The Three Sirens

by Irving Wallace

  During the last of her introspection, there was a slight disturbance, and she realized someone was rapping at the door.

  Suddenly, she had misgivings about permitting him this final session. It would be an embarrassment for her. And for him. What did he have to say that could be so important? Well, there was nowhere to which she could retreat. Forcibly, she lofted herself to her high position behind the magic one-way glass, and prepared to live another’s life, keeping her own in safe seclusion.

  “The door’s open!” she called out.

  Moreturi came into the room, closed the door behind him, and his demeanor was respectful and friendly. None of the familiar self-assurance was evident, as he came toward her, tendering a half-smile.

  “It is kind of you to see me once more,” he said.

  She indicated the layers of matting beside her, “You said I had helped you, and women are nothing if not curious.”

  “Should I lie down as before?”

  “By all means.” She watched with fascination the shiftings and displacement of his muscles beneath his tan skin. He stretched himself to a comfortable position on the matting, adjusting the cord that held his white supporter.

  For Rachel, the situation in this room, the patient reclining on the couch, the therapist seated on the floor next to him, made their nocturnal encounter unreal. She had been on her back in the dark, and he had been above her on his knees, naked and passionate, and she had allowed him to remove her wet nylon panties, and later, half in the water, she had done crazy things, said crazy things, and now they were six days away from that and a million feelings apart, and she wondered if he was remembering it also.

  “Do you want me to talk?” he was asking.

  God yes, talk, she wanted to shout. She said, “Please tell me whatever you have on your mind.”

  He turned his head toward her. “I am in love, at last, Rachel,” he said.

  The pulses in her wrists jumped, and her throat constricted.

  He continued speaking directly at her. “I know you have always regarded me like a man-child, but now I know I have more depth. There is a deepness in me since the festival began. Should I tell you?”

  “If—if you feel—”

  “I will tell you. You are the only one I can tell this to, because of our intimacy. When I invited the one i speak of to go with me, in the canoe, across the channel, it was only a lark. I confess it. My feelings were not deeper. She resisted me a long time, turned me aside, and I wanted to show her she was as human as me. Also, one enjoys a woman who resists—”

  Rachel’s cheeks were crimson with humiliation. She had the impulse to slap him.

  “—but after the swim, when she gave herself to me, something happened. It had never been like that before between myself and a woman. It was not only below that I felt love, but here, too.” He touched his heart. “For once, I was loved as I loved another. This woman who appeared so cold was heated. I was never happier.”

  She wanted to leave her high throne, kneel over him, kiss him for his sweetness. She wanted to envelop this good person with her gratefulness.

  “Rachel, I have thought of what you have said to me and done for me,” he went on. “I now see my problem is solved. I will pledge eternal faithfulness, except for the one week of the year that is our custom, and I will be a true husband—”

  Rachel’s joy turned to alarm. Blindly, she reached out and took his hand. “No, Moreturi, not another word. You are one of the kindest men I have ever met. I’m terribly moved. But a single night, one affair, is no basis for an enduring relationship. Besides, we are worlds apart and it simply would not work. You’ve done more for me than I’ve done for you, believe me, but I could never—”

  “You?” he said. He sat up with astonishment. “I do not speak of you. I speak of Atetou.”

  “Atetou?” she gasped.

  “My wife. I took her to the atoll last night, and we are changed. There will be no divorce.” He peered at her, and saw that she was unable either to close her mouth or speak. “Forgive me if—” he began.

  “Atetou!” she repeated shrilly, and she wrapped her arms around herself, and rocked not with mortification but delight. “Oh, my God!”

  She began to giggle, and then to laugh, the laughter erupting from her chest and throat. “Oh, Moreturi, this is too delicious!”

  She was chortling like a mad fool. She shook with mirth, her entire body convulsed.

  She found him beside her, one arm around her, patting her, trying to calm her, but she shook her head, wanting to reassure him that she needed no consolation, that this was rich and wonderful, as tears of merriment rolled down her cheeks.

  “Oh, me,” she choked. “Oh, Moreturi, this is too much—”

  She groped for her purse behind her and pulled out a Kleenex and wiped her eyes, as her laughter subsided to a tittering.

  “What is it, Rachel?”

  “It’s funny, that’s what. Old sobersides me, so serious, so pleased and worried when you were talking, positive you were speaking about us—that you were serious about me—”

  He looked down into her stained face. “I was serious about you,” he said. “I am practical, also. I know it cannot be. You have too much mana at home, you are too wise for a fool like me—”

  “Oh, stop it, Moreturi, I’m just a woman like Atetou or any-other,” she said with relief. Then, with more control, she added, “If you knew there could be nothing between us, why did you take me to that beach, and—and make love to me?”

  “For fun,” he said simply.

  “For fun?” she repeated, and her mouth formed the two words with a kind of new knowledge.

  “Is there another reason to make love? To have children, it is the afterthought, not the first and main one. Fun is the important thing in life. It does not make us worse, it always makes us better.”

  At once, it was Rachel who felt the child before the adult. “For fun,” she said once more. “Yes, I see. I suppose I had really never thought of it so—well, so simply before. I’ve invested it with too much. I’ve weighted it down. Maybe I’ve spoiled it, always, for myself.”

  “What?” he said.

  “Never mind.” She looked up at him, at his broad young adult face. “Moreturi, was it really fun with me?”

  He nodded with great solemnity. “Much pleasure,” he said. “You are a woman who gives much pleasure.” He hesitated. “Was it not the same for you?”

  It surprised her how easy it was to reply to this. “I enjoyed it. Certainly, you know.”

  “I thought so, but—” He shrugged, “You would not see me again. So I was not sure.”

  “I’m a complicated woman,” she said.

  “I have not your mind,” he said. “I have mine, like my people, and it tells me when there is gladness in love, one does not stop it.”

  “I’m beginning to see that,” she said. “I’m slow, but I’m learning. Forgive my old solemnity, Moreturi. In fact—” She put her hands up, to cup his face in her hands, and she brushed his cheek with a kiss. “—I thank you.”

  One muscular arm drew her to his naked chest, crushed her against him, and his free hand began to unbutton her skirt. She looked down at his hand, but did not halt it.

  “No,” she whispered, “really, I can’t—it’s against the rules, it’s never done—I’d be drummed out of the American Psychoanalytical Association—”

  “We will have pleasure,” he said.

  By then, she was on the pile of matting, and her skirt was gone, and as she was divested of the nylon panties, she quickly began to unbutton her blouse. When he caressed her, she giggled once. Her mind had gone to playing a game with the titles of Sigmund Freud. One was Freud’s 1905 book, Three Contributions to the Theory of Sex. She could name the three, and they were The Three Sirens, and then she had giggled.

  “What is it?” Moreturi had asked.

  “Don’t talk, don’t talk.”

  And don’t think, don’t think, she told herself
, which was gratuitous, for in a moment she could not think. She was a woman, no question now. She was a woman having pleasure for the first time, more fun than she had ever had in her entire life. And later, much later, when the voluptuous pleasure of it was crossed by the intense agony preceding peace, she caught one fluttering thought, and it was of Joe Morgen, good, good Joe—and the thought was, Joe, oh, Joe, you should thank him, this one here—Joe, you’ll never know, but you should thank him …

  And when it was over, and she rested in serenity, she wanted to giggle once more. Her mind had gone back to the Freud title game. It was the title of a book he had published in 1926. She cherished the title. It was called The Problem of Lay Analysis.

  * * *

  Night fell on The Three Sirens between seven-thirty and eight o’clock.

  It was during this period, while the torches were being lighted on either side of the compound stream by native boys, that Sam Karpowicz trudged along the path past the Social Aid Hut and into the village.

  He had been in hills previously unknown to him all of the afternoon, and what had happened in those hours he could not define in detail. It was like that section of the Gospel of the New Testament that he had read as a young man—read secretly, surreptitiously, to learn how the other half lived (which his parents would not have understood)—where Jesus had gone into the wilderness, alone, to fast, had gone into the mountain and been tempted by the devil and had finally said, Get thee behind me, Satan. Many times during the afternoon, Sam had been lost, in more ways than one, but with the end of the afternoon, he had found the right path, and was returning to Galilee.

  Quibbling aside, Estelle had been right, and Sam Karpowicz knew it, at last. His duty as father was to raise his daughter to maturity according to his best wisdom and instincts, and give her guidance and support, and make her strong, judicious, independent. His duty was not to suppress his own open-minded principles in order to shelter her and hold her selfishly. It was so clear to him, and what he wanted was to tell her of his self-discovery. But he had not found her, and he was not sure that anyone had. If something had happened to her, he would kill himself.

  Once inside the village, he realized his poor physical condition. The back of his neck ached. His arms and calves hurt. He was footsore. His throat was dry and it was difficult to swallow. Perhaps he had called out for her many times, wherever he had been, and he had lost his voice. In the light of the first torch, he could see that from head to toe he was bedraggled, his shirt blotched, his trousers torn at the knees, his shoes caked with dust.

  He must hurry on to Estelle, to learn if there was any news of Mary. Then he spied the familiar figure of Tom Courtney, in clean shirt and trousers, on the other side of the stream, striding in the same direction that he was taking.

  “Tom!” he shouted.

  Courtney halted. Hastily, Sam Karpowicz limped across the first bridge to meet him.

  “Tom, has there been any word about my daughter?”

  Courtney’s features did not conceal his sympathy. “I’m sorry, Sam, but nothing as of a half-hour ago.”

  “Are the search parties still out?”

  “The last I heard, yes. They won’t give up. And they’ll find her, sooner or later, they’ll find her.”

  “She’s just a kid—sixteen—she’s never been alone like this. It worries me sick, the things that could happen to her.”

  Courtney put his hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Nothing bad will happen. I have absolute confidence in that, and you must, too. Why don’t you get back to your hut and wait? The minute—”

  Sam was possessed of a sudden inclination. “Tom, do you know of a native boy, Mary’s age, named Nihau? He was her classmate in—”

  “Certainly, I know Nihau.”

  “I—I’d like to meet him. I have something to say to him. Where does he live?”

  Courtney pointed to the left. “His parents’ hut is right up the path there. Of course, he and his father are probably out on the search, but—oh, hell, Sam, let me take you to their place. Come on.

  The two of them, Courtney a half-step ahead, swung off the compound and between the thatched huts. It was darker beneath the overhang, but the dim spears of candlenut lights from thinly shielded windows partially illuminated their way.

  They had reached a sizable hut, and Courtney said, “Here it is.”

  Sam removed his spectacles, and then replaced them on his nose again. “Tom, would you introduce me?”

  “Of course.”

  Courtney rapped, and they waited. Courtney rapped a second time. A male voice called out something in Polynesian, and Courtney said to Sam, “He’s telling us to come in.”

  Courtney opened the door, and went inside, followed closely by Sam Karpowicz. The front room, larger than Sam’s own, furnished with a stone idol in one corner, was brightly lit by numerous candlenuts. To the rear of the room, a circle of many guests sat, all busily eating and drinking. The air was pungent with the aroma of coconut meat, heated yams, and ripe fruits.

  Nihau leaped up from the circle, calling out, “It is Dr. Karpowicz!”

  He bounded toward Sam, hand outstretched, to pump Sam’s hand, saving happily, “She is safe—we have found her—see—see there—”

  He was pointing off, and at first Sam could not find her, and then he did. Mary’s back had been to the door, but she had turned, still holding her half-shell of coconut milk. Her dark eyes, and thin sweet face that Sam had known so long and loved so well, appeared frightened. And he was surprised that he had not made her out immediately, for she wore an American dress, a flimsy orange slip of a dress that made her seem smaller than she was.

  Nihau was saying, “We found her only an hour ago, high up among the trees. She was only sitting there, and she was unharmed. We led her back, but she preferred to come here first. She was starved, so we are feeding her and the searchers—”

  The last of this had been spoken to Courtney, for Sam Karpowicz had already left Nihau. He moved toward the circle, and Mary came uncertainly to her feet.

  “Mary, I—” He stopped awkwardly, and stared at the native men and women in the circle. “Thank you, all of you, for bringing her back safe and well.”

  There was a courteous acknowledging bobbing of heads from the diners.

  Sam was facing his daughter once more. He removed his spectacles. “Mary, most often I think I know what is best for you,” Sam was saying, “but this time I was wrong, dead wrong, my behavior in the schoolroom. I apologize for it.” He had been stiff and stilted as he spoke, but suddenly the reserve crumpled. “God, Mary, I’m glad you’re back.”

  Instantly, her girl’s body gave up its defenses, and she cried out, “Oh, Dad, I love you so!” She was in his arms, her hair all over his chest, and he was holding her, caressing her head, and glancing moistly at Courtney.

  When they separated, he said to her, “I’d better get home and tell your mother. You come when you’re free—”

  “I want to come with you now,” she said. “First, let me thank Nihau and the others.”

  She had gone to Nihau and the plumpish elder who was his father, and Sam Karpowicz went to Courtney at the door. “Tom, I appreciate this. Maybe you’d like to join the three of us for a bite, American style.”

  Courtney smiled. “Thanks, but if you’ve brought rainchecks to the island, I’ll take one. Claire and Marc Hayden are expecting me, and Maud will be there, for cocktails. After that, we’re off to Paoti Wright’s, and the feast that closes down this year’s festival. I’d better run right now.” He nodded off toward Mary. “I’m glad it worked out.”

  “More worked out than you can imagine,” said Sam.

  After Courtney had gone, Sam waited, politely refusing the fruit drinks being tendered him. When Mary joined him, he said, “I thought I’d save myself for some milk and crackers.”

  “I hope there’s enough for me, too, Dad,” she said. Then she linked her arm in his, and they went outside, and they went home.

&
nbsp; * * *

  In the Marc Hayden hut, as he liked to think of it since he had disunited himself (in spirit at least) from his wife that was, Marc quickly rubbed the hair tonic into his scalp. In this barberless, and therefore barbarous, land, his crewcut had given way to a fuller head of hair—unfamiliar but not unattractive, he had come to believe, as he bent to see his reflection in the wall mirror—and quickly, he began to slick his hair down with a comb.

  He was in a hurry. Fifteen minutes before, while Claire was changing in the rear room, a native boy had materialized at the door with a verbal message for Dr. Hayden. Was he Dr. Hayden, because it could only be given to Dr. Hayden? Yes, he was Dr. Hayden. The message was from Tehura. She must see him briefly, in the next hour, in her hut, before he went to the Chief’s party.

  The message had, at first, thrilled Marc, for it meant something had happened, finally. Then, because it had been so enigmatic, it had worried him, for perhaps Tehura had suffered a change of heart, or, as bad, a setback in trying to make an arrangement for the craft that would take them away from here. All of this Marc had speculated upon, as the native boy waited. Finally, Marc had said to him in an undertone, “Tell Tehura I am coming.”

  After that, he had hurried with his dressing and grooming, and through it had reviewed the torturous uncertainty of the eventless past week. He had continued to see Tehura daily. Their meetings had been open, for in the eyes of the others, they were still anthropologist and informant. However, their visits were abbreviated. Tehura was too distracted and busy to make sense. At each meeting, he had inquired if there was news, and at each she had said there was none yet, but that she was trying, and he must have patience.

  To each meeting, Tehura had brought at least one question, sometimes several, about what her life, their life, would be in the faraway, mammoth continent which was his country and Courtney’s, too. Constantly, she had pressed to know of Claire’s day-today existence there, and had heard out his glowing reports in phlegmatic silence.