The side effects of the
Kodachrome Syndrome are well known.
Caribbean colors go to your head.
You get into orchids. You get into
sunsets. You get into peacock
palettes. You start collecting empty
jars at the end of rainy season
rainbows. You stare into the blue,
into the glare of sun and sea.
An optometrist sold me on a
strong pair of shades. A visual
paradise can be hell on the
eyeballs. This is sunblock SPF 30
territory, too––ultraviolet central.
You tend to get very interested in
the latest moves of the ozone layer.
The phrase Kodachrome syndrome
sounds scientific enough to be
patented. My psychiatrist friend
invented it, or maybe he borrowed it
from a patient. He was a dropout
from the school of life but didn’t
want to veg out completely. He was
going to redeem his island getaway
guilt and write a book on the
effects of beauty––sudden,
overwhelming beauty--on the beauty
challenged individuals coming from
some dark or florescent 9 to 5
climate into a kodachrome paradise.
How personalities change. How side
effects become main effects....
My friend drowned in beauty,
mesmerized by the island he chose as
his tropical garden. “It’s
wonderful––this sudden release of a
depressed spirit from the dungeon
into the light! No such thing as too
much is too much!”
I disagreed. Newcomers can go
overboard on the rock, sink into the
syndrome, stare too long at the
turquoise sea. There are lots of
ways to count sand. There are lots
of ways to collect seashells.
Maybe that’s what happened, or part
of what happened.
Since I worked school hours, my
friend asked me to help him
brainstorm some chapter headings.
Catchy, kitsch, whatever would grab
the attention of a short attention
span audience. Sun bites and sound
bytes for the masses. Something
snappy like his T-shirt which bore
the legend:
DON’T WORRY
BE HOPELESS
He recognized he was under the KS
spell, his excuse for hiring me to
help with the first chapters of his
book, to be called, naturally, The
Kodachrome Syndrome. I did
contribute a few chapter headings,
i.e., Caribbean Kiss, Sun Bytes,
Lazy Works Best, Shark in the Dark,
Rapture of the Shallows, Scuba
Bubba, etc. We were keeping it
light.
Was he in the KS mode when he went
off on his own for a swim between
two small islands? He was never seen
again. Not a trace. Presumed
devoured by some anti-Freudian shark
who specialized in psychiatrists
with flippers. The only thing left
floating was the rumor.
There was beauty all around his
disappearance: the sky was clear,
the water was clear. Visibility must
have been at least forty miles to
the horizon, and the sunset that day
was beyond stunning. I recall taking
a picture of it: gave it a
ten.
*****
It’s been more than a year now, and
his mainland widow is still trying
to get his status resolved as
legally dead. There’s serious money
involved. Property, cars, insurance.
I didn’t know he was married. He
never mentioned it and it never came
up. He did have a girlfriend on
island but as far as I knew
that
wasn’t serious.
I still have my doubts about his
disappearance. I hide them behind
dark glasses. Those doubts are based
on the postcard I keep under one of
my prize shell jars. It’s stamped
with a nearly illegible postmark
posthumously dated from Belize. No
signature, just “Aloha!”...his
favorite greeting. But I’m not going
to say a word, not one aloha to
anybody. I’m just going to work on
my own syndrome and fill up another
jar with seashells.
MASKS
Two poets--we ran into each other in
Petionville, a suburb in the cool
hills overlooking Port-au-Prince.
The famous one, traveling incognito,
didn’t mind the poverty. He accepted
it as a matter of unfortunate karma
and besides, wherever he was, it was
“om sweet om.” Nothing fazed him in
his all accepting mode.
“This place is like India,” he
said. “You have to treat it like
India.”
Little Africa was more like it I
thought, but if it’s India for him,
okay. Wasn’t it India for Columbus
too?
I definitely wasn’t buying India,
not after reading up on the Black
Jacobins: Toussaint, Christophe,
Dessalines. I felt the poet was out
of his element and didn’t really
know where he was. He was on
vacation, a tourist among tourists
in the Indies and nowhere near
India.
Though the Nazarene said poverty was
here to stay--“for the poor ye
always have with you,” we would do
our bit to help the local economy.
We made an appointment to meet for
dinner at a four star restaurant in
the heart of Port-au-Prince. It
turned out to be a nice place
downtown with big plate glass
windows, polished hardwood tables,
tablecloths, candleholders.
It was a bit early and there was an
ample choice of tables. We chose one
by the window. He ordered
vegetarian. I ordered chicken and
rice, but no soup. People in the
kitchen can do obscene things to
soup.
Street vendors came up to scrutinize
us, pressing their faces against the
glass. They reached into their bags
and started raising and lowering
wooden masks and statues slowly,
very slowly. Masks and statues went
up and down without a sound, in an
impromptu mime show.
“Look who’s coming to dinner,” I
said.
“Yes, we have guests.”
The vendors probably did this every
evening, hustling their wares while
customers waited for food, and when
the food finally came the statues
and masks looked on.
I was being watched. I felt like an
animal in the zoo at feeding time,
and my appetite went out the window.
“If I crawl under the table and
howl, will you throw me a bone?” I
asked my dinner companion.
He said, “Impossible. I’m a
vegetarian.”
He excused himself and went outside.
The waiters, about to chase the
hungry masks and statues away,
looked on astonished while the
bearded poet made deals. He was
pleased with the masks he brought
back to the table. What a
mitzvah
I thought. All I’d done was spirit
away some bread in a napkin for
after dinner distribution.
The masks making faces at me might
not have wanted my offering anyway.
I can see them confronting me with a
wooden grin or staring me down as if
insulted, and they’d be right. Wood
is wood. Since when does wood have
an appetite for bread?
We had an entourage as we headed for
our next stop, the cemetery. We told
the mask vendors we had a rendezvous
with Baron Samedi. One of them
laughed and said “We all have a
rendezvous avec le Baron.” Another
murmured, “
Ils sont fous. Zey
crazee.”
The poet claimed that every mask had
a mouth and they were talking to
him.
“Who’s the ventriloquist?” I asked.
“Spirits,” he said, “Masks are that
way. Some talk to you, some don’t.
Some keep their secrets to
themselves. Beware!” he said, in a
mock oracular voice. “They know
something.”
We didn’t intend to lead a parade,
but whether we liked it or not we
were being followed by artisans and
street vendors with bags full of
masks and more masks. We weren’t
interested in creating a commotion
or attracting the attention of dark
men wearing dark glasses at night.
“How do we shake our loyal
following?”
“Let’s bag the cemetery,” he
decided.
“O.K. with me. The Baron can
wait.”
We grabbed a taxi that appeared out
of nowhere, and a dark silent man
with broken glasses drove us into
the hills. The back seat of the taxi
was full of masks.
OVERDUE IN PARADISE
Take One:
It’s hot downtown and getting
hotter, but there’s always the
island library. The air conditioning
is working and the young librarian
doesn’t bite.
Transients take advantage of the
library. The librarian claims she’d
rather track a handful of hurricanes
than all the missing books.
I urged a lunchtime buddy to return
his batch, told him I’d stand by him
for moral support. I’d even help him
do the daring deed if he was man
enough.
“Damn right I’m man enough. Just
stand by me and hold my hand.
Together we’ll take the library by
storm.”
“You’re on. You don’t need the books
on your conscience.”
Take Two:
“Is your name Paine?” The librarian
checks the books in.
“Yeah, I’m the original one and
only.”
“Your books are way, way overdue.”
“Yeah. I know I know the books are
overdue. Yeah, my name fits don’t
it, pain-in-the-ass-Paine, but I
brought them back, didn’t I? You
gotta gimme credit for that. They’re
not off on some boat headin’ for
Trinidad. I mess up and miss the
dates, I panic, and it kills me to
pay. Paine hates payin’. Look,
it’s not the zillion dollar fine,
it’s the psychology of it, it’s the
undeserved punishment, you
understand don’tcha? C’mon, do it
for Paine, please, I mean the
government supports the library and
I’m near broke and the books are
back and my friend here is a witness
I brought ‘em back in good shape and
in good faith expecting your
kindness, forgiveness, and mercy.”
“O.K., O.K., you can sweet talk me
out of it once and that’s it. You’re
off the hook this time, Mr. Paine,
but don’t push your luck too far.”
“Oh thank you thank you thank you,
Miss Library, let me kiss your date
due hand.”
Take Three:
Peter “Karate” Paine is a fast
talker. When we talk it’s as if he’s
hovering above me like a dragonfly.
I get the feeling he’s in another
space. On earth but not grounded.
He’s got charm and a super macho
presence, a Hollywood caliber ladies
man. He’s got that pheromone
chemistry. The ladies can sniff it
in the air. And he knows it.
Take Four:
If I ever see Peter Paine again I’d
like to ask him a couple of
questions, man to man.
How the hell did it happen? Did you
mean to do what you did? Of course,
the second question is the important
one, but who am I to ask? We all lie
to ourselves––self-deception is the
rule.
Take Five:
I spot a teacher I know and a
security guard talking at the beach
bar and I join them.
The barman points a finger pistol at
another arrival. “Let me introduce
you to an old customer, just flew
in, the world famous maraschino
bird.” The barman likes teasing the
bar bird, a pearly eyed thrush
hopping boldly around the counter.
He holds up a cherry and says, “If
we’re gonna take sides, I vote for
murder. I always vote for murder.
This is the place for getting away
with murder.” As if on cue, the bird
hops off with the cherry.
The security guard shakes his head.
“Look, They were both wearing karate
outfits. He’s a black belt, an
instructor. He was teaching her some
karate moves, it got too intense and
things happened.”
“Yeah, he taught her a lesson!” says
the teacher sarcastically into his
drink. “C’mon, man, he’s an
instructor, an expert, and he lost
control? I don’t buy that.”
“Did he get into it so much he
turned into a psycho?” asks the
barman, “Stay tuned!”
The barman shoos the bird off the
cherry bowl. “Hey, leave me
some of those cherries!”
I chime in, “Who knows what happens
between two people? Maybe drugs,
maybe drinks, maybe he didn’t know
his own strength. There were blue
bruises on her throat.”
The barman, a part time calypsonian,
sings, “It’s very suspicious, it’s
very suspicious.”
“So what do we know?” Security asks.
“Karate Paine is alive,” says
the barman, “his woman is very dead,
and this damn bird eats more than
its weight in cherries.”
Before we shove off we join our
bartender in an alcoholic chorus of
“It’s very suspicious, it’s very
suspicious.”
The truth is I have more than two
questions.
Take Six:
Peter Paine was a striking figure,
six feet something, high cheekbones,
part East Indian, part Black
Continental. He was a man about town
doing odd jobs, teaching, bar
tending, clothes modeling. He liked
being a clothes horse, looking
sharp, working the fashion shows
around the big resort hotels: the
Marriott, the Westin, the Ritz
Carlton, but he was also a community
activist type. He went out of his
way to participate in teen events
and help motivate kids in trouble.
Martial arts was his calling card.
I was having a cheeseburger down by
the harbor at Pier 7 when he walked
in alone, dressed in a retro
dashiki. It was after lunch and the
place was nearly empty. I waved him
over. He sat down at my table and
started talking, “Hey, man, this
island’s getting boring! I need a
woman. I really think I miss my
wife. Never thought I’d say that.
Yeah, I’m running up some wild phone
bills. It’s crazy, it’s too damn
much! It would be cheaper if she
came here, man, I’m tired of
supporting AT&T single handed.”
“Ask her to come down,” I said.
“Yeah, I’m gonna talk to her. I’m
gonna ask her to come on down —the
water’s fine. Come back down, kiss
the subway goodbye, catch a plane to
Paine’s paradise and shake down some
coconuts. One thing though, she’s
got a good job up there working
night shifts at Mt. Sinai. Maybe she
can take a leave of absence or get a
job at the hospital. They sure need
nurses down here, always need
nurses. Everybody needs a nurse.”
“How long you been separated?”
“Too long.”
“Are you comfortable with that?
People get lonely.... All those
young doctors....”
“She does what she has to do. I
don’t mind. I do what I do, she does
what she does, we’re A-dults you
know? I don’t worry about that.”
“Just jivin’, man, I’m sure you’ll
work it out.”
“It’s those phone bills you know,
they’re driving me crazy. I gotta
cut them down. It makes no sense.
I’ll ask her, I’ll beg her to help
me cut those phone bills."
“Call her, bring her down.”
“Yes, I will, I’ll call her.”
“Go on, call her tonight. It’ll be a
second honeymoon.”
“Yes it will. I’ll tell her exactly
what you said––tell her you told me
to. Ha ha, that’s right, tonight’s
the night. I’ll make that
call.” He chomped down hard on his
veggie sandwich.
“What? No hamburger?”
“No man, I don’t like the idea of
killing cows. Go on, be carnivorous,
eat your bleeding meat, don’t mind
me. I used to eat it but I’m a
changed man. I got the bread, the
lettuce, the tomato but you can keep
the bloody meat.”
Take Seven:
“You still busting bricks with your
hand?”
“You heard about that?”
“Man, that must’ve been rough on the
bricks!”
“Don’t feel sorry for the bricks,
they did all right. Nearly broke my
hand. Messed up bad. Gotta practice,
gotta practice. Whole junior high
audience watchin’ me and I mess up!
It hurt and the kids are hootin’ and
hollerin’. Man, was I red in the
face.”
“You can’t be red in the face.”
“You’re right.”
“So Superman had an off day.”
“Tellin’ me! Way, way off.”
“Better luck next time.”
“Next time I’ll use a chisel! You
know, simply simplify the operation
and teach those mothereffin’ bricks
a lesson.”
Take Eight:
“You ever meet my wife? I’m so
excited she’s coming down tomorrow--
can’t wait to see a nekked wooman.
Had to make lots of promises. I
promised I’m gonna be good goody
good, good as gold for as long as
she can stand me and she said O.K.
You ever meet her? Real blond, about
5’8”.”
“Nope.”
“I’ll introduce you, the man who
helped me deal with the phone!”
Take Nine:
It’s a slow, bright and sunny
afternoon in the Virgins. I put on
the radio for the one o’clock news
and I hear Peter Paine’s name
mentioned. I listen closely--is that
the same guy I know? Taken into
custody. Found leaning over steering
wheel. Bleeding from chest wounds.
Hysterical. Horn beep beep beeping
for half an hour until neighbors got
angry, checked it out and called the
cops. Wife found dead in white
karate outfit.
An investigation is underway.
Take Ten:
Did she walk into a sudden move?
Blue bruises around her neck. A
karate chop to the windpipe? On
purpose or did he get carried away?
What the hell’s going on. Peter
Paine... my Peter Paine? Too
out of the blue. Too, too strange.
So out of character. Or is it.
Take Eleven:
The lady psychiatrist at St.
Ursula’s hospital doesn’t know what
to make of him. He claims she’s
trying to seduce him. He yells at
her: “Go away, get away from my bed.
I don’t want to see you. I’m tired
of you comin’ on to me. Leave me
alone. Get outta here!”
He carries on, threatening to rip
open his stitches again, the way he
did when he was first brought to the
hospital, crying, “I don’t want to
go on, I want out.”
Big act or schizophrenia?
Take Twelve:
The police are supposed to be
building a dossier. He’s friendly
with a few members of the force.
Taught them some karate.
A few weeks later, the evidence file
is lost. All charges dropped for
lack of evidence. It’s a small
island. It pays to have brothers on
the police force.
Take Thirteen:
I see him a couple of months later
looking good downtown near the Fort
with a strapping blond Swedish gal.
“Hey, man, how you doin’, you
know Ingrid? No? We’re getting
married! A man needs a wife,
yes indeed.”
“Pleased to meet you.” She laughed.
A bright, toothy Swedish smile.
“She’s so yummy, she’s my kind of
dish.” He licked her lips with his
tongue in a roguish, doggish way.
“We’re heading for California, start
a family. That’s right, Ingrid is
pregnant. Show him your beer belly
Ingrid.”
“Nothing much to see yet.” She
patted her belly, ”But it’s there.”
“Congratulations.”
How long have they known each other?
Was she on island when it happened?
Fast operator or cool operator. I
keep my thoughts to myself, keep my
mouth shut.
Wonder what she knows. Did he tell
her anything about what happened?
They tell me she looks like his
first wife, only taller.
Take Fourteen:
Good news. The librarian is back
after a mainland vacation. Could be
she was looking for another job.
Everyone does that after a couple of
years on island. I ran into her near
Market Square and she asked if I’d
seen Peter Paine.
“Peter? Why?”
“He has a couple of books way
overdue again. Karate books. Those
are really popular. I told him to be
sure and bring them back on time. I
let him get away with a big fine
once--he’s such a good talker.”
“Yes, he could talk the dead out of
the ground. Maybe the police have
them.”
“The police?”
“I assume they confiscated whatever
was in his apartment.”
“What for?”
“Darling, you’ve been off island too
long.”
Take Fifteen:
“I heard Karate Paine changed his
name. Goes by John Hancock.”
“Who says.”
“Grapevine. You know, one of my P.
D. contacts. He’s in California.”
“Busting bricks?”
“Running for governor!”
“Changed man or changed identity?”
“Maybe the name he went by here
wasn’t his real name either.”
“What’s a real name?”
“Could be anything. Whatever.
I wish him luck.”
“Hope he’s a nice daddy.”
“I wish his new ol’ lady some luck
too.”
“They sure got together fast.”
“Yep, good luck to both of ‘em, and
the baby.”
Take Sixteen:
What about the autopsy? I ask
myself. Rules and regulations say
it’s required but I seriously doubt
they did one. The corpse cutter was
off island. And if they did have an
autopsy––so what? It doesn’t matter
if you know how to file the files.
It’s just paper games. Besides, the
gal was a mainlander. So who gives a
damn. She’s gone, right? Why ruin a
guy’s life?
Call it temporary insanity. Call it
murder. Call it manslaughter. Call
it what you will. After his wounds
healed, Paine was released from the
hospital and he was back in action
as if nothing happened––home again
up in Estate Scott Free.
Take Seventeen:
The dead wife’s parents came down,
identified the body and took it back
to New York. Their only child.
Take Eighteen:
Maybe I shouldn’t have teased Karate
Paine about what his first wife was
doing up there all by her lonesome
in New York surrounded by young
doctors. Did I push some hidden
button? Do I give myself too much
credit?
This is the Caribbean. Sun, sea, and
sex. For some, it’s paradise, for
others the opposite. People act out
their fantasies and move on. These
are the islands of come and go.
“Like hangovers,” says the barman.
Guilt, innocence, or an unholy mix
of both: the security guard just
shrugs. He thinks life is like
algebra––it’s easy to forget the
equations and nobody’s interested in
solving for X. The police never
talked to me or anybody I know.
Take Nineteen:
The barman told me that after one
too many he can talk to the
maraschino bird and get good advice
which he can hardly remember the
next day. Of course, the bird has to
be bribed first.
I wonder if I should pay the bird
another visit. Peter Paine might be
in California, but with me he’s here
to stay. All I know is I know what I
don’t know, which is a good line to
give to the bartender. Let him build
a calypso on it.
What’s the perfect crime? And what
about intent and motive? I’ll put
those questions to the bird. I hear
that even Albert Einstein used to
talk to his bird.
Take Twenty:
My psychologist friend says I’m not
responsible. Easy for her to say.
Not responsible. It can cut both
ways. Depends on how you say it.
Take Twenty-one:
The librarian is pissed off at the
police. She claims that whatever the
police confiscate they rip off. I
say, “Really!” and we share a smile.
The librarian’s looking good. I
might be overdue for a date with the
library. We’ll see. I’ll try to get
the books back for her. If the
police don’t support the library,
who will?
*****