The chief tapped his head, but qualified the gesture. Who knew, really, if perhaps Louie had not? If you believed les superstitions des iles? For Louie assuredly knew things he could not have learned here, in their little island school: French better than his own, par example, some English, too. And where had he learned that, from passing yachtsmen? Perhaps. But no matter, his body had never left the island.

The mother, with five others to care for, was fiu, finished: she did not have time for Louie any more. Her husband was a good fisherman, a good diver, very honest, très stable, but Louie did not like him and he did not understand Louie.

“Louie, he is too black, and too intelligent, and perhaps the island is too small for him.” The chief sipped his coffee. “Perhaps, when the next schooner comes, at the end of the year, we shall send him to school in Papeete. There are government funds...”

The chief’s son stalked in triumphantly, with the camera, towing Louie by one small wrist. Louie glared at his captor, yanked his hand loose, saluted Mitch, and reported to him that he had found the camera on the beach.

“C’est bullshit, Louie,” Mitch said, trying not to smile.

“Abandonnée,” nodded Louie. He studied the chief’s son, whose mouth was working convulsively as he tried to follow Louie’s French. “Je pense,” Louie muttered to Mitch, “le voleur, c’est lui.”

He pointed to the son. The chief lunged for Louie and snagged a skinny arm. He said something in Tuamotuan, very low and menacing. Louie never flinched. “Je suis Américain!” he shouted, turning to Mitch.

The chief said it again, louder. Mitch broke in. He agreed, he said, that it was Louie who had taken the camera. The chief’s son, it was easy to see, was no voleur. All Mitch needed was the camera, not justice: he had to take two more pictures. Indeed, he was grateful to Louie. Louie had walked far along the reef to bring them back to the village, to meet all the islanders. They might even leave the camera with him, with the chiefs permission.

That, the chief’s son understood. He stamped from the room, enraged. The chief dropped Louie’s arm and looked at Mitch in awe.

“Monsieur le Capitaine, vous êtes Chrétien!”

“Non!” exploded Louie. They stared at him.

A Christian, explained the child, would take him to Tahiti. What use had he for the camera? “Il n’ y a pas d’argent sur cette ile perdue pour acheter un sacre film!”

“Or roughly,” Mitch murmured to Lindy, “there’s not enough money on this God-forsaken island to buy the goddamn film.” He moved to the chiefs window, looked at the growling entrance. He turned to Lindy. “Maybe,” he said softly, “we do need a pilot to get out of that pass?”