One Big Damn Puzzler

  After the shitting they returned to the Captain Cook, where the three of them had slept in a line on the mahogany dining table, to collect their briefcases. Beach was in a lively mood. ‘I won’t be recommending your hotel to anyone, William,’ he said. ‘The bed was too hard and you’re liable to find another guest sleeping in your soup.’

  ‘Ha ha, that’s very funny,’ said Dr Gold. ‘That’s some sense of humour you have, Beach.’

  ‘It’s not so much that I have a great sense of humour,’ said Beach, with a meaningful glance at William, ‘although of course I do. It’s more about a world view. You have to laugh about these things or life just gets you down.’

  On their way to the village Beach treated William to the tale of his encounter with a six-foot New Zealand girl in a bar in Wellington that William had caught the tail end of him telling to Dr Gold when the helicopter landed.

  ‘Man, she was big!’

  ‘Yes,’ said Dr Gold with a chuckle, ‘and you like them big.’

  ‘Hey, sorry, I forgot,’ said Beach. ‘I told you this already.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ said Gold. ‘I can stand hearing it again. Nothing like this ever happens to me in bars. I go to a bar, I get drunk, that’s all that happens.’

  Beach had barely resumed his story when he was interrupted again, this time by the sight of a figure coming towards them.

  ‘Wow!’ said Beach. ‘Fucking bow wow, man!’

  It was Kiroa. The way her hips swung from side to side you’d have thought she was teasing the three white men, but William knew it was just her normal walk.

  Kiroa stopped and said to William, ‘Hello, gwanga, is be good for see you again. Lintoa is tell me you is come back.’

  There was something in the way her lips lingered over the she-boy’s name that made William suspect her affections had not changed during his absence. The hopelessness of unrequited love is always obvious to an objective observer with an unreturned passion of his own. Kiroa seemed not to notice Beach whose eyes were level with her nipples. He was slavering like a hungry dog confronted by a bone.

  ‘It’s good to see you too,’ William said. She smiled, somewhat sadly, he thought, and continued on her way along the shore.

  The three men stood and watched her go.

  ‘She is BIG!’ said Beach.

  ‘And you like them big,’ repeated Gold.

  Beach turned to William. ‘Is it true they don’t have any morals? They just go into the jungle with one another and do it? I mean, you don’t even have to buy them a drink first?’

  ‘It’s not quite so simple as that. They have morals all right. They’re just different morals from the ones we have.’

  ‘Hot banana!’ said Beach.

  As William had arranged, the amputees and other claimants were waiting in the village centre. William did a rough head count to make sure all thirty-seven were present.

  There were fifty-two.

  He counted again and again arrived at fifty-two. So next time he was careful to include only those people who were missing something, a leg, an arm, a hand or a foot, plus a couple who had been blinded by shrapnel and one or two like Purnu who’d lost a wife or husband. Thirty-seven. He couldn’t work out where he was going wrong.

  They began a long day of interviews. Dr Gold examined each claimant to make sure their injuries were consistent with landmine damage. William was surprised at the speed with which he was able to do this.

  ‘Oh, there’s not much to it, it’s a knack,’ said the doctor in an offhand way. ‘It comes with experience. It’s an area where American expertise is second to none. You see, for decades now US-manufactured mines have been blowing off limbs all over the world. I’ve seen so many cases I can spot them straight away.’

  A little later William saw him questioning a man and shaking his head. William didn’t recognize the man as anyone he remembered interviewing himself. He looked for his name on the list of claimants and found it wasn’t there.

  ‘What’s his injury?’ he asked the doctor.

  ‘Bomb is blow off all toes on this foot,’ said the man, indicating his right foot. ‘I is not can walk properly now.’

  ‘Machete,’ said Dr Gold.

  ‘Machete?’ said William. He thought the doctor was asking for one, the way doctors always said ‘scalpel’ in TV hospital dramas.

  ‘Machete,’ repeated the doctor. ‘He cut off his toes himself with a machete.’

  ‘No, no, no,’ protested the man. ‘Is be bomb.’

  The doctor thrust his face into the man’s. ‘Are you trying to tell me I don’t know a machete wound when I see one? Are you?’

  The man shook his head. ‘N-no, but—’

  ‘No buts, please, my good man. See here, Mr Hardt, the straight line of the toe stumps? A landmine doesn’t do that. It’s not so precise. Not so neat. A landmine blast will leave everything uneven. You end up with frayed toe stumps. And look here, this gash above the point of severance. A blow that missed the target when he was hacking the toes off. Typical of a fraudulent claim.’

  ‘OK,’ said the man, ‘is be machete that is chop off toes, but you is must still give me dollars. Is be bomb is make me lose toes.’

  ‘How do you reckon that?’ demanded the doctor.

  ‘Well, is be like this. I is go cut coconut open with machete. I is have coconut on ground and I is hold steady against stump of tree with this foot. I is just go hit coconut when someone is step on bomb. BOOM! I is miss coconut and is chop off toes instead.’

  The doctor looked at William and smiled. He looked back at the man. ‘Very interesting. But I’m afraid it doesn’t quite explain this.’ He ran his fingers over the gash.

  ‘Ah,’ said the man. ‘Ah yes, now I is remember. Is be two bombs. First bomb is go bang, I is strike foot there. Is not cut toes off. Then I is lift machete again for have another go at coconut. Just as I is strike, is be second bomb.’

  ‘Two bombs, huh?’ said the doctor. ‘What bad luck.’

  ‘I is know,’ said the man. ‘Is be plenty bad magic. Who is believe this is can happen?’

  ‘Not me, I’m afraid, my friend,’ said the doctor, patting him on the shoulder. ‘Now run along and stop wasting my time.’

  The doctor was a kindly man and this last remark was not meant as a joke. He watched, somewhat chastened, as the man hobbled away with the aid of a stick.

  William understood now where his extra claimants came from. They were opportunists hoping to cash in on the anticipated bonanza. Next up was a middle-aged woman who said she was blind. She was steered towards the doctor by her hopeful-looking husband. She held her arms out in front of her to prevent herself from colliding with anything.

  ‘Your eyes?’ said Gold.

  ‘Yes, I is not can see thanks for bomb. Blast is take away my sight.’

  The doctor produced a pencil flashlight and shone it in her eyes. He switched it on, waited a moment or two, then switched it off. ‘Hmm, interesting. Normal pupil dilation.’

  He turned away from her and bent to his medical bag. The woman stood staring patiently into space. Quick as a flash the doctor whirled round. He had a large knife in his hand which he swung at the woman’s face.

  She ducked.

  As she walked away without the assistance of her husband Gold smiled at William. ‘Not easy to fake, blindness.’

  William was getting worried that all the false claimants would damage his case. They might undermine the credibility of the genuine victims.

  It was especially difficult to believe that anyone was going to get anything out of Beach. He questioned the natives remorselessly, going over and over every detail of how their injuries had occurred, tripping them up over inconsistencies and, when they got through that, expressing doubt that their lives were materially affected by what he referred to as their ‘so-called disability’.

  ‘How does having an artificial leg stop you fishing? You’re in a boat floating on the water, for Christ’s sake. What’s it matter whether you
r foot is made of flesh and blood or wood or plastic?’

  Or, to a woman: ‘Anyone can cook with a prosthetic hand. Just wedge your spoon in it, like so—’ he demonstrated with a pen, ‘and stir away. What’s the problem?’

  By late afternoon they had worked through a quarter of the claimants. They sent the rest home until the next day. Sandy Beach stretched his arms. ‘What do you do for entertainment around here?’

  ‘There isn’t any,’ said William. ‘Read a book.’

  Beach stood up, ‘Aw, come on . . .’

  ‘OK,’ said William. ‘If that’s too dull, there’s always the kassa house.’

  ‘Aha, I knew it. Slip them a few dollars and enjoy a bit of the old . . .’ He went into a pelvic-thrusting pose that caused a few of the natives to gather round and stare.

  ‘He is eat orange fungi?’ asked one of them.

  ‘It’s men-only,’ William explained to Beach. ‘You just lie around getting stoned on a hallucinogenic drug.’

  ‘And afterwards the sex is marvellous,’ said Beach. ‘I get the picture. Lead me to it. You coming, Gold?’

  ‘No, I think I’ll pass. It’s not exactly sensible to toy with un-researched hallucinogenic substances. They can alter your mind.’

  Maybe it’ll change Beach’s for the better, William thought.

  FIFTY-NINE

  IT WOULD HAVE been too much, of course, to expect Sandy Beach to respect the islanders’ tradition of hospitality and observe the normal etiquette of the kassa house.

  ‘Can I get a beer in here?’ he asked as he and William emerged from the entrance tunnel. ‘Do they have lap dancing?’

  Even though William explained to Beach that you were not supposed to talk in the kassa house, it didn’t stop him. He turned to the man next to him, who happened to be Tr’boa, and said, ‘How do you get laid here? I mean if you want the old—’ and he thrust his lap up and down, ‘how do you go about it?’

  ‘First you is need magic,’ said Tr’boa.

  ‘Magic?’ It was less a question, more a suppressed guffaw. ‘Oh yeah, and where would I go to get that?’

  ‘Purnu.’ Tr’boa pointed at the little sorcerer who was at that very moment circling the hut, ladling out kassa. Beach licked his lips.

  Out of the mist Joe Hardt emerged. He’d grown a little older since the last time William had seen him. He must be in his forties now, the way William remembered him best from his childhood. There was a sparkle in his eyes that was dimmed in later years. Something else had changed about him too. There were lines around his eyes and black circles under them that hadn’t been there when he was alive at this age. His hair was all mussed up and his plaid shirt wasn’t fully buttoned. He looked like someone who’d been having too many nights out.

  ‘Dad, are you OK?’ William asked. ‘You look, well, kind of tired to me.’

  Joe Hardt shook his head and shot his son a wry smile. ‘To tell the truth, son, I’m all worn out. What am I now? In my forties? I feel worse than I did when I was alive and in my fifties. Things can get kind of hectic on Tuma, you know. What with the girls, and the kassa . . .’

  ‘Dad, are you getting enough sleep there?’

  ‘Son, sleep is the one thing I’m not getting enough of. Everything else I’m having too much of. I’m having too much of a good thing. I’m going to have to slough again and get back to twenty so I can stand the pace.’

  ‘Well, take it easy,’ said William. He felt his anxiety level rising. His eyelids were twitching away. But then he thought, what is there to be concerned about? What more than death can happen to Dad?

  His father was peering at Sandy Beach. ‘Who’s that with you, son? I think it’s definitely time I sloughed again, my eyes don’t seem to be working too well. Why it looks like . . . it looks like . . . that little runt Sandy Beach.’

  Sandy managed a stoned wave. ‘It is me, Mr Hardt. How are you? I mean, I know you’re dead and all, but that aside, how are you?’

  Joe Hardt looked at his son. ‘He turned out just like I always said he would, then.’

  ‘Dad, could you mind what you say about him, please?’ whispered William. ‘I need to keep on friendly terms with him for my case here. I don’t want to antagonize him.’

  ‘Antagonize whom?’ Beach lurched across William.

  Joe Hardt rolled his eyes. ‘For God’s sake! If it’s one thing I can’t stand it’s a man who can’t hold his kassa.’ He was starting to fade. ‘Listen son, I think it’s best I go now. I’m not sure I can be responsible for my tongue. Come and see me again real soon. Don’t leave it so long next time. Oh, and don’t invite your pal along.’

  ‘Dad? Dad?’ William peered into the mist, but it was no use, his father was gone. Instead, he saw something bright and green in the centre of the fire’s smoke. As he watched it became firmer and cohered into a figure that stumbled towards him, tripping in the dark on the high heels it was wearing.

  ‘Hey, gwanga, you is come see me at last!’

  ‘Tigua! Is it really you?’

  ‘You is think anybody else on Tuma is dress this way?’

  ‘Tigua, it’s . . . it’s so good to see you. I – I, well, we all miss you.’

  Tigua managed a brave little smile. ‘I is miss you too, gwanga. I is can not wait for Lintoa is become boy so she is can come in kassa house. You is see Lintoa?’

  ‘Yes, yes I saw him, I mean her, yesterday.’

  ‘How is be old sow?’

  ‘Lintoa is . . .’ William thought of the dishevelled dress, the garish make-up. ‘Lintoa is . . . grieving. He misses you more than he knows. He blames himself for your death.’ Lintoa hadn’t said any of these things, but they were all written in that lipstick gash, thought William.

  Tigua’s mouth crinkled into a wry smile, the kind that’s only a muscle or two away from sadness. ‘Is seem so stupid now, that I is kill self. I is not know what for I is do. I is see Lintoa with Perlua and I is know is never be any hope for me. I is not can imagine how I is go carry on live and so I is eat fungi.’

  William nodded. ‘I can understand that. It wasn’t stupidity. It’s called love.’

  A tear rolled down Tigua’s cheek. ‘Damn!’ he said, wiping it off. ‘Is mess up my make-up.’ He looked at William. ‘No, I is be stupid. What I is think can happen between Lintoa and me? She is never go be mine. Is not be possible.’

  ‘I know.’ William decided to change the subject. ‘How are you finding Tuma?’

  ‘Is be OK. But I is think Tuma is be more better for mans than for womans. They is not have little black dress, so I guess I is never go wear one now. Is be one funny thing, is be womans who is make babies, is make life, but if you is ask me, is be mans who is make Tuma.’ He brightened. ‘But you is can stay up all night, drink beer, smoke kassa and you is not worry ’bout looks. You is start look old sow you is just slough.’

  William was going to ask Tigua to keep an eye out for his father, make sure his old man didn’t overdo the partying, but just then a harsh voice intruded from nearby. He looked up and saw the enormous figure of Mrs Beach. She was so big that two or three other wraiths were able to pass through her simultaneously.

  She afforded William a little nod and smile of recognition, but that was all. She was too focused on her son, who was in a semi-collapsed state, half lying over Tr’boa. ‘Man, I’m telling you, she was BIG,’ he was telling the bemused native who was doing his best to push the OD’d American off.

  ‘Aaron!’ It was loud enough to wake the dead, had any of them still been asleep. Half the people in the hut, both the quick and the dead, turned to look at her. ‘Aaron, this is a wonderful opportunity for me to help you, you must pay attention!’ she boomed.

  Beach jerked upright, like a puppet who’d just had his strings pulled. ‘I’m listening, Mom, I’m listening!’

  ‘I am going to tell you something that will change your life. It’s about stuff. They don’t have it here on Tuma. Not a thing. Not a single personal possession. That’s what you
need to know Aaron: you can’t take it with you when you go.’

  ‘Well Mom, I kind of figured that. Mm, I think there’s even an old song about it.’

  ‘Son, this isn’t a laughing matter. I’m perfectly serious. I spent my whole life accumulating stuff. I couldn’t bear the idea of letting any of it go. I thought I couldn’t live without it, and now I find it wasn’t true. I can.’

  ‘You’re not exactly living, Mom.’

  ‘Don’t be pedantic! That’s simply a technicality. You’re just being frivolous. This is an important message I’m bringing you. You must tell all your friends. Stuff doesn’t matter. You can live – I mean, get by – without it.’

  Mrs Beach went on and on in the same vein until William could stand no more of it. The serene state the kassa house normally induced in him was fractured. That was the trouble with the newly converted. They always became such zealots. Besides, his dad was gone and Tigua had disappeared too, presumably to escape the sheer tedium of Mrs Beach. There was no-one left for him to talk to. And he certainly didn’t want to listen to a lecture on materialism from Sandy Beach’s late mother.

  He rolled onto his front and crawled over to the tunnel. Outside the air was cool and breezy. He had planned if he could ditch Sandy Beach to take another walk to Lucy’s, but you didn’t need to be a local expert to know that was too risky tonight. Reluctantly he turned in the opposite direction and the certain shelter of the Captain Cook. The wind was getting up. The palm trees were bent double. The ocean roared angrily. He hoped his father had got safely back to Tuma. Bad weather was on the way.

  SIXTY

  WHEN SANDY BEACH emerged from the tunnel an hour or so later he was in a bad way. His head was reeling from the kassa. He was only a little guy and he’d insisted on second and third portions even though Purnu had warned him to go easy on the stuff. On top of that his mother had sermonized him to within an inch of his life. Her self-righteous diatribe against possessions – which was rich, coming from her! – had only made him want to rush out and buy something, which he knew was impossible because William had earlier explained to him how the island currency was yams and he didn’t have any. With shopping unavailable as an act of rebellion and therapy, he decided he wouldn’t mind a darn good fuck. But where and how and with whom? And could you even get one without yams?