The Three Sirens

by Irving Wallace

  Claire realized that Maud had begun to dictate, and quickly, she caught the words floating past, and bent to her pad, hooking in the Gregg symbols.

  “Dear Walter,” Maud was saying. “I wrote you one week ago, but here I am again with a hasty note that will go out with Captain Rasmussen tonight. This is simply to tell you that these last days have surpassed all that came before in providing us with meaty information on these Sirens people … Paragraph, Claire …

  Today is the final day of the annual festival, and today represents the halfway mark of our field trip, for we have been here three weeks. I wrote you earlier of the festival schedule, as I learned about it from Chief Paoti Wright. However, to have been a participant observer in the events of the festival has given me a close-up view of it, an understanding of it, that could not be acquired at second hand … Paragraph … The festival began seven days ago with an afternoon athletic event, a strenuous one-mile swimming race, which Marc was courageous enough to enter. His notes will be invaluable. I might add with motherly pride, he almost defeated the natives at their own game, barely losing out at the very finish.”

  Maud’s inflection at the end of the last sentence made it clear, to Claire, that she would report no more of that fiasco. Claire looked up sharply, determined to goad Maud with her glance, force her to mention Marc’s foul, or at least chastise her with a visual reproach for omitting it, but Maud’s back was to her. Maud was staring out the window.

  “That evening,” Maud went on, “a large platform was erected in the village compound, ringed with colorful torches, and our nurse here, Harriet Bleaska, opened the festival week. She had been elected to the honor by the young men of the village. After that, there was an intricate ceremonial dance and, believe it or not, one of the stars was Mrs. Lisa Hackfeld, the wife of our backer. Mrs. Hackfeld acquitted herself astonishingly well. The second afternoon, there were new games, mainly wrestling, more in the Japanese than the American style, and in the evening we were treated to a pantomimic performance, a form of fertility rite, and once again Mrs. Hackfeld was the mainstay. For her, this place has been a veritable Fountain of Youth. The feature of the third evening was the nude beauty contest, most of the young single girls of the village participating. All the young men were on hand, cheering their favorites. It was similar, somewhat, to the nude beauty contests that Peter Buck witnessed on Manikihi, in the Cook islands. In those contests, as I recollect reading, the beauties were even studied from behind, to see if their legs were close together, for if they were, it was considered a sign of virtue and much esteemed. This kind of judgment was not made here, I assure you. Chief Paoti could not trace the origin of this beauty contest, but he did not disagree when I suggested that it might be a sort of display case for young girls who wanted to show off their wares to potential suitors and husbands. Also, I suspect, it is part of the stimulant of the entire heady festival week. On the fourth night—”

  Suddenly, Maud came around on her chair, holding up one pudgy hand.

  “Wait, Claire, before we get into the fourth night, I want to add something to my last sentence. Can you read it back?”

  “One second.” Claire found it. ” ‘Also, I suspect, it is part of the stimulant of the entire heady festival week.’ “

  “Yes. Umm, add this …” She considered what she would add, and then she dictated. “Dr. Orville Pence was one of the judges of the nude beauty contest, and his choices were well received and coincided with those of the other judges, two natives, save in one instance. The last of the female entries proved to be one of our own team, the indomitable Miss Bleaska, who had been convinced by her large village following to take part. She might have won, she is a great favorite here, except for Dr. Pence’s dissenting vote. In any case, she received runner-up honors. As you can see, we are not merely observers here, but industrious participants, and have been from the very first night of our arrival, and Paoti’s feast, when my daughter-in-law volunteered for the rites of friendship.”

  Claire’s head came up. “Really, Maud, do you have to mention that? It’s embarrassing enough to know I got looped and did that without—”

  “Don’t be silly, Claire. It is in all my reports. I’m mentioning it with maternal pride.”

  “Well, if you insist—”

  “Since when have you gone Victorian on me?”

  “Since my husband went Victorian on me,” Claire shot back.

  Maud’s expression conceded nothing. “Oh, men, men are so possessive,” she said. And then she said quickly, “Let’s go on, we’ve a lot to do this morning. Let me see—ah, yes—” She was dictating again. “I do believe that our functionalist friend, Bronislaw Malinowski, would have been proud of the active participation of his disciples in the field … Paragraph … Each of these festival events, which we have observed and experienced, has been captured on film by Sam Karpowicz, whose darkroom here is filled to the ceiling with reels of movies, still photographs, and color slides. I am going to give our members at the American Anthropological League not only an earful, Walter, but an eyeful as well … Make that an exclamation mark, Claire…As you predicted, Walter, The Three Sirens was the shot in the arm I needed, and it will be the first fresh study to come out of Polynesia in many years … Paragraph … But, to resume with the highlights of the festival week behind us. On the fourth night—”

  There was a rapping on the door, and Maud halted, disconcerted.

  “Come in!” Claire called out.

  The door opened partially, and more heat oozed into the hut, followed by Lisa Hackfeld, wearing a white nylon jersey dress and a broad wreath of smile. Before her, she held a small bowl filled with cut plants.

  “Oh,” she said, when she saw Claire with pad and pencil, “If I’m interrupting I can—”

  “It’s quite all right, Lisa,” Maud said, briskly. “I’ll be at this all morning with Claire. You seem bursting with some news—”

  “I am, I am,” replied Lisa in a kind of chant. With reverence, she placed the bowl of cut plants before Maud. “Do you know what this is?”

  Maud leaned forward and peered into the bowl. “Looks like some kind of seed plant—” She picked up one of the yellow-green mossy stems and examined it. “It’s a soft herb that—”

  “The puai plant!” Lisa Hackfeld exclaimed.

  “Yes, of course, that’s right,” Maud agreed.

  Momentarily, Lisa was taken aback. “How do you know about it, Maud?”

  “Why, it’s indigenous to the islands here and quite famous. I suppose I first heard about it from Paoti Wright. It’s the so-called drug that Captain Rasmussen takes out of here every week—in fact, I discussed it with him, too—”

  “And no one told me,” said Lisa, incredulously. “To think I might never have found out. Anyway, I did find out, but not through the Captain, although I’ve been talking to him about it for the last hour—”

  “You mean Rasmussen is in the village already?” asked Maud. “He usually comes straight here.”

  “I abducted him, Maud,” Lisa admitted, proudly. “I dragged him into my hut, and put some whiskey in front of him, and made him come clean. Right now, I’ve got him writing down everything he knows about it—for Cyrus, you know—”

  “But why?” Maud asked.

  “Why? Because there’s a fortune in it, that’s why.” Lisa turned to Claire, who had been half-listening, doodling. “Claire, do you know what this puai plant does?”

  Claire shrugged. “I’m afraid I haven’t the vaguest—”

  “It makes you feel young, act young, it rolls away the wrinkles and lubricates the creaks,” Lisa announced, her voice as falsetto and fanatical as that of an evangelist. “I tell you, with this, life can really begin at forty. Forgive me, I’m higher than a kite about my discovery.” She was addressing both Claire and Maud, and she had one of the pulpy herbs in her hand and waved it as she spoke. “It was an accident, how I found out. You know, I’ve been rehearsing with those native dancers for days, and you saw t
he two performances I put on this past week—”

  “You’ve been remarkable, Lisa,” said Maud.

  “Well, I have been, kidding aside. I’ve exceeded myself. Look, I used to be a dancer, a real high-stepper, and I was limber and pretty good, but then I was young. Let’s face it, I’m no spring chicken any more. Back home, when Cyrus took me to the club, I’d be winded after one waltz, and anything livelier laid me out for a week after. So I came here with you, and I got into this dance bit, and you know, from the first day practically, I was never tired. I just felt great, and could do anything, and I felt like a kid. I couldn’t figure it out, this kind of second wind, this rejuvenation—and then, the other night, something struck me. Just before the fertility dance, they passed around cups of some kind of greenish drink. I remembered that we’d always had that during rehearsals, even before the first night of the festival, and it wasn’t that palm juice or anything alcoholic. So I asked about it, and they told me it was an extract of the puai plant—‘puai’ means ‘strength’ in Polynesian—grows around here like a weed—and for centuries it has been given to dancers, to provide them with vigor. It’s not an intoxicant—I mean, you don’t take leave of your senses—but it’s a sort of native narcotic or stimulant, a kind of liquid kick in the fanny, and no addiction and no side effects. I found out this is the magic herb Captain Rasmussen has been exporting from here for years, and exporting from Tahiti to Hong Kong, Singapore, Indochina, the East Indies. He buys cheap, sells high. He and his wife have only a small business going, but it’s kept him in nice shape for years.

  “Well, I got to thinking about it, and the more I thought, the more excited I became. Of course, you know what I have in mind—”

  “You want to import it into the United States,” said Maud.

  “Exactly! I could hardly contain myself until this morning, when I got my hands on the poor Captain, and I guess I overwhelmed him. I told him about Cyrus, and his pharmaceutical holdings, and how he’s always on the lookout for something new, and how maybe this was just the thing—can’t you see the label?—palm trees, silhouettes of native dancers, and something like ‘the new exotic elixir from the South Seas, tested, approved, youth-giving, energy-giving—Vitality”—how’s that for a name on the package? Vitality!”

  Claire squirmed, but Maud rose bravely to the occasion. “Where can I buy some, Lisa?”

  “You’ll be able to buy some in every drugstore in America next year. I’m working out a tentative deal with Captain Rasmussen right now, subject to Cyrus’ approval.” She fondled the herb lovingly. “Think of it, this little thing, it’s changed my life, it’ll help millions of women like me. Oh, I can’t wait—my own discovery—there’ll be so much to do. I even have ideas for promotion, directing and sending out Polynesian-type dance troupes, or maybe preparing them for television commercials—” She was breathless, as her lively eyes went from Maud to Claire, and back to Maud again. “I mean, I’ll have a business, I’ll be paying my way, and yet—and yet be helping others. Don’t you think it’s a stupendous idea?”

  Maud inclined her head with the authority the Pope of Rome gave to a blessing. “It’s a grand idea, Lisa. I would encourage you to go right ahead.”

  “I knew you’d be pleased,” said Lisa. She returned the herb to the bowl and picked up the bowl. “I’d better finish up with the Captain and fire off a cable and letter to Cyrus.” She went to the door, and then paused. “I really owe it all to you, Maud. If you hadn’t allowed me to come to The Three Sirens, I wouldn’t have had this to look forward to. I should thank you. I will. In fact, you shall have the first shipment of Vitality, gratis and on the house!”

  After she had floated out, Maud sat contemplating the one fugitive herb that she still retained in her hand.

  Claire lighted a cigarette, and wagged the match until the flame was extinguished. “Is that herb really that good?” she asked.

  “No,” said Maud.

  Claire straightened with surprise. “Did I hear you right?”

  “It’s a harmless, half-fraud, almost inert, of little therapeutic value, according to Rasmussen’s pharmacologists. Field trips are always turning up something—back home, among the Indians, cascara bark as a laxative—or down in these parts, turmeric as a medicine—or stems of the kava plant, marindinum, as a sleeping aid—but most of the stuff is second-rate and really useless. Sometimes a good one comes along. Quinine, for example, from the cinchona bark. We acquired it from the natives of Peru and Bolivia.” She shook her head. “But the puai plant—the minute that Paoti mentioned it, I had Sam Karpowicz find some and he knew what it was. It’s the most mild form of narcotic stimulant. Its real strength is in its tradition. Truthfully, the magic of suggestion has always been more potent than drugs in primitive societies. The natives have always believed that the puai picks them up, so, needless to say, Claire, it picks them up. But Rasmussen took no chances with selling a tradition, just as the old dispensers of the mandragora herb knew it was too nonvolatile for an anesthetic unless mixed with opium. What Rasmussen did from the beginning, does even now, is mix the ingredients of the puai with ingredients of bêche-de-mer—”

  “I think I’ve heard of that last one. What is it?”

  “Bêche-de-mer? It’s a sea slug. The natives go into three or four feet of water, pull the slugs off the reefs, cut them open, boil the innards, cure them in the sun. Very popular in Fiji, I remember, where they export the stuff to China. Bêche-de-mer is a stronger stimulant, something that peps up what Morrell used to call ‘the immoderate voluptuary.’ Sam Karpowicz says we have a hundred better drugs that induce the same results back home. I know nothing about selling a product. I suppose this silly thing has the right label, and it won’t hurt anyone, actually. The Hackfelds will make a billion and maybe remember to support other field trips in the future.”

  “If puai is such a low-grade, ordinary drug, Maud, why did you encourage Lisa to go ahead with the—the half-fraud, as you put it?”

  “I repeat, my dear, it won’t hurt a soul, and it may do some good. It makes these natives feel younger. It makes Lisa feel younger.

  Maybe it’ll help others in the same way, too. It could be a psychological boost for its buyers.”

  “Still, I don’t—”

  “Another thing, Claire. When a woman reaches forty, and feels forty or more, and is sensible enough to act her age in a society such as ours that is only attentive to those of twenty, I think she should be encouraged to do anything reasonable to make herself busy and active. She should put her mind where her heart is, not where her body is. With Vitality, Lisa will be a young forty, not an old forty, and she’ll be a young fifty and sixty, too, and have a place and a way of life. I speak from experience, Claire. One day you’ll understand. Lisa is on the right road, and I will encourage her.”

  Sitting across from Maud, listening to her, Claire drew on her cigarette and began to understand. Maud had found her own puai plant, and it was The Three Sirens. Claire had sympathy for both Lisa and Maud. Claire was twenty-five, and Lisa was fifteen years older than she and Maud was thirty-five years older than she, and yet Claire felt as old as both of them, for age was not only reckoned by years but also by the telltale wood rings of feeling unwanted, neglected, discarded. Claire knew that technically, she had the advantage of fewer used-up years of the allotted number, therefore the promise of a longer time on the planet—the one unchallengeable snobbery and arrogance of the almost-young in their twenties and thirties—but this advantage was not enough, for no use was being made of this advantage, and she had no Vitality, no Sirens field trip badge, either.

  “Now where were we?” Maud was saying.

  Claire retrieved her pad and pencil, but before she could find their place in the dictation, there was a loud voice outside, female, then voices, female and male, some kind of exchange, and Harriet Bleaska came through the door, her face uncharacteristically knotted by some sudden annoyance.

  “That Orville Pence, I tell you, Maud,
” she muttered, and then became aware that there were two in the room. “Oh, hi, Claire.” She turned to Maud. “Any chance of seeing you alone sometime today? I need your advice, and I thought—”

  “There’s no time like the present,” said Maud.

  Claire stood up immediately. “I’ll leave you two alone.”

  “All right, Claire,” said Maud. “Why don’t we resume the dictation in—let’s say in fifteen minutes?”

  * * *

  After Claire had left the room, Maud gyrated in her chair and gave her entire matriarchal attention to her ugliest duckling. “You were speaking of Orville Pence when you came in,” she said. “Does this concern Orville?”

  “Orville?” Harriet Bleaska repeated. “Oh, him—” She shook her head, crossed to the bench, and sat down. “He’s become nutty as a fruit cake,” she said. “I don’t get it. He was such a nice guy. Now, he’s always making sarcastic remarks to me, and just now, outside, he came bounding up, actually hurt my arm the way he grabbed it, and tried to drag me off somewhere to have a talk. I told him it would have to wait, I had something more urgent on my mind I had to discuss with you, and he got nasty all over again. So I simply turned my back on him and came in.”

  Through this, Maud had been nodding. “Yes,” she said, “these field trips sometimes affect some of the—the members—adversely. The change of environment, trying to perform properly in a totally different culture, this can make some people edgy.” She thought of her discussion, during the week, with Sam Karpowicz, and his vehemence at the Sirens teaching curriculum, and his anger over the exposure of Mary to that one study. She also remembered an earlier exchange with Orville himself and the missionary priggishness in his comments on the Sirens society and on Harriet’s affair with the native patient who had died. Even Rachel DeJong, usually so remote and objective, had given evidence of being distraught the entire week. And then, thought Maud, there were her own son and daughter-in-law, who presented anything but the picture of connubial bliss when they were publicly together.