The clean Dutch ketch was here, from Nuku Hiva, and the tiny girl was growing fatter every day, while her counterpart on Star of Peace grew thinner. Knowing no one but adults, the little Dutch girl had the poise of a lady and spoke a melange of English, French, and Dutch. The old Australian had arrived before them and was trying to sell the cutter rather than to face the trip home single-handed. He was sanding his deckhouse in the cool of the morning.

Most of their friends would be leaving soon, on the trades toward the west. Despite her feeble protests, if she read Mitch correctly, they would be with them.

She crossed the street and started toward the market. A sleepy Tahitian bartender was sweeping broken bottles off the sidewalk outside the ancient Hotel Scott, the only real relic, outside of Quinn’s, of the old Papeete waterfront. A gnarled shell-lei vendor who slept under his souvenir stand outside Donald’s was setting up for the day, his polished leis and engraved shell sailboats lined in neat rows on a spotless oilcloth. He greeted her with a smile and the silent lifted eyebrows of Polynesia. He walked with her wordlessly as far as the Frosty-Freeze stand where he breakfasted. He left his wares unattended: even tourists seldom stole in Papeete. Once, he had pressed a shell pocketbook on her and would not let her pay.

By the time she reached the public market she was hungry: that was the problem with her weight. Papeete, full of good French restaurants, invaded you with food too early in the day. Cooking smoke drifted from the hills, and the morning scent of squealing piglets from passing trucs, with a breath of yams, melons, breadfruit, and coconut milk from the public market. She liked all she smelled and all she saw.

It was too soon to leave Tahiti: she was just getting acquainted. Tahitians never accepted you on sight: for weeks, at first, they had endured impassive stares from waitresses and shopkeepers and the clerks in the giant gleaming post office across the street from the boat. For a month or two, they were in social quarantine.

And then, for them at least, everything had unexplainably changed. A waitress at the Viama Restaurant on the quay, who had always ignored them before, one evening rushed over and kissed her, French-general style, on either cheek. A postal clerk began to set aside their mail. The crowded sidewalks, when she would walk to market, began to blossom with smiles from Tahitians she barely knew.