The guesthouse was near the beach. He paid extra to stay in the thatch-roofed cottage on the grounds, like a dollhouse. He propped his surfboard outside and threw himself on the bed, taking a deep breath of the fragrance from the open window—fragrant even in the musty room, the bedposts damp and salty with sea air. He felt freedom in the fragrance of every new aroma.

And then a knock. “Yes?”

It was the driver, looking shy, trying to form a sentence.

“Ma soeur—elle veut être ton amie.”

He understood “sister,” he understood “friend.”

That was all he needed to know. He saw the girl from the taxi waiting on the beach the next day, in the late afternoon, as he rode in the last of what he imagined would be the good waves. The surf had been dropping since lunchtime. But he’d been alone on the break, and he had the renewed sense that it was all his, this day was his, the beach was his, and the girl on it, barefoot in the red-and-yellow pareu—different from yesterday’s—fluttering as she walked back and forth, something in her hand. When he came closer he saw it was a rusty machete.

“Now I kill you,” she said, swiping with the blade, looking reckless, her eyes flashing.

“Wait,” he said, quickly putting his board down.

She screeched, laughing, and ran on skinny legs to where the grassy bank had been eaten away by the sea, forming a ledge, undercut by the tide.

“Votre tête,” she said, falling on her knees and selecting a coconut from a pile of green coconuts. Holding it at arm’s length, she slashed at it in oblique strokes, narrowing its end with quick chops to open a hole.

Sharkey had been frightened by the sight of the knife. Now, as she handed him the coconut, he felt only joy. The taste of the cool coconut water brought a sweetness to his soul.

Meanwhile the girl had sat down on the grass, cross-legged, and placed a smaller coconut in her lap.

“Can I have this one?”

“Take,” she said, and opened her legs.

The coconut lay between her legs, on her silken wrap. Sharkey reached but could not grasp the coconut without disturbing the cloth or grazing her thighs with his fingers. She sat back, resting on her arms, and widened her legs more as he leaned and looked into her eyes and slowly grasped the coconut, his knuckles bumping the warmth of her inner thighs. But he merely held it, he did not lift it, he sensed her body bumping it. When he tried to lift it she brought her legs together and clasped it.

“You like to taste that?”