She made a reservation on the morning flight to Bora Bora. She did not cable Mitch: if he knew she was coming, he would try to meet the Bora Bora plane, and it was a long boat ride from the Oa Oa wharf to the airstrip near the pass.

She checked her suitcases for tomorrow, except for an overnight bag. She did not know why, but she ignored the taxis outside. She stood at a bus-stop on the highway and took le truc to Papeete. The passengers on the wooden benches scrunched together to give her room, and a Tahitian woman offered her a drink from a bottle of beer. She took it. Everyone apparently had seen her before; her face was familiar, so they loved her; she was very big on le truc. She wished Mitch had wanted to buy property here.

She hopped to the pavement as le truc squeaked to a stop at the tail of a long line of honking vehicles on Rue G. Lagarde. She moved through sidewalk crowds to the water. To the right lay Quai du Commerce, with the Royal Papeete, air conditioning, TV and a shower. To the left lay Quai des Yachts, and the battered Hotel Scott.

She hesitated, swinging the bag. She glanced left, across the street. There were new boats plugging the holes where Star of Peace and the Dutch ketch had been. The great schooner Vedura, reputedly cursed because she had taken “live” wooden tikis from the Marquesas years ago, seemed to be running out the subsequent stream of bad luck: now she had apparently had a fire: her topsides were scorched, her fine varnish peeled, her brass showcase binnacle twisted and warped.

Louie and a gang of even smaller children were diving for something off the seawall, astern of an American sloop she did not recognize. Louie was in charge, making it look as hard as possible while the owner pointed to whatever he had dropped in the water.

The quay was otherwise the same, but all was bathed in a strange ruddy light. Far down the lane of masts she could see the pitch-black poles of Xanadu.

She turned toward it, started to walk toward the Hotel Scott. Her head felt light and her body heavy. The air was full of tension. This was silly: she was tempting fate.

Something was happening to her, and something was happening along the quay. The whole ambience had changed. The bonnitiers were in, too early, sitting in their cockpits, morosely drinking beer. There were no fish on the seawall.

The yachts were heaving and falling in ponderous rhythm, as if the harbor were in deep, sound sleep. They had never risen so far or dropped so low. The line of them writhed like a giant accordion. The gangplanks were squealing and moaning in protest on the pavement. She had heard that often enough, when a chop came up from Moto Uta in the afternoon wind, but today the sound seemed sadder. She shivered.