Come Back Later

By Tatiana Pahlen

A persistent knock at the door prompted me to jump from my bed.

“Come back later!” My voice cracked.

Damn! I forgot to put the ‘DO NOT DISTURB!’ sign on the front door. Fatigued and sleepy, it didn’t occur to me when I checked into the resort hotel in the wee hours, spotting a king-sized spread, sprinkled with rose petals. My body crashed on top of two graceful swans made of white napkins gilding the pillows. The sacred warning display promised sanctuary and remained high priority whenever I traveled.

After eighteen hours in the air from New York to Bora Bora, a magnificent South Pacific island, with a stop over in Los Angeles to switch planes, my brain craved for a prolonged hibernation to regain vitality. The trip anticipated for years was a dream come true.

My pining for Tahiti began while studying the paintings of Paul Gauguin. “Where do we come from? What are we? Where are we going?”
Gauguin spent most of his life in French Polynesia, living a simple life among natives in the Punaauia and Marquesas Islands. Both marked on my map to explore. His “Fatata te Miti,” which translates to “By The Sea,” lured me to join the motley-colored group, ready to dip in the waters of a mysterious Mataieea Village.

There were also Tahitian songs leaked from the Yale library, written by Robert L. B. Stevenson, most known for his “Treasure Island” and “Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll & Mr. Hyde.” He wrote short poems during his three months sojourn in Tahiti. The eccentric essayist and travel writer fell in love with the salty air, cruising for years “In The South Seas.” He wandered about the Pacific before landing in Upolu, the island of Samoa, where he built a house and chose a native’s name, Tusiatala (Teller of Tales). His voice is torrid in this rare piece.

“Let me fathom out with my arms the lengths of golden-bred Tahiti
And number one by one the lands of Tautira
I’m seized with fear at Tepari
I shall stop short at Vaita
Clouds are over the sun and it blows a bad wind,
And my home is beyond Faaora.
At Vaiumete is a ledge where a man must go with the arms spread.
I must measure with arms the face of that weary cliff.”

Itching for telling tales, my spirit soared. I planned to visit the neighboring French Polynesian atoll of Tetiaroa, a residence of Marlon Brando, the enigmatic star turned recluse, shattered by two troubled offspring. Brando’s distinguished name was dragged in gaudy tabloids installments feasting on a broken man. Now his magnificent “Waterfront” had settled in Tetiaroa.

I must confess, I’m infatuated with Brando. The extreme transformation of the sex symbol did not diminish his magnetism. Fat or fit, his infectious charm continued to captivate. At times he was shocking, selfish, abusive, unpredictable, yet undeniably charismatic.

Knock-knock

“Come back later! ” I blurted to a short, Tahitian woman forcing her way through my room with a pile of fresh towels, soaps and mini shampoos. The air was quickly suffused with the scent of invasive aroma.

“Oui, madame, excusez-moi s’il vous plait.” She shut the door.
“No problem, just give me a couple of hours.” I closed my eyes, dreaming of Brando.
Minutes later the knock returned.

“Come back later!”

“Puis-je faire votre lit, madame?’
“What? Je ne parle pas Francais!” I was thankful to a French colleague who taught me a simple phrase. “English please,” my voice rustled.
“Make your bed?” A young statuesque native in a spotless blue apron showed her perfect raw pearls with a disarming smile.

“Later, please later,” I moaned. Another maid? Don’t they communicate? This beauty should be gracing the covers of fashion magazines. Where is Gauguin’s brush and canvas? Despite being peeved I smiled back.

She disappeared like a mirage. I crawled out of the bed to place the ‘DO NOT DISTURB!’ sign outside my room. Minutes later the knock repeated.

“What is the urgency to clean this room?” I vented, “Why now?”

Knock-knock
Knock-knock
Knock-Knock

The tapping gradually moved to the roof or was all the hammering in my head? I couldn’t pinpoint it and felt visibly perturbed.

Knock-knock. It was coming faster and faster. ‘Why do they engage in repair jobs with guests sleeping in the rooms?’ I grew restless.

“Not now! Don’t you people read signs?” I roared through the door. “Come back later, you hear me? Later! In the afternoon.” I slithered back under the sheets after turning on an overhead ceiling fan.

The steady thrum of fan was calming and a stream of cool air tenderly stroked my face. I must have slept for thirty minutes before the knock on the door resumed.

“What do you want?” I yelled from the top of my lungs. “Leave me alone!”

The knock was stubborn and so was I.

“Go to hell! I’m not moving!” The noise abruptly stopped and I sank into sleep again.

A half hour elapsed.

Knock-knock.

Rubbing my eyes, I got dressed, prepping to launch into a harangue to discipline the maids.

“What now?” I stared at the man with plumbing tools ardently gesticulating.
“ Une fuite, madame, il faut reparer aujourd’hui“ He pointed to the bathroom. “Je ne parle pas Francais! English s’il vous plait!” I looked desperate. “Leakage, madam, need to repair.”

“Oh no,” I begged, “Please not now. Could you come back in two hours? Please?” I folded my fingers poking two of them at his face. “Two, ok?”
He stared sheepishly at my hand. I pulled out a few bills from of my purse.

“Oui, merci beaucoup!” he nodded.
I checked the local time. “It’s 9am, come back at 11am, OK? COMPRENEZ VOUS?”

“Oui, oui. d’accord, madame !”

I jumped back in bed and began dreaming of snorkeling in the pristine waters, surrounded by corals, with colorful fish swimming around me, large and small, looking curious – who was this long haired humanoid disturbing their privacy?

Adjusting my mask, I’m diving deeper, searching for the legendary black pearls. In slow motion, carefully, I collect shells hidden under the reef, sharp and prickly, protecting the oceanic treasure, and place them in a pouch fastened to my waist belt. My hands grasp a tiny water camera capturing the intricate sea life.

A smiling face materializes. “Marlon, Marlon Brando!” I shriek with excitement, snapping a perfect shot.
Can this be true? His eyes gleam with joy as he puffs up his cheeks and, in a flash, turns into Don Corleone. I keep working my camera, marveling at his facial muscles constantly changing, producing other familiar characters. He reaches out. We swim hand in hand utterly happy.

Knock-knock.

I open one eye and glance at the clock-- 9:30am. “Not again! Let me sleep for Christ’s sake!”

I feel the fingers and handgrip of Marlon’s palm pressure lessen but I don’t let it go. My feet ripple shallow waters. What happened to Treasure Island and black pearls? “Marlon?” ‘Oh, confound it, where are you?’ “Marlon?” I shout compulsively.

Knock-knock.

In semi-dream I reached for the door and not seeing Brando or any living soul, my quivering hands shut it heartily. Was it a joke? Perhaps one should tip better to be left alone in this place.

Bang-bang. “Just a minute!” I hissed, racing out.

First I spotted the large surfing boards that likely bumped into my door, then the young couple who greeted me with concerned looks. I had emerged stark naked, not quite the image from Gauguin’s painting – the blue flower in my hair was missing. Excusing myself profusely, I retreated back into my room.

The prospect of wearing a sombrero with oversized shades promised little comfort.

Knock-knock.
Knock-knock

“Who’s there?”
Knock-knock.
“Leave me alone!”
Knock-knock.
“What do you want from me?”
Knock-knock.
“Go away!”
Knock-knock.

Vigilantly eyeing the sarong neatly tied around my neck and waistline, I answered the door.

Not a soul!

I marched about the resort in a circle. Was I losing my mind? I looked up, and there it was. On the roof, working under the scorching sun like a fervent lumberjack presided a woodpecker banging his brains out.

A woodpecker! How on earth had this red-shafted flicker ended up in the South Pacific?

The Gauguin’s puzzle “Where do we come from?” didn’t offer any answers. Perhaps the bird followed his dream like the Teller of Tales Stevenson and settled down, landing a job on the maintenance staff?

The thought left me in stitches. The woodpecker stopped for a moment, measured my height, then continued striking.

A light wind carrying a tantalizing aroma of strong coffee began teasing my palate.

‘All right, Victoria, get ready,’ my inner voice urged; I resort to my middle name to be more assertive. ‘It’s time to inspect this island and seek another species. Hurry up!’ The desire to knock on someone’s door was contagious.
‘Why not start with the atoll of Tetiaroa?’

March 14, 1998