“You see? A small island.”
“Apparently.”
His eyes took in her bulging backpack. “It seems you’ve had a busy day of exploring. Did you enjoy yourself?”
“Yes,” said Greer, but she couldn’t very well say she had preferred a long stare at the ocean to the world-famousmoai. “It’s an interesting place.”
“Good word: interesting. Beautiful, no. But yes, very, very interesting. Perhaps the most interesting place I have ever been.”
“How long have you been here?”
“A difficult question. For work five months. But I take trips to the mainland, on the Lan Chile flight, as you know. Well, I would very much like to hear about your work, what you are studying. Thesociedad seems to know little about the people they host and yet if we share our knowledge we will all enhance the work of each other. Will you join me for a pisco sour?”
Greer had amassed enough questions about the island that talking to someone who knew the terrain appealed to her. And as he’d said, the town was small. She glanced at her watch. Mahina had said dinner was at nine tonight; she had an hour.
“So what exactly is a pisco sour?”
“It is one of the typical drinks of Chile, Doctor Farraday! You must try one. Unfortunately, we have no bars here. Vittorio over there”—he pointed to the man carrying tables and chairs—“is trying to start the first restaurant. But it is for tourists. We will have a drink Rapa Nui–style. Okay?”
“A Chilean drink, then,” she said.
They walked down the street to the place where she’d bought her groceries. The door was now closed, but Vicente knocked. “Iorana!Mario? Vicenteaqui! ” Soon Mario emerged with a groggy smile. “Ah! Marblehead!Iorana! Hola, Vicente!”
“Una botella de pisco sour?”asked Vicente.
“Sí, sí.”Mario disappeared into the dark store, returning a moment later with a bottle and two tin cups.
“Maururu,”said Vicente.
They wandered downhill to thecaleta, where a dozen small fishing boats fanned out from the docks, and seated themselves on the low stone wall overlooking the harbor. Vicente spread his newspaper between them, flipping through the pages, until an article caught his eye. “This one I’ve read.” He flattened the paper and set the bottle and two cups on it.
“You see?” He pointed to the paper’s date. “Only three days old. Quite a valuable item on Rapa Nui. We shall try not to spill.” He twisted open the bottle. “Now, I know only that you are here for core samples. You caused thesociedad quite some trouble asking for a refrigerator. One of their bureaucrats thought it was for your food.” As he spoke, he pulled a bandana from his pocket and wiped off both cups. “Many accusations were made about the luxuries required by American researchers. Of course, they soon had one of their experts explain that cores must remain cold.”
“Well, I’m here to study fossil pollen records. I’d like to find out what plants were here, how long ago, what happened to them. A decent lake core will contain pollen from several thousand years.”
“Plants, yes,” he said, pouring the cloudy liquid into each cup. “An important piece of the mystery. It will bring us one step closer to understanding this island.”
“And you?”
“I am trying to decipher therongorongo. ”
“The mysterious tablets.”
“No one has yet been able to decipher the writing. But to understand what’s written on those pieces of wood would very much enhance our understanding of what happened on this island.”
“What kind of wood are they made of?”
“Ah, a botanist’s question! We believe some are thetoromiro tree. Others are laurel, or myrtle. I believe there is one of ash. Of course, there are only twenty-one left. The nineteenth-century missionaries made the islanders burn them. Many, it is said, were hidden in caves, but they’ve never been found.”
“I’d love to look at them. To look at the wood.”
“Next time you are in Europe, perhaps. London, Paris, Berlin, Vienna, Leningrad. They are in museums there. Only three remain in this hemisphere. Two in Santiago and one in Concepción. I first saw them in Santiago, many many years ago, and that is what ignited my interest in decipherment. I was young, and their mystery lured me. But now . . .” He handed her a cup. “Your pisco sour, señora.”
“Gracias.”
Vicente watched her lift the cup to her mouth. The liquid was tart and strong, like a margarita with lemon juice.
“It’s good,” she rasped.
“Pisco is made from muscat grapes from the Elqui Valley, what we call the Zona Pisquera, north of Santiago. A beautiful region for hiking or hang gliding, where the water from the Andes comes down. In Chile we all drink pisco. But most foreigners don’t like the pisco without the sour mix—it is too sweet for them. And too strong.Pisquo is an aboriginal word which means ‘flying bird.’ We believe it was used to explain the feeling of one’s head when one is drunk. In a few moments you’ll see.” He smiled and took a sip, his eyes lingering on the cup. “Do you like our little Rapa Nui tavern here?”
“Very nice.”
There was something in the pleasure he took in this moment—sitting on a stone wall pouring drinks into tin cups—that made Greer think he came from wealth. As though all things simple or archaic were, for him, the true luxuries.
“But if there are no tablets left on the island, why do you stay?”
“You mean the place doesn’t strike you as the kind of island on which to remain indefinitely? Yes, an excellent question.” It seemed he had asked himself this many times. “Of course, at first I did hope to find more tablets here. But I have given up on that. You see, if the script is not alphabetic, if it is symbolic, then it is likely the symbols originated as representations of the objects relevant to the early Rapa Nui. The best way, of course, to determine any relationships between the characters and real-world things is to examine the real-world things. Language relates to life. It emerges from life. For example, the Rapa Nui now have a new phrase:peti etahi . It means ‘peach one,’ or, as you say in English, ‘peachy.‘Peti has entered the language just recently because the Chilean supply boat brought a new product to the island—canned peaches. Before, there were no peaches on the island. But now they are everywhere, and the people love them! Anything that is good, anything they like, ispeti etahi. ”
“Have you found any correlations?”
“Many symbols appear to be birds, or part bird, part man. Some appear to be fish. And many, in fact, look like trees.”
“Trees? That’s surprising.”
“It is my interpretation, though. Therongorongo is a great mystery, the most spectacular achievement of this island. Themoai bring the tourists. But therongorongo , well . . . we are speaking of something that has occurred only five times in the history of the world.” Vicente held his fist in the air, and with each name lifted a finger. “Mesopotamia, Mexico, Egypt, and China. These are the only places where a written language wasinvented . Every other instance of writing has been borrowed, or revised, from those four. Four spontaneous inventions of writing. Plus here, on my favorite island”—his thumb went up—“number five. And the only script not yet deciphered.”
“Your task,” she said.
“Yes, my task.”
“Sounds like convergent evolution,” said Greer.
“Biology talk?”
“The same developments turn up in different species on separate continents, even in different epochs. The American cactus and the African spurge—oceans apart, but you’d swear they were related. Same swollen stems, same aureoles. Or the milkwort and the sweet pea. Entirely different families, but nine out of ten botanists couldn’t tell their flowers apart. Even those helicopter seeds of maple and ash and tipu trees. Different species, different places, but they all come up with the propeller shape. Some developments just make sense.”
“Like the creation of writing.”
“Exactly.”
“And it evolved in
only five places. One of them right here,” he said, patting the stone wall. “Quite something.”
“It is,” said Greer. “Only I hope the tablets don’t turn out to be like some of the cuneiform. Ancient grocery lists, ledgers. It would be great if they really said something.” She tapped her cup to his, took a long sip, and felt the alcohol rise to her temples. She ran her fingers through her hair. “‘Romeo loves Juliet,’ at the very least. ‘Antony loves Cleopatra.’ Something juicy.”
“Not ‘Romeo gave Juliet fourteen chickens.’ ”
“Combine the two—‘Romeo gave Juliet fourteen chickens because he loves her’—and then you’ve got something. The beginning of an epic.”
Vicente laughed. Greer could feel him watching her, and leaned away. She didn’t mean to be flirting. She was just a little tipsy.
“The decipherment sounds like an excellent project,” she said, setting her cup down. “Challenging.”
“It would be very good to know what they say.” Vicente, too, seemed content to let the brief awkwardness pass. “But even when we decipher the script, there are very few left we can read. So much has disappeared from this island. Do you want to know why all thesemoai are still here? Because they are too heavy to move off the island.”
Greer laughed.
“All of the early visitors here left with valuables. The islanders traded their artifacts for hats and bandanas. It’s tragic. Who knows what is still out there? Right now I am at work obtaining records that may locate some more tablets. You’ve heard of the German fleet that anchored here during the First World War?”
“Admiral von Spee. Actually, he was a naturalist as well. Kept botanical records of the ports he visited.”
“I’ve not read those accounts. I’ve focused primarily on his naval correspondence, his ship’s log. The details of his cargo. A naturalist, yes. He was an interesting man. He sailed on the first German colonizing mission to West Africa. He was promoted to rear admiral in 1912, posted to Tsingtao, which is where he found himself when war broke out. A gallant man. Of course, he was sunk with his whole fleet at the Falkland Islands. He made a horrible mistake—tried to run for it. No one knows why.”
“Fear isn’t a good enough reason? If I recall correctly, there was a whole British fleet after him.”
“And French and Russian and Japanese. But he was a great admiral, Doctor Farraday. Truly great. Men like that do not become afraid so easily.”
“Sure they do.”
“In all accounts by his officers, even by his adversaries, von Spee was a fearless man.”
But fearlessness, thought Greer, was a feeling, not a temperament. No one, no matter how accomplished, could avoid fear. Who would have imagined Thomas Farraday would be scared of failing?
“Anyway, he was here,” Greer said—she was having fun and didn’t want to spoil it—“the gallant, fearless, botanically inclined admiral. At Easter Island. How does this relate to therongorongo ?”
“It is believed, and I am hoping these records will confirm, that the fleet made off with valuables from the island. Local legends tell of things disappearing from the island with the warships. It’s my hope that the valuables—tablets, I am convinced—were sent ahead to Germany.”
Greer looked up; the stars were beginning to shine in the night sky. A cool breeze rolled off the ocean. This was all she wanted—a nice conversation, in a new place with a new person. She pulled her legs up and arranged them Indian-style. “Will the Germans admit it if they have them?”
“No,” said Vicente. “They will not, I think, want to admit to hiding the artifacts. But if I have documents to prove they do have them, that is a different situation.”
“And you want to return them to the island?”
“Yes,” said Vicente. “But it is a difficult situation with Chile. Chile, you see, will want them. Chile will consider them their own.”
“The islanders might not like that.”
“I am Chilean. Many people on Rapa Nui are Chilean, or have one Chilean parent. There is no antagonism now between Rapa Nui and Chile. Not yet. But there is a growing feeling from the islanders that we should not be here. We are calledmauku, or, in Spanish,pasto . You know that word? It means ‘weed.’ It means we ruin good things.”
“There are a lot of weeds here. The plant kind. And remember,” she said, “one person’s weed is another’s flower.”
“Well, even though there is little on the land, the islanders would still like the land for themselves. It is theirs, after all. During the fifties and sixties, the government forbade the islanders from traveling. So some of the Rapa Nui stole rowboats from the Chilean Navy, some even made sailboats and canoes, and they sailed for Tahiti, but they had no navigation equipment. It was an awful scene, you can imagine, when at dawn the village awoke to find so many of its men gone.” Vicente shook his head. “Some men had not even told their families for fear of being stopped. Most of these boats were lost at sea. It was another horrible chapter for the islanders. Good men, men who might have been leaders, lost.”
“You don’t sound very pro-Chilean.”
“I love Rapa Nui. I am at heart a Rapa Nui. This is the truth, what I feel inside of me.” He touched his chest. “And I would like to see the people in possession of their island. But even if I am able to unravel therongorongo , there will be resentment. I am not an islander. I will still be apasto .”
“Do you really think you can? Decipher it?”
“I suppose I must think so, or else I wouldn’t try. But I’m waiting for something new to work with. I am hoping for my own Rosetta stone.”
“The Rosetta stone was made of basalt, you know. This island is basalt. A good omen.”
“Let us hope,” said Vicente, sipping the last of his drink.
The sky above them was black now, the stars so bright they seemed to spill from the sky. A distant streetlamp cast a soft glow over them, but Vicente had faded to shadow. Greer pulled her flashlight from her backpack, clicked it on, and laid it on the rocks between them. “Better,” she said.
He laughed. “Ah, Doctor Farraday, you’ll soon get accustomed to the darkness here. I don’t even own one.” He held the flashlight up and examined it. “And you? You will be taking core samples? That seems like work which can produce good, definite results.”
“Once you get past the messy and tiring part of the core taking.”
“An intellectual pursuit with physical labor. I like that.”
“I do too, until I’m up to my knees in a swamp.”
“Well, no swamps here.”
“The crater lakes will be plenty of trouble, I’m sure.”
”Crater lakes?”
“The samples need to be taken from a damp area. Pollen can be preserved in water for thousands of years.”
“Ah, yes. In the craters there is fresh water. But everywhere else is dry. And do you know what it is you want to find?”
“I try not to think about that, so as not to bias my analysis. But I’m interested in why there are no native trees here, no shrubs. Something happened—an eruption, an earthquake—something wiped out all the vegetation.”
“It is as I have said: Everything here disappears. Plants as well.”
“It seems so. I’ll have to look at a core. Extract pollen at various depths, count the grains, analyze the assemblages. From that I can start to determine what the island used to look like.”
“It is an excellent project,” said Vicente. “I am a great fan of the botany sciences. When one’s work is at an impasse, the work of others always seems much more exciting, much more important, does it not?”
Greer laughed. “The Gramineae always have more chlorophyll . . .”
Vicente raised his eyebrows.
“Botany talk: The grass is always greener.”
“Ah, yes, I’ve heard this saying. On the other side of the fence . . . it is true. I cannot help but become fascinated by the German fleet. Why they came here. What they did. It happens to you as we
ll? This distraction?”
Greer nodded. “I like to tell myself it’s not a distraction. That the mind needs to look to the side sometimes to make sense of what’s in front of it.”
“Yes, well, perhaps you’ll want to spend some time looking at the photos of therongorongo, and I will want to spend some time taking a core sample. I have always been interested in that work. I was, as you know, a fan of Thomas Farraday.” Vicente looked at her. “He was your husband?”
“Yes.”
“I read much about his work.”
Not enough, she wanted to say, to know he had died.
“I am sorry I mistook you for him. Of course, they wrote only ‘Doctor Farraday.’ I made an assumption. I hope you will forgive me.”
“Of course,” Greer said. He couldn’t know it was the same assumption everyone made. But the mention of Thomas suddenly darkened her mood. She looked at her watch. “I hope you’ll excuse me. Dinner’s at nine. And I need to sort through my notes from today.”
“You must not be late for one of Mahina’sumu feasts.”
“You know Mahina?”
“Ah, Doctor Farraday. Everybody knows Mahina. An extraordinary woman. Like I said, this is a very small island.”
“Well, thanks for the drink.” Greer tapped her cup to his. “And the conversation.” As she stood and slipped her backpack over her shoulders, she felt a little dizzy. A strong drink on an empty stomach after a long day—a poor combination. “I’m sure I’ll see you at the lab. And elsewhere.”
“Now, Doctor Farraday, I would just like for you to know that I am still sitting here on the wall because I am guessing that you would prefer to walk alone.”
“A fair translation,” she said.
“Next to therongorongo , everything else is easy.”
He was charming, she had to admit. And at another time, she might have wanted him to walk with her.
“I’m just in a solitary mood,” she said.
“That is allowed. But you must know this is hard for me. Chilean men are not accustomed to allowing women to walk home alone.”
Easter Island Page 11
