Edward pats her head and Alice grins. From in front of Alice’s tent, Biscuit Tin kicks at the sand; it drifts into Elsa’s oven.
“You quit that, Biscuit Tin,” Alice says. “He’s misbehaving. See? Biscuit Tin is being nothing but naughty. Go play with Pudding.”
The boy dislikes Alice’s attention drawn from him. Biscuit Tin hasn’t been allowed near the excavation, directed instead to keep watch over Pudding. “Biscuit Tin is just a child,” Alice has said, “and archaeology is for professionals. Only grown-ups are professionals.” This leaves the boy bored—even, Elsa thinks, slightly angry. He now refuses to perform his nightly dances no matter how much they beg. But like a determined sentinel, he stays with them, slumped by the side of a tent or a rock, chewing on a biscuit or a banana. Sometimes he unrolls the portrait Alice made of him, holds it up to her, a reminder of her former affection. Elsa feels sorry for the boy; his heart must be broken. “Perhaps,” she says, turning to him, “Biscuit Tin would like to come with me.”
“Fine,” says Edward without looking up. He says this flatly, his lack of concern—leprosy is, after all, a contagious disease—taking Elsa aback. She knows he trusts her judgment in risking a visit for the investigation, but has he no concerns about the boy?
“Edward, are you well?”
“Yes, fine, Elsa.”
Excavation is clearly sapping every last bit of energy from him. Perhaps he is too old for this, for digging each day beneath the hot sun. When he began in winter, the air was crisp, the days short. Now humidity blankets the island. But he will not complain, he will still not, after all this time, admit to the possibility that this work is too strenuous for him. He has even given up reclaiming their lost items in Hanga Roa. A pair of his boots and another of her Darwin volumes have disappeared, but he has simply said, “The cycle is endless, Elsa. We could do nothing but search for our belongings. Let’s concentrate our efforts on the studies.”
“Good, then,” Elsa says, handing the dinner plates to Edward and Alice and Biscuit Tin.
“You’ll take the necessary precautions?”
“Of course.”
“No physical contact. No contact with objects they’ve touched.”
“We’ll be careful,” says Elsa. “He’ll be my assistant for a change. But I won’t let him near the people.”
“Your assistant,” mumbles Alice. But there is something sharp in her tone. Some new testiness. It sounds like anger withheld, an outburst reined in.
Can Alice be angry with poor little Biscuit Tin?
At sunrise, they set out on their ponies along the southern coast. Elsa has offered her morning kisses to Edward and Alice, and has promised to be back at the campsite by dinnertime. This is Elsa’s first outing alone with the boy, and she watches him sway on his saddle, his bare legs straddling the horse, his hands clutching the reins. He has changed much since that first day he followed them from Hanga Roa—his neck, always narrow for his head, looks giraffelike since his last growth spurt, his shoulders have sharpened, as though his bones are growing too fast for his skin, and his eyes have taken on a gloss of solemnity, of something that looks, to Elsa, like wisdom. He is a playful child, but beneath it all there is a seriousness. He is an observer, a small and silent witness of the inexplicable. It strikes her that seeing him each day has let this change slip by her. He must be almost eleven now.
In Rapa Nui, she says: “You’re a good friend,poki. ”Poki is Rapa Nui for child.
He laughs. Biscuit Tin seems unusually energetic today. He balances the two-footkohau in his lap, and Elsa constantly glances over to make sure he holds it steady. This seems to make him giggle even more.
“You’ll have to wait outside, you know,” Elsa says. “The people we are going to visit have a contagious condition,aau, you know,mamae, e ?Papaku.And you don’t want to go near them. That’s why they’ve put them away from everybody else. You understand? Don’t touch anybody or anything or I will drop you in a bucket of borax.Beha! E! ” She shakes her head, dangling her tongue like a ghoul.
The boy smiles, as he always does when spoken to. Elsa has come to suspect he understands most of what is said to him, especially the admonitions in English. But for some reason he is unwilling to speak. As if there is an intelligence in him that does not want to be troubled with the facade of words.
Just past Hanga Roa, they cut inland and follow an overgrown path—nobody visits the colony. At the top of a hill sits a cluster of small huts. Silence reigns. Elsa scans the area for a rock or piece of wood on which to tether the ponies, but Biscuit Tin has already dismounted and is leading his pony to a small metal post nearby. Elsa follows. As she ties the rope and blows the sand off thekohau , she hears the fast flapping footsteps of Biscuit Tin running uphill.
“Poki! Ka noho!”
The boy looks back with an excited, innocent grin, and Elsa races after him, but not before he rolls a stone into the entranceway of one of the huts. Elsa grabs him back.
“He aha koe, poki!You must listen to me!”
But the boy’s smile persists, and he wriggles his arm free, plunges two fingers into his mouth, producing a dry, sharp whistle.
“Poki!”
Elsa is about to drag him back down the hill, when a woman’s voice calls,“Luka?”
A bony woman in a man’s coat and felt hat emerges from the darkened doorway. Her small, piercing eyes fall on Biscuit Tin. Behind her, a man appears, wrapped in a thick wool blanket, his black hair a field of cowlicks. He limps up to the woman’s side. Together they stand in front of their hut, smiling, their sides touching, and each raises an outer arm in a semicircle, so that one’s fingertips reach for the other’s, and then Biscuit Tin, several yards away, begins to spin giddily, a tornado of excitement, and as he twirls and twirls, the couple close their eyes and bring their circle tighter, their arms trembling, rapt by the embrace of their invisible dearest, Biscuit Tin, who spins wildly in the love of their imagined arms.
Of course, thinks Elsa. Of course.
Maria and Ngaara Tepano know therongorongo man, and point out his hut at the far edge of the colony. As they lead her toward this man—Kasimiro—Elsa trails several yards behind with Biscuit Tin beside her. It seems the boy wants his parents to think he has brought her, Elsa, his new friend, there to meet everybody. He points at her, nods in approval. He is showing her off.
Elsa looks at him, the pink flush of his cheeks, the brilliance of his eyes. A strange jealousy pricks her as she realizes that the boy belongs to others, that he has always wanted to be here, not at the campsite. But she must now play the complimentary teacher: “Poki . . . riva riva,” she yells to the parents. “Clever. Funny. Big help to our study.” Yards ahead, the couple turns and beams. When they arrive at Kasimiro’s hut, they gesture for her to wait outside. A moment later, Maria returns.
“Have you any tobacco?” she asks in Rapa Nui.
“Not with me,” Elsa says, angry with herself for forgetting the island’s system of gift giving. This man might hold the key to all the tablets; she needs to tread carefully. “But I can get some. I could bring it back another time.”
Maria disappears again into the hut, and when she reemerges she is guiding Kasimiro, with Ngaara on the other side. One of the man’s legs, thinner than the other, dangles lifelessly as they help him forward. Maria takes Ngaara’s wool blanket and spreads it on the grass. Kasimiro, his arm around Ngaara’s neck, allows his limp leg to collapse on the blanket, then arranges his other limbs around it. His skin is dark brown and loose. Wisps of gray hair sprout from his scalp. He looks up at Elsa, sees the tablet in Biscuit Tin’s arm.
“Ahh! Therongorongo . Of course, of course. You want to read it. That is not a problem. But I have stories, you know. Good stories.” He offers a dramatic wink. “I had two wives who both tried to kill me!” The Tepanos shake their heads. It is clear they have heard this story many times. They settle themselves on opposite sides of Kasimiro, crossing their legs, planting their palms on the ground
. There is a unison to their motions, a symmetry, as though living for so long together in seclusion they have blended into one being.
Kasimiro continues. “At first they tried to get me on their own, and then together. But I outwitted them!”
Elsa lingers several yards away, well beyond the blanket’s edge. She is unsure how she is going to manage this. If she gives him the tablet to translate, it won’t be safe to handle again. And what if he can’t really translate it? She can’t afford to sacrifice thiskohau to a charlatan. Perhaps she can hold it in front of him.
Kasimiro looks at her. “No stories?” But before she can answer, his hands are in the air. “Ahh! Fine! Luka will hold thekohau there, and you will give me paper and pen to write, and you will stand there, just above me, and make your own copy of what I write. Yes? Fine. Be very careful not to touch me.”
“I just . . .” A blush rushes to Elsa’s face.
“Mâtake,” Kasimiro pronounces, “riva riva.” And he offers her a wide, crooked grin.Fear is fine.
She signals Biscuit Tin to hold thekohau . She pulls several sheets of paper from her bag and slides them to Kasimiro, then a pen, and, as carefully as she can, she offers him a bottle of ink. As he reaches for it, she notices his fingers are twisted and curled. She flinches, but nothing in her movements seems to upset or surprise him.
He smiles again.
“Kasimiro, how long have you been here?”
“Ten years. Ten years with these crazies.” He gestures to the Tepanos, who simultaneously grin. As he begins scribbling, Elsa hovers a few feet away, her eyes straining to read. A dozen or so people come forth from the surrounding huts. They spread blankets nearby to watch. Their legs are marbled with blisters; behind a mesh of stringy brown hair, one woman’s nose has collapsed.
Elsa begins her writing. As Kasimiro scrawls, she too scrawls.He ngae-ngae te tumu i te tokerau: The trees sway in the wind. After several minutes, he says to Biscuit Tin,“Harui,” and the boy pivots the tablet so that the opposite end is now on top. With that movement, Kasimiro continues to scrawl.Eai no a te tumu toe: Are there any trees left? Every few minutes, he repeats theharui command, then falls again into the trance of writing.Ko ngaro’a ana e au e tu’u ro mai te pahi: I heard that a boat would come.
Elsa suddenly recalls a word from the recesses of her memory: boustrophedon, scripts written in alternating directions. Could therongorongo be the same?
Kasimiro continues feverishly, pausing only to look up at the tablet, or to exorcise a stubborn cough. He is the first islander to suggest a particular spatial reading of thekohau . In less than an hour, she has a copy of his translation. But her delight is tempered by the need to verify its authenticity.
“Kasimiro, I was wondering if you could also make me a dictionary. On one side therongorongo sign and on the other side the Rapa Nui word.”
He looks at her wearily. It is midday and the sun is hot. His curled fingers scratch at his chin. “This is not enough? This is no good?”
“We have dozens ofkohau, ” Elsa says. “Too many to bring them all here.”
“Aggh,” he spits out. “You must bring them here, one by one, to Kasimiro. We will all sit down for each one. Yes. All of us together with our English friend.” He flashes a smile and sweeps his arm to indicate his neighbors. “We will have tea! Yes! And tobacco!”
“Perhaps I can bring some morekohau . But it would still be best to try for some kind of key.” It seems unwise to wager her translations on his health. Still, she must promise another visit—she can see his sunken eyes beseeching. “Of course I will come back. Even just to say hello.”
But suspicion tightens his stare. “I’ll make you a key, but not today. Too hot. Come back tomorrow. We begin it then.”
“Very well,” Elsa says. What can she do? “Tomorrow.”
Biscuit Tin offers a flurry of distant good-byes, the pantomiming host of this unusual party. They ride back along the coast at a rapid trot, Elsa appraising the day’s discoveries. Finally, a translation—one brief chapter in the island’s history. The story of the land itself, of trees and birds and flowers.He ngae-ngae te tumu i te tokerau: The trees sway in the wind. Hotu Matua did find the luxuriant island of Hau Maka’s dream, but then themoai made war against the land—it is some sort of riddle. And there is more to come. The otherkohau must tell other stories because their combinations of glyphs are different. Tomorrow she will begin her key, and then she will be able to decipher therongorongo —this alone could put their expedition on the front page of theSpectator . This alone could be her very own book! No. She pushes the thought back. There is too much work to be done, too much needing verification. Still, she wants at least to share the news with Edward. They will be at the quarry.
She and Biscuit Tin cut inland toward Rano Raraku. The sun, directly above them, beats steadily. It has been weeks since Elsa has visited Edward’s site, weeks since she has allowed herself to sit amid themoai, imagining their past. Now, with this small translation, she is beginning to know them better. She suspects the tale of their creation, their transport, perhaps their demise. She cannot wait to tell Edward what fools they’ve been, wondering how the statues were moved without timber. The tablet holds the answer: There were trees on the island.
Approaching the base of the quarry, Elsa hears Alice squealing from above.
“You’ve got quite a difficult girl on your hands,” Elsa teases Biscuit Tin as they halt their horses. But the boy’s face, as he looks up at the crater’s rim, is grave.
Elsa gestures to a rock where they can tie their ponies. As they begin the climb, winding through the maze ofmoai, Biscuit Tin trailing hesitantly, she hears Edward let out a sharp shout, something like the word no. Whipping up her skirt, Elsa breaks into a run. The tall grass scratches at her legs, her feet loosen several rocks, and as she reaches the top she is nearly knocked down by a darting Alice. Elsa steadies herself and sees Edward below, his arm braced against amoai , heaving in exhaustion.
“Have you hurt yourself?”
“I’m fine,” he says, “just fine.”
“You look exhausted! Have you been running? Sit, Edward. You should really be in the shade at this hour, you know that. You can’t do this to yourself. You can’t exert yourself like this. It’s ridiculous. I’ve some fresh water down at the horse.”
“I’m fine,” he says, catching his breath.
Elsa now notices the stillness of the quarry. “Where are the workers? Please tell me you haven’t been trying to excavate alone.”
“They went back to Hanga Roa early,” he says, searching the landscape. His eyes fall on Alice, now crouching on the crater’s rim. “Please,” he calls to her.
“Alice shouldn’t be running around at this time of day, she’ll have heatstroke. You know that. Allie dear, come here and sit.”
But Alice’s head sways, her shoulders tense, and a blush spreads across her forehead.
“Allie?”
Alice stands and begins to walk down the outer side of the crater, dragging her feet, shedding whispers and snatches of sentences like petals that catch in the breeze and float back to Elsa.Beazley . . . I help . . . oh, no, too much all alone for Alice . . .
“What on earth’s upset her?” asks Elsa.
“How should I know? Maybe you startled her? You said you were going to meet us back at—”
“Why is she running off? Allie! And what on earth is wrong with you, Edward? Why are you looking at me like that? Al-ice!”Elsa stands on the rim, looking down at her sister. Alice is almost at the bottom of the hill, at the post where her pony is tied. “I’m going to get her.”
“Have you gone mad, Elsa?” Edward asks, his face red and belligerent. “For goodness’ sake, you’ve just come from a leper colony. Go disinfect yourself!” Something violent has risen in his tone. “Go!” he says, and then he, too, strides away, down the hill, without looking back, after Alice.
18
In May of 1968 Thomas and Greer packed up their Mad
ison apartment, their lab, said good-bye to their friends and colleagues, and moved to Massachusetts. Harvard had given Thomas the Asa Gray Chair in the Department of Biology. But he still wanted to teach the same intro lecture he’d taught at Wisconsin, believing ardently in the need, and his own unique ability, to free students of scientific romanticism. He still sliced open the section of strangler fig in the second week of class and gave the speech Greer could recite in her sleep.(Nature isn’t always beautiful . . . ) His Magnolia Project was now known worldwide, and Harvard was paying good money for his scientific celebrity. He and Greer bought a duplex in Cambridge, walking distance to his lab, and a house in Marblehead, where they spent weekends, holidays, and summers when they could. But true vacations were rare for them. Work was too much a part of their life, so they assembled a makeshift lab in the basement of their house, with a refrigerator, centrifuge, microscope, and acids. Greer, who had been given only a research assistantship, found most of her work could be done there. She preferred this to the university’s cold halls and the endless buzz around Thomas’s new lab.Professor Farraday, I’d love to hear about the conference in ’fifty-three, what it was like to pioneer this field. Professor, I remember reading about your work when I was an undergraduate. I never dreamed I’d meet you, let alone work for you. Thomas’s celebrity generated an anxious energy in the lab, the new post-docs and grad students competing for his attention. The camaraderie of Madison had vanished, so when Thomas drove back to Cambridge, Greer often stayed in Marblehead to work.
Jo had taken a research assistantship at the University of Minnesota (It’s not Cuba,she wrote,but at least it’s far from Madison ), but Bruce Hodges had moved east with them, installed as an assistant professor and research partner in Thomas’s lab. Bruce was thrilled to be back at Harvard, where many of his old friends had settled.
Greer missed Jo, and felt, at times, a sense of abandonment in Jo’s disappearance from her life. She had few friends in the new department. There were no women, and the men primarily saw her as a conduit to Thomas, hoping she’d put in a good word. Her only pal was Constance McAllister, a marine biology post-doc whom she’d met one day in the ladies’ room. They developed a nice hallway friendship, arranging a few coffee breaks in the lounge, leaving each other jokes taped to the bathroom mirror—If you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the precipitate, or:How many evolutionists does it take to screw in a lightbulb? One, but it takes six million years. Constance was from Boston, however, and spent most of her free time with her mother and the eccentric aunt for whom she’d been named. Or else she disappeared to Woods Hole for weeks at a time, allowing little opportunity to take the friendship further.
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