Good Juice

            by Nate Levin

 

            Konisi Yabaki stretched his hands into the air and looked around him. The light blue waves swished repeatedly onto the fine sand, and the palm trees glistened in the warm breeze. He had slept on the beach that night, using the sand as a pillow and some giant leaves as his blanket. Konisi had a hut, but when the weather was especially sunny and warm he slept on the beach nearby the shack where he worked. He stood up, his bright blue-green eyes staring out at the ocean and his dark skin absorbing the rays of the morning sun. Konisi was about six feet tall and rather skinny. He had big hands, perfect for squeezing the juice out of freshly picked papayas, handsome features, worthy of admiration, and swirling black hair.

            Walking down to the water, he washed himself and hurried along the beach toward his daily work. The curvature of one of the smallest Fijian islands lay before his eyes. It was this island where he had been born, raised, and had lived, along with a few hundred other inhabitants, for his entire life. Very few tourists came, and when they did, they generally stayed away from the islanders. Each person had a specific job toward which they put all of their time and effort. For Konisi, it was squeezing juice. He loved the feeling of the collapsing fruit and the sight of the fresh juice flowing down into a clay bowl. There was a certain satisfaction that Konisi got when he grasped the fruit in his hand and converted the solid into liquid – almost as if he were a god himself. Everyone went to Konisi for juice, so he was known by most of the villagers – yet he yearned for something more. Looking out at the sun, he knew he was already running a little late, and there was a lot of fruit to squeeze.

            The shack where he worked was small but located right on the main dirt road that everyone took to get around. Usually he was the first one to arrive at the town square, but there was a man already standing in front of his brown wooden shack when he approached. He had a shabby beard and a bulging head. “Konisi!”

            “Iginoshiwana!” Konisi replied back with a grin on his face. “I didn’t think that you would arrive so early.”

            “Yeah, well, a man needs his juice when a man needs his juice. Did you hear the news? Someone is coming to the island today.”

            “No, really? Who?” asked Konisi in a carefree tone while rolling up the brown cloth that hung across the front of his shack.

            “You won’t believe it, but John Vascerville, the famous business tycoon, will be arriving on his private yacht.”

            “And the chief allowed this? We don’t want some stupid white man ruining our island and intruding on our lives. I don’t like the sound of it.” But secretly Konisi was excited. He wanted to see what the richest man in the world looked like; he wanted to shake his hand, perhaps offer him a little bit of melon juice and listen to his tales from afar. But he didn’t want Iginoshiwana to know. Iginoshiwana hated tourists.

            “I don’t like it either,” said Iginoshiwana in return, “and I hope that the chief won’t allow him to spend very much time here. I have too much work to do.”

            “If I could help you, I would. But I am not much of a canoe builder,” said Konisi as he handed him his juice across the counter. “I’ll see you later today.” With that, Iginoshiwana trotted off down the main dirt road back toward his hut, kicking up dust as he went. Other people were already beginning to set up their shacks by now, and Konisi got back to squeezing the ominously large stack of fruit he had just picked the day before.

            The sun shone directly overhead, burning Konisi’s dark skin with its squelching rays. He had only finished squeezing half of his papayas and only a quarter of his cantaloupe by this time and, as if to make things worse, a lengthy line of customers stood outside his shack impatiently waiting. For some reason, he wasn’t juicing quite as fast as he normally did. Perhaps it was because of the sand still stuck in his ear from sleeping on the beach the night before or because of the sweet smell of freshly cut sugar cane that had been wafting through the air. But these weren’t unordinary occurrences. Disheartened, he returned to the two big clay bowls that lay in front of him. The bowl on his right contained fruit, and the bowl on his left, which sat in a larger bowl of cold water, was nearly filled to the brim with cool, fresh juice. Konisi squeezed two more papayas and then reached below the counter, pulling out a special bowl containing a substance made from a recipe that had been passed down through generations and generations of juice squeezers until it finally reached Konisi himself. No one else knew the mysterious recipe after his father had died, so it was Konisi’s alone. Although it was made through an obscure process, only one thing mattered – it gave the juice a delicious taste. Konisi sprinkled some of the powder into the bowl of juice and then pulled out eight smaller wooden bowls. Meticulously, he poured the cool papaya liquid into each one, and handed them to the customers who were waiting in line across the counter.

            The town was abuzz with the news of John Vascerville coming to the island. People ran around sharing rumors about how rich he was, how many houses he owned, or how many rooms his boat had in it. From behind his shack, Konisi saw Iginoshiwana approaching him from the distance at an unusually fast pace. “Konisi! I have terrible news! He’s here! I just saw Vascerville’s yacht pull up on the east side of the island. I don’t understand how the Chief could have allowed this to happen. These filthy tourists pollute our environment and destroy our habitat and —”

            “Calm down!” Konisi stepped out of his shack and held Iginoshiwana’s shoulders with both of his hands. “It’s going to be alright, I promise. I hope you don’t doubt the leadership of the Chief.”

            “No, of course not!” Iginoshiwana replied defensively, breaking away from the grasp of his friend.

            “Then leave it be. He might not stay long.”

            “You’re probably right. Oh well. I’ll just stay inside my hut until he leaves. Bye.” Iginoshiwana trotted off from Konisi’s hut for the second time that day, disappearing into the heat rising from the main dirt road. Konisi could not contain his excitement. As soon as Iginoshiwana was out of sight, he cast aside his apron, patted down his rich black hair, and leapt over the counter, racing off toward the east shore. He was hoping that he would be able to beat the crowd if he ran fast enough, but soon he arrived upon a gigantic group of people standing around five men dressed in some odd garb he had never seen before – all black clothing. Konisi didn’t understand why anyone would want to dress like that in such heat, but then again, these men were foreigners. And then he saw him. Wearing shorts and a loose shirt, Vascerville, having stepped off his boat, was walking inland surrounded by the men in black. Although Konisi had never seen him before, he knew it was Vascerville from the aura of importance that seemed to emanate from his face.

            Vascerville continued to walk down the main dirt road surrounded by his body guards as Konisi and the rest of the crowd hurried to keep up. But after a while the villagers gave up their attempts to meet him and slowly dissipated, returning back to their daily work. Severely disappointed, Konisi headed towards his shack, realizing that he still had a lot of fruit left to squeeze. He squeezed and squeezed, trying to get the most juice possible out of each fruit, until his hands felt like they were on fire. Squeezing juice had always been fun for him, but over the last couple of years he had begun to enjoy it less and less. It wasn’t like building canoes or constructing shacks, for which the daily work varied almost every day – squeezing fruit was always the same. Konisi felt as if he was meant for something more than this monotonous task, but he had no choice. Sometimes at night he would lie on his bed of palm leaves and corn husks and stare out the little hole in the top of his hut, wishing that he could be somewhere else in the huge world. He had heard of a place called “Hollywood” where John Vascerville and all the rich and so-called “famous” people had come from. Konisi longed for adventure, wishing that he could travel around the world and be considered “famous” too.

            “Konisi, can you hurry it up just a bit? I’ve been waiting here ever since the sun passed that palm tree!” Konisi was slapped back into reality by the customer’s rude remarks. It was Kaliopate, a man who worked as an advisor to the Chief.

            “Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention. Here’s your mango juice.” Kaliopate snatched the bowl from Konisi’s hands. “Why are you in such a hurry?”

“You don’t want to know,” the thin man replied as he began to walk away from the shack. But all of a sudden he stopped and turned around. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to tell you,” he said thoughtfully. “But keep it quiet. Poison was found in the Chief’s food this afternoon.”

Konisi’s eyebrows shot up. “An attempt on his life? But why?”

“I don’t have time to talk now. As you can imagine, I have a lot to do.” Kaliopate scampered off along the main road.

Bewildered, Konisi crouched down and took a few more melons off a shelf. As he was searching for some without bruises, he was covered by the shadow of a new customer. “Hold on, I’ll be with you momentarily,” Konisi said. He snatched a nicely shaped melon and stood up, face to face with the customer. Almost as soon as he placed his eyes on the man, he was taken aback. The tall figure of John Vascerville stood leaning against the counter with his other hand in his pocket. All of a sudden, Konisi felt as if someone had stuffed his mouth with a wad of cotton.

            “John Vascerville. Pleased to meet you.” Vascerville spoke in perfect Bau Fijian, the dialect of his island. “Are you surprised by my fluency? I don’t like to visit a foreign country without learning the language.” Obviously he isn’t an ignorant man, Konisi thought. But he still couldn’t use his mouth to form words. Konisi thought the words Pleased to meet you as hard as he could, but they still wouldn’t come out of his mouth. Instead, he handed a bowl of cold papaya juice to the magnificent man. “Deaf? That’s okay. Thanks for the juice.” Vascerville cradled the bowl in his hands and downed the fragrant liquid in a matter of seconds. He stared at Konisi for a while and then finally said,” This juice is unbelievable. I’ve never tasted anything like it!” Konisi used all his willpower to muster the strength to reply.

            “Thank you, sir, but you needn’t say that just to be polite.”

But Vascerville’s face looked determined. “No, you don’t understand. This isn’t ordinary juice. This is something special. Really special.”

Lightning bolted through Konisi’s veins as he stared at Vascerville in disbelief. Did Vascerville, a man who could afford the best beverages ever brewed, actually enjoy his own juice that much? He decided to test him.

“Would you like to try some of my other flavors? How about mango?” If Vascerville said yes, he was telling the truth, but if he said no, then Konisi would know that he was lying.

“Are you kidding me? Absolutely!” Vascerville boomed back with his deep voice. Konisi couldn’t believe it; this man liked his juice! He handed him six more bowls so that the men wearing black would have a cool liquid to drink after walking around in the sun all day with long, dark clothing. Vascerville downed the liquid once more. “Can we sit down? I’d like to find out a little about life on the island if you don’t mind.” Konisi reached behind a cabinet and revealed two small wooden chairs. They both took a seat and Konisi handed him yet another bowl of juice.

The two men talked for a couple hours while enjoying the afternoon sun. Konisi felt like his dream had come true. This was way more than the handshake he had been hoping for. Other Islanders shot jealous glances at him as they passed by and Konisi basked in the moment. Vascerville spoke with a perfect accent, but his voice was thicker and less refined than the islanders, sounding strong and confident. After their conversation about island life was over, they both sat silently until Vascerville cleared his throat. “Konisi,” he said, “I have an important question to ask you.”

“Yes?”

“I was wondering,” Vascerville spoke once more, “if you would like to work for me.”

“What?”

“I mean, would you like to move to Hollywood and work for me? I would set you up with a business, but I would own it. You could live in the house adjacent to me in Beverly Hills, the most exclusive city in the area, squeeze juice for me in the morning, and work at your store in the afternoon. I would pay for everything.” The words coming out of Vascerville’s mouth sped through the air in slow fluctuating sound waves, finally hitting Konisi’s ears. But the neurons connecting his ears to his brain didn’t seem to be working.

            “What?”                                                        

“You heard what I said,” Vascerville replied.

“I’m sorry, but I really didn’t.”

“Would you like to work for me?” Vascerville over-enunciated.

It took a while, but finally Konisi comprehended the man’s words.  Work for Vascerville? It didn’t seem possible. Yet Vascerville was sitting in front of him and had just asked the question. “You obviously need some time to think. I’ll meet you back here right before the sun goes down. But remember, this is a deal like no other.” Vascerville stood up, motioned to his bodyguards, and headed back toward his boat.

Konisi sat motionless in his chair. He realized that this was indeed “a deal like no other” offering him everything he ever could have wished for, but something held him back from saying “yes” right away. It was easy to wish for adventure, but when the opportunity sat right in his lap, he didn’t feel quite ready to decide. Was he prepared to leave everything he had known? There wasn’t much time to make a decision so he stood up and raced along the main dirt road, turned onto a side path lined with thick trees, and knocked on the door to Iginoshiwana’s hut.

“Yes? Who is it?”

“It’s me. I have something I need to talk to you about.” Iginoshiwana opened the small wooden door and greeted his friend in an embrace. They sat down on Iginoshiwana’s bed while Konisi told him everything that had happened. Silence filled the small hut when Konisi had finished his story. “What do you think I should do?”

“I don’t know, Konisi. I guess I never imagined that you would be faced with a decision like this.” Iginoshiwana paused. “If it were up to me, I wouldn’t trust this guy the least bit. He comes to the island looking for what? We don’t know. Even though he’s famous, he is still a mysterious man. You don’t know that much about him. To tell you the truth, it seems like he’s using you.”

Konisi was enraged that Iginoshiwana had given him such a negative answer. “You really think so? You’re just jealous that I met him and that it wasn’t you instead. Do you think that I’m stupid enough to let myself be “used” like a tool?” Konisi stood up. “Why don’t you ever trust tourists? They’re a lot smarter than you. They come from a world of magical things you could never even imagine. Look at Vascerville’s yacht. You could never build anything like that.”

“You asked for my help.”

“I’m sorry I came here. I didn’t think that you’d be so jealous of me.” Konisi walked briskly towards the door, his heart already set on agreeing to Vascerville’s offer.  But as he touched the door, he heard the noise of two men walking on the path outside. They were speaking softly. From the sound of his well-known voice Konisi knew that one of the men was the Chief. The other voice was unknown.

“—And you’re sure you heard this correctly?” the Chief asked.

“Yes. While on duty at the dock I overheard one of Vascerville’s men talking about it.”

“But why would he want to do such a thing?” the Chief replied.

“For money. That is obviously all he cares about.”

“But the government knows that I’m the chief.”

“Not if you’re dead. It’s easy to make a murder look like a suicide.”

“Okay. But why would the juice squeezer agree with Vascerville’s requests?”

“You don’t understand. It’s a long-term plan. Vascerville was going to make him rich working in Hollywood. He would not present him before the Fijian government for a few years, you see. By then the juice squeezer’s alliance with Vascerville would be stronger than his alliance with his homeland.”

“I never knew that we’d been standing on this stuff for over two thousand years. It shows you how fast things can change.” The chief and the other man stood silently on the gravel path. “We must stop this before it is too late.” With those final words the two men walked out of hearing range.

Konisi stood as still as a stone statue, his eyes as wide as melons. A draft of the warm ocean breeze blew in through the window, disturbing the silence and causing his hair to ruffle. Konisi’s eyes wore a soft gaze, like he was staring at something that wasn’t really there. Iginoshiwana took a step forward.

“Look what you almost got yourself into. You were that close to betraying your people and your heritage.” But Konisi didn’t hear him. Instead, he opened the door to Iginoshiwana’s hut and ran outside, heading back toward his shack.

 

The island was lit up with a pink glow from the setting sun, and the palm trees swayed back and forth in the warm evening breeze. An unusual quiet lay over the main area of town since all the other shacks had closed for the day. Konisi returned to his booth and began to roll down the tarp to the entrance. As he did so, the large silhouette of John Vascerville approached his shack one last time.

“What did you decide?” he said softly.

Konisi looked off at the ocean for a second and then glanced back at Vascerville.          “If you’re willing to take me with you, I’m ready to go. What I have on the island is nothing compared to what you have offered me.”

 

Konisi leaned against the prow of Vascerville’s giant boat as it slowly began to drift away from the shore. He reminded himself why he had made this decision. It wasn’t because he wished for his homeland to be destroyed or for the chief to die. He had outgrown squeezing day after day, never receiving anything in return for the arduous task. At Iginoshiwana’s house, a realization took shape that no matter what the consequences were, he must not forgo his dream when it had just been handed to him. He wanted to show the islanders that there were bigger ideas in life, such as fame and success, and that some people were meant for more than what they were born with. More than anything, he wanted to be gone the next morning when Iginoshiwana showed up at his shack for his daily juice.