Ed yawned. “Pidgin can be picturesque. They call a helicopter ‘mix master belong Jesus Christ,’ and any unfit person or machine is a ‘buggerupem.’”
Carey smiled at him then read again. “‘Ownership is in kinship groups, as opposed to individuals. Village leaders are elected on the basis of achievement, wealth and the provision of lavish feasts; they can only keep their status by continuing to produce food and gifts for their clan …’”
“You stop giving, they kick you off the throne.”
“‘… and personally leading their men into battle. Outside Queenstown, the Australian Catholic missionaries are still in charge of the only available education.’ Hey, listen to this, Ed! To hunt, the islanders still use a bow and arrow, an ax or a club. Wow! It’s a pity we’ve come here to fish, not hunt. I’d love to see Arthur heaving a club.”
“Quit that.”
Carey continued. “‘Local currency is the kina … ’”
Ed yawned, “Kina means ‘shell.’ They used to trade in shells, then they used coins, and now they use paper, like everyone else.”
“‘… Or else wealth is reckoned in pigs.’ Pigs, Ed?”
“Sure. Pigs and wives—to work—are signs of wealth. Meat is scarce and only the men are allowed to eat it. They kill the pigs at the end of November. It’s a very important village festival.”
“Let’s hope we miss it.” Carey continued to read. “‘Relics from the Second World War are still seen in beaches and in forests along the coast.’ What sort of relics, Ed?”
“Rusty pieces of trucks, landing craft, lots of submerged airplanes—anything the natives couldn’t unbolt. There are also a great many plane wrecks in the jungle. Only the skeletons are left, of course.”
Carey shivered. “‘In 1947, when the islands of the South Pacific area assumed independent status, Paui became part of the Independent Federation of Islands in the Territory and was administered by Australia until 1975, when it was declared independent, under the protection of the United Nations. The Australian administration brought the vicious intertribal wars under control.’ Why did they have vicious tribal wars, Ed?”
“Because if a man from tribe A gets drunk and insults a man from tribe B, then the whole of tribe B is automatically pledged to avenge Mr. B. Naturally, Mr. A is supported by the whole of tribe A, so you only have to call a man a soppo— that means a bastard—and you have a small tribal war on your hands. Retribution is called ‘the Payback,’ and it’s always savage.” Ed sat up and stretched. “Unfortunately, the fighting started up again as soon as the Aussies left, and there was also a lot of looting in Queenstown. Feel like another swim?”
“Am I boring you, then?”
“Yes.”
“Soppo.”
* * *
Patty didn’t want to go on the helicopter sightseeing tour. In a daisy-patterned sundress, she stood looking at the beguiling, twelve-foot-high pink frangipani bushes that surrounded the big outdoor swimming pool. A few people were already splashing around and a scraggy Englishman on a floating mattress had already ordered his first mai-tai from the pool bar.
Patty wanted to stay here, she didn’t want to go on a smelly, noisy trip in a helicopter. She’d like to go for another run up that white deserted beach before it got too hot, then maybe swim to that small island about a mile out. She’d swum there yesterday evening, before dinner. There had been nothing to see except unkempt undergrowth. It was very different from Paradise Bay, which didn’t have a leaf out of place, she’d thought as she swam back toward the low line of thatched huts that stretched along the shoreline on either side of the main hotel building.
After last night’s swim she’d gone for a run along the deserted beach while everyone else was dressing for dinner, then she’d jogged around the perimeter of the hotel grounds. Beyond the six-foot-high wire fence, the boundary lights already had been switched on; they illuminated a rough-cleared strip of ground, beyond which writhed the sinister blackness of the jungle, alive at night with the noise of insects and the sharp calls of unknown creatures.
Patty had shivered as she jogged back to her hut, not because it was cold—it was still hot and humid—but because she had noticed that the clever lighting around the grounds of the hotel not only spotlit the beauty of the gardens but also guaranteed that no one could steal through the grounds unnoticed. Somebody had obviously paid a great deal of attention to security.
Patty turned her back to the now sunlit garden and said, “I don’t think I’ll come on the sightseeing trip, Charley, if you don’t mind.”
Charley took off his sunglasses; his eyes looked anxious. “Are you feeling all right? You don’t think you’re coming down with the same trouble as Harry?”
“Harry’s trouble was a bad oyster at dinner. It hardly ever happens, and you can’t tell at the time, although you sure know all about it afterward. If I’d had a bad oyster, I’d have been doubled up in bed yesterday morning, like Harry.” She hitched up the strap of her dress. “Nothing’s wrong. But we’ve only just arrived, and I’d like to have a quiet laze around the beach, unless you really want me along.”
“You do whatever you want. I want you to get a real rest on this trip.”
Patty said softly, “There’s something spooky about this place … Don’t laugh at me, Charley. I know, I can feel it. It’s something to do with the hotel staff.” She frowned in thought. “I sense resentment behind those smiles. It reminds me of that trip we took to Fiji, where everyone said how charming and helpful the natives were and they burned down the hotel the day after we left. Just because you’ve built a luxury hotel in a place doesn’t change that place, Charley.”
Through ten years of marriage, Charley had learned to respect Patty’s intuition. He said, “The average income on this island is under two hundred U.S. dollars a year, and a whole family lives on that. I can see that an islander might feel resentful if he serves a breakfast that cost seven dollars to some white tourist who doesn’t bother to finish it. Maybe that’s what your antennae are picking up.”
Patty said, “Maybe they don’t really like tourists. Maybe the islanders feel that it’s humiliating to be forced to sell their hospitality for foreign currency, be looked upon as a human zoo by teeming crowds of pink-faced people who say, ‘Aren’t the natives friendly?’ Maybe tourism doesn’t promote international goodwill, but international resentment. Maybe it only adds to racial prejudice, and makes them hate our guts.”
“Honey, you’re on vacation. Don’t make problems.” Charley put his arms around Patty and kissed the top of her smooth blond hair.
Her head against the safety of his chest, Patty persisted. “You’re sure it’s safe here, Charley? Have you seen the fence? We’re in a luxury concentration camp. Why?”
Charley murmured into her hair, “Back home in the U.S. someone is murdered every twenty-three minutes, a woman is raped every six minutes and something is stolen every four seconds. I don’t know where ‘safe’ is, but I expect you’re as safe as you can get, right where you are.” Again he kissed her silk-soft hair, then checked his watch. No, he was due at the helipad in seven minutes.
There was a sharp rap at the door.
The man standing outside wore white shorts and a white shirt, dappled by the early sun that shone through the trees. He was thin, blond and bronzed, with a pink, peeling nose. He looked beyond Charley to Patty and said, in a strong Australian accent, “Beg pardon, but are you the lady who did the fast swim to the island yesterday evening?” His eyes were aquamarine, with sandy lashes under sandy brows.
“Yes, that was me.” Patty looked pleased.
“Well, you were bloody lucky to get there, and even luckier to get back. We’ll be shark fishing in that water tomorrow. Please understand that there’ll be no swimming from my vessel.” He nodded curtly. “Good morning,” he said, and turned around and disappeared into the trees.
* * *
After the helicopter trip, Isabel and Roddy had arranged to play tenn
is with Patty and Charley. Isabel swung her racket as she strolled toward the tennis courts in the late afternoon sun. The green lawns were bordered with fifteen-foot-high, mauve and white flowered shrubs.
Isabel had enjoyed the flight. The island looked beautiful from the air, particularly as they followed the coast, skimming over the thick aquamarine band of water around green jungle. From above, the jungle looked impenetrable. The pilot explained that faults and folds in the limestone meant abrupt plunges in the terrain—sometimes from as much as six thousand feet to sea level—which was one of the reasons the island was so difficult to traverse by land. Mountains on the side of a ravine were called razorbacks—apparently, you could stand on one razorback and throw your pack to the next one, but then take a whole day to walk down and up the other side. During the cyclone season the whole side of a hill might be torn away, while sudden swollen river torrents roared down the narrow gorges. The Nexus party would, of course, be gone before the Long Wet, which didn’t start until December 1. You could almost set your watch by the start and finish of the cyclone season, it was the only predictable thing about Paui, the pilot said.
For once, the annual trip was really interesting, thought Isabel, as she waved her tennis racket in greeting to Patty and Charley, who were waiting at the court, immaculate in white. Isabel wished that Roddy hadn’t worn cutoffs and a T-shirt. Isabel figured that Charley would be the next president. In many ways Charley resembled Arthur—the entire Board was cool, fast and tough—but Charley had the killer instinct. Isabel had seen it time and again.
Isabel’s train of thought was distracted by Billy, the hotel’s pet goat, who appeared from behind a palm tree and tottered forward on slim, trembling legs, a little silver bell tinkling from his leather collar. As Isabel stopped to stroke the white, silky head she felt the bony cranium beneath the soft skin and touched the delicate silky ears. The kid nuzzled at her hand, licking it hopefully, with abrupt movements. It was hard to believe that this charming little creature was going to grow into an aggressive animal that would devour anything it came across.
Isabel said, “I wonder what they’ll do with Billy when he gets big enough to be a nuisance?”
“Goat stew,” Roddy said.
How pleasant it was to stroll instead of hurry, Isabel thought, to have nothing to do but enjoy the beautiful beach or the pool, which was what most of her friends imagined Isabel did when she traveled abroad.
In fact, Isabel’s foreign travel was generally about as exciting as catching a bus to work. Basically, her job was to locate the need for future Nexus acquisitions, find them and arrange for their purchase. In the course of doing this, Isabel moved around the world a great deal. The travel was both tiring and demanding, and it exasperated Isabel that every time she went abroad everyone behaved as if she were going on a vacation.
Isabel prepared for her trips by reading reports on individual companies and talking with bankers and executives to pinpoint their acquisition needs. After they had identified a target and formulated a strategy, Isabel would travel to the country in which the target business was located, then start negotiating. She always took her own lawyer, and also hired an English-speaking local lawyer. She often worked with Ed, especially in countries where they wouldn’t negotiate with a woman, of which Paui was a perfect example. Of course, all that would change in time, and, at thirty-seven, Isabel still had a lot of time—at least another thirteen years before she made her play for the top job.
Roddy always felt particularly affectionate when he and Isabel were about to play tennis. He’d fallen in love with her the first time they’d played together, when they were still in college. He’d seen those big blue eyes and that determined little frown across the net and he kept giving her shots that she just might get … if she really ran for them. Roddy played well but he played for fun. He didn’t have the instinct to go for the jugular, and he didn’t want it.
In spite of all Charley’s private lessons, Roddy and Isabel won the tennis game. Afterward, looking at Charley’s sweating, grim face, Isabel remembered that this was the man upon whom her future promotion would probably depend. Maybe she should have lost the game; Roddy realized what Isabel was thinking, he recognized the calculating little frown.
As they stripped to shower, Roddy yelled, “You want Charley to want you on his side, Isabel, but remember he’s only going to pick winners, not losers, for his team.”
He turned the shower dial to Cold and stepped beneath the spray, then angrily leaped away from the scalding jets of water. “What are they trying to do, kill us?” he shouted.
* * *
Crash!
Suzy sat up abruptly. “Brett?” It was still dark.
Brett called from the bathroom, “It’s okay, honey. Sorry if I woke you. I was looking for a replacement asthma spray and I knocked a bottle off the bathroom shelf.”
Brett threw the empty spray can toward the wastepaper basket, but it missed the basket and clattered over the floor. Later, the chambermaid retrieved it and put it neatly with the other toilet accessories beside the washbasin.
Suzy snuggled down but couldn’t get to sleep again. Brett was so weird about that spray. He hated to admit a weakness and tried not to mention his asthma, because it didn’t fit the correct Nexus macho image. Everyone knew about it, but they pretended not to, because Brett was so sensitive on the subject. He hadn’t even told Suzy about it until after they were married. He’d had virus pneumonia seven years earlier and bronchial asthma was the result. The first time Suzy had seen him having an attack, she’d been terrified by Brett’s white face and blue lips, by the gasping and wheezing sounds that came from his mouth, until he inhaled from the spray. Brett had an asthma attack if he got overanxious or if he caught a cold. The doctor had explained that it was due to a spasm of the bronchial tubes, which worsened if the tubes were further blocked by mucus. Apparently, before asthma had been diagnosed, a cold could knock Brett out of action for as long as three months.
As Brett tiptoed toward the door, Suzy said sleepily, “You must be crazy to get up this early on vacation. I can’t understand what you see in fishing.”
“It’s exciting,” Brett said, apologetically, but Suzy had drifted back to sleep.
In the faint pearl glow of dawn, Brett could just see the path to the beach, still spotlit at ground level. Although he was wearing a windbreaker, he shivered as he hurried toward the sound of the sea. He wished he could explain to Suzy what fascinated him about fishing. The thrill of hooking a big fish is the thought that only a rod and a fine line join you to it. Through the rod, you can feel every move the fish makes—in fact you can predict the next move from the last one. When the fish starts to fight, you know it has total confidence in its strength. After a while, when it realizes it can’t shake you off, you can feel its self-confidence has been shaken, you can sense it ebbing, you can feel fear in the movements of the fish, so far below.
Then the fish panics. When the fish has exhausted itself, the battle turns in the favor of the fisherman. By then, the fisherman’s whole body might be aching; his back muscles, thigh muscles, arms and hands—all might have been put under pressure by that big fish, perhaps for several hours. Fighting a fish can be as physically exhausting as wrestling.
Once you feel the fish start to crack, you reel in your line as often as possible, pulling it toward you—maybe only an inch at a time—but as the inches grow into yards, you’re pulling it closer. And the closer the fish comes to you, the closer it is to death.
Brett could now see shadowy figures waiting at the jetty, a rough wooden platform that stretched twenty feet out to sea from the middle of the beach.
Brett hurried past the wooden structure where big fish were hung to be photographed with the proud fishermen who had just caught them. He nearly tripped over the leg of the black-board, on which was chalked the weight of the catch. Beyond it, the white fishing boat looked gray in the half-light.
A muscular arm steadied Brett as he jumped i
nto the thirty-eight-foot Commander Sport Sedan.
The skipper said, “Glad you’re not late. Life jackets are in the cabin. So’s the coffee. Don’t know if they’ve left any for you.” He spoke with an Australian twang and slurred some of his words, pronouncing “you” and “your” as “yer,” “late” as “lite” and “don’t know” as “dunno.”
The crowded cabin smelled of fish and diesel oil, while the heads, opposite the tiny gallery, stank of urine. Carey poured the last of the hot coffee from a thermos into a plastic cup. “Brett, I hope this doesn’t taste as bad as it smells. Sugar?”
Brett shook his head to the proffered screw-top jar, sat on one of the blue bunks and nodded hello to Arthur, Ed and Charley. The engine started and the hull began to vibrate.
Slowly the boat left the jetty behind and moved toward the open sea. Behind him, Brett could see the island coming awake, in smudged, irregular bands of gray, like a Chinese watercolor. A sleepy security guard dragged himself across the empty beach. The dark smudges of the hotel buildings hardly showed against the burnt-sienna strip of palm trees behind them. As the background mountains shrank in the distance, the grays grew lighter, until the darkly wooded peaks were almost the same pale gray as the sky above them.
Sipping his coffee, which tasted of tacks, Brett looked around the cabin. In the bow was a pile of equipment: fishing tackle, bait box, a battered toolbox, a couple of buckets, a neatly rolled sheet of plastic, a box of old sneakers in assorted sizes and what looked like a pile of mosquito netting. It was the usual fishing boat equipment, which always looked like a heap of junk to anyone who wasn’t fishing.
A head appeared upside down in the cabin entrance; the skipper asked, “Everyone comfortable?”
Everybody nodded. Charley had recognized the aquamarine eyes, toffee-colored hair and sandy eyebrows (“There’ll be no swimming from my vessel”). Not a lady’s man. A maverick, who was old enough to have knocked about a bit, the kind of guy who doesn’t stay in any job or place for long, because he gets bored and moves on when he decides it’s time to go. Charley recognized the type.