Chapter Four: Tahiti Shrug Off
“Polynesia has a great tradition for legends, superstitions and tall tales.”
• • •
The only uncool thing about Cedric was his name. Although having introduced himself in his decidedly cool French accent even that was sounding pretty interesting.
Cedric was handsome: tanned and youthful-looking, although perhaps not as young as the majority of backpackers; pale blue eyes and long, wavy, Byronic hair, which suggested an artistic temperament and a prolonged period absent from a major Parisian hair-styling salon; plus he was annoyingly free from the rows of unsightly red insect bites which seemed to inflict every other traveller in the tropics. Cedric could play the guitar. Cedric had a beautiful girlfriend. Cedric was currently sitting on the white, stone veranda of Hiti Mahana, looking handsome and playing the guitar to his beautiful girlfriend. Worse still, he was doing this while sitting on Stuart’s mattress. A crowd of fellow travellers sat around him, admiringly. Stuart noticed Stefan among their number and nodded his recognition.
There were no lights visible beyond the villa now - no hint of a boat far out at sea, nor anyone still up in the next village along the shoreline - and the electric light in the main room had been switched off, but someone had placed three candles on the floor of the terrace, and these cast a mesmeric light over the group as the breeze off the sea toyed with their flames, constantly threatening to extinguish them altogether.
“Is yours?” Cedric had broken off from his strumming and was speaking to Stuart, patting the misshapen bedding at the same time. Not only could he mind-read, but he could do so in the correct language of the person he was addressing.
“Yes,” admitted Stuart, “but carry on, it’s all right.”
“Non, non,” said Cedric, “It’s OK. I am finished. We ...” he caught his companion’s eye, and smiled mischievously, “...were just going to bed. You know?” He pulled the strap of his guitar over his shoulder and lay the instrument flat on his lap, but otherwise didn’t attempt to move from where he sat. The rest of the group had begun to disperse to their various beds, although Stefan still loitered, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, perhaps in a quandary, once again, about what night-time attire to don.
Cedric drew out a packet of cigarettes from his back pocket, gave the carton a sharp knock, and drew out one tube with his teeth. He offered the packet to Stuart, “Want one?”
“No, I don’t, thanks. Smoke, that is.”
“Gauloises,” he continued through clenched teeth, “It is good they have them here. French, you know?”
“Yes,” agreed Stuart.
Cedric used one of the candles to light the cigarette and blew an elaborate smoke ring into the air. He smiled at Stuart, “It is not as good as weed, no? But ...” he left the sentence unfinished with a shrug of his shoulders.
“No,” agreed Stuart, at a loss to know what was better or not.
Cedric’s girlfriend laughed nervously and whispered something in rapid French in Cedric’s ear. He half-smiled, but continued to direct his conversation towards the Englishman.
“Is yours?” This time it was Stuart’s small, pale olive suitcase that Cedric was indicating.
Stuart nodded.
“Is best not to leave here,” said Cedric. He lowered his voice, and looked around him, “Too many thieves, you know?”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Really?”
“The cheese-thief?” suggested Stuart, hesitatingly.
Cedric laughed out loud, at the same time patting the mattress again to indicate for Stuart to sit down and join him. “What have you heard?”
“Nothing really. Just that someone has been stealing cheese,” he finished, lamely.
“And you heard that he leaves a ... a sign. No, what you say. A calling card. Yes? Perhaps?”
“Yes, something like that.”
“Ha,” the note was scornful, “And what if I were to tell you that I am this cheese-thief?”
“Are you?” asked Stuart, surprised.
“Who knows,” he stood up, tapping his girlfriend on the shoulder, indicating that it was time to leave, “Perhaps.” They walked towards the open archway that separated the veranda from the main dormitory of the house, before Cedric turned around, flicking his still smouldering cigarette in an orbit over the balustrade, “Or perhaps it is you.” Another shrug of those shoulders and they were gone.
Stuart blew out the two candles that remained glowing dimly on either side of his bed. The guitar still lay on his mattress. Cedric had forgotten to take it with him. Somehow, Stuart thought, the enigmatic Frenchman wasn’t going to be needing it for the rest of that night.
• • •
Stuart slept badly. Or thought he did. He had dreams of an albino man doing ... he wasn’t sure quite what; activities always just outside of the vision of his nocturnal imagination; blurred and hazy, it was like he was viewing the scene behind a fogged glass window or through a piece of wrinkled, stretchy cling film. He had dreams about money. Three thousand Francs. It was almost twenty pounds. The exchange rate was one hundred and seventy Pacific Francs to the pound. So that was three thousand over one hundred and seventy. Which is: divide by ten, and halve, and then add a bit. Almost twenty pounds. It was more than he could afford to lose. It represented almost two day’s budget. He had reckoned on living on about twelve pounds per day. So twenty pounds would be: divide by ten, and then take off a little bit. Almost two day’s budget. Three thousand Francs. He would never see that again. Divide by ten, and then add ...
• • •
The money was there. Three crisp, new, one thousand Francs notes. In an envelope with his name on the front. He found it lying on top of his suitcase when he woke up next morning. There was a brief hand-written note with the money too. “Thanks for the loan. See you on Bora Bora? Jenny.”
“She was here very early.” It was Stefan who explained. “You were still sleep-ing.”
Stuart held up the note. Still half-asleep, he stifled a yawn, “Bora Bora?” He looked questioningly at Stefan as though he must know all the answers. Oh, lucky day.
“It is where she has gone.”
“Bora Bora? I thought she was going to be around here for a few days.”
Stefan shrugged - was this a gesture that Stuart was going to have to develop if he was to be truly accepted as a credible Continental traveller? “She told me she was fly-ing this morn-ing.”
“Flying? That must have cost a packet.” Stuart instinctively checked his Francs again, suddenly suspecting some fresh scam. “I was planning to go there myself at some point, but no way could I afford to fly. I thought I’d check out the boats.”
Stefan already had his finger in the correct page. He flipped open his faithful companion and read from the guide, “The Tap-or-o de-parts at five to-night.”