The Three Sirens

by Irving Wallace

  “Well, Marc,” she said happily. “Say something.”

  Say something! “Where in the hell did you get that goddam getup anyway?”

  Her smile fell away. “Why, I thought I’d surprise you—I asked Tehura to loan me one of her—”

  Tehura! “Take that goddam idiotic costume off and burn it, dammit.”

  “Marc, what’s got into you—I thought you’d—”

  “I said get rid of it. What in the devil do you think you’re doing? What are you turning into? I’ve seen it from the first day—first night—when you couldn’t show them your tits fast enough—and going around with that Courtney—talking sex, seeing sex, thinking sex—wiggling your ass at him and all the rest of them—asking for it—trying to behave like—”

  “Shut up!” she screamed. “Shut up, shut up, and damn you—I’m sick to the bones of you—of your prissiness, your prudery—sick of keeping it to myself—sick of being alone, untouched by human hands—sick of being unloved by my great big genius, my big athlete—I tell you—I—I—”

  She was breathless like someone struck. She stared at him, panting, hands turned into claws, wanting to tear at the humiliation of him, wanting to kill him and kill herself, wanting to cry and cry like an orphan child.

  She covered her eyes, and fought the sob. “Get away—go away from me—go away and grow up,” she said brokenly.

  He was shaking uncontrollably from her unexpected retaliation. “Damn right I’ll go away,” he said in a floundering voice. “I’ll come back when you’re yourself again, when you remember who you are and behave that way … Christ, I wish you could see yourself in that costume. If that’s your idea how to hold a husband—”

  “Get out!”

  Instantly, he left her, chased by her wrenching sobs all the way to the door. He stumbled into the compound, and, striding as fast as he could, he fled the shame of her.

  He did not know how long he walked in the semidarkness. Presently, he found himself near the Social Aid Hut, which was unlighted, and he coughed and expectorated in its direction, and then retraced his steps.

  Long later, he sat by a waning torch, across the stream from his hut, satisfied that he was too exhausted to be angry any longer. He sat and wondered what this hell-hole was doing to her and to him, and what would happen to them, and, more important, what would happen to him. He thought of the authentic Tehura, and he thought of his future, and as he so often had lately, he thought of the admirable Rex Garrity.

  Finally, he reached into the hip pocket of his slacks and drew out the soiled one-page letter he’d received two weeks ago. Garrity had sent it to him, care of General Delivery, Papeete. In a flamboyant hand, Garrity had reminded him that the visit to The Three Sirens could be the one chance of a lifetime. If Marc would consider selling some of the material that his mother did not need, Garrity would pay a large sum of money for it. Or, if Marc could think of something else, suggest some other arrangement, Garrity would cooperate in any way and be receptive to any proposition. “Marc, old boy, this is an opportunity to grab the gold ring, to join the celebrity circle, to escape the role of scholar peasant with frayed cuffs,” Garrity had written. “Keep in touch, and tell me what you think or ask me anything you like.” Within an hour of reading the letter in Papeete, Marc had replied to it in haste, but at length, with Matty-imposed restraint, but with many questions.

  He returned Garrity’s letter, the one magic scroll on earth that could obliterate Adley, Matty, Claire, and Nonentity, to his hip pocket.

  He stood up and inhaled the night air, and felt stronger. Claire would be drugged asleep by now. He would go to the front room, and begin a letter to Rex Garrity. Tomorrow was mail day. If Rasmussen brought in some further word from Garrity, the answers to the questions, then Marc would finish what he would begin writing tonight. He would finish it, and mail it, and do what he must do, and nothing would ever be the same again.

  He stared up at the vast sky above. Shake your goddam head, Adley, he thought, but I can’t see you, can’t hear you, don’t need you any more, because you’re dead forever and I’ll soon be alive.

  He started for the hut, already writing the savior letter in his mind.

  VI

  RESTLESSLY, Marc Hayden moved about the lofty, flat precipice that hung, like an observation point, over the village of The Three Sirens far below.

  Not since their arrival at this place, exactly two weeks ago, had he visited this rise, from which descended the path around the stone ledge to the rectangular community set deep in the long valley. Marching around the precipice, Marc had occasional glimpses of the shaggy miniature huts beneath the overhangs, of the gleaming ribbon of stream in the compound. By now, late morning, the compound was lightly populated, the usual animated brown dots of children, some women, no one else, for the men were off to their work, the adolescents in their school, the members of Matty’s team (not his team) sheltered with their pencils, tapes, and boasting informants.

  If the view from the high and isolated vantage point was beautiful, Marc was unaware of it. The village was there, but it was no part of him. Since the night, he had separated his identity from it almost completely. It was as remote and unreal as a color photograph in the National Geographic Magazine.

  For Marc, the village and its inhabitants were merely Things, accessories to aid him in his escape from an ancient and hated way of life. What was real, what was animate, what was even beautiful, was that Magna Carta of the soul—his private Declaration of Independence—enclosed in the right-hand pocket of his gray Dacron trousers.

  The letter in the right-hand pocket was only three pages long, and the pages and envelope were thin, yet they filled his pocket and body and mind with the displacement of—he tried to think of an accurate simile—of an Aladdin’s Lamp, ready to fulfill his Wish.

  He had stayed up most of the night, in the front room of the hut, composing those three pages to Rex Garrity in New York City. Most of his time had been consumed not with writing, but with plotting what he must tell Garrity of his intentions. When he had finished, he had gone to sleep easily and slept well for the first time in months, with the feeling of one who has done a day’s work in a day and done it properly, and has no remorse and infinite high hopes, and so can accept good sleep as a reward. He had ignored Claire’s lumpy outline on the sleeping bag, set his alarm, and closed his eyes and slept.

  When his alarm had awakened him, he had slept only three hours, and yet he was not tired at all. During breakfast, Claire had appeared, still wearing her night-before face. Her face was drawn and rigid, and her good morning curt and combative, while his own good morning was so slight and slurred as to hardly exist as a greeting. She moved about noisily, bumping, tramping, all obtrusive, demanding without speech but with an oppressive presence his attention and apology for his behavior of the night before. She had wanted to have it out and done with, the domestic band-aid of talk and more talk, to patch her wounds. She wanted him to mitigate his cursing and his rejection during the night hours, to save face by invoking the plea of drunkenness but yet to apologize, so that she could save face by agreeing it best be forgotten and their life together could hobble on.

  Through this silent sparring, and waiting out, he had given no ground. He had eaten in silence, and avoided her, simply because this morning she no longer had existence for him. His disinterest was total. In the night, he had grown, become the man he had always known he would be (and therefore a stranger to this woman), and he wanted no part of an old contract that he no longer need honor.

  He had fled his hut in haste—a great show of finding notebook and pen, to throw her off the scent, make her believe he was off to work—and with the letter to Garrity in his right-hand pocket, he had gone swiftly to the path that climbed out of the village and above it. He knew that he must not be late. His purpose had been to intercept Captain Rasmussen—it was Rasmussen day, mail day, supply day—before the old pirate got down into the village and to Matty. If there was a let
ter from Garrity, in reply to his own from Papeete, he did not want Matty to see it or know about it. He wanted the letter alone, early, for himself. Its contents would determine his final decision—to mail or not to mail to Garrity the statement of intentions in his pocket.

  He had sat for over an hour in the shade of the dense acacia, mulberry and kukui trees, a few feet from the path Rasmussen must take, nervously awaiting the bearer of his fate. Rasmussen had not appeared in that time, and Marc had restlessly left the cool rows of trees to rove the baking cliff nearby.

  Now, he had been moving about the precipice for twenty minutes, wondering if there would be a letter, if it would fulfill what he daydreamed, if he would have the nerve to reply with the letter in his pocket, until he realized that this exposure to the rising sun was unbearable.

  Slowly, wiping his face and neck with his handkerchief, he retraced his steps up the trail to the trees. The sloping path that led to the sea was still devoid of Rasmussen’s figure. Momentarily, Marc worried whether he had miscalculated the day or, if he had not, whether Rasmussen had been delayed or had postponed his mercy flight. Then he decided that he was being unduly anxious. Of course, Rasmussen would appear.

  Standing beside the path, Marc felt the bulk in his right trouser pocket. He extracted the unsealed envelope addressed to Garrity, and his spirits revived, and he slid the envelope back into its place. He squinted off once more—the path was still empty of life, except for two scrawny goats in the distance—and finally, he walked back to the coolest cubicle of shade he could find and dropped to the grass. He took out a cigar, and was hardly aware of preparing it and lighting it, as his mind returned to Tehura and what he had written Garrity of her and of her possible role in the decisive days to come.

  When next he looked at his wrist watch, it was nearly noon and he had been on his lookout for three hours. He lapsed back into his thoughts, and then into flabbier daydreaming, and had no idea how much more time had elapsed before he was aroused by the harsh, off-key sounds of someone whistling a seaman’s chanty.

  Marc scrambled to his feet—his watch told him it was past twelve-fifteen—and ran into the path. Twenty yards away, approaching him, was the glorious visitation of Captain Ollie Rasmussen, marine hat tilted back from his warped, stubbled Goteborg face, attire consisting of open worn blue shirt, filthy denims, tennis shoes as shabby as ever, and the mail pouch slung over his left shoulder.

  Drawing closer, Rasmussen recognized Marc, and waved his free hand. “Hiya, Doc. You the reception committee?”

  “How are you, Captain?” Marc waited nervously until Rasmussen had come abreast, and then he added, “I was up here hiking, and I remembered you’d be along today, so I thought I’d hang around and get a quick peek at my mail. I’m expecting something important to my work.”

  Rasmussen threw the pouch off his shoulder and dropped it to the path. “Sure somethin’s so important it can’t wait? Mail ain’t sorted.”

  “Well, I just thought—”

  “Never mind, there ain’t much to sort through anyways.” He dragged the pouch through the dirt to the grass, sat wide-legged on a coconut log, straightening the pouch between his knees. “Guess I could use a second’s breather.” He opened the pouch, as Marc hovered over it. Rasmussen sniffed and looked up. “You got another of them stogies, Doc?”

  “Sure thing, absolutely.” Quickly, Marc extracted a fresh cigar from his shirt pocket, and handed it to Rasmussen, who accepted it with a belch, and placed it beside him on the log. While Marc watched fretfully, Rasmussen dug his horny hand into the pouch, and produced a packet of letters bound tightly by a leather strap. He unbuckled the strap, then, muttering Marc’s full name, he went through the mail.

  At last, he proffered three envelopes. “That’s all there is, there ain’t no more for you, Doc—‘cept maybe some of the bigger pieces—but you don’t want them now.”

  “No, this’ll do,” said Marc quickly, accepting the envelopes.

  While Marc fanned open the envelopes, like a gin rummy hand, to note the return addresses, Rasmussen dropped his packet into the mail pouch, and concentrated on unwrapping and lighting the cigar. The first letter, Marc saw, was from a faculty colleague at Ray nor College; the second, addressed to Claire and himself, was from married friends in San Diego; and the third was from “R.G., Busch Artist and Lyceum Bureau, Rockefeller Center, New York City.” The last was Rex Garrity writing from his lecture agency offices, and Marc tightened with anticipation. Yet, he was reluctant to open the envelope before Rasmussen. The Captain still remained seated, sucking the cigar, bleary, alcoholic eyes observing Marc.

  “Get what you want, Doc?”

  “Dammit, no,” Marc lied. “Only some personal letters. Maybe it’ll come your next mail day.”

  “Hope so.” Rasmussen took a grip on the pouch, and came to his feet. “I better get crackin’. Wanna clean up an’ fill my belly an’ be sharp for the festival. Starts today for the comin’ week, you know.”

  “What? Oh, yes, the festival, I’d forgotten—I guess it does start today.”

  Rasmussen eyed Marc meditatively a moment. “Matter of fact, I’m rememberin’—Huatoro an’ some of the native lads met us down the beach when we come in—they’re cartin’ the supplies the short route—he said somethin’ about you—guess you’re the one—you enterin’ the swim competition today. Is that bull or the truth?”

  The festival swimming match, scheduled for three o’clock, had been the farthest thought from Marc’s mind. He was surprised by this reminder of it.

  “Yes, Captain, it’s true. I’ve promised to enter it.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? For the exercise, I guess,” said Marc lightly.

  Rasmussen pulled the pouch over his shoulder. “Want an old-timer’s advice? You can get better exercise bangin’ some of those Sirens broads, Doc—meanin’ no disrespect to the Mrs., understand—but that’s the real fireworks of the festival. I’m givin’ you the advice in the interests of scientific research. Jus’ keep it in mind if one of the maidens hands you a festival shell.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That’s what unties the grass skirt, Doc.” He laughed in a hoarse bark, coughed, removed the cigar, choking, and stuffed the cigar back between his discolored teeth. “Yeh, that’s what does it.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind, Captain,” Marc said weakly.

  “You bet your life, that’s what does it,” said Rasmussen. He started into the path. “You comin’ down with me?”

  “I—no, thanks, I think I’ll walk a little more.”

  Rasmussen had started moving away. “Well, jus’ don’t wear yourself out before the swim an’ you know what.” He barked his laugh again, and went trudging off toward the precipice.

  Briefly disconcerted by the Captain’s reference to the festival, Marc remained standing, looking after him. By the time Rasmussen had gone through the rows of acacia and kukui trees and reached the precipice, and then disappeared around the stone bend that led down into the village, Marc’s mind had returned to Garrity’s long, flimsy envelope.

  Hurrying off the path, into the shade across the way, Marc folded two of the envelopes and stuffed them into his hip pocket. Uneasily, he turned the Garrity envelope around, picked at the glued flap, and almost reluctantly tore at it, slitting it open with his forefinger.

  Carefully, he unfolded the four typewritten onionskin pages. With restraint, like a gourmet who would disdain bolting a long-awaited delicacy, he read the letter, word by word.

  There was the informal salutation, “My dear Marc.” There was the pleased acknowledgement of Marc’s hasty inquiry from Papeete. Then, there was the business at hand. Before reading it, and learning what his future could or could not be, Marc closed his eyes and tried to fix in his mind a portrait of the letter’s author. Time and distance and wish diffused memory’s picture: Garrity, blond, tall, lean, with his refined patrician Phillips Exeter-Yale features, the youngest juvenile of fifty on earth
, the doer, the idol, the succeeder, the glamorous man of action, the on-the-heels-of-Hannibal adventurer—he—the one—in some lofty tower of Rockefeller Center, at a golden typewriter, writing, “My dear Marc”!

  Marc opened his eyes, and read Garrity’s definitive statement of the business at hand:

  I want to remark straight off that I doubly appreciate hearing from you so promptly because I think I, alone, am attuned to your sensitivity, personality, and position. I know you are hobbled by innumerable restrictions. For one thing, your renowned mother, God bless her, who, for all her genius, has a narrow and pedantic view of the living, commercial world. Her rejection of me, her undoubted aversion to those of us in public communications and entertainment, is based on an outdated code of ethics. For another thing, you have been handicapped by being imprisoned so long in your mother’s world, the so-called “scientific” world of pedants. But you are of a new, more sophisticated generation, and, forgive me, Marc, but for such as you there is hope, nay not hope alone but vistas of glory. From my one private conversation with you at your home in Santa Barbara, for your championing of me before your mother and wife and the nearsighted Hackfeld, and, indeed, for your letter from Papeete that revives my faith in you and our relationship and future, for all of these reasons I see in you a New Hayden, a strong individual with his own ideas and ambitions, ready to go before the world and conquer it at last.

  As best I can interpret your few careful paragraphs, you speculate on the propriety of putting before the vast, general public the information you are garnering on The Three Sirens. You wonder if the material might not be misused and oversensationalized in the wrong hands. You wonder if any scientists, or anthropologists, have ever presented their findings to the nation in “the Rex Garrity manner.” You wonder about the true economics of the lecture circuit today, and you say, somewhat skeptically, you are certain I was jesting at your house when I remarked that proper presentation of The Three Sirens investigation and adventure could earn both of us “a million dollars.”