The Lethal Sex

by Christianna Brand

  He and I walked through the tropical garden to the sea wall. A torch fisherman moved slowly in the distance; outside the periphery of his flare the water looked like ink.

  We lit cigarettes and stood silent. There was a quarter moon; we watched it slip over Diamond Head until the sea was enameled silver.

  Troy said, like a man in a dream, “It was snowing when we left New York. I thought I’d never be warm again.” Then he faced me suddenly. “They gave me some galleys, and I read your story on the way over. Is it a true story?”

  I hesitated, feeling that something important depended on my answer. “The haole—white—characters are fiction. The Hawaiians—and the background—are authentic.”

  “You mean there really is a valley, a place like that?”

  “Yes. Not exactly like it, of course. But I had a certain place in mind when I was writing. It’s on Kauai—that’s another island.”

  He sighed. “We’d better go back. The women...”

  We reached our table in time to sec an impromptu celebration. A stately Hawaiian woman in a flowered holoku rose and bowed from her seat at a floorside table.

  “What is it?” Troy asked.

  Anne said, “She is having a birthday party.”

  Someone called, “Liliu E!” and the woman smiled, looked at the orchestra, and finally began to dance the story of Queen Liliuokalani.

  She wasn’t as supple as a young woman, but her hula was very good: her hips swayed gracefully, arms and fingers wove interpretive patterns in the air as she told the story of the beloved queen whose mouth was curved with laughter, whose shoulders waved like a fan, whose little feet danced round the world...

  When she finished, Troy rose abruptly and left us. He came back with his arms filled with leis. He dumped them on our table, shook loose a wreath of red carnations, and went over to the gray-haired woman who had been dancing. He bowed and said something, hung the flowers around her neck, and then kissed her.

  I looked at Mavis. She was watching him indulgently. When he sat beside her again she said, smiling, “Troy! Whatever possessed you to do such a thing?”

  Troy’s cheek twitched. He picked up his glass. “Because she was so beautiful.”

  “Beautiful?” Mavis looked at the Hawaiian woman and then at Troy. “Darling, you really must be drunk!”

  A few nights later, the four of them came to our house for dinner. Troy had a sunburn. He squirmed in his chair, tried to pretend interest while Mavis and the Garrisons asked questions about our island life, and gulped four martinis before we went to the table.

  After dinner some friends arrived, including David Kimu, the Hawaiian. David was Anne’s childhood playmate, who became my best friend at Columbia. He was now doing graduate work in sociology at the University of Hawaii.

  David was dressed casually in a red aloha shirt and blue cotton pants. He took off his shoes, as most of us do, when he came into the house. Seeing our guests in more formal clothes didn’t faze him; he said, “Malihinis!” and added, with his brilliant smile, “Aloha nui loa!”

  I mentioned Troy’s commission, and said I hoped David would be able to help him. David sat on the floor, accepted a drink, and asked what Troy was most interested in. A few minutes after that Troy was beside him, looking comfortable for the first time that evening. They were talking about the Islands.

  Peggy Garrison was fascinated with David. “What a gorgeous man!” she said under her breath to Anne. “Did you say he was a childhood playmate?”

  “We grew up together,” Anne told her. “David was the one who taught me to swim, and to hula—among other things—”

  I made a note to tell her to go easy on the next drink. But the slight mockery in Anne’s voice went unnoticed. The look Peggy turned on her held speculation—and the faintest trace of envy.

  Mavis’s mind didn’t run in those channels. She commented, studying David with narrowed violet eyes, “He’d make a wonderful model. A perfect native specimen.”

  My hackles rose. I forbore mentioning that David was a sociologist. I said instead that most Hawaiians are exceptionally handsome people, and few can match them for natural grace and dignity. I was going on in this vein when I perceived that Mavis’s face had gone blank with boredom, and I changed the subject.

  From then on our group was divided; Troy and David on the floor, gradually joined by Bill and our other friends; Anne and I sitting on the punee with the two visiting women discussing the smartest places to dine, addresses of good local shops, and the type of entertainment given by Honolulu’s upper-echelon socialites. When those subjects were exhausted Anne mentioned the Dillinghams’ famous Japanese garden, and from there we went to descriptions of other Honolulu show places, a topic which proved inexhaustible. Anne can manage that sort of thing gracefully. For me it was heavy going; I finally broke away with the excuse that I’d better mix some drinks. Out in the kitchen, I offered myself a dividend.

  When I returned to the living room David was saying that Hawaiian chants are wonderful but difficult to describe. Under the influence of my private dividend, I broke in with: “Why don’t we play some records?”

  This brought the usual result; we spent the rest of the night singing and doing hulas. The party broke up at two, and Troy left only at his wife’s insistence.

  Anne reproached me the next day. “You were remiss as a host, fella. I don’t think Mavis Purcell will forgive you.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said unregretfully. “I should have realized folklore would be too deep for Troy’s wife.”

  “Don’t make the mistake of labeling her stupid,” Anne warned. “She knows exactly what she wants—and she’s got it. You can be sure she has no intention of giving it up.”

  “So who cares?” I retorted. “They’re nothing in our lives. David will take Troy in hand from now on. We can put the Purcells out of mind.”

  But a week or so later, conscience drove me to the hotel to inquire how they were getting along. I was startled when the room clerk said that Mr. Purcell was out of town, but did I wish to speak to Mrs. Purcell? I said no, guiltily, and turned to encounter the Garrisons. When they invited me to have a drink I consented, hoping to hear news of Troy.

  “He’s on some other island,” Peggy said in a disapproving tone. “That Hawaiian we met at your house sent him over to stay at some kind of native village.”

  We were on the terrace of the Royal with an excellent view of Waikiki curving out toward Diamond Head. Peggy waved a hand. “The beach is crawling with Hawaiians. And this island has plenty of scenery. Why should Troy have to sneak off—”

  “Peggy!” Her husband interrupted. She flashed an angry look at him.

  She’s afraid, I thought. The little flicker of desire she had felt at the sight of David had been immediately quenched.

  “All right,” Peggy said. “He didn’t sneak off. He told us where he was going. But he’s been gone a week, while Mavis is stuck here. Why did he choose some place where he knows she can’t go with him?”

  I was beginning to feel uneasy. “Why couldn’t she go?”

  “Because,” Peggy informed me, “the place he went to can’t be reached except by plane. And Mavis is deathly afraid of flying. That’s why they came on the Lurline instead of by Clipper.”

  At this I felt even more disquieted. I thanked them for the drink and left. Bill caught up with me just as I got into the car.

  “Look, John.” He hesitated.

  “What’s on your mind?”

  “If you know where Troy is, you might hint that he should get back here pretty soon. Mavis doesn’t feel well. She got a skin rash from eating fresh pineapple.”

  “Many tourists do. I forgot to caution her about that.”

  “It upset her quite a bit. She stayed in the room a couple of days until it went away. But she’s afraid something else might happen.”

  “You mean,” I said, “Mavis might be finding this climate too much for her?”

  He grinned and nodded. Then
he grew more serious. “I’m speaking as a friend of Troy’s now, as well as his insurance-broker. He’s lucky he carries a good policy with us because he might not be able to get another. The guy really needs a complete rest. When he’s home he works like crazy—won’t take care of himself. I’d like to see him stay his month out.” He looked at me, then added uncomfortably, “Mavis and Peggy are pretty thick. Neither of them would appreciate knowing that I—”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t mention it.”

  I went home and called David. When he told me where he had sent Troy, I was really disturbed. I hung up and said to Anne, “Troy Purcell has gone to Kauai. His wife is here alone. And she’s been showing symptoms—” I repeated what Bill had told me, but added, “She may look delicate. I’ll bet she’s tough as an elephant.”

  “Remember the elephant’s other attribute,” Anne reminded me. “Both times that Troy Purcell’s had a taste of Island life, he forgot his wife entirely. Why don’t you call him?”

  “There’s no telephone.”

  When I told her where on Kauai he had gone, Anne said slowly, “I wonder why David did that?”

  “I have a hunch Troy insisted on it.” I was remembering our conversation by the sea wall at the Queen’s Surf. “What should I do, Anne?”

  “Well,” she said, “he is in a way your responsibility. You’d better go after him.”

  I worried in the inter-island plane all the way to Kauai. David had sent me there when I talked to him about research for my story. It hadn’t upset my emotional balance. But then my choice had been made; the Islands were my home, not a tantalizing glimpse of loveliness I must put behind me after a brief vacation. For an artist, high-strung and susceptible, there might be no more dangerous place in all Hawaii—perhaps in all the world—to send a man like Troy.

  Tourist literature calls Kauai the Garden Isle. But to many Polynesians, the Island is a haunted place. There are even a few white people who claim they cannot stand more than a few weeks of its atmosphere. Oldest of the Hawaiian group, Kauai possesses jagged mountains, unexplored legendary canyons, valleys into which waterfalls thunder to become rivers cascading to the sea, sacred regions where ancient heiaus still stand and ghost drums herald nightly processions of ghostly Hawaiian warriors.

  On the northern coast of Kauai there exist today a few isolated communities in valleys as lovely as the Garden of Eden, hidden between awesome rock walls and accessible only by tortuous trails predating King Kamehameha. In these localities the rhythm of Polynesian life has hardly changed; here people grow taro and weave lauhala, toss nets from rocky ledges into a churning sea, spear fish at night with kukui torches flaring orange over black waters. In such a place, certain personalities succumb irresistibly to enchantment of the spirit.

  And Troy Purcell had been there a week.

  Since the coastal approach to the village is unnavigable, he had been taken there by plane, and it was in the same Piper Cub, piloted by a Hawaiian named Keoni, that I went after him. I didn’t know what pretext I would use to bring him back to Honolulu. But none was necessary. When we settled on the landing strip near the lagoon a group came to meet us, and among them was Troy.

  “Hi, John. Glad you decided to come over.” As he reached the plane he called to the pilot, “Keoni! You’re a day ahead of time.”

  Hawaiians gathered around us, asking, “How’s the fishing? What news from Lihue? Did you bring canned milk?” Troy and I withdrew to the edge of the palm grove and lit cigarettes.

  He didn’t seem different, except that his redness had turned to brown and his waist must have been thinner because he had difficulty keeping his pants up. He wore an unbuttoned cotton shirt, and was barefoot.

  “I’ve found my models,” he said. “A couple are coming over to Oahu to pose for me. One of them is Keoni.”

  “When will you start to work?” I was careful to keep relief out of my voice.

  “I was planning to leave tomorrow, but we may as well go today. Unless,” he looked as if it had just occurred to him, “you have some reason for staying here?”

  “No. I just came to see how you’re getting on.”

  “I’m fine,” he said. “I’ve never been so—hey, Lala! That’s my other model. Isn’t she a beauty?”

  I studied the girl as she walked toward us. She was tall, superbly modeled under the cotton dress she wore; in her way (not the Dorothy Lamour way nor even with the sullen secretiveness of Gauguin’s Tahitians) she was very beautiful. Her hair was glossy black and from the thickness of the braids around her head looked to be quite long; the seriousness of her great dark eyes was belied by uptilted corners of her wide, exquisitely carved Hawaiian mouth.

  “This is Lala Kealoha,” Troy said.

  She smiled as Troy mentioned my name. “David Kimu has spoken often of you.”

  “Is David a friend of yours?”

  “I’ve met him here a few times. But he is a long time aikane of my brother Umi.”

  “Do you live here?” I waved at the small village behind us.

  “Not now. I have a waitress job in Lihue. I’ve been visiting my grandmother. Troy wanted to do some sketches, and I stayed over a few days to pose for him.” She turned to go. “I’ve got to fix kaukau for Keoni—he wants to start back as soon as he eats. See you later on Oahu.”

  “Where will she stay in Honolulu?” I asked Troy.

  “With her brother. David took me to meet him the day after we were at your house. Suppose we kaukau too? Fish and poi?”

  “You mean you really like it? Few tourists do.”

  “Never gave it any thought. That was what we had here, and it tasted fine to me. Let’s go.”

  We ate with the Hawaiian family Troy had been living with, a meal consisting of steamed laulaus (salt salmon, butterfish, and pork wrapped in ti leaves), poi, and coconut pudding. All this time I was wondering when Troy would mention his wife.

  He finally did while we were waiting for Keoni. I sat in the shade as Troy stretched out, bare to the waist, in the sun nearby.

  “This feels good,” he said, and then, quietly, “How’s Mavis? I suppose she was the one who sent you.”

  “I haven’t seen her. But the Garrisons told me she hasn’t been feeling well, and I thought you should know.”

  “What’s wrong with her?” His voice was completely emotionless.

  When I told him he made no comment. Presently he said, still in that same flat voice, “Before we were married we planned to travel, have all kinds of adventures. The first six hundred we saved, we went to Mexico. Mavis hated it—the people, the heat, the little village where we stayed. She got dysentery, and we had to come home. She was months getting over it. When medical bills began to pile up, I took on a few commercial jobs to get us out of the hole. They liked my stuff. They paid—good Lord, how they paid!”

  His face began to twitch. He rolled over and looked out at the green sea. “Can’t get enough of this sun,” he said. “Been soaking it up like a blotter since I came here.”

  Shortly after Troy came back, Mavis invited us to lunch and swim with them. We lay under an umbrella at Waikiki and chatted; or rather, Anne and I chatted with Mavis while Troy brooded at the horizon. When Mavis asked him once if he felt all right, he started and then said abstractedly of course he did, he was just going nuts watching the colors of that water.

  It was a brilliant day and the Kanaka surf was running. Far, far out were the dark heads of swimmers waiting for the next big comber. Nearer shore the water was tranquil, a shimmering turquoise and emerald, jade, and chrysoprase and tourmaline.

  I said to Troy, “It’s the reef that causes it.”

  He sent me a grateful look. “Variations in depth? Of course! Then the light makes different refractions. This light!” He almost groaned the words. “Those poor fools in New York are so used to living under a pall of soot that they never see—”

  The rest was a mumble.

  I didn’t properly register his pronoun, because my attention
switched to Mavis. “How do you keep that lovely golden color?” she was asking, admiring Anne’s legs. “You’re blonde, too. I just turn pink and my skin hurts.”

  “Difference in pigmentation, I suppose.” Anne added generously, “Of course, my skin isn’t nearly as delicate as yours.”

  I noticed then that Mavis’s hair was streaked, and faint spidery lines showed at the edge of her sun glasses. She was closer to Troy’s forties than I’d realized.

  When I mentioned this later to Anne, she said, “I thought so, too. It’s probably important to her to look young and fragile. I feel sorry for Mavis.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she lives with a man who is completely creative, while she can create nothing.”

  “Artists aren’t the only creative people in the world,” I protested, surprised to find myself defending Troy’s wife. “Building a good marriage, having children, those things are—” My voice faded. Then I said triumphantly, “How about that perfect apartment of theirs?”

  Anne’s bare shoulders moved. We were in the bedroom and she sat at the dressing table getting ready for guests who were coming to play Mah Jongg. She picked up her lipstick and leaned toward the mirror. “I had another letter from Leila Morgan yesterday. I meant not to show it to you for a while, but—it’s in my white purse, hanging on the back of the closet door.”

  Part of the letter said:

  Please tell Mrs. Purcell that her decorator was here recently to report success in finding a duplicate of the silver girandole which was stolen. He also said that he copied this décor for her, at her direction, from the Paris apartment of Madame Juliette Gauntier, the aunt who reared Mrs. Purcell. The decorator was touched by her sentimental desire to re-create the background of her childhood. You should have heard Hank howl when the man left. People envy us our luck in being here, they rave about Mavis Purcell’s exquisite taste and originality. What tickles Hank is that he remembers doing a feature on her for his home town paper, the Milwaukee Journal. She had just been chosen one of those beer beauties, which gave her a start in modeling. Her name was Maria Schlanger then, and she’d never been nearer Paris than Milwaukee...