by Kirk Adams
Deidra looked at Lisa before speaking.
“Rumor also has it,” Deidra said with a low voice, “there are guys there who give shaves ... to friendly women.”
“For sex?”
“It’s not said up front,” Deidra said, “but it’s understood. Like prom or taking a vacation with a guy.”
“I’ve never given myself either way. I choose for myself when I want a man.”
“That’s good,” Deidra replied, “because I’m not so sure many men will be choosing those legs of yours.”
“I have nice legs from my running.”
“Too bad no one can see them.”
Lisa pointed to a particularly dense patch above one knee. “They don’t look so bad,” she said. “Call it an eco-friendly look.”
Deidra laughed.
After she finished shaving, Lisa slipped out of her shorts and waded upstream where she slowly sat down (the cool of water almost too cold to endure), then washed her hair and splashed her back. She watched Deidra drop her towel and wade downstream—where the bronze-skinned woman rinsed with her back turned toward the younger woman, picked up her towel and clothing, and walked behind trees. Lisa herself climbed from the pond with far less circumspection and pulled her shorts over her hips from the middle of the main path. Looking carefully at her dirty underwear and ragged bra, she rolled them up for cleaning and pulled a torn shirt over her shoulders—laughing when a breast protruded through a frayed hole.
“I need to find a needle and thread after supper,” Lisa said. “This is my best work shirt.”
Deidra didn’t reply. She had started down the path for the village and was beyond earshot as Lisa secured her toiletries into a canvas bag after tightening every lid and snapping every cap. Afterwards, Lisa splashed the stubble and soap from the bridge and erased every sign of human habitation before returning to camp for a breakfast of bread and fruit.
The rest of the week went well. Balmy skies and fresh breezes provided ideal weather for the work of Paradise. Ursula and Ilyana watched children and tended livestock while Ryan and Kit fished: netting several dozen fish, twenty crabs, and two lobsters. Charles dug large pits near the storehouse, then sealed them with rocks and banana leaves according to Polynesian techniques and plastic tarps according to Western technology—the pits serving as breadfruit storage bins, each one able to hold dozens of breadfruit (the island’s best source of starch) until the fruit could be milled into flour. Lisa gathered the much-needed fruit while Joan boiled jelly from pineapple and mango, preserving it in half-gallon jars sealed with paraffin and lowered into underground pantries (where temperatures were cooler). Viet and Brent scoured the western district for food and spices, bringing home canvas bags filled with fruits and flowers from the furthest outreaches of western territory. They even found some pistachio trees that they picked clean. Lisa gathered fruit for the day’s eating from nearby orchards while Hilary cut down trees subsequently stripped and stacked by Linh. Sean spent the week working with Maria to blaze trails toward Mount Zion and Jose ran the kitchen by himself, turning out to be a fair hand with food preparations.
The pace was such that almost every neighbor put in overtime every day through the end of the week. Saturday was declared a day of rest: with most villagers spending the morning relaxing and recovering. Several men washed clothes in the stream and a few women swept the week’s dirt from their tents. Parents played with their children and children chased each other. Later, Heather took the children to the beach while Ryan called the village to an informal meeting to review construction plans. Only Olivia (who remained in detention) and John (who disappeared for the day) were absent. In particular, Ryan relayed plans that he and John had drafted to build private houses for their families—using carpentry skills that John had honed while working boathouse construction and renovation jobs near the outskirts of Phoenix.
When Ryan finished speaking, Charles—who initially remained stone-faced at the back of the mess hall—went to the front of the tent to address the village.
“To begin with,” Charles said, “you don’t have the right to build a private residence. If we need houses, why not use cooperative housing? Why allow the beginning of private property? If Rousseau and Marx are to be believed, the roots of inequality and exploitation are found in private property. The very thought of a permanent home smacks of bourgeois capitalism. Imagine the beginning of land speculation. And resale values. Next, we’ll have suburbs and slums. Maybe we should plant private gardens and set up a new economic policy with cash crops while we’re at it.”
Ryan didn’t reply until Charles sat down.
“I’m as progressive,” Ryan said, “as a man can be without joining the Comintern, but we haven’t much time to prepare for the rainy season. There’s no way we can build an apartment complex. Nor is there any need to cut down so many trees—a point Lisa will appreciate. Whoever wishes to stay in the communal building can do so. I’m just asking a few houses be allowed.”
“Apart from the matter of private property,” Lisa said as she stood, “is the question of common lands. The trees of the forest belong to the whole village. By whose authority can you cut down even a single one for private use?”
“Do we need permission to use what’s already ours?”
“Yes, you do,” Lisa said. “We’re not ecological entrepreneurs.”
“Do we seek permission to crack coconuts?” Ryan pressed his point. “Do we seek permission to pick every banana?”
“A seed is not a tree. We’re not prolife fanatics.”
“We’re not deer either, so we can’t eat bark. At harvest, every wasted coconut will mean a lot more than a few chopped trees.”
“I don’t want to debate,” Lisa said. “Let’s just vote.”
“Fine,” Ryan said, “but first tell me this: if the village permits only communal housing, who determines where people live?”
“To each according to his need,” Charles said.
“Which needs?” Ryan asked.
“Human needs,” Charles said.
“Will the neighborhood,” Ryan said, “give John his own place because he doesn’t want to watch his ex-wife sleep with Sean? Will we favor Ursula because she has a newborn baby?”
“I don’t know,” Lisa said, “what’ll happen.”
“I do,” Ryan replied. “It’ll be musical beds.”
“Private property,” Lisa said with a shake of her head, “breeds inequality. You’ll end up with chateaux and slums.”
“Won’t even the poorest among us own a house rather than a tent?”
“Very clever. A rising tide raises all houses.”
“Besides,” Ryan said, “I’ve filmed in Bucharest and I’ve seen what state-run housing amounts to: cement and cinder block.”
“That’s one socialist vision. Take a look at San Francisco for another.”
“Overpriced housing and homelessness?”
Lisa scowled.
“You also have to admit,” Ryan continued, “that communal control requires everyone to work longer hours. We’ll need to work sixty hours a week for the rest of the summer to build an apartment. Maybe more. Private control of housing, on the other hand, means more work only for those who freely choose to build a place for themselves.”
When Charles asked that the matter be put to a vote, Ryan turned to his compatriots.
“How many think,” Ryan asked, “that John and I are free to build houses for ourselves?”
No one raised a hand.
“Seriously,” Ryan said, “those in favor of drafting housing codes remain seated. Those who wish for laissez-faire housing, stand up.”
Brent and Tiffany stood up—as did Ryan and Kit. Heather and Ursula also voted for economic liberalism. That left Charles, Joan, Hilary, Maria, Deidra, Sean, and Jose to vote with Lisa to establish a zoning ordinance (with Viet and Linh abstaining). Ryan conceded the loss before debating Lisa regarding the advantages and disadvantages of public versus private housi
ng.
Lisa argued the establishment of private property would lead to the rape of the environment, the creation of material inequities, and even the first step into urban sprawl. She also insisted the charter itself forbade laissez-faire capitalism as well as the unnecessary destruction of environmental resources. It was her opinion that a second communal house should be constructed, allowing individuals to choose the residence where they preferred to live. Regulations could be drafted regarding clothing, lovemaking, and cleanliness—and residents not suited for close residency could be separated. Lisa also thought it prudent to construct a permanent medical hut (with indoor heating) in which young children and sick adults could find shelter from the cold and damp. When pressed, she admitted she preferred not to sleep near Ursula’s expected baby and couldn’t name anyone who wished otherwise.
Ryan argued to the contrary. He claimed that Lisa’s proposal required more lumber than four or five private cottages might—which conceivably could shelter most of the village. He also noted the construction of private housing could be done on private time, keeping public stores intact and permitting more rapid completion of work quotas. As for the charter, Ryan pointed out that the homes of the east village were all privately built and that the charter itself granted freedom of association. He argued private homes allowed greater privacy and were little more than the regularization of their present establishment of private tents. Both freedom of association and human relationships, he noted, flourish better in private places than public ones. His arguments won over both Maria and Jose and the building of private housing was authorized when the final vote was tallied. Lisa and Charles conceded gracefully—asking only that houses be single-story structures measuring no more than 225-square-feet of floor space to conserve resources and preserve equality and that land plots remain public property. Their proposal was ratified and codified as law.
When the village delegated to Lisa the right to organize planning for urban development, she promised to submit at least tentative plans for expansion within two days. The meeting ended with hugs and handshakes and everyone pleased with its conciliatory tone. When a few neighbors pointed out that the creation of houses might also work to reduce consumption of trees in the bonfire since wood walls would mitigate night chills, Lisa seemed mollified regarding the building proposals. Previously, she hadn’t considered private housing as a way both to save trees and prevent smoke pollution.
Later in the day, those interested in building private homes met with Ryan. Among them was John—who had skipped the earlier meeting to search for suitable timber (not really expecting such a close vote). Linh and Tiffany decided to share a duplex and instructed their husbands to make proper plans while Sean considered building a home for Deidra until his new wife pointed out that the building would likely be expropriated by Ursula’s baby and that she preferred a tepee or a wigwam. Even Maria decided to build a house and asked whether Ryan might help her to raise one and he agreed to do so. Everyone else chose to remain in communal housing, though arrangements hadn’t yet been finalized when a commotion from the beach interrupted the meeting as Viet’s and Linh’s daughters emerged from the woods shouting for their parents.
“Papa! Papa!” shouted the older of the girls as she ran to her parents. “A boat’s coming. From the sea.”
Her sister said the same and everyone jumped from their seat and hurried down the trail. Only Ursula and Kit lagged behind. Even though the distance was short, the two stragglers arrived before the sailboat was dragged ashore.
Most neighbors recognized Dr. Morales before he struck sand and greeted him with shouts across the surf. After the anthropologist ran aground, Brent and Viet pulled his boat beyond the tide’s reach while Morales stumbled on the sand with unsteady legs—looking sunburned, dehydrated, and several pounds lighter.
Kit offered fresh water and the anthropologist took both it and several green bananas Ryan picked from a nearby tree.
“That’s better,” Dr. Morales said after his thirst was quenched and hunger somewhat satisfied. “I’ll need a place to stay. Till I can return the boat tomorrow.”
“We have a guest tent,” Kit said.
“I’ll take it. And more supper.”
“I’ll roast some fish and breadfruit.”
“Good.”
Kit started back to camp as Dr. Morales followed.
“I have much to say,” the anthropologist said to the crowd, “after I eat. Someone bring my backpack.”
Sean picked up the backpack and followed, as did the entire village. Forty-five minutes later, Dr. Morales’s hunger was completely satisfied and Linh collected his dirty dishes. Inhabitants previously dispersed to their tents reassembled (even John now was numbered among them). Parents sent children to bed early so they could listen uninterrupted. Only after the entire village gathered around the campfire did Dr. Morales stand to speak: a cup of coffee in his hand and a pipe dangling from his mouth.
“Sorry,” Dr. Morales aid, “if this pipe offends anyone, but my matches got wet and I haven’t had a smoke in four days.”
No one objected.
“In any case, I was fortunate to make it home. The winds died and I had to paddle all day. I only caught a light breeze this afternoon. Who knows what might have happened if I’d been at sea another day. I was out of water and food.”
“What’s the news?” Jose asked.
“Patience,” Dr. Morales said as he struck a match and put it to the end of his pipe as he drew the flame into the bowl to burn tobacco. Only after he exhaled did he speak. “I’ve discovered an indigenous people.”
Mouths dropped and gasps sounded.
“Indians,” Sean said.
“Native Americans,” Jose corrected him.
Deidra shook her head. “If this weren’t such good news at the end of a nice day,” she said, “I’d call you both the dolts that you are.”
“Exactly,” Dr. Morales aid, “the people look to be of Polynesian ancestry—maybe Tahitian, except that some have blue eyes and light hair.”
“Maybe you’ve found the lost colony of Roanoke Island,” Sean joked and several neighbors smiled. “It’s been missing four hundred years.”
“What’s it mean?” Hilary asked.
“I’m not sure. Maybe they have blood ties to Pitcairn Island—where Christian Fletcher and his Bounty mutineers took their Tahitian women to escape the British fleet.”
“That’s hundreds of miles from here,” Deidra said. “Maybe a thousand.”
“Polynesians have traveled further,” Dr. Morales responded.
Deidra nodded.
“Besides,” the anthropologist said, “there are other possibilities. Perhaps a marooned sailor or an abandoned pirate fell upon a native girl. Or may be a GI. There were plenty of ships and planes lost in the Pacific during the Second World War.”
“That seems speculative,” Jose said.
“This isn’t”—Morales opened the backpack lying at his feet and pulled a steel helmet from inside—“It’s a gunner’s helmet. American issue, I believe.”
Everyone fell silent.
“It was preserved at a shrine outside their main camp. I gather that the owner of this steel hat was washed to the island.”
“Did he have a name?” Deidra asked.
“They called him,” Dr. Morales paused to translate, “goddess-gift.”
“I mean a Christian name. In English.”
“I don’t know it.”
“Did he have dog tags?”
Dr. Morales thought for a long minute.
“I didn’t see any,” the anthropologist said, “and I didn’t see a grave or any markings either. We can call him M.I.A.”
“Where do they live?” Deidra asked.
“There’s an atoll maybe three or four hours east, a little beyond the horizon.”
“I arrived,” the doctor moved his hands as he spoke, waving his pipe between puffs, “on the third day of sailing. The first two atolls were nothing but co
ral rings around submerged islands. Finally, I came upon a small atoll of about twenty islands (only one of them larger than a couple acres) enclosed within a coral-ringed lagoon. A village of indigenous peoples was there—surviving on coconuts, panandu, and a few fish. They also eat some birds and an occasional turtle.”
The speaker paused to remember the sequence of events.
“I came upon their island near dusk,” Dr. Morales continued as he rubbed his hands together from excitement, “and anchored the first night offshore, certain the island was inhabited by the sight of a small fire on what I later determined to be their sacred island. First thing in the morning, I gathered my courage and ran the boat aground where I saw some locals. When the people kept their distance, I used bait and nets to catch a couple fish that I grilled on the beach while the inhabitants watched from afar. After a couple hours, I picked out their chief—who was partially hidden in some brush.”
No one stirred while Dr. Morales added tobacco to his pipe.
“Where was I?” the anthropologist asked. “Well, I steadied my nerves and approached him—the old patriarch, I mean. He lived on the island with a young wife. She’s in her mid-twenties and they have three kids: two girls and one little boy. And a couple young men, maybe sixteen or so, live with them. There was also an old woman. Maybe some others too.”
“Were they dangerous?” Linh asked.
“I didn’t know, but I decided it was better to die and be eaten for dinner than live never knowing. This was the professional opportunity of the century. Far better than Margaret Meade being tricked by Samoan teenagers.”
Only those who knew that the renowned anthropologist Margaret Meade had built her academic reputation on badly translated interviews with Samoan teenaged girls—who had played an elaborate powder room prank on the scholar by boasting of fabricated sexual experiences that Meade naively accepted as cultural norms—laughed at the quip.
“They offered me a bit of food,” Morales said, “and one of the girls. I didn’t want to take her but it seemed to be a matter of custom, so I did. Just some half-starved teenager with bad teeth. Maybe seventeen. Don’t be shocked. We need to judge cultures from their own perspective, not ours. When in Rome ...”