by John Harding
Such was the horror of William’s self-examination he scarcely noticed Gold arrive and settle himself on a recliner with a shot of bourbon in his hand. It was only when the doctor spoke and broke his reverie that William glanced up and saw him for the first time minus his surgical gear. The outline of the stocky man and the tan chinos and shirt he was wearing were somehow familiar. It took only another second to know why. Gold was surely the man he had seen come out of Lucy’s house. This plump doctor was her mystery lover!
At first William was deeply affronted by the discovery. How could Lucy prefer this unexciting, overweight, fifty-something man to him? The idea of it was beyond belief. Then he reflected that Lucy hadn’t actually preferred Gold to him. She hadn’t been offered the choice. After the first year his letters had ceased any attempt at reviving their fledgling relationship. When she didn’t reply William had limited himself to writing about his life. He had given up hope that Lucy would ever change her mind and so he had offered her nothing. He’d abandoned any attempt to get her back, if, that is, he told himself ruefully, he could ever have been said to have had her in the first place.
Moreover, although Dr Gold was kind of old and physically unattractive, he might have other attributes that appealed to Lucy. Especially after William, who had been – had been proven to be – the apostle of materialism and greed. Against all her pleadings he had put his pig-headed insistence on destroying a primitive civilization before a relationship with her. Why wouldn’t she prefer someone like Gold, a man prepared to devote himself to helping where William had damaged, a fatherly man who could offer her protection and security? A medical man who, you never knew, might come in handy if you ever had a nasty run-in with a green shoestring snake. Above all, Gold was a serious person, a grown-up; the results of William’s naive tampering with the island made him feel like an inadequate little boy.
He didn’t know how to mention the subject of Lucy to Gold. He didn’t want to precipitate the inevitable confirmation of his suspicions. Instead he told the doctor about Sandy Beach and his almost certain demise in the Twin Towers.
‘That’s a shame,’ said Dr Gold. He took a long pull on his bourbon and sat nodding to himself. Then he said, ‘Actually, it’s not a shame. He was a mean-spirited little shit. I feel bad that I don’t feel more sorry for him, but I have to confess I don’t.’
William was surprised to hear the good doctor talk like this. He tried to defend his former schoolmate. ‘He wasn’t all bad, you know,’ he said.
Gold pursed his lips and nodded. He sat looking at the ocean, deep in thought. Finally he spoke. ‘Actually, I think he was.’
It was William’s turn to look at the swelling expanse of blue water. He thought about Beach as a ten-year-old boy, playing a vindictive game of chess, he thought about the nickname Beach had labelled him with and how it had blighted his schooldays, he recalled the relish with which Beach had dismissed the legitimate compensation claims of the natives. Then he remembered Beach’s dysfunctional family, how he had had to pick his childhood through tottering piles of junk, his parents’ misplaced pride in their short-sighted, ginger geek of a son. Mostly he remembered that last morning, a few minutes before the known world exploded, and the unlikely hug Beach had given him.
‘Nobody’s all bad,’ he said. ‘Everyone has some good in him. It’s just that we never managed to find it in Beach.’
Gold turned to look at him. William continued to stare steadfastly out to sea. Out the corner of his eye he could see the doctor’s expression was one of reappraisal, as though he were seeing William in a different light.
William cleared his throat. It was now or never. He had to confront his rival. The late-afternoon light off the sea was winking at him as his eyelids fluttered with an OCD grandmaster’s speed. ‘Lucy’s still here, then.’
‘Yes,’ said Gold, pouring himself another bourbon. ‘She’s doing a wonderful job with those children. She helps with the sick too. She really is a most remarkable woman.’
‘Yes,’ William whispered. ‘And she’s very attractive too.’
‘Not only that,’ replied Gold, ‘but she makes the best breakfasts you’ve ever had.’
William didn’t say any more after that. He took another can of beer when Gold offered it, without taking his eyes off the ocean. After staring out to sea for half an hour, he rose, said a brief, formal goodbye, and left. It was only when he was halfway along the road back to the Captain Cook that he realized he hadn’t thanked Gold for his hospitality. Why was it that however hard you tried, there were always some things you could just never get right?
Back in his hotel room William lay on his bed and watched satellite TV. The news channels were still showing the attack on the Twin Towers, replaying the pictures over and over. No matter how many times you saw it you couldn’t help watching again. You still hoped that this time the plane would turn away at the last moment, that this time it would miss, but it never did.
SEVENTY
NEXT MORNING THERE was a bigger turnout for shitting. There were no more participants than there had been the day before, but Purnu appeared with a large party of spectators, all of whom had evidently moved their bowels on the chemical toilets back in their huts, or possibly not, given that their huge size indicated a Western diet and hence probably constipation and unreliable shitting times. Purnu and his friends watched the proceedings from a respectful distance until they saw William pull up his trousers and begin to walk away, at which point they all tore across the sand as fast as their vast bulks would permit and gathered round his deposit, poking it with bamboo sticks and chattering excitedly. Looking back at them William reflected that he might have been the unwitting cause of the demise of most of the island’s traditions, but at least he was also responsible for the establishment of a new one.
He’d agreed to help Lintoa fish. Hardly anyone else went out in their boats to fish any more; indeed, most of the boats lay unused and rotting at the landing beach. Only Lintoa and Managua and one or two others kept up the old traditions. Now that Managua had built his playhouse and bought his few electronic goods, he didn’t buy anything – save for the odd DVD, Kenneth Branagh in Hamlet, Mel Gibson in Hamlet – any more. He and Lintoa were virtually self-sufficient, but, Lintoa explained, the fishing was hard when you were on your own. Just pushing the boat off the beach was difficult and hauling up full nets took all his strength.
They sat in the large canoe waiting for the nets to fill. It didn’t take long now, Lintoa said, because the sea was so underfished. The sun was hot and William took off his hat and wiped his brow. Lintoa smiled.
‘What?’ asked William.
‘I is just think—’ Lintoa had to stop, he was giggling so much. ‘I is just think of that day we is take you in jungle for find Pilua. You is get plenty hot.’
‘It wasn’t that funny to me. I almost gave up. If there’d been a plane next day, I would have done.’
‘That is be whole idea,’ said Lintoa.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Is be Miss Lucy and Managua is cook that one up. Managua is get idea from Shakespeare. Is be Miss Lucy who is ask we she-boys for lead you all over island.’
William stared at him.
Lintoa raised his hands like a cowboy surrendering. ‘Now, now, gwanga, you is must not get mad. Is be plenty long time ago. And you is find Pilua anyway. And you is must admit, is mebbe better if you is not.’
‘Miss Lucy asked you to do this?’
‘Sure thing. She is not want for dollars is come here. She is be plenty keen for keep old customs. She is write book ’bout we but she is not be sure she is go let anyone is read, because she is have big fear they is come and change island. She is not need for have that fear now. Island is all be change.’
William thought on that for a while. How could he blame Lucy for what he had endured that day when she had been right to deceive him, when she had been right all along? Thinking of the expedition to find Pilua and the northern village, he
recalled his discussion about pink hiking boots with Tigua. ‘I’m looking forward to the kassa house tonight,’ he said. ‘It will be good to see Tigua again.’
Lintoa’s face fell. ‘You is have disappointment, gwanga. You is not see Tigua there. She is not come kassa house no more.’
‘Not see her? Why ever not?’
Lintoa smiled. It was a subtle smile for so straightforward and open a person. It contained both fondness and regret. ‘Well, you is see Tigua is never be happy for be she-boy, even on Tuma. Then one day she is think, I is not have for remain she-boy. If I is not slough no more, I is grow more and more old until I is become floating baby. Is go back island, only this time, I is be girl, real girl.’
William smiled. Trust Tigua to figure that one out.
‘Of course,’ Lintoa continued, ‘Tigua is find plenty difficult for not slough. Is not like for grow old, become ugly old sow. But she is put up with that for become real girl at last.’
‘You figure that’s what happened, that she became a real girl?’
‘Who is can doubt, gwanga? Who is can think Tigua is can be so unlucky twice?’
Lintoa leaned over the side of the canoe and began hauling in the net. He turned back to William. ‘Come on, gwanga, is no time for sit and stare at sea. I is know you white mans is like for do that, but not now, net is be full. We is let any more fish is get in there we is never be able for haul net out.’
The kassa house was almost empty. Managua had told him one reason was that most of the island’s men were now so obese they could no longer get through the tunnel. There had been an embarrassing incident when someone had become wedged halfway along it and they had had to leave him for a few days until he slimmed down enough to crawl back out. After that the larger islanders no longer attempted entry. Managua had considered rebuilding the tunnel to make it wider but decided against it because he feared that any alteration to the kassa house might destroy its mystery and precipitate its destruction. Besides, making entry easier was no guarantee of increased attendance. It was likely most people would choose to remain in their huts, preferring what they saw on TV to visions of their dead ancestors. They didn’t need kassa any more to get out of their brains. They could do that with beer.
Of course Purnu wasn’t there. His circumference was larger than that of the stone they rolled across the tunnel to block it off. There was no way he could have gotten in, which was a shame, according to Managua, because for all his faults – everything about him really – no-one could mix kassa like Purnu. The kassa house fraternity had one new member, though. Now that he was a man, Lintoa was allowed in and it was he who mixed up the hallucinogenic paste with Managua.
There was plenty to go round. There were only a dozen or so men in the place. It made the appearance of the spirit people a distressing experience for William. The hut was full of them, all calling out wistfully for their loved ones, their expressions desperate as they went from living person to living person in a hopeless search for their children, or former partners, or friends. ‘Purnu, Purnu, what for you is desert me?’ wailed one old woman. ‘P’toa, P’toa, how you is can leave me here alone?’ sobbed an ancient man.
From the midst of this mêlée of forlorn and wailing wraiths a small figure emerged. It pushed its way angrily through the misty shapes of abandoned spirits and made for where William and Managua reclined against the wall. What William recognized to begin with was the scowl. He’d first witnessed it twenty-five years ago when he’d foolishly beaten its owner with a back-rank mate.
Sandy Beach stood before them. His ginger brush cut was scorched. His skin was black and blistered. His eyes burned with disbelief.
‘Wanker? Is that you? Did you see what they did to me? Did you see what those crazy ragheads did to your old friend? I went to work and ended up dead. They killed me.’ Beach’s voice, never especially easy on the ear, had a smoky rasp to it now. ‘Why did they do that? I never liked them, I admit, never liked their medieval, limb-lopping ways, but was that any reason to kill me . . .?’
Then Beach did something William had never expected to see him do. He began to cry. White streaks meandered through his sooty mask, mapping it with his frustration and regret.
William was struggling for a way to say all the things he felt. He wanted to tell Beach how sorry he was, how highly he prized the unexpected gift of that valedictory hug; he wanted to acknowledge his guilt for not offering the extra cup of coffee that would have changed it all, to express his remorse at never having liked him and, more than anything, to apologize for being the one to survive when the other had not. But it was no use; he had never spoken like that to Beach when he was alive and he didn’t have the words to do it now. And, already, it was too late, already Beach was fading, still complaining, but disappearing fast, until his black face was absorbed into the surrounding darkness of the hut.
William had no time to think about any of this. Even as he peered into the gloom, seeking the last vestiges of his former schoolfriend, another figure emerged, familiar in chinos and plaid shirt.
‘Hello, son, I’m glad you came now. I almost missed seeing you again.’
Joe Hardt looked terrible. Although he’d obviously sloughed again and was technically probably only in his twenties and so younger than his appalled son, he looked worn out. His cheeks were hollow, the black rings around his eyes blacker; he had an air about him of general dishevelment. He walked like a man whose balls ached from too much action. William could not help thinking of the nineteen young men who had hijacked American aircraft to their own particular heaven. He wondered how they were faring with their seventy-two virgins apiece. Were they as exhausted as his father on Tuma? Was their paradise turning out to be an eternal punishment?
‘You thought I wouldn’t come back, Dad?’
‘No, son, I always knew you would. You have unfinished business here, after all. I meant I was getting worried as the years slipped by that when you finally showed up I’d be gone.’
‘Gone? I don’t understand.’
Joe Hardt shook his head. ‘I – I just can’t take any more of this kind of life. It isn’t really me, never has been. Oh, OK, I enjoyed the novelty of it for a while, but there has to be more to life – I mean, death – than pleasure. There’s no challenge in being dead.’
‘What are you saying, Dad?’
‘I’m trying to tell you you won’t be seeing me here any more. This is my last visit to the kassa house. Your return was all I was waiting for. You know, the years on Tuma flash by much faster than where you are. I’ll soon be old’ – he chuckled – ‘especially the way I’m living. I’m not going to slough again. I’m going to grow old disgracefully one last time and then I’m going to become a floating baby.’
‘But Dad, that doesn’t mean I won’t see you again. I – I’ll still be coming back here to the island. I can see you in your new life.’
Joe Hardt looked at him. He was trying to savour every detail of his precious son, to enjoy the sight of his fine boy one last time. ‘It doesn’t work like that, son. When I become a floating baby, I’ll lose all memory of my old life. I won’t have any knowledge of ever having been Joe Hardt.’
‘No, Dad, no!’ William tried to lift himself up, but his body was heavy as lead. He couldn’t move a muscle.
‘It’s not so bad, son. I’ve been there before, remember? When I had Alzheimer’s I forgot who I was, what I’d been. It didn’t matter any to me.’
‘Dad, it’s not just that. I couldn’t bear it, not to see you again.’
Joe Hardt smiled. ‘William, it’s what happens when people die. You have to let go of them. You have to just carry them around as a memory. But you have to let them go.’
‘But Dad—’
‘At least this way we got to say goodbye properly, son. Your last sight of me wasn’t an empty dried-out husk of a person with his arm up in a ridiculous unexplained gesture. You got to tell me that you loved me.’
William swallowed hard. ‘I – I gu
ess.’
‘And it’s not true that you’ll never see me again. It’s a pretty small island. Everyone knows everyone else. I’ll be here. You’ll see me. I’ll be a little itty baby. Of course, you won’t know it’s me. But one day you’ll look into a pair of brown eyes here and you’ll maybe see something of your old man in them and think it might be me. ’Course I won’t know who you are, either. I won’t have any knowledge that you were ever my son but maybe I’ll have some special feeling for this strange white guy looking down at me . . .’
It was probably the smoke from the fire that made William’s eyes sting. ‘Hey, Dad,’ he said, ‘don’t go all sentimental on me.’
His father didn’t reply. He lifted one hand, the hand that he’d died holding rigidly in the air, gave a single wave, and was gone. It was the last time William would ever see him and know it.
SEVENTY-ONE
IN MANY WAYS William felt inferior to Dr Gold. This was not saying much because for most of his life William had felt inferior to most of the people he’d encountered, the exception being Sandy Beach. OK, Gold had evidently deserted his family to come here, but in every other way he was morally superior. He had given up his job to help the natives for no material benefit to himself and was without doubt making a real difference to their blighted lives. But William’s attempt to help others had achieved the opposite end. Like many OCD sufferers he had spent his life feeling responsible for disasters which it was actually impossible for him to have prevented. Now his misplaced altruism had caused a catastrophe. He had not only destroyed the culture of a primitive race, he had also left many members of it obese and short of a limb or two and maybe a few teeth too. Moreover, Dr Gold had skills and talents that could assist the natives in the dire situation in which William’s do-gooding had placed them. William had nothing to offer. They didn’t need a lawyer. Look where lawyering had got them.
