The Three Sirens

by Irving Wallace

  Tehura bowed her head to Paoti, uncrossed her legs, leaped gracefully to her feet, and ascended the stage to stand on one side of the dancer.

  Paoti was addressing Maud again. “And which female of your blood family do you designate to represent your party?”

  Maud pursed her lips, thoughtfully, and then she said, “I believe it best that I represent my family and our party.”

  “Matty, for Chrissakes—” It was Marc.

  “Don’t be foolish, Marc,” said Maud, crisply. “When your father and I were in the field, I engaged in similar rites on several occasions.” She addressed Paoti. “We are familiar with the rites of acceptance in all cultures. I once did a paper on the Mylitta, whose custom it is to receive a visitor by offering him one of their young women. When she gives of her love, she receives a coin, and after this exchange there is friendship.”

  Clumsily, Maud began to rise, when Marc restrained her. “Dammit, Matty, I won’t have you getting up there—we’ll get one of the others—”

  Maud showed her annoyance. “Marc, I don’t know what’s got into you. This is a tribal custom.”

  Dizzily witnessing the disagreement, Claire suddenly felt shame for her husband and for herself before the natives. She knew that she could not allow Maud to go up there and uncover her aged, pendulous bosom. She knew that she, Claire, Tehura’s counterpart, should enact the rite. The idea gripped her, and the kava and palm drinks swam beneath her, lifting her to her feet.

  “I’ll do it, Maud,” she heard herself say.

  Swaying, she had started for the platform, when Marc had grabbed for her, and missed, and fallen foolishly to the matting. “Claire, cut it out!”

  “I want to do it,” she called back, “I want us to be friends with them.”

  On the platform, she stumbled, finally taking her position on the other side of the motionless dancer. Briefly, she noted the ring of faces below, Moreturi approving, Marc fuming, Maud worried, Paoti and Courtney revealing no emotion.

  The tall dancer had moved to Tehura, and was slowly unwinding the tapa-cloth binder that covered her chest. The cloth ran out, was released, and fell to the floor. With the removal of the upper garment, Tehura’s breasts seemed to burst free. Claire tried not to look, but curiosity consumed her. She must know what Tehura, who knew of love, had offered to Courtney. From the corner of an eye, Claire inspected her opposite number, and she could see that the sloping, shining shoulders had kept their promise, as they blended without a break or crease into the two curved rises of high rigid breasts with their distinct red nipples.

  The dancer was facing Claire, and the moment had come, and to her relief Claire found that she was unafraid. And then she knew why, but before she could think about it, she realized that her attendant required help. The brown-skinned dancer had never been introduced to the mysteries of a Western dress. Claire nodded, understandingly, and reached behind her, unhooked the top of the yellow shantung, zipped it downward, and wriggled free of the upper half of the garment, which collapsed to her waist. She was wearing her new transparent lace brassiere, and she was glad of that. Quickly, she reached behind once more and opened it, and then she dropped her arms to her sides and waited. The attendant understood, immediately taking the loose straps of the brassiere and drawing them down Claire’s arms, so that the large webbed cups were pulled free of her flesh and she stood in nudity to the waist.

  When her white brassiere had been dropped away, Claire straightened to her full height. She could see Tehura, whom she had envied, staring at her with admiration, and then Claire knew why she was unafraid. In a world where protuberant mammary glands, their capacity, their contour, were marks of womanly beauty, she would seem highly favored. The size and arch and firmness of her breasts, the circumference of the brown nipples now soft, accentuated by the sparkle of the diamond pendant that had fallen into the deep cleft between, were her femininity, her advertisement of love. Thus revealed, she was no longer Tehura’s inferior, but her equal, and perhaps in the eyes of those below, her superior.

  The attending young girl had knelt, dipped her hands into the bowl, and brought up a warm oil. She poured some into Tehura’s open hands, and some into Claire’s, and then she signaled them to come forward, to meet over the friendship bowl. Tehura reached out, and lightly, she applied the oil over the tops of Claire’s breasts, and Claire, realizing this was expected of her, in turn smoothed the oil over the top portions of Tehura’s bosom. Tehura smiled and stepped back. Imitating her, Claire stepped back, too.

  The attending girl sang out a single word in Polynesian.

  Chief Paoti rapped his stick on the table, and trembled to a standing position.

  “It is done,” he announced. “We welcome you to the village of The Three Sirens. Henceforth, our life is your life, and we are as of one blood.”

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes later—it was almost midnight—Claire walked beside Marc through the village, darkened and asleep, the only illumination coming from the few torch stumps flickering on either side of the stream.

  Since she had dressed, and said her farewells, and since they had come into the compound together—Maud having lingered behind with Courtney—Marc had not looked at her or spoken one word to her.

  They went on in silence.

  When they reached their hut, she stopped and saw the ridges of anger in her husband’s face.

  “You hate me tonight, don’t you?” she said suddenly.

  His lips moved but no words came, and then they came in a shaking abrasive rush. “I hate anyone—I hate anyone who gets stinking drunk—and provokes a lot of filthy sex talk—and who behaves like a goddam whore.”

  Even in the cushioning softness of the night, the slap of his words stung and pained her through. She stood, weaving, ashamed of him, so ashamed of him. He had never, in almost two years of marriage, spoken to her with such unrestrained fury. Always, his criticisms had been controlled, and when they had been made, she had taken them with little contention. But now, in this terrible moment of the night, all that had happened, all that she had seen and heard and drunk, gave her support, an odd safe freedom to be herself for once, to speak her true feelings at last.

  “And I,” she said low and unafraid, “I hate anyone who is a shameful, dirty-minded prig.”

  She waited, breathless, expecting him to strike her. Then she knew that he was too weak for that. Instead, he shot her a look of loathing, turned his back on her, and slammed into the hut.

  She remained where she was, shivering. Finally, she fished a cigarette out of her dress pocket, and lighted it, and slowly, she walked toward the stream and then back to the hut, and then back and forth, smoking, remembering her life before Marc, remembering her life since, picturing Tehura with Courtney, reliving the rite of acceptance, then reviving old dreams and fond hopes. After a half-hour, she had calmed down, and when she saw that the lamps in their hut were all out, she started for the door.

  He had been as drunk as she had been, and he would be asleep. She felt kindlier toward him, and better about everything, and when she went inside she felt certain that they would both be sober and forgiving in the morning.

  IV

  CLAIRE HAD SLEPT as if in a deep pit, enveloped in black and deadened air, slumbering without the twisting or turning of partial wakefulness. What had brought her back up, at last, had been the thin stretching fingers of the new morning’s sun, groping through the cane walls, finding her, backing and warming her with their tips, until she had opened her eyes. Her left arm and hip felt stiff and bruised from the first night on the matted floor. Her lips felt cracked, and her tongue perched and swollen, and so finally, she remembered the events of the evening before. She picked up her wrist watch. It was twenty minutes after eight in the morning.

  Hearing footsteps, she rolled over, pulling down the nylon pajama top that had crept up on her—she remembered that, too—to the undercurve of her public breasts, and she saw Marc beside the back window, holding up an oval
mirror, meticulously combing his close-cropped hair. He was already dressed, sport shirt, denims, sneakers, and if he was aware that she was awake, he did not acknowledge it. For Claire, the invasion of the sun, the freshness of the day, the crispness of her husband, made the activities and talk of nine hours before seem distant, remote, improbable.

  “Hi, Marc,” she said. “Good morning.”

  He hardly took his eyes from the mirror. “You slept like a log.”

  “Yes”

  “Did you hear Karpowicz? He came around with a message from Matty. She wants us all in her office by ten.”

  “I’ll be ready.” She sat up, and was relieved that she had no hangover. “Marc—”

  This time he turned and acknowledged her, but about his lips, there was no yielding.

  She swallowed and wanted it over with. “Marc, I guess I was drunk last night. I’m sorry.”

  His lips let go slightly. “It’s all right.”

  “I don’t want to hate myself all morning. I—I’m also sorry about the things we said to each other.”

  He bent, and dropped the mirror and comb into the pile of his personal effects. “Okay, honey, let’s forget it, let’s just forget it. I didn’t say what I said. You didn’t say what you said. Clean slate. Only let’s—let’s both remember who we are, and not lower ourselves before anyone’s eyes. Let’s keep our dignity.”

  She said nothing, wishing that he would at least come to her and lift her up, and kiss her, only kiss her. He was at the door to the living room, and leaving her with no more than a pinned note of reminder.

  “Try to be on time, Claire. The weekend is over. We’re back at work.”

  “I’ll be on time.”

  After he had gone, she straightened her sleeping bag and his, observed that he had tidily set aside the clothes that he had worn and which were to be washed, and then, listlessly, she unbuttoned her tepid pajama top. She had no interest in her public breasts, but then she noticed that the diamond pendant still hung between them. She removed it, and knelt to put it in her leather jewel box. In this posture, she could not be unconscious of her breasts, and she looked at their white mounds and conjured up the male eyes—Moreturi, Paoti, Courtney (an American!)—that had seen them like this, and now, in the embarrassment of daylight, she felt truant and shameless. This moment, she did not blame Marc for his anger. She was a wife, an American wife—she had almost added “and mother,” but had not—and she had behaved, her first night out, like a nymphomaniac, well practically. Until now, she had trapped such outrageous behavioral fancies in her head, properly classified in the cabinet of shibboleths marked Strictly Brought-Up and Men Respect A Decent Woman, and Love, Honor, and Obey. Her restraining wall had been built up of Modesty, Decency, Chastity and one more brick—yes, Timidity. How and why had she brought it all down last night? She had been wanton, and now, as she reconstructed the restraining wall, brick upon brick, she did not see how she could bear to have Courtney or the others see her again. What must they think?

  She decided that she must make her shame clear to Marc, she owed him that. Then, as she rummaged through her clothes for the white blouse and white tennis shorts, she realized that she was always apologizing to Marc for something, for lesser stupidities, indiscretions of speech, memory lapses, omissions of behavior, and it was not pleasant, it simply was not pleasant, and not fair either, always to be on the defensive. But last night was no small thing, a special failure, and she would apologize more strongly the second that she saw him.

  She dressed quickly, and then, somewhat dragging, she made her way to the communal privy. She entered cautiously, and thanked the Lord only Mary Karpowicz, moody and monosyllabic, was there. After that, Claire walked slowly through the hot, marvelous sun to their hut. In the front room she did her toilet, and after making up her lips, she realized that someone, Marc or a native servant, had delivered a great bowl of fruit and cold cooked meat for breakfast, and near the bowl, piled high, their ration of canned foods and drinks. She ate sparingly, leisurely, from the native bowl, and when it was near ten o’clock, she went out into the bright village compound to seek Marc, tender her apology, and join the others in Maud’s office.

  Except for children at the stream, the immediate thoroughfare was deserted. There appeared to be some human activity, comings and goings, at the far end of the village, before the Social Aid Hut and school. Then, she saw the two figures before Maud’s hut, and one was Marc. He was deep in conversation with Orville Pence.

  Approaching, she wanted Marc to herself briefly, to tender the apology.

  “Marc—”

  He looked up, and suddenly, his face clouded. He touched Orville’s arm, and he came to her.

  “Marc,” she said, “I was just thinking about—”

  His hand cut her off”, sweeping downward before her, indicating her entire person. “My God, Claire, where the devil do you think you’re going?”

  Taken aback, her knuckles went to her throat. “What—what’s the matter?”

  He stood, hands on his hips, surveying her, shaking his head with exaggerated disgust. “Those damn tennis shorts,” he said, “look at them, right up to your crotch. What’s wrong with you? You know better than to wear shorts on a field trip.”

  She was too stunned by his criticism to fight back. “But—but Marc, I didn’t know—”

  “Of course, you knew. I heard Matty warn you and all the women in Santa Barbara. She’s always quoting old Kroeber—be delicate about the subject of sex, don’t wear shorts, don’t tempt the natives. You don’t listen to anyone, or if you do, you want to defy them. You seem set on breaking all the rules. Yesterday, you took care of sex, today you’re flaunting the shorts—what’s left? Sleeping with a native?”

  “Oh, Marc—” she said brokenly, tears welling. “I didn’t—I didn’t know. It seemed sensible in this heat. They cover me. They’re a hundred times more chaste than those grass skirts—”

  “You’re not a primitive, you’re a civilized American. That getup not only shows disrespect—the natives expect more of you—but it’s deliberately provocative. Now change, and better make it fast. Everyone’s in the office, waiting.”

  She had already turned her back on him, not wanting him to have the satisfaction of seeing her hurt. Without another word, she left for the hut. She walked on legs that felt wooden, despising herself for having intended to apologize and despising him for making every day impossible. Either he was getting worse, she told herself, or she was performing more poorly as his wife. It was one or the other or—no, there was a third possibility that seemed more accurate: the influence of The Three Sirens, from the morning it had entered their lives with the Easterday letter, to this moment in the compound of the village—it was to blame. The sorcery of the islands had acted upon him and upon her, brought out the meanest side of him, every weakness and defect, and brought sharper, ruthless vision to her, so that she saw him, his essential self, unretouched by her own guilts, and she saw herself more clearly, too, and their life, their little life together as it had been, as it was, and as it would be.

  Not until she arrived at the door of their hut did she fully defy him. Her shoulders went back, her breasts thrust against her blouse, and she was proud of last night. She hoped the men had looked hard and long. She hoped they had appreciated her. She was tired, tired, tired of being not enough, when she was so much, if only someone on earth would understand …

  When Claire returned to Maud’s thatched office fifteen minutes later, in the acceptable anthropological uniform of blouse and cotton plaid skirt, she found all but Maud on hand for the morning’s meeting. They were gathered about the room in clusters, Marc still with Orville Pence near the table desk, and around the benches and seated on them, the rest of the team. Animated conversations were going on.

  Ignoring Marc and Orville, Claire crossed the mat-covered floor to the group formed by the Karpowiczes and Harriet Bleaska. They were discussing the feast they had attended the night before, g
iven by the native woman, Oviri, a close kin of Paoti, who was in charge of the forthcoming festival week. They were engrossed in recreating a historical pantomime they had witnessed, and Claire slid away and sat down beside Rachel DeJong and Lisa Hackfeld on the far bench.

  So distraught was Lisa that she hardly greeted Claire, although Rachel winked at her pleasantly. Claire tried to pick up the thread of Lisa’s aggravation.

  “—know how upset I am, how much it really bothers me,” Lisa was saying. “I had personally packed the full six-week supply of those precious bottles, wound them round with cotton batting—”

  “What bottles?” inquired Claire. “Scotch?”

  “Much more important,” said Rachel DeJong, making a good-natured grimace at Claire. “Poor Mrs. Hackfeld brought along a supply of peroxide and blond rinse, and when she went through the crate this morning, she found every bottle smashed.”

  “Gone, all of it gone,” groaned Lisa. “And no one has anything suitable to loan me. I could weep. I don’t know, Claire—may I call you Claire?—maybe you have something—”

  “I wish I did, Lisa,” said Claire, “but I haven’t a dram of anything.”

  Lisa Hackfeld wrung her hands. “Ever since I’ve—since I’ve grown up—I’ve used hair coloring. I’ve never been a week without it. Now what’s going to happen to me? In a couple of weeks, it’ll all be natural. I’ve never seen myself that way—Jesus, suppose I have some gray hairs?”

  “Mrs. Hackfeld, there are worse fates,” said Rachel with reassurance. “Many women think it smart to prematurely gray their hair.”

  “You can do it when you don’t have to,” said Lisa, “but when maybe you have to, that’s another thing.” She caught her breath. “I’m not an ingenue any more,” she said. “I’m forty.”

  “I can’t believe it,” said Claire.

  Lisa stared at her with startled gratefulness. “You can’t?” Then she remembered, and said bitterly, “You’ll believe it in a week or two.”