“Hey, man, Américain,” repeated Louie proudly. “Cest bullshit, n’est-ce pas?”

“Probably, Louie,” sighed Mitch. The child was spooky: he claimed twelve years but seemed younger, and much older, too. In the high-domed head was a quick mind, and some secret purpose Mitch could not quite define.

“His father never taught him that English,” Lindy said. “Somebody ought to be shot!”

Mitch delved further. Louie said his father lived beyond the pass—he pointed to sea—in Bora Bora, further even than Tahiti. His father was bon capitaine, too, with a yacht bigger than this, and Louie had visited him many times. Louie himself was a bon pilote who could take them through the reef. Were they bound for Tahiti?

He seemed to visualize Tahiti, four days sail away, as just over the horizon. His eyes shed their sadness and sparkled and danced. He had an American friend, another bon capitaine, Jacques.

He reached into his shirt pocket and drew out a thin package of wrapping paper, tied with a shaggy brown string. He untied it on the table, pursing his lips. In it was a Polaroid picture.

It was Jack-the-Rip-Off, sitting at the wheel of his scruffy ketch, grinning from under his headband. Louie was standing as tall as he could beside him, his frizzled head touching the tip of Rip-Off’s tangled beard, but he seemed even smaller than now. Mitch hoped Louie’s English was all that Jack had screwed up.

Jacques, announced Louie, was going to take him to Tahiti when he returned. And to Raitea, and Bora Bora, too. “Après demain.”

“Après demain?” Mitch asked gently in French. “But ‘Jacques,’ when was he here?”

Louie looked away. “A month?” he answered, shiftily.

Mitch knew that Jack-the-Rip-Off had anchored in Nuku Hiva over a year ago, needing, he said, repairs. He had not moved since. The gendarme had told Mitch his visa had long expired.

Not a month, he suggested in French. Perhaps a year?

“Non!” Louie’s eyes grew angry. The surf growled, the palm muttered, a fish splashed somewhere in the lagoon. A stupid subject, and a stupid question, decided Mitch. Time stopped at the reef—how could the kid know?

Louie’s eyes were distant. His voice dropped. Jacques did indeed seem delayed. Would mon capitaine and the jolie madame take him to Tahiti? He would guide them to it through the reef.

Mitch shook his head gently. “Mais non, mon p’tit. Je regrette mais...”

The tiny black hand darted for the last banana on the table. His forearm seemed deliberately to brush the box of Ralston. It fell and spilled on the deck: instant poltergism. Louie gnawed the banana impassively while Lindy swept the mess.

“Le quai?” he asked suddenly. His voice rang with urgency. “Vous allez y aller, maintenant?”

Well, he could not send the little bastard dragging home barehanded. And they needed water. “Lindy,” he suggested, “let’s have a go at the dock?”