Then, more coolly, as she lighted a fresh cigarette of! the old one, she realized that what engulfed her with terror was not this drastic altering of her life, but rather, the continuing worry about whether she had or had not made her choice wisely and well. How many young women had such radically different suitors from whom to select a legal mate? Did anyone, anywhere, ever have to decide between two men so dissimilar and between living conditions so contrasting?
One last time, before giving up her Bleaskaness along with her isolation behind The Mask, she reviewed the men and what they offered side by side. Roaming the room again, smoking steadily, she examined the good and the bad of being the wife of Vaiuri, half-Polynesian, half-English medical practitioner on The Three Sirens, and of being the wife of Dr. Orville Pence, ail-American, all-somebody’s-son, ethnologist from Denver, Colorado.
Harriet made her nurse notes with nurse brevity in her head.
Vaiuri’s assets: he is physically attractive, he is intelligent, he is interested in what I am interested in, he is probably a good lover like all of them here, he would appreciate my skill at this, he would want many children and so do I, he has a wonderful family and fine friends, he would see that I never starve or need, he loves me.
Vaiuri’s liabilities: he is possibly too serious and dogged about everything, he lacks my formal education, he has no high ambition because there is no incentive here, he will cheat on me every year during the festival, he will sometimes feel I’m inferior because I am all white.
The Three Sirens’ assets: it is like a perpetual summer resort, I can be myself here, I will have no pressure, I am beautiful here.
The Three Sirens’ liabilities: I can’t show off my husband to my old friends, no baby showers, no Cokes, no House Beautiful, no television programs, it’s so far from—from what?
Orville Pence’s assets: he is a successful American, he wants me for his wife.
Orville Pence’s liabilities: I can’t imagine him undressed, he’s a spinster type, he’s a two-minute man for sure, he has a sister, he has a MOTHER, he’ll lecture me, he’ll allow us one child maybe, he’s something of a bore, he’s something of a prude, he’ll give me only pin money, he’ll make me feel he did me a favor, he’ll make me join the Faculty Wives’ Club and vote Republican, I can’t imagine him undressed.
Denver’s assets: it is an American city.
Denver’s liabilities: it is an American city. P.S., inhabited by a MOTHER.
Oh, damn, she thought, if only there were a computing machine to solve these problems and guarantee the correctness of the result. There is no such machine, she thought, and there was no one to give me real advice, not Maud, not Claire, not Rachel. It was left to me, and now it is done. Did I do right?
She put a third cigarette between her lips, pressed the butt of the burning one to it, drew, then discarded the butt. She walked. Back and forth she walked. Had she done right? She evoked the bad years, which were most of the years. How ill-used she had been. Always, always, she had offered her body as an apology for The Mask. She had only wanted to belong, but she never had, except now and then, temporarily, but out of sight.
Yes, she decided, yes, yes, yes. She had made the right decision.
She had come to this reassurance, even as she heard the rapping on her cane door.
She crushed her unfinished cigarette into the shell ashtray, quickly patted her impossible hair, licked her endless lips to rid them of any tobacco flake, and called out, “Please come in!”
He bolted into the room, then stood there, eyes wide with nervous uncertainty.
“I got your note,” he was saying. “You said to come at once. You said you had good news. Is it what I think it is?”
“I’ve thought it over, and I’ve made up my mind. I’ll be proud to be Airs. Orville Pence.”
It surprised her a little, and delighted her very much, to see the relief reflected in his face.
“Harriet,” he said, “this is the happiest moment of my entire life.”
“Mine, too,” she said.
“We’ll announce it at Maud’s luncheon today.”
She swallowed. “Orville, aren’t you going to kiss the bride?”
As he came stiffly toward her, she remembered, for the last time, the sacrifice that she had made. Forever, she had forsaken the chance to be beautiful—would he ever know that?—because she was the heiress to all those damn shadowed ancestors she had never known, who had shaped the placenta that produced her for this final conformity.
And when he awkwardly embraced her, like a missionary welcoming his flock, she became aware that he smelled of soap and all Presbyterian cleanliness. He kissed her. Liability: she felt no passion. Asset: she felt so safe. Then she kissed him back, perhaps too fervently, for after all, it was no small thing to be Mrs. Pence and to belong.
After a while, she gave an involuntary sigh.
A life of unceasing gratefulness, she knew, had just begun.
* * *
From his place of partial concealment, behind the several coco palm trees that fronted the steep path leading out of the village, Marc Hayden could keep an eye on the comings and goings of the members of the team.
He had observed Claire leave his hut, and disappear into Matty’s office. In the fifteen minutes that followed, he had seen Rachel DeJong meet Harriet Bleaska and Orville Pence in the compound, and shake their hands, and together the three of them, in obvious high spirits, had gone into Matty’s office. Next, Lisa Hackfeld had burst forth from her residence, and hurried to Matty’s place. The only ones who had not left their hut were the only ones that he had any interest in at this moment. For some reason, Estelle and Sam Karpowicz, and their girl, had not emerged yet.
Originally, when Marc had walked out on Claire (the bitch) this morning, and taken his knapsack to hide behind Tehura’s hut, he had planned to ask Tehura to keep the Karpowiczes occupied at either the lunch or dinner hour. Since he did not dare invade Sam’s darkroom earlier, to remove photographs and reels of film, for fear that Sam would have too much time to discover that they were missing, Marc had to plan his borrowing or sharing for today. He would not allow himself to believe that taking the photographs and motion picture film was a theft. He had convinced himself that everything accomplished by members of the team, in the field, was community property, held in common. By this rationalization, Marc owned some share of the product of Sam’s cameras. If this were not so, then, at the very least, Marc had a right to borrow the product, and make copies of it for Garrity and himself, and later return the originals to Albuquerque.
Still, Marc could see that Sam Karpowicz might have objections to this arrangement. Sam had recently proved, in his explosion over his daughter’s education, how hot-tempered he could be. Not that Sam had been wrong about that. Marc felt that he would have acted in the same way as Sam under the same set of circumstances. If you gave them their heads, little sluts like Mary grew up to become big sluts like Claire. The thing to do was to catch them early, hold the reins tightly. He had been too easy with Claire, even from their lousy honeymoon night, that had been his mistake, and look how she had turned out.
Marc’s mind had wandered, and he brought it back to Sam. Yes, Sam could be difficult, and rather than contend with his unreasonableness, Marc had decided to remove what he required from the darkroom in secrecy, and no fuss about it. The problem was getting into the darkroom today when none of the Karpowiczes were home. His morning’s plan to have his collaborator, Tehura, invite them to her hut for lunch or dinner had been delayed because Tehura was not in her home and so far was nowhere else to be found. Fortunately, during his search for her, Marc had run into Rachel DeJong, who was on her way to her therapy hut. They had exchanged a few inconsequential words, but in parting, Rachel had said, “Well, see you at your mother’s lunch.”
Marc had completely forgotten about Matty’s luncheon, arranged for twelve-thirty. The luncheon, Marc thought, knowing his mother as he did, would be for the purpose of mor
ale building. The field trip had passed the halfway mark. Adley had said this was always “the critical point,” and Matty liked to quote him. This was the time when people became ragged, started to unravel in an alien place and clime. This was the time to gather them together, have them listen while their inspiring leader improved their dispositions, have their leader hear out their grievances and problems, and smooth all down to purring contentment. Oh, how good Matty was at this Kiwanis crap. Thank God that would soon be behind him.
The reminder of this luncheon gave Marc the chance for his visit to the darkroom. He would need nothing more of Tehura until tonight. It was ironic, but Matty was his accomplice in her own downfall. He had never before seen so clearly how he was contributing to her downfall. Once he was gone, and on his way with his Garrity project, Claire (the bitch) would be crushed and Courtney dishonored. But Matty, ah, Matty would be ruined. With Marc and Garrity parading the debauchery of The Three Sirens about the lecture platforms of the United States, Matty would be left with no fresh ammunition for her American Anthropological League meeting. In fact, she would be an object of censure, a disgrace to her profession for her role in betraying a society. She would be lucky to retain her post at Raynor College. Oh, President Loomis, senile fool, would keep her on, and there let her die in the elephant’s unknown graveyard, let the two of them, Matty and Claire, grow older and older, wither and shrivel, and disappear together.
Marc awakened from his musings and became alert. He could see that Estelle and Sam Karpowicz had just emerged from their hut. They stood in the glare of the compound discussing something, before they went the five huts down to Matty’s office.
The second that they were out of sight, Marc left his concealment behind, and hurried into the compound. The Karpowicz hut was the end hut, and the nearest to him. In less than a minute, sweating, he reached it, and ducked into the side alley to the darkroom in the rear.
Passing the first window, he heard a voice, and froze to his tracks. It was unmistakably Mary Karpowicz’ voice. He had quite forgotten about her. God damn. Why wasn’t she at the luncheon? Quietly, he eased alongside the window, so that he could not be seen, and waited, wondering what he should do next. The voices inside, one Mary’s, the other a male, and from the slight accent a native male, reverberated upon his ears and infuriated him.
She said, “But if you care for me, why not, Nihau?”
He said, “You are too young.”
She said, “I’m older than your Sirens girls here.”
He said, “You are not a Sirens girl. You are different. In your country it is different.”
She said, “Not so different as you think. Nihau, I don’t believe you, I don’t believe it is only my age. Tell me why you won’t—?”
He said, “You have learned much here, Mary. You have come to adulthood. You are wiser than before. You will have very much to offer the man of your own world you find and love. It will happen soon, two years, three, four. When you find him, you will remember me and thank me. I do not want to spoil you for that. I want you to come to that at the proper time.”
She said, “You’re the kindest person, Nihau, but I don’t understand. You are making such a big thing of it, when you yourself said that on this island you are taught, as you have taught me, that it is natural and—”
He said, “Mary, you are not of this island and you will not be with us much longer. You must live and think as your parents and your own people teach you to live and think. I would love to—to engage in this thing—but I will not, because I understand you and care too much for you. That is the end of it. I will not forget you, and you must never forget what you have learned here. Now, come, we will go to my family and have our meal.”
Listening, about to mutter an obscenity at the frustration these kids had haltered him with, Marc was profoundly thankful that they had come to their senses. Quickly, he returned to the compound, going as far as the bridge. When he turned around, he could see Mary and the native boy leaving the hut. Marc started strolling casually, so that he would pass them, and as he did, he waved cheerily, and both of them waved back.
Continuing in the opposite direction from them, he slowed down near the palm trees. He glanced behind him. They had gone over a far bridge and were headed toward the row of houses. Marc watched their receding figures. In seconds, they were out of sight among the huts, and the stifling compound was empty of all life but his own.
Almost on the run, Marc returned to the Karpowicz dwelling. He scurried around it and to the rear.
The cramped, thatched shack, Sam’s darkroom, stood in solitary splendor.
Marc tried the flimsy door. It opened easily. On the threshold of riches, his mind leaped ahead. He would take a sampling of the still photographs, the most spectacular of them, and a dozen reels, the most representative of them. He would take enough, but not enough to be missed should Sam happen into the darkroom this afternoon, and not too much to carry out tonight. He would take his booty to his hut, pack and camouflage it, and carry the bundle by a circuitous route toward the Sacred Hut, then double back across the compound to Tehura’s hut. He would hide his bundle beside his knapsack, in the thick foliage nearby, until it was evening.
All this must be accomplished swiftly, before Matty’s luncheon guests disbanded.
He stepped into the darkroom, shut the door behind him, and was alone, at last, with Ali Baba’s riches.
* * *
Inside Maud Hayden’s office, an hour and a half had passed and her solidarity luncheon was almost at an end. The guests remained seated on the matting, around the long, low bench which served them as a banquet table. All members of the field team were present, with the exception of Marc Hayden and Mary Karpowicz. The one outsider who had been invited was Tom Courtney, because he was of their world as well as the other world, and he sat at the corner of the improvised table closest the door, and across from Claire.
The luncheon had begun on a note of high celebration. Orville Pence, with Harriet Bleaska on his arm, had arrived with a well-traveled bottle of bourbon. When the team had assembled, he had thumped the heavy bottle on Maud’s desk for attention. The moment that the room was stilled, he had announced his engagement to Harriet and said that they would be married and have their honeymoon in Las Vegas, Nevada, the day after returning to the United States.
Everyone, it seemed, had pumped Orville’s hand, and kissed Harriet’s cheek. Only Claire, except for favoring the pair with a smile, had remained withdrawn. Once, when Orville was pouring the bourbon for the first toast, Claire had caught the nurse’s eye. Harriet’s face had been aglow with the pleasure of being the center of all this special observance, but when she saw Claire, her smile gave way to uncertainty. Immediately, Claire had been sorry, for she knew that her own expression was one of pity, and that Harriet had read the sorrow in it. To prevent spoiling Harriet’s precious moment, Claire had forced upon her features a representation of approval, and she had winked, and made some sort of gesture of genuflection. But the passing moment of truth had not been entirely obliterated: Harriet knew, and plainly sensed that Claire knew she knew, that Claire had wished the bride-to-be had gone native.
After the toasts, there had been the luncheon, served by a lanky, rigid, impassive native woman of indeterminate years. As the woman came from the earth oven, going silently around the table with her dishes, Claire found something familiar about her. Not until the native servant was standing over her did Claire identify her. This was the one named Aimata, condemned to slavery for having murdered her husband some years ago. Aimata’s husband had been thirty-five, and since the limit of life was arbitrarily put at seventy, she had been sentenced to thirty-five years of being an outcast drudge. After that, Claire had not been able to take her eyes off the tall brown woman, and throughout the luncheon Claire’s food had stuck in her throat.
The luncheon itself had been a success. There had been coconut milk in Maud’s plastic cups, the inevitable breadfruit, yams, red bananas, and
there had been taro, barbecued chicken, some sort of steamed fish, and finally an incongruous dessert of assorted cookies from Maud’s American larder.
All through the meal, as the guests sucked, chewed, swallowed, sipped, smacked their lips, Maud Hayden had talked. She had drawn steadily from her vast storehouse of anecdotes about the South Seas, about the marvels and pitfalls of anthropology. Always, she had told her stories with humor, although sometimes a moral peeked through. Claire had heard these anecdotes not once, but many times in the last two wordy years, and she was less attentive than the others. Nevertheless, despite her hatred for Maud’s progeny, Claire told herself that there was no reason to hate Maud or her anecdotes, and so like the others, like Courtney across from her, all listening, all diverted, she pretended to listen and be regaled.
Maud had told them about the peculiar notions the Marquesan natives had had of America in the early 1800s. In those days, the only knowledge the Marquesans possessed of America was from contact with the whaling men from New England who landed on their shores, and who were interested not in their artifacts or customs or society, but only in their women. With such singleness of purpose did the American sailors concentrate on the Marquesan women that it became an absolute belief in those islands that distant America was a society populated entirely and solitarily by men. In short, from their behavior, it was obvious the visitors had never seen live women before, and now that they had, they were making the most of it.
When Maud had finished, the guests had been entertained. Claire had made the only acid comment. “Maybe the Marquesans were right and are still right,” she had said. To this, Rachel DeJong had tapped her cup on the table in applause, and said, “Excellent, Claire, another truth spoken in a jest.”
But already, Maud, who was essentially humorless, had embarked on another anecdote about the primitive marriage custom known as couvade. According to this custom, when the wife was pregnant, it was the husband who went to bed. This had led to an uproar of appreciation, and then to a learned discourse on maternity customs among savages by Orville Pence.
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