The Three Sirens

by Irving Wallace

  After careful consideration of your letter, I have decided to take your interest seriously, absolutely seriously. I was doing a lecture in Pittsburgh when your letter was forwarded to me, and immediately, I canceled an engagement in Scranton to hurry to New York and visit with my agents in Rockefeller Center. In confidence, I told them what little I knew of your current field trip, of the Sirens itself, and I asked them what all of this could add up to in practical terms, “the true economics” of it, as you put it, and after two days here, I have all the real answers. It is, believe me, Marc, with a sense of high excitement that I write you now. I hope my excitement will transmit itself to you in that incredible faraway place where now you work, wherever it is, exactly.

  At the outset, let me allay any fears you may possess as to the propriety of communicating The Three Sirens adventure to the public. Also, any fears you may have that the material would be misused. I know your mother accused me of being a successful popularizer who might exploit the Sirens material in a way that would be damaging both to anthropology and the hidden islanders. Marc, your mother is wrong. Forgive me again, but she reflects the outmoded thinking of prewar social scientists, a closed group or cult who kept what was valuable to themselves. In fact, the reputation your mother and father built was based on their breaking out of this eggshell, somewhat, and presenting their books in a more popular way. But, I contend, they did not go far enough. Their findings, those of others in the field, have not really gone out to the masses, have not been valuable or beneficial to the millions who could profit most. If what you are seeing on The Three Sirens is useful to America, why should it not be disseminated widely to help Americans? If what you are seeing is of no value to anyone, only curious or different, what harm in showing your fellow countrymen how foolishly others live and how happy your countrymen should be with their own lots? Remember, the great movers of our time, Darwin, Marx, Freud, shook no worlds until their findings came into hands like yours and mine and were popularized. When you question me about propriety, I question you about the right of any group to withhold or censor information that will enrich minds. No, Marc, fear not, only good can come from putting this material into the hands of men who understand the masses of people.

  And how could your material be misused or sensationalized? If we went ahead, it would be together, as collaborators. You would have control of editing and presenting the material with me. You know my work, my reputation of long standing which is based on good taste. Members of both sexes, of all ages, of varied social strata, have been my devoted followers for years. The sales of my books, the cities that have turned out to applaud me, the endless fan mail that flows across my desk, the huge sums I annually pay Internal Revenue, all are testaments to my conservatism, universality of judgment, and taste. Finally, we would serve under the auspices of the Busch Artist and Lyceum Bureau, founded in 1888, a firm of highest distinction that has had, variously, on its roster, such names as Dr. Sun Yat-sen, Henry George, Maxim Gorki, Carveth Wells, Sarah Bernhardt, Lily Langtry, Richard Halliburton, Gertrude Stein, Dr. Arthur Eddington, Dylan Thomas, Dr. William Bates, Count Alfred Korzybski, Wilson Mizner, Queen Marie of Rumania, Jim Thorpe—and, forgive me a third time, yours truly, Rex Garrity.

  As to your concern about anthropologists going out before the lay public, put it aside. I have documentary evidence that dozens of your colleagues, from Robert Briffault to Margaret Mead, have done this, and have enhanced rather than harmed their professional standing.

  So at last we come to my talks with the Busch people, and the “true economics” of what insiders call “the chicken a la king circuit.” I have analyzed the most successful platform artists, and the most successful were those who were Big Names (Winston Churchill, Eleanor Roosevelt, etc.) or those who had something timely or unusual to say (Henry M. Stanley, General Chennault, etc.). The Busch people assure me that we could not fail, for between us we possess both elements of potential success. I have the reputation. You have at your fingertips the material that is both timely and unusual. Between us, we could make The Three Sirens a household name like Shangri-La—yes, the Shangri-La of love and marriage.

  In return for arranging our bookings, transportation, hotels, meals, guidance, the Busch agency would take 33 percent of our gross earnings. That would leave each of us 33½ percent free and clear of expenses. If your findings are as electric as I promised them they would be, they believe it possible that in a ten-month period (lecturing combined with radio and television, exclusive of writings) our gross could be $750,000 minimum! Think of it, Marc, in ten months you could have a quarter of a million dollars free and clear, and a national reputation to boot!

  The Busch people would require only one thing from you, besides your presence. They would need a single piece of corroborating evidence, that is, evidence that The Three Sirens exists and is what you say it is. In short, they want to suffer no Joan Lowells or Trader Horns. What could this evidence be? A color film showing the unique side of life on The Three Sirens, or color slides or a large collection of stills that could be projected, to accompany our appearances. Or even—as Captain Cook did on his return from his first visit to Tahiti—a native man or woman from the Sirens to appear side by side with us.

  Perhaps I have gone too far in trying to perceive your thoughts and ambitions. I hope not. If you can find a way of joining me in this endeavor, you will not regret it. You will become, overnight, independently wealthy, and as famous, even more famous, than your mother.

  Think of that, think of all I have related to you, not fancies but facts, and make your decision to strike out on your own. If you do, riches and glory await you. There is nothing more for me to add, except that the Busch people and I eagerly await your reply. If it is favorable, as I trust it will be, we will make any arrangement suitable to you. If you wish, I will fly posthaste to Tahiti to await your emergence, and we can return triumphantly to New York together to undertake Project Fame.

  The close of the letter, signed with a Hancockian flourish, read, “Your friend and, I pray, future collaborator, Rex Garrity.”

  When Marc had finished, he did not reread the letter. It was as if every word of it was chiseled deeply into his consciousness. He held it in one hand, sitting there on the grass, surrounded by the color and fragrance of the acacia grove, and stared off at the path.

  He realized that, despite the heat of midday, there was a thin pimpled chill on his shoulders, arms, forearms. He was frightened by the prize, and the enormity of the step that he must make to reach and hold it.

  But then, coming to his feet, he knew that his decision had been made. What lay ahead, Garrity’s way, was unknown and terrifying, for he did not know his strength, yet it was satisfying beyond any ambition he had ever held. What lay ahead, Matty’s way, Claire’s way, was known and horrific, for he knew his weakness, and it was more dismaying than any nightmare of being buried alive for eternity. So, the choice was clear.

  He tried to think. The first step was to seal and mail the letter written to Garrity last night. It needed no amendment, no elaboration. It anticipated and responded to everything in the pages that he had just read. Yes, he would drop it into Rasmussen’s outgoing mail pouch. That was the first step. The second step was to learn if his plan was practical. Everything hinged upon that, and thus, everything hinged upon Tehura. He would see her after the swimming match, when her primitive heart would welcome him as conquering hero. As to Claire, to hell with Claire, she was now the small-town first wife who was out of place and would never belong. Well, not quite that, either, for maybe she could be made to belong later by being brought to her knees, no longer a reproach but a beggar for his touch and glance. Claire, well, he would see, he would see. She was the least of it now. Momentous events were in the offing, and they were all that mattered.

  Marc folded Garrity’s letter, slipped it into his hip pocket, put a match to his cold cigar, and started for the path and the village. He felt like a quarter of a million dollars.

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sp; * * *

  The classes in the school had been shortened this day, and had run straight through the lunch period. It was because of the festival, Air. Manao had announced at the outset. School would be dismissed at two o’clock, and they would have an hour before the festival began with the annual swimming contest. “We will follow this schedule all of this week,” Mr. Manao had added, and this edict had imparted to the students an air of frolic and merrymaking.

  Surrounding Mary Karpowicz, the others in the classroom, usually so attentive and restrained, punctuated Mr. Manao’s lectures with hushed but exhilarated whispering, poking, giggling, teasing, and tugging. Even Nihau, so solemn always, was less studious this day. He smiled more, and constantly met Mary’s gaze with a reassuring nod and grin. Part of his good cheer, she knew, was his pleasure in having convinced her to return to the classroom after yesterday’s upset. In fact, her sudden disappearance, during the recess that followed the study of faa hina’aro and the live anatomy lesson involving the buxom girl Poma and the manly Huatoro, had not gone unnoticed by the all-seeing Air. Manao. When Mary had come into the room, determinedly early, the instructor had approached her and, out of hearing of the others, inquired if she was well. He had missed her, he said, for the last of the classes. Mary had spoken vaguely of a headache, of having to lie down, and the instructor had been satisfied.

  Now, listening to the last of Mr. Manao’s lecture on the island’s history, Mary felt a hollowness in her stomach pit. She tried to attribute it to the missing of lunch—but knew it was not that at all, for there had been an extra recess with refreshments of fruit—and then she admitted to herself it was the apprehension of seeing the naked Poma and Huatoro again, soon, any minute, and her worry over what would be shown next.

  Thinking about it, the hollowness in her stomach pit filled, and she was less conscious of it, as her confidence returned. She had seen the most of it, she reminded herself, and there would be nothing really new today. She was aware of Nihau shifting his position beside her—the history lecture was done—and she recollected his words yesterday in the cool clearing near the Sacred Hut. “What will spoil love is shame, is fear, is ignorance,” he had said. “Seeing what you did see, and learning what you will learn, will not spoil anything when your heart is truly in love.” This, Nihau had said, would make her ready for the One, when he came, and she would never know displeasure. The evident superiority she would wear, when again she faced the old gang in Albuquerque, suffused her, lifted her heart. She felt calm, and almost eager for the hour that lay ahead.

  While Mr. Manao prepared for the last class, cleaning his spectacles with a portion of his loincloth, attaching them on his ears, then studying a single sheet of paper, and while the students in the room buzzed, Mary’s eyes wandered to the open windows to her right. She could see her father, still beside the Rolleiflex set on a tripod. Oddly, he was doing what Mr. Manao had just done, wiping his rimless glasses.

  Mary had not seen her father at breakfast. He was, she learned, at an early meeting with Maud Hayden. Later, when she had arrived at the schoolyard, she was surprised to see him, loaded under equipment, crouching, jumping, circling, squatting, squaring his fingers like a frame before his eyes, trying to find sights to shoot.

  She had sneaked up behind him, and tickled the back of his warm, moist neck. He had gasped, almost lost his balance while crouched, tipping sideways, holding himself up with one hand, as he turned. “Oh, it’s you, Mary—”

  “Who did you think it was? Some sexy Siren?” Then, as he opened vertically, like an accordion, to his full height, she had asked, “What are you doing here anyway?”

  “Maud wants a complete layout on the school, black and white, color, color slides.”

  “What’s there to shoot here? It’s just like any old school anywhere.”

  Sam Karpowicz had unslung his Rolleiflex. “You’re becoming jaded, Mary. It’s the one affliction every photographer has to watch out for. I mean, that the camera eye doesn’t get too old, too used to everything it sees. The camera eye must always remain young, fresh, aware of contrasts and curiosities, never taking anything for granted. Look at Steichen’s art. Always young.” He half-turned, and nodded toward the thatched bowl of the building. “No, there isn’t a school like that one in America or Europe, certainly no students dressed like those in your class, no teacher on earth like Mr. Manao. Maybe what you mean is that what you are learning is old hat, parallels your subjects at home.” He had halted, thoughtfully considering his daughter. “At least, from what you’ve been telling us every day, the subjects here, history, handicraft, all that, do seem similar to those in your high school.” He hesitated. “They are, aren’t they?”

  The question had alarmed Mary, probing so near her omission, and her mind conjured up Poma and Huatoro as she had seen them in front of the class yesterday. Hastily, she had concealed them. She had swallowed. “Yes, Dad, I suppose that’s what I meant.” She had not wanted the conversation to go on, for there might be traps, and so she affected disinterest. “Well, I’d better get going,” she had said. “Happy time exposures.”

  That had been several hours ago, and from time to time, she had caught glimpses of her father and his cameras through the various open windows. Looking again, she saw that the window no longer framed his presence, his Rolleiflex, his tripod. She supposed that he had finished his series of pictures. Mr. Manao was speaking once more, and her concentration was again on the instructor.

  There would be no further discussion of the human organs today, she learned. She was relieved, but she wondered what would be discussed. In a few minutes, she knew, and her back arched alertly, and inquisitiveness overcame embarrassment.

  Mr. Manao had promised that his discourse on arousal of a partner would be detailed, require several days, and be undertaken only after he had covered broad basic points. This afternoon, he would discuss, and have demonstrated, the major positions assumed in love-making. There were, he said, six basic ones, and the variations of these were perhaps thirty more.

  “First, the major ones,” he announced, and hit his hands together in the manner of a magician saying “presto.” From the back room, Huatoro and Poma emerged, their expressions phlegmatic. While the muscular athlete retained his brief garment, the twenty-two-year-old widow, Poma, quickly undid her grass skirt and threw it aside.

  Although Mary was in the rear of the class, she could see the demonstration clearly between the rows of students. To her surprise, there was no contact between the actors, only a kind of posturing. They performed with the grace and fluidity of a pair of disinterested tumblers, brought together by their spindly director’s narration.

  Although mildly disappointed, Mary’s attention remained riveted on the players, following them as she might two trained amoebae under a microscope. In fact, so absorbed had she become, that she did not, even in the silence of the room, hear the angry shuffle and stir directly behind her.

  Suddenly, Mary felt a hard hand on her shoulder, squeezing and pulling, so that she winced with pain.

  “Mary, I want you to leave the room!”

  The voice was her father’s voice, high-pitched in anger, and the sound of it pierced her eardrums and slashed through the room.

  The demonstration before the class halted, Mr. Manao’s sentence hung suspended, all heads turned to the rear as one head, and, in shock, Mary twisted around. Sam Karpowicz was standing over her. She had never seen his face so contorted and livid before. All kindliness, all fatherliness, had succumbed to the outline of outrage.

  “Mary,” he repeated loudly, “get up and get out of here at once!”

  Paralyzed on the matting, mouth open in the confusion that precedes humiliation, she remained as she had been. Her father’s hand left her shoulder, hooked under her armpit, and roughly hauled her from the floor.

  Gasping, as she scrambled to her feet, full humiliation fell upon her. All eyes, she knew, were on her back and this disruptive, rude old man who was breaking up the cl
ass. And Nihau, Nihau, he was seeing this, and thinking what—what was he thinking?

  She tried to speak, working her mouth, but her lips quivered and her teeth chattered and her lungs were dry and strangling.

  Sam Karpowicz was glaring at her. “You’ve been coming here every day, indulging in this filthy—filthy—this sporting house—and not telling us—”

  Her words came out, at last, broken fragments tearing from her throat. “Pa—no—don’t—it’s not—it’s—don’t, please—” Her eyes had filled, and control became impossible.

  Mr. Manao materialized between them, a perplexed spider. “Sir—sir—what is it—what is wrong?”

  “Goddammit, dammit man,” Sam was sputtering, “if I hadn’t just come in here to shoot pictures of this goddam class—I was so busy these last five minutes setting up equipment I didn’t even look to see what was going on up front—but goddammit, how dare you expose a sixteen-year-old girl to a low-down sex circus? I’ve heard of this going on in Paris and Singapore, but you people are supposed to be advanced—”

  Mr. Manao kept lifting a hand, to interrupt, to explain, the imploring hand shuddering as if attached to an epileptic. “Mr.—Dr.—Karpowicz—you do not understand—”

  “I understand one thing, dammit—what my eyes see! I’m as progressive and liberal as anyone on earth, but when an immature child is made—when her head is stuck in the mud—when she’s forced to look at the two of them up there—look at them—that half-naked big lover up there, trying to excite these young people—and look at her, just look at her—with her—her—her ass flying in the breeze!”

  It was then that Mary screamed. “Paaa! Stop it—shut up, will you—shut up—shut up—shut your mouth—”

  He stared at her as if slapped, and she wheeled and faced the class, all of them, Nihau, his face wrenched by despair and anguish for her, and all the others, half-understanding, understanding, and the two up front, and she tried to say something to them all, some apology, but there was no voice. She stood before them, mute, tears pouring down her cheeks, until she could not see them, and then she stumbled, tripping once, toward the exit, and plunged outside.