PART 2

Chapter 22

From a half mile off shore, the Helicopter transporting Sam and Max from their Castle suite to the Pasolini port and party-haven hovered over the dark waters waiting its turn to land.  Below, other helicopter landing beams mixed with automobile head lights and the bright day-like illumination of the shore where dozens of yachts rocked gently in their moorings as their passengers stepped onto the surreal setting of docks, helipads and valet parking for the few who had driven from Los Angeles.  In the center of all the activity was the reason for the party; the restored San Miguel, her masts, stem to stern ablaze with spotlights, her decks of highly polished teak and brass cradling the gathering crowd of minks, dinner jackets and occasional student attire of jeans, T-shirt and tweed jacket.  “My God,” said Max, “the Las Vegas strip has nothing over this light show.”

Sam remained silent, feeling hypnotized by the gala.

On the ground, guests moved about seeming to know each other, sharing small talk as waiters moved about with silver trays of champagne and caviar.  Two waiters were not without their familiarity as well.  Ari had been assigned to work the entrance to the boat with his most favorite person in the world, Maggie.  The two were doing imposter-perfect in keeping their distance until…

“Miss, this champagne is a bit flat,” said Mrs. Vanweldi, raising her overly Botoxed face in denunciation.

Maggie, whose tray was down to six empties and only one full glass, quickly responded with over-acting astonishment, “It can’t be from my tray.”  She looked toward Ari’s back as he served caviar.  “Must be from yours.”

Ari turned slowly, “Mine.”

“Yours.”

Ari did a studied look at his tray of Caviar, egg, onion, lemon and cracker hors-d’oeuvres.  Mrs. Vanweldi did likewise.  “That’s a caviar tray, Miss.  You’re carrying the champagne.”

“That’s right, you’re…” stammered Ari as Maggie stepped over to him with a South Bronx Kill look, did an awkward exchange of the trays, and said, “Now he’s carrying the champagne tray and he’ll be glad to get you a freshly corked glass of bubbly-bubbs, yes Ari?”  As he stammered to think of an answer, she leaned in and whispered, “I’m tired of balancing this Goddamn narrow stemmed expensive crystal.  I need a break.  Give me a break… and a shot of Tequila,  just this once.”

Trying to look half way normal for the benefit of Mrs. Vanweldi and her date¾who looked like a cross between Woody Allen and one of those emaciated academicians everybody tries to avoid ¾Ari smiled while firing off a half dozen silent shots from his ultra mini lapel camera and said, “I’ll be right back to freshen your glasses.”  As he stepped away, he leaned to Maggie, “Only because they’re goofy enough to lure any photographer worth his salt.  I’ll be right back.  Keep them happy.”

Giving him a surreptitious pat on the ass, Maggie whispered, “I love you, Aristotle.”

Ari sauntered away, plastering a supercilious expression on his face and muttering to himself, “Just what I’ve lived my life for.”

“So, are you enjoying your evening?” Maggie cordially said to the jeans and t-shirt couple.  The undernourished one glanced at her tray and said, “Is this organic?”

Maggie looked at the caviar, then at him. “No, French.”

“Oh, for God sake, Élan.  Give it a rest,” smiled Mrs. Vanweldi as she passed by, turning to Maggie.  “Yes… French and without champagne, it’s dreadful, which I’m assured will be corrected any moment now.”  With a wide sweep of her gloved hand, she continued, “Such an occasion.”

Élan maintained his eye on the tray as other guests stepped up and swooped up the hors-d’oeuvres.  Suddenly, Maggie smiled, and moved away, adjusting the miniature headphone recessed in her ear.  She ducked her chin slightly and spoke into her button hole microphone.  “Jesus, Leonard.  Turn the goddamn thing down.  Yes, I’m here.  What is it?”

“Give me a minute here,” said Leonard crouching in water up to his chest behind some volcanic rock in the grotto.  On another slab in front of him lay his underwater camera gear.  From his vantage point at the outer edge of the large pond, he had an unobstructed view of the dry land some thirty yards in front of him.  Some of the guests milled about examining the walls and the historic wall paintings.  Others kept the bartender and roaming waiters busy. 

Leonard rose further out of the water like a deep-cover Navy Seal and straddled a rock, his black diving suit blending into the dark volcanic walls rising some thirty feet toward the ceiling.  The low tide remained calm allowing him to talk on his head set without yelling.  “Maggie?  I turned the damn thing down.”

“Well, thank you, my hero.  Yes, I’m here.  What’s up?”

“My watch tells me that the tide will be coming up within the hour.  That means my work could get hampered until it goes down again, remember?”

“Yes, I’m here.”

“Okay, let me put it another way.  What are chances of Umberto visiting early?  It would really be nice to get him done with before the party turns into a drunk-fest.  They really do like their champagne, don’t they?”

Maggie now moved around the entrance to the San Miguel, talking to Leonard as she offered caviar.  Several guests gave her looks, as it appeared she was talking to herself.  Delbert and Alicia Roswell, two of Umberto’s oldest friends and retired treasure hunters from another era, took special note. “Poor thing,” said the very old lady to her very old companion.  “She probably hasn’t any friends.”

“She’s probably a plain old-fashioned wacko,” said Delbert, straightening his bow tie.  “Don’t stare at her for God sake.  You never know what they might do if provoked.”

The old lady turned and glared at her companion.  “Delbert, you are the most bigoted, paranoid old fuddy-dud I know.”

He took her arm and guided her up the gangplank of the ship.  “That’s because I’m the only fuddy-dud you know and the only one who could possibly put up with your wanting to buy every servant you see.”

“I didn’t say I wanted to buy her.”

“No, but you thought it.  I know that look.  Don’t even think about it.  I’m tired of paying unemployment insurance.  You realize how many green card orphans you’ve had me employ over the last five years?”

As they reached the top of the gangplank, Alicia turned back.  Maggie was smiling, serving, and still appearing to be talking to herself.  “She is a pleasant woman, always smiling.”

Delbert took another caustic look at Maggie and said, “Yeah most of them are that way with the smiles.  C’mon.  Let’s see how authentic Umberto has put this thing together.”  A few steps further and Delbert stopped and gazed at a rare sight even for an old treasure hunter.  “Oh, look at that binnacle… not a mark on it.  Extraordinary.”

Maggie hurriedly made her way back to the catering tent to restock her tray, still talking to Leonard.  

On deck, As Ari gathered empty glasses and squeezed off a few shots of the eccentric characters milling about on the upper deck of the San Miguel, he was suddenly surprised to be receiving two empty glasses from Max and a request for some sparkling water.  Up until that moment, he had not seen the two of them.   Samantha was leaning down examining the restoration of the railing wood.  Passing guests couldn’t help but cast a quick glance at the alabaster sheen of her bare back framed by the blue silk dress draping the rest of her body.  This was a perfect image of Samantha’s grace and form thought Ari.  As he continued to stand and gaze at the shoulder blades, the back of the neck, the slightly protruding spine, and even the small folds of translucent skin just above the waist line… he realized that all were in perfect balance to complement the perfect body.  For a moment, he felt transported to a mythical-like place where only Gods and Goddesses existed.   A place where faces were only a minor part of the reality.  A place where essence ruled, where bodies and their associated images, public images were but the vehicles to transport living, creative reality¾or lack of¾to those capable of seeing it.   Suddenly he was seized with panic.  How could he deliver to the readers of Profile his philosophy of image?  How could he expect they would understand such a personal conviction of life’s reflections… a conviction that had been born out of hundreds of hours of focusing a camera on the obvious, of pointing a lens at the surface and delivering that to the public because he was told (and paid) to deliver “what they want.”

Suddenly, several heads turned as Umberto stepped up to Samantha and quietly and discreetly said,  “Mrs. Quinlan, what a pleasure to have you join us this evening.  May I say I am one of your most ardent admirers.” 

Instinctively, Ari placed himself in an ideal position and click, click, click. 

Samantha looked at the graying man of small stature whose eyes glistened with the calm and wisdom of a sage.  She smiled.  “Mr. Pasolini.  My husband, Max.”

Another move by Ari to pick up a glass, and click, click, click.

“My pleasure, Mr. Pasolini,” said Max as he extended his hand to shake. 

“You are a fortunate man, Mr. Quinlan.  In my world at ten fathoms down, such beauty is never seen.” 

“Thank you,” said Samantha as she extended her hand for Umberto’s Old-World tradition of kissing the hand.

Suddenly, Ari placed the tray on the railing and quietly walked off down the gangplank, his gait reflecting his resolve.  “This is bull shit.  Bull shit,” he said to himself.  As he melted into the crowd, he pulled from his pocket the cable connecting the lapel lens and the electronics Velcro attached to his waist.

With no apparent reason, Sam turned on her heals and strode to the stern, her undistinguishable mutterings drawing Max away as well.  It was with some degree of embarrassment and seasoned understanding that Umberto recognizing artistic temperament motioned for Max to follow her.  “Sam?” cautioned Max as he neared her side.   Her shoulders arched back and rolled upward for a release of the tension Max was now recognizing.  “Bullshit.  Utter… lofty… bullshit.” exclaimed Sam.  “What… bullshit?” pleaded Max.  “What is it?”  As Sam turned and faced him, her face that of the other Sam, the other Samantha, Max’s eyelids slowly slipped closed… the professional pause he had used throughout his years of treating the ill was experiencing a wake-up call he hadn’t anticipated.  His eyes remained closed as he uttered, “Samantha, do you and Sam wish to go home?”