The Three Sirens (50 page)

She went to the door, partially opened it, and scanned the corridor. Through the quiet darkness, in the dim light of the wick burning in coconut oil at the far end, she could make out the sleeping figure of the adolescent boy who was Vaiuri’s assistant. All the patients, she guessed, were also asleep.

Withdrawing into the private cubicle, she closed the door. She turned to the weakened giant on the mat beneath the window, his breechclout still open as she had left it. With deliberation, she advanced toward him, unzipping her cotton dress, so that the straps fell down her shoulders. Slowly, she stepped out of the dress, then freed the brassiere from her flat breasts, and finally, she took the elastic band of her blue nylon panties and, bending, pulled them off.

Nude before him, she could permit herself the truth: what she had done, what she was about to do, she had planned all the afternoon and evening.

She went down on her knees, and then into his reaching brawny arms, enjoying the crushing grip of his hands on her ribs. With his help, she stretched full-length on her side, one hand caressing his face, the other caressing his body. He groaned with passion, and she brought him over on his side, facing her, feeling his enormity from head to toe and desiring all of him.

“I want you, Uata,” she gasped, drawing him closer, and then she pressed her fingers into his back, sobbing, “Ah—ah—ah—”

After that, all through their early love, she wondered if she was breaking a tabu. And when she had banished consideration of that, she worried that he might think less of her, for her unrestrained performance. But then, in the ecstasy of his face, in the rhythm of his giving, she saw and she felt that he thought more of her, more than even before, and that he was being fulfilled. Relieved, she could at last close her eyes and cease thinking thoughts. Except one…It was good to be beautiful again.

V

IT WAS
during the early morning of their thirteenth day on The Three Sirens, immediately after finishing her solitary breakfast of hot taro dumplings and coffee, that Maud Hayden decided she had better start thinking of the letter she wanted to send off to Dr. Walter Scott Macintosh.

From her place behind the desk, she could see the small canvas mailbag, half-filled, propped against the wall near the door. Tomorrow, Captain Rasmussen would be in for the second time since they had been here. He would arrive with supplies and gossip, and visit Maud to leave incoming letters from the States in exchange for the bag of outgoing mail. Maud knew that something for Macintosh should be in that bag.

Not that she had neglected her sponsor at the American Anthropological League entirely. In the past week, she had dictated a colorful outline of her first findings on the Sirens. Claire’s neatly typed original and two carbons—original for Macintosh, first carbon for Cyrus Hackfeld, second carbon for file—were stacked to one side of her desk. What was wanted now was a short, discursive, personal letter, a sort of covering letter, to go along with the outline.

How much time did she have? Through a portion of open window, she could see that the gray new morning was beginning to yellow, which meant the sun was creeping into the sky. Her desk clock read ten minutes after seven. Paoti had agreed to see her at seven-thirty. It would be a busy day. She planned to spend the entire evening questioning the Chief. Then, the afternoon, except for the visit to the community nursery, would be given over to elaborating upon and bringing up to date her scraps of jottings, that is, entering them in more detail, and in sequence, in her notebook.

She picked up the perforated silver microphone of the portable tape recorder, pressed the button on the machine marked “Record,” briefly watched the thin brown ribbon run from one spool to the other, and then she began to speak.

“Claire, this is a letter to go out with the original of the outline,” she began. “Send it to Dr. Macintosh. When you type this, don’t let it look dictated. If you make a mistake, don’t redo the page. Just X it out. All right, the letter—” She paused, eyes on the unwinding tape, and, in a more confidential tone of voice, she spoke to the microphone:

“Dear Walter. By now you have my letter from Papeete and the one I dashed off the second day we were on the Sirens. Almost two weeks have passed, one-third of the time we are permitted to remain, and I can honestly state that what we have found here has exceeded my highest expectations … Claire, new paragraph … The enclosed outline, too premature to be more than sketchy, represents a summary of our combined findings to date. As you will see, the cultural pattern of this society offers several customs hitherto unknown to anthropology. Over-all, I believe the presentation of this data will attract as much attention as did
Coming of Age in Samoa
and
The Heritage of the Bounty
when they first appeared so long ago … New paragraph…In any event, Walter, I do not think you will regret scheduling me for the three morning sessions at the annual meeting. I am pleased you will be chairman of the first ‘Culture and Personality’ session, and I am grateful you are giving me an hour. I expect to unload my big guns in that session. The two symposiums the following days will be perfect for the mop-up. I am absolutely as confident as you that we will run our Dr. Rogerson right off the map, especially if you go through with that mass press conference for me that you are considering. I’m eager to have your reaction to the enclosure. I want to hear from you that your faith in this little excursion, and in my immediate future, is not misplaced … New paragraph … Subordinating business for a moment, I will confess that this field trip, about which I was so apprehensive, has gone even more smoothly than I could have wished. Being in the field again, for the first time alone, that is, without Adley, has revitalized me …

Claire, cut the last sentence, revise as follows … Being in the field again, after all those sedentary mourning years, has revitalized me. Adley would be so pleased. I will not lie to an old friend like you, Walter. I do miss Adley not being here. You will understand that. When I’m alone at night, and all are asleep, and I’m making my notes, I often find myself automatically looking up to discuss a point of information with Adley, and I am surprised that he is not sitting across from me. This is a hard reality of life. I do not know if more and more years will change it. There is simply no one to replace him. I doubt that there will ever be. But I am grateful for the gifts he has left me, a generous share of his wisdom, a strength derived from him … New paragraph … Do not misunderstand, Walter. I have no deep complaints. I am wealthier than most, in that I have a work I love, and a family I love. My daughter-in-law, Claire, whom you have not yet met, has adapted marvelously to the field. She has my own lively thirst for knowledge, and many abilities. She has been of inestimable value to me. In the past weeks, she has carried the burden of my stenographic work. She has served as my lieutenant with other members of our group. She has spent considerable time in the company of Mr. Courtney, interrogating him, and reported information to me that I might not otherwise have learned. As to Marc, he has been …”

Her mind wandered. He has been—what? Maud watched the tape continuing to unwind, and she was not sure what she should tell it and Walter Scott Macintosh. Quickly, she pressed the button marked “Stop.” Abruptly, the tape was still, poised, waiting.

Marc disconcerted her. He had always been a docile child, and as a grown man he had been submissive, only sometimes sulky. But since Adley’s death—no, since his marriage, really—or, more accurately, in the past year—he had proved openly willful. More and more often, Maud had found him sarcastic and rebellious in public. And his private moods were blacker and his depressions more protracted. For all her efforts to keep out of the way, to pretend she did not see what she saw, Maud could not help but be aware that her son’s marriage was not the happiest. Often, she wondered what was wrong with it, and often, she thought it might be her own presence. An opportunity to separate herself from Marc and Claire, she had come to believe, would solve their marital problems. Since arriving on the Sirens, she was less certain this separation would solve anything. Marc’s behavior, from the time the project had been considered to the present time, especially during the two weeks on the Sirens, had been a cause for increasing alarm. Something about this field trip, possibly the impact of this society upon him, had heightened an imbalance in his personality. From statements Marc made to her, delivered with unaccountable hostility, from his pronouncements to Claire and several others on the team, Marc’s growing lack of objectivity was only too apparent, and it was deplorable. He was neither anthropologist nor gentleman guest, but rather an adversary of the Sirens.

Should she speak to him? What would Adley have done? As anthropologist, Maud was confident and decisive. As mother, she was confused and reticent. The moment that she had to communicate with this product of her flesh and blood on an emotional level, deeper than their work, she was held dumb. Still, something must be done to curb his public displays of disapproval. Perhaps, if the right opening came, she would find a way of drawing Marc out, and advising him. Perhaps, first, she might consult with Rachel DeJong, who was, after all, experienced in these matters. Then, Maud realized that she could not consult a psychoanalyst. If it got out, Marc would be furious at being made to seem yet more inadequate. No, there was no avoiding a face-to-face, mother-to-son confrontation. She would wait for the opportunity. She would see.

Maud reached for the lever beneath “Rewind,” swung it left, saw the tape whir into reverse, immediately stopped it. She punched the “Play” button. She listened.

Her voice, with a rasp unfamiliar to her, came through the speaker. “—reported information to me that I might not otherwise have learned. As to Marc, he has been …”

She stopped the tape, pecked at “Record” again, and lifted the microphone closer to her mouth. “—extremely helpful,” she dictated, feeling, in this attempt to further Marc’s career, motherly, protective, and therefore justified. “He spends several hours each day interviewing a valuable informant who is the Chief’s niece. I have not seen Marc’s notes, but from what he passes on to me in conversation, the young lady is articulate. The result will be a penetrating contribution to our study on the mores of the unwed young people of this society. What Marc is learning from Tehura, and Claire is learning from Mr. Courtney, wonderfully supplements the information I am acquiring from Chief Paoti. I have had the Chief recount to me the history of his people and their traditions. Yesterday, I encouraged him to speak of his own life, and he told me of his early years. I hope to bring him along in this vein for another week or more … New paragraph…As to the others on the team …”

She paused to recollect what they had accomplished these weeks, and what they were doing now. The tape was running blank. Absently, she reached out and pressed down on the “Stop” button.

She took a hasty mental census of her team, and tried to organize their activities for the benefit of Dr. Walter Scott Macintosh. Of them all, Lisa Hackfeld had been, to Maud, the greatest surprise. Maud had accepted her membership under silent protest, written her off from the start as spoiled and vapid, pegged her as the team’s albatross. Yet, after an unpromising beginning, Lisa Hackfeld had adjusted completely to the rigors of the field. More than that, she was enthusiastic about her role of participant observer. No longer did she complain of the lack of hair dye, although gray was showing at the roots of her hair. No longer did she object to the crude new lavatory, or the lack of furniture, or the omission of dinner service. She had rediscovered the Dance, not for money, fame, health, but for the pleasures it gave her body. From morning until night, every day, she was absorbed in rehearsing with Oviri’s group. She had not found the time, she had cheerfully told Maud yesterday, to write Cyrus her weekly letter.

From Lisa, Maud’s mind jumped to the professionals of her team. Rachel DeJong was carrying on her lengthy psychoanalytical consultations with Moreturi, Marama, and Teupa. Except for two brief meetings with Maud—to discuss the role of morals and other venerated relics in the present society—Rachel had been, not unexpectedly, close-mouthed about her patients and her findings. Rachel moved about in a perpetual state of preoccupation. If anything, her familiar phlegmatic air had intensified in the thirteen days. Maud could not know if she was satisfied or dissatisfied, but she was apparently absorbed.

Harriet Bleaska, on the other hand, was an easier personality to read. Before coming here, she had displayed the practiced extroversion and bounce of so many unwed ugly women. In this society, basically outgoing, she appeared to flourish. Except for the one occasion when she had shown concern over a dying patient and had wished to break a tabu to make him more comfortable, Maud had not seen her solemn. Harriet worked regular hours at the infirmary in collaboration with Vaiuri, a formal young native who was its head man. When she had time to spare, she spent it trying to learn the traditions behind the plants used for drugs that Sam Karpowicz brought her, mindful that one of the reasons she was on this trip was to find, if she could, something of value for Cyrus Hackfeld’s pharmaceutical network. Harriet kept meticulous, if uninspired, notes, and every Friday she submitted them, written on ruled paper in a stilted hand, to Maud, her mentor. Mostly, they were a nurse’s histories of patients in the infirmary. A small percentage of the material was beneficial, in that it revealed the diseases found on the Sirens. Yesterday, Harriet had reported, quite calmly, that she had lost a patient under her care. She alone, of the entire team, had been invited to attend the funeral services today. Maud was pleased at how well this young lady had been accepted by the natives.

The Karpowiczes had blended into their surroundings as casually as three chameleons. Maud had seen and heard little of them. Sam Karpowicz had decided to defer the major part of his botanical searchings to the last three weeks of the field trip. So far, he had concentrated his energies almost entirely on photography, taking both stills and motion pictures. He had spent entire days preparing a pictorial record of the Social Aid Hut, the Sacred Hut, the Chief’s hut, daily life in the village compound, an afternoon meeting of the Hierarchy. The contact prints that he had shown Maud, not all professionally slick and glossy, were less concerned with artistic niceties of composition and light than they were with bringing the little-known community alive in the flesh. The natives of the Sirens seemed to leap from Sam’s prints. Ahead of him still lay a busy photographic schedule. He had told Maud that he planned to cover the infirmary, the school, the various festival activities, spend a day with the village craftsmen, at labor, another with the fishermen, another (under Courtney’s supervision) in the hills and the islets across the way, one more showing the life of a typical young female like Tehura, and an afternoon of candid shots of Maud herself at work in the field.