Suddenly, the song stopped. We heard a rattle backstage and the sound of glass breaking. She rested a hand on her hip and waited, rolling her eyes to the thatched ceiling. After a minute or so, another song was broadcast, and she launched into lip syncing ‘Black Magic’, by Ella Fitzgerald.
The chubby man returned from backstage and sat at the table next to ours with an older woman. Fifi dedicated most of her songs to ‘my man in the front row’, or to the woman next to him, whom she referred to as ‘my mother-in-law.’ By this time, however, we were more interested in watching the boyfriend, who knew all the words to Fifi’s songs and would mouth every lyric back to her.
It was during the interval that Louis told me that he recognised him. He’d been in the newspapers back home recently. Apparently, two years before, he’d been appointed by the Australian government as a diplomat to Samoa, and had caused a scandal by having fallen in love with a fa’afafine and requesting to marry her. Such arrangements are common in Samoa, but not in Australian Foreign Affairs. The man had been given an ultimatum: give up the fa’afafine or resign from his position. He’d obviously made his choice, preferring to carry the bags of a demanding diva than a job for life in the diplomatic service. In some ways, I thought, the story sounded like a contemporary corollary to the screenplay Louis was attempting to adapt. When we arrived back at our hotel room, I threw up again, swallowed two Panadol, and flopped back onto the bed.
The following morning – our last – I was still nauseous and burning with fever. Louis and I sat up in bed, drinking tea and reading the local papers. There’d been two new developments in the series of murders: firstly, the American FBI had been called in to investigate the serial homicides; secondly, the murderer of the wife and mother who’d been stabbed two days before had been apprehended. The female suspect who’d been seen by a neighbour escaping the crime scene on a bicycle had turned out to be the woman’s husband: he’d managed to disguise himself by donning his wife’s kaftan and one of her blonde wigs.
Louis had one landmark to visit in order to complete his research: the final home of the Scottish author, Robert Louis Stevenson, a five-minute taxi ride from our hotel. Having been a fan of Stevenson for years, especially Treasure Island and Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, I insisted upon coming along, in spite of my vertigo.
It was late afternoon by the time the cab pulled up on a grassy rise. We climbed out into the sunshine to see a large white, two-story home with wide verandahs, surrounded by palms and tropical flowers. I climbed the stairs to the main entrance unsteadily, with Louis’ hand on the small of my back guiding me. A young Samoan woman, with an American accent, met us in the airy foyer to act as our private tour guide. Ceiling fans revolved in lazy circles. Louis pointed to framed photographs on the wall of Stevenson and dark-skinned local natives from the 19th century – all slim, healthy, with fine, sharp muscles skeining their shoulders and arms. ‘That’s what they used to look like,’ he remarked, ‘before the Westerners got to them.’ Louis added that Stevenson had been highly critical of the European officials appointed to rule the Samoans, and had bonded with the local natives well, adopting the name Tusitala, meaning ‘storyteller’ in Samoan.
Our tour guide was clearly bored with her job. She showed us through the home that Stevenson had built for himself and his family, gesturing casually at paintings and ornaments. In a monotone she explained that the author’s wife, Fanny, ten years his senior, had been married twice before and had been a widow with two children at the time of their marriage. Due to the author’s failing health, he and his family, including his now-widowed mother, made several peripatetic journeys throughout the Pacific in search of a new home. It was thought the climate of Upolo would be efficacious. His decision to marry the older widower, however, and to settle in the tropics, had turned out to be a disaster. While he may have written such important works as The Beach of Falesa, Catriona, and The Ebb-Tide on the island, the guide explained that Mrs Stevenson had a rapacious taste for the finer aspects of life, demanding expensive extensions to the house, sumptuous furniture and ornaments imported from Europe, and all the best china and cutlery. As the guide explained Fanny’s extravagant tastes, I felt my stomach flip with nausea. ‘He worked himself to death,’ concluded the guide. ‘He couldn’t keep up with all her demands.’
It always disturbed me to hear stories of talented writers and artists who’d married the wrong partners, partners who cared little about the effort required to produce the work, but who were happy to exploit the results. Pausing in an open doorway of his study, gazing at his wooden writing desk, I felt bile beginning to rise in my throat.
‘Where exactly did he die?’ I managed to ask, leaning against the doorjamb.
The guide’s eyes grew wide. ‘Well, this is a coincidence. Right on the spot where you’re standing now!’
We returned to the hotel to pack our bags. Even though Louis had secured a late checkout, when we walked into our suite we discovered four maids variously vacuuming, sponging the bathroom, sweeping the terrace, and polishing the furniture. They didn’t want to rush us, they explained, but they needed extra time to prepare the suite for some very important guests who were about to arrive. As the maids swarmed around us in a frenzy of cleaning, Louis and I threw our belongings into our suitcases and zipped them up. We ended up leaving the suite at the same time as the maids, who locked the door behind them. ‘Hey?’ I asked one of them, as she dropped the key in her pocket. ‘Who are the very important guests taking over the suite?’
‘You know about all the murders lately on the island?’ she asked. I nodded and told her I did. ‘The FBI, they coming from America. They stay in this suite for all of the week.’
The shuttle to the airport wouldn’t leave for another hour, so we stored our luggage at Reception and repaired to the bar for final drinks. We’d barely ordered our first round, however, when I heard a man’s voice shout from one corner, ‘Why the hell haven’t you called me yet?!’
I turned around to see standover man Paul striding towards us. He was frowning, fists balled, as if he wanted to have a brawl with both of us right there and then. I felt myself paling and tried frantically to think of an excuse. ‘I’ve been really sick,’ I blurted. ‘The whole week.’
‘She’s been ill,’ added Louis. ‘Vomiting, fever, diarrhea—’
Paul narrowed his eyes and looked me up and down. ‘You’ve lost weight,’ he added. ‘Are your joints aching?’
I nodded and leaned on the bar. ‘They feel like they’re being roasted over a fire.’
Paul nodded and bustled us back to a couch where four of his mates were sitting. They made space for us both and Paul made an announcement. ‘These are the guys I was telling you about. They didn’t ring because,’ he pointed to me, ‘this one’s got dengue fever.’ The men all glanced at me, shook their heads, and groaned.
‘What’s dengue fever?’ I asked, as Paul handed me a martini.
‘It comes from a mosquito bite. Like malaria. But the strains on this island are strong enough to kill a man.’
Three hours later, as we were flying southwest over the Pacific, Louis broke out in a sweat and developed a fever. His knees began to burn and he writhed in his seat like a man possessed. As I reached into my backpack to find some Panadol for him, the bag seemed curiously empty. I placed my hand on a familiar paperback novel, a spiral notebook, my toiletries. But something was missing, and as I pulled the Panadol from an interior pocket, I realised with horror what I’d left behind.
‘The sex toys!’ I said to Louis. ‘I left them back at the suite. They’re still inside the bedside drawer!’
I expected him to be angry, or at least frustrated, by such an obvious oversight. Clearly, in those early days of love, I didn’t know him well.
He wiped the sweat from his brow and burst into laughter. ‘Well, the FBI are going to have a good time tonight!’
MANDY SAYER’S first novel, Mood Indigo, won the Australian / Vogel Award for writers under 35. Sinc
e then she has been named one of Ten Best Young Australian Novelists by the Sydney Morning Herald and has published five further works of fiction. Her first memoir, Dreamtime Alice, won the 2000 National Biography Award, Australian Audio Book of the Year Award, and New England Booksellers’ Award in the US. It was published to critical acclaim in the US and UK and was translated into several European languages. Her second memoir, Velocity, won the 2006 South Australian Premier’s Award for Non-Fiction and the 2006 Age Book of the Year (Non-Fiction). Her third memoir, The Poet’s Wife, was published in Australia in 2014. She has also edited the anthology The Australian Long Story (2009) and In the Gutter, Looking at the Stars (with Louis Nowra), a collection of literature set in Sydney’s red-light district, Kings Cross. Sayer has two degrees from Indiana University, and a Doctorate from the University of Technology, Sydney, where she was the 2014 CAL Non-Fiction Writer-in-Residence.
Peru, 1996
LILY KING
I was dating a guy who was hard to read. The first real sign that he liked me, apart from the fact that he asked me out on dates, came when he pulled away from a kiss in his car and said, ‘I want to go on a road trip with you.’
We were in our early thirties, with jobs and rents to pay, but we were nomadic in spirit. Neither of us had ever bought a piece of furniture. What little we owned had been acquired from other nomads on their way out of town. We both wanted to be writers. We wrote in the mornings, and in the afternoons he coached crew at Boston College and I waited tables in Harvard Square.
Our first trip was to Provincetown, at the tip of Cape Cod. It was early spring, cold. We stopped at a beach and he pulled a fishing rod out of his trunk. We pawed at each other in the sand, everything brand new. That summer we drove to Maine to see my family, Cleveland to see his. Then, in October, we decided to go to Peru.
I had a good friend in Lima, someone I’d taught with in Spain a few years earlier. Marcy was teaching at the American school there and living with her Peruvian boyfriend, Leo. She’d been urging me to get down there for a while.
It was a good time to get away. I’d just finished another draft of my first novel. I needed to leave it behind and clear my head. When I got back, I’d have to decide if it was finally ready to try to publish. It was also a good time to figure out this relationship with Tyler. We’d been going out for eight months by now, but our feelings were nomadic, too, hard to pin down. Or at least hard to talk about. We were very similar. We were wary of commitment. We ached for new experiences. We feared routine, conformity, and, most of all, the end of our youth. Of course we didn’t say any of this – we didn’t know how. We barely knew it ourselves.
We took an overnight flight to Lima. Though there is only a one-hour time difference, it felt like six. My memories of Marcy’s and Leo’s apartment are dim: white walls, busy street. Tyler and I slunk off to our fold-out couch in their living room any chance we got. Neither of us had traveled in a while. We were out of practice.
They showed us all around the American school and took us to a few casinos. Marcy had many guidebooks. We plotted out our trip at their kitchen table.
On Monday they went back to work and we flew to Cusco, the Incan capital. When the flight attendant opened the door and depressurized the cabin, my lungs sucked up air in a desperation I’d never felt before. I could not get enough oxygen. Everything sparkled, grew gray, then slowly went back to normal. My heart was pounding. We’re at eleven thousand feet, Tyler told me.
We walked around Cusco slowly, pausing to gather strength at the bottom of the steep hills, stopping to catch our breath halfway. We drank mate, which was supposed to help with altitude sickness.
In the States I was broke. All my savings had gone into this trip. But of course I didn’t know broke, real broke. The poverty in Cusco was extreme. Children aproned us wherever we went, pleading with us to buy their packages of Chiclets or Kleenex. Once we stopped in an alley to look at a furry rug then moved on, and the woman folded it up in her arms quickly and followed us. No, gracias, I said. Lo siento. But she didn’t stop. She followed us moaning and weeping until we bought it.
We found a guide named José to take us to Pisaq, a town in a valley beyond the mountains to the north of the city, and to some ruins nearby. In Pisaq it was market day, with rows of tables of alpaca hats and paper fans, vegetables, fruits, and poultry. Small children in traditional clothing flocked to us, each with a puppy or two under bright cloaks. They wanted to pose for photos. José told me to buy a big bag of wheat muffins instead of giving them money. They took the muffins one at a time, gingerly, then disappeared. Tyler and I ate at a table at the back of the market: noodles with hot aji sauce and salty potatoes and stuffed peppers. Tyler drank chicha, a beer made from corn. José laughed as he explained that one of the ingredients of chicha was saliva, which served as an enzyme to break down the starch.
Amid the ruins José spoke passionately about the Incas and their beliefs. He told us they had symbols for time: the serpent for the past, the puma for the present, the condor for the future. On the way back to Cusco he pointed out the face of a mountain with Inca terraces and paths that formed the shape of a condor. People, he said, went to the foot of this mountain to die, to be closer to the talons of the condor which would carry them off.
From Cusco we took a train to Aguas Calientes. The seats bounced like mini trampolines. Tyler got into a conversation with a German woman about spirituality and the unconscious. Villages flashed past. We went inside a mountain and came out again. Enormous ice peaks appeared. Tyler and the German woman scrambled for their cameras but it vanished and we were inside a mountain again. I could hear the German woman tell Tyler that now was not the time to discuss her past lives.
Thoughts of the novel I’d written came to me in waves, like a disturbing scene I’d witnessed and could not forget. That novel had been my life for nearly six years. In that time, I’d moved from New York to Spain to California to New Hampshire to Massachusetts, but the novel had been my home. I’d had nine jobs and a few boyfriends, but the novel had remained steady. I didn’t know who I was without it. And yet I didn’t know exactly what it was. Was it any good? What if it stank and no one wanted to touch it? Would I do it again? Would I keep moving from place to place, keep switching jobs and boyfriends, keep waiting tables, smiling for tips, kowtowing to managers, overdrawing my bank account every month? My friends were starting to have real salaries. They were starting to send me wedding invitations. Some were even having babies. Their choices were incomprehensible to me. But my own were starting to feel incomprehensible, too: I was tying on a black apron every afternoon; I was sneaking mushroom soup and crème brûlée from the kitchen to the wait station when no one was looking.
Leaving your life, leaving the country, cracks you open. You start hearing a voice inside that you haven’t been listening to, or that you’ve been listening to so long that you no longer hear it. Mine was, I want. I want I want I want. I wanted so much. I wanted my own life of my own design. I wanted my own apartment (I couldn’t afford it – I lived with my sister and her boyfriend) and a dog. I wanted a relationship that worked, that lasted. I only half-believed that existed, and if it did, I wasn’t sure I was capable of it. I wanted to publish my novel. I wanted to begin my life as a writer, whatever that meant.
Tyler was struggling with the same questions. He was having similar thoughts about his writing, his job at BC, his future. But we didn’t talk about this. We were writers but we didn’t yet know how to say the most important things out loud. Since we’d arrived in Peru, we seemed to be not coming closer, not bonding as nomads, but moving apart from each other.
On the train I felt him getting dreamy and abstract, drifting farther away. If I weren’t there I wondered if he would go off with the German woman, learn about his own past lives.
Aguas Calientes sits at the bottom of a gorge. Mountains, the eastern edge of the Andes, bear down on the small village from all sides. We got off the train and I felt some sort of pul
l. I could instantly imagine staying here, teaching at what must be a tiny school, giving children more than change or wheat muffins. It was just a tourist spot, the only place from which to catch a bus to Machu Picchu, but I was entranced.
But within a few hours Tyler was sick. Very sick. The chicha, we decided. The saliva beer. All evening I went back and forth to the little store, for water and Gatorade (he was dehydrating from all the vomiting and diarrhea), for Tylenol (he was burning up), and anything else the woman at the counter told me would help. At one in the morning, I woke up the man in the room behind the front desk to ask for a doctor. I was scared. He’d gotten so weak so quickly. He was lying on the tiles beside the toilet bowl, pale green and slick with sweat. The doctor never came.
By morning the crisis had passed. He was not going to die. I was not going to have to call his mother from a payphone in Aguas Calientes and tell her that her son had died from drinking a foamy beer with spit in it.
At breakfast when the food came, the anxiety I didn’t feel the night before flooded through me and I had to leave the table. I walked around the square several times to get my heart rate down. The sun couldn’t get past the mountains. The whole town was cast in blue-black shadow. These mountains seemed sinister to me now. They seemed nearly alive and knowing.
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