Visitants (18 page)

Suddenly Kailusa said: ‘Taubada, people are coming.’ So we turned to see, and through the rain we made out four or five men crossing the clearing, moving at the pace of a very old man. Benoni was the first of them, and then we knew who was following, because in his hand he had the big yellow lime-gourd of Dipapa. But Dipapa’s head was hidden under the rain-mat that Boitoku and another old man held over him, so that we saw only his bent body and the ebony stick with which he walked, and the body of Metusela in his khaki shorts holding Dipapa’s arm.

‘Something must be up,’ Mister Cawdor said. ‘He never moves from that platform in front of his house.’

Mister Cawdor stepped down from the veranda and went out into the rain to meet Dipapa. He stooped in under the rain-mat and spoke. Then he took the old man’s other arm, and they all began to walk again, very slowly, towards the resthouse.

Kailusa and I sat with our heads low, pretending not to see, while the Dimdims pulled and pushed at Dipapa to get him up to the veranda. The old man was shaking. He fell into Mister Cawdor’s chair, holding tight to his stick, and the shaking of his hands moved the stick like wind.

‘Dipapa,’ Mister Cawdor said, ‘sit, rest. I am glad to see you here.’

‘My thanks,’ said Dipapa, who was out of breath.

‘I have some good betelnut,’ Mister Cawdor said. ‘Kailusa, go and get it.’

‘By and by,’ the old man said. ‘By and by I will chew. Taubada, I am here to speak with you.’

‘Yes, good,’ said Mister Cawdor. ‘Speak, then.’

But the old man was too tired, and he glanced towards Benoni and waved with his hand.

‘Well, Benoni,’ Mister Cawdor said, turning. ‘What does your uncle have to say to me?’

Then I noticed Benoni’s face for the first time. He was moved, he looked wild.

‘They have come, taubada!’ Benoni cried out.

And when he said that, Mister Cawdor’s face changed too, and was excited and still.

‘Who has come?’ asked Mister Cawdor, very quiet. ‘Benoni, I do not understand your talk.’

‘The star-people,’ Benoni cried. ‘They have come to Budibudi.’

Boitoku went
Ssss
, and the other old man shook his head, not believing. But Metusela believed. His eyes were huge and his big mouth smiled and smiled while he looked from Mister Cawdor to Benoni to Dipapa.

‘I think you are mistaken,’ Mister Cawdor said; but he sounded as though he too believed, and was glad. ‘I do not think there are people in the stars.’

‘Taubada,’ Benoni said, ‘at Budibudi my uncle has a plantation of betelnut, the plantation of the chief. Three men live at Budibudi and care for the chief’s plantation. E, yesterday my uncle sent two men in a canoe to get betelnut. For you, taubada, a present for you. And the three men are gone. Nothing else is gone, taubada, not their pots, nor their mats. Yams were cooking in one pot, though the fire had burned out. The two canoes were pulled up on the beach, and there were no footprints, no marks anywhere. Because those men have gone, taubada, with the star-people. They have gone into the sky.’

I did not know what to believe. It made one afraid. And so many people everywhere were talking about the star-machine.

All the time Mister Cawdor was looking at Dipapa, with the same quiet face. ‘Well, Dipapa,’ he said at last, ‘what is your mind?’

‘I do not know,’ the old man said. ‘I do not understand.’

‘You believe in the star-people?’ Mister Cawdor said.

‘Perhaps,’ said Dipapa. ‘Many things change. Today the Dimdims are here. Tomorrow, maybe, the star-people.’

All of a sudden Metusela cried out a word, and everybody turned and stared at him.

‘What did you say?’ Mister Cawdor said. ‘Metusela, what did you say?’

‘Angel,’ cried Metusela, looking mad and happy. ‘Those star-people, their name is angel. Now they come. Again they come. Ai! My belly is moved, because of those angel-people.’

‘
Des’
,’ Mister Cawdor said. ‘Enough. There are no star-people. Those three men had another canoe, they went in their canoe—somewhere—Vaimuna—I do not know. But we will hear of them. Or else they are drowned. Then we will not hear of them. But they did not go into the sky. Akh, Benoni, you talk gammon.’

‘Taubada,’ Benoni said, ‘you go, you see.’

‘Yes, truly,’ Mister Cawdor said. ‘We will go in the
Igau
, I and Misa Dolu’udi. We will search Budibudi, and we will ask for those men in all the islands. And I think we will find them, and you will be ashamed of your crazy talk. Now give me their names.’

‘You do not believe?’ said Benoni, looking into Mister Cawdor’s eyes. ‘You do not believe in the star-people?’

‘No, my friend,’ said Mister Cawdor.

And then Benoni sighed. ‘I think you want to tell a lie, taubada,’ he said.

‘Osana,’ said Mister Cawdor, as if he did not hear Benoni, ‘get those men’s names, write them down. That is all. Well, Dipapa, shall we chew?’

But the old man was gazing across the clearing, through the rain, not listening, and he muttered to himself: ‘Now who is coming? O, Boitoku, who is that?’

Suddenly Mister Dalwood jumped to his feet, shouting: ‘Hey!’

All the policemen laughed. They were laughing at him and at Saliba, who was running so violently across the clearing, swinging her breasts and skirt. Over her head a big taro-leaf was nodding, held by the stalk, and the rain-drops bounced off that shiny green roof. She came bounding up on to the veranda, gasping and dripping and hitting herself on the bosom, which shook.

‘
Wim
!’ she panted. Then she noticed Dipapa, and sat down with a bump on the floor.

‘Salib’, be careful,’ Mister Cawdor said. ‘The Government’s house is not so strong as Rotten Wood.’

‘You talk gammon,’ Saliba screamed, laughing and panting.

‘Alistair, what does she want?’ said Mister Dalwood, whose face looked as though he wished that Saliba would not talk and laugh so loud.

‘I don’t know,’ Mister Cawdor said. ‘Salib,’ what is your business?’

‘O!’ cried Saliba, beating her bosom. ‘I think I am going to die. Taubada, Misa Makadoneli has sent you some writing.’

‘Good, then,’ said Mister Cawdor. ‘Let me see.’

‘It is here,’ Saliba said, feeling in the waistband of her skirt. ‘
Wa
! It has fallen.’ She began fumbling about between her legs, and everybody stretched his neck and looked, even Dipapa. But Mister Dalwood did not look for long. His face went red and furious, and he turned away.

‘E!’ cried Saliba. ‘It is here.’ She took her hand out of her skirt and gave a piece of paper to Mister Cawdor, who opened it and read.

I watched Mister Cawdor’s face. He was very angry. Too angry even to swear.

‘Well?’ said Mister Dalwood, turning back. ‘What’s the news?’

‘Short and sweet,’ muttered Mister Cawdor. ‘The King of Kailuana writes:
Sorry, old man: wireless message. They want you back at Os’twa immediately with ‘Igau’, Osana and policemen. Some visiting bureaucrats. What a farce. Stay here tonight. Yours aye, MacDonnell of Kailuana.
’

‘O-o-o-o-o,’ went Mister Dalwood. He was not too angry to swear. He swore for a long time, and banged his head on the veranda-post, and even Dipapa laughed.

In the afternoon everything that had been put up was taken down, and everything that had been unpacked was packed another time, and the Government went away. ‘We will come again,’ said Misa Kodo to my uncle, ‘soon.’ And my uncle nodded, still squatting on the veranda of the resthouse, out of the rain, with Metusela beside him, and looked after Misa Kodo, while he mumbled Misa Kodo’s betelnut between his gums.

At the head of the line walked Saliba once more, the writingmachine on her head, a rain-mat covering it. Misa Kodo and Misa Dolu’udi followed one by one, in their pink clinging clothes, the rain running down their faces. Their faces were bad-tempered, and they did not talk, as if they were bad-tempered with one another. But Osana and the policemen were making jokes and laughing, and once Misa Dolu’udi turned back, angrily, and told them to stop, and then the bad-temper and the quietness went all along the line.

When they were leaving the Wayouyo lands I ran up beside the Dimdims and said: ‘Goodbye, Misa Kodo. Goodbye, Misa Dolu’udi. When will you come back?’

‘Soon,’ Misa Kodo said. ‘A week, two weeks. Our work was not begun.’

‘Will you go to Budibudi, taubada?’ I said. ‘Will you see?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘In the morning, we will go and see.’

‘Taubada,’ I said, ‘say to Misa Dolu’udi that I regret him.’

‘Yes,’ Misa Kodo said. And he called back some words in English to Misa Dolu’udi. And then Misa Dolu’udi said: ‘So long, mate,’ and hit me on the shoulder with his hand. But it was not like a game any more, it was not like the evening before, and in a moment Misa Dolu’udi had dropped his hand and walked on and forgot about me, as bad-tempered as when I spoke.

I watched them go, and I thought that I was sad. I thought then that I was sad. A’i.

They went winding away into the rain. The rain was grey and green, and at last so thick that it was like smoke, and I could not see even the white clothes of the Government any more.

And when we came to the house again, suddenly I had a feeling. The land around the house had all turned to mud and the rain rattled on the iron and the house was like a drum. I put down the machine on the veranda and went to the cookhouse where Naibusi was. ‘O Naibus’,’ I said, ‘we are home, we have come.’

‘They are wet,’ Naibusi said, ‘the Dimdims?’

‘E,’ I said, ‘and their good white stockings are covered with mud. They say they will drink hot water and rum.’

‘Good, then,’ Naibusi said. ‘Salib’, what is the matter?’

‘I do not know,’ I said. ‘I am nervous.’

‘
You
are nervous?’ Naibusi said. ‘Madwoman, you talk gammon. You were never nervous.’

‘I think I will go away,’ I said. ‘I think I will go back to Wayouyo, tonight. There is something in this house.’

‘It is
your
house,’ Naibusi said, ‘where you were born. Salib’, I think you have a fever.’

‘No,’ I said, ‘it is not that. But something else. Something that I know. O Naibusi, I know I am going to be very unhappy.’

Then Naibusi was worried, because I was crying, and she had not seen me cry for so long. She kept saying: ‘Salib’, Salib’,
des’
,’ and patting me, and still I went on crying and could not say why. I could not tell Naibusi because I did not know. All I knew was that the house was unfriendly and might hurt me.

Well, I said, it’s good to see two young chaps who know how to make use of a rainy afternoon. I hadn’t known that they were there. I had been lying on my bed, after a nap, listening to the weather, and then reading, and so the daylight had leaked away, one long racket of rain. But when at last I came out on the veranda, at a quarter to six, there they were at the table, in pullovers and swimming trunks, tight as ticks and twice as miserable.

‘You’ll make that boy an alcoholic,’ I said to Cawdor.

‘What?’ he said, looking up, vaguely. ‘Oh. No. It’s good for him. Takes his mind off his bloody vitamins.’

‘Hi, Mak,’ Dalwood said. ‘Is it sundowner time for you? Pull up a mug. It’s on him.’

I noticed that the pullover Cawdor wore was really Dalwood’s, and that it must have come from Dalwood’s old school. It made Cawdor look like a waif.

‘Mak,’ Cawdor said, ‘I’ve had an idea. Why don’t we all get disgustingly tiddly?’

‘Well, I don’t know, old man,’ I said. ‘Not a thing I’ve done for quite a while. It used to be a problem, you know. Falling over before breakfast and all that. No, I only drink from six to nine p.m. these days. I find it a healthy rule.’

‘Let’s have an orgy,’ Cawdor said. ‘You know what, Mak, this character invited me last night to join him in an orgy.’

‘I didn’t put it like that,’ Dalwood said. ‘Jesus, Cawdor, you don’t know how often you risk your front teeth.’

‘An orgy,’ I said, thinking about it. ‘Yes, indeed, there’ve been some orgies in this house. So I’ve been told. Funny, though, it never feels like it. An orgy is something that happens somewhere else. Like the jungle, or the Outback. The real jungle and the real Outback are always a bit further on.’

While I was talking I saw what a strange evening it had become: how the rain had turned blue, lashing at the grey-blue sea, where the
Igau
must have been wallowing, somewhere out of sight. The smell of chickens and rotting wood and wood-smoke were stronger for the wet. I thought of my first year here, after Campbell had gone, when things were new, and there seemed so much to be done and to control, and yet how often I just sat, like Cawdor, a glass in front of me, looking and breathing the air. Years can go away with a change in the air. And then, they both looked so young, lounging against the table, with their hair the way it had come out of a towel. How easy it is to forget one’s age, faced with a change in the weather and the fact that there are people still around one as young as one ever was.

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘let’s make a night of it.’ But they were singing by then, to the tune of ‘Land of Hope and Glory’:

So I poured myself another drink from Cawdor’s bottle, and helped them out with a rhyme when they seemed stuck. ‘You can always fly,’ I suggested. ‘At the tax-payers’ expense, of course.’

I said to Naibusi; ‘I will not go into the big room; I will wash the dishes, then sleep.’ The other girls were singing and laughing with the Dimdims, and sometimes Timi shouted down the passage: ‘Salib’–
O
!’ but I went on washing the dishes as if I did not hear, and rattled with them to drown the voices. I spoke with Naibusi about the Wayouyo people and their doings and the talk of the star. ‘It is very strange,’ I said, ‘this talk of the star.’

‘It is very strange,’ agreed Naibusi. ‘What colour are these people from the stars? Are they black or white?’

‘Nobody has seen them,’ I said. ‘Not truly. They do not come down from their machine.’