Louie pursed his lips judiciously. Le bon capitaine was of course right. "Ces gens ne sont pas gentilles," he announced. Always they wanted something from Americans. One had to be very careful. They were even known to steal.

That was a lot of crap, but Mitch was not going to argue with his only hope. “Vous allez expliquer?” he begged.

Louie shrugged. Was le bon capitaine going to take him to Tahiti?

“Non! C’est impossible!”

Louie reflected for a moment and relented. He got up, portraying vast patience in the face of ignorance. He patted his own tiny shoulders and pointed to Mitch’s. Mitch squatted and he clambered on. He was practically weightless. With Louie on his shoulders, Mitch stepped back aboard.

From his perch, Louie delivered a short Polynesian speech to the cockpit. Then he dismounted, drew Mitch below, and addressed the women in the salon.

Everyone nodded and smiled and got up. They touched cheeks with Lindy and Mitch and in five minutes the boat was clear.

What magic phrase, Mitch asked him, had he used?

Louie pointed to Lindy and then to Mitch. He made a circle of his thumb and forefinger, inserted the middle finger of his other hand and jabbed vigorously.

“Thanks, Louie,” sighed Mitch. “I’ll try to remember that.”

“Fine,” yawned Lindy, “but not right this minute, OK?”

They let Louie sleep in the cockpit. In the morning, he was gone.

So was the Polaroid.

They would have taken on water and left without telling anyone of the camera. Louie already seemed the village outcast and there was no use making him the local juvenile delinquent. But a wizened pearl diver, crippled with tarvana from too much pressure for too many years, shuffled to the boat for a picture in his church-suit, and a shy young island mother came asking for a photo of her baby’s grave, so they had to admit the theft.

The old man was outraged. The village had been disgraced. There was nothing to do but to follow him to the chiefs fare. He lurched painfully down the coral road, leading them down a lane of scraggly palms.

The village, after serenading them all night, was up and busy in its cookhouses. The shacks, of palm-woven walls and galvanized roofs, were windowless and wide open at waist height, gulping in the trades. They could see their guests of the night before sweeping and eating and gouging at coconuts in their neat small yards. There were waves, smiles, but no invitations inside: Mitch sensed that the island economy was dying with the pearl-diving industry, and that no one wanted to display his poverty.