She awakened to the midnight clang of the bell from Temple Paofai two blocks east. Jean-Paul was not in the bed. The mosquito netting stirred in a moist little gust, and then fell limp. The fan had stopped: Papeete power came and went at will. Voices sounded from the quay. She heard an anchor chain groaning as someone began to winch it up.

Then she saw him on the porch, silhouetted against the stars. She got up, drowsily, tucked a pareu around herself and padded out. He put an arm around her waist and drew her close. She went soft inside.

“The stars,” he said. “Have you seen this before?”

She had not. They shone with a brilliance that seemed alive. She was surprised. From what he had told her last night, she would have thought that the skies would be cloudy.

“The pressure, I think, rises a little, the better to drop after. Therefore the clarity, stars like jewels...”

He pointed out Antares, and told her how the ancient Polynesians must have used it to navigate. But now she was fully awake, and her mind jumped to Mitch, alone with the boat.

“Is he OK at Bora Bora?” she asked.

He shrugged. “He is homme formidable. I think he would not fear to run to sea.”

“Run to sea? Without me? I’d kill him!”

He looked into her eyes. “You must not run to sea. You need not run. The boat need not run.” He told her of a shelter at Bora Bora, blasted into coral during the war by the Seabees, a haven against hurricane, Japanese shelling, or a passing German raider. It was big enough for a single PT boat. Or a yacht. Two meters deep, quite square, like all things militaire. “There are rings for lines set within the coral—”

“He’s probably snugged in there now, having a beer with the local chief,” she said.

He thought not. The natives would not tell him it was there. Perhaps the gendarme or Hans at the hotel, if they thought of it, but not the natives. For like all true warriors, the Seabees had ignored local protests and blasted it next to a marae, a marae most sacre, a kilometer south of the village in Baie Faanui. “Bad luck, the people think, to tie in there. It is too close to their burial ground. I think so also.” He spread his hands. “But it is worse luck, certainly, to have to run to sea. In any case, there it is.” He smiled into her eyes. "Ma chérie?"

“Yes?”

“I also have a boat, you know. With no engine. And there is just enough breeze for the pass.”

“You’re going to sea?”

He nodded. “Papeete Harbor I do not trust. Too many other boats, and too shallow, and the reefs. Listen?”