“Splendid!” said Sven. “Or, as they say in Spanish,espléndido. ”
“There!” announced Burke-Jones, and when Greer looked over, she saw on the table before him a miniature tepee of straws and toothpicks.
“Masterly, my friend!” said Sven, clapping him on the back. “Ah, look, here comes Don Juan.” Sven closed his eyes, tipped his chin to the moon, and began to hum “Che gelida manina.”
An old man was walking by. He was narrow-shouldered, and the cuffs of his sweater had been rolled thickly to his wrists. He bent forward slightly, which gave him a look of pensiveness. Almost certainly this was the man she’d seen leaving the plate by the cave.
“Who is that?” asked Greer.
“Luka Tepano,” answered Vicente.
“That,” said Sven, “is Don Juan.”
“Luka is the devoted caretaker of the island’s hermit.”
“Okay,” said Sven. “Lancelot.”
“The old woman in the cave?” asked Greer.
“Guinevere,” said Sven. “Further along in life.”
“You’ve been exploring!” said Vicente. “Yes. Ana has lived in that cave as far back as anyone can remember. The islanders say she is one of the forgotten Neru virgins—the girls who were confined in caves to become pale for religious festivals. Specially appointed women pushed food into the cave. When the enslaved islanders were returned by the Peruvians, they brought smallpox. Eighty percent of the population died within weeks. The Neru virgins did not know what had happened. The women who brought the food died, and the girls died of starvation.”
“But this was in . . . ?”
“Eighteen seventy-seven.”
“She can’t be that old,” said Greer.
“Don’t forget,” said Sven, smiling, “shehas been keeping out of the sun.”
“She’s British,” said Burke-Jones.
“Yes,” said Vicente. “Some Rapa Nui believe she is British. Some say German even, left here by the fleet. Some believe she is atatane —the spirits that live in the caves. Of course, since ancient times the caves were homes for the islanders. There is also a long tradition of eccentrics and prophets living apart from the village.”
“What,” said Greer, pulling her notebook from her bag and searching for the page where she’d written about the old woman, “doesvai kava nehe nehe mean? That’s Rapa Nui?”
“Yes,” said Vicente, “it means ‘beautiful ocean.’ ”
“Oh.” This didn’t reveal much. “And the man? He brings her food?”
“Luka takes care of her. Some say he is her son. That he was born out of wedlock and she was sent in shame by her family to live away from the village. We have many incidents here of shameful unions, children separated from their parents. So many people are related, it makes courtship difficult.”
“Luka’s in love with her,” said Sven.
“Sven, you see, has a fondness for older women. And therefore believes all men do.”
“How many are still used?” asked Greer. “Caves, I mean.”
“Difficult to say,” said Vicente. “Many are extremely well hidden. Many, I think, have never been explored. But Ana’s is the only inhabited one we know of right now. The caves, you realize, can be quite dangerous. There are scorpions and black widow spiders. You must be very careful. If you go inside, leave a piece of clothing by the entrance so that people can find you.”
“If the islanders lived in them there are probably traces of their food, their garbage. There might be fossils in them.”
“Bones,” said Sven. “Piles of bones. Human bones. Men, women, children.”
“Doctor Farraday needs plant fossils, Sven. Her main focus is pollen.”
“That’s my specialty.”
Sven took a sip of his drink. “And for your husband too?”
“Yes,” said Greer.
Something in the pause that followed told her they had spoken of this, her husband, earlier.
“I’d like to again give my apologies for not knowing the situation,” said Vicente. “It is hard for us here to keep track of what is happening in the real world. My regrets.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“Yes,” said Sven, “a devastating piece of news.”
“For him, especially,” said Greer, and as soon as she’d said this she realized they hadn’t been talking about Thomas’s disgrace. They’d simply been offering condolences about his death. Perhaps none of them recalled the details of the scandal. People outside palynology rarely did. They remembered only that the eminent Thomas Farraday had been dismissed from Harvard for something involving data, and their only real curiosity, the question asked of her too many times, was, simply: DidGreer know?
“I should get back,” Greer said, rising. Vicente and Sven stood; Burke-Jones removed his glasses, wiped them clean with a handkerchief, put them on again, and examined his tepee.
“So soon?” Vicente asked.
“I need a shower and a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow is another day in the field. And the next day. And the day after that.”
“Please let us know how your research goes,” said Vicente. “As I said, we must help each other whenever we can. All of our work is interconnected. We mustn’t forget that. We will see you around.” He touched her elbow and whispered, “So, the iris? It really means nothing?”
“It could mean a great deal,” she said. “To the right person.”
“Ah, I will consider that. Well, good night, Doctor Farraday.”
“Good night,” she said, lifting her backpack.
It was a short walk to theresidencial. The streets were quiet, the small blue and white cement buildings, separated by trenches of shadow, tucked in for the night. The only sound was the soft flap of Greer’s sandals against the street. Then, from one of the houses, came a young couple, islanders, their arms linked. The girl stroked a white shell necklace as she spoke, and the boy listened intently. They looked blissful, Greer thought. Trusting. They smiled as Greer passed.
Back at Ao Popohanga, Mahina was at her desk in the main office, making notes in a ledger book.
“Buenas noches, Doctora!How was your work? Ramon said you were happy with your piece.”
It was hard to imagine Ramon saying much to anyone. “Yes,” said Greer. “I took a good core, I think.”
“You work all day at Rano Aroi, he says. Very near you was Terevaka. The most high point on the island. Someday, you take the time to go there. I will bring you to see. But now you have more work,Doctora. You have been given many, many books!” From behind the desk, Mahina pulled a stack of worn texts.
“For me?”
“Yes, yes. From Señor Portales.”
“Thank you.” Greer felt her spirits lighten. Work—good. Perhaps she wasn’t yet ready for sleep. A little reading before she drifted off would remind her it wasn’t all physical labor ahead. “Many thanks, Mahina.”
“I have books too, you see.” Mahina pointed above her to a glass-doored bookcase with a shelf of old leather volumes. The lettering on their spines had faded. “If you need, for the research, you ask. They come from my father.”
“Thank you. Well, good night, then.”
Back in her room, Greer took a long, hot shower and settled herself in bed, buttressed by a semicircle of texts: Roggeveen’s journal, translated into English; a hand-bound copy of Captain Cook’s log; Jean-François de Galaup, Comte de La Pérouse’sVoyage Round the World ; the document in which Don Felipe González y Haedo declared the island a territory of Spain; Pierre Loti’s travel records; the diary of Paymaster Thomson of the USSMohican. A sheet of paper had been inserted in Roggeveen’s book:
You will, I think, find some helpful passages buried in these. You may now converse with all the early visitors, except the British who went missing with their journals and can be of no help. Do you speak French and Spanish? I should have asked. I can translate Loti and La Pérouse and González if it would be of help.
Vicente
Well,
she thought as she propped the lumpy pillows against the headboard, Vicente certainly was kind. But there was something odd in him not mentioning the books earlier in front of the others, as though it were a private matter.
A cool draft billowed the curtain, and Greer pulled the quilt tightly to her chest. She thumbed through Jacob Roggeveen’s expedition log, which detailed everything from his first sighting of the island to his departure. He had come upon Rapa Nui in 1722 on a mission for the Dutch East India Company. It was Easter Day, and from his ship Roggeveen at first thought the island composed entirely of sand:
. . . we mistook the parched-up grass, and hay or other scorched and charred brushwood for a soil of that arid nature, because from its outward appearance it suggested no other idea than that of an extraordinarily sparse and meager vegetation.
Nothing more, however, in Roggeveen’s log mentioned the landscape. But this was useful: parched-up grass, sparse and meager vegetation. An island so barren it was thought covered by sand. It meant that in 1722 the island hosted little more flora than it did at present. Any mass extinction must have happened before he arrived.
Greer read on, and another section drew her attention:
During the forenoon Captain Bouman brought an Easter Islander on board, together with his craft, in which he had come off close to the ship from the land; he was quite nude, without the slightest covering for that which modesty shrinks from revealing. This hapless creature seemed to be very glad to behold us, and showed the greatest wonder at the build of our ship. He took special notice of the tautness of our spars, the stoutness of our rigging and running gear, the sails, the guns—which he felt all over with minute attention—and with everything else that he saw. . . .
A great many canoes came off to the ships; these people showed us at that time their great cupidity for every thing they saw; and were so daring that they took the seamen’s hats and caps from off their heads, and sprang overboard with the spoil; for they are surpassingly good swimmers as would seem from the great numbers of them who came swimming off from the shore to the ships. . . .
As to their seagoing craft, they are of poor and flimsy construction; for their canoes are fitted together of a number of small boards and light frames, which they skillfully lace together with very fine laid twine. . . . But as they lack the knowledge, and especially the material, for caulking the great number of seams for their canoes, and making them tight, they consequently leak a great deal.
In the morning we proceeded with three boats and two shallops, manned by 134 persons, all armed with musket, pistols, and cutlass . . . we proceeded in open order, but keeping well together, and clambered over the rocks, which are very numerous on the sea margin, as far as the level land or flat, making signs with the hand that the natives, who pressed round us in great numbers, should stand out of our way and make room for us . . . we marched forward a little, to make room for some of our people who were behind, that they might fall in with the ranks, who were accordingly halted to allow the hindmost to come up, when, quite unexpectedly and to our great astonishment, four or five shots were heard in our rear, together with a vigorous shout of “’t is tyd, ’t is tyd, geeft vuur” [It’s time, it’s time, fire!].On this, as in a moment, more than thirty shots were fired, and the Indians, being thereby amazed and scared, took to flight, leaving 10 or 12 dead, besides the wounded. . . .
Roggeveen, it seemed, had no further explanation for the violence.
Greer closed the book and set it down. How often in the history of the world, she wondered, had the same story unfolded? An armed exploring party goes ashore and opens fire. Themoai, therongorongo, the floral extinction: None of it really mattered. Easter Island was like every other landmass in the world—when after centuries of isolation it met the rest of the world, the world struck it down. But what could be done? Wasn’t all prehistory and history—speciation, human migration, exploration—just an elaborate game of musical chairs? A border was crossed, a colony taken, an island explored. A snake stowing away on flotsam made it to a new shore, a breadfruit tree in the arms of a naturalist crossed the ocean, a prehistoric mammoth traversed a continental land bridge. The music played, positions changed, and in the end, a chair was taken away. A resource was removed and somebody was left standing. Extinction, genocide, survival of the fittest. Someone always had to leave the game.
Greer felt a familiar gloominess coming over her. She usually shook it away with a walk on the beach or a trip to the movies, but now she had to try to sleep it off. She shoved the books to the foot of the bed, turned off the light, and closed her eyes. The sounds of the night—moth wings batting her window, laughter from somewhere down the street—intensified. Turning onto her stomach, Greer held one of the pillows over her head to muffle the sounds, but still her mind prowled.
She directed her thoughts to Roggeveen and retraced his narrative. With what had the islanders constructed their canoes? What had been the effect of the exchange of goods on the isolated population? Would a population capable of building and transporting giant statues “lack” the knowledge of caulking a canoe? What was the psychological effect of the violence of Roggeveen’s men?
A rustling of leaves from the courtyard distracted her, and once more Greer turned over, adjusted the quilt, and settled on her side with the pillow held against her ear. For the past few months, it was either insomnia or utter exhaustion. And after a day in the crater and drinks with the researchers, she should have been exhausted.
She began whispering the families in Urticales.
Urticaceae, nettle.Urtica dioica, stinging nettle.Boehmeria nivea, China grass.
Ulmaceae, elm.Ulmus americana. Ulmus parvifolia. Ulmus rubra. Ulmus alata. Ulmus procera.
Moraceae, mulberry . . .
Mulberry. Greer stopped. Mulberry included the famous strangler fig of the Amazonian rain forest. As a small sprout, it would climb the trunk of a nearby tree, leeching water and minerals from the bark, struggling to reach sunlight. Once the roots of the fig took hold, they thickened and hardened, grew branches and leaves, enmeshing the host tree, strangling it to death. In the end, the fig looked monstrous—bulbous, contorted—its roots fused like tumors onto its lifeless host. If you cut through the trunk, which Thomas had done in the front of his classroom the first time she’d ever seen one, you could see the victim within.
“And there it is. Nature isn’t always beautiful,” Thomas had announced as he pointed to a cross section of tangled roots. His eyes scanned the class. “One must never romanticize the natural world. What’s important is to see it clearly, to see what’s there, not what you would like to see. Plants have no inherent beauty, no inherent innocence. TheArtemisia absinthium releases poison from its leaves—one rainfall and all other neighboring plants are dead. This is neither an act of goodness nor of evil. It’s simply a mechanism developed by a particular organism to ensure its survival. The world’s largest flower is produced byRafflesia arnoldii, a parasitic plant of the Malay Archipelago. It lives inside climbing vines, then breaks through the bark of the host, expanding into a twenty-pound, three-foot flower that smells, quite unbeautifully, like rotting flesh. This is and will always be the difference between botanists and the rest of the populace, and you must remember it—we will look at a plant and we will see a complex narrative of need and fulfillment, of adaptation and mutation. Everybody else—your parents, your friends, your roommates—will see just something colorful. Something for the garden or a window box. They will see something that their dear benevolent Judeo-Christian God placed before them for their delight.”
Thomas had perfected the pragmatic-scientist role, and liked to make a strong impression on first-year botany students. But Greer, when she watched him that day, didn’t yet understand the drama of it, of him. He simply seemed an impossible cynic, a man who had looked in microscopes so long he could no longer see the beauty of the natural world. Never, she told herself, would she become like him: a hardened scientist. But something in his cynicism had cha
llenged her, made her want to show him the world was, in fact, beautiful. And the day after the lecture, in a gesture that began their courtship, she slipped beneath his office door a passage from Whitman’sSong of Myself, a poem she had always loved.
As she lay in bed, what Thomas said about the strangler fig now struck Greer as eerie. She’d heard him say it a dozen times, he said it to every intro class he’d taught while they were married. It was his favorite speech. But she’d never imagined his beliefs went beyond the natural world, that they could seep into his life, their marriage.
Greer felt a strange sickness rise in her stomach. She threw the covers back and stepped out of bed. On the desk sat the small seed stranded in its liquid universe. Eight years. She shouldn’t have brought it here.
She slipped on her sandals, pulled a skirt over her nightdress, then grabbed a flashlight and left her room. The porch was silent, but as she moved quietly across the courtyard, she noticed, among the foliage, a flash of white: There, before the Virgin Mary statue, Mahina was kneeling in prayer. Her eyes were closed, her hands clasping what seemed to be a photograph.
This was where Mahina found peace. Prayer was how people made sense of the past. But Greer belonged to no church, no faith, and on nights like this, when she couldn’t sleep, she was simply left with a sense of aloneness.
Greer tugged open the door to the main building, and walked into the night toward the lab.
10
In the shadow of the ancient Polynesians, the Germans made their way across the Pacific: Eniwetok, Fanning Island, Samoa, Bora Bora, Tahiti.
They took coal where they could, feeding the ships’ bunkers at anchor beneath the blazing sun. At night, they lived in the pitch black of their cruisers—a single lantern could reveal them to a passing boat. Without activity or diversion, they were left only to thoughts of those who pursued them.
The ships of the British and French navies far outnumbered theirs; and the Allies had endless secure harbors for provisioning. With Japan now in the war, the odds against them became impossible.
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