Authors: Irving Wallace
At once, it was Rachel who felt the child before the adult. “For fun,” she said once more. “Yes, I see. I suppose I had really never thought of it so—well, so simply before. I’ve invested it with too much. I’ve weighted it down. Maybe I’ve spoiled it, always, for myself.”
“What?” he said.
“Never mind.” She looked up at him, at his broad young adult face. “Moreturi, was it really fun with me?”
He nodded with great solemnity. “Much pleasure,” he said. “You are a woman who gives much pleasure.” He hesitated. “Was it not the same for you?”
It surprised her how easy it was to reply to this. “I enjoyed it. Certainly, you know.”
“I thought so, but—” He shrugged, “You would not see me again. So I was not sure.”
“I’m a complicated woman,” she said.
“I have not your mind,” he said. “I have mine, like my people, and it tells me when there is gladness in love, one does not stop it.”
“I’m beginning to see that,” she said. “I’m slow, but I’m learning. Forgive my old solemnity, Moreturi. In fact—” She put her hands up, to cup his face in her hands, and she brushed his cheek with a kiss. “—I thank you.”
One muscular arm drew her to his naked chest, crushed her against him, and his free hand began to unbutton her skirt. She looked down at his hand, but did not halt it.
“No,” she whispered, “really, I can’t—it’s against the rules, it’s never done—I’d be drummed out of the American Psychoanalytical Association—”
“We will have pleasure,” he said.
By then, she was on the pile of matting, and her skirt was gone, and as she was divested of the nylon panties, she quickly began to unbutton her blouse. When he caressed her, she giggled once. Her mind had gone to playing a game with the titles of Sigmund Freud. One was Freud’s 1905 book,
Three Contributions to the Theory of Sex
. She could name the three, and they were The Three Sirens, and then she had giggled.
“What is it?” Moreturi had asked.
“Don’t talk, don’t talk.”
And don’t think, don’t think, she told herself, which was gratuitous, for in a moment she could not think. She was a woman, no question now. She was a woman having pleasure for the first time, more fun than she had ever had in her entire life. And later, much later, when the voluptuous pleasure of it was crossed by the intense agony preceding peace, she caught one fluttering thought, and it was of Joe Morgen, good, good Joe—and the thought was, Joe, oh, Joe, you should thank him, this one here—Joe, you’ll never know, but you should thank him …
And when it was over, and she rested in serenity, she wanted to giggle once more. Her mind had gone back to the Freud title game. It was the title of a book he had published in 1926. She cherished the title. It was called
The Problem of Lay Analysis
.
* * *
Night fell on The Three Sirens between seven-thirty and eight o’clock.
It was during this period, while the torches were being lighted on either side of the compound stream by native boys, that Sam Karpowicz trudged along the path past the Social Aid Hut and into the village.
He had been in hills previously unknown to him all of the afternoon, and what had happened in those hours he could not define in detail. It was like that section of the Gospel of the New Testament that he had read as a young man—read secretly, surreptitiously, to learn how the other half lived (which his parents would not have understood)—where Jesus had gone into the wilderness, alone, to fast, had gone into the mountain and been tempted by the devil and had finally said, Get thee behind me, Satan. Many times during the afternoon, Sam had been lost, in more ways than one, but with the end of the afternoon, he had found the right path, and was returning to Galilee.
Quibbling aside, Estelle had been right, and Sam Karpowicz knew it, at last. His duty as father was to raise his daughter to maturity according to his best wisdom and instincts, and give her guidance and support, and make her strong, judicious, independent. His duty was not to suppress his own open-minded principles in order to shelter her and hold her selfishly. It was so clear to him, and what he wanted was to tell her of his self-discovery. But he had not found her, and he was not sure that anyone had. If something had happened to her, he would kill himself.
Once inside the village, he realized his poor physical condition. The back of his neck ached. His arms and calves hurt. He was footsore. His throat was dry and it was difficult to swallow. Perhaps he had called out for her many times, wherever he had been, and he had lost his voice. In the light of the first torch, he could see that from head to toe he was bedraggled, his shirt blotched, his trousers torn at the knees, his shoes caked with dust.
He must hurry on to Estelle, to learn if there was any news of Mary. Then he spied the familiar figure of Tom Courtney, in clean shirt and trousers, on the other side of the stream, striding in the same direction that he was taking.
“Tom!” he shouted.
Courtney halted. Hastily, Sam Karpowicz limped across the first bridge to meet him.
“Tom, has there been any word about my daughter?”
Courtney’s features did not conceal his sympathy. “I’m sorry, Sam, but nothing as of a half-hour ago.”
“Are the search parties still out?”
“The last I heard, yes. They won’t give up. And they’ll find her, sooner or later, they’ll find her.”
“She’s just a kid—sixteen—she’s never been alone like this. It worries me sick, the things that could happen to her.”
Courtney put his hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Nothing bad will happen. I have absolute confidence in that, and you must, too. Why don’t you get back to your hut and wait? The minute—”
Sam was possessed of a sudden inclination. “Tom, do you know of a native boy, Mary’s age, named Nihau? He was her classmate in—”
“Certainly, I know Nihau.”
“I—I’d like to meet him. I have something to say to him. Where does he live?”
Courtney pointed to the left. “His parents’ hut is right up the path there. Of course, he and his father are probably out on the search, but—oh, hell, Sam, let me take you to their place. Come on.
The two of them, Courtney a half-step ahead, swung off the compound and between the thatched huts. It was darker beneath the overhang, but the dim spears of candlenut lights from thinly shielded windows partially illuminated their way.
They had reached a sizable hut, and Courtney said, “Here it is.”
Sam removed his spectacles, and then replaced them on his nose again. “Tom, would you introduce me?”
“Of course.”
Courtney rapped, and they waited. Courtney rapped a second time. A male voice called out something in Polynesian, and Courtney said to Sam, “He’s telling us to come in.”
Courtney opened the door, and went inside, followed closely by Sam Karpowicz. The front room, larger than Sam’s own, furnished with a stone idol in one corner, was brightly lit by numerous candlenuts. To the rear of the room, a circle of many guests sat, all busily eating and drinking. The air was pungent with the aroma of coconut meat, heated yams, and ripe fruits.
Nihau leaped up from the circle, calling out, “It is Dr. Karpowicz!”
He bounded toward Sam, hand outstretched, to pump Sam’s hand, saving happily, “She is safe—we have found her—see—see there—”
He was pointing off, and at first Sam could not find her, and then he did. Mary’s back had been to the door, but she had turned, still holding her half-shell of coconut milk. Her dark eyes, and thin sweet face that Sam had known so long and loved so well, appeared frightened. And he was surprised that he had not made her out immediately, for she wore an American dress, a flimsy orange slip of a dress that made her seem smaller than she was.
Nihau was saying, “We found her only an hour ago, high up among the trees. She was only sitting there, and she was unharmed. We led her back, but she preferred to come here first. She was starved, so we are feeding her and the searchers—”
The last of this had been spoken to Courtney, for Sam Karpowicz had already left Nihau. He moved toward the circle, and Mary came uncertainly to her feet.
“Mary, I—” He stopped awkwardly, and stared at the native men and women in the circle. “Thank you, all of you, for bringing her back safe and well.”
There was a courteous acknowledging bobbing of heads from the diners.
Sam was facing his daughter once more. He removed his spectacles. “Mary, most often I think I know what is best for you,” Sam was saying, “but this time I was wrong, dead wrong, my behavior in the schoolroom. I apologize for it.” He had been stiff and stilted as he spoke, but suddenly the reserve crumpled. “God, Mary, I’m glad you’re back.”
Instantly, her girl’s body gave up its defenses, and she cried out, “Oh, Dad, I love you so!” She was in his arms, her hair all over his chest, and he was holding her, caressing her head, and glancing moistly at Courtney.
When they separated, he said to her, “I’d better get home and tell your mother. You come when you’re free—”
“I want to come with you now,” she said. “First, let me thank Nihau and the others.”
She had gone to Nihau and the plumpish elder who was his father, and Sam Karpowicz went to Courtney at the door. “Tom, I appreciate this. Maybe you’d like to join the three of us for a bite, American style.”
Courtney smiled. “Thanks, but if you’ve brought rainchecks to the island, I’ll take one. Claire and Marc Hayden are expecting me, and Maud will be there, for cocktails. After that, we’re off to Paoti Wright’s, and the feast that closes down this year’s festival. I’d better run right now.” He nodded off toward Mary. “I’m glad it worked out.”
“More worked out than you can imagine,” said Sam.
After Courtney had gone, Sam waited, politely refusing the fruit drinks being tendered him. When Mary joined him, he said, “I thought I’d save myself for some milk and crackers.”
“I hope there’s enough for me, too, Dad,” she said. Then she linked her arm in his, and they went outside, and they went home.
* * *
In the Marc Hayden hut, as he liked to think of it since he had disunited himself (in spirit at least) from his wife that was, Marc quickly rubbed the hair tonic into his scalp. In this barberless, and therefore barbarous, land, his crewcut had given way to a fuller head of hair—unfamiliar but not unattractive, he had come to believe, as he bent to see his reflection in the wall mirror—and quickly, he began to slick his hair down with a comb.
He was in a hurry. Fifteen minutes before, while Claire was changing in the rear room, a native boy had materialized at the door with a verbal message for Dr. Hayden. Was he Dr. Hayden, because it could only be given to Dr. Hayden? Yes, he was Dr. Hayden. The message was from Tehura. She must see him briefly, in the next hour, in her hut, before he went to the Chief’s party.
The message had, at first, thrilled Marc, for it meant something had happened, finally. Then, because it had been so enigmatic, it had worried him, for perhaps Tehura had suffered a change of heart, or, as bad, a setback in trying to make an arrangement for the craft that would take them away from here. All of this Marc had speculated upon, as the native boy waited. Finally, Marc had said to him in an undertone, “Tell Tehura I am coming.”
After that, he had hurried with his dressing and grooming, and through it had reviewed the torturous uncertainty of the eventless past week. He had continued to see Tehura daily. Their meetings had been open, for in the eyes of the others, they were still anthropologist and informant. However, their visits were abbreviated. Tehura was too distracted and busy to make sense. At each meeting, he had inquired if there was news, and at each she had said there was none yet, but that she was trying, and he must have patience.
To each meeting, Tehura had brought at least one question, sometimes several, about what her life, their life, would be in the faraway, mammoth continent which was his country and Courtney’s, too. Constantly, she had pressed to know of Claire’s day-today existence there, and had heard out his glowing reports in phlegmatic silence.
Marc’s accounts were consistently glowing, because they were, in a sense, sincere, born of a new conviction within him that through Garrity their future would be sublime. It would be a world without a single abyss of failure, a happily-ever-after land in which the air he would breathe, the language he would use, the amenities he would know were all Success. So strongly had he converted himself to this vision of what lay ahead that he was able to impose it convincingly on his past, on Claire’s past, on the reality of what life was in America. This sincerity had made Tehura an unwavering confederate. Yet, in their meetings, she had not wanted too much of it, of the fairyland. Her half-primitive mind could accept only a half-vision of civilized perfection at any one time. She would have her fill, and escape their meetings as soon as possible. After each conversation, he would be left wondering how she was translating their mutual ambition into a practical means of attaining it. But tonight, the word had come: she must see him in the next hour.
Having finished with the mirror, Marc realized that he had only one task left. He must tell Claire to go on to the Chief’s dinner without him. He must let her know that something had come up, and that he would be a few minutes late. What had come up? Where must he go first? To visit his native informant about a matter important to Matty’s work? Possibly. It would slide down well, yet it gave Tehura, at this crucial moment, too much importance. It was risky. He must invent something better. Before he could do so, he was conscious of Claire’s presence in the room.
He whirled around to inform her that he would be delayed, but her stance was so improbable, his purpose was deflected. He watched her with detached interest. Claire was stooped low, sometimes almost crouching, as she moved across the matting, examining every crack and fold of the floor covering.
“What in the devil are you doing?” Marc said.
“My diamond,” she answered, without looking up, “I can’t find it.”
He had not been fully attentive, and so he repeated, “Diamond? What diamond?”
She glanced at him, and stood up. “I have only one, Marc, besides my ring. My diamond pendant necklace. I want to wear it to the dinner.” She shook her head. “I simply don’t know where it is.”