Wherever we went with him around the grounds of the estate, Stevenson’s shadow, John Chinaman, was usually behind us; I had heard one of the servants refer to him as a cook, though I had never seen him go toward the European-style kitchen with the natives who prepared the family meals. When Stevenson sat down in one of his writing fits, he would send John away on some chore. “He is a loyal fellow,” was how Stevenson described him once, “and when I write he watches with disapproval, as though I might break my fingers doing it. He is the opposite of my publishers. They want a sequel to Jekyll, a sequel to Treasure Island, sequels to sequels! What they don’t realize is that sequels are bound to disappoint those who have waited for them. I believe what I write now, Mr. Fergins, is in some ways my best work. I am—” he paused to shrug“—pretty sure.”
But the most telling comment of all made by the Scottish novelist was on another occasion, looking at us with arched eyebrows and an air of confession. We were gathered in the library, while he was carelessly storing away some of those pages he had just composed in a fit. “What I am writing,” said Stevenson, “will be my masterpiece, elusive until now.” Mouthwatering as it was, it was not the talk of masterpieces that was so important to a bookaneer’s ear. It was the other revelation. The novel was not finished yet—will be—and that meant Davenport had no choice but to wait before taking any action. It meant we would have to extend our presence in Samoa and at Vailima. Treading water could be the most dangerous part of a bookaneer’s mission. It multiplied the chances for something to go wrong.
Of course, any comments Davenport or I heard from Stevenson about his novel were received casually, remembered verbatim, and entered at the first opportunity into my notebook. The trick was to give him opportunities to speak about it without ever being asked. Another afternoon, he asked us to help carry several bundles. The towering palms swayed above us and helped us along with a light breeze. The novelist carried a shovel under his arm as we entered the bush.
“I do not want you to get the wrong idea about the houseboys. They are awfully good on the whole, but Samoans rather enjoy discipline. They always look older than they are, which makes you forget they are not very mature. They are more like a set of well-behaved young ladies. That is why I hate to do this.”
“What exactly are we doing, Tusitala?” Davenport interrupted him, growing a little anxious at the enigmatic errand. Stevenson was now tiring himself out digging a hole that began to take on the shape of a small grave.
He waved away our offers to help. “Burying that. Go ahead, my white gentlemen. Have a look for yourself.”
Davenport and I both eyed the bundles we had carried into the woods. I opened one, half-imagining finding one of the severed heads we’d heard were valued by the natives. “Clothes,” I announced.
“These are old clothes of mine and Lloyd’s we no longer use. If my native boys find them, they’ll start wearing them.”
“Wouldn’t that be better than burying them?” I asked.
“Oh, if a houseboy wants to wear a cast-off shirt over his lavalava, so be it. But European clothes do not suit their bodies. The scant covering and raw materials of their native style may look strange to our eyes, but their race developed that way for a good reason. Our clothes cling to them when wet, and do not protect them from the strong sun. They must be who they are, if they are to survive life and labor in the tropical climate. If they try to look European, which amuses them and some of the local whites, they die.”
“That is rather bleak,” I said.
He nodded and looked on with a cloudy gaze. “Sometimes I watch, as they are pushed from their lands, as whites introduce disease and opium and alcohol, and in a perspective of centuries I see their cases as ours, death coming in like a tide, and the day already numbered when there should be no more Samoans, and no more of any race whatever, and—here is a curious extension of my dream—no more literary works or readers.”
Stevenson broke his own reverie by coughing and wheezing.
“It is just the smoking,” he said, smiling unconvincingly between coughs. “You know my motto is ‘Cigarettes without intermission, except when coughing or kissing.’”
“May I?” Davenport asked, taking the shovel from Stevenson’s hands.
The novelist gave us more specifics about his book in progress, while Davenport deliberately slowed his digging. “The story begins about 1660 and ends in 1830, but perhaps I may even continue it to 1875 or so. Five, six generations, perhaps seven, figure therein. I can see it all. Some of the brevity of history, some of the detail of romance. The Shovels of Newton French will be the name. My finest novel yet written—mark my words, gentlemen, I will be remembered for this, if nothing else.”
I saw the light in my companion’s eye. The longer the work meant the more installments it could be cut up into for serialization, and that meant more money when Davenport sold it. Being so close to Davenport’s side during a mission was highly illuminating for me. He presented himself to the household as solicitous, self-effacing, considerate, thoughtful. Though I knew he inhabited a role, it was still a pleasure to witness. Never had I felt myself more dedicated to the success of the bookaneer.
But the mission had its share of problems. Besides the fact that this behemoth of a book was not completed, and apparently expanding its scope by the day, the existing pages of the novel were stored sloppily in piles spread out across the estate. Paper is a rare commodity in Samoa, so even the smallest scraps could be used for a sentence or two. As far as we could tell, some of the novel was written on the backs of pages that had been discarded, or drafts of older manuscripts, or descriptions of Samoan civil wars, or alongside short poems Stevenson had jotted out, often in Samoan. It was a bookaneer’s nightmare. It would be arduous, maybe impossible, for Davenport to assemble the pages himself once Stevenson finished writing—he would have to wait until Stevenson began to do it himself, or risk a situation similar to the notorious affair of ’70, when Dickens expired with half a book in hand, pages scattered to the wind, publishers and legendary bookaneers in a perilous race for whatever remained.
Meanwhile, any searching was complicated by the presence of so many servants around the house. We grew accustomed to John Chinaman’s distrust, which he directed at anyone who came close to Stevenson. Besides garrulous and generous Charlie, the other servants spoke to us in their limited English or not at all. Compared to our own islander, who served us at their cottage, and to the other native servants we encountered, the Vailima operatives were rather smooth and sophisticated, the young women reserved and elegant; in fact, sometimes they seemed far more civilized than the Bohemian family employing them.
While we waited for Stevenson to complete his self-declared masterpiece, Davenport and I were picking up other pieces of information that he felt could prove useful. We rode all across the massive property of Vailima, creating a map of the egresses in case we needed to leave in a hurry. Davenport noted that he had identified only four separate streams, not five, which was what the name Vailima translated to mean; I could not find a fifth on my rides, either, and he directed me to keep looking whenever I was on the grounds, though I did not understand the relevance. Meanwhile, Davenport discovered a list of titles for unwritten novels composed on the flyleaf of a Bible (which Stevenson seemed to use as a sort of notebook). He studied and perfected his mastery of reading Stevenson’s handwriting as it was produced with pencil and ink, careful and careless, sober and drunk, and familiarized himself with the various styles of Belle, to whom the novelist dictated when he was too weak to write. He had also found several short stories Stevenson had completed but never bothered or desired to publish. He did not want to risk provoking suspicion by taking any of these yet, but he noted the positions of these minor gems for later. There were also letters suggesting potential pilgrimages to Samoa from two minor literary lights back in England, James Barrie and Rudyard Kipling, and one quite popular one, Arthur
Conan Doyle. I believe for a few moments Davenport hungrily envisioned an island crawling with productive authors, but subsequent correspondence we came across from those men indicated that each one’s plan crumbled because of the expense and difficulty of the trip. Indeed, while doing what I believe New Yorkers like to call snooping, I found letter after letter from friends of the Stevensons who despaired at making the voyage to see him. And letters written by Stevenson to friends, often reproaching them for breaking promises to write, or visit him. Among the ludicrous ways he dated his missives, I noticed, “twenty-something of December” and “Friday—I think.”
Davenport had been present when Charlie interrupted a music session to give Stevenson a message that Mr. Thomas, a local missionary, would be calling there the next day. We had heard Thomas, who we learned was a popular white missionary and occasional trader to these islands, referred to before.
“Our tobacco,” Stevenson said, with the kind of exhaled relief men usually reserved for a hopeful diagnosis from a doctor. He had been perched on the edge of a table in his library, one leg crossed on the other, playing his flageolet. The whistling tune of the instrument in Stevenson’s lips would sound lovely for a moment, and then shockingly off-key later (“the humidity,” Stevenson would say, looking askance at the holes and keys). He put the flageolet aside at Charlie’s tidings. “Thank goodness; our supply is nearly exhausted. John,” he called for his Chinese shadow, who was standing inconspicuously in the doorway. “There you are, John. Have a meal ordered and prepared for Thomas tomorrow at two—Mr. Porter, Mr. Fergins, you ought to come. Are you religious men? I am not, but mother enjoys them. Besides, these missionaries are often surprisingly good company, and this mission has been here for so many years, he brings terribly good stories about island history.”
“We should leave you to your writing for now,” Davenport said, rising to his feet so the power of suggestion might spur him to complete the novel the bookaneer desired.
“In here? Heavens, I never write in here,” he said, looking to the walls of books. “It’s all so suitable for a literary man—drives every idea out of my head. Sometimes I come in here to look for some fact, but I generally seize the book and hurry off with it to my sanctum. People talk of Robinson Crusoe as the beginning of the modern novel, but Defoe based his book on the account of Alexander Selkirk, who stranded himself on an island purposely. That’s how English literature was born, by marooning ourselves far away from everyone else.”
Our attentions were diverted by the sounds of crashing surf that had filled the island for days all the way to the mountains; now, heavy winds were coming in. I stepped over piles of books, walking to the open window and peering down at the incredible view to the water.
“Mr. Fergins, the rain will roar like the blue sea. Yes, no doubt about it—the rains will be coming. But first will come the winds and more wind, until you can’t take more, and pray for the rain.”
I lifted my eyes to our host. I could sense the excitement from Davenport.
Stevenson glanced over at him with the full force of his piercing eyes, which in the dim light of the library looked almost black. Drumming out the sound of rain on the table, his long, tapered fingers made the sounds heavier and heavier. He put himself into a meditative state that was infectious.
“I always feared the sound of wind beyond everything. I do not love noise. I am like my grandfather in that, and my time in these islands has ingrained the sentiment. In my hell a gale would always blow. That reminds me of a chapter I’ve written for the final section of this novel.”
Davenport asked if there was a storm in the book.
“Not a storm, Porter. The foreboding, some evil yet unknown that approaches us.”
• • •
THE END OF THE MISSION could come even more easily, more quickly than my companion had yet dared to hope. How perfect for the purposes of the bookaneer: while Stevenson approached the conclusion of his book, the rainy season would soon throw down a curtain to keep him from being distracted by matters outside the house and to keep Belial or anyone else who might interfere far from the island. Davenport couldn’t ask for a better development. Not that Davenport ever took anything for granted in one of his missions, something I observed in Samoa even more than I ever had in the past. The matter of Belial, for instance. Though there was still no sign of him, he would have been using an alias if he was on the island. Early in our stay, during one of our first visits to the village of Apia, Davenport made it known that he was looking to interview visitors to the island for their impressions to include in his travelogue, and would pay to hear of any new whites arriving. But there were none to speak of. We had very good reason to conclude that his rival bookaneer simply never made it, or that our informants back in Europe had been mistaken that he’d even tried.
One evening, we were back in the library, where Davenport was sipping from a goblet of beer, looking over the family’s collection of books. He had been playing a hand of cards with Stevenson before the novelist stepped onto the verandah to give instruction to one of the houseboys, who was beginning preparations around the estate for the island’s storms, which everyone anticipated landing in a few weeks. Browsing the shelves, Davenport located three and a half pages from what appeared to be an early draft of Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, which had apparently been misplaced in a pile of newspaper clippings. His eyes went wide. It included characters not seen in the novel, and for that reason alone would be invaluable to collectors.
“What are you doing?” I asked, worried he was taking too long.
“Keep your eye on Stevenson. I knew these could be here.” He had previously found clues to the existence of this original version. Now he could hardly resist devouring the pages for a moment. Then he pushed them back inside the clippings and the clippings between two books.
“More beer, White Chief?” It was Charlie, who had hurried into the room as Davenport turned his back to the bookshelf, displaying his endearing keenness both to practice his English and to make us feel at home.
“Thank you, I still have some,” said Davenport.
“Have you seen?” the servant asked me excitedly. He pointed out a ceramic bowl and fork displayed on a table near where I was sitting.
“I hadn’t noticed those, Charlie,” I admitted. “What are they?”
“It is a brain bowl—and a cannibal fork! Used by the Solomon Islanders to eat their enemies.”
I cringed at the thought and replaced the objects as he moved on to show Davenport a pistol gifted to the Stevensons by the son of Percy and Mary Shelley.
I found Charlie delightful. In addition to the charming orange dye in his hair, he had sparkling eyes and a wider build than most of his race. In physical stature, in fact, he was rather similar to me. His curiosity to learn about everything, too, flattered me as mirroring my own. He had a nice way of finishing his sentences in a quieter voice than where he began them. In answer to his questions, I told him about London, about newspapers, operas, streets divided into blocks and squares, and the underground rail system, which he seemed to take as a fairy tale.
Then there was Vao, the maiden who would chew and spit out our ’ava. Her name was spelled V-A-O but pronounced “Veeawoo.”
She was a pretty eighteen-year-old, the prettiest of Vailima’s female servants and, in fact, the prettiest girl we had seen among the generally handsome Samoan natives. Interestingly, her striking beauty did not leave her with an obvious air of superiority. If her looks alone did not make her easy enough to notice, she was, I should add, almost always trailed by the same dwarf we had seen at the ’ava ceremony, whose sole occupation seemed to be following her.
One morning, this young woman was setting the table for a family meal while I was in an armchair reading a book of poetry borrowed from Stevenson’s library. Davenport was outside helping the novelist clear some brush and trying to draw out additional details a
bout the progress of the novel, but I had become too hot and feared fainting if I did not go inside when it was nearly as hot. At least I had a book. For readers, books are a universal salve. When we are hot, we read to feel cooler; when we are cold, we read to warm up; tired, books wake us; anxious, they calm us.
“She doesn’t favor white men,” the dwarf said to me in English, poking me with his finger.
“Who?”
“Her.”
I was doing my best to avoid looking at her uncovered bosom, so I merely murmured in response and tried to read more from Lapsus Calami.
“Her! Come on, look at her!”
I obliged him, then quickly looked away again. “You mean Vao?”
The dwarf pursed his lips with severe irritation. His head was big in proportion to his body, his face expressive and quick to redden. From my limited experience with little men and women who came to my bookstall, I would have guessed he was forty-five. “Where did you hear her name?”
“I’ve been told you can read most of the girls’ names between their wrists and elbows, in their tattoos. Charlie taught me.” I gestured at her long forearm, which had the three letters running down the inside in ornate script.
“Charlie thinks he’s white and to prove it speaks too much. Don’t look at her again.”
“I was trying not to.”
“Why don’t you just go in another room while Vao goes about her work?”
“Cannot she decide if she wishes me to leave?” I rose to my feet. “My dear, would you like me to move?”
“Don’t bother with sweet talk. Taller men have tried. She speaks no English,” the dwarf barked at me.
“I can try it in native, but I’m afraid I might start a war.” I thought for a moment that Vao smiled a little at my joke before she paused, wiped her neck with the back of her hand, and stood up straight as though to show us the full extent of her beauty. This time I had no choice but to look, before she moved to the next room. In the eyes of an old bachelor bookseller, accustomed to examining surfaces for any aberration, I could see right away that her feet pointed too far outward, to eleven o’clock and two o’clock, marring her grace slightly; that when her mouth opened the illusion of a docile maid was erased by sharp teeth not so different from the ones on her necklaces; and that her strong hands were slightly rigid. But the ordinary man would burn with lust for the sum of her all-consuming appearance and charm.
The Last Bookaneer Page 14