The Three Sirens (56 page)

Claire was disappointed. She had tried to project Canova and represented only Marie Laurencin. “It’s the air here,” she said, “playful air, good for little girls.” She glanced at the youngsters building their hut, and then back at Courtney. “Do you like children, Tom?”

“Generally, yes.” Then he added, “My own, more than others.”

She was surprised. “Your own? I didn’t know—”

“I’m making believe,” he said. “I mean, I’d like my own, lots of them, lots of little me’s around.”

“I see,” she said, and she laughed.

He had become solemn. “Of course, ideally, if I had my own, I’d hope to have them brought up in an atmosphere like this.”

Maud had become attentive to the last. “That might not work, unless they stayed on here,” Maud said. “Otherwise, they might be incapable of coping with the outside world. Child-rearing on the Sirens seems perfect only when compared to the kind of stresses we put on our children back home. But who can really say that the kind of stresses we put on our young are wrong—I mean, in terms of what they have to contend with later in our rather difficult American society.”

“True,” Courtney agreed.

Claire was still not satisfied that she understood why child-rearing on The Three Sirens might be superior to child-rearing in Los Angeles or Chicago. “Tom, what’s so especially good about this atmosphere for children? I can see how the adults here differ from us, but mere children? There they are—playing just as they do in California.”

“Yes, but it is not the same,” Courtney said. “The pressures are fewer here; though, of course, the later adult demands are fewer, too. These youngsters enjoy extremely carefree lives. Up to the age of six or seven, they run around naked. There are hardly any restrictions, and consequently hardly any fears. They have no concern about sex. Almost nothing is concealed, as you both know. They don’t have to worry about crossing a street or dirtying the house. There are no streets, no vehicles, and there is nothing in their huts to soil. They don’t have to worry about how to fill their time—I mean, their parents don’t have to hustle around carting them to or from friends or camps or regulated play. They are simply turned loose. Alone, or with others, they roam. They can’t get lost. They are independent. By trial and error, or imitation, they learn to build, hunt, fish, plant. They can’t starve. If they are hungry, they pick fruit or vegetables. If they are hot, they wade in a stream. If they are cold, anyone will give them shelter, for they are children of the entire community.”

“I’m beginning to see your point,” Claire said. “Complete independence.”

“Almost complete independence,” Courtney said. “Of course, the key to the whole thing is the foundation of security these kids possess, from the word go. These children know they are loved. A father or mother here would cut off his or her hands before striking a child. More important, children don’t have two parents—they have two birth parents—parents who conceived them—but they have a great array of mothers and fathers, all aunts are mothers, and uncles are fathers, so each child has a large kin group doting over him. He gets a feeling of family safety and solidarity. He always has someone to show him affection, give him advice, support or teach him, always someone to confide in. These children have no chance to be lonely or afraid, and yet they do not sacrifice individuality or privacy. I was discussing it with Dr. DeJong, and she agrees—Sigmund Freud would have become an idler here. How could a son on The Three Sirens suffer the guilt of an Oedipus complex when he has, in effect, ten mothers and seven fathers? You’d have to look a long time among these children to find a tantrum, a wet bed, a stutterer … I’m sure the Sirens has its weaknesses. I’m not wearing Chamber of Commerce blinders. But I’m convinced that they do two things better on the Sirens than we do in the United States. They manage their marriages better. They raise their children better. Of course, I’m not an expert. That’s simply my personal legal opinion.” He had turned from Claire to Maud Hayden. “You are the expert, Dr. Hayden. Do you concur or disagree?”

Maud’s face, a sunburned pumpkin, was thoughtful, as her thick fingers absently counted the beads of the Lolos necklace draped from her neck. “I hate to make a value judgment about anything like this,” she said, more to herself than to Courtney or Claire. “However, from what I have seen of the Sirens, already learned here, and what I know of Polynesia in general, I’m inclined to agree with you, at least about child-raising.” She appeared to weigh what she would say next, and then went on. “I believe that in Polynesian societies, youngsters pass from childhood into adulthood without the confusion our youngsters go through in America. Certainly, adolescence is a period of less strife here than at home. It isn’t hedged around with all sorts of sexual frustrations, other shames and fears, and the whole terrible business of finding one’s place in the adult world. Somehow, here, as on other South Sea islands, the transition to adulthood is gradual and happy, which is often not true in the West. There are many reasons, of course, but—well, I don’t think this is the time to go into all that—”

“Please,” said Claire. “What are the reasons?”

“All right. To be as honest as possible, I think children are more desired in this kind of society than in our own. Here it is all very simple. No one worries about the economics that unnaturally enforce birth control. There is no fear of a population explosion. They want children because children bring pleasure, not problems. And because they lack our scientific advances, the infant mortality rate is higher, and so each child that survives is held more precious. In our American society, while there are certain satisfactions in parenthood, there are not enough. Parenthood is a negative value, in that every new child means a financial sacrifice. So, while children are so desirable here, they are somewhat less so in the West, and these attitudes transmit to the growing youngster and create the differences in their personalities. But Mr. Courtney cited the basic strength behind child-rearing in Polynesia. It is the kin system, the clan, the so-called extended family. That absolutely beats anything we have.”

“We have loyal families at home, too,” insisted Claire. “Most American children are born into American families.”

“Not the same as here,” said Maud. “Our families are small: mother, father, a sibling or two. Relatives are usually not part of the basic families. In fact, there is much hostility and brawling, and little deep love, in our loose relationships with relatives. Otherwise, why all the in-law jokes at home? Present company excepted, in-laws are outlawed in our society. On the Sirens, as in most of Polynesia, the widespread, extended family is the basic family. Marriages may not always be permanent here—we know they are not—but the big families are permanent. An infant is born into an immovable institution, a secure haven. If the parents die, or if they divorce, it does not affect the child, for he is still secure with a family. If the same thing happens to an American or European child—the parents dying, let us say—what is he left with? An insurance policy. Do you think an insurance policy represents real security?

If you think so, try to seek advice from a double-indemnity clause, try to get love from an annuity provision.”

“I’d never thought of it that way,” said Claire.

“Well, it is so,” said Maud. “No premiums on earth can buy the benefits of the kinship system. Mr. Courtney mentioned many mothers and fathers, and sisters and brothers, but a family here also consists of grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins, and these are all in the child’s real family, not merely distant relations. These people are all responsible for the child. They owe him certain rights and support, and he, in turn, owes them the same. No child is ever orphaned here, any more than an aged person is neglected. The Sirens is a patrilineal society, and if the parents die, the child goes physically to his father’s family, but not as an adopted orphan, for they were always his blood family. This is the marvel of these societies—no one, not child, not adult, is ever alone, unless he chooses to be.”

Courtney hunched forward. “And as for marriage here as opposed to the West? Are you less sure of that?”

“I want to learn more,” said Maud, “before stating that marriage here is more admirable than at home. I suspect it is in certain areas. I want more information before I make up my mind. Certainly, I think the absence of sexual restraint tends to eliminate aggression and hostility, so prevalent at home. Certainly, there is more of a communal feeling in this place—as in the Israeli kibbutz. Everyone knows he won’t go hungry or without shelter or without care—and the rewards of competition are limited—so that takes considerable stress off marriages. Too, I have reason to believe that they solve their marital problems here much better than at home. There is simply not as much confusion in the relationship. In the American marriage, it is not clear what a man should do and what a woman should do. On the Sirens, there’s no misunderstanding about this. The man is the head of the family. He makes the decisions. His wife defers to him in all social situations. Her identity and power exist in the home. She knows her place. He knows his. Much easier all around.”

Maud’s discourse had somehow drained and weakened Claire. She had hung on each succeeding sentence as if it were a life raft. She wanted to be saved, to grasp something that would rescue Marc and herself, and she found it had slipped away. Yet she was impelled to speak of the thought that had surfaced first.

“Maud, what would happen in a marriage here if—if the wife wanted children and the husband didn’t, or vice versa?”

“I’m afraid you are imposing an alien Western problem on a culture where such a problem does not exist,” said Maud. She turned to Courtney. “Correct me if I’m wrong.”

“You’re right,” said Courtney. He looked at Claire. “What your mother-in-law said of marriage and children in Polynesia applies to this island. Children are desired by all. It would be unthinkable that one mate would want a child and the other not. If it happened—why, I suppose the Marriage Hierarchy would intervene. The pair would be divorced promptly, and the one who wanted children would have no trouble finding someone of a like mind.”

Claire felt stifled and unhappy. An old California thought darted at her, posed a question: if you are married to a child, how can you have one? And then a sub-question: how can a child properly mate to give you a child, and create his own rival? Damn men, she thought, all child-men of America.

Maud and Courtney were speaking to one another, but Claire did not hear them. She saw them rise, to get a closer view of the native children at their construction play. She did not follow.

She hoisted herself to an elbow, body still outstretched, reflecting on men, on Marc as a man. How incredible, she thought, that American men, men like Marc, think of themselves as manly. She wanted to cry out to them all, for they all had the face of Marc. She wanted to cry out: You men, you read your sport pages and hit a golf ball a mile and swear in the locker room or over the poker table and belt your whiskey without falling down and talk about girls you’ve laid and would like to lay, you great big men, you gamble and booze and kid waitresses and drive seventy miles an hour, and you think that’s masculine and that makes you a man. You fools, she thought, you child fools to think those false trappings are manhood and virility. What has real manliness got to do with strength or speed or stag habits? Do you want to know what manliness is, what real virility is—to know what it is with a mature woman, a woman who is your wife? Manliness is the giving of love as well as the taking of it, manliness is the offering of respect and the taking of responsibility, manliness is kindness, thoughtfulness, affection, friendship, reciprocated passion. Will you listen, all of you? Kindness needs no boudoir conquests. Thoughtfulness does not have hair on its chest. Friendship is not muscular. Passion requires no bawdy words. Virility is not a penis or a cigarette or a bottle of booze or a bluff at table stakes. Oh, all of you, when will you learn? Marc, oh Marc, when will you not be afraid to be truly tender and a man and to give me our child?

Claire’s eyes had moistened, but her tears were inside. She must banish these inner soliloquies before she made a scene. She must stop thinking. How does anyone stop thinking? For one thing, you move, you don’t stand still. Especially when it is the day of your second wedding anniversary.

She came to her feet like an old person trying in vain to show the last strengths of youth, and she walked hastily to Maud and Courtney. She flourished her wrist watch. “It’s nearly five,” she said. “The cook they’re sending will be over soon. I’d better be on hand.”

“The cook?” said Maud vaguely.

“Anniversary tonight,” said Claire with artificial gaity pitched high for Courtney. “Second wedding party, remember?”

Maud hit her palm on her forehead. “I entirely forgot—”

Claire confronted Courtney. “I hope you haven’t forgotten. I asked Paoti and his wife to bring you along. There’ll only be the six of us.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” said Courtney. “I’ve been looking forward to it.”

“Strictly the American food we have with us, but it won’t make you homesick,” said Claire, linking her arm in her mother-in-law’s arm. “Let’s go.”

After they had passed through the nursery once more, and emerged into the village compound, they parted company with Courtney. For a moment, Claire’s gaze held on Courtney as he proceeded toward his quarters near the Sacred Hut in his ambling, loose-limbed walk. Then she and her mother-in-law started off in the opposite direction.

“I found the last hour most enlightening,” Maud said.

“I found it depressing,” Claire said.

Claire was aware that Maud had glanced sharply at her. Usually, Claire perceived, Maud did not investigate the pain or disturbance of those around her, or, in fact, of anyone. It was as if she reserved her feelings for her work. Everything else was an indulgence that sapped energy. If Maud was concerned about Marc and Claire, she had apparently tried never to give a sign of it, lest she be drafted from noble peace into lowly battle. But now, Claire had deliberately tried to provoke her mother-in-law. If Maud refused to take note of it, her attitude would indicate disinterest in a close one, which would mar her kinship role. Claire waited, wondering how her mother-in-law would handle the obvious cue line thrown at her.