‘Job?’ said Managua, as puzzled as the rest of them. Then he became aware that all the others were looking at him, expecting him to understand. Managua didn’t want to admit he didn’t know what the word meant either. He especially didn’t want to admit it in front of Purnu. The two of them were rivals. Purnu was jealous of Managua’s ability to read. Managua sensed he was desperate to learn himself, although Purnu pretended the opposite was the case and never ceased mocking Managua for all his book-learning. But sometimes he’d come to his hut and look over Managua’s shoulder as he was writing and point to a word and say in an overly casual way, ‘What is be this word?’
Managua would tell him and Purnu would nod sagely. Managua would continue writing and a couple of minutes later Purnu would indicate another word and say, ‘I is just wonder what is be that one?’ and Managua would tell him that one too.
It made Managua laugh. The bloody damn fool thought that if he asked what every word was he’d eventually know them all and be able to read, whereas of course that wasn’t the way it worked, you had to learn the sounds the letters made together. Sometimes when Managua was feeling particularly annoyed with Purnu he would reply to a question, ‘Is be so-and-so, I is already tell you that one,’ even if the word wasn’t what he said it was and he hadn’t ever told it to Purnu before, because the other man would never know and would be forced to dissimulate and would nod and say, ‘Ah yes, of course, I is see now. You is not write so good this time, I is not recognize.’
Managua’s one big fear was that Purnu would one day go to Miss Lucy and ask her to teach him to read, the way one of the nurses had taught him when he was hospitalized on the big island. Managua felt that if Purnu ever learned to read it would take something away from him, Managua. He knew this feeling to be envy and that it was bad but at the same time he realized it was Purnu’s problem, not his. It was because Purnu was an envious person that he could make Managua feel it. Envy was virtually unknown on the island. The islanders had nothing to covet, except occasionally one another’s wives, and maybe yams which they used instead of currency, and then if you were really worked up about someone having more yams than you you could just work your damn arse off and grow some more, although of course no-one ever was or did. Managua’s ability to read was the only thing on the island that no-one else had.
So now Managua corrected himself. ‘Ah yes, job, of course,’ he said knowingly. He turned and bent low, peering through the doorway. ‘Is be late,’ he said. ‘You is be tired after you journey, is want for go sleep, I is think? I is show you bukumatula house, where you is sleep.’
William thought about it. He didn’t want to stay in the village if he could help it. For one thing it was all so primitive. For another he remembered reading about an especially deadly snake that inhabited the island and he thought he’d be more likely to encounter one on the dirt floor of a native hut than the polished tiles of a modern hotel. And for a third, he wanted a base where he could work away from the prying eyes of the natives.
‘I was thinking maybe I could stay at the hotel, you know, the Captain Cook?’
At first this suggestion was met by complete silence. The natives looked at one another, pulling faces. In spite of the cultural differences between them and him, William could recognize the signals. Raised eyebrows, widening eyes, shaking of the head, in short, total incredulity. Then the man Purnu began to chuckle. His neighbour took up the sound and a ripple of laughter ran around the hut, increasing in volume until you might have described it as hearty. There was much knee-slapping, and people pushed one another’s shoulders, practically knocking each other over, as they fought to outdo themselves in ridiculing what William had just said. Finally Managua wiped his eyes, and, with the help of the girl Tigua, pulled himself to his feet.
‘You is come, gwanga,’ he said. ‘Captain Cook is not be possible.’
‘You is must wait till is be finish!’ said Purnu, and again the whole room erupted with ribald laughter.
‘Come,’ said Managua, suppressing a smile and speaking kindly, ‘I is take you bukumatula house.’
SIX
‘WHAT EXACTLY IS the bukumatula house?’ William asked Managua as they walked the path between the two concentric circles of wooden huts that made up the village. Managua had earlier explained to him that those around the outside were the homes of the people, while the inner circle consisted of workshops and storehouses, and also, apparently, the various bukumatula houses.
‘You is say bachelor,’ replied Managua. ‘Is be hut for unmarried boys. When boys is be small and father is make fug-a-fug with mother parents is just say, “Go sleep! Is not watch!” and children is obey. But when is get bigger, is become young man, is have too big interest. Is make difficult for parents. Audience is be for play like Hamlet. Is not be for make fug-a-fug.’
‘So they go and live in the bukumatula house?’
‘Not live, is just sleep there. Is satisfy curiosity theyselves.’
William wasn’t quite sure what this meant, but he had no opportunity to ask because Managua had stopped in front of a large hut, at least three times the size of his own. He ducked his head into the doorway and shouted something. A moment later a teenage boy emerged. ‘Ah, gwanga!’ the boy said and William recognized him as the leader of the rowers from the boat, the one who had complained of a kassa hangover, presumably from smoking the stuff William had just tried.
‘Tr’boa is look after you now,’ said Managua. ‘We is talk again next day.’
‘Yes,’ replied William. ‘Thanks.’
Managua frowned and stood staring at him with such obvious displeasure that William wondered what he had done wrong. It occurred to him that his gratitude might have seemed somewhat peremptory. There was probably some elaborate ritual form it should take.
‘I really am most grateful to you for all the kind assistance you have given me,’ said William, hoping that sounded formal enough.
Managua’s frown deepened and he shook his head, much as a European might have done at something that amazed and annoyed him. Without a word he spun around on the tip of his artificial limb and stomped off.
William turned to Tr’boa. ‘Did I say something wrong?’
Tr’boa laughed. ‘Is you say something wrong? You is thank he. Is be plenty big insult for thank someone who is show you hospitality. Is seem like they is just welcome you for get thanks and is not do from real kindness.’
‘Oh,’ said William. ‘Thanks.’
Tr’boa frowned.
‘Oh, God!’ exclaimed William. ‘I didn’t mean that, sorry.’
The boy broke into a big smile. ‘Is be OK. I is only make joke of you. Is be all right for say thanks except for hospitality. But next day you is not thank me for welcome you into bukumatula house.’
‘OK,’ said William. ‘Thanks.’
Inside the hut, William was surprised to see how sparsely furnished it was, even compared to Managua’s. Mostly it seemed to consist of a dozen or so bunks against the walls. There were no tools or kitchen implements lying around, and there had been no fire or cooking pot outside. When he questioned Tr’boa he was told that the boys slept here, but took their meals at home with their parents. ‘Is be same for girls, they is not eat here either.’
‘Girls?’ said William. ‘What would girls be doing in a bachelor hut?’
Tr’boa raised an eyebrow. ‘You is not know?’
‘Oh,’ said William, ‘of course. Yes, silly me. What else.’
Tr’boa showed William to a bunk. It consisted of a raised wooden platform built against the side of the hut, with a straw mattress and a blanket of woven vegetable matter to cover himself.
William set his case down by the bed, climbed onto it and pulled the blanket over him. It was already growing dark and with the fading of the light came the sounds of the jungle, the throaty rasp of frogs from afar, the whooping of some bird, the hum of insects.
William was weary as weary could be after his long journey and was al
most asleep when he heard voices. Opening his eyes he saw two dim shapes moving like ghosts across the room in the dying light, a boy and a girl, both teenagers. The boy whispered something and the girl giggled. They climbed onto a bunk against the opposite wall. Immediately there were more voices and other couples came in and made their way to their bunks. The hut was alive with their whispering. It was too dark to see now but there were rustling sounds that William imagined were grass skirts being discarded and dropped discreetly onto the dusty floor.
He shut his eyes and tried to sleep. He was suddenly aware that he was grinding his teeth, rotating hard the molars of first one side of his jaw and then the other in his old right-left-left-right combination. He told himself that this was understandable. His anxiety levels were high. He’d come halfway around the world to a remote place, peopled by savages who had strange customs and might still intend to slaughter him; the landscape was elemental too; there were no skyscrapers here to blot out the enormity of the sky, no TV to mask the relentless pounding of the waves that spoke to him threats of eternity. He was full of his old free-floating fear, which he had hoped to lose here, away from the stresses of modern life, but which at heart he suddenly felt he would never shake off because at its root was that one unanswerable fear, of his own inevitable extinction.
He was glad when a sudden gasp interrupted the way these thoughts were heading. He heard the rhythmic rustling of a blanket, the old familiar beat of two people making love, but it was the first time he’d heard it when he wasn’t one of them. Although the couple were obviously trying to be discreet – he could sense the girl biting her lip in an effort to hold back the increasingly frequent gasps of delight as she accelerated towards orgasm – their lust overrode this discretion. They could not conceal the quickening frenzy of their breathing.
Then, in syncopation came another set of breaths, more gasps of surprise and pleasure, and then a third pair joined in the orchestration and a fourth. William had no way of knowing that the youngsters around him really were trying to spare his feelings, that in the bukumatula house they abandoned their normal practice of the man kneeling between the woman’s raised thighs to make love and settled for the quieter if less satisfying position of lying side by side, the woman’s top leg over the man. As far as William was concerned there was no restraint in their performance; he found himself trapped in a wild delirium of surround-sound lovemaking.
He put his fingers in his ears in a futile attempt to block it out but without success. Besides, the air was thick with the scent of human sweat, vaginas and semen. There was no place to hide. One girl was shrieking with pleasure now, her squeals suddenly becoming muffled which William imagined was the effect of her partner putting his hand over her mouth. He imagined her bright white teeth seizing the hand and playfully biting it. Elsewhere a boy was grunting – ugh! ugh! ugh!, getting faster and faster ugh!ugh!ugh!ugh!ugh!ugh! The noises seemed to go on for hours.
Just when it began to grow quiet there would be a faint rustle of blanket and a giggle or two and it would start up again and that would wake someone else and they would begin and wake up another couple and so on until the whole hut was at it. Except William of course. At first he wondered at the natives’ sexual prowess, but then remembered they were teenagers and how he had been at their age, wanting sex over and over again, although, of course, not usually able to have it, at least not with anyone other than himself.
As the long night wore on, William decided he could stand it no longer. As quietly as possible – more to spare his own embarrassment than for fear of waking anyone else, since they all seemed to be awake and pounding away at one another hammer and tongs anyway – he picked up his bag and struggled out with it.
He was probably committing some heinous breach of the etiquette of hospitality, but he didn’t care. He had to get some sleep. Outside the silver light of a crescent moon showed him the way to the shore. He struggled with his bag along the strand. It seemed that even a couple of hundred yards from the village he could still hear the desperate sounds of teenagers humping, but he knew that couldn’t be so. The waves that crashed on the shore eclipsed any other noise.
He set down his bag to rest for a moment and surveyed the endless expanse of ocean. He picked up a pebble or two and flung them as far as he could into the water. He was reminded of how Isaac Newton had surveyed his life and likened himself to a small boy playing on the seashore while the whole vast ocean of truth lay unexplored before him. If Newton, whose mark still remained upon the world centuries later, felt his achievements dwarfed by eternity, then how could William believe he had any significance when measured against this sea, which had beaten these same shores for aeon after aeon and would continue to be here long after the island itself, let alone he, was gone?
He thought of the first creatures crawling out of the water and the millions of years it had taken them to grow legs and then again to stand up on those legs, and the still more millions of years until they were able to invent landmines to blow off the legs; the vast time to make the whole unlikely passage from their watery beginnings to him. How could he take comfort in the idea that man had come from the ocean and would ultimately return there? How could he, as he knew some people did, find repose in the idea of his identity dissolving and vanishing into this mass before him, never to emerge again?
He picked up his case and staggered on, head bowed, shoulders slumped, desperate for sleep. He had no idea where he was going except for a vague recollection that the hotel, the Captain Cook, had been marked on his map as not far from the village in this direction. Just when he began to think his arms were going to break from the weight of the case, he saw a low concrete building, only two storeys, set back from the shore in front of him. He dragged the case through the sand to it.
The back of the hotel faced the beach. There was a veranda running around it. William crossed it and walked through an open doorway. He noted that there were no doors. Inside, he realized this was because the hotel was half-finished. The building itself seemed more or less complete, but the concrete walls were mostly not plastered. There were shutters on the windows, but no glass in them. A wooden staircase in front of him seemed half-rotted and he decided not to risk it.
He went through a doorway to his right. The room was almost dark except for a little moonlight filtered through gaps in the shuttering. As his eyes grew accustomed to the obscurity he realized it had been intended as some kind of dining room. There was a wooden bar built in the shape of half the hull of a boat against one wall. The centre of the room was occupied by an enormous long table, a solid black shape in the dim light. It was covered in dust. Something scuttled past William’s feet. A lizard perhaps. He looked around for somewhere to sleep, but there was no other furniture. He didn’t fancy the floor and whatever might be crawling around down there. He brushed his arm along a section of the table to clear it of dust, climbed onto it, lay down and, despite the hardness of his bed, was soon asleep.
SEVEN
SANDY BEACH WAS rattling the bathroom door and shouting, ‘Wanker! Wanker! You is come now pretty damn quick! Is be time!’
William opened his eyes and realized he had been dreaming. He was not an eleven-year-old boy any more but a man, twenty years older, twenty years closer to the day he most feared, the day he would cease to be anything.
He blinked – eyes synchronized this time – and began to look around. He appeared to be lying on a long table made of what looked like mahogany. For a moment he thought he must have been drinking heavily in some bar last night and collapsed here, but then he remembered his journey to the island and dimly recalled trudging to all that was left – or rather all that had been started – of the Captain Cook Hotel.
It had been but dimly moonlit when he’d arrived earlier this morning and it was only now he was able to take in his surroundings properly. The room was large and pretty much empty, except for the dining table, although he hadn’t noticed before that there were a couple of matching chairs and a g
rand piano in one corner. At the opposite end was a built-in bar in the shape of a boat. He vaguely recalled that. What he hadn’t seen last night, on the wall behind the bar, was a large mural. Peering at it William discerned the figure of a man in historic naval uniform, stumbling as a group of naked brown-skinned natives clubbed him to death on a tropical beach. It took his weary muddled head a moment or two to realize he was witnessing the murder of the eponymous Captain Cook on Hawaii. He shivered as he recalled his own situation.
Not wishing to dwell on this unhappy parallel he turned to contemplate his bleak surroundings. Spartan they might be but at least he had managed to get some rest, well away from the aural sex of the bukumatula house. And he needed his privacy; here, ten minutes’ walk along the shoreline from the village, he’d be away from the villagers’ prying eyes. Managua appeared a nice enough guy but he had seemed overly interested in finding out what William was here for.
He’d scarcely had this thought when the banging started up again and the shout of ‘Gwanga! Gwanga!’ and he realized it had been no dream and that the voice belonged not to Sandy Beach but to the man he’d just been thinking about, Managua.
He hauled himself off the table and over to the window where the shutters were being rattled. After a moment’s struggle he managed to release the rusty catch holding them closed and was nearly knocked over as they burst inwards. Managua stood outside, framed in the window aperture, looking furious.
‘What you is do here? I is must track you here from bukumatula house.’
‘Sorry,’ said William. ‘I just couldn’t get any sleep there. I didn’t mean to cause you any trouble.’
‘Is not be trouble once I is figure out you is pull bag after you. Before then I is not see any tracks. I is think you is fly away.’