She grinned, touched the flower lightly. “Pretty, isn’t it? He’s in your office. I got tired of him staring at the door. Strange old bird. Never took his hands off that package. But you know these small-island Matai better than I do, Doctor. Stuffy.” “Proud, you mean.”
She popped her bubblegum at him. That was her one disgusting habit. He pushed open the door to his
office.
As always, his first glance was reserved for the magnificent view of the harbor out his back window. He was always afraid he’d come in one day and find a view of downtown New York, the one from his old office at Columbia. Reassured, he turned to greet the man seated in front of his desk.
Standing in front of his chair, he managed to take a fast inventory of the papers and envelopes padding his desk while at the same time extending a greeting hand.
“Talofa,” he said.
“Hello, Dr. Poplar. My name is Ha’apu.” The oldster’s grip was firm and tight. He sat down when Poplar did.
The director stared at the man across from him. On second and third glance, maybe he wasn’t so old. That Gauguinish face, weather-beaten and sunburnt, could
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have as well seen forty summers as seventy. The few lines running in it were like sculpture in a well-decorated home, placed here and there strategically, for character, to please the eye. The hair was cut short and freckled with white.
The Matai retained a taut, blocky build. Ropes of stringy muscle flexed when his arms shifted. He matched Poplar’s 175 cms. in height.
“I’ve come a distance to see you, Dr. Poplar.”