The quay extended quite far out into the bay; when the tide was in, the water was deep there and a large proa could moor. There was a strong current.
But the Garden was deserted. The old house stood empty and locked; around the bars of the gate hung a chain with a padlock, and thorny branches had been pulled through them. None of these precautions was necessary, no one would think of entering the Garden; no proa would moor at the quay. Oh no!
Who would want to meet the commissioner who walked there, day and night, through the house, through the Garden, and at times stood on the quay—with his back turned toward the bay?
He had once been a commissioner, administrator of one of the very small islands near Dobo, where the pearl fishers are. He was supposed to have been very rich, but he had a bad name. Had he swindled, had he blackmailed, had he been a usurer? Nobody knew exactly.
The first time he came alone. He bought the Garden at the outer bay and had the old house renovated: all the doors and blinds were fixed, and especially all the locks. He had bars put in front of all the windows except those in the “Sunday room”—did he not want to spoil that room? It had heavy blinds anyway. He also had a lock and chain put on the gate.
Having seen to all that, he went back to Dobo for his possessions: furniture, old china, the women, money, and the pearls.
When his boat docked at the island, the commissioner had everything taken to the house immediately. The coolies who carried the heavy furniture wrapped in mats, the crates and the trunks, didn’t have to help unpack, they could leave right away. Thus they had not been able to see a thing, only that there were four women: three old and ugly ones and one young slender one, but she had a dark veil around her face.
The gate was locked behind the coolies; and after that no one was ever allowed into the Garden. And no one of its inhabitants ever went into town or even outside the gate.
No one except the old woman who did the errands—she carried everything herself, paid cash, and never talked. When she ordered heavy things such as cans of kerosene or sacks of charcoal, they had to be delivered at the gate at a certain time and the three old women dragged them into the house themselves.
And yet it was told in the town—by whom?—who lived in the house, how the rooms looked inside, and what went on there.
In the Sunday room stood carved black furniture dating from the rule of the Portuguese. A bench, a bench so wide and long that a man could sleep on it, two chairs with low arm rests, a table, a chest. A black chest with sculptured garlands and silver locks; when it was opened a little bell sounded: ping-ping.
And on the black-and-white marble floor stood old earthenware jugs, the kind the Chinese once used on their junks to hold salt and dried fish and such: some brown ones, and a very rare green one with lion heads, the mouths gaping and rattan rope run through them as it should be.
It was also told what pearls the commissioner owned:
A string of eighty white pearls.
A large pear-shaped one, on a chain; the pearl was neither black nor white but steel-colored, with a faint hue of mother-of-pearl—a solitaire.
And then two earrings, two round pink pearls, exactly alike and without blemish, pearl twins.
The three old women, the witches, did the work and had to guard the young woman.
The young woman was the mistress of the commissioner. She was a beauty, she might even have been Arabic (the most beautiful women in the world are from Araby) and wore a green and red iridescent silk sarong, and a dark-green brocade jacket stiff with gold embroidery; she would use kohl to make tired blue shadows around her eyes, she would have a delicate bent nose, just a bit too small, and a mouth like a red flower, a bit too big.
And her skin would be dark, a warm dull very deep dark.
When she was wearing the pearls, never all of them at once, perhaps the white string around her neck, or the gray shiny pearl on her forehead, hanging between the two black arches of her eyebrows—what could be more beautiful?
She seldom went outdoors—she usually stayed in the Sunday room—but when the moon was shining, when it was high tide, the two lovers sat together on the quay over the water: the woman on the steps at the end of it, bent over and holding the pearls down in the water, and then up in the moonlight: sea water and moonlight are good for pearls—and the man looked at her . . .
Thus it was told—by whom? by whom?
And early one morning the commissioner was found at the outer bay, drowned, washed ashore not far from the Garden.
He was dressed in white cotton pajamas, sandals on his feet.
The commissioner had drowned!
How did he drown? drowned—oh no, murdered! of course he was murdered, because of the pearls!
Policemen came to the house; they had to break the lock on the gate. The house was locked up too, they walked around it and knocked and called “open up! open up immediately!” The women came to the barred window and said that they couldn’t open since they had no keys—but why, what had happened?
When they heard that the commissioner was drowned they raised their arms toward heaven and cried, “Allah, have mercy on us! Allah, have mercy on us!”
Another lock was forced and the women were let out and taken to the town. A policeman and a police officer remained behind and searched the whole house.
Every chest, every drawer was locked: everything had to be opened with pass keys. When they opened the ebony chest it made a soft ping-ping, and in a drawer, itself locked, they found the pearls; and they were as it had been told—by whom?—a white string, a gray solitaire, and two pink ones.
They also found a lot of money and papers. Most of the commissioner’s capital was still in Dobo, lent at a usurious rate and managed by a Chinese. The papers showed that.
The four women were kept in the town and cross-examined. The young woman was no Arab, she was a halfcaste Chinese. She was not very beautiful—but very slim and pale. A rather shy, pale young woman.
She came from a shopkeeper’s family on Dobo; her father was a Chinese, her mother a Papuan from the coast, where there is much mixed blood. The three old women were aunts on her mother’s side.
She had been really and legally married to the commissioner, and she would inherit everything since there were no children.
At first the women barely answered the questions put to them, watchfully, suspiciously: a hesitant yes, or no, or perhaps, I don’t know—they didn’t know much.
“Who was this commissioner?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where is he from?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you know him long before your marriage?”
“No, not long.”
“Where did he earn all that money?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where did he acquire those antiques?”
“I don’t know.”
“And the pearls?”
“I don’t know either.”
“Did you like them? Did you wear them often?”
Then the young woman suddenly began to stutter, and blushed with fright.
“Me, wear the pearls! no, never! I’ve never seen them.”
“You’ve never seen them?”
“No.”
“Oh, come on now!”
“No, really not.”
“But pearls must be worn, mustn’t they?”
“I don’t know, they say so—”
All four of them called him “the commissioner,” the young woman as well.
“The commissioner often brought a bucketful of sea water to the house, to bathe the pearls in. Sea water is good for pearls, but I’ve never seen them.”
“Well, in that case how do you know he bathed them?”
“I don’t, I thought he did, perhaps.”
“Where did he keep the pearls?”
“They were locked away in a drawer of the black chest.”
“Did he take them out often?”
“Yes.”
/> “Were you there when he did?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know?”
“When the commissioner opened the black chest there was a little bell.”
“But how do you know he took the pearls out?”
“I don’t—I thought, perhaps?”
Slowly they began to talk more freely, and all four of them said more or less the same thing: everything was under lock and key and the commissioner had the keys, of the drawers, the chests, the rooms—a fat bunch on a key ring. They were not allowed to see anything.
He was always walking about and watching. When evening fell it was worst: he went once to see whether the gate was properly closed, and then later once more, and whether there were no holes in the thorny hedge, he inspected the bushes, went two or three times around the house, checked every room, especially the Sunday room, and locked all the doors again. Locked the four women up in the house. Before it was dark he walked to the quay—from there he had a good view of the house, up the lane—and stood with his back turned toward the bay, and watched until it became too dark. Only then did he go in. Sometimes he went on walking around the house after dark, even when it rained.
“Why did he do that, was he afraid of thieves?”
“Yes, no, I don’t know.”
And then the four women, each in her turn, became shy and shifted in her chair and said with eyes turned downward, “the commissioner was jealous, very jealous, of—of everything, but especially of the pearls, that’s why he did that.”
“What else did he do? did he drink much?”
“No, not much.”
“Was he never very drunk?”
“No, he couldn’t, he had to watch.”
“Did he ever maltreat you?”
“No—”
“Were you afraid of him?”
Again they hesitated, the young woman, the three old women, and then said softly and ashamedly, “yes, perhaps—”
It all made a good impression; they did not contradict one another and seemed all four rather timid frightened women who would do no harm.
“Tell us exactly what you did that day.”
And they related what they had done—what they always did, every day. The three old women worked: one had been to town for the marketing, one had cleaned the house and after that started on the laundry, one had swept the garden. Then they had all together started on dinner. And the young woman had knitted, she was always knitting.
“Did she never go outside?”
“No, yes, at times.”
In the afternoon when the work was done, when the sun had lost some of its strength, they might go down to the beach to get some air, all four of them.
“Would the commissioner go too?”
“Yes, we were never allowed out of the house alone.”
“Had you been on the beach that day?”
“No, yes, that day too.”
“With the commissioner?”
“Yes, with the commissioner.”
“And did you then go back in, and he locked the doors?”
“Yes, certainly the commissioner locked the doors.”
“How was he dressed?”
“In a white pajama and sandals.”
“Did he often dress like that?”
“Yes, we never went out and we never had visitors either.”
“Weren’t you worried when he didn’t come back in the evening?”
“No, the commissioner often stayed outside.”
“Did he walk around the house?”
“Perhaps.”
“Then you didn’t hear anything?”
“No.”
“Nor later in the night, calling, or something like that?”
“No.”
All four of them: their voices did sound hesitant but it fitted. And the autopsy did not show anything which contradicted their statements.
A man in his full strength, without any signs of violence on his body—the fishes had been eating away at him, and there was water in his lungs: just drowned.
The four women were questioned separately once again.
“Could the commissioner swim?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did he never take a sea bath?”
“Yes, sometimes, but he did not go out far—there are sharks there.”
“Did you ever bathe in the sea?”
Here each of the women hesitated a second, it was hardly noticeable.
“No, or yes, once in a while, once or twice we bathed.”
“Together with the commissioner?”
“No, never together. When we bathed he stayed ashore and watched.”
“Did you bathe recently?”
“No—”
“Not on that day?”
“Oh no, not that day! Before, long before.”
“Do you think he could have committed suicide?”
The women looked frightened again and said, perhaps, but they did not think—
It all fitted, except that the keys had not been found—the heavy bunch of keys which they had mentioned—not on the drowned man, nor in the garden nor on the quay nor on the beach at low tide. Had he been holding them in his hand when he fell? Had they slipped out of his pocket when he drowned?
The women were astonished and uneasy.
“But we told you that the keys are lost!” the police officer said.
It was not clear to them, and that “not clear” sounded even more uncertain than “I don’t know” and “perhaps.”
They were dismissed.
They took a room in a small hotel in the Chinese quarter; they were not going to spend even one night in the house!
Once they had to go back for their clothes. They asked for a policeman to come along, they were too frightened, they said.
Later the money, the papers and the pearls were handed over to the young woman. She looked as if she didn’t know quite what to do with them, and she hesitantly made a cross on the receipt; the three old women all made crosses too; and they signed another form, the young woman had asked for that herself, an authorization to sell everything in the house. She did not want to keep any of it. And the Garden and the house were going to be put up for sale too.
The furniture, the ebony chest with the silver locks, the old china were all sold by auction; no one wanted to buy the house, or even rent it!
And on the first packet boat the four women left for Dobo.
Early in the morning they went on board. The young woman was dressed in a red-and-blue sarong and white jacket with lace, and walked in velvet slippers. A dark gauze veil over her hair, which was pulled back in a tight knot, her face heavily powdered but not veiled. In one hand she carried a parasol of oiled paper—she wanted to keep her white complexion—and in the other her black satin pocketbook with fringe.
The pocketbook had two compartments with two silver rings which could be pushed out from the middle to close them. In one was her money and keys, a white handkerchief, a green bottle of cologne against seasickness and a roll of peppermints. In the other half the tickets, all the papers, and the pearls: the white string, the solitaire, and the pink twins in an old pill box filled with cotton wool.
She would not wear the pearls but she did wear her new gold jewelry, hairpins, English sovereigns for buttons on her jacket, rings on her fingers and heavy snake bracelets around her slender wrists. She liked gold much better than pearls, and she was rich now. One of the old women carried her gold and silver box—for betel leaves—and her small spittoon of silver.
The four women did not look so shy and downcast any more, they were excited about the voyage they were going to make and looked at everything, nudged one another, and laughed behind their hands.
Thus they left for Dobo and no one ever saw them again.
No, no, don’t believe it! there’s not a word of truth in it—it’s all lies!
The commissioner was murdered, murdered by his wife and the three old witches.
That
afternoon when they were walking on the beach together and paddling in the sea, just paddling, and he was standing ashore watching, she called him, she had walked too far into the sea—it was high tide—her sarong had got all wet, and suddenly she had stepped on something sharp, or a fish had stung her!
“Oh, oh, help me!”
She called him—she had hurt herself so terribly, her foot bled so—she called loudly over the wind and the waves, and in her fright she even went in farther and almost fell.
The man ran out to her as he was, in his sandals, very startled, and when he was near her and bent over to look at her foot she clung to him, learning as far as possible over his back, and screamed and screamed.
The wind and the water rushed so loudly in his ears, and her sharp screaming voice, so that he became dizzy and lost his balance for a moment and fell. She fell with him, on top of him. Behind her the three old women were waiting and the four of them held him under water—not even so very long—pushed him toward the quay, the deep place where the current was strong.
Then all four went to change, rinsed their wet clothes in fresh water, and locked themselves up in the house. They had taken his key ring and buried it in the garden; the one key with which they had locked themselves up they hid in the house, under the floor.
No, no! don’t believe that, it isn’t true, it can’t be true! He was a strong man, how could four women—
Old women can be tough and strong, perhaps they had given him something to drink beforehand to make him drowsy and dizzy, every bibi has potions like that for sale.
Perhaps they had not even planned it beforehand, but when it all went so easily—
Why had they done it, for the pearls?
Perhaps.
Or perhaps because they were afraid of him?
Nobody knows.
But the commissioner has come back to the Garden—that is certain, everybody knows that.
And now everything in the small garden at the outer bay, the leaves of the spice trees, the cool wind from the bay around the old house, the waves of the surf, are whispering—whispering—
Keep the house locked, close the doors and the blinds and the windows. No one shall live there. Let it crumble away slowly.
The Ten Thousand Things Page 12
