” asked John, being helpful.

"Wrong,” said Rudy, “petroleum. Now: Would anyone care to guess the world's second-most-traded commodity?"

"Coffee?” asked John.

"Excellent guess,” said Rudy. “Somebody give that man a coconut. Last year, eleven billion pounds were traded at the wholesale level alone."

For all his waspishness, Rudy was amusing in a dry, puckery kind of way. With his balding dome, his pruney, disapproving mouth, and his baggy-eyed sad sack of a face, his sharp, funny thrusts rarely failed to surprise.

"I take it,” Nick said, on the dry side himself for the moment, “that you're suggesting that we don't accept their offer?"

Rudy nodded. “As before, padrone."

The others started talking again. Nick held up his hand. “Let's save some time. Maggie, Nelson-you think it's time to sell."

More nods. “A training center would be a fantastic legacy, Poppa,” said Maggie, her eyes shining. “A way to pay back all we've plundered from the island."

"Right, plundered. And Celine? You'd still like to sell the farm, of course?"

"You bet, Nicky! Buy a nice villa in Antibes, get out of this dump."

"So everyone feels the same as they did before,” Nick said reflectively. “The only thing that's changed is the money.” He turned to his right. His voice, his entire manner, became gentler. “Therese, do you want to say anything, honey?"

Therese looked startled. She too hadn't said much until now, and what little she'd said had left Gideon with the impression that she was very sweet, very solicitous of others- of John, of her parents, of her children-and not very bright. Not very self-assured either. Most of her remarks faded away in mid-sentence, in a soft, not unattractive flurry of confusion and discomposure: oh gosh, she seemed to be saying, there I've gone and put my foot in my mouth again, haven't I?

That said, she was certainly a knockout, with clear, fresh skin somewhere between copper and bronze, features that combined the best of her Chinese and American heritage, and as classically beautiful, heart-shaped, and perfectly symmetrical a face as Gideon had ever seen.

"What a skull she must have under there,” Gideon had said to John in quiet admiration shortly after they arrived.

"You be sure and tell her that, Doc,” John had said. “I mean, what female wouldn't love to hear that? No wonder you swept Julie off her feet."

Therese's reply to Nick's question was, as usual, self-effacing. As far as she was concerned, she would be happy with whatever he decided-but in her heart of hearts she hoped they wouldn't sell, that was all.

Nick prompted her to continue.

Therese chewed her lip and went hesitantly forward. Since she had been a little girl, not a day had passed, not a single meal, when coffee hadn't been discussed, and pondered over, and argued about. For as long as she could remember, the growing of coffee had been the focal point of the family. More than that, much more, it was the coffee farm into which Brian had poured so much of his energy and thought and devotion. He had left his stamp on it, and to her-she knew how silly this sounded-it was a kind of monument to him. The idea of abandoning coffee simply because someone offered them money-did they really need more money?-of letting all that work and achievement be bulldozed away for just another tourist hotel…

As usual, she trailed off into mumbled fragments. “I'm sorry…I just…I can't really…you know…” She hunched her shoulders and looked down at her hands.

Treacly as it was, Therese delivered it with such patient, awkward sincerity that Gideon found himself moved. Nick was moved too. Moist-eyed, he put his hand over his daughter's.

Nelson, who was not moved, rapped peevishly on the table. “Pardon me, but may I suggest that this has nothing whatever to do with Brian, for God's sake? We grow beans here, not holy relics, and the reason we grow them is so people can make something called coffee out of them. And what is coffee? Coffee is no more than a mixture of burnt hydrocarbons, alkaloids, and mineral salts suspended in an aqueous solution…"

That was one way to look at it, Gideon thought.

Next to him, Rudy raised his glass of Medoc in a salute to Nelson. “Here's to a true romantic,” he said.

Nelson glared briefly at him. “My point is-"

"Enough,” Nick said, his hand still on Therese's. “Tell Superstar we're still not interested. We're doing fine right here."

Therese, still looking down, said something so softly that Gideon couldn't hear it but read it on her lips. “Thank you, Poppa."

"Anybody have any more comments they just have to make?” Nick asked.

They knew better than to bother. Nelson sulked. Maggie pouted. The others went back to eating.

"That's that, then,” Nick said, his spirits visibly lifting. “Dessert time."

He turned in his chair to call over his shoulder.

"Hey, Poema…you suppose we could get a cup of coffee around here?"