For the first time, features on Atetou’s face shifted. Her composure was disintegrating. “He lies,” she said.
“Are you sure? How does he lie?”
“He says I do not perform as a wife. I perform as well as any wife in the village. When he says I am not a friendly wife, a sociable wife, a wife at all, he means one thing. He has no more sense than a child. He does not know a wife means not one thing but many things. I cook for him. I make his home clean. I am interested in him. I take care of him. All this is meaningless to him. Only one thing matters.”
Rachel waited for her to say more, but she did not. “You said only one thing matters. What is that?”
“Body love. That means wife, nothing else.”
“Do you object to body love—sexual intercourse, we call it—do you resist it?”
Atetou’s face showed indignation for the first time. “Object, I do not. Resist, I must. Is there no more to marriage than this? Three, four times a week, I am ready, I have the feeling, I join. But morning to night, every day, every day? It is a madness. One wife cannot satisfy this. A hundred wives cannot. That is not marriage.”
A thrill of incredulity shot through Rachel, followed by bewilderment over the fact that Atetou’s version differed so much from her husband’s version. “What you are saying is not what Moreturi has told me,” said Rachel.
“He tells you what is not true.”
“He tells me you are an excellent wife in all ways except what to him is the most important. He says you are cold, and turn him away always. He says he demands only what is normal here, but you will not sleep with him more than once or twice a month.”
“That is a lie.”
“He speaks of constantly calling upon the Social Aid Hut to satisfy him. Does he?”
“Of course. What one woman can satisfy him?”
“Let me ask something else, Atetou. When you do sleep with him, are you pleased?”
“Sometimes, I am pleased.”
“Most of the time you are not.”
“There is too much pain in his love.”
“Can you clarify that?”
“He is not himself when he loves. He is crazy. He gives hurt. We are not made the same and he gives hurt.”
“Was it always this way?”
“Maybe yes, but I did not care. Pleasure overcomes the pain. Now it is worse, no pleasure, only pain. He wants to be rid of me.”
“Why not be rid of him? Why endure this?”
“He is my husband.”
A thought came to Rachel. “And he is the Chief’s son.”
Atetou’s reaction was immediate. Her expression was irate. “Why do you say that? What is the meaning?”
“I’m trying to find out if there might be other motives you don’t understand that influence—”
“Do not speak to me that way!” She had sprung to her feet, infuriated, and stood over Rachel. “You are with him as one. I try all the time to have patience with you. Maybe you are fair. But he has won you, like all the women. You think he does not lie. You think I lie. You think I am cold. You think I do not please. You think I try to hold him only for the mana. You want him to divorce me.”
Rachel came quickly to her feet. “Atetou, no, why would I want to do that? Be reasonable—”
“I am reasonable. I see you plain. You want him to divorce so he will be free for you. That is the truth. You think of you and not of me, and you are against me.”
“Oh, Atetou, no—no—”
“I see your face and I know the truth. Do what you will but do not bother me.”
Hastily, Rachel followed her to the door, took her arm to restrain her. Atetou shook free. She opened the door, and hurried away.
Rachel intended to call after her, but she did not. Closing the door, she remembered that it had been this way at the Hierarchy. She had meant to reject Moreturi’s name, and had not. Then she knew why, and she shivered. Through some gift of instinct, Atetou had caught a glimpse of Rachel’s subconscious, and had seen what Rachel had refused to see—that Rachel was competing with her for her husband—that Rachel was trying to help herself but neither of them.
Rachel remained beside the door, ill with self-loathing.
Long minutes later, when her emotions had been flogged back into place, and reason reigned, she was able to make her decision. She must wipe her hands of those two, forever. She would go to Hutia and the other women and men of the Hierarchy and turn the case back to them.
As a field investigator, she would be a failure. As a woman, she would not be a fool.
* * *
For more than a half-hour, in the waning afternoon, Tom Courtney had been taking Maud and Claire on a tour of the communal nursery.
The nursery consisted of four rooms—actually, one airy hall seventy feet in length divided by three partitions—and these were sparsely furnished except for rods of bamboo, blocks of wood, carved representations in miniature of adults and of canoes, cheap toys Rasmussen had brought in from Tahiti, refreshment bowls of fruit, all intended to occupy the youngsters.
Several children between the ages of two and seven bounced in and out of the rooms, active and noisy, supervised by two young women (mothers who volunteered to serve a week at a time). According to Courtney, attendance was not compulsory. Youngsters were deposited here or came here as they desired it or as their mothers wished it. There was no rigid program. Sometimes the youngsters undertook a project or sang or danced in a group, with instruction, but for the most they did as they pleased. Juvenile anarchy reigned.
Courtney had explained that originally old Daniel Wright hoped to introduce a radical system, rooted in Plato, whereby the newly born were taken from their parents and raised with other newly born. Since identities would be merged, parents would be required to love all children as their own. However, this dream broke down when it came up against the Sirens’ strict incest tabu. Wright’s plan, if put in effect, might have been responsible for brother and sister marrying one another, in later years, without knowing their blood relationship. The very thought was abhorrent to the Polynesians. Courtney had quoted Briffault as saying that it was not a moral sense that made incest unacceptable to the natives. Rather, the tabu existed for ancient mystical reasons, and because, subconsciously, mothers loved their sons and wanted to stave off the competition of their daughters.
In the end, old Daniel Wright had given the Polynesians their way, and had never been sorry, since their system attained his own ideal by less drastic means. Wright’s only major contribution to the raising of children on the Sirens had been the communal nursery, which had survived to the present day.
While the three of them observed the children playing in the last of the rooms, Maud and Courtney discussed the merits of the Spock and Gesell disciplines as compared to those on the Sirens.
Claire, half listening to the two, half observing the recreational activity in the room, had retreated into herself, her mind reviving recent resentments against Marc for keeping her childless.
She became aware of Courtney, so gangling, moving toward the door. “Let’s have a look outside,” he was saying. “The kids usually play in here when it’s too hot outside, or during rainy spells. Most of the time they’re out in the back, romping around like little savages.”
Claire and Maud followed him through the open door into the unkempt grassy court. Neither fence nor wall guarded the area. Instead, the three open sides were bounded in a haphazard pattern by trees and bushes. Except for a few strays skipping and throwing, most of the children outside were gathered about the first rising of what would soon be their own playhouse, each contributing to the construction of the dwarfed hut of bamboo stalks and leaves. Claire watched for a while, then found herself alone. Courtney had brought Maud to the wide shaded arc beneath the leafy umbrella of an ancient tree. Maud settled to the turf slowly, like a dirigible. Courtney flopped down beside her. In a moment, Claire had joined them on the turf, stretching luxuriously.
Cl
aire knew that Courtney was scrutinizing her, not the children, but she pretended that she did not notice. Yet, conscious of him, she tried to arrange herself as gracefully as possible, like Canova’s reclining Paulina Bonaparte in the Villa Borghese. Continuing contact with the self-exiled Chicago attorney had not dulled Claire’s interest in him. Despite his one revelation to her of his past, twelve days earlier, he still remained an enigma in Claire’s eyes. Not once since that time had he spoken at such length about himself. Occasionally, like a player at the end of a stud poker game, he would turn up information one card at a time, exasperatingly, so that she would receive a single autobiographical fact, the clue to only a small insight into him. He had settled into the role of combination guide and mentor, and when his audience came too close, he held its members off with banter or cynicism.
Suddenly, she decided to let him know that she knew she was being observed. She met his eyes frankly, without a smile. But he smiled. “I was just watching you,” he said. He spoke past Maud, as if Maud were not there, which in a sense she was not, for she was concentrating on the play of the youngsters. “You have the same kind of curling-cat grace as the little girls out here,” he said.
Claire was disappointed. She had tried to project Canova and represented only Marie Laurencin. “It’s the air here,” she said, “playful air, good for little girls.” She glanced at the youngsters building their hut, and then back at Courtney. “Do you like children, Tom?”
“Generally, yes.” Then he added, “My own, more than others.”
She was surprised. “Your own? I didn’t know—”
“I’m making believe,” he said. “I mean, I’d like my own, lots of them, lots of little me’s around.”
“I see,” she said, and she laughed.
He had become solemn. “Of course, ideally, if I had my own, I’d hope to have them brought up in an atmosphere like this.”
Maud had become attentive to the last. “That might not work, unless they stayed on here,” Maud said. “Otherwise, they might be incapable of coping with the outside world. Child-rearing on the Sirens seems perfect only when compared to the kind of stresses we put on our children back home. But who can really say that the kind of stresses we put on our young are wrong—I mean, in terms of what they have to contend with later in our rather difficult American society.”
“True,” Courtney agreed.
Claire was still not satisfied that she understood why child-rearing on The Three Sirens might be superior to child-rearing in Los Angeles or Chicago. “Tom, what’s so especially good about this atmosphere for children? I can see how the adults here differ from us, but mere children? There they are—playing just as they do in California.”
“Yes, but it is not the same,” Courtney said. “The pressures are fewer here; though, of course, the later adult demands are fewer, too. These youngsters enjoy extremely carefree lives. Up to the age of six or seven, they run around naked. There are hardly any restrictions, and consequently hardly any fears. They have no concern about sex. Almost nothing is concealed, as you both know. They don’t have to worry about crossing a street or dirtying the house. There are no streets, no vehicles, and there is nothing in their huts to soil. They don’t have to worry about how to fill their time—I mean, their parents don’t have to hustle around carting them to or from friends or camps or regulated play. They are simply turned loose. Alone, or with others, they roam. They can’t get lost. They are independent. By trial and error, or imitation, they learn to build, hunt, fish, plant. They can’t starve. If they are hungry, they pick fruit or vegetables. If they are hot, they wade in a stream. If they are cold, anyone will give them shelter, for they are children of the entire community.”
“I’m beginning to see your point,” Claire said. “Complete independence.”
“Almost complete independence,” Courtney said. “Of course, the key to the whole thing is the foundation of security these kids possess, from the word go. These children know they are loved. A father or mother here would cut off his or her hands before striking a child. More important, children don’t have two parents—they have two birth parents—parents who conceived them—but they have a great array of mothers and fathers, all aunts are mothers, and uncles are fathers, so each child has a large kin group doting over him. He gets a feeling of family safety and solidarity. He always has someone to show him affection, give him advice, support or teach him, always someone to confide in. These children have no chance to be lonely or afraid, and yet they do not sacrifice individuality or privacy. I was discussing it with Dr. DeJong, and she agrees—Sigmund Freud would have become an idler here. How could a son on The Three Sirens suffer the guilt of an Oedipus complex when he has, in effect, ten mothers and seven fathers? You’d have to look a long time among these children to find a tantrum, a wet bed, a stutterer … I’m sure the Sirens has its weaknesses. I’m not wearing Chamber of Commerce blinders. But I’m convinced that they do two things better on the Sirens than we do in the United States. They manage their marriages better. They raise their children better. Of course, I’m not an expert. That’s simply my personal legal opinion.” He had turned from Claire to Maud Hayden. “You are the expert, Dr. Hayden. Do you concur or disagree?”
Maud’s face, a sunburned pumpkin, was thoughtful, as her thick fingers absently counted the beads of the Lolos necklace draped from her neck. “I hate to make a value judgment about anything like this,” she said, more to herself than to Courtney or Claire. “However, from what I have seen of the Sirens, already learned here, and what I know of Polynesia in general, I’m inclined to agree with you, at least about child-raising.” She appeared to weigh what she would say next, and then went on. “I believe that in Polynesian societies, youngsters pass from childhood into adulthood without the confusion our youngsters go through in America. Certainly, adolescence is a period of less strife here than at home. It isn’t hedged around with all sorts of sexual frustrations, other shames and fears, and the whole terrible business of finding one’s place in the adult world. Somehow, here, as on other South Sea islands, the transition to adulthood is gradual and happy, which is often not true in the West. There are many reasons, of course, but—well, I don’t think this is the time to go into all that—”
“Please,” said Claire. “What are the reasons?”
“All right. To be as honest as possible, I think children are more desired in this kind of society than in our own. Here it is all very simple. No one worries about the economics that unnaturally enforce birth control. There is no fear of a population explosion. They want children because children bring pleasure, not problems. And because they lack our scientific advances, the infant mortality rate is higher, and so each child that survives is held more precious. In our American society, while there are certain satisfactions in parenthood, there are not enough. Parenthood is a negative value, in that every new child means a financial sacrifice. So, while children are so desirable here, they are somewhat less so in the West, and these attitudes transmit to the growing youngster and create the differences in their personalities. But Mr. Courtney cited the basic strength behind child-rearing in Polynesia. It is the kin system, the clan, the so-called extended family. That absolutely beats anything we have.”
“We have loyal families at home, too,” insisted Claire. “Most American children are born into American families.”
“Not the same as here,” said Maud. “Our families are small: mother, father, a sibling or two. Relatives are usually not part of the basic families. In fact, there is much hostility and brawling, and little deep love, in our loose relationships with relatives. Otherwise, why all the in-law jokes at home? Present company excepted, in-laws are outlawed in our society. On the Sirens, as in most of Polynesia, the widespread, extended family is the basic family. Marriages may not always be permanent here—we know they are not—but the big families are permanent. An infant is born into an immovable institution, a secure haven. If the parents die, or if they divorce, it does not affe
ct the child, for he is still secure with a family. If the same thing happens to an American or European child—the parents dying, let us say—what is he left with? An insurance policy. Do you think an insurance policy represents real security?
If you think so, try to seek advice from a double-indemnity clause, try to get love from an annuity provision.”
“I’d never thought of it that way,” said Claire.
“Well, it is so,” said Maud. “No premiums on earth can buy the benefits of the kinship system. Mr. Courtney mentioned many mothers and fathers, and sisters and brothers, but a family here also consists of grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins, and these are all in the child’s real family, not merely distant relations. These people are all responsible for the child. They owe him certain rights and support, and he, in turn, owes them the same. No child is ever orphaned here, any more than an aged person is neglected. The Sirens is a patrilineal society, and if the parents die, the child goes physically to his father’s family, but not as an adopted orphan, for they were always his blood family. This is the marvel of these societies—no one, not child, not adult, is ever alone, unless he chooses to be.”
Courtney hunched forward. “And as for marriage here as opposed to the West? Are you less sure of that?”
“I want to learn more,” said Maud, “before stating that marriage here is more admirable than at home. I suspect it is in certain areas. I want more information before I make up my mind. Certainly, I think the absence of sexual restraint tends to eliminate aggression and hostility, so prevalent at home. Certainly, there is more of a communal feeling in this place—as in the Israeli kibbutz. Everyone knows he won’t go hungry or without shelter or without care—and the rewards of competition are limited—so that takes considerable stress off marriages. Too, I have reason to believe that they solve their marital problems here much better than at home. There is simply not as much confusion in the relationship. In the American marriage, it is not clear what a man should do and what a woman should do. On the Sirens, there’s no misunderstanding about this. The man is the head of the family. He makes the decisions. His wife defers to him in all social situations. Her identity and power exist in the home. She knows her place. He knows his. Much easier all around.”
The Three Sirens Page 44
