“Claire,” she gasped, too caught in urgency to remember they were not yet on a first-name basis. “Claire, have you been to the bathroom?”
The inquiry was so unexpected that Claire did not know how to reply.
Lisa Hackfeld was too feverish with distress to wait. “It’s—it’s coeducational!” she blurted. “I mean—it’s cocommunity—one plank of wood with holes in it and when I walked in—there were three men and one woman sitting—talking—together.”
Bewildered, Claire turned to Courtney, who was fighting to conceal his amusement. Succeeding, he nodded at Claire and then at Lisa Hackfeld. “Yes, it’s true,” he said, “the lavatories are communal, shared by men and women at the same time.”
“But how can you—?” Lisa Hackfeld implored.
“It’s the custom,” said Courtney simply, “and, as a matter of fact, it’s a good one.”
Lisa Hackfeld seemed about to dissolve. “A good one?” she cried out.
“Yes,” said Courtney. “When Daniel Wright came here in 1796, he found the natives uninhibited and natural in such matters, and he saw no reason, once he’d got the privies up, to change their attitudes. There’s simply nothing wrong, in this society, in going to the bathroom and mingling with the opposite sex. For an outsider, it takes getting used to, but once you do, once you break down your modesty, it’ll be easy and commonplace. Nobody gives a darn about you, and you don’t have to give a thought to them.”
“Some things should be private,” insisted Lisa Hackfeld. “This would be a scandal at home.”
“It depends where your home is, Mrs. Hackfeld. This is a familiar practice in parts of Europe and Latin America. And not so long ago, in sophisticated France, in the time of Marie Antoinette, great ladies would order their carriages to stop at the roadside, and step down and perform this same act in full view of their fellow passengers and retinue.”
“I can’t believe it.”
“It’s true. Mrs. Hackfeld. I understand how you feel. This is all strange and there will be some shocks, small shocks. I remember when I first came here, I was startled—I admit it—the first occasion I visited the bathroom. But as time went on, I saw the value of the custom in brushing aside one more singled-out, hidden area of false modesty. Since then, I have discovered another value to communal privies. They are nature’s great leveler. When I came here, I was in awe of a very attractive and haughty young native girl. I wanted to speak to her, but her family was the best, she was important, and I was hesitant. A short time later I found myself beside her in the common privy. It broke down every one of my fears and restraints. If the institution were made universal—it would be the one democracy extant. Today, there is no equality. We have the elite, the wealthy, the talented, the strong, the intelligent, and we have everyone else inferior. But here we would have the only leveler, as I said, the one place where royalty and peasants, actresses and housewives, saints and sinners, would appear as absolute equals.”
“You’re not serious, Mr. Courtney.”
“I’m perfectly serious, Mrs. Hackfeld.” He paused, cast a sidelong glance at Claire, and then he smiled at her. “I hope I haven’t offended you, Mrs. Hayden.”
As disturbed about the sanitation as Lisa Hackfeld, Claire’s only anxiety was not to be considered Lisa’s ally in prudery. “No,” she lied to Courtney, “quite the contrary, you may have a good point there.”
Doubtfully, Courtney acknowledged her independence, and hitched his dungarees higher. He said to Lisa, “Unless you have incredible kidneys, I suggest you avail yourself of what we have to offer.” He started to leave, turned, and, in a mock conspiratorial whisper to Lisa, he added, “But, as one ex-timorous person to a timorous one, let me suggest that if you visit the communal lavatories after the sound of the breakfast, lunch, and dinner-hour gongs—seven, twelve, and seven—you’ll most likely find complete privacy, at least from the natives.”
“What about privacy from our own men?” Lisa demanded, tearfully.
Courtney cupped his chin with his hand. “Yes,” he said, “that would be a problem, wouldn’t it? Well, I’ll tell you what, Mrs. Hackfeld. Out of deference to backward ways, I’ll see that the concession is made. Before the end of the day tomorrow, somewhere behind your huts, you’ll find two brand new outhouses, one marked His and one marked Hers. How’s that?”
Lisa Hackfeld exhaled with relief. “Oh, thank you, Mr. Courtney.”
“Anything at all, Mrs. Hackfeld. Good afternoon, and—good afternoon to you, Mrs. Hayden.”
He left them, striding down the compound in his bobbing gait, heading toward the great hut of Chief Paoti.
“Isn’t he an odd one?” muttered Lisa. “Of course, he was teasing me with all that talk, wasn’t he?”
Claire nodded slowly, eyes still upon his retreating figure. “I suppose he was,” she said. “But I wouldn’t bet on it.”
“Well,” said Lisa, “anyway, he was helpful. We’ll have our privacy tomorrow … I’ve made up my mind to write Cyrus once a day, a sort of diary of the trip, to mail every week with Captain Rasmussen. This little experience will certainly give me something to start off with.”
Claire had brought her attention back to Lisa. “It certainly will,” she agreed.
Lisa shook her head, to herself, as if having made discovery of some profound observation. “I can just see his face,” she said. “It’s amazing, no matter how sophisticated we think we are, how much prudery there is in all of us.”
“Yes,” said Claire.
Lisa fanned her face with her hand. “I hope it’s not this hot every day. I think I’d better get out of the sun. See you later.”
Claire watched her as she went to her hut, and sympathized with her for what she might yet have to endure. Then, realizing what she had meant to do for herself, Claire opened the cane door and stepped inside to visit her mother-in-law.
When Claire had made the visual transition from the outer glare to the inner shade, she could see that there was no one in Maud’s front room. In Maud’s structure, the front room resembled her own, except that it was considerably larger and already bore the accouterments of an office. Beneath the covered window stood a crude wooden table, the top surface planed smooth, but the roughly hewed hazel-colored legs looked as if they had been recently cut and quickly added. Upon the table rested the silver metal portable tape recorder and the flat pancaked portable dictating machine. Behind these were a calendar and a battery-powered lamp, and at one end of the table two coconut trays, one filled with new pencils and small cheap sharpeners, and one empty and apparently for ashes. An unfinished chair, extremely sturdy and with a high plank backing, obviously constructed by unpracticed hands, held together by thongs rather than nails, completed the desk set. Of! to the right were two long, low benches, with crude plank tops that could not have been cut by a saw.
Claire was about to call out for her mother-in-law when Maud materialized, briskly, through the rear passageway, her arms laden with large bound notebooks.
“Oh, Claire, I was about to look in on you.”
“I’ve been loafing. All this unpacking—you make me feel guilty.”
“Nonsense.” She dumped the notebooks on her table. “My own neurotic sense of orderliness. You’re behaving correctly. One should take it easy, at least during the day, on a tropical island.” She waved a plump hand at the desk, and continued the gesture to include the entire room. “What do you think? Mr. Courtney tells me this is real luxury on The Three Sirens. Chief Paoti insisted, weeks ago, that since I am a Chief like himself, I must be pampered as one. According to Mr. Courtney, the Chief has the only Western furnishings on the island—a chair like this one, for his throne, and a huge feast table. Now I have a chair, a more practical table for a desk, thanks to Mr. Courtney, and benches for my subjects.” She grimaced. “Maybe I should not have accepted all of this. Not only might it create jealousy among the team, but it removes me, a trifle, from living as a native, from being a participant. But, I must
confess, it will make my work easier.”
“I’m for a wealthy class,” said Claire. “It gives the rest of us something more to strive for.”
“I told Mr. Courtney we’d want a little table for your typewriter. He’s having one built tomorrow.”
“Will you put it in here, Maud? I’d prefer that. I want to keep our two rooms as they are, absolutely authentic native. I’ve become positively enchanted with our hut, and I like it open, airy, with nothing in it but ourselves. Incidentally, Maud, speaking of Mr. Courtney—”
Then Claire spoke of him, of the incident outside the door between Lisa Hackfeld and Courtney, and of Courtney’s digression on the value of coeducational lavatories specifically and of the public water closet as the great human leveler in general.
Maud was amused. “Poor Mrs. Hackfeld. Well, she—and not only she but all of us—have bigger surprises in store, I would expect. Yes, I remember years ago, in the field, when Adley and I first encountered the mixed public lavatory. Our Mr. Courtney is right, you know. There’s much to be said for the custom. He’s also right, only slightly inaccurate, about his memory of history. It was in seventeenth-century England that a lady might leave her carriage, guests, and retainers, to perform her needs at the wayside in full view of everyone. It was in seventeenth-century France that an aristocratic lady would sit side by side in a lavatory with male friends, conversing. This was in the Restoration period, after Richard Cromwell had been removed from power. It was a period that rebelled against false modesty. Women wore provocative artificial breasts of wax over their real breasts, and they wore no drawers. I never forget the story of Casanova’s meeting with Madame Fel, the singer. It is so representative of the upper-class morals. Casanova saw three young boys playing about Madame Fel’s skirts. He was surprised that there was no resemblance among them. ‘Of course not,’ said Madame Fel. ‘The eldest is the son of the Duc d’Annecy, the second of Comte Egmont, and the third is the son of Comte Maisonrouge.’ Casanova apologized. ‘Forgive me, Madame,’ he said, ‘I had thought they were all your children.’ Madame smiled. ‘So they are,’ she said.”
Claire did not hide her delight. “Wonderful!” she exclaimed.
“What is wonderful, Claire, is the two of us standing here beneath a thatched roof, in the middle of the Pacific, recollecting the easy morals of civilized France and England more than three hundred years ago—and finding they nearly correspond with some of the morals of a half-Polynesian tribe. At least, in the matter of privies.”
Somewhere in Claire’s mind the lank figure of Courtney lounged. Casually, she brought him forth. “Anyway, Thomas Courtney started this way-out—or, I should say, way-back—discussion. I was surprised to see him leaving here so late. Was he with you all the while?”
“Yes, before the furniture came in, we sat on the pandanus mats and talked. He’s an engaging fellow, widely read, widely lived, extremely liberated in all matters. He gave me an immediate briefing on the tabus, what is and isn’t, on what is mana or prestige-making and holy in the community. He explained a little of the routine and behavior we would have to understand. Very enlightening. I’m going to make some notes and have a meeting for all of us early tomorrow. I think everyone should know what he can do and cannot do and what, in a general way, he must expect. Mr. Courtney was exceedingly articulate. He will be of inestimable help to us here.”
“Did he—did he tell you anything about himself?”
“Not a word. He ventured nothing and skirted around the personal. He did ask me about you and Marc. You seem to have made a favorable impression upon him.”
Claire was instantly alert. “About me and Marc? Like what?”
“How long you two had been married—if you had children—where and how you lived—what Marc did—what you did—that sort of thing.”
“And you told him?”
“Only a very little to be polite. I didn’t think it was for me to reveal anything of you.”
“Thank you, Maud. You were right. Did—did he inquire about the others, also?”
“A little. He had to know about each of our specialties, what we’re after, so that he can make arrangements for our investigation. But nothing personal about the others, only you and Marc.”
Claire nibbled her lower lip thoughtfully. “How extraordinary he is—his being here—and he’s—I don’t know, unusual in so many ways. I wish I could find out more about him.”
Maud moved the chair to her table. “You’ll have a chance tonight,” she said, and sat down and began to arrange her notebooks. “Chief Paoti is giving us a big feast of welcome in his hut. Highly ceremonious and important. The Chief will be there with his wife, Hutia, and his son, Moreturi, and daughter-in-law, Atetou, and a niece who is now in his family—uh—Tehura, her name is Tehura. Then I am invited with my immediate family, namely you and Marc. Mr. Courtney will be the—the intermediary—to bring us together.”
“What’s a feast like?” Claire wanted to know. “What do we wear and—?”
“You’ll wear your best and simplest dress. It’ll be warm there. As for the feast, Mr. Courtney spoke of a speech or two, and music and endless eating—native food, also native drinks—and entertainment and a rite of friendship. After that, we will possess official mana and be able to circulate freely in the village and be considered a part of the tribe. The dinner begins at nightfall. Be sure to tell Marc to be ready on time. You, too. We can expect Mr. Courtney to call for us about eight. It’ll be fun, Claire, and a new experience, I promise you.”
* * *
At some time between ten and eleven o’clock in the evening—in her present condition she could not make out the exact hour on the diminutive dial of her gold wrist watch—Claire remembered Maud’s earlier prediction and acknowledged (to herself) its accuracy. Every exotic second at Chief Paoti’s festive board had been fun; every singular minute beneath the thatched dome of his immense yellow bamboo hut had been a new experience.
She was not herself, she knew, that is, not her recent self, and the latest arrangement of herself, which was surprising, added to her pleasure.
After failing to make out the exact hour, her neck seemed to shoot upwards—“Now I’m opening out like the largest telescope that ever was!” Alice had cried out in Wonderland long ago, when she had become more than nine feet tall—and like Alice’s head, Claire’s own almost touched the ceiling, but then floated free, high, high above, an almost independent planet with signs of human life. From above, her elongated person looked down upon the receding contours of her evening world. There was the rubbed stone floor and the smoking earth oven and in the center, between the oven and platform, the low-slung rectangle of the royal table still heaped with the remnants of the roasted suckling pig, the marinated pahua, the hot taro dumplings and coconut cream, the cooked breadfruit, the yams, the red bananas. Around the table, seated cross-legged on mats (except for Chief Paoti Wright at the head of the table, on his squat chair, its four legs each one foot high), were the nine of them, including the one which was the body that belonged to this soaring head.
Her head was the all-seeing eye, but her body was the flesh sponge that soaked in the rise and fall of spoken words in English and Polynesian, the chants and clapping of the male singers, the erotic rhythm of the flutes and bamboo percussion instruments from an adjacent room, the fragrance of the multicolored flower petals dancing on the large wooden basins of water, the rustling of the native servants and diners in their tapa cloth raiment.
It was the combination of the two drinks, Claire knew, that had sent her head kiting off above the table. First, there had been the elaborate ceremony of the kava preparation and serving. The green kava, roots of pepper shrubs, had been brought to the Chief in a huge container. At a signal, five young men, toothy, bare-chested, had entered, kneeled about the container, and quickly brandished bone knives to scrape the rind off the kava and slice the roots into small pieces. Then, to music, they had all taken pieces of kava in their mouths, chewed industr
iously, and placed the masticated lumps in a clay bowl. Afterwards, water had been added to the bowl, and someone had mixed and stirred the concoction, and finally, through a strainer made of the fiber of hibiscus bark, the green fluid had been pressed free. The milky kava had been presented to each of them in an ornamented coconut cup.
Claire had found the drink easy to swallow and deceptively bland. She had listened to Courtney explain that kava was not a fermented beverage, it did not make its user drunk. Rather, it was a drug, a mild narcotic that usually stimulated, enlivened the senses, did not affect the head but frequently deadened the limbs. After the kava, Claire had been served a fermented drink—“palm juice,” Moreturi, beside her, had named it—an alcoholic beverage made of the sap of a palm tree, and this liquid had the sting of whiskey or gin. The palm juice, and the serving had been considerable, affected in Claire what the kava had not—her head, her sight, her hearing, her balance. Blended, the effect, for Claire, was that of a cocktail of drugs. Her senses scrambled and separated, some high up, some down low, and she felt irresponsible, pleased, mildly gay. Her sensory faculties had all been heightened. She had completely lost focus—her inability to make out the time, for instance—but she had retained a narrower focus, as if an aperture had been partially closed, so that she saw, heard, smelled, felt less, but what came through to her seemed sharper, deeper, truer.
Attempting, once more, to locate herself in the time of the evening, Claire tried to assemble the sequence of events recently behind her. This was difficult, too, but there was some success. With darkness, Courtney, in a white sport shirt open at the throat and white ducks and white tennis shoes, accompanied by Maud, had called for them, for Marc and herself. Marc was wearing a blue shirt and tie and navy slacks, and she was in her favorite sleeveless low-cut yellow shantung dress and the small diamond pendant, set in fourteen-karat white gold, that Marc had given her on their first wedding anniversary. They had gone together along the compound, their way lighted by the torch stumps beside the stream and the strings of burning candlenuts winking through the cane walls of the dwellings. After a short walk, they had entered into the Chief’s big hut, their hosts waiting, then Courtney’s formal introductions, next all seated, and the Chief’s entrance and head inclined to each as each was announced.
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