“Just that nothing’s changed to this day.”
“Oh, really, Orville—” she had begun to say, but before she could finish, he had gone stiffly through the door and outside, carrying the dinner bowls.
Puzzled, Rachel wondered what had provoked Orville’s mystifying behavior, his antagonism toward Harriet, his childish remark about nurses. Rachel would have liked to find out, but there was no time to talk to her roommate. It was three minutes to nine, and she would be late.
Scooping up her notebook and pencil, she went swiftly into the compound. Orville was not in sight. Across the stream, three men were on their haunches, beneath a torch, playing some kind of game in the dirt. In the distance, a woman, cradling a piece of pottery, was crossing the bridge. Except for the modulated sounds of a tape recording of Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue (how incongruous in this place!) coming through the window of the hut where Marc and Claire Hayden were giving their party, the village was quiet and most of its inhabitants abed.
Going briskly, Rachel DeJong reached the hut of the Marriage Hierarchy only two and a half minutes late. The wise crone, Nanu, was seated with an elderly man in mid-room. She greeted Rachel with a toothless smile and introduced the slight, gray-haired man, all ribs and knobby knees, as Narmone.
Before Rachel could sit with them, Nanu tried to rise, wheezing, grunting, complaining, joints creaking, and Rachel rushed to join the man Narmone in assisting her to her feet.
“The three of us will go,” said Nanu.
Rachel’s earlier apprehension returned and anchored her to where she stood. “Go where?”
“To the dwelling of Moreturi and Atetou, of course,” said Nanu.
“Why?” Rachel wanted to know. “Do they expect us?”
“Expect us?” Nanu cackled with delight. “No, they will not know we are there. That is the essential.”
In a tone of protest, Rachel said, “I simply don’t understand what this is all about.”
Narmone bent down toward the old woman, and spoke rapidly, voice low, in Polynesian. “Eaha? … Eaha? … Eaha?” she kept muttering, and, as her wrinkled features lighted with comprehension, her head went mechanically up and down.
When he was through, Nanu said to Rachel, “Ua pe’a pe’a vau” Seeing Rachel’s bewildered expression, Nanu realized that she was still speaking Polynesian. With a grunt, she returned to English. “What I started to say to you is, Tm sorry.’ My friend reminds me to tell you—but I am so forgetful each year—that Hutia wanted us to explain our procedure before we leave. The request had gone from my poor mind. I will explain our function. It is simple. It will take not a minute. Then we must hurry, before they sleep. Where to begin? First, the theory …”
The theory that governed all Marriage Hierarchy activities, the old woman recited, was that actions always spoke louder than words, louder and more accurately. Words of the complainants could deceive; their performance, witnessed firsthand, could not. When one member of a married couple on The Three Sirens filed for a divorce, the member made no statement of cause or condition.
The Hierarchy was not interested in what either party had to say, since each would be prejudiced and would present a different version of the truth. Once protest was filed, the Hierarchy set out to see for itself. Irregularly, without set pattern, the wise ones of the Hierarchy posted themselves in such a way as to keep the combative couple under close observation. Sometimes, the subjects of the investigation were studied in the morning, less frequently in the afternoon, most often in the evening. This kind of people-watching went on relentlessly over many weeks or months, in some cases as long as half a year. In the end, the five members of the Hierarchy had as true a picture as could be obtained of the couple’s daily life, its favorable aspects and its failures. With this information, the Hierarchy could decide if the couple should be given teaching and counseling and remain united, or if the pair should be divorced. Furthermore, the long period of firsthand observation enabled the Hierarchy to arbitrate, in the event of granting divorce, conflicting claims of the two parties, particularly those claims concerning their offspring. Beginning tonight, Moreturi and Atetou would be made the objects of this kind of investigation.
Rachel DeJong had heard out Nanu’s explanation with a throbbing sensation of disbelief. “But how do you observe them?” she wanted to know. “If a man and wife know you are there, they will be inhibited, they will not behave naturally, and you will learn no truth.”
Narmone replied in a hoarse voice, “The man and wife do not know we are there.”
“What?” said Rachel. “They do not know? How is that possible?”
“We see them, they do not see us,” said Nanu.
For Rachel, these two were Lewis Carroll and Charles Dodgson, about to lead her down the rabbit hole. “They must see you,” Rachel said uncertainly.
“They cannot. Since the time of the first Wright, every hut for the married couples in the village is built with an extra, false wall on one side. The Hierarchy enters into this—it is like a corridor, a passage—and stands posted, not seen from inside or outside, looking through the leaves into the room. We see, we hear, we are not seen, not heard.”
This unabashed voyeurism shocked Rachel. It was the first time, in this visit to the Sirens, that she had been shocked. “But, Nanu—it is morally—it is—I don’t know—it’s wrong to—” She paused. “All human beings have the right to the dignity of privacy.”
The old woman’s eyes narrowed at Rachel. The eyes were suddenly shrewd slits. “Do you give people privacy?” she croaked.
“Me? Do I?”
“Yes, Dr. DeJong. I have heard of your work. I cannot remember the name of your work—”
“Psychoanalysis.”
Nanu nodded. “Yes. Do you give your patients privacy? You peek into their heads where no one has ever looked before.”
“My patients are ill. They’ve come for help.”
“Our patients are ill,” said Nanu, agreeably, “and they, too, have come for help. It is no different. I think our way is even more decent. We only look at their outsides. You try to penetrate their insides.”
Rachel’s shock had subsided. She could see, for different reasons than those voiced, that the Marriage Hierarchy’s practice might be justified. Maud would tell her that what was revolting to one society was perfectly acceptable to another. Live and let live. Each to his own. What is good? What is bad? Indeed, what is absolute? Her attitude was friendlier now. “You are quite right, Nanu,” she conceded. A question came to her. “Are those extra observation posts ever misused?”
“Never. They are tabu to all but the Hierarchy.”
Another question came to her. “How can you hope to observe the married couple behaving normally, when they know they are being watched?”
“A good question,” said Nanu. “I remind you, they never know exactly when they are being watched, what day, what time of day, what week. We have found they cannot be self-conscious and perform for possible other eyes all of the time. Over a long period, it is as if they have forgotten we may be there. Their pose slips off, their guard falls, they cease being alert. They revert to their everyday behavior. Especially this is so when they have serious problems. The conflict comes out quickly.”
Rachel realized that soon these conditions would apply to Moreturi and Atetou. Fortunately, in the beginning, they would be on guard, restrained, and tonight she would not have to suffer observing them as they really were. Yet, she wanted to be certain of this. “About Moreturi and his wife,” she said, “I imagine at this point they will expect to be under your study.”
“No, to our good fortune,” Nanu said. “We have not yet advised Moreturi you have given him up and turned his case over to the Hierarchy. He has no idea we are acting. We will see him—his wife—as they are.” Nanu masticated her gums. “In fact, Dr. DeJong, Hutia is going to request a favor of you. She will ask you, tomorrow, to continue treating her son, no matter how superficially, in order to keep from hi
m the knowledge of our investigation. It will make our work easier, save us much time. It will be beneficial to Moreturi and Atetou.”
Any good feeling that had been resuscitated in Rachel disappeared. Once more, she felt uneasy. She did not want Moreturi as a patient again. More intensely, she did not want to see him tonight—she did not want to peek, did not want to play Peeping Tom, odious tailor of Coventry.
The old lady had started for the door. “It is time to begin,” she said.
Narmone gestured to the exit, and Rachel went out on unwilling legs, followed by the old man.
The village was entirely deserted. They turned right, and walked in silence for several minutes, until Nanu halted and held a ringer to her lips. She stabbed the finger at the thatched hut beside them. It stood hidden in the shadows, except for the faint yellow illumination behind the covered window.
Nanu whispered to Rachel. “Follow us. Do as we do.”
Nervously, Rachel picked at strands of her chestnut hair that had fallen into her eyes, and nervously, she tracked after the Hierarchy pair. They went quietly around the hut, and then stopped midway along the side of the structure. Narmone prowled near the cane wall, knelt, and lifted the bamboo swinging door.
Bending low, Nanu ducked through it, quickly followed by Rachel. Narmone was through the opening, too, noiselessly lowering the broad flap, and then rising next to the other two. Rachel stood between them in what seemed pitch darkness. Presently, her eyes accustomed themselves to the condition. She found that the moonlight from behind, and the candlenut from inside, mingled to lighten the area on either side. She was in a corridor, about four feet wide, that ran the length of the residence. Before her was the true wall of the hut, and while the hidden framework was of sturdy-timber and cane, the upper surface of the wall consisted of tropical leaves laid over one another like shingles.
Nanu had gone silently down the dirt corridor of the false wall to the far end of the hut. Rachel could make out only her silhouette. In a moment, she returned, shading her shriveled mouth and whispering to her companion voyeurs, “We are late. Atetou has removed her skirt and fastened on her ahu for sleep.”
Nanu’s hand went forward to the shingled leaves, slid under several of them, lifted them slightly with a practiced motion. She peered into the slit opening that she had made. Rachel could see that the arrangement, while primitive, was as ingenious as the one-way glass in use back home. Because of the overlap of leaves, Nanu was able to observe what went on inside the hut while herself remaining undetected. To Rachel’s right, Narmone was also engaged in this questionable business of prying.
Rachel held back, dreading the necessity of playing her own role. Her mind sought escape hatches, but before one could be discovered, the old woman was crooking a finger at her. Woodenly, Rachel made a step toward the shingled leaves. “Do as we do,” Nanu whispered. “The observation is underway. We continue until both sleep.”
Rachel tried to imitate her mentor, lifting a row of leaves. A yellow line of light became visible. Awkwardly, messing her hair, she placed her head beneath the leaves, her eyes to the opening, and squinted to see what was inside. She saw Moreturi, followed him as he slowly paced the mats of the front room. He seemed bigger than she remembered him. Smoking a native cigarette, he circled the room with the powerful grace of a caged oceloid leopard, his muscles swelling and falling. All of his person seemed at ease except his broad Polynesian face, which was contorted by some inner concern.
Suddenly, as he reached the middle of the room near the candle, he came to a halt. His gaze went to the corridor leading into the bedroom.
“Atetou,” he called out.
There was no reply.
He moved several steps closer to the corridor. “Atetou, have you lain down?”
Atetou’s voice came back faintly. “I sleep. Good night.”
Moreturi muttered something, half to himself, some phrase in Polynesian, Rachel thought, and he went swiftly to a clay jar in the far corner and discarded the butt of his cigarette. Absorbed in his own thoughts, he advanced toward the wall behind which Rachel, Nanu, and Narmone crouched. His eyes were fixed on the wall—on herself, Rachel feared—in a moment he would find her, mock her. Arms folded across his expanse of naked chest, he came closer and closer. Although the wall stood between them, Rachel felt that she would be trampled down. She wanted to withdraw, let the leaves drop between them, flee, but she remained frozen, fearful that any movement would give her away.
Several feet from the wall, Moreturi stopped, and looked over his shoulder into the bedroom. To Rachel’s confined vision, a light brown giant hung over her, visible from his mouth to his knees. As ever, he wore nothing but the white pubic bag. Rachel tried to swallow, to stifle her breathing. It was inevitable what would happen next, she knew, and then it happened. His hands went down to the string holding the codpiece. In a quick gesture, he loosened the string, drew down the codpiece, and let it drop to the floor out of sight.
Rachel emitted a gasp of horror, positive she was giving herself away, but the exposed naked frame was revealed before her for only an instant. He had turned away, and was purposefully striding toward the bedroom. The front room was empty. Shaken, relieved her ordeal was ended, Rachel pulled her head from under the leaves, and gratefully let them obscure the room.
But then she felt the encirclement of Nanu’s bony grip upon her forearm. Nanu was hastily dragging her up their secret passage toward the bedroom. Rachel attempted to resist, to no avail. Narmone was immediately behind her, almost bumping into her, fully blocking flight. Rachel’s mouth was open, intending to protest this mad spectator sport, but words did not come. She found herself stumbling after Nanu, still tugged by the repulsive old woman, as Narmone pressed from behind.
In a moment, the three of them were in place behind the bedroom wall. Nanu kept pointing at the shingled leaves, until Rachel did her duty. Rachel wanted to resign, but there was the rising murmur of voices from the bedroom, and she was afraid to speak. She bent to the old woman’s will. She lifted the row of leaves, and peered into the room.
Except for the moonlight, the bedroom was darkened. Rachel wanted to make the sign of the cross and thank the Lord. Then, dimly, she made out the two figures in the foreground. Apparently, the one on his knees was Moreturi, and beneath him, twisting away, was Atetou. The words exchanged were indistinct, but which was male and which was female was clear, and the intonations were clear, too. Moreturi was pleading for physical love, and his wife was resisting him. Moreturi bent lower, and Atetou began to rise, pushing him away.
Moreturi backed off, and leaped to his feet. “All right!” he bellowed in distinct English. “I go to the Social Aid!”
“Go—go—go—” Atetou chanted at him. “That is your way to show love—go.”
Moreturi whirled, and stamped through the darkness to the front room.
Having witnessed this, Rachel closed her eyes, unable to control the chattering of her teeth. She pulled back from the sheaf of leaves, feeling totally unstrung, then became aware that Nanu’s hands were on her, pushing. Rachel opened her eyes. Narmone was already on his way toward the post that looked into the front room. Propelled by the old woman’s rough hands, Rachel tripped, regained her balance, and made her way to a spot beside Narmone. Again, Nanu was at her elbow, lifting the leaves, both the leaves that confronted Rachel and her own. Unable to protest, Rachel submitted, lowered her head beneath the leaves, and looked into the hut.
The lighted room blinded her momentarily, but soon she could see. Moreturi’s great brown naked frame, back, buttocks, legs stiff, was at the door. In one hand he held his supporter. Only his rear could be seen, and Rachel prayed that he would not turn around. At the door, Moreturi hesitated. For a suspended interval, it appeared that he would pull on his brief garment, but he did not. Coming to some decision, his shoulders heaved, straightened, and he flung the supporter aside. As he began to turn around, Rachel shut her eyes, shut them so tightly that sparkling pinw
heels sped round and round behind her lids. She heard his step approaching, then receding, but she would not look. A minute passed, perhaps two. Rachel’s eyes hurt, and she relaxed the lids, and finally, she opened them.
Again, she had cause for gratefulness. He was seated on the mat ting, in the center of the room, his long curved back toward her. His arms encircled his knees, and his head hung low. He remained in this posture for what seemed an eternity—five minutes, perhaps—and gradually, uncontrollably, Rachel felt pity for him. She wanted to reach out, touch him, comfort him. She wanted to be beside him, speaking soothingly to him. As an analyst, she had heard much of the animal desire in men, and understood it, and understood the iron bands of repression and frustration. Then her position as onlooker, espionage agent, overwhelmed her, and she was suffused in shame.
She intended to whisper to Nanu that they must leave, but before she could do so, there was a sound of footsteps inside the hut.
She heard Atetou’s small voice, although Atetou could not be seen. “You did not go, Moreturi?”
His head came around, and whatever he saw made his black eyes dilate. “No—no—I did not go.”
“You still want your Atetou?”
“I must love,” he said fiercely.
“Then come to me.” Her voice was fading, as she returned to the bedroom. “I wait.”
Before Rachel could close him from sight, Moreturi had come to his feet and turned toward her. Rachel felt the tremor in her arms and across her chest, watched hypnotically as the huge naked aroused animal crossed the room, left her vision and the room.
Rachel’s gaze remained fixed on the vacated room, and she hated Atetou and swore she would not be a witness to Atetou’s triumph. Then, Rachel started at the first sound from the bedroom. It came from Atetou’s throat, and it was not restrained. It was a female cry of pain, comingled with pleasure, and the cry melted into a drawn-out groan.
Rachel felt her stomach rise into her throat, and she began to choke. She tore herself from the wall, batted down the old crone’s grasping hand that was trying to bring her to the bedroom. Rachel whirled toward Narmone, plunged past him, almost bowling him over, fell down to her knees, groping for the exit that would liberate her. Something gave, the door swung high, and Rachel, intending to rise but still crawling, was out of the false wall, free of the Hierarchy, free of the copulating beasts.
The Three Sirens Page 46
