Cloud Permutations (4 page)

Bani Voko Voko Leo was an albino.

— Chapter 7 —

WAN PIKININI BLONG KAVA

KAVA DREAMS like sugar-coated raisins on the scummy surface of an ancient cake … writers and poets, over the long centuries, have battled with the attempt to describe kava. What was it? A murky brown liquid, distilled from a root, a cousin of the common pepper and nothing like it? How could you describe the smell, earthy, gamey, a little like medicine and a little like an unpleasant serum? The Israeli poet Lior Tirosh, who in his journeys once even deigned to visit the remote islands of Oceania, had tried to capture a visit to a Kava Bar:

A shack, with corrugated iron roof
(Tirosh wrote)

Low wooden benches, earth-made floor

The light of distant stars and cigarettes:

A kava bar
.

Coconut shells are lifted and replaced on the counter

Then comes the rhythmic spitting

An orchestrated hacking

As of dying frogs:

Slowly stillness settles

Whispered conversations ebb and flow

And rain, falling lightly

Silences the leaves about to fall
.

The spitting, it must be said, was necessary: it allowed the kava drinker to connect with his ancestors, to share the kava and enter the dream-state described as ‘listening to the kava’. Kava bound a society together; it allowed the men and women to gather before sunset at the
nakamal
, to drink, to
share
a mental state that relaxed the body and facilitated conversation …

Port Cargo, of course, had plenty of kava-bars. They were not
nakamals
, not sacred areas set aside for contemplation. They were a city’s version of
nakamals
, social places but not social
spaces
. They were not, you could say,
kastom
.

At the time Kal first met Bani, he had not tasted kava. That was about to change.

‘Anyway, what’s it to you?’ Kal had said. Bani stepped out of the shadows, and Kal saw his face. Calmly, maddeningly calm, Bani said, ‘You are the boy who wants to fly.’

There was something naked in his voice as he said it. A note of longing, perhaps … Kal was temporarily disarmed by it. He said, ‘Yes,’ and heard the hunger in his voice matching that of his unknown assailant.

‘Then we should talk,’ Bani said. The threat he had posed seemed to have dematerialised. The two boys who had blocked Kal’s way now turned and went back the way they came. Something seemed to have been decided, though Kal was not aware of what it was. Not exactly.

Bani said, ‘Do you drink kava?’

Kal nodded, and Bani laughed. ‘Have you
ever
tasted kava?’

Kal shrugged. He was embarrassed at being so easily caught out.

‘Come on,’ Bani said. ‘The Blue Light’s just around the corner.’

I’m not old enough
, Kal wanted to say. But, of course, neither was Bani.

He followed the albino boy. He was wary, but not perhaps as much as he should have been. Kal was curious.

The Blue Light was, indeed, just around the corner. It was a shady, leafy shack neighbouring the Lukaot Naetklab, but it was quiet. Quietness, and darkness, were two essential elements of both
nakamal
and kava-bar. Kava heightened the senses. Bani walked in and Kal followed.

Bani said (to the man behind the low counter), ‘mi wantem tu sell’—
I want two shells
—and the man grunted, looking pained, but didn’t protest. Two shells materialised on the counter. Bani took both and handed one to Kal.

One of the men sitting quietly on one of the low wooden benches now stirred. ‘Hey, Professor,’ he called out, evidently speaking to Bani, ‘Don’t you go corrupting any more young people.’

‘Mind your own business,’ Bani snapped. The man raised his hands in mock-surrender and grinned. ‘Whatever you say, Professor.’

Bani, glowering back at the man, went off to drink his shell. Kal, unsure of himself, joined him.

The tradition of drinking kava had not changed in generations. That was, in part, the whole point. Drinking kava was
kastom
, and
kastom
was to be followed. It afforded continuity and stability, and was not to be easily changed. Though Bani—and Kal, of course, did not yet know this—had exactly that in mind. Though it was not the ritual of kava that he was concerned with.

They went to the edge of the kava-bar. Kal held the shell in both hands (clutching, it had to be said, a little tightly). ‘Hemi smol nomo,’ Bani said to him.
It’s only a small one.

Kal watched him. Bani raised the shell to his mouth. He downed the drink in one, then spat on the ground (putting quite a lot of effort into it). From elsewhere in the kava-bar came the occasional hacking, spitting sound as phlegm was enthusiastically discharged. Kal, to tell the truth, felt a little sick. Nevertheless, he too lifted the shell to his mouth, and drank.

He gagged (it tasted awful), but forced it down nonetheless. He spat (it was a heartfelt act) and felt his lips and tongue go numb. He had heard this would happen, but until then he had never experienced it for himself.

Around his own empty shell, Bani grinned. ‘Yu oraet?’ he said.

Kal grimaced. His body felt heavy, and he found it a little difficult to mould the words with his still-frozen lips. ‘Mi oraet,’ he said.
I’m fine
.

‘Yu wan bigfala man naoia,’ Bani said, with the same mocking tone he had used before.
You’re a big man now
.

‘Fuck you,’ Kal said, and Bani burst into surprised, surprising laughter. His laugh rolled in the open space; despite himself, Kal smiled back. ‘Come on,’ Bani said. ‘Let’s sit down.’

They found a dark, quiet corner and sat. Kal put his back to the wall and closed his eyes.
I’m going to get into a lot of trouble for this
, he thought. His Aunty did not approve of young boys going off alone at night. And she certainly didn’t approve of kava-bars.

He smiled. He put his hands on the sides of the bench (the numbness in his lips had gone as quickly as it came), felt the rough wood and for a fleeting moment thought of home.

A voice came from the other end of the bar, and he opened his eyes, home momentarily forgotten. It was the same man who had spoken to Bani earlier. Now he was back to haranguing him. ‘Yu wan nogud boe,’ the man said, articulating his words clearly and slowly, as if he were a little drunk. ‘Yu wan pikinini blong kava.’

Bani laughed at that, but he did not look amused. The old man had called him a
child of kava
. It could be taken literally, of course, but it also meant an addict. Bislama, the Esperanto of the islands, was like that. Allusive, metaphorical, sometimes elusive. It was an old term. Bani looked over at the man. ‘Yu wan olfala blong kava,’ Bani said, imitating the way the man had spoken. ‘Mo mi ting yu no save plantem manioc long karen blong yu.’

There was a peal of laughter at this from the other people in the bar. Bani had just called the man ‘an old man of kava,’ which in itself was not particularly offensive. However, he went on to say that he didn’t think the man was any longer capable of planting manioc in his garden, which—and even Kal knew this—was quite a rude euphemism.

The man took this good-naturedly enough. ‘Oh, I can still work my garden,’ he said, ‘don’t you worry about me, young Professor. But you, do you
have
a garden? Have
you
planted your manioc yet?’

Pale white skin, turning red now … ‘Ask your wife,’ Bani said loudly, and the spectators howled with laughter. Kal found himself grinning and wondered what it would be like to have another shell.

‘There’s no use talking to some people … ‘ the man on the other end of the bar muttered. ‘Don’t you follow his example!’ he said, raising his voice, addressing Kal. ‘That boy is nothing but trouble.’

‘Thanks,’ Kal said. ‘I’ll think about it.’

But, of course, he didn’t. He was a boy, inclined to act first and think only later. He was a boy, and therefore attracted to the challenging of authority, whatever form it came in. And it is worth noting, perhaps, that even had he listened to the man, even if he’d followed the advice, it may not have mattered. Fate has a way of circumscribing even the best intentions, and as for the dark tower …

It waited for Kal. It had waited for a long time. How long, perhaps, only the clouds really knew.

— Chapter 8 —

BANI VOKO VOKO LEO

‘MY NAME’S BANI,’ Bani said.

Kal shook his hand. It felt cool and dry. ‘Kal.’

‘I know who you are.’ Again, that amused tone in Bani’s voice, as if he were tolerating a child. Kal found it extremely irritating. He said, ‘How did you know about the … ‘ and stopped. The memory was still fresh in his mind, and still private. Though clearly, he thought now, it hadn’t been. It couldn’t have.

‘The prophecy?’ For once, Bani didn’t smile, and there was nothing sarcastic in his voice. ‘A lot of people know about the prophecy, Kal. A lot of people are interested in you.’ He seemed to recover his good humour. A small smile curved on that pale-white face. ‘They’re watching you, Kal. Day and night. You are like a rare seed that has been planted in soil, and everyone is watching to see if it bears fruit.’

Kal stared at him. ‘Who
are
you?’ he said at last. He couldn’t think of anything else to say.

‘As questions go,’ Bani said, ‘this isn’t a bad one.’ He abandoned the smile, or perhaps the smile had for the time being abandoned him. He said, almost formally, as if reciting something learned long ago, ‘My name is Bani Voko Voko Leo. I am Tannese. I seek … ‘ He hesitated. ‘I seek the tower.’

Kal said, ‘What tower?’ and felt panic rise inside him like a burning fluid. Bani laughed.

There are contrasting stories regarding that first conversation between the two boys. The man who shouted at them was interviewed, years later, by a young historian, in the hope of clarifying the exact nature of the conversation. The man denied ever having been to the Blue Light. When the young historian mentioned Bani’s name the man scowled at him and then refused to speak any more. Bani’s name, it must be said, tended to have that effect on people. The young historian ended up switching disciplines—to literature—where he was much happier and didn’t have to talk to people.

Bani’s reputation is perhaps unfair. At fifteen, he was the youngest student ever to be admitted to the Tannese Institute of Higher Learning (and also, it had to be noted, the most troublesome). He was not, despite telling Kal that, pure Tannese. His father was a man from Tanna but his mother was from Ambrym: like Kal’s parents, neither was alive. Bani grew up, therefore, inside his extended family in Jon Frum Town, moving occasionally between uncles and aunts but not settling down. At fifteen he had his father’s land, his mother’s delicate bones, and the genetic condition that had turned his skin white and his eyes red and which meant he could never go unprotected in the sun and which set him apart from everyone else. He had something else, too: like Kal, he had been given a prophecy of water.

Who, then, was Moli Solomon? It was she who had drawn Kal’s prophecy, and it was she, too, who had prophesied for Bani. Bani told this to Kal now, his voice dry as he recited the facts of his life: he had told Kal of the prophecy, but he had not yet told him what it contained.

As to its contents: sources are … divided. Moli Solomon did not, after all, register her prophecies. She was, when it came to it, a water worker. She was open to the influence of clouds. She was hardly, in other words, a reliable witness to the future. For Kal, she drew the tower, and a fall. For Bani … sources are still, after all this time, divided. The argument rages on. Did he know, or merely suspect? He was a cocky young man.

‘What was your prophecy?’ Kal said, fascinated. He had never met anyone before who was deemed—somehow, somewhere—to be important enough to have his future charted out for him, however vaguely. It did not occur to him (not yet!) that he himself was likewise chosen.

‘She drew me a ship,’ Bani said. For an instant Kal saw in his eyes that same naked hunger that he had glimpsed earlier. ‘She drew me a ship, sailing in a sea where there was no land. The ship was in shadow. A long line of shadow that fell from the sky.’

‘The tower,’ Kal said. Bani nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘The tower. A tower tall enough to reach out of the world.’ He fell silent. Kal didn’t understand what he had meant (not then! Not yet!) but didn’t want to ask. He felt confused and excited (which was only natural) and had too many questions he wanted to ask his new friend (if, indeed, he was a friend). And what did he mean, there were people watching him, Kal?
A lot of people are interested in you, Kal,
Bani had said. But why? And what did they want? And still he didn’t know about the tower. He said, a little plaintively, ‘I just want to fly.’

‘And I just want to stay alive to be eighteen!’ Bani snapped. ‘Do you even understand what I’m talking about?’

Kal admitted, ‘No.’

There was a silence. The two boys stared at each other across a gulf that was only partly made of air; they were separated by knowledge, by expectations, by age. And yet …

Suddenly Bani stood up. He did not look at Kal. He said, ‘I hope you figure it out. Lukem yu.’ He walked away.

‘Lukem yu,’ Kal murmured.
See you
. He watched the older boy disappear through the entrance of the kava-bar. He was tired. ‘A tower tall enough to reach out of the world … ‘ he said, as if trying out the words. Then he thought,
Aunty Grace
, and felt suddenly cold. She would kill him if she found out he had been to a kava-bar. He stood up, all of a sudden conscious of being in a place he was not supposed to be in, and being there alone. The courage Bani seemed to bring with him had vanished with his going. Kal got up and hurried out, though his body felt heavy and unresponsive. There is a first time for everything. A first time for drinking kava, a first time for making new friends. There are times enough, later, to regret them.