Left at the Mango Tree by Stephanie Siciarz Page B

when he was around (You’ll get to the bottom of it, mate, no worries!), and all in the privacy of a dark corner table at the Buddha’s Belly Bar and Lounge, where their loyalty was no less true for its discretion.
    But Raoul’s latest stunt had flung them from the peaceful anonymity of the audience into the spotlight center-stage. The ad had only just appeared in the morning’s paper and by the end of the day they already felt the burden of their allegiance. Distracted by the questions of the local passersby, Bang had badly butchered almost half a dozen pineapples. Cougar caught his cooks and his chambermaids gossiping instead of chopping and cleaning. And Nat, Nat only had peace when he was locked in his taxi with a tourist who was none the wiser, and
that
, that only until noontime, by when even the visitors had heard of the ad: say, you don’t know this fellow wanting to know where babies come from, do you? As a matterof fact he did, Nat defended, and of course this fellow knew where babies came from, generally, just not this particular one.
    Raoul’s three friends were troubled. They were tired of being hassled (though secretly Cougar hoped his association with Raoul would bring in curious customers). They were embarrassed (even love and loyalty have their boundaries). And they were scared, though none would have admitted it to either of the other two. All three loved Raoul, I’m sure of that, if each in his own bumbling and selfish way, but none wanted an inadvertent enemy in Gustave Vilder.
    And besides being troubled, tired, embarrassed, and scared, they were worried and sorry, worried because Raoul might be putting himself in danger, and sorry because Raoul had become the butt of the islanders’ jokes. Had Raoul kept quiet, the rumors about little Almondine would eventually have needled their way into the fabric of the history and lore with which the islanders inveterately cloaked themselves, the individual threads (Edda’s transgression, or Gustave’s) lost in the weave. Leave it to Raoul, they thought, to tug a loose end and unravel time-honored tradition.
    There was little that Bang, Cougar, or Nat could think to do just then to alleviate their symptoms. In fact there was little to be done. So, like many before them and many to come, with no idea of how to solve their problem, they ignored it. At least in front of Raoul. At least for now.
    “Alright, that’s settled. Not a word when Raoul gets here.” Cougar raised his glass and the others knocked theirs into it. (Rum. Water. Rum.)
    Raoul joined them just then—”Beer, please,” he said—and was greeted with enough superfluous enthusiasm to raise his eyebrows and arouse his suspicion. “What’s the occasion?” he asked, his nose pointed at their glasses, still hanging in the air.
    Cougar looked at Bang, who looked at Nat, who somehow managed to salvage their secret. “No occasion,” he said. “Just wishing Bang a bit of luck before the show.”
    Raoul didn’t believe them, but he had bigger problems than their antics to concern himself with. “Cheers, then. Good luck.” He clinked his mug against Bang’s tumbler (Beer. Water.) and asked about the show. “What’s on the menu this evening? Pineapple polkas? Jellyfish jazz?”
    “Tribute to the night,” Bang replied, unfazed. “Don’t you see I’m dressed in black?” Indeed he was. Pleated crepe trousers, black t-shirt, secondhand tuxedo coat to cover the tiny holes that dotted the t-shirt’s back like freckles.
    “Aha.” Raoul smiled. (Bang had that effect on him.)
    By this time the Belly was full and the band could be heard tuning up and plugging in and sending random chords into the regular din of the drinkers and discussants at the Belly’s round tables that night. Bang made his way to the stage and in the shadow of his presence, the room fell silent.
    “Ladies and gentlemen. Good evening and welcome to the Buddha’s Belly. My name is Bang and tonight we’re gonna do some