Easter Island (37 page)

“You are an honest woman, Greer” came Vicente’s voice behind her. “You said coring was a slow and boring process, and you spoke the truth.”

“I think you missed some sleep in the corner of your eye, Vicente.”

“It is not my fault. I have a medical condition. When I am bombarded by numbers and statistics, my brain becomes overworked and needs to rest itself.”

“Ha-ha.”

“I was diagnosed at a cryptography conference when someone gave a five-hour talk on the relationship between prime numbers and cuneiform. Saved by sleep.”

“Well, Burke-Jones was very inspiring. I had a tough act to follow.”

“Yes, he was excellent, I thought.”

They both turned and looked for him, but he’d already left. People were milling about the chairs. Mahina was by the snack table, holding what looked like a potato chip up to the light. Ramon whispered in her ear, and Mahina laughed.

“Your proprietress is having a good time,” Vicente said.

“He likes her.”

“Ah, Ramon. Since I first came here I could see he was in love with her.”

“They seem good together. I was going to encourage her. But I try not to endorse infidelity.”

“He’s not married.”

“No, I mean Mahina. Her husband’s away.”

Vicente shook his head with dismay. “In . . . Tahiti?”

“Yes.”

“Poor, dear Mahina.”

“Why?”

“I told you that in the fifties and sixties, when Chile forbade the islanders to leave, men stole boats, built rafts, and tried to sail to Tahiti. Mahina’s husband was one of them. Lost at sea.”

“But that’s over ten years ago. God, she can’t really think he’s coming back.”

“Who knows? But she won’t look at another man. Several have tried. And she is quite an attractive woman. It’s a shame.”

Greer looked over at Mahina. Her hands were clasped behind her back, and Ramon leaned into her. The purple dress brought out a deep flush in her cheeks, and a smile lit her face. Vicente was right—an attractive woman.

“Poor Mahina,” said Greer.

A few people began to leave. Two teenagers—Claudio and César—whom Isabel had hired for the evening, began folding the chairs. Isabel and Sven were sitting side by side, their knees touching.

“I guess I should get back,” said Greer. “I’ve got a lot to do tomorrow.”

“More counting pollen?”

“What else?”

“Walk with me.” Vicente took her hand. “You cannot keep clinging to these foolish American habits of independence.”

“It’s what my nation was built on. Think of it as my form of patriotism.”

“Come, Greer. You must let me at least walk you to the
residencial.
I know my way there very well. Too well, perhaps.”

Greer looked at him, his face soft and generous in the moonlight. She wanted him to walk her home, but it would be harder to say good-bye there. “Another night, Vicente. A rain check.”

“A rain check? For when the weather is better? I warn you, Greer, summer is upon us.”

“Ah, yes. The dry season. I think I can handle that.”

“It’s funny, I know everything about your research, your acid washes, your pollen counts. I know when you like to work, what you like to eat, to drink. Months we’ve been here, learning all these little things about each other, but I would like to know the other things.”

“Little things are important.”

“But I would like to know what your life is like outside of your work. Is that so very awful to ask?”

She had never seen him so sincere. “No, it’s not at all awful to ask. But sometimes it’s hard to answer.”

“It is the way with all the important questions, no?”

“You’re right,” she said. She gave him a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll work on an answer.”

And with that she left him.

Greer woke early the next morning to a loud knocking. She pulled herself out of bed and opened the door to Mahina, who announced an urgent visit from Vicente. (Mahina forbade men from approaching the doors of women guests.) The previous night’s revelation about Mahina’s husband came fuzzily to mind as Greer threw on her robe and followed her through the courtyard into the main room.

There was Vicente, in blue jeans and a white T-shirt. He was waving a piece of paper in the air. He looked buoyant.

“What? No hangover?” Greer asked.

“One of my many talents: pisco tolerance.” He handed her the paper. “Not the original, of course. A translation. But direct from the German archives. You see?”

Urgent. Precious cargo onboard. No chance for return. Need safe harbor for drop-off. Cargo cannot remain on ship.

It was a telegram from von Spee’s ship, the
Scharnhorst
, dated 22 October 1914. Greer’s mind twisted its way through the calculation. “Two days after they left the island?”

Vicente nodded, clearly trying to contain his excitement.

“This is really something. Is there a reply?”

“If there was, it went down with the ship. But there may be another telegram from von Spee. About the ‘cargo.’ It should arrive soon.”

“Oh, Vicente!”

He smiled. “I know,” he said. “I know.”

And behind him Mahina rested her hands on her hips and tilted her head. “
Doctora,
your
colleague
has brought you another something?”

21

There are eight ships approaching the island. Five appear to be warships, black smoke belching from their cylinders. Three smaller vessels trail behind. From the cliff’s edge, Edward and Elsa watch the procession in disbelief. No ship has approached the island since their own arrival. And now eight. Unease creeps through Elsa as the boats steam past Anakena, toward the island’s eastern coast.

“They can’t actually intend to anchor here,” says Edward.

Elsa shrugs.

“Of all things,” he says. “Well, we must greet them. They’re likely a European fleet. Perhaps British. They may have mail. Or at the very least newspapers.”

“German,” says Elsa.

“German. British. Japanese. So long as they have newspapers.”

German. That’s what disturbs her.

Edward heads inland. “I should get off a letter to the Royal Geographical Society. Summarize our work . . . And you should write one about the tablets. Whet their appetites back home. If we send them with the ships, we could catch replies with the Chilean Company boat. Elsa, are you all right?”

Elsa, whose gaze has not left the horizon, turns, finally, and traces Edward’s path through the grass.

Edward is by the ponies. “I can’t imagine they’ll want to stay long.” He loosens his pony’s rope from the post and mounts the animal. “Well?”

Elsa looks up at him. “Alice?” She has not seen Alice since the day before.

“Asleep.”

“But if she wakes . . . I should stay with her.” As if on a gust of wind, their argument returns.
Imbecile
—the word leaps into Elsa’s mind.

“You don’t mind?” he asks.

“Just find out who they are and return soon.”

Edward gallops off, and Elsa sits in the grass beside Alice’s tent. She closes her eyes, trying to calm her mind. But the warships. She cannot stop thinking of them. What if the fleet is German?

Elsa soon pulls herself up, brushes the sand from her skirt, and wades through the gauzy cloud of netting. Alice is asleep on her cot, her body curled fetal-style. Beside her, Pudding preens in his cage. Alice’s hair, having dried from the rain, falls in thick tangles around her face. Elsa lies down beside the cot, listening to the gurgling of Alice as she dreams, and the sound is so gentle, so childlike, Elsa reaches out her hand and strokes Alice’s arm. But when Alice stirs, Elsa quickly withdraws. She fears Alice waking up, her anger rekindled. Afraid of Alice—the thought sends a shudder through Elsa. Everything with Alice will now be different. Elsa will have to accept that. And as she thinks this, she feels as though the edges of her being are fraying, as though something has taken hold of her vital thread and is tugging steadily and she can only watch as stitch by stitch she comes undone.

The whinnying of a pony awakens her, and she rises in the gray light of the afternoon. Alice, on the cot beside her, is still sleeping.

“Elsa!” Edward is calling. “Elsa dear, we have visitors.”

She kneads her face into alertness. Easing her head outside the tent, she can see on the hill above the beach a dozen figures on horseback. A galaxy of brass buttons on navy blue. She offers a wave.

“You were right, dear! Germans.” Edward’s voice again. His lecture-hall voice. “They’ve come to provision, and do a little sight-seeing. I’ve been telling the admiral what we’re doing here and he’s most interested in your work on the tablets. I told him you’d be happy to show him one.”

“Now?” she shouts. Her tone is rude, but she cannot subdue her panic.

“The admiral was rather hoping to see one today. They’ve been at sea for quite some time. Starved for stimulus, I imagine.” Edward mumbles something to the half-circle of figures and brief, gruff laughter erupts on the hill.

“I insisted.” The voice, accent-laced and familiar, addresses her.

She looks up again at the row of figures, but she cannot discern faces beneath the gold-ribboned hats. She will have to make her way up there. Her heart now hammering in her chest, she steps inside her tent, grabs the
kohau
she took to Kasimiro, and stumbles up the hill. In the center of the half-circle, his hat suspending a thick band of gold, is the admiral.

“You’ve brought a
kohau,
” says Edward. “Splendid.”

Elsa unwraps the tablet and extends it like a rifle at the admiral. His lips maintain an unflinching line, an effort at gravity, betrayed only by his silvery mustache, whose edges, curling upward, suggest amusement. Elsa asks, “
Was machst du hier?
”

He turns to Edward. “The lady speaks German.”

“Elsa is fluent,” says Edward. Trying to ease the awkwardness, he dismounts and gently pries the
kohau
from Elsa’s hands. “You see, Admiral, each
kohau
is carved with a variety of figures. Look. Just here? Some are in the shape of birds, and here—animals. Some are mere squiggles. But Elsa has already catalogued over two thousand characters.”

“Your wife is an industrious woman.”

“She’s made an extensive study of the Rapa Nui language and the
rongorongo.
She’s quite close to making a translation.”

“And what do these tablets say, Frau Beazley?”

Elsa cannot find words with which to answer.

“We think”—Edward interjects—“they record the island’s history. This one, for instance, we have reason to believe explains the moving of the
moai.
”

“It could not be, then, a communication of some sort? Like a letter announcing an occasion? A marriage?”

Elsa shakes her head. She won’t accept what she is hearing.

“Or a journey?”

“You see, Admiral, our research among the Rapa Nui—and Elsa has interviewed scores—strongly indicates that the tablets record the island’s history and mythology. They were composed by special scribes schooled in the script. They were not, therefore, used by the common people for communication. She intends on getting a key, as well.”

“Fine.
Gut,
” says the admiral. “Now”—he searches his officers—“I would like to ask Frau Beazley if she would accompany us briefly to the town. To assist in some transactions. To translate. Provisions for the men.”

Edward turns to her. “It will be dark in a few hours.”

“We shall have her escorted directly back, I assure you.”

“Dear?”

Elsa looks from Edward to the admiral and back again. The sight of the two men beside each other seems impossible.

“Fine,” she says. “Provisions.”

“Only if you feel up to it,” cautions Edward. “We’ve had a very long day, you see,” he explains to the Germans.

“I’ll go,” she says. “Check on Alice.”

“Of course.” He passes Elsa the reins of his pony. “You’re sure?” Elsa nods. As she draws up beside him, he whispers, “See if you can’t get us a newspaper. He claims they have none, but maybe if
you
ask.” She mounts the animal.

“We shall have her back shortly,” says the admiral, his boot flickering a kick to his horse’s flank.

Elsa keeps her head down as her horse trots ahead of the men, stirring the red dust along the coastal path. Suddenly she wants to race far ahead, to flee.

“Reitet hier weg!”
a voice commands behind her, and the sound of all the hooves comes to an abrupt stop. The silence is broken by the sound of one horse, walking slowly toward her. Only when he is beside her does the final eddy of her confusion erupt in one breathless question.

“Max?”

He reaches out and takes her hand.
“Mein Liebling.”

22

By late October, Greer had taken and examined all her cores. She’d sent off her sediment samples for radiocarbon dating to establish the island’s ecological timeline. A copy of Selling’s
Studies in Hawaiian Pollen Statistics
had finally arrived, along with herbarium samples from Kew that would help her, for the next month, identify the unknown pollen grains.

Vicente and Sven were helping Burke-Jones excavate a
moai
at the quarry—in preparation for his experiment they had to loosen ground beneath the statue—and Greer worked alone in the SAAS building. The hours passed quietly as she pulled her stool between the two microscopes on the lab’s long worktables. She had devised an angled platform for her microscope so she didn’t strain her neck, and on long days she wore a thin brace. At noon, Mahina brought her lunch, and Greer would sometimes show her the pollen. Mahina had a good eye for the subtle differences—she could spot a small indentation in the exine immediately—and liked to compare what she saw in the microscope to the pictures in the pollen guide.

Occasionally, when they took a break from their work at the quarry, Vicente would stop by to say hello, or Sven would burst in with a joke: “So how are the
Pollen Esians
today?” Sometimes, at night, while waiting for her centrifuge, Greer would stroll down the hall to Burke-Jones’s lab, where he retreated at the day’s end to fine-tune his miniature worlds.