These were the circumstances of Caurer’s death, but because of her public renown, and the love and respect in which she was widely held, she could not pass quietly from view. Her life was praised, celebrated and memorialized throughout the Archipelago in every form of the media.
I too was involved as a reporter in the search for information after her death. I was sent to Rawthersay to speak to people who had known or worked with her, and my impression of the great woman was deepened by what I saw and heard.
But there were difficult questions unanswered. The principal one concerned the cause of her death. No thryme colonies had ever been discovered in the temperate zone of Quietude Bay, let alone on Rawthersay itself, so the revelation that she had suffered a fatal bite caused great alarm throughout the islands. However, the usual searches and precautions confirmed that no colonies appeared to have been settled. The death certificate was in its way unambiguous, and the professionalism of the doctor who had signed it was never in doubt, but even so there remained a feeling that we were not being told everything.
Throughout her life Caurer had enjoyed robust good health, which naturally would not protect her from a stroke or a heart attack, or one of many other underlying causes of unexpected death. Any of those remained a possibility, a genuine death behind the one that felt a little unlikely. It was tragic and heartfelt, she was widely and sincerely mourned, but I at least, and many other journalists, continued to feel a nagging sense of mystery.
My own researches turned up the surprising information that shortly before her death Caurer had travelled unaccompanied to Piqay to be present at the funeral of the author Chaster Kammeston. This in itself was unusual: Caurer travelling alone was almost unheard of. Although she had been subjected to intrusive media coverage while using the ferries to reach Piqay, it turned out that in practice most of the media outlets who had cottoned on to her journey were all from the islands along the fairly narrow zone of the Archipelago through which she had travelled. For some reason it had spread no wider, certainly not to me or to the offices of the IDT. At the time, it was the fact of Kammeston’s death that had been the major news and Caurer was by no means the only famous or celebrated mourner at the funeral. When I looked through all the reports from the time, the identities of individual mourners were usually not specified: ‘the great and the good’ was the journalism shorthand employed by reporters who had not been allowed into the ceremonies.
I could not help wondering if the death of Kammeston might not have had something to do with what followed almost immediately after.
I was probably not by then the only one asking that question. After much travelling around, however, and after many further interviews, I came to the conclusion that although we had certainly not been told the whole story, there was nothing in the public interest about it, and that Madame Caurer was entitled to privacy, in death as in life.
Such thoughts rushed through my mind while I stood there by the sign that announced Caurer’s presence. Then I stepped forward and pressed the intercom bell. I heard nothing.
After waiting for more than a minute I pressed it again. This time a woman’s voice came faintly and tinnily through a small metal speaker. ‘May I take your name, please?’
‘I’m Dant Willer,’ I said, pressing my face to the green-painted grille. It was hot from the sun and a number of tiny dead insects crusted the gauze.
‘Madame Willer. I don’t recognize your name. Are you a parent?’
‘No. I’m a journalist.’ I sensed asperity in the silence that followed. ‘Would it be possible to come in?’
I heard the woman clearing her throat – a thin rasping noise in the speaker. She started to say something, but the words would not form. A quick popping noise came through the speaker. I could not help it: in my mind’s eye I imagined an elderly woman, leaning forward unsteadily to the intercom microphone. Another rasping noise, as she cleared her throat.
‘We never grant interviews. If you are not the parent of a student here, you have to make an appointment. But we have nothing to say to the press, so please don’t be troubled by the effort.’
There was finality in her tone and I sensed that she was about to break off the contact.
‘I was hoping to see Madame Caurer,’ I said quickly. ‘Not as a journalist. Would that be possible, please?’
‘Caurer is not here. She is busy on other work.’
‘Then she is normally here in the school?’
‘No. That is incorrect. Tell me your name again and what it is you want.’
‘I am Madame Dant Willer. The truth is that I am a journalist for the Islander Daily Times, but I am here on holiday. I’m not seeking an interview for the paper. I have read the sign on your gate.’ The thirst and the endless blazing heat were making my own voice weaker. I didn’t want to clear my throat, send a rasping noise down the intercom. ‘Please may I speak to Madame Caurer? Or may I make an appointment to meet her?’
‘I’ve remembered your name now. I think you wrote a book about the range wars on Junno. Is that right? Is that who you are?’
‘Madame Caurer –’
But the background hiss of the intercom suddenly ceased and I knew that the brief exchange had ended. My senses were alive. I stood there limply in the heat, the fulgent, unrelenting sunlight, with the sound of the hot breeze passing through the tree branches around me, the insensible dashing of small birds, the stridulation of insects, the white glare on the unmetalled road, the sweat running down my back and between my breasts, the burning of the drive’s stony surface through the thin soles of my sandals.
I suddenly realized I might perish there in the tropical heat because I was unable to move. I held to the metal bars of the gate by a force of will over which I felt I had no control. I tried to raise myself to see better, but from this position the only part of the main building that was visible was a brick wall, next to some white-painted outhouses.
I was convinced I had been speaking to Caurer herself.
I was certain she was there, inside the building a short distance away. I was unsure what to do, and anyway I was incapable of acting on any decision. I pressed the intercom button several more times without response, then sagged again. I felt the back of my neck burning and blistering in the heat.
Then she said, ‘I think you will need this.’
She had appeared on the drive beyond the gate and was approaching me slowly. In one hand she held a tall glass tumbler, in the other a flagon of water. Condensation clouded the side of the jug. The weight of it was making her arm tremble and I saw concentric ripples darting across the surface. Caurer was there, actually there, an arm’s length away from me. She poured the water, her hand shaking because of the weight straining her wrist. She filled the tumbler to the top, passed it to me through the bars of the gate.
Our fingers briefly touched as I took the glass from her.
She stood straight before me as I gulped the water gratefully. She was taller than I had expected, smooth-skinned, not smiling but not unfriendly, steady in her gaze, wearing a pale blue dress, a broad-brimmed white hat.
She said, ‘I admired your book more than I can say.’
I felt overcome with amazed pride and contrary humility. ‘Thank you, Madame Caurer – I didn’t think you would know the book. That’s not why I’m here –’
‘How long have you been out in this heat?’
I just shook my head.
The gate slowly opened making a whirring noise, a motor somewhere hidden. Nothing now separated me from her. She still had not moved – the frosted flagon of cold glass unsteady in her hand. She stood erect, regarding me seriously and with a sudden intensity. I felt so scruffy, unsuitable, dressed in clothes not even good enough for scrambling around lost ruins, let alone meeting this woman. I straightened myself, to try to meet her steady regard as equally as I could. Caurer of Rawthersay, standing there, an arm’s length away.
I had never seen her before, not even a picture. But I stared back a
t her, dizzy with a sense of recognition. She was me, we looked alike! It was as if a mirror had been thrown up in front of me. I raised one hand. She lifted her own, the one not gripping the jug. I felt the same intensity in me that I was sensing in her. My head began to swim. I could not hold the upright posture, because something had happened to weaken me. I slumped, looking down at the ground. I focused on my legs, my bare feet loosely strapped inside the sandals, and was ashamed of the dirt and dust that begrimed me, the black lines between and around my toes.
She stepped forward quickly, caught me as I fell. The flagon dropped to the ground, and broke in a splashing crash on the hard surface of the drive. She had caught me with one strong arm, her body sagging to brace herself against my weight. Without the jug in her hand she gripped me with her other arm, her leg jolting us both as she changed position. I slumped against her, the fabric of her dress against my face. I felt the tumbler fall from my hand. I thought stupidly of all the broken glass around us. Then I smelled her scent, a light fragrance of mint, or flowers, or something that flew. The warmth of her body, the reassuring grip of her arms. She shifted her weight again, so that she was able to hold me better. I closed my eyes, felt safe, hot, dizzy, grimy, ashamed, thankful, but above all safe in her arms. I knew my knees had given out, that if she let go of me I would crash to the floor. The cicadas rasped around us, the sun was an endless blaze.
I was next aware of being half carried, half dragged. Two strong young men, one on each side, one shaved bald, the other straggle-haired. They were encouraging me, trying to make me feel secure. They urged me on with soft words. My bare feet scraped lightly along the dusty floor, my arms thrown intimately around the men’s necks. It was cool inside the house, the shutters down, a draught of blown air, shiny boards with pale rugs scattered, tall potted plants, terracotta ornaments, a decorated screen, a cushioned bench, long fronds over the windows.
Caurer stood beside me, her wide-brimmed hat now knocked to an angle, not yet adjusted, my dirty sandals dangling from her fingers. She was a slender woman, grey-haired, pale-eyed, in the senior years of her life, a presence of immense but silent power. I was stunned to be with her. Still she wore that same serious, uncritical regard. I hardly dared look at her, this woman who looked just like me.
In the distance, somewhere above, sounds of movement. I was in a school.
An hour later I had almost recovered. I had taken a shower and Caurer found me some clothes I could borrow. I had drunk a lot of water, and eaten a light lunch. At times I was alone, as Caurer had work to do in the school.
But at the end of the afternoon she and I were alone together in her first-floor study, and I realized during that intense conversation that without in any way planning or rehearsing it, I had spent most of my life searching for this woman, to know her.
Later I returned on my moped to Smuj Town through the dusty evening heat and the overhanging trees, the swarming midges and emerging moths, the gradually quieting cicadas. In the town the evening promenadá was beginning, the measured ambling around the squares and along the shore, the gay colours and flamboyant hairstyles, the calling and gesticulating and laughing, the young men on their motorbikes, the busy cafés and restaurants, the sound of guitars.
The next day I packed my luggage, went to the harbour office for a refund on my ship’s return passage, and then was driven in a taxi to the school on the plain in the hills, behind the trees, beyond the gate, next to the ruined city.
* * *
POSTSCRIPT
I wrote most of my essay during the first two or three days on Smuj. I completed it later when I was living in the school house. I despatched it to the newspaper together with my resignation, and I never discovered if it was published or not. I suspect not.
Madame Caurer and I worked together for several years. Officially, my role was to liaise with the media on behalf of the Caurer Foundation, ensuring that what was printed or reported about the work still going on was accurate and true to Caurer’s intentions and wishes. In practice, much of my real work was to act as her confidante, her personal assistant and at times her adviser. Once or twice, when she felt the strain of travel or the pressure of crowds would be too great for her, I went in her place, never speaking, never pretending more than the quiet illusion my features created. When Caurer’s health at last began to fail, I became in effect her nurse, although of course she had a full medical team on her staff. I was with her when she died, having become, in her own words, her most trusted and intimate companion. We were of an age, we were so alike in every way.
It was seven years after her earlier, false death. The harmless imposture was over. This time there was a quiet burial in the grounds of her home, and the only attenders were the members of her inner circle.
Everyone at the Foundation says I still look just like Caurer, but I make no use of that any more. She is gone.
WINHO
CATHEDRAL
WINHO is the so-called island of whores. It is a place of thrilling natural beauty, with a towering range of mountains rising from the western coast and occupying much of the interior. Thick forest covers the remaining plain and the lower slopes of the mountains. The island is reefed, with a series of encircling shallow lagoons, rich and diverse in sea-life. Many small towns have been built on the fertile strip between forest and sea. Until the second Faiandland invasion the traditional activities in this area were farming and fishing. Set in a subtropical latitude, Winho rejoices in warm and dry weather for most of the year. The rainy season lasts for only two months. The prevailing wind on the island is known locally as the Kadia, ‘blowing upwards to the mountains’ – in reality it is part of the system of equatorial trade winds.
Winho was invaded twice by Faiand forces in the days before the Covenant of Neutrality had been ratified or could be enforced. The first invasion led to occupation and fortification by Faiandland and it lasted for almost a decade. After a violently resisted counter-invasion by Federation forces, Winho was eventually liberated and demilitarized. Loss of civilian life was on a disastrous scale, and there was extensive damage to property.
For about ten years Winho existed under a relatively benign Federation suzerainty, but as the Covenant took shape and gained global recognition the Glaundians had to leave.
Faiandland almost immediately re-occupied Winho, allegedly because of an administrative error but in reality because of its strategic position. There were also unfounded Faiand suspicions that the Federation was continuing to use the island as a base. By this time, the Federation forces were engaged elsewhere and Winho was left unprotected. In the name of retribution horrifying atrocities were performed on many of the inhabitants, including pseudo-scientific experiments on human subjects, physical mutilation of most of the women of child-bearing age and the deportation of all males over the age of ten years. In deep poverty, many of the surviving women were forced either to flee the island, or as large R&R camps were set up for Faiand troops they went into prostitution.
Even after the Covenant rules once again removed the Faiandland occupying force, the impoverished island became renowned for its brothel culture, heavily dependent on the passage of troopships to sustain the economy. Major efforts by people from neighbouring islands to lend assistance came to nothing, because the central problem remained unresolved: the abducted menfolk of Winho could not be located, and even in the present day no mass grave has ever been found. It is clear that they were massacred. The grim search for the final resting place continues.
Winho has been for many years a focus of concern throughout the Archipelago. Caurer visited Winho and set up one of her special schools, which still exists and is regarded as a beacon of hope for the long-term regrowth of Winho culture. Caurer said she was desolated by what she found, and said afterwards that if ever her work had to be directed towards one island instead of to them all, it would be to Winho.
At another time, both Chaster Kammeston and Dryd Bathurst were on Winho, during the period when Kammeston was
researching his biography of the artist. He was on the island for nearly two weeks. This is the only known series of meetings between the two. Bathurst had set up a studio on the waterfront of Winho Town, where he was tackling three of the main canvases in his Ruination sequence. We have only Kammeston’s account of what happened when the two men met, which he describes in taut and restrained language in the pages of the biography. What Kammeston does not reveal there is what he wrote in his diary, and later in one of his letters to Caurer: he was so disgusted by Bathurst’s private life that he abandoned work on the biography for nearly two years, only resuming it when Bathurst’s reputation as a painter of apocalyptic landscapes was without precedent. Persuaded by the greatness of the man’s artistic gift, and of course by pressure from his publisher, Kammeston completed his biography. He said later that it was the least of his books. To this day it is never included in official listings of his published works.
Another visitor to Winho, whose presence on the island was not known until long after she had left, was the novelist Moylita Kaine. She and her husband moved to Winho Town and rented a house in the hills overlooking the main bay while she conducted detailed research into what had happened during the two terrible periods of occupation. When she and her husband left Winho, two of the women she had met in the course of her researches travelled back with them to Muriseay, where they remained afterwards with their two families of seven children.
The Islanders Page 33