by Anne Ostby
—
Ingrid had put her coffee cup down as she felt a ripple that started in her chest and spread through her body, a feeling she at last managed to identify: she was homesick, for a place she’d never been. From her hands holding the sheet of paper all the way up to her lips parting in a flustered smile, she yearned for Fiji. For Kat, the bird whose wings she’d only ever seen from below as she spread them out, soaring high up above.
—
She knows precisely the moment when the bird took flight. From a table in the shade outside Nilsens Café in Reitvik, one August day in 1965. The silence lay thick and perplexing across the table, but as usual Kat didn’t seem to notice the tense mood around her. Her dark, shiny hair cascaded down her shoulders and beckoned them closer, into a hushed circle of admiring moons orbiting the sun. What had she just said? Leaving tomorrow? India? Goa? Maybe Nepal or Sri Lanka?
Ingrid had looked around for help—did anyone else understand what was going on?
But Sina had sat quietly hunched over, her gaze empty and disinterested, in a world of her own—Kat might as well have said Mars or Jupiter as far as she was concerned! Lisbeth scrunched up her nose, as if she could already smell the unfamiliar spices and foreign-tasting food. Maya’s expression of disbelief had been combined with something else—was it the hint of a smirk? Something self-righteous and complacent she had taken out of the pocket of her sturdy brown skirt. The butterflies in Ingrid’s own stomach, which had been fluttering since Kat called earlier that afternoon and asked them all to meet at the coffee shop, turned into hissing, flailing bats. Where did Maya, who had been accepted only into a silly teachers’ college, get off looking so smug? Ingrid could easily have gotten a place there too, and Kat as well, if she’d wanted!
“Niklas has been to India before.”
Kat’s voice echoed from somewhere far away.
“The cost of living is low there, and it won’t be hard to find a job for a few days or weeks. He knows somebody in an ashram in Madhya Pradesh, who…”
As Kat kept talking, the words had rolled around in Ingrid’s head, forming meaningless patterns: ashram, meditation, yogi. She stared down at the table’s surface, one finger slowly tracing the rim of her coffee cup. The bookkeeping course she was about to start would guarantee her a job, no doubt. Enough money to live on her own eventually, security to take out a loan for a mortgage on an apartment in a few years. Close to the park, she imagined. Downtown, so she wouldn’t need a car.
“A one-way ticket,” Kat was saying. “Interrail through Europe, and after that we’ll hitchhike if need be.”
The silence around the table had continued. Lisbeth dangled a cigarette between pink fingernails. Sina wrapped her arms around herself, rocking back and forth inside the jacket that was far too large and heavy for the warm summer afternoon.
“Oh, come on! Be a little bit happy for me!” Kat’s smile was warm, broad, all-embracing. As always, it had won them over before they could even realize they’d had doubts. “The world is so much bigger than Reitvik! I want to see more of it!”
Something in Ingrid had held back. A knot had been tied in the enthusiasm that wanted to bubble up in her throat and fly out of her mouth like a sparkling balloon: “Of course! How wonderful!” Instead, she hadn’t been able to get the image of Niklas out of her head. His hair, longer than Kat’s, the laughter lines around his eyes that revealed he’d long since graduated into adulthood. He had traveled penniless around South America and seen more than they’d ever read in all their books combined. While they’d been making their little plans, this Swedish boy—no, man, he was nearly ten years older than them!—had worked as a fruit picker in New Zealand and a ski instructor in Canada. So this was what Kat wanted. She’d talked about “working for a year before I decide on college” but had never come up with any concrete plan as far as Ingrid knew. Not until Niklas had showed up earlier that summer, offering his services as a house painter and handyman. “He’s planning to go to Nordkapp,” Kat had explained, and sure enough, Niklas had vanished for a few weeks but had come right back. And here was Kat describing his next disappearing act, in which she would be taking part herself. “Mom and Dad are going to ask you,” she said, staring each one of them down in turn. “So you might as well tell them the truth: I really don’t know where we’re going.”
Her laugh had skittered like pearls over their empty coffee cups and crumpled napkins and made the soft-serve melt and drip from their cones. “Don’t look so sad, Ingrid,” she had said, putting her hand over her friend’s. “Just think of all the stories I’ll have when I come back!”
They had all nodded; Maya even choked out a “How exciting!” But Ingrid had only one thought: This, right here, is where it happens. This is where we go our separate ways. Teachers’ college in Hamar for Maya. Lisbeth getting married here in Reitvik. Sina, God knows what’s going on behind her sullen face. If she gets a job, she’ll probably stay here too. But Kat is leaving. The wind dies down. Our sails hang limp and aimless. The center dissolves into a million little dust particles and becomes an endless, dreary void. This, right here, is where we go our separate ways.
“Foolish,” was Kjell’s reaction when she told him about Fiji. “What are you talking about—have you lost your mind? You’re way too—”
He stopped himself in time, but Ingrid heard the word as it butted up against the inside of his lips. Old. You’re way too old. Her brother, only four years her junior, apparently felt qualified to decide what kinds of opportunities had expired for her. Moving to the South Pacific was obviously one of them.
She finished his sentence. “Too old, Kjell? Too old to do anything but sit at home and wait for my pension to come in? Catch Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune, and maybe go on a cruise to Denmark every once in a while?”
“What do you mean, there are plenty of other things…”
“Like what? A bus trip to Tallinn? Going to Sweden once or twice a year with you to buy cheap meat? Perhaps be crazy enough to accept a tandem skydive as a seventieth birthday present?”
“Okay, but…the South Pacific, Ingrid! What do you know about that? And you haven’t seen Kat in…I don’t know how many years?”
What do you know about the South Pacific? she wanted to ask, but didn’t. Kjell knew very little about anything at all, truth be told. Except hunting dogs. And car tires. As purchasing manager for a tire company, there was hardly a detail about vulcanization, tread depth, and balancing he didn’t know by heart.
And she really did know a lot more about Fiji than he did. The very same night the letter arrived, she’d searched the Internet. She found out the country’s population (under a million), the number of islands (one hundred or so inhabited, more than three hundred total), the ethnic background of the population (around 40 percent of Indian heritage, the rest of Melanesian descent), their religion (Christian, largely Methodist; Hindu; and some Muslim), the major industries (tourism, sugar production, copra). “Quite a bit,” she could have replied to her brother. But he didn’t wait for a response.
“This isn’t like you at all, Ingrid! To just throw your whole life out the window, it’s totally…irresponsible!”
Couldn’t he hear himself talking? Who on earth did he think she was responsible for, besides herself? Kat’s words danced in front of her eyes. Leave behind everything that didn’t work out! Take with you everything that still matters!
“I’ve always taken care of myself, Kjell, and I intend to keep doing that. I’ve paid off my mortgage, and I have enough in the bank to buy a return ticket whenever I want. What are you getting so upset about—can’t you be happy for me? Don’t you think I deserve a little dark chocolate and coconut? Haven’t I eaten enough boiled potatoes and herring in my life?”
Her brother’s glazed-over look showed her that he understood nothing—boiled potatoes and herring, what was she talking about? He ran his fingers through his thinning hair and tried another approach: “Well, what about us? The boys—Simon and P
etter are going to miss you so much! And Arve too,” he added hastily, like a caboose attached to the end of a long line of train cars. “He’ll think you’ve gone insane!”
Ingrid had trouble imagining that her absentminded youngest brother would have an opinion on her sanity, either way. Arve had plenty of experience of being judged himself. A fond image of him flashed through her mind, the shapeless baseball cap, the blue jeans and zippered brown jacket. The apartment near the university, with the empty fridge and full bookshelves, where one might find a pair of glasses in the freezer or a two-week-old sandwich next to the computer screen.
“Arve has enough to worry about with himself,” she said, watching the vein bulge through the thin, freckled skin of Kjell’s forehead.
“But what kind of security will you have for the future, have you thought about that? What if you get sick, what if you—”
“…die over there?” She gazed at him calmly, not letting herself get upset, keeping her voice soft. “Then they’ll sing for me and bring straw mats to my house.”
It’s not hard to build a routine when you’re starting from scratch. Ingrid has never lived on a cocoa farm, but neither have any of the others, which means all roles are technically available. Kat and Niklas bought the property only six years ago, and they had just started to get the hang of running it before Niklas’s terrible accident. Kat says very little about what happened, Ingrid doesn’t know any details. Maybe the wound is just too fresh and raw? The only thing Ingrid knows about it is that Kat wasn’t there at the time.
Mosese, who manages the plantation, has oversight of its daily operations, as he did under the previous owner. “Niklas always followed close on his heels. Everything he knew about cocoa, he learned from Mosese,” Kat has explained.
But she doesn’t seem to share Niklas’s keen interest in the farm, Ingrid thinks to herself. Wasn’t it she who wrote so enthusiastically in the letter about daring to try something new? To start producing chocolate?
When Mosese comes by once or twice a week to report on the progress of the crop, Kat rarely goes out to greet him of her own accord. And the aging manager never walks up the four steps to the front door uninvited; he waits at the bottom of the porch until someone appears. Sometimes Ateca comes outside; other times she spots Mosese through the window and shouts loudly: “Madam Kat! Mosese is here!” This is followed by the sudden peal of laughter Ingrid still hasn’t gotten used to: a laugh that seemingly bursts out without cause and that can last for several minutes. She’s heard it on other occasions too: among the women selling the pointy brown tavioka roots by the side of the road, among Mosese’s daughters when they sit outside the house at night. A group of kids walking by—the laughter can suddenly strike them and explode into loud roars that leave them gasping. Hands slap against thighs and tiny bodies are brought to their knees in glee.
Ateca’s laugh is not meant for an audience, as far as Ingrid can tell, and it erupts spontaneously without her being tickled or hearing a joke. Maybe Ateca simply has a certain amount of laughter stored in her body that must be released every day, like some people have an unwanted excess of stomach gas? Or is it a kind of tic over which she has no control? Ingrid adds “Find out why Ateca laughs so much” to the list of things she doesn’t know about Fiji.
—
Since Kat shows only a minimal interest in Mosese’s stories about fungal diseases, rodents, and fertilizer costs, Ingrid quickly becomes the one who often chats with him on the porch when he stops by. Sometimes she accompanies the sinewy, bowlegged man over to the plantation to inspect an especially promising cluster of yellowish cocoa pods, or to sigh with worry when he shows her a larva attack. Not that she can contribute in any way beyond mere interest, but each afternoon walk in the green, humid cocoa forest infuses her with sweet drops of happiness that flow through her veins, washing away the nauseating office coffee that sloshed around inside her for so many years.
—
Another thing Ingrid gains from her early days in Fiji is a new appreciation for her feet. Large and solid, they’ve always fulfilled their primary duty: to keep her steady and upright in size 12 shoes through autumn storms and other inclement weather. They’ve always been dependable, but she’s never quite liked their veiny, hairy look. The size of Ingrid’s feet always makes pedicurists consider raising their prices, and she’s never been able to persuade R. Lundes & Sons Shoes to carry a pair with a pretty gold buckle or an elegant ankle strap in her size.
By the front door of Vale nei Kat is a pile of rubber flip-flops. Indoor and outdoor pairs, with and without thongs between the toes. Ingrid has acquired three pairs: the first modest, black, and simple, the second orange with a hibiscus pattern on the soles, and the third a glamorous pair purchased last time they were in Rakiraki: broad silver stripes down either side, and on top, between the toes, a cluster of plastic jewels.
And Ingrid’s feet have grown determined to live a happier life, that much is clear. Her naked toes fan out joyfully, her footsole is snugly nestled into its rubber surface, oblivious to mocking stares based on its size. The foot spreads out in all directions, taking up its rightful space without shame. And it gets compliments! “You have nice feet, Madam Ingrid,” Ateca says one afternoon on the porch. Her smile always invites a smile in return; Ateca is missing a canine tooth in the corner of her mouth, the small black hole like a winking glance amid the row of white. She sits straddling the coconut grater, a useful little tool with four legs. It has a half-moon-shaped blade in the front, which she uses to grate the coconut flesh once the nut is cracked open. The strips of moist white meat fall into a bowl cradled between the soles of her feet.
Ingrid is taken aback: “Nice feet?”
Ateca nods. “Wide. You could easily hold on to this bowl with them, just try it.”
The sight of her feet gripping the metal bowl full of milky white coconut shreds makes Ingrid overflow with forgiveness. She forgives her feet for their inability to tiptoe down a flight of stairs, for having stuck her with the nickname Goofy in elementary school, and for never having learned to dance. Suddenly she sees her two robust anchors in a more generous light, showered in coconut milk and fully capable of learning new tricks. She smiles at Ateca, and is both prepared and surprised when the wave of laughter comes rolling in. For over a minute—closer to two, Ingrid later thinks to herself—Ateca laughs about Ingrid’s nice feet. And just like that, the retired chief accountant at the County Bus Service has become the regular coconut grater in Vale nei Kat.
—
In addition to helping Kat with the bookkeeping, of course. Putting her financial skills to good use is the least she can do, and Kat’s Cocoa is not a particularly complicated venture. The money generally moves in one direction: out. But the harvest is still several months away, and both Kat and Mosese assure her that the bitter cocoa beans will be worth their weight in gold when they’re fully dried. How much would they have to invest, she wonders, to expand to produce chocolate here, rather than just shipping the beans out?
As she sits at the desk in the office nook of the living room, ring binders spread out in front of her, Ingrid sees herself for a moment as a mixture of Karen Blixen and Ellen O’Hara. How silly—she shakes her head—she’s not in charge of a major plantation, and she’s yet to see any sign of Denys Finch Hatton. Still, there’s something vaguely romantic about it: the power that goes out for hours, sometimes days, the kerosene lamps always at the ready. The feeling that the wind and the rain hold the crops and thus the women’s fates in their hands. And Ingrid can tell that it’s not in the account ring binders but in the green shadows under the trees, with the trunks swarming with ants and spiders, that reality resides.
Don’t be dramatic, she scolds herself in these moments, you’re not the owner of the farm. This is Kat’s operation, and if anyone should be worried about fungus or cocoa beetles, it’s her. Or maybe Sina—Ingrid knows she was active in the gardening club in Reitvik for many years. Surely she knows much more abo
ut rot and parasites than Ingrid does. But there seems to be something holding Sina back. She greets Mosese politely enough, but doesn’t engage any further with him, and as far as Ingrid knows she hasn’t taken a single walk into the plantation itself. There’s something about Sina that still seems unpacked, weeks after her arrival. A hesitation on the doorstep, a decision she can’t quite make. I don’t know her, Ingrid thinks, and the insanity of it all washes over her: how could I possibly have thought this would work? Neither Sina nor Lisbeth, nor Maya when she arrives, is the same person she was in twelfth-grade English class forty-seven years ago. Nor is she, or Kat.
“And that’s why we are here,” Ingrid tells herself out loud.
To find what we need. Which might well be something entirely different from what we think we want.
—
“I wasn’t sure you’d do it, Ingrid.”
Kat’s voice comes from the darkest corner of the porch. The rumblings of the surf dragged back and forth across the ridges of sand are echoed by the rocking of the cotton hammock from side to side. The tiki torches, simple bamboo holders topped with oil-filled containers, flicker, the black smoke leaving a trace of firewood and Girl Scout memories on the tongue.
“Do what?”
Ingrid keeps her tone light; this evening on the porch invites small talk, not deep reflection.
Kat props herself up on one elbow in the hammock.
“Let go.”
“What do you mean?”
Ingrid doesn’t know if she’s more hurt or embarrassed. Why would it be so surprising for her to do something on a whim? Why should she be thought of as the sturdy, conventional one? Is it really so hard for Kat—for Kat of all people—to recognize Wildrid? To acknowledge that there is more to her best friend than common sense and practicality?