The Three Sirens

by Irving Wallace

  Somehow, Mary had always regarded it as an unpleasant experience that must be undertaken, sooner or later. The offer was the price youth paid to enter the grownup world. It was a giving-up. But Mr. Manao’s extraordinary promise that this was something to look forward to, something good and desirable, and necessary to “future health and pleasure,” had confused Mary entirely. Equally remarkable had been the instructor’s statements that there was an “art,” a “skill,” to it, to be taught like—well, like cooking or elocution. In Albuquerque, if you were a young girl, you just did it or did not do it, and if you did it, what happened and what was done was up to the boy and, in fact, for the boy.

  Mary realized that someone was touching her arm. It was Nihau. “School is over for today,” he said.

  She looked around, and all the others were standing, chattering, or leaving. She and Nihau were almost the last still seated. She jumped to her feet, and made for the door. When she was outside, she saw that Nihau was a step behind her.

  Instinctively, she slowed, and automatically, he accepted the invitation.

  As they crossed the grass to the village compound, he inquired anxiously, “Do you like our school?”

  “Oh, yes,” she replied politely.

  “Mr. Manao is a devoted teacher.”

  “I liked him,” said Mary.

  Her approval pleased the native boy, and he became more voluble. “Few can read here. He reads the most. He reads all the time. He is the only person among those on The Three Sirens who wears Western spectacles.”

  “Now that you mention them, I thought his wearing glasses was unusual.”

  “Mr. Courtney bought them for him in Papeete. Mr. Manao’s eyes were hurting because he read so much, and Mr. Courtney said that he needed spectacles. Mr. Manao could not go from here, so Mr. Courtney made measurements how far and how close he could read well, and two years ago, went with the Captain to Tahiti and returned with the spectacles. They do not fit exactly, but Mr. Manao can read again.”

  They had reached the first hump of wooden bridge, and Nihau waited for Mary to cross it, then followed her to the other side.

  “You are going to your hut?” he asked.

  She nodded. “My mother will want to know all about the first day of school.”

  “I should enjoy walking with you.”

  She was flattered, although still uncertain whether he was interested in her personally or in her foreignness. “Of course,” she said.

  They went slowly through the village, under the hot sun, with an adolescent shyness and ten inches separating them. She hoped to ask him about Mr. Manao’s last speech. She wanted to know, in more detail, what the class in faa hina’aro would really be about. Yet, embarrassment held her hundred questions down, pressed them inside her, like a big red cork.

  She thought that she heard a gurgling, and turned her head to see that he was trying to address her. “Uh—Miss Karpa—Karpo—”

  “My name is Mary,” she said.

  “Miss Mary.”

  “No. Mary.”

  “Ah—Mary—” The effort to bring himself to informality had been so exerting, he seemed to have no strength left for his question.

  “Were you going to ask me something, Nihau?”

  “Your school in America, it is like this?”

  “No. It’s completely different in Albuquerque. Our high school is tremendous, made of—of bricks and stones—with a first floor and a second above it—and hundreds of students. And many teachers. We have a different teacher for every subject.”

  “How good. The subjects are the same as ours?”

  She considered this. “Yes and no, I guess. We have history the way you do, except we learn about our country—the famous Americans—Washington, Franklin, Lincoln—and about the history of other countries, too—their kings and—”

  “Kings?”

  “Like your chiefs … We have handicrafts, too, the practical things, the way you have, and also languages of other countries. The main difference is that we cover more subjects.”

  “Yes, you are in a bigger world.”

  Trying to recall the other subjects that she had been studying in high school, she knew there was one that was not included. Here was an opportunity to gently remove the red cork of embarrassment and let several questions go out to him. The moment was appropriate. There was no shame in this. “One subject we don’t have, though. We don’t have real classes in sex education.”

  His face expanded with incredulity. “Is that possible? It is the most important of all.”

  A flag of patriotism flew above her, and she hastily qualified her original statement. “Maybe I’m exaggerating a little. We have some education, of course. We learn about lower animals—and about people, too—about planting a seed in a woman—”

  “But how to make love—do they not teach you how?”

  “N-no, not exactly,” she said. “No, they don’t. Of course, everybody learns sooner or later. I mean—”

  Nihau was adamant. “It must be taught in the school. It must be shown. There is so much. It is the only way.” He glanced at her, as they strolled past the Chief’s ornate hut. “How—how do you learn in your country, Mary?”

  “Oh, that’s easy enough. Sometimes your parents, or your friends, they tell you. Then, well, almost everybody in America can read, and there are millions of books that describe—”

  “That is not real,” said Nihau.

  Mary thought of the night before she had learned she was to come to the Sirens, the night she had gone to Leona’s birthday party. She had got drunk, instead of flirtatious, to show that she was daring, too, and afterwards, in the car, when they were off and alone together, Neal had wanted to do it, said everyone did, and she had not wanted to do it (because she was not truly in love with him and did not want a baby, and did not want it to get around, and was afraid). But so as not to be different, foolish, a child, she had let him put his hand under her skirt, briefly, briefly, hoping that would hold him. Thereafter, the boys had treated her better. Apparently, Neal had talked, had half-scored, and she was a possibility, more acceptable, and it would only be a matter of time. The time would be the summer, but it was summer and she was out of reach, and relieved.

  She brought her mind to her new friend. “There are other ways we learn,” she found herself saying. “What I mean is—well, sooner or later, everyone wants to, and it happens naturally.”

  “No good,” said Nihau. “Does a woman one day decide all at once to cook naturally or sew naturally? Never. She must learn first. Here love comes naturally—but only after learning—so it will not be clumsy and disappointing and all—all mixed up.”

  They had come to the Karpowicz hut, which was the last on that side of the compound. They left the heat of the sun for the relief under the ledge, and stopped before her door.

  She did not know what more to say. When she spoke, her voice was small. “Will—will all that be in the new class that starts tomorrow?”

  “Yes. I have heard of it from my brothers and my older friends. It is good. Much is taught.”

  “Then, I look forward to it, Nihau.”

  He beamed. “I am glad,” he said. “I am honored to know you. I hope we will be friends.”

  Leaving him, and the sun, she went into the dark interior of the front room, so filled with wonder that she was hardly conscious of her surroundings.

  In the passageway, near the earth oven, she found her mother kneeling over a bowl, slicing vegetables. Her mother looked up. “School is done already? How was it, Mary?”

  “Oh, all right. The same as home.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Nothing, Mom, absolutely zero. It was a drag, real dullsville.”

  She could not wait to be alone in her room. She had deep thoughts, and she wanted to explore them before tomorrow.

  * * *

  The moan of a patient behind one of the reedy walls had made Vaiuri, the medical practitioner on the Sirens, excuse himself
and scurry off, and Harriet Bleaska had what she supposed was the combination reception room and examination room of the infirmary to herself.

  She had been brought here a half-hour before by Mr. Courtney. On the way to the infirmary, Mr. Courtney had given her an idea of what to expect. A young man of thirty, Vaiuri by name, was in charge of the ramshackle clinic. He had inherited the post from his father, who in turn had inherited it from his father. As far as Mr. Courtney could ascertain, the health of the Sirens had always been in the hands of the Vaiuri line. Once, before the advent of the first Wright, there had been shadowy ancestors who were nothing more than witch doctors, naked Merlins, whose mana and incantations drove off the evil spirits. For medicine, those ancestors used the island herbs, sorting out the most effective through trial and error. Some practiced minor surgery with a shark’s tooth for a scalpel. It was Daniel Wright, bringing a medical manual that discussed “Small Pocks or Measels” as well as “Treatment of Wounds and Fractures,” a copy of Albrecht von Haller’s Elements of the Physiology of the Human Body (1766 edition), and a kit of medical instruments and supplies suggested by an assistant of John Hunter, who gave The Three Sirens an elemental representation of modern medicine.

  Actually, Mr. Courtney had told Harriet, Vaiuri was the first of his line to receive formal medical training. As a boy, he had accompanied Rasmussen to Tahiti for one month. Through Rasmussen’s wife, Vaiuri had met a native medical practitioner who had been to school in Suva. In return for a few artifacts, the medical practitioner had taught Vaiuri what he could, in his spare time those few weeks, of first aid, dressings, simple surgery, and something of personal hygiene and general sanitation. Vaiuri had come away with this skimpy knowledge, several hypodermic needles and drugs, and a practical pamphlet on medicine. Since he could not read easily, the teacher, Manao, had read the pamphlet aloud to him several times.

  Vaiuri had assisted his father in the infirmary, and upon the old man’s death had supplanted him, taking on two boy assistants as his own apprentices. In return for bartered goods, Rasmussen kept Vaiuri’s infirmary stocked with malaria medication, aspirins, sulfa, antibiotics, dressings, instruments. Much of the stock was wasted because neither Vaiuri nor anyone else on the Sirens had diagnostic knowledge or sufficient training to use medication properly. Mr. Courtney had admitted to Harriet that, on a number of occasions, he had tried to lend support to Vaiuri, based on what memories he had of forensic medicine in legal cases and on what he had learned of first aid in the army. Fortunately, Mr. Courtney had added, little trained help was required on the Sirens, because the natives were healthy and durable. Moreover, there had been no epidemics or plagues in their history, since they had not been sullied by germ-carrying outsiders.

  “Nevertheless, you can perform a great service here,” Harriet remembered Mr. Courtney telling her. “You can give Vaiuri a refresher, pass on to him what new knowledge you have, show him how to use his supplies. In return, you’ll be learning a good deal about their own methods of healing, their herbs and salves, and that should be useful to both Dr. Hayden and Cyrus Hackfeld.”

  Harriet had been in the best of spirits since her arrival—the hurt of Walter Zegner’s rejection had lessened with distance—but then, passing through the village with Mr. Courtney, nearing the infirmary, she had been fleetingly disturbed by the natives coming and going. They were all, at least the ones near her age, so attractive. She was sure human facades were admired here as much as at home. She would be recognized for what she was, the homely one, and again none would see behind The Mask. She had failed to escape, after all.

  This faintly dampening mood had hung over her for a portion of her half-hour with Vaiuri. He had turned out to be a fair-skinned, thin but solid young man, an inch shorter than herself, with muscles like steel cables in his arms and legs. His face had a hooked eagle look, but with no fierceness in it. Rather, he was a businesslike, benevolent eagle who was serious, dedicated, objective. Harriet had regarded his appearance as decidedly unmedical, mainly because she could not imagine a real healer dressed in a sarong (or whatever it was called) and sandals.

  With unhurried politeness, Vaiuri had discussed his work and problems. She felt his remoteness. She worried over his refusal to look at her as he spoke (blaming it, as she always did, on The Mask). Because she became insecure when those whom she was with were not responsive, she worked harder to draw him out. She tried, as best she could, to make it clear that she was prepared to surrender a degree of autonomy, offering friendship for consideration. Except for the occasional flicker of his steady eyes, and once a crinkle at the corners, Vaiuri’s demeanor remained aloof. However, he had shown real concern when one of his patients had made a cry of suffering, and he had hastened to the rescue, which she liked.

  Temporarily left to her own devices, Harriet rose and tried to smooth out her spotless white nurse’s uniform. She wondered if the uniform made her appear too formidable or if, in any way, it was impractical. Actually, she decided, what with the short sleeves and puckered seersucker texture, it hardly resembled a uniform at all. And the fact that she was barelegged and in sandals added to her informality. At home, the attire promised care and kindness. Here, the white costume was strange, and she could not imagine what it promised. Yet, while it was strange, it could be no more unusual to the villagers than Claire Hayden’s equally unfamiliar bright cottons. As to being practical, it was Dacron and drip-dry, so she could rinse it in the stream every evening. The important thing was that it made her feel like a nurse.

  She longed for a cigarette, but decided that would be improper on duty. Also, she wanted to show no disrespect for Vaiuri. She would have to find out if women were considered mannish if they smoked. Maud had warned them of slacks, and maybe cigarettes were the same.

  She noticed the large open square boxes across the room, and went to see what was inside them. They were filled with bottles and cartons of basic medicines, the labels on each container bearing the name of a Tahiti pharmacy. Crouching, she poked through the bottles, taking an inventory, and she was still doing this five minutes later when Vaiuri returned.

  Ashamed to be caught prying, Harriet leaped upright, a half-formed apology on her lips.

  “You are interested in my little collection?” Vaiuri asked with a trace of concern.

  “Forgive me. I shouldn’t have been—”

  “No, no. I am pleased by your interest. It is good to have someone—someone else—” His voice drifted off.

  “You’ve got a wonderful assortment,” Harriet said, hopeful that she had finally made some connection with him. “I see you have antibiotics, penicillin, disinfectants—”

  “But instead I still use herb leaves,” he said.

  She perceived an implied self-depreciation in his statement, the glimpse of a weakness that was the first gesture toward friendship, and she was grateful. “Well, of course, certain herb leaves have their—”

  “Most are useless,” he interrupted. “I do not employ the modern medicines often because I do not know enough about them. I am afraid to misuse them. Mr. Courtney has sought to help me, but it is not enough. I do not have sufficient training. I am merely one step ahead of my patients.”

  Her instinct was to reach out, with words or hand, and give him the assurance that she was here to help him. She did not do so. Reason restrained instinct: If American males resented knowledgeable females as threats to masculinity, the males of the Sirens might feel equally resentful. She held her tongue. Yet, how could she make her offer? He solved her dilemma for her.

  “I was thinking—” he began. He wavered briefly, and made the decision to go on. “I have no right to make a requisition on your time, Miss Bleaska, but I was thinking how much you could do for me, for the villagers, if you could find the energy to instruct me in modern—”

  All her warmth went out to Vaiuri for being more than so many American men she had known. “I want to,” she said fervently. “I’m not a physician, of course—I don’t know everythin
g—but, as a registered nurse, I’ve been in hospitals for some years, in many wards, and I’ve read a good deal, to keep up. Besides, I can always get Dr. DeJong to advise us in a real emergency. So if you forgive my limitations—yes, I’d love to do what I can.”

  “You are good,” he said simply.

  She wanted to make a curtsy to his maleness. “And you can do a lot for me,” she said. “I want to make notes on all your diseases, case histories of your patients, learn what I can of your—well, you mentioned herb leaves—I want to know everything about your native—local—medicines.”

  He inclined his head. “My time, apart from my patients, is entirely yours. My infirmary is your home. You must come and go as you please. For your stay, I will consider you my partner in this work.” He indicated a passage to the interior of the infirmary. “Shall we start now?”

  Vaiuri, walking softly, preceded Harriet into a spacious community room which held seven patients, six of them adults: two women, four men, and one little girl. The child and one woman were dozing, and the other patients were lying about listlessly. The appearance of a foreign woman in white brought them to reclining attention.

  Vaiuri led Harriet among them, pointing out several suffering from ulcerous sores, another with an infected coral cut, one with an arm fracture, two recovering from intestinal hookworm. The atmosphere of the humid room was that of a cellblock filled by torpid prisoners. As they left it, Harriet, who missed the sounds of radio or television, inquired, “What do they do with themselves all day?”