And then came Mahura. The girl popped from Xanadu’s after-hatch, dressed in the uniform of an Air France stewardess. She was straightening her skirt when she noticed Lindy. She read her face instantly, flashed a look of amusement, and hurried aft. She was Tahitian-Chinese. She made her drab suit look like a creation of Saint-Laurent.

“Jesus,” Lindy heard Mitch mutter from the cockpit. He was standing, coil of rope in hand, gazing at the girl. He looked as if he had been clubbed. She couldn’t blame him. The girl teetered expertly ashore on a plank from the stern-rail to the seawall. She hopped onto a bright yellow motorscooter, kicked it into life, and whipped into the traffic hurtling along the quay.

Lindy supposed she should be thankful. The problem of her strange chemical reaction to Jean-Paul was solved. The girl was possibly the most beautiful woman she had ever seen.

She did not feel grateful at all. She turned away to find Louie’s eyes still on her. Screw you, she thought, and out of our lives, OK?

Abruptly, she went below. With fresh water available, at least she could wash her hair.

Mitch gathered their passports and the ship’s papers and put on a clean white shirt and long pants, to go to Immigration. Louie, his tiny valise packed, trailing his guitar, was on the foredeck staring sullenly at the traffic rumbling along the Quai Bir-Hakeim.

Leading Louie down the waterfront, Mitch speculated on the child’s mood. Louie had never seen a motor vehicle, outside of the chief’s scooter on Takarava, and never crossed a city street. He had never seen TV or a movie, or used a toilet until he stepped aboard Linda Lee. And yet he was trudging stolidly along, eyes dead ahead, without a glance at what he must most want to see.

They cleared Immigration and phoned Louie’s great-aunt. She arrived, piloting a belching Vespa. She was an enormous woman wearing a tent of a pareu and a neat straw hat. She accepted Louie gratefully, perhaps knowing no better. She smiled, showing two missing teeth. Monsieur would perhaps visit their fare for a tamaaraa, après demain?

Mitch accepted, knowing by now that in Polynesia après demain seldom came. He had given Louie his freedom and a camera, but you returned a gift with a gift, not thanks. The little boy reached in his hip pocket and produced the brown packet he had shown them on the boat. He unwrapped it. From the photo, now, Jack-the-Rip-Off had been removed, apparently with the tin-snips; Louie stood alone at the wheel of the boat, lord of all he could see.

He handed the picture to Mitch. “Pour mon capitaine.”

“Et aussi pour Madame la capitaine?” suggested Mitch.

Louie’s face hardened. He slung his guitar over his shoulder, climbed behind the woman on the Vespa, and looked him dead in the eyes.