The Lethal Sex

by Christianna Brand

  I sat and stared at Anne’s reflection. She went on tying a ribbon around her hair and said nothing. “Where,” I finally asked, “do you suppose she got the idea?”

  “For the apartment? From a book of interiors, possibly, or some old copy of a Paris magazine. Don’t look so shocked, Johnny. It’s a harmless act. I wouldn’t have shown you the letter if I hadn’t been so pigheaded about making my point.”

  “You made it.” I stood up. “I’m going to have a drink.”

  I made a double collins, then put on some records and sat down to finish my drink and wait for Anne. I couldn’t concentrate—I was trying to remember some of the German I had picked up in the E.T.O. When I finally got it, what kept running fantastically through my mind was the fact that Schlanger means snake—and there are no snakes in Hawaii.

  The next day Mavis called to announce that Troy was ready to go to work. “Those models have finally arrived. He’s found a place in some valley where he wants to take you, to discuss illustrations for the first installment.”

  “What valley?” I asked, but she couldn’t remember. I suggested picking Troy up, and she said she would tell him to be ready. Mavis’s voice sounded strained, and I remembered Troy’s habit of getting drunk before he began a job. The sooner he got that binge over with, the better we’d all feel.

  The valley was Manoa, a favorite residential district of Oahu, but the road Troy took me on was one I might never have found without direction. We drove through the thickly settled section past old houses deep in gardens, past newer modern dwellings and apartment buildings, to the head of the valley and a narrow lane which twisted up a hillside and ended at two frame cottages whose high foundations were deep in red ginger. A single hard-surfaced drive served both houses, widening toward separate garage buildings. Concrete steps led down from small rear porches, and on one of these a tall smiling man appeared and greeted us.

  His name was Umi Kealoha, and Troy had been directed to him by David. Umi said, ‘‘Will you come in? My sister will be back soon.”

  We entered through the kitchen, which contained a stove, refrigerator, and chipped porcelain sink under the window overlooking the driveway. The rest of the house was equally simple, furnished with creaking wicker and dime-store curtains. Umi showed us the four rooms with a pride which I understood after learning that he had built both houses himself. He had a small orchestra which played for local parties and occasional night-club engagements. The identical house next door, he told us, had been occupied by his parents.

  “They’ve gone back to Kauai,” he said. “My father’s a good mechanic, but he doesn’t like living in the city. And now our fishing hui’s beginning to pay, so he can go home.”

  He explained that the Piper Cub which flew us to the village was part of a co-operative the people had recently formed. They owned a sampan, and the plane was used to spot schools of tuna, mullet, and red snapper which ran off the northern coast of the Island. Keoni, who had learned to fly in the army, scouted at an altitude of about a thousand feet, and when he located a school of fish he dropped signals to the waiting sampan.

  “Used to bring in five, sometimes six tons on a good day,” Umi said. “Now they get eight and ten from a single school. Want to come out front? We’re rehearsing.”

  We followed him to the lanai, where in the sun three men sat with instruments. We listened while they played Ke Kali Nei Au, the Hawaiian Wedding Song.

  Troy was restless. He finally asked, “Where’s Lala?”

  “She went swimming.”

  Troy’s face showed disappointment. Umi said, “Not at the beach. Very near here. Want to go find her?”

  He looked at our feet doubtfully. I began to unlace my sneakers, explaining to Troy, “The trail will be slippery. It rains almost every day here. Remember that rainbow we saw the morning you arrived?”

  Troy’s delight was out of proportion to the value of the information I gave him. “So it came from here?” He sat down immediately and removed his shoes. We rolled up trouser legs and started out.

  Skidding and slipping, clutching branches of mountain apple and guava trees, we climbed the banks of the stream. As we pushed through the thick growth of ti and ginger we heard the waterfall, and we heard voices, too. But when we reached the pool no one seemed to be there.

  Troy cupped his hands and yelled, “Lala!”

  She appeared from behind the falls, hastily tying a lavalava around her waist. “Oh, it’s you,” she said. She called over her shoulder, “Keoni. Come on out.”

  Keoni started toward us, laughing. “We thought it was strangers,” he said. “No clothes!”

  “Here!” She tossed shorts into the pool. He waded to shallow water and put them on.

  “We’re ready to start to work, Troy,” Lala said. “Are you?”

  “Yes,” Troy answered.

  And that was all. We never once discussed ideas for illustrating the first installment. I knew that what he painted would be right. And it was.

  It took him ten days to finish the two pictures which would be sent to the mainland immediately. When, after we congratulated him, Mavis commented that he generally worked much faster, he explained that light was sometimes poor at the pool, and that the sittings had been interrupted by showers.

  “Why don’t you work here, then, instead of in that funny little shack?”

  “I can’t,” he said. “It’s got to be done there.”

  He did a lot of work in the cottage—background layouts, preliminary sketches, and so forth. Umi had offered him the house next door, and Troy went there every day. He had the telephone connected so Mavis could reach him, and she brought a lunch once in a while and read novels while Troy worked.

  At this point my new book came back from the publisher with suggestions for revisions and these necessitated a trip to Kona to check on background detail.

  I did a lot of running around there and then settled at the Volcano House to finish the rewrite, which took two long weeks. When I came home, I asked Anne about the Purcells, and she brought me up to date while we had dinner.

  “How’s Troy?” I asked. “Did he have his binge?”

  “Apparently,” she said, “he has been too busy. Troy just sent the third group of illustrations off by air freight.”

  “That was the beach scene. Where did he paint it? At Hanauma?”

  “No. He decided on Waimea, where there are fewer people. The pictures were wonderful. But there was almost a tragedy that day.”

  “What happened?”

  Anne told me briefly. The Garrisons had gone to Maui, where Bill was visiting one of his company’s branch offices, and without their companionship Mavis was lonely. Troy suggested that since Waimea was on a side of the island she had not seen, she should come along and they would have a picnic. While everybody was occupied, Troy at his easel and the Hawaiian group in poses he had given them, Mavis decided to go wading. She was knee-deep when a sudden gigantic wave knocked her down and the undertow caught her. Mavis’s scream brought Troy running; he plunged in after her, only to be caught as she was. The Hawaiians made a chain of hands and rescued them, and when they were safe ashore Umi told Mavis that there was no reef at Waimea, the beach was posted Unsafe for Swimming. Hadn’t she seen the warning sign? No, she hadn’t, and it was not until they packed for the trip home that Troy discovered he had tossed his shirt over the warning sign when he set up his easel nearby.

  “Is Mavis all right now?” I asked.

  “She’s had a shock. She doesn’t say so, but I think she wants to go home. She says the climate is affecting Troy, too; he has never taken so long over a job. And the month at Royal is up.”

  “What does Troy say?”

  “He says they can move into the empty cottage next to Umi. It won’t cost them anything. Mavis would be really isolated there—” Anne pushed her coffee cup aside. “I have an idea, Johnny. Troy insisted on no publicity, but—considering what is involved—suppose we call a few people and mention that t
he Purcells are in Honolulu?”

  I was at the telephone before she finished speaking.

  The following week, there was a reception at the Honolulu Academy of Arts, to meet Troy Purcell. Then the Davis Galleries at Waikiki had a showing of local sketches Troy had made, plus layouts for the illustrations already finished. Troy was working that day, but Mavis presided prettily, wearing blue organza and an expression of wifely pride. Then we read about luncheons, bridge parties, and a tea in her honor. Finally, we heard that the Purcells had moved to Manoa; the Sunday Advertiser devoted a page to photographs: Troy at his easel and Mavis in a silk kimono arranging anthuriums and hanging fishnet draperies around the windows of the cottage.

  I went to see them that afternoon. Troy was working in the dining room, which had become his studio. Mavis was in the front room reading a book by William Roughead. Crossing their lanai, I had heard music from the house next door; it was less audible in their living room, because the windows on that side were closed.

  Mavis seemed delighted to have a visitor. She called to Troy to mix some drinks, and he came out with a blank look. But he smiled when he saw me, and said, “You haven’t been around for a long time. Aloha, John. Pehea oe?”

  “I’m fine,” I said. “How’s the work going?”

  “I’m almost finished.” He turned to his wife with a puzzled expression. “What was it you told me to do?”

  “Drinks, dear,” she said, and he nodded and started to the kitchen.

  “How do you like housekeeping in Hawaii?” I asked. Mavis said she liked it very much. The domestic problem was certainly simpler, wasn’t it?

  “We can get a gardener and maid for half what I pay my cook at home. Lala cooks fairly well, too. Did you know that she is a high school graduate?”

  “Really?” I felt that familiar rise of the hackles again. With the excuse of helping Troy, I went out to the kitchen. He was struggling with the ice cubes from the battered trays in the old refrigerator.

  “Make mine light,” I told him. “We’re going to a party tonight.”

  “Same for me,” he said. “I’ve got work to do.”

  We heard laughter from the other house and Troy went to the screened door, hesitated, then came back. At my questioning look he said, “Thought I’d ask them over for a drink. They’d be glad to see you.” He lowered his voice. “The gang used to come over often. Recently they’ve stayed away. For some reason, they’re uncomfortable here.”

  I cast around for some acceptable excuse. “Is it since Mavis began decorating?”

  He nodded and regarded me with that perplexed look he so often wore.

  “It might be the fishnet,” I said. “Many Hawaiians are superstitious, especially about fishing, probably because from early times their survival has depended largely on it. And since Keoni makes his living from fishing, and Mavis has—”

  “And what has Mavis done now?”

  Troy and I turned guiltily. Mavis stood in the doorway.

  “Do tell me,” she urged. “Troy knows that I wouldn’t for the world do anything to offend his precious Hawaiians.”

  I could feel my face growing hot. “It’s the fishnet on your windows. Many Hawaiians believe that a net should never be hung overhead, or draped around a room in any manner which suggests its actual use.” I added lamely, “Of course, it is just superstition—’’

  “That doesn’t matter,” she said. “Troy will take it down.”

  The big man hesitated, holding our drinks. She took them from him and turned her back to us as she began setting glasses on a tray. “Go ahead, Troy.” Her voice shook. “Take the net down. Now.”

  Troy didn’t say a word. He went into the front room, unhooked the net, carried it to the rear door, and tossed it outside. Then he came back and picked up his glass, still silent. I studied him, puzzled. There was a change in him I could not identify. He had lost a lot of weight and it could have been that, and his deep tan, which made him look more vital. No. There was something else. Then I realized—Troy had also lost his tic.

  Mavis had been putting cheese crackers on a dish. She led us to the front room, carrying the tray. She handed me a drink, sipped her own, and said in a hostessy voice, “You know the Erickssons, I believe? I understand he is a very successful architect?”

  “Yes,” I said. “His wife was in Anne’s graduating class at Punahou. They have a very beautiful house at Black Point.”

  “I’ve heard about it,” she said. “They’re giving a party for us tonight. We’ll probably see you there.”

  We saw them there, but not for long. That was the night Troy got hilariously drunk and broke a table lamp when he tried to do a hula. Joe and Helen Ericksson helped Mavis get him into Umi’s old car, and after they had gone Helen looked ruefully at the shattered lamp.

  Her husband said, “I heard that Troy goes on a spree before he starts a job—but isn’t he almost finished?”

  “Yes. He is almost finished.” For a moment I thought there was a significant tone in Anne’s voice.

  Half an hour later the telephone rang and Joe answered.

  “Mavis? I hope you got home all right.” He listened and said reassuringly, “If he shows up here we’ll take good care of him. And we’ll see that he gets back safely. You just go to bed and don’t worry.”

  He hung up and explained, “Troy wouldn’t go into the house with her, insisting he was having a fine time here and wanted to come back to the party. Before she could stop him, he started the car again and drove off. The poor girl is terribly concerned.”

  Troy never showed up. Our party was spoiled; we spent the balance of the evening in an atmosphere of strain, waiting for him. As we said good night to the Erickssons, Joe said, “I’m sorry we didn’t get a chance to know Troy Purcell better. They’ll be leaving soon, won’t they?”

  “Yes,” I answered, and added fervently to myself, “I certainly hope so.”

  Another week went by. Anne told me one day, when I came out of my office at the end of a morning’s work, “David called. We’re invited to a luau tomorrow. At Waimanalo. Given by the Kealohas.”

  “Swell! What’s the occasion?”

  “It’s a double celebration. For Troy, because he has delivered the last illustration. And for Laia. She and Keoni are getting married.”

  So that was why Umi’s orchestra had been rehearsing the wedding song. “I didn’t know,” I said. “When?”

  “As soon as they returned to Kauai. Keoni is leaving immediately. Lala will stay long enough to buy her kitchen equipment and a trousseau.”

  “With the money she got for modeling,” I said slowly. “Does Troy know?” At Anne’s shrug I said, “I’m going to call him and see what I can find out.”

  All I found out was that Troy seemed in a high mood. “My check’s on the way,” he said. “Tomorrow’s the day we really ‘go for broke.’ Why don’t you ride over with us? You haven’t lived until you’ve traveled in our jalopy. Vintage 1936. Bought it for sixty-five dollars from Umi’s father.”

  The Purcells arrived just after the mailman, and we saw that Troy had not exaggerated the condition of his car. It was an ancient Chevrolet with battered fenders and rattling doors which Anne and I regarded with suspicion as we rounded sharp turns down the Pali road. The doors stayed closed, however, and we stowed our beach bags at each side of ourselves and braced together in the center, being careful of the fiat package which stood against the driver’s seat.

  “What is it?” I asked, and all Troy would say was, “Surprise. You’ll see later.”

  The old car chugged along, and Troy sang jubilantly, “Oh, we’re going to a hukilau, a huki, huki, huki, huki hukilau.”

  Anne and I exchanged glances, wondering if his ebullience could be genuine.

  Mavis seemed happy, too. She glanced back and chattered about furnishing the cottage: she had found some nice little bamboo tables, she said, and Grossman-Moody had really wonderful fabrics—she thought of using hand-blocked linen in a ti-lea
f design.

  “We’ll paint the floors dark green,” she told us. “And with lauhala mats and some reed furniture, with our Kelly etching and the Tennant and a few of Troy’s things, it will be quite charming.”

  “Aren’t you spending a lot of effort,” Anne asked, “on someone else’s house?”

  Mavis turned completely around then, and her smile was very bright. “Oh, it’s going to be our house. That’s what Troy plans to use his check for.”

  “And when we sell the stuff we left in New York,” Troy called back, “we’ll get a new car. This heap’s going to be put out to pasture.”

  We had begun to descend the steepest section of the road and he held the hand-brake as he drove. “She froze once,” he said. “Nearly scared us both to death. We had started to a party—”

  “That was the night we went to the Erickssons,” Mavis put in.

  “What a night that was!” Troy said. “As we started out, I parked on the drive and went back to close the garage door; Umi’s father left tools there and we keep it locked. The car rolled down the drive and the handbrake stuck. Mavis tried to cut off the motor and yanked the key out instead. This girl’s a quick thinker. She jerked the wheel and landed against a papaya tree at the bottom of the road. You should have heard those melons squashing!”

  “And you should have heard me scream!” Mavis said. “The brake is all right now. I had it fixed.” She added fondly, “Troy is utterly hopeless about remembering things.”

  The drive to Waimanalo took over an hour. During that time neither of the Purcells mentioned Lala and Keoni, or the second reason why the Kealohas were celebrating with a luau.

  There was a crowd by the time we arrived. At the side of the house a long table had been contrived by laying planks across wooden trestles. Hawaiian women moved leisurely about in cotton holokus, arranging fern fronds and hibiscus blossoms on the bare wood, laying fresh ti leaves in the center which they filled with speckled mangoes, bananas, and pineapples. They gossiped and joked, exchanging remarks in a mixture of pidgin, Hawaiian, and phrases of English.