Easter Island (36 page)

“You shouldn’t feed his frenzy this way,” said Sven. “You indulge him.”

“She happens to be right,” Vicente said. “Von Spee came here for one reason: the
rongorongo.
”

“So did you,” laughed Sven. “But that clearly means nothing.”

“All right. New topic,” announced Greer. This was how they managed the weekly dinners. Everyone was limited to five minutes of work talk, otherwise they would sit and argue for hours.

“The mysterious cores?” asked Vicente.

“Still mysterious,” said Greer. “Same as last week. Same as the week before that. Counting grains. It’s a slow and boring process. I’ll save you the details.”

Greer shook salt and pepper onto her chicken, then reached for Sven’s most recent condiment concoction: cilantro and mango sauce. They’d all been eating the same basic meal of chicken for months now, and any new flavor, even a strange one, was a welcome change. She dipped a forkful of chicken in the sauce. It was sugary, with a hint of spice. “Not bad, Sven.”

“What we really need is a nice plate of gravlax, maybe some Hasselback potatoes.”

“Well, then, the conference,” said Vicente. “Señorita Nosticio asked me to make my presentation first, and I’d like to make sure we’re all in comfortable agreement on that.”

“Do you really think people will show?” asked Sven. “I’ve an image of standing up there, babbling about my work to just the three of you.”

“Just like our dinners,” said Greer.

“Touché.”

“Kidding.” But she hoped people would show. She liked the idea of participating in a conference.

“People will come, Sven. Mario and Petero, and I’m sure Mahina. And others. But first: Are we settled on my commencing the program?”

Just as they arranged the order—Vicente, Sven, Burke-Jones, Greer—Luka Tepano walked by. Greer saw him often, passing Mahina’s, or the Espíritu, strolling pensively. Sometimes, if she went to the
caleta
at night to watch the ocean, she would spot him sitting on the rocks. He now held a bunch of daisies.

“That’s the saddest bouquet I’ve ever seen,” said Sven. “No woman in the world would be impressed by that. Even women in caves have standards.”

“It is the thought that counts,” said Vicente. “It is the thought that matters to women.”

At this, they all instinctively turned to Greer.

“Speaking on behalf of all women: absolutely.”

“Well, for men as well,” said Vicente. “For anyone. It’s the thought.”

“Excellent recovery, Vicente—” Sven grinned. “You should have been a diplomat.”

“You’ll be pleased to know I’ve considered it.”

“People give flowers because they’re pretty. Plain and simple. They signify beauty. Why do artists paint flowers? Because they’re pretty. Am I right, Greer?”

“Couldn’t say.”

“This is no time for the flower expert to go silent.”

“Botanist, Sven. Palynologist. You do understand that I’m not a florist?”

“Yes, but science requires too many dull technical terms,” he said. “Come on, a little something. One small floral opinion to tide us over.”

“All right. In my mind, the only artist who can paint flowers is O’Keeffe.”

“What about Van Gogh and his sunflowers?” asked Vicente.

“I think the only true picture of flowers should be of a single flower. Quantity only obscures beauty. Examine one thing closely, and all things will be revealed. One flower. One grain of pollen.” She gestured to them. “
Even
one island.”

“Be careful,” teased Sven, “you speak as though we’re doing something meaningful here. People will get the wrong impression.”

“We
are
, though.” Greer leaned back in her chair and sighed. The strain of her work was catching up with her. “Even though we’re all at an impasse, we’re asking the right questions. Important questions.”

They basked for a moment in this reminder of the meaning of their daily lives, the months of small, tedious tasks. They needed it, especially Greer.

“Let’s have Greer go first,” said Sven, “get the crowd worked up.”

“I’m already thinking of calling in sick as it is,” she said. “I’ve got zilch to report.”

Burke-Jones pushed his chair back and stood. “I’m fatigued.” Before they could offer good-byes, he began to walk off down the street.

“Isn’t he staying here at the Espíritu?” asked Greer.

“Yes, but he likes to roam. It relaxes him.”

“An endlessly intriguing man.”

“Well, we give him a long rope,” said Sven.

“Can I ask why?”

“You haven’t told her?” Sven asked. “You bombard her with every detail of Admiral von Spee, dead for sixty years, and say nothing of our living colleague?”

“His wife,” Vicente said to her. “She died almost two years ago. And he’s been here since, studying the transport of the
moai
. He is, or was, quite a well-known architect in London. He was commissioned to build a new theater. It would have been the largest in London, but when his wife passed on, that was the end of it. He walked away.”

“Poor Randolph,” said Greer.

They all sipped the last of their drinks, then attempted to rekindle the conversation with complaints about SAAS, predictions about when the Chilean navy boat would arrive with supplies, thoughts on the Pinochet coup. Vicente pulled out his newspaper and showed them the headline:
La Muerte de Pablo Neruda.

“Five days ago now,” he said. “They say it was from sadness at seeing his homeland fall into the hands of such a dictator. And they say he had just published a poem about Rapa Nui.”

This and Burke-Jones’s story made them all pensive, and they soon said their good-nights.

Greer went back to the lab to check on a sample soaking in potassium hydroxide. In the hallway she saw a line of light beneath Burke-Jones’s door. She hadn’t spoken with him outside of the SAAS dinners, but now she felt she should check on him. After all, she knew something of grief, of the desire to escape. The door was ajar and she gently knocked, but there was no answer. She eased it open, and saw him hunched over a table at the room’s far end; his hands, out of sight, were occupied. Stepping forward, she saw what lay before him: a miniature landscape—the island littered with six-inch
moai,
toothpick ladders, and ringlets of what appeared to be dental floss. There were bottles of opened glue, scissors, cardboard, colored construction paper, and in the corner a bucket of papier-mâché. He hummed forlornly as he moved about, adjusting and altering the miniature landscape.

“Randolph,” she called. “It’s Greer.” But there was no response.

“Randolph,” she said again.

Was he simply ignoring her? Or was he so entranced in the island he had built for himself that there was no room for a life-size visitor, who would seem, no doubt, like a giant come to wreck his perfect world?

The conference, as Sven had predicted, was poorly attended. It had rained earlier that day—unusual for October—and the three semicircular rows of chairs Isabel Nosticio had arranged were slick with water, the tablecloths on the sandwich tables were drenched, and the white sheet for the slide projections lay soiled on the ground. Everyone was in good spirits, though, having shared two bottles of pisco sour by the
caleta
beforehand, watching the fishing boats come in. They walked with linked arms along the coast to the conference area, exchanging anecdotes about other symposiums. Sven claimed to have once performed the Heimlich on a colleague in the middle of a presentation; Vicente had at one event met three other linguists who’d also made balloon voyages over the Andes. Greer couldn’t help but wonder what they would make of her dissertation committee story. As she’d been getting ready in her room at the
residencial
earlier that day, she realized the SAAS conference would be her first public presentation since Wisconsin. Looking at herself in the mirror, she tried to catch some glimpse of that younger woman who had been so fearless and so trusting, a version of herself she could hardly remember.

As they arrived at the site, the wet wreckage of their outdoor conference room brought laughter from all of them, including Isabel, who, when she saw the size of the audience, was beginning to realize the hopelessness of the event.

They took their seats, and Vicente, as planned, went first. He wore a white dress shirt and brown tie, carried a stylish briefcase, and as he stepped to the torchlit podium he looked, Greer thought, almost like an actor, like someone accustomed to attention.

Vicente began with the formalities, in Spanish and English: thanks to the Sociedad, to Isabel, to his sponsors, his colleagues. “Test. Test.” Vicente tapped the microphone and smiled. “Can everybody hear in the back?” There were only about fifteen people there, mostly friends, plus a few tourists who’d passed them earlier at the
caleta.
“Way in the back? Row Z, are you with us?” Everyone laughed, even Isabel. “Excellent,” he said. “As we all know, ontogeny recapitulates phylogeny. The embryo evolves in the same pattern as life itself. And the same is true in the evolution of the human race.” He went on to say that mankind’s major turning points—the discovery of fire, the beginning of burials, the cave paintings, and the invention of written language—were all mirrored in personal development. For each individual, he said, there was a moment of discovering fire—a talent, a passion, or a love—and then a moment of learning to bury the past, and then to represent, and to record feelings about the world through writing. He finally stepped back from the podium and said: “The
rongorongo
is a perfect example of how society invents a way to protect its stories.”

A clap came from behind the seats and Greer turned to see Mahina in a purple dress. She had let her hair down from its usual bun, and it fanned out in waves over her bare shoulders. Greer beckoned to her, and Mahina waded through the chairs, offering a brief greeting to everyone she passed. She checked that the chair was dry and sat beside Greer.

Sven then strode up to the podium and pitched a torch beside him. He wore blue jeans and a faded yellow T-shirt, carried no notes or cards. He offered a special thank-you to Isabel, then spoke briefly of the geological status of the volcanoes and weather patterns, alluded to his need for satellite data, his abundant supply of ballpoint pens, and thumped both palms against the podium and said, “This is boring the hell out of me.” As he sat down, Isabel’s high-pitched laugh sprang into the night.

Next, Burke-Jones began what was his most animated display since Greer had met him. He had put on a fresh suit, and the light revealed distinct comb-tracks across his hair. According to island legend, he said, the finished
moai
had walked from the quarry to the coast, a distance, in places, as great as six miles. Since volcanic tuff bruised easily, and since no scrapes appeared on the statues’ backs or fronts, the
moai
must have been transported upright. Ropes, Burke-Jones hypothesized, had been lashed around the statues’ necks to “shimmy” them to the island’s periphery. Then he made his final announcement: He would simulate this in exactly one month. His eyes were full of life as he spoke. He said he hoped the people of Rapa Nui would join him in his investigation of their ancestors’ feats.

Greer went last, stepping into her leather sandals that she had let rest in the grass, her pisco buzz now gone. Since her data were still incomplete her talk would be brief. The past few weeks she had been preparing samples, centrifuging, counting the known grains and unknown grains—doing the work it had once taken a team of lab assistants to do. She had ordered pollen books on Polynesia and herbarium samples from Kew, which still hadn’t arrived. It would be another month, at least, before she had any comprehensive numbers on the island’s former biota.

When she arrived at the podium, she, too, thanked SAAS and Isabel. She thanked her colleagues, and offered a special thank-you to Mahina Huke Tima, whose face registered a sudden burst of pride. The acknowledgment also brought a clapping from the darkness—Ramon stood behind the chairs, watching, not the podium, but Mahina.

Greer opened her folder, and began. “One of the first things that was understood about evolution, about the theory of organisms maturing and changing, was that isolation was key. For significant change to occur, an organism needs to be on its own, separated, so to speak, from its parents. Islands have long been the ideal studies of isolation, and with Rapa Nui, we have an island so isolated geographically, so isolated in its human history, it is, in essence, a perfect test tube for examining patterns of speciation, migration, and evolution. In particular, the island is unique in its utter deficiency of natural resources . . .”

A disapproving silence had fallen over the crowd. Greer looked up to see a frowning Isabel, clipboard held to her chest. What Greer was saying clearly didn’t sound very pro–Rapa Nui. She was telling them their island was worse than half-empty. It was completely empty.

“But this deficiency couldn’t be more meaningful. More
perfect.
”

She proceeded with the coring details, hoping to bury her negative remarks in a catalogue of numbers.
The ratio of Gramineae to Filices in the base core layer to 26,000 years
B
.
P
. . . . Forty-three percentage herbs and Pteridophyta at six meters in the primary borehole.
When she at last looked up from her paper, Mahina smiled, but then broke into a yawn. Vicente was rubbing his eyes. Greer thanked them all for their time, their attention, and gathered her things.