Short story: Papaya, by Kathryn van Beek

June was chopping something on the kitchen island. Something sweet and rotten.
“So, I’ve had an idea,” she said. “You know my theory that regular massage would reduce crime?”
“Mmm.” Dan scrolled through the news and clicked a link: Interest rate rise spells pain for homeowners. 
“And you know how massage therapy students have to do so many hours before they get accredited?”
“Mmm hmm.” He tried to calculate how much time the higher rates would add to their mortgage.
June set two dessert bowls down on the table. Golden fruit glistened against the grey stoneware.
Dan wrinkled his nose. “Papaya?”
“I know! How often do you see these in Christchurch?”
She sat down, her straight posture at odds with the scene through the window behind her – the silver birch twisting in the nor’west wind, iceberg roses thrashing against the fence. Dan pushed his bowl away.
“Well anyway,” June continued, “I’m going to start a programme at the Women’s Prison. Once a month I’ll take some polytech students and spend a day giving free massage.”
Dan frowned. “So, you’d close your clinic once a month?”
“Yeah.”
“And lose a day’s income?”
June waved her spoon in the air. “We can afford it.”
She brought a buttery cube of fruit to her mouth. Dan turned from the look of ecstasy on her face.
“We’re just so close to paying off the mortgage.”
“I know, babe. We’re in a good spot.”
“With interest rates the way they are … can it wait?”
June scooped up another piece of papaya and wielded her spoon like a catapult.
“You know I make my own decisions – right?”
“But this affects both of us, Juney.”
She finished her fruit in silence, and then reached for his bowl.
“You’re seriously not going to eat this?”
He shook his head. He’d had his fill of papaya what, eleven years ago now? He cast his mind back to his 31-year-old self – a barely-wrinkled youth, desperate for something new after a relationship breakup. He’d been looking through The Gazette with a view to moving to the sunnier climes of Nelson or Napier when he’d seen the teaching position in the Cook Islands. He’d heard Survivor had been filmed there. Survivor, he’d thought. That’s me. I can survive this.
Soon he was living in an A-frame house in Rarotonga, sharing the garden with skinks, chickens, and the copper-coloured dog that had arrived on his doorstep, waving its feathery tail. When he wasn’t teaching he was learning how to fish, learning how to open coconuts with a machete, learning how to survive. It wasn’t long before he met the expats from all the other schools on the island – and among them, the freshly-minted science teacher, Belle.
“I’m from a sheep station near Lake Tekapo – at this time of year I’m usually digging sheep out of snow!” she’d shouted over the music as they danced at Trader Jack’s, the pale pink spaghetti-strap of her top slipping down her tanned shoulder. And then she’d allowed him to twirl her around before spinning back into the arms of her boyfriend.
He thought about her constantly – the frangipani scent of her, the way her eyes glittered like the sea. He saw her around town almost every week, and flirted gently with her, biding his time until finally the coconut wireless informed him that the boyfriend had absconded back to Atiu under some kind of cloud.
He found her back at Trader Jack’s, staring out at the wreck of the Matai and drinking too many pina coladas. He made her laugh, listened while she cried, and gave her a ride home on the back of his scooter – her arms entwined around his chest, breath hot and wet against his neck.
Now that he knew where she lived, he began leaving gifts on her doorstep – a drinking coconut, a bag of oranges, a bouquet of pink ginger blooms. It was like trying to catch a gecko. Sometimes he’d spy the flicker of her shadow across the thin curtains as he left an offering. Sometimes she’d feel close, within touching distance of him in the dark. Other times, there was no sign of her at all. Still, he circled her like the moon circling the earth. And all of a sudden, he felt a gravitational shift. There she was at the window, curtains shifting, mouth twitching up at the edges. Here she was on the porch, waiting to meet his basket of pomegranates with her gift of banana bread. She’d been in his orbit for months. And now he was in hers.
But still he courted her slowly, enjoying the hunt and tease. He introduced her to his favourite snorkeling spot, where they swam with starfruit-yellow fish. He took her kayaking in the lagoon, matching his movements to hers until she turned around and said, “We’re perfectly in sync!” – before blushing so hard the back of her neck went red. They went diving with turtles, and afterwards he dried her almost-naked body so thoroughly that a kid floating past on a boogie board yelled, “Get a room!”
Once he was certain Belle was as hungry for him as he was for her, he invited her out for dinner. She accepted, and he spent the day cleaning his house, putting fresh sheets on the bed, stocking the fridge with wine and water, and picking produce from his garden until the fruit bowl heaved and the air was thick with sugar. For lunch he sliced a papaya in two, rubbed the slippery seeds from its slit with his fingers, and feasted on its soft, pungent flesh. Just a few more hours, and he’d be feasting on her.
On his way out he threw the papaya skin to the chickens and a stale bread roll to the dog, which lay sprawled beneath a banana tree.
“You’re my wing man tonight, okay dog?”
He jumped on his scooter and whistled along the road to Belle’s. She got on behind him, and they drove to the island’s most decadent restaurant.
“Oh, wow,” she said, as a waiter sat them at a courtyard table. “You can really see the difference in the colours between the lagoon and the sea from up here.”
“Beautiful, huh.”
“It’s crazy. Crazy to think we’re only protected from the Pacific Ocean by a coral reef.”
“Coral’s tough though, isn’t it?” asked Dan, who could hear the waves pounding from his bedroom at night, and often woke breathless from watery dreams.
“Not really. It’s just calcium carbonate. It’s pretty easy to destroy.”
A waiter handed Belle a menu.
“My treat,” said Dan. “Have whatever you want.”
Belle ran a finger down the options. “Pa-ella. It’s so exotic here.”
“You must have had paella before?”
She shrugged, and he realised she’d probably grown up on chops and potatoes in rural Mackenzie country. He flicked through the menu, taking the lead.
“I’m going for the grilled tuna.”
She nodded. “Me too.”
“And something to drink?”
“A mango bellini.”
“Sweet and sparkling…” He edged his seat closer. “Like you.”
He grinned at her, and she flushed.
As they ate, the gold and turquoise colours of day shifted into the hazy lilac tones of dusk. She had three bellinis, he had two beers, and they shared a boozy slice of tiramisu. He led her back to his scooter, kissed her, and felt her body melt into his.
“Would you like to come to mine?” he asked, and she responded by melting faster.
He drove home as quickly as he could, slipped the key in the lock and led her in.
“Later, bud,” he said to the dog. “Stay outside.”
The door clicked behind them and they reached for each other, greedy for each other’s lips and fingers. He sliced a passionfruit and tipped the golden seeds into her mouth. Juice dripped over her chin and down her throat. She stared at him, lips parted, eyes ablaze. He cut a finger of papaya and teased it around her open mouth. He peeled her clothes from her body, sat her on the table and bent to taste her. He slipped the fruit into her, worked it out with his tongue. She moaned like the ocean. They were animals, or gods.
Afterwards they had a shower and then curled on the couch, naked beneath the lightweight cotton pareu that skimmed their bodies. Belle traced a finger along his jaw.
“Where’s your dog?” she asked.
“Probably hanging out with his girlfriends.”
“What’s his name?”
He shrugged. “Dog.”
“Dog? You can’t call your dog Dog!” She scrunched her face in thought. “What about Kakerori?”
“Kakerori?” He unfolded a corner of her pareu to expose her thighs.  
“You know, like the little endangered birds that live in the forest. They’re the same orange colour.”
“Kakerori,” he said, pretending to consider it. “Nice.”
“Did you know there were once just 29 kakerori on the island? They were thought to be extinct.”
He grinned. “Ah, there it is.”
“What?”
“Your teacher voice.”
She gaped at him. “Teacher voice?”
“We’ve all got one.”
“I do not have a teacher voice.”
“What, you think you’re a cool teacher?” He tickled her feet, and she squealed.
She poked his chest. “Now that you mention it, I think I am familiar with the teacher voice.” She deepened her tone. “There are three types of turtles in the Cook Islands. During breeding season, they often return…”
“I don’t sound like that!”
“You do!”
She biffed him on the head with a cushion, and he wrestled it off her.
“I could get you struck off for violence,” he teased.
“I don’t want to teach forever, anyway,” she said, her big eyes defiant.
“Really?”
She nodded. “This is just to make my parents happy.”
“What do you really want to do?”
“Wool.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Wool?”
Belle sat up on her heels. “Yeah. We’ve got all this amazing product back home, and we’re not getting the value out of it.”
He spread his hands to indicate the heat, their nakedness. “You’re in the wrong place to launch a wool empire.”
“Am I, though? There’s so much plastic waste here. Imagine if it was replaced with wool products that could just biodegrade.”
He’d seen rubbish strewn along the sides of the roads, on the beaches. Inevitably, some of it would be swallowed by the sea… and by sea life.
“I’m writing a business plan at the moment – I was up half last night thinking about it.” As she talked, her pareu slipped from her shoulders and pooled around her waist. “You could help me,” she said.
“I could?”
“I’ve got the science background, you’ve got the economics background…”
She smiled at him. She had a lot of ideas, this country girl. But he saw now that’s all she was – a girl. She wasn’t much older than the students he taught – girls with equally big, impossible dreams.
“Sounds as though you’d need to fund a pilot, so you could see if this idea has legs.”
“I’ve got five grand saved.”
“Well, if you could multiply that by a hundred, I think you’d be on your way.”
Her smile faded. “Really?”
“Research and development, marketing, production … none of that’s cheap.”
“How would I make that much money?”                  
“Grants? Crowdfunding?” He shrugged. “Rob a bank?”
Belle drew the pareu back over her shoulders.
“Glass of wine?” Dan asked. “I’ve got merlot and sav.”
She shook her head. “Crowdfunding? How does that work?”
“It’s when you get a bunch of individual backers to support you.”
“Okay.”
“But you might need… quite a big bunch.”
She slumped against the cushions. He worried she might cry.
“Hey, it’s a great idea.”
“You don’t think it’s possible.”
“I didn’t say that.”
She dropped her eyes. “Didn’t you ever want to try something – big?”
“Well … I rode an elephant in Thailand, once.”
He shot her a smile but she just stared, a dazed expression on her face.
“Hey,” he said, sliding his hand over her knee, and then rubbing it vigorously. “Hey.”
Still she stared at him, her face frozen like a glitching screen. 
“Belle?”
“Oh, wow,” she said, in a faraway voice.
She turned her head slowly, as though craning to hear the dogs barking outside. Dan followed her gaze, but all he could see was the voile curtains rippling as the night whispered through them. Still Belle’s neck turned, twisting until her head was around as far as it could go, and her hair hung over her face like a veil – like something from a horror film, he thought, afraid now.
“Belle? Belle, are you okay?”
She turned slowly back to him, her face ashen.
“Belle?”
She moaned, pitched forward, and collapsed onto his knees.
Two days later, when Belle was on a plane back to New Zealand, he found her discarded underwear beneath the couch where he must have flung them when he ripped them off her. He pulled them out – skimpy, pink… wriggling? Tiny, sand-coloured ants swarmed over the crotch.
“Jesus.”
He flicked the undies into the outside bin.
He messaged Belle a few times as she went through the process of getting a diagnosis – but they didn’t have much to say to each other, anymore. He saw now that he’d manufactured the desire between them. Their love affair had been nothing more than a misunderstanding – a briefly shared delusion.
She talked about coming back to finish her contract once she was on the right epilepsy medication. But he never encouraged her – and when a teaching role became available in Sydney, he took it. He left the Cook Islands before the rainy season began.
After returning to Christchurch a few years later he’d checked Belle’s social media profile. She’d be older, more mature, on the right meds – and maybe still interested in hooking up? But when he found her, she was married to some farmer. She was back in the Mackenzie country, somewhat heavier, and the mum of two young boys. She would no longer smell like frangipani – she’d smell like bran muffins and stale milk. He clicked on a photo of her wearing a plaid shirt, her hair in a greasy topknot, a kid on each hip. This was the woman he’d lost his mind over? He’d mourned her fleeting beauty and not thought of her since – avoiding memories of Rarotonga and the damp, sticky feelings they evoked.
But now there was a papaya in his wife’s belly and a king tide of memories washing over him. While June stacked the dishwasher, Dan searched for Belle online. They were no longer connected, so he googled her. Belle… What was her surname again?
Belle science teacher Lake Tekapo.
Belle epilepsy Lake Tekapo.
Belle sheep farmer wool Mackenzie country.
Huh. There she was. She’d been profiled in an article. In the accompanying photo, her hair was loose and soft. She wore a wool coat. She looked expensive. And she still had those big, earnest eyes.
Entrepreneur Belle Kelly, CEO of Kakerori – the new company providing alternatives to plastic – says her lanolin-coated woolen tarpaulins are the first of several new eco-friendly products that will help create a circular economy.
Dog. He hadn’t thought about Dog for years, and now Dog was here in his head, wagging his copper-coloured tail. He’d left food and water out for Dog when he left, given the neighbours some money in exchange for a promise of care. And then he’d just – hoped for the best. Why hadn’t he found him a proper home? Why hadn’t he done better by Dog?
“At end of life the tarpaulins can be repurposed as organic weed matting,” Kelly says. “But what I’m most proud of is that for each tarpaulin sold, another is donated to our neighbours in the Cook Islands, helping reduce plastic waste and keep our oceans healthy.”
Ants. Don’t think about the ants. Don’t think about the fruit. About the seizure. About how scared she must have been. Don’t think about the letters that should have been written. The phone calls that should have been made.
The mother of two and former teacher crowdfunded much of the money needed to develop her products. “It sounded daunting, but it enabled me to connect with supporters all over the world,” Kelly says. “Everyone’s looking for a way to make a positive difference – and that’s exactly what my backers have done. Together, we’ve overcome all sorts of barriers.”
He skimmed the rest of the article. There was no mention of the sexy economics teacher who’d first suggested crowdfunding. Or was there? 
A cup of tea appeared on the table before him, along with some squares of chocolate.
“I trust this is more to your liking,” said June.
Dan watched the steam rise from his cup.
“Do you think I do enough?” he asked.
June shrugged. “Well, you made dinner. You watered the roses. You’re helping shape the minds of the country’s youth.”
She stood behind him, massaging his temples in the way she knew he liked. Her fingers were still ripe with papaya. He reached for her hand, brought it to his mouth.
“Okay,” she said.
“You reckon we’re in a good spot?”
“Yeah, I reckon.” He kissed her knuckles, and she moved away. “Not to ruin the mood, but I was just touching the compost bin.”
He took her hand back, clasped it. Beneath the elm tree, rose petals swirled in the air like confetti.
“So, about this prison thing,” he began.
“Yeah?”
He cleared his throat. “When are you going to start?”
“Oh.” She sat down on his knee and curled her arms around his neck. “Well, I guess I’ll make some phone calls next week.”
Her head bent towards his, and he breathed in the clean scent of her hair. Through the window behind her, the nor-west arch glowed pink.

Next week’s short story marks the debut of Christchurch writer Robbie Siataga.