Visitants

by Randolph Stow

  OSANA

  That evening they made a great feast in the village, and Mister Cawdor and Mister Dalwood sat beside Dipapa on his platform and had every kind of food brought to them. Mister Dalwood ate sago dumplings and yams and taro and mangoes and bananas and nearly everything that there was, except pig. Mister Cawdor only chewed a piece of sugar-cane, which would have hurt the feelings of the people if they had not had so much pleasure in feeding Mister Dalwood.

  Some of the people were eating boiled bats. Benoni brought one to Mister Dalwood on a leaf, but Mister Dalwood said: ‘Thank you, no.’

  ‘You do not eat bats, taubada?’ I said.

  ‘No,’ said Mister Dalwood. ‘But once, with the black men in Dimdim, I ate a goanna.’

  After that I did not feel hungry for a long time, thinking of Mister Dalwood’s disgusting customs.

  When Mister Cawdor saw that there was no hope of putting more food into Mister Dalwood, he got down from the platform and said goodbye to Dipapa. This caused Dipapa to wake, and to say that he was enjoying Mister Cawdor’s talk. Then Dipapa held out his hand to Mister Cawdor, and Mister Cawdor shook it and looked shy, more like a boy than a patrol officer. I thought that time: It is not only me, it is not only black men, it is everybody who is careful of Dipapa. Dipapa looked straight into Mister Cawdor’s face; but Mister Cawdor never looked really at Dipapa, his eyes wandered away.

  Afterwards we all went back to the resthouse, a great crowd of people, and especially a great crowd of girls, who crawled underneath the house and peered through the cracks in the floor, waiting for Mister Dalwood to take a shower. All the afternoon they had been talking about it, and they had hung the bucket-shower in a good place and filled it with water scented with flowers and sulumwoya. But Mister Dalwood sat down at the table on the veranda with Mister Cawdor and began to drink rum and would not take off his clothes. So the girls were bored, and started to sing, underneath the house, the song that they sing everywhere.

  ‘Men’s custom is this,

  Men’s custom is this,

  When they see a hole

  They have to fill it.’

  And the men, on the grass and on the veranda, sang back:

  ‘Women’s custom is this,

  Women’s custom is this,

  When they see a banana

  They have to swallow it.’

  Mister Dalwood, who seemed to be drunk, but he often seemed to be drunk without drinking anything, sang this song with the men, and Benoni, who was sitting at his feet, looked ashamed. I knew what Benoni was thinking. Because it happens to everybody, that one day they meet a Dimdim and think: At last, here is a Dimdim that is kind and clever and cheerful and will be like my brother to me. And always the Dimdim turns out to be the same as the rest, only an ignorant person after all.

  The idiot Kailusa was one who never learned better. He was old enough to be Mister Cawdor’s uncle, and that is what he was like: like a hunchbacked uncle with a handsome nephew. There was nothing in his mind but Mister Cawdor who never saw him. On the table where Mister Cawdor and Mister Dalwood sat that night was a wooden bowl, that went everywhere with Kailusa. In the bowl were the best flowers Kailusa could find. It was like a piece of Mister Cawdor’s home, that travelled with him, whether he noticed or not. So Mister Cawdor dropped his cigarette butts among the flowers, because that was his custom, whether he noticed or not.

  The flying ants swarmed in towards the Tilley lamp. Mister Cawdor and Mister Dalwood and Benoni were brushing ants away from their faces, and ants were burning and falling back from the lamp on to the table, with a bitter smell. Suddenly Biyu came running, all important, in his Hawaii shirt. Nobody wanted him or noticed him, but he came running, carrying an enamel basin full of water. Biyu unhooked the lamp and stood it in the basin, and ants began to fall into the water and to drown.

  ‘What’s happening to the light?’ Mister Dalwood said, not bothering to look.

  ‘Biyu’s making an ant-trap,’ said Mister Cawdor.

  ‘Biyu?’ Mister Dalwood said. ‘Is he still about? I’m sick of being surrounded by Biyu.’

  Soon the water in the basin was like one crawling heap of ants, and Biyu set fire to a piece of newspaper and began to burn them.

  ‘What’s that stink?’ Mister Dalwood cried, jumping up from his chair. ‘Biyu! Go and talk to some maries, we don’t want you here.’

  So Biyu put out the fire, looking ashamed, and went away, and Benoni also looked ashamed because of his friend Mister Dalwood’s bad temper.

  ‘He was trying to be useful,’ Mister Cawdor said.

  But Mister Dalwood muttered angrily: ‘I’ll have to get rid of him. He can’t do anything right.’

  ‘You’re in a sweet mood,’ Mister Cawdor said. ‘Why don’t you go to bed?’

  ‘If I’m in a sweet mood,’ Mister Dalwood said, ‘you can bloody well lump it. I put up with plenty from you.’

  When Mister Dalwood was bad-tempered, it always made Mister Cawdor more cheerful, and he laughed and pushed the bottle towards Mister Dalwood. ‘Enjoy yourself,’ he said; ‘rot your stupid brain,’ and Mister Dalwood poured more rum.

  Then Benoni got up from where he was sitting and stood behind Mister Cawdor’s chair, leaning to whisper in his ear. Mister Cawdor seemed surprised, and his face turned, looking out from the lighted veranda to the darkness where all the people were. He spoke quietly to Benoni, and Benoni, also looking at the darkness, raised his arm and beckoned. Six or seven men came out of the clearing behind me, and mounted to the veranda and squatted at the Dimdims’ feet.

  BENONI

  Misa Kodo, seeing the old VC among the men, said: ‘O, Boitoku, what is this trouble that makes the minds of the people heavy? While he spoke, he and Misa Dolu’udi were both watching Metusela, who had come after the men into the light, and was standing in the grass by the corner of the veranda. The two Dimdims, and especially Misa Dolu’udi, did not seem to be able to move their eyes from the madman, though he was doing nothing, only standing there and listening. Misa Kodo, I saw in his face was thinking more about Metusela than about his words to the old man, and Misa Dolu’udi looked as if he would shout at Metusela to go away.

  Boitoku was shy, and played with his badge. ‘It is difficult, taubada,’ he said. ‘Taubada, let Benoni speak.’

  ‘Well, Benoni?’ Misa Kodo said.

  ‘It is a question, taubada,’ I said. ‘Taubada, the war of the Dimdims with the people of Yapan is finished, isn’t it?’

  ‘E,’ Misa Kodo said. ‘Fourteen years ago.’

  ‘You see,’ I said to Boitoku, ‘I did not talk gammon.’

  ‘Good, then,’ Boitoku said with a shrug. ‘I was wrong. I have not been to Manus.’

  ‘Therefore,’ I said, ‘it is not a war-machine.’

  Misa Kodo was still watching Metusela. ‘What do you say, Beni?’ he said. ‘What is not a war-machine?’

  ‘The star,’ I said. ‘The star-machine.’

  Misa Kodo turned and stared at me, with great eyes. ‘The star-machine?’ he said. ‘What is that, a star-machine?’

  ‘It is like a star,’ I said, ‘at first, when it is far away in the sky. But when it comes close, it is a machine. With the brightest light, taubada, and people. Like a plane, taubada, but it is not a plane.’

  It was very extraordinary to see Misa Kodo’s face. What was in his face was like joy.

  His voice was strange too, with joy, or excitement. It was quiet, and as if his throat was tight.

  ‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘Speak, Benoni.’

  ‘It comes in the night,’ I said. ‘It came eight nights ago. Then it came six nights ago. It comes from the north-east, and it is like a star, but it moves like a feather. Sometimes it falls, sometimes it climbs. But always it is very fast.’

  ‘Ki,’ Misa Kodo said, very quiet. ‘Go on.’

  ‘The first time,’ I said, ‘it came down out of the sky over Darkness-of-Evening, in the middle of the village. It had windows with lights, like a
steamer. Suddenly a very bright light came out of it, like the sun. It was like daytime, taubada, in the village. All the people ran to their houses and peeped out at it. We saw men, taubada, looking at us from the windows. Then the big light went out, and the machine flew up into the sky and became a star again.’

  ‘And the look of it?’ Misa Kodo said. ‘What is it like?’

  I made the shape of it with my hands. ‘Like you said, taubada. Like a tobacco-tin, that flies.’

  ‘And the second time?’ Misa Kodo said.

  ‘That time,’ I said, ‘these five men here were coming home from fishing, in the dark. They were on the path near the stones, taubada, and carrying torches. I think the machine saw the flames. It came down over their heads and turned on its light and followed them when they ran. It chased them along the path, taubada, till they were near the village. Then it went dark, except for the windows, and flew away like a star.’

  ‘And you saw people?’ Misa Kodo said, gazing at the five men. His face was moved, he was suddenly like a child. ‘In the star-machine, you saw people?’

  The men began to stir, and murmur, and laugh uneasily. ‘We were very frightened,’ one of them said, and then they all laughed, ashamed of their fear. ‘We saw nothing,’ another of them said, ‘only the light. Taubada, the fear was very great.’

  ‘E,’ Misa Kodo said, nodding. ‘The fear, it would be great.’

  ‘But the first time, taubada,’ I said, ‘we saw people. Their heads and their shoulders and their arms. They were watching us, two or three of them, in the belly of the machine.’

  Then Misa Kodo said: ‘Tim!’ and Misa Dolu’udi looked round from watching the madman. ‘Tim!’ cried Misa Kodo, and he began to talk in English very fast, sometimes laughing in his excitement, and Misa Dolu’udi’s strange blue eyes got big, and he began to laugh and chatter too. They kept saying to each other: ‘Boianai,’ which is a place in Kinana or Numa where some Osiwa men used to go. They kept saying it over and over again, ‘Boianai!’ and Misa Kodo sounded full of joy. But Misa Dolu’udi, though he was excited, shook his head sometimes, and said: ‘It can’t be.’ When Misa Dolu’udi said that, Misa Kodo cried out: ‘It is, it is,’ sounding passionate, and then spoke some more, very fast.

  At last Misa Dolu’udi said: ‘Then aren’t you scared?’

  ‘No, no,’ Misa Kodo cried. ‘Oh Christ, no. Don’t you see?’

  ‘It can’t be,’ Misa Dolu’udi said again, and shook his head.

  While the Dimdims were talking to each other, the rain began. One minute there was no rain, the next minute it broke like a wave. Metusela and Osana and all the people outside on the grass groaned and muttered and ran away. Soon there were only we few men on the veranda, and the chattering Dimdims.

  ‘Taubada,’ I said to Misa Kodo, ‘what is the machine?’

  ‘What?’ he said, and it was as if he had forgotten that we were there. ‘Oh. Well, truly, Beni, I do not know. I think it is a machine of the Americans, or perhaps of a people whose country is called Russia. I think it will not hurt us. I think they are benevolent, those people.’ And then he went on, talking quicker and louder and more excited: ‘If it comes again, run to me, tell me. I want to speak with those people. It is my very strong desire. If I talk with those people, my joy will be great, very great.’

  ‘Then,’ I said, ‘even you, even the Dimdims, do not understand this machine.’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not even I.’

  ‘They are not Americans,’ I said. ‘You talk gammon, taubada. They are people from the stars.’

  ‘I do not know,’ he said. ‘I will not say. I am an ignorant man too, Beni. Like all the men in the world. We live on the world like an island. Who can say he has seen every ship that sails on the sea?’

  ‘You have lied to me, taubada,’ I said.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I have said I am an ignorant man, and that is the truth.’

  Then he got up from his chair, full of restlessness, and said: ‘My friends, let us talk again tomorrow. Now I want to be alone. My very great thanks.’ He stood by the table looking down at us, with his eyes wide and his face moved and dark, and he said those words as if he believed what he said. ‘My very great thanks.’

  DALWOOD

  Now they are going to read from the book, where he slashed in the margin with a thick blue Department of Territories pencil.

  He had the pencil stuck behind his ear. He lay reading, quiet in the bedroom, while I, at the table on the veranda, sat on alone, wondering what was in the business to stir him up like that. Him that I’d called anaemic because nothing thrilled him. I sat listening to his silence and the rain, measuring the time by the rum in my china mug.

  The rain was a bead-curtain in front of the veranda. It drummed on the thatch. Suddenly two girls, hung with flowers and gasping, burst from the darkness and threw themselves on the boards near my feet. They crouched there, dripping and shining, and nodded to me casually, as if we were all where we belonged.

  ‘What do you want?’ I said.

  But they didn’t understand, and only smiled in a businesslike way.

  ‘Alistair,’ I called out, ‘there’s a pair of females here. What do I tell them?’

  ‘Tell them you’re engaged,’ he called back.

  ‘You talk to them. Say it’s time they went to bed.’

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Are you ready?’ And while I jerked my thumb towards the wall, his voice came over it: ‘O, vivila! A doki tuta bu ku masis’.’

  The women looked at each other, and then at me. And one of them said, shyly. ‘Ambesa magim bi ta masis?’

  The translation came over the wall, deadpan. They say: ‘Where would you like us to sleep?’

  ‘With your mother,’ I shouted, standing up and pointing at the rain. ‘Ku los’. Fuck off.’ Before they had moved I unhooked the lamp and went to the bedroom, leaving them alone with each other’s amazed faces.

  Alistair was laid out on one of the neat bunks that Benoni had had built for us, wrapped in a tatty red trade-store blanket with a black tiger on it, nearly lifesize. ‘What are you doing in that?’ I said.

  ‘Feeling cold,’ he said.

  ‘You’ll be happy in hell,’ I said. But as I undressed I felt that it was, after all, a little cooler, and the air was so heavy with damp that it seemed surprising that the lamps could still burn. I put out the one on my bunk, and the insects that had come in with me went over to him and battered at his book.

  ‘They’ve gone?’ he said.

  ‘I think so,’ I said. ‘They’re probably under the floor now, looking up my leg.’

  ‘Osana sent them,’ he said.

  ‘Osana did?’ I said. ‘You’re kidding.’

  ‘It’s not the first time,’ he said. ‘Haven’t you noticed? It’s part of the Oust Cawdor campaign. He tells them we sent him to make a booking. He even pays them a bit on account. Poor stupid maries, it’s rough on them. They arrive here all primed for an orgy, and you start screaming and abusing them.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry about that,’ I said. ‘I didn’t understand the situation. Do you feel like an orgy?’

  ‘Constantly,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve never had one,’ I said. ‘Why don’t we?’

  ‘That would be the happiest night in Osana’s life,’ he said. And he went on reading.

  ‘Hell, I didn’t mean it,’ I said. ‘It was just stupid talk. It’s this place, these islands. Everything’s sex.’

  ‘And yams,’ he said. ‘Sex and yams. I spent a long time learning the language before I realized that was all there was to talk about.’

  ‘I wish I was going somewhere tomorrow,’ I said. ‘I wish I was going to Paris, or Las Vegas, or Bangkok.’

  ‘You’re going to Obomatu,’ he said, ‘with me. To do a new census book, you lucky bugger.’

  I lay down on my bunk and watched him across the room. He had been reading most of the time when I was talking to him, but I was used to that.

  I su
ppose I was drunk, that must have been why I thought all of a sudden of a story I’d heard in Moresby, and it seemed funny enough to snigger at.

  ‘What appears to be the trouble?’ he said, not looking up.

  ‘Just a wet joke,’ I said. ‘There were these two troppo patrol officers living in a resthouse, week after week. One day a trader came to see them. “Tell me something,” he said, “what do you two fellas do about sex?” “About sex?” they said. “Oh, we lower the flag and have a glass of rum about sex.”’

  ‘Very good,’ said Misa Kodo, in the best Misa Kodo manner.

  I started to giggle, not because of the story but because of him. ‘You know this one?’ I said. ‘There were these two troppo patrol officers sitting in the middle of a village, and a pigeon flew over and dropped a turd on the head of one of them. The VC gets very upset about this, and he says: “Oh, taubada, I’ll go away and get a piece of paper.” When he’s gone, one patrol officer turns to the other and says: “That’s the stupidest kanaka I ever struck. By the time he gets back here with the paper, that bird will be miles away.”’

  ‘You’re a ball of fun tonight,’ Misa Kodo said. ‘It must be a riot, being two troppo patrol officers.’

  ‘Did you take the vitamin pills?’ I said. ‘No, you didn’t. Or the anti-malarial. That’s why you’re cold, you’re getting malaria, you stupid bastard. What have you eaten today?’

  ‘You’re pissed,’ he said. ‘Go to sleep. Let’s not have all that.’

  ‘I want to see you fit,’ I said.

  He looked up at me at last, calm. ‘I’m pretty fit,’ he said. ‘And I’m glad you’ve got Saliba. Because there’s something a bit sad about two troppo patrol officers worrying over each other’s vitamin pills.’

  ‘You’re not human,’ I said. ‘Okay. I don’t care if you live or die. Just leave a note that it wasn’t my fault, that’s all, on account of public opinion.’

  Then I rolled over and turned my back on him, and did mean to go to sleep. But he must have gone on looking at me, and at last his voice said, thoughtfully: ‘Tomitukwaibwoina yoku. You are a benevolent man.’