How to Stop Time(77)

Byron Bay, Australia, now



We sit out on a veranda, surrounded by fairy lights and the indistinct buzz of happy conversation.

The last time I saw Omai, Australia was, to my mind, a new discovery. And yet Omai is still so recognisably the same. His face has broadened slightly – not fattened, just that broadening that happens with age – and there are a few lines around his eyes that stay there even when he stops smiling, but I think an innocent bystander would put his age at thirty-six. He’s wearing a faded T-shirt with a print of a Frida Kahlo self-portrait, advertising an exhibition of her art at the Art Gallery of New South Wales, Sydney.

‘It has been a long time,’ Omai says wistfully. ‘I missed you, dude.’

‘I’ve missed you too. Wow. And you say dude now? Suits you.’

‘Since the sixties. It’s kind of compulsory here. Surf thing.’

We are kicking things off with coconut chilli Martinis which Omai has tried before and insists I try too. I can see the sea from here, beyond the stubby palms and the vast beach, glimmering softly under the half moon.

‘I’ve never had a coconut chilli Martini before,’ I tell him. ‘That’s the thing with getting older. You run out of new things to try.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he says, still the optimist. ‘I have lived beside one ocean or another most of my life and I have yet to see the same wave twice. It’s the mana, you see. It’s everywhere. It’s never still. It keeps the world new. The whole planet is a coconut chilli Martini.’

I laugh.

‘So how long have you been Sol Davis?’

‘Seventeen years, I guess. That’s when I came to Byron.’

I look around at all the happy Australians enjoying their Friday evening. A birthday is being celebrated. A collective roar of excitement erupts as the cake arrives with three sparklers sticking out of it. There is a shower of applause as the cake lands in front of a woman at the end of the table. She has an oversized badge pinned to her vest top. She is turning forty.

‘Just a baby,’ I say.

‘Forty,’ says Omai wryly. ‘Remember that?’

I nod. ‘Yes,’ I say sadly. ‘I remember. You?’

A sorrow on his face too. ‘Yeah, that was the year I had to leave Tahiti.’

He looks off into the distance, as if that other time and space could be seen somewhere in the darkness beyond the veranda. ‘I was a man god. The sun shone because of me. I was in league with the weather and the ocean and the fruit in the trees. And you’ve got to remember, back then, before the people of Europe came to Christianise us, well, men gods weren’t so uncommon. God wasn’t something up in the clouds. I mean, look at me, I could pass for a god, right?’

‘These Martinis are strong,’ I offer.

‘I have probably told you all this before.’

‘Probably. A long time ago.’

‘Long, long, long, long, long, long.’

A waitress comes over. I order a pumpkin salad to start and red snapper for main and Omai goes for dishes which, according to the waitress, ‘both have pork belly in them’.

‘I know,’ he says, flashing his smile. He is still the best-looking man I have ever seen.

‘Just thought I’d point it out, in case you want some variety.’

‘It’s still variety. Two different dishes.’

‘All right, sir.’

‘And two more of these,’ he says, raising his glass.

‘Gotcha.’

He holds the waitress’s gaze. She holds it back.

‘I know you,’ she says. ‘You’re the surfer, aren’t you?’

Omai laughs. ‘It’s Byron Bay. Everyone’s a surfer.’

‘No. Not like you. You’re Sol Davis, aren’t you?’

He nods, looks at me sheepishly. ‘For my sins.’

‘Wow. You’re pretty famous around here.’

‘I wouldn’t say that.’

‘No, sure you are. I saw you surf that tube. It was amazing. It’s on the internet.’

Omai smiles politely, but I can sense his awkwardness. After the waitress has gone he stares down at his right hand. He spreads the fingers wide, as if miming a starfish, then closes them together, makes a fist, turns his hand over. His skin is smooth and caramel and young-looking. Ocean-preserved. Anageria-preserved.

We chat some more.

Our starters arrive.

He begins to tuck in. He closes his eyes on the first mouthful and makes appreciative noises. I envy his easy access to pleasure.

‘So,’ he says, ‘what have you been up to?’

I tell him. About my life as a teacher. About my life before. Recent history. Iceland, Canada. Germany. Hong Kong. India. America. Then I talk about 1891. About Hendrich. The Albatross Society.

‘It’s people like us. There are lots of us. Well, maybe not lots.’

I explain about the help you’re given. About the Eight-Year Rule. About albas and mayflies. Omai stares at me, wide-eyed and baffled.

‘So what do you do?’ he asks. ‘I mean you?’

‘I go where Hendrich, the boss, tells me to go. I do assignments. I bring people in. Even that isn’t so bad. I recently went to Sri Lanka. It’s a comfortable life.’