Rushing to Paradise. Rivka Galchen

Barbara stepped from the cabin below the bridge. She waited by the gangway and caught his arm when his numbed foot missed a worn rubber cleat. She pulled him onto the deck, surprised but glad to see him, weighing the stronger muscles of his arms like a farmer’s wife pleased with the growth of a prize bullock.

      ‘Neil, we’ve all missed you. Are you coming with us?’

      ‘Dr Barbara, I wanted to—’

      ‘Good. I knew you would.’ Dr Barbara stood back and then embraced him fiercely, strong hands searching his rib-cage and shoulder blades, reassuring herself that the bones of old still lay within the newly confident muscle. ‘We couldn’t have gone without you.’

      ‘Dr Barbara …’ Neil wiped her gaudy lipstick from his forehead. ‘What about the French navy? They’re waiting for you …’

      ‘Don’t worry! There’s a new wind blowing.’ She consulted her roster. ‘We’ll find a cabin for you later, but first I want you to meet Monique Didier, our very special new friend.’

      She put an arm proudly around Neil as a vigorous, dark-haired woman in white overalls stepped onto the deck below the bridge and emptied a waste-bucket of soapy water into the sea.

      ‘Monique is a chief steward with Air France,’ Dr Barbara told him. ‘But she’s given everything up to join us. Monique, this moody chap is Neil Dempsey, champion swimmer and my right-hand man.’

      ‘So … of course, I saw you on TV. You’re practically a film star.’ The Frenchwoman bowed steeply, holding Neil’s hand as if touching an icon. ‘I know all about your trip to Saint-Esprit. You’re really my hero.’

      Despite her ironic tone, Neil found himself reddening again. During her hospital visits Dr Barbara had often described this high-principled air hostess. Now in her late thirties, Monique Didier was the daughter of one of France’s first animal rights activists, the writer and biologist René Didier. She and her father had set up a wild-life sanctuary in the Pyrenees for an endangered colony of bears. For years they endured the abuse and hostility of local farmers angered by the bears’ sheep-killing and their sentimentalized image in the metropolitan press. All this had made Monique prickly and defensive, but she was dedicated to her campaign, brow-beating her first-class passengers on the Paris –New York and Paris –Tokyo runs. After repeated warnings, Air France had lost patience and sacked her.

      Neil was already wary of her sharp tongue, but Monique seemed genuinely reassured by his arrival. He was tired after walking along the crowded quay, and wanted to sit on the platform of the satellite dish, but she hovered around him as if eager to fasten his seat-belt and slip a plastic tray onto his lap.

      ‘It’s excellent that you’re coming,’ she told Neil, still sizing him up. ‘We have to get ashore very quickly, and you know the secret pathways to the airstrip.’

      ‘They’re not really secret …’ Neil realized that Dr Barbara had been busy mythologizing the island. ‘What about Kimo?’

      ‘He’ll be with us, of course. But we must take care not to expose him.’ Monique rattled her bucket with a show of distaste. ‘Those French officers are so racist. One chance and they’ll shoot him down like a pig.’

      ‘They shot me.’

      ‘But not again!’ Monique’s eyebrows bristled. ‘You’re an emblem, Neil. The TV screen is your shield, no bullet can pierce you. Is that right, Barbara?’

      ‘Of course, Monique, though I wouldn’t put it quite like that.’ Dr Barbara tried to pacify her. ‘Let’s hope no one gets shot.’

      The endless bedside interviews and television appearances had done their work, Neil reflected. He was now a talisman of the animal rights movement, to be carried shoulder-high like the stuffed head of a slaughtered bison. When Dr Barbara took him onto the bridge she introduced him with a flourish to Captain Wu and Irving Boyd, as if his appearance guaranteed her own credentials.

      The computer entrepreneur greeted him with a grave bow, eyes slowly blinking behind the thick lenses like an ever-wary alarm detector.

      ‘We prayed for you, Neil,’ he said in a soft Texan voice, to which he listened as if the words contained a concealed code. ‘When you were shot the planet held its breath. I think even the manatees and the dugongs prayed.’

      ‘I prayed for the albatross, Mr Boyd.’

      ‘Everyone prayed for the albatross. Meanwhile, I hope you take part in the sanctuary island project.’

      ‘No one’s asked me – is that a TV series?’

      ‘Irving means Saint-Esprit,’ Dr Barbara pointed out. ‘I think we can look forward to some awfully high ratings.’

      ‘We want you there, Neil.’ Boyd’s eyes were fixed on Neil with all the humility of a film producer discovering a face of Christ-like pathos among a crowd of extras. ‘There’s a starring role for you.’

      ‘Well, maybe … I don’t know much about acting. I’m still coping with reality.’

      ‘Reality? That’s a public service channel, Neil. I’m planning to put up the first privately operated ecological satellite. We’ll beam you and Dr Barbara into every home on the planet …’

      As Boyd outlined his prospectus it was clear to Neil that the entrepreneur saw the expedition to Saint-Esprit as little more than the reconnaissance for a television programme. But Dr Barbara bundled him down the stairway before he could reply.

      ‘For God’s sake, Neil! He’s lent us the ship.’

      Neil was pleased to see her annoyed with him. A few minutes in Dr Barbara’s presence was more of a tonic than all the hundreds of lengths in the university pool.

      ‘The Dugong ’s a stage-set, Dr Barbara. Like the replica of the Bounty. For him everything turns into television.’

      ‘Maybe, but he still controls the off-switch. Now meet Professor and Mrs Saito. And no jokes about atom bombs.’

      A young Japanese couple broke off their work in the galley to bow to Neil. Both professional botanists, they had flown in from Tokyo the previous day after abandoning their careers at the University of Kyoto and placing themselves at the service of Dr Barbara’s vision. They had brought with them two small suitcases, a plastic tent and a set of folding chairs, like overgrown children about to play on a holiday beach. They treated Neil to a pair of synchronized smiles that had scarcely faded when he left the Dugong an hour later, promising Dr Barbara to return and help with their preparations for departure.

      Trying to make sense of this naive but muddled crew, Neil drummed his forehead so fiercely against the jeep’s steering wheel that he bruised the skin. Already he knew that some way had to be found of preventing Dr Barbara and her ship of fools from ever leaving Honolulu. During the next days, as he swam his lengths, he listened to the pool-side radio. Media interest in the Dugong remained high, prompted by the immense white wings which Kimo had painted along the trawler’s hull. Already a novelty designer in Waikiki had turned the striking image of wave and wing into a natty series of badges and lapel buttons.

      Every afternoon Neil drove to the harbour, hoping to find that French agents had scuttled the ship. Dr Barbara was usually absent, lobbying the French consulate with a party of sympathizers and addressing the last fund-raising rallies. Captain Wu and his seven Filipino crew continued to load the stores, fuel and fresh water, watched by the solitary figure of Irving Boyd, brooding between the white wings of the ship like Poseidon lost in a dream of his oceans.

      A group of New Age hippies carrying an anti-vivisectionist banner had taken up residence on the quay. Shaking their tambourines, they danced among the stall-holders selling balloons and environmentalist geegaws to the tourists. Even Irving Boyd stirred from his meditations and tapped the air to the cheerful rhythm. He invited the troupe onto the bridge, where they danced around a bemused Captain Wu and then conducted a gentle mock-religious rite beside the satellite dish.

      Watching