THE POLITICS OF PLEASURE (50 page)

EPILOGUE

Honolulu, Hawaii.

Tuesday, 7th August 1984.

Goldman watched the taxi pull away from him on Kalakaua Avenue. His face lit up with a grin as he turned toward the International Marketplace behind him. Another hot summery day, the sun beating on his brow like the wrath of a flaming demigod. Several stallholders at the front of the sprawling market fanned themselves or made use of electric fans as they attended their displayed wares. The heat-addled sidewalk was thronged with locals and, as on any day, thronged with holidaymakers from all points of the globe. Goldman had just seen off his patent attorney who was booked on a flight to the mainland. A deal had been struck, papers signed, and Goldman looked set to make money.

Serious money.

Twenty months ago, utilizing a homology modelling computer program at the University of Hawaii, Goldman had created a powerful, synthetic sleep inducer. The drug was an effect-enhanced copy of L-Tryptophan, the essential amino acid which calms the nervous system and stimulates the production of melatonin and vasotocin. Two brain chemicals that play a crucial role in the induction of REM sleep. After borrowing a worrisome amount of money from his bank, Goldman had contracted Arcadia Laboratories to do test trials of the drug at their FDA-accredited research facility in Los Angeles.

The drug's commercial potential as a non-addictive sleeping tablet became apparent and Goldman approached several companies with his new product. He eventually struck gold with pharmaceutical giant, ChemTech Industries. They offered him an exorbitant sum for the drug's patent and exclusive manufacturing rights. Goldman believed, however, that the multinational company would shelve the drug to stop it from interfering with existing markets, and would only bring the drug onto the market when ChemTech saw fit. If at all. Still, whatever the outcome, Goldman was prepared to take the windfall sum being offered and not feel guilty about the fate of his serotonergic system stimulator.

The chemist perused a sidewalk stall featuring lauhala hats, shell and ivory earrings, woven place mats, straw dolls and bags from Tonga and other Pacific islands. He took off his sunglasses and wiped his brow. He appraised a kid in wet board shorts and a
Ghostbusters
T-shirt fingering a necklace of polished kuku nuts from a stall specializing in hula skirts and Hawaiian music cassettes. The kid had the air of a thief about him, and the owner of the stall, a large Polynesian woman, was watching him.

Goldman decided to have a drink or two to celebrate, if only by himself, the forthcoming sale of the drug he'd christened
Elysium
. A cocktail bar at the Waikiki Gateway Hotel came to mind. He set off on foot.

He eventually came across a middle-aged Hawaiian-Japanese busker. The gray-haired street performer wore cut-off jeans and a black T-shirt emblazoned with the legend: THE OLDER I GET THE BETTER I WAS. He sat with legs apart on a low-set stool and played a four-string ukulele, its enamelled body fashioned from a halved coconut shell. An upturned hat in front of the busker invited all comers to generously reward his efforts.

Appreciating the busker's soothing rendition of a Hawaiian
mele
, Goldman fished coins from his pocket to drop into the upturned hat. Farther along the sidewalk a lone girl sat out front of Fast Eddie's, a bistro-cum-bar Goldman visited once with Brad Ryan and his family. The chemist’s heart skipped a beat as he tossed quarters into the hat. With simmering anticipation, he moved towards the girl.

The likeness was uncanny and he was momentarily shaken. Could it possibly be? That part of his life seemed so long ago, like tragic black and white footage discarded in a dark corner of a closet. Still he couldn't shake the feeling that this willowy blond wearing sunglasses was ...

'Michelle?'

She exhaled cigarette smoke and looked up cautiously from her table, a cappuccino and a copy of
Vanity Fair
in front of her.

'Michelle?'

'Er ... Is it really you?'

He chuckled and removed his sunglasses. 'Yeah.'

'My God. What a surprise.' She tensed and looked either side of her, as if someone might be watching. 'Um, please, Scott ... sit down.'

He did. He experienced a budding familiarity as he briefly clasped her hand in acknowledgment of their chance meeting. His head swam, his pulse quickened, and he had difficulty striking up conversation. And Michelle's aloofness as she sipped her coffee did little to appease his faltering confidence.

Of course unshared years were between them. A gulf of parallel life not easily breached by a surprise encounter in the street. Their abrupt parting years before had been extreme, to say the least, and Goldman didn't want to broach the subject in any shape or form. Mercifully for him Michelle didn't want to broach it, either, at least not for the time being. Intuition told him she was preoccupied with recent difficulty. She seemed moody and unsettled. Most likely another man, he thought. The bane of the attractive woman forever pursued.

Minutes passed and forced chitchat, punctuated by awkward silences, reigned at the table. Thankfully this didn’t last and the former lovers grew more comfortable in each other's company. The pleasant beach side setting only added to their growing camaraderie. Michelle was no longer a gilded memory beyond Goldman's reach. She was physically in front of him and growing more attainable by the minute, or so his growing confidence painted her. He found himself slipping back in time to that golden era when they'd walked arm in arm. Their intimacy young and fresh, unsullied by what the world would bring to bear. He didn't know the how or why of it and only hoped this magic had worked itself on Michelle. Though her eyes were hidden behind sunglasses, he sensed from her warming countenance that she wasn't indifferent to his presence. 

'You know, Scott,' she said with an easy smile, 'it's, um, good to see you again.' The unexpected compliment, along with her familiar smile, made his scalp tingle, made him think there might be a chance, however slim, of them reconciling, and on a more daring note, of them being lovers again; but in the back of his mind he half-expected memories of that fateful night in Westwood to suddenly disrupt her warming manner, but to his relief this wasn't the case.

Goldman's leg sometimes touched hers, exciting him more than he cared, and their hands sometimes brushed when Michelle reached for coffee or cigarettes. He was delighted that Fast Eddie's sold Mai Tais. With Michelle's encouragement, he ordered a round of the rum-based drinks. Michelle finished hers and Goldman, with drink to spare, ordered another round. The sun moved idly across the sky as the former lovers drank and laughed and spoke of their time apart. All but cocooned from the boisterous holidaymakers about them.

'I see you haven't lost your Australian accent ...'

'... and I now have a new identity with a history of tax payments ... and, yes, I'll be signing the
Elysium
contract at the end of next week.'

'... Robert and I had a big fight after a Prince concert in Tokyo.' Michelle lit a cigarette and became pensive. 'Hmm, it was bad ... but we got through it.' She gulped down her Mai Tai and rested her cigarette on the table's ashtray, before fanning her face with a laminated menu. 'Any way, it seemed so right for a while and then he ...' She faltered, her birdlike voice marred with emotion, and she plopped the menu back down on the table. '... the strain of work and travelling ... he took some bad Ecstasy at the Hilton Hawaiian Village then started hitting me, cutting himself on broken bottles from the mini-bar ... god, there was blood everywhere ... on my
lei,
on my Dior dress ... even on my Salvador Dali print of Diamond Head ...' She sucked ardently on her cigarette and glanced at the ukulele-playing busker.

Goldman could see she was unsure whether to continue. Seconds plodded by like a train of weary pack mules, but she carried on about her recent bust up as if Goldman had been the closest of friends these past years. He guessed it was an emotional weight she had to get off her chest.

'Robert's such a talented designer,' she said, with a smidgen of pride. 'He's been credited with the power dressing look of the 
Dynasty
series
.
Hell, he even claims responsibility for the new military chic fashion, and is heavily invested in Camp Beverley Hills boutique. Anyhow, he's got a lot going for him, and yet ...' She sniffled and lifted her Serengeti sunglasses, before dabbing her eyes. Goldman saw a pale bruise about her eye and was reminded of the time back east when she climbed into his car. Noting his attention, she slipped the sunglasses back on and looked away from the table. He read the hurt on her face, felt it coming off her in waves, and didn't know what to say or do. He wanted to reach out and stroke her hair, face and arms. He wanted to hug her fiercely as if there were no tomorrow, as if they were the last living couple.

'... and before storming out he called me a dumb little camera slut in front of everyone at the table. I don't know why he's so mean sometimes. He's just an ... asshole, I guess.' She pulled on her cigarette and tossed back her hair, her full lips tremulous with emotion. 'Tssk, I can't believe I'm here talking to you about this ...' She sighed and butted her cigarette in the ashtray, really mashing it up.

In a bold move, Goldman reached across the table and clasped her hand, which was pale and clammy and ringed with semiprecious stones. 'Listen, my heart's still hammering over us finding each other ...' He looked at a nearby couple. They were young and tanned and full of smiles for one another. Goldman was at a loss for words. His heart sounded dully in his ears as he turned back to his long-lost mate. ' ... I still have strong feelings for you, and I just want to say that ... I'd
never hurt
you under any circumstances.'

She stiffened and looked at him sharply from over the top of her sunglasses. 'Are you kidding?' She wrenched her hand from his. 'I copped three bullets from being with you, buster!
Three bullets in the goddamn chest!'

Goldman winced and looked away. What could he say?

'That was a long time ago.'

'No, it wasn't.'

'It was years ago.'

'Maybe to you – but you didn't get mowed down by a goddam machine gun!'

He sensed her anger, her unhealed pain, and was flooded with guilt and shame. He didn't want to go down this path. God, no; not now. It led to poisonous quicksand, nothing but. He had to backtrack to more promising ground. 'Look, this is Hawaii, another place altogether. We're smack in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. I left my troubles behind on the mainland years ago ... well, to me it was years ago. I've got a new identity and I'll soon have enough money to be set for life.' He looked into her lowering eyes and moved his hand closer to hers. It didn't seem long ago they were together, hugging and laughing, cheeky and confident of a shared future. His mouth dried from a concoction of alcohol and nerves. Strong feelings once held for her rose inside him, struggling like a birthing child for release.

'Michelle, I've got a new life here that ... that I'd like to share with you. We'd be good together. I know it'll work between us
this
time.' A part of him wanted to beg profusely.

She pulled back. 'Oh, don't be silly.' She pushed her sunglasses up along her nose and scanned the busy footpath. An ocean breeze ruffled her long blond hair and filled her lungs with unpolluted air that had blown unimpeded across the largest ocean on earth. She sighed aloud and her wavering voice spoke of a long-weeping wound. 'I don't know, men have always treated me badly, I always come out second-best ... it just doesn't seem worth it anymore.' She stared off into the distance with moistened eyes, like a prisoner gazing from a world that had promised much but given little.

Goldman was empathetic to her moment of honesty. The world's cauldron of collective suffering seemed bottomless as he sat at the table. God knew there wasn't an instant-working prescription for a damaged heart. Time seemed the only salve. Still he wanted desperately to set Michelle's world aright. He glanced at a Special Jubilee issue of
Aloha
magazine abandoned on a nearby table, searched inside himself for appropriate words, even as Michael Jackson's
Thriller
blared annoyingly from someone's boom box.

He turned back to her and saw his distorted reflection in her sunglasses. Words tumbled from his mouth, 'Michelle, I don't want to hurt you ... not after everything we've been through. I only want to look after you and care for you. I'll never raise my hand to you, you know that. I'm not that kind of man ...'

Again he was hard-pressed to see her eyes behind her sunglasses, but her rigidity didn't speak favorably of his impromptu proposal. Very likely she'd heard similar words from men before. Very likely his alcohol-tinged declaration was little more than an unflattering portrait of a man struggling to express his feelings. But what to do? It wasn't a perfect world. He wasn't a perfect person. He couldn't help but open his heart to her, half-drunk or no. Of course he didn't know if she would risk another chance with a man who'd nearly got her killed, with a man who was still a fugitive; however elaborately disguised. He watched her fidget and chew her lip, and her thoughts were all her own as she fired up another cigarette and sucked its curling smoke deep into her lungs.

'But my flight leaves in two hours.' She stood out front of Lahaina Galleries on the second floor of the Hyatt Waikiki, fingering the key to her fourth-floor room.

'Look, I'll pay for a new ticket to the mainland.' A tinge of desperation crept into his voice. 'Just stay a while longer, please.'

Michelle looked down at the floor and shuffled her feet.

'You said there's nothing urgent to go back to.' He stared at her bowed head. 'And it sounds like you don't want to be with Robert anymore. He'll probably only phone you and hound you once you get back.'

'Or not contact me at all ...' Michelle stared at a large Pegge Hopper print in the front window of the gallery. Pleasing pastel colours were framed in Koa wood, but she was oblivious to the enticing qualities of the popular print. She was being pulled in opposing directions, and Goldman sensed a born-again attraction for him was making it difficult for her to resume her former life.