It was always a pleasure when traveling to run into an easy-going, friendly American, floating in their economic well-being above the nitty-gritty and general pandemonium of life, uncomplicated and ready in an instant to do whatever it takes. The English traditionally have thought them shallow and loud-mouthed, but frankly, give me outgoing buddies any day in preference to whimpering mental cases afraid of their own shadows.

The short, robust American I met in Paradise was true to form. A Vietnam veteran who drove an old English sports car, he was a genuine survivor who had made trips up into China, spoke the language, and was now flitting around south-east Asia doing a little of this and a little of that. I was not particularly interested in understanding the details, so they were not provided. He had secured a good wife, whom he was proud to claim was the daughter of the village chief of one of the archipelago’s islands. Like a true imperialist, he was well aware of what he could get away with and what he could not, as a foreigner in the country.

So why did Mr. Worldlywise invite the dreamer for dinner? What role could I possibly play in his life, which seemed to me one based on a high level of artificiality and risk? His easy-going personality and unswerving confidence were attractive, but his raison d’être was suspect.

We drove to the tourist restaurant at the west end of the beach. He also invited an American friend who joined us at the bar, a man so clearly of settled disposition that his presence was quite shocking and inhibiting. A tall, well-dressed middle-aged family man, he was content to discuss any triviality. He was seemingly unaware of life’s struggles as he stood casually with us at the bar, holding a drink in his right hand. I suppose he was the quintessential American whom the English had in mind when they wrote them off as superficial monsters. I think they are wrong, though. Americans are still out enjoying a good gallop. In contrast, the English are back in the bolted stables with only memories and dry fodder to keep them going.

Mr. Wordlywise in shorts was perched very impressively cross-legged on a barstool to the left of Mr. Superficiality, and I, with a non-alcoholic drink in my hand, stood on his right. The non-descript conversation was mercifully terminated when M.W. and I moved to a table outside to take our meal within view of the ocean.

Edible mollusks removed from their shells looked lifelessly up at me from the plate, and I looked lifelessly back at them, feeling a little lost, temporarily removed from my psychic niche. There was nothing here to feed my soul, least of all the snails. M. W. confessed that it was rare to meet anybody who could teach you something. However, who was teaching whom and what without M.W.’s elaboration was anybody’s guess. But then we were technically still in Paradise, so that was fine. Fine.

After our meal, M.W., as a friendly gesture, gave me his local address, scribbled on a scrap of paper, and then drove me back to the tea house. If he had been expecting anything conclusive from me about anything, then he had made a mistake. I felt sure that our worlds were not commensurate, but then the mystery was pervasive, and the policy was to let things be and not poke around too much. 

To my list of injunctions, I was adding one more. The list then read, do not dawdle, do not waste time with niceties, do not misspend a farthing, and leave no stone unturned. “Follow the path, little brother, study the signs carefully, ponder your options, and leave no stone unturned.”

M.W.’s rented house was right on the beach in a small cove a few miles nearer Georgetown. Approaching from the beach, I climbed the steps and vocally made my presence known from outside the open French doors. M.W. invited me inside, where I met his wife. We exchanged niceties for a short while, and then I readily descended the steps and stepped back out onto the beach. There was nothing under that stone if I was looking for more than a convenient friendship and the chance of gainful employment in activities that, if not covert and questionable, probably amounted to nothing.

Thankful to have escaped that blind alley, I stood still for a few moments, my feet practically buried to the ankles in the soft sand, and looked about at the refreshed scene and the idyllic detail of the cove. Lying among a few fishing boats on the sand, there was a solitary white carcass about 35 years old, with a face that had definitely rejected something, but not just yet the soul, as there were still glimmers of life coming from his pale body.

A refugee from tinsel land, this materially exhausted soul was nourishing his psychological wounds, not totally withdrawn but definitely a little traumatized. He was not, as I quickly came to discover, beyond confiding the uncommon details of his plight. I prompted and encouraged, happy to be so soon embarking voluntarily on another sortie into the novel world of extroversion. What better place to come out than in Paradise?

Our paleface was a croupier who had crouped in the casinos of America. With a little prompting, details of the hazardous world of gambling emerged, fueling my condolences and awe. It would not have required a diploma in psychiatry to suggest he was in the wrong profession and might be more suited to gardening or ornithology. What a gamble life is when you don’t know what you should be doing with it. Becoming a welfare recipient has proved to be no solution except for people who enjoy life in the unglamorous pits. Perhaps it would be socially expedient if all politicians became gas pump attendants and all intellectuals became plumbers, and vice versa. That might be worth a gamble. Could things get any worse? Gridlock says it all.

I forgot to mention previously that, besides dog racing (my father’s fault) and shoot pontoon (Colin Figues’ fault), there was also horse racing (my grandfather’s fault). Especially on Saturdays, when there were the most meetings, it was worth spending a few shillings for the excitement of seeing your horses lose on television or seeing their names sadly missing from the late results printed sideways at the bottom of the back page of the evening extra. I was strongly disinclined to back favorites, which was probably the main reason why I hardly ever won. The bookie lived just at the end of Clarence Place in Oxford Street, so all in all it was a very convenient situation for losing a few shillings a week.