Last Light

3 Inside the Beautiful Man

Suspended from the ceiling were life-size sharks that were not plastic replicas, but real specimens preserved by a taxidermist, as sinuous as they would have been when swimming, as if searching now for yet another meal. On the walls hung colorful custom surfboards and photographs of local surfing celebrities dating from the 1930s to the present. Slabs of koa for tabletops, red and lustrous and sensuously figured. Dick Dale and the Deltones, the Beach Boys, the Ventures, Santo & Johnny, the Chantays, Jan and Dean for nostalgic background music. Slices of lime garnishing the beer glasses. It might have seemed too theme-restaurant in style if the details hadn’t been right and real, and if the owners hadn’t been lifelong surfers.

After a long drink of ice-cold beer, while Rainer scanned the familiar menu, Makani said, “What do you do when you’re not watching girls on the beach?”

“I’ve been known to paddle out and take some waves myself.”

“I didn’t see you on the ride today.”

“You wouldn’t have, not as into it as you were.”

“I was into it,” she admitted.

“I suspect you’re always into it. I’ve never seen such concentration.” He put the menu aside. “So where’d you first learn to surf?”

“Oahu. I was born there.”

“Hamakuapoko?” he asked, naming a popular and sometimes difficult surfing location on Oahu.

“I learned some there. Here, there, and everywhere on the island, from when I was seven and only bodyboarding.”

“Nuumehalani?” he asked, and then he translated, perhaps to impress her with the fact that he knew more than just the name. “ ‘The heavenly site where you are alone.’ It means alone with the gods, no matter how many people might be there.”

“Sure. Went there so often, I maybe could have staked a claim to part of the beach.”

Something like delight enlivened his face. While he tipped his beer to his lips and drank, Makani waited to hear what amused him.

He licked the foam off his lips and put down the glass and said, “I saw you there once.”

“I don’t think so. I haven’t been in Oahu in more than five years.”

“This was ten years ago. I was a month short of my twenty-first birthday, in the islands on business, wanted to catch some waves. A weekday in October. You were with three girls, a couple of boys. You were wearing a yellow bikini.”

“Must be a million girls with yellow bikinis.”

“You were riding a Mayhem by Lost Boards,” he said.

Surprised, she said, “I loved that board. I broke it two months later when I bailed out on a big set.”

“Couldn’t be two girls in the world who looked like you, with those eyes, and riding a Mayhem.”

“You recognized me right away, out there today?”

“At first sight.”

“Get real.”

“It’s true.”

She was flattered, but also embarrassed. “I don’t remember you.”

“Why would you? You were with your crew, having a great time.”

That October, ten years earlier, the unwanted gift of psychic insight had not yet been given to her. She had been normal. Free.

“I admired you from a distance,” he said. “Almost approached you to say ’sup, or something just as stupid. Then I realized you must be the same age as the other kids, fifteen or sixteen. And I was almost twenty-one. Wouldn’t have been right.”

Makani didn’t blush easily, but she blushed now.

“That day,” Rainer said, “you were so radical, so live, the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen.”

Flattery had always embarrassed her. Virtually from the cradle, her mother had taught her that humility was a virtue as important as honesty, just as she had been taught by her mother, Grandma Kolokea. Now Makani could respond to Rainer’s admiration only with gentle sarcasm: “What — were you blind until that day?”

“Well, I’m not blind now,” he said, compounding the flattery and her embarrassment.

To gain time to catch her breath, she said, “You were in Oahu on business that day? What business are you in?”

“I’m a facilitator,” he said, and sipped his beer, as if that one word should say it all.

“Facilitator? What do you facilitate?”

“Negotiations, transactions, financial arrangements.”

“Sounds important. You were doing all that when you were just twenty?”

He shrugged. “I like people. I’ve always had this ability to, you know, bring them together when all they want is to be arguing with each other. I can’t stand people fighting, always looking for a reason to be at each other’s throats.” A solemnity overcame him. An underlying pallor seemed to leach some of the glow out of his tan. He looked down at the table. “When I was a little kid, I saw enough of that. My old man, my mom. Too much drinking, so much anger. I couldn’t do a thing about…the brutality.” He looked up with repressed tears in his eyes. “We get only one life. We shouldn’t waste a day of it in anger.”

Because Makani knew too well the darker corners of the human heart, she sympathized with his childhood trauma and hoped that things might develop between them in such a way that she could be a comfort to him.

“You facilitate between businesses?” she asked. “In the surfing world?”

“Yeah, exactly. I did what every surf mongrel dreams of doing — found a way to make a living out of living the waves.”

She didn’t know the rules of poker, didn’t know how to read another player’s tells, but suddenly something about his smile or maybe a certain glint in his eyes, or the faintest hint of arrogance in the slight lifting of his chin, suggested to her that he might be lying about his work.

She must be wrong. He was such a big strong man, yet he didn’t use his size to intimidate. There he sat in his surfing-penguins shirt, like an overgrown boy, as sweet as anything. Her suspicion no doubt resulted from the uncounted times that her paranormal talent had revealed to her someone’s well-concealed deceit.

If she allowed unalloyed cynicism to settle in her heart, she would never trust anyone again. She’d have no hope of friendship, and certainly no chance of ever sharing her life with a man. The possibility of a life alone already gave her sleepless nights; the certainty of it would bring a depression that not even the consoling sea, with all its power and beauty, could relieve.

Pushing aside his half-finished beer, folding his hands on the table, leaning forward, Rainer said, “This is all a little awkward for me. I mean, I’ve thought about you for ten years, and never for a minute imagined I’d ever see you again. But here you are.”

“For real, now — you can’t have been thinking of me for ten years,” she said, though she wanted to believe that what he’d said was more true than not.

“Not every minute, ’course not. More often than you’d believe. When the waves were big and glassy and offshore and pumping, when it was a perfect day, then you kind of walked out of the back of my mind, as vivid as when I first saw you, as if you had to be there for it to really be a perfect day. Is it too much to believe that a man could see a woman across a crowded room or on the beach and be so drawn to her that he feels everything is about to change? But then, for whatever reason, he never has the chance to meet her, and so he’s haunted by that lost opportunity, by her, for years after? Do you think that sort of thing only happens in novels?”

Makani smiled knowingly, pushed her beer aside, folded her hands on the table, leaned forward as he had done, and took refuge in defensive sarcasm. “Haunted? Rainer, you seem to be a dear man, you really do. But what will you tell me next — that you’ve saved yourself for me all these years, that you’ve been as celibate as a monk? A guy who looks like you, a babe magnet?”

He regarded her with grave seriousness, met her eyes and did not look away. “Not at all. There have been women. I’ve been fond of all those girls, loved one. But never loved one enough. Never had that…electrifying moment, though I’ve hoped for it. I’ll promise you this — take me seriously, give me a chance, more dates than just this one, and I won’t pressure you to be intimate, not once, never. If that happens, it’ll be when you want it to. Whether it takes a year, longer, I don’t care. Your company, companionship, the sight of you — that’ll be enough for me until it’s not enough for you.”

He had rendered her speechless. Any guy she’d ever known would have delivered that pitch in such a way that insincerity would have dripped from every word. But from Rainer, it sounded as genuine as an innocent child’s pledge of fealty to a friend. When she found her voice, she said, “I’m not used to conversations like this, moving this fast. I’m not sure about the territory.”

“Makani, do you believe in hopena?”

“Destiny?” She thought of the unsought and burdensome gift that fate — or something in its guise — had bestowed upon her. “Have to say, I’ve had reason to wonder about it.”

“Have you?”

“Who hasn’t? Sometimes, it seems, things happen for no reason. You know? An effect without a cause. Crazy things.”

His right hand unfolded from his left. He reached across the table to her.

The moment had come. Skin to skin. All the dangers of a touch.

If she didn’t take his hand, he’d be stung by her rejection.

The possibility of a relationship was at stake.

Perhaps she had lied to herself. Perhaps she preferred to be alone. Her hesitation suggested as much.

No. She hadn’t been conceived in passion — and in the surf — only for a life of loneliness.

He would be either what he appeared to be or in some way a lesser man. She had nothing to lose. Except hope. Again.

She took his hand, and knew him for the monster that he was.