At one moment they were driving through the open countryside, or what was left of it, then suddenly they were on a narrow, rutted, slightly raised track that ran past thousands of makeshift dwellings. These pitiful cabins were crammed up against each side of the roadway, desperate assemblies of temporary materials: canvas or tarpaulin shrouds, corrugated sheets of rusting metal, old planks, concrete slabs, vehicle tyres, pieces of broken branches. Anything, in fact, which could be found somewhere and dragged into use to build an improvised dwelling. Now there were hundreds, thousands of people in sight, and the bus filled with the stink of sewage, unwashed bodies, filthy materials, muddy ground, drifting smoke, animal droppings. The noise from outside – a kind of roar of rushing but unseen machinery, recorded music, things being struck or scraped or dragged, but above all loud voices trying to make themselves heard over the racket – entered the bus through the open windows, drowning the sound of the engine.
Both Tallant and the woman missionary were now staring out through the windows of the vehicle, half in fascination but also half in trepidation, because the shanty town appeared to be in a permanent state of imminent upheaval, with a likely outbreak of violence. Tallant realized that he had reflexively pressed the sleeve of his shirt over his nostrils as a kind of filter. He lowered his arm.
The passage of the bus, which because of the state of the road the driver had had to slow almost to walking pace, was a matter of intense interest and curiosity to the people of the shanties. Dozens of small children ran perilously close to the sides of the bus, stretching up their hands, shouting, begging insistently for food or money or cigarettes. Ahead of the bus, Tallant could see that two or three groups of men were forming in the road, as if to impede it. As the vehicle approached these groups moved to the side, so there was no real sense of threat about what might happen, but even so Tallant felt himself stiff with apprehension. He had starting taking photographs as soon as they entered the vast settlement, but he quickly realized that he was drawing attention to himself by doing this. He hid the camera on his lap, below the level of the window. He took only a few more shots, and then at intervals.
The missionary had also laid her scripture in her lap and for once was looking outward into the world. She too was obviously overawed by the sight of the immense slum. It stretched away interminably into the haze, no limit to its extent visible on either side.
The bus ground on, sometimes having to halt temporarily, reversing or manoeuvring from the main track. Once they were forced into a difficult diversion away from the main route and one that led between several of the shacks into a muddy stretch of rough ground. Here the bus almost became stranded. The strenuous efforts of the driver to extricate the vehicle drew a crowd of watchers as the bus lurched perilously from one water-filled pothole to the next, the spinning tyres throwing up sheets of brown and stinking spray.
Tallant had not realized until now that this settlement existed. His knowledge of Prachous hitherto was of the comfortable, prosperous towns that were built along the coasts, or close to the mountains, with no suggestion that anywhere on the island would there be a slum settlement of this appalling size and condition. He had, in fact, never seen anything like it on any of the other islands he had visited. He had been to only a few but temporary shanty towns were out of place in the archipelago, a realm of almost unlimited habitable space and untroubled living. He also wondered who these displaced people might be – how had they come to this island, the one place in the archipelago where the shelterate laws were rigidly enforced and were used as an absolute bar to entry? He himself had found it almost impossible not only to gain entry to the island, but to obtain his work permit for his relatively short stay. The conditions of his visit were difficult, and included having to register with the seigniorial police in every town he went to.
These were his memories.
Were the people of the shanty native Prachoits, or had they come to the island as immigrants? How had they passed through the border controls?
After their forced detour from the main track the driver increased speed, but even so they were still travelling barely faster than before.
Once, Tallant at last caught sight of the sea, or at least the silvery glistening of a reflected sky, away to the east of their route. Knowing that he was being taken towards the coast he wondered if this glimpse signalled an imminent end to the long journey. He silently willed the driver to steer towards it. Instead the bus ploughed on through the interminable spread of slum dwellings. Soon the distant sight of the sea was obscured by the buildings and irregularities in the land.
After some three hours the road widened slightly and the sheer pressure of the crowds of makeshift buildings began to ease. Not long afterwards the shanty town was behind them and the bus was once again driving at normal speed through farmland. Tallant was obsessed with the hope that this travelling might soon be at an end. However, there was a third night to come.
4
The place was a hotel, or so it was styled on a painted sign attached to the outer wall, but the front of the building was used as an open bar. When the bus arrived the sun had set and the area of levelled ground at the front was crowded with drinkers. Low floodlights covered the yard, but the illumination was fitful and not bright. Large winged insects swarmed around the lamps. There were tables and chairs but most of the drinkers were standing. The driver steered the bus in from the road and drove to one side to park, forcing a way past several groups of people.
Once inside the building, Tallant, the driver and the missionary woman were all allocated separate rooms and then offered a meal. The table was on an open verandah at the side of the building. An electric ceiling fan turned above them. Tallant ate slowly because he did not feel hungry, but he drank two glasses of beer from the bar. It was served so cold that his fingers almost stuck to the sides of the glass. Condensation ran into a pool on the table top, but soon evaporated in the warm air. The missionary, drinking water, said nothing, but he felt she disapproved of everything about him. Later, the driver went off by himself to drink at the bar. Tallant and the woman sat together at the table where they had eaten, but neither of them spoke. The woman, as was her custom, simply stared away from him with a vacant expression.
He sat through it, feeling that he was being adversely judged, that he was not living up to some moral or religious standard the woman adhered to rigidly, but he was determined to finish his beer and perhaps drink another.
The night was still and humid, but insects rasped on all sides. There was no wind and the thick smell of alcohol and tobacco smoke hovered around them as if in a closed room – the ceiling fan moved but did not clear the air. In the distance, far away towards the horizon, the sky was lit up by the glare from the shanty town, not so far away as he had thought. Tallant made a couple of attempts to start a conversation, but the woman cut him dead each time.
He finished his beer. In a final effort he said to her, ‘Why do you never speak to me?’
She turned to regard him and looked straight into his eyes. After a long pause she said, ‘Because you have not yet done or said anything that interests me in the least.’
‘You never react! You don’t seem to care about anything I say!’
‘Then we agree.’
‘What could I do that might in fact interest you?’
‘I should like to know your name. That would change things. And you have not asked me mine.’
‘My name is Tomak. Tomak Tallant.’
‘You are not a Prachoit, then.’
‘No. Are you?’
‘I am liberated from nationality. I live only for the Word, which I spread.’
‘That doesn’t tell me your name.’
‘I am a Spreader of the Word. That is all you need to know.’
Tallant stood up, having decided just then not to have another glass of beer. He stood beside the table, tall above her. He felt sticky with old sweat from three days of travel, itching from the bites of insects and the abra
sion of the grimy robe against his skin, and now he was bored with and annoyed by this woman. There was an old shower cubicle in the corner of his hotel bedroom, and he thought how much he would enjoy just being alone for a long time, standing under a flow of cold water.
‘I am going to my room,’ he said, but she made no reply. Her expression did not change. ‘Apparently that’s something else that doesn’t interest you,’ he said, trying to control his irritation, but barely doing so. ‘You have not even told me your name. You probably have weird reasons of your own, but I simply find you boring and discourteous. Goodnight.’
She did not respond, so he walked away.
Then, over the hubbub of the crowd of drinkers, he heard her say something. He stopped, turned back.
‘What was that you said?’
‘I told you my name,’ the woman said.
‘I couldn’t hear you. It’s too noisy out here. Tell me again – please.’
‘I didn’t mean to be discourteous, Tomak Tallant, and I apologize. I am sworn to modesty. I may speak my personal name in a public place only once, so I cannot repeat it now. I am merely a Spreader of the Word, and that is the only identity I allow myself.’
Tallant waved his hand with frustration, and left her. He pushed through the crowd in the yard outside the bar, then found the door that led into the hotel.
5
The room was unclean and dark, lit only by a dim electric bulb hanging in the centre of the ceiling. The bed was an iron frame with a bare and much-stained mattress. A single loose sheet, also discoloured, had been laid across the mattress, and a small towel was folded over the end. The floor was uncovered boards, with splintering patches. The walls had apparently not been painted or cleaned in many years and were grey with filth or mould or simply drab from untended age. At least the shower cubicle looked as if it had been recently cleaned, even though the faucet and pipes were loose and the shower head was buckled and dented. He ripped off his robe and let it fall on the floor beside the bed.
The water in the shower was, as he might have expected, tepid rather than cold, but it ran with steady pressure and seemed untainted. He stood under it for several minutes, face up to the spray, letting it run across his closed eyes, over his shoulders and chest and legs, into the channels of his ears, in and out of his open mouth. He was blinded by the water, deafened by the running of it in his ears. Finally, with some reluctance he turned the tap and the spray ceased. He wiped his eyes with his fingers.
Only then did he realize he was no longer alone. The missionary woman had entered his room unheard and was standing by his closed door, staring at him. Tallant grabbed at the inadequate piece of towelling he had found on the end of his bed and held it over himself.
‘There is no shower in my room,’ she said. ‘I hoped I might use yours.’
She continued to stare at him, undisguisedly looking his body up and down. He was embarrassed by the candour of her gaze, tried to rub himself dry by bending double and trying not to move the towel too far.
He said, ‘I’ll be finished in a moment. Then you may use the room without me being here.’
‘I have been watching you. You might as well watch me.’
‘No, I’d prefer—’
‘I should like you to stay.’
Giving up his futile efforts at modesty with the towel, Tallant flung it aside and grabbed the robe he had been wearing for days. The woman was already pulling apart the sash at the front of her robe, letting the loose garment fall open.
‘I don’t want to embarrass you,’ Tallant said. ‘You are a devout woman—’
‘I am not a priestess, or a nun. The vows I have taken are personal ones. I am a lay field worker. I travel alone and the only text I shall ever read is contained in the holy book I carry with me. I am a true Spreader of the Word, which I shall never deny or renounce. But I am also a woman in good health and I have physical needs. Sometimes those needs become urgent.’
He had his robe on now but because much of his body was still wet the thin fabric was sticking to his legs and arms, his back and chest, and it hung at an angle on him. She pushed past him, went straight into the shower cubicle and turned on the tap. She stepped into the spray still wearing her robe, then turned and leaned beneath the flow of water, holding out the fabric to cleanse it. When it was soaked through she pulled it from her and allowed it to lie on the floor of the cubicle, crushed under her bare feet as she turned around in the spraying water, raising her face and arms, scraping her fingers through her hair, soaping herself between her legs, over her breasts, under her arms. She kept her eyes closed against the spray, apparently uncaring about his presence in the room.
Tallant watched her and moved closer so that he was standing beside the open door to the cubicle.
She had brought no towel with her so Tallant handed her the small one he had used, still damp. She wiped it over her face and hair, then tossed it aside. She went to Tallant, pulled his robe open with a brusque movement and pushed it away from his body. They made love on the bed.
She seemed to fall asleep after that, or at least lay still and calm, breathing steadily with her eyes closed. Her skin was shiny with perspiration.
‘I still don’t know your name,’ Tallant said, lying beside her with his hand cupping one of her breasts. He was wide awake. Her soft flesh felt fervent beneath his fingers, and he toyed with her nipple, which was at last becoming soft and seeming to shrink from him. He watched a teardrop of sweat forming on the side of her brow, running down to her shoulder, then plopping on to the filthy mattress. He was eagerly breathing the sweet scents of her body. The window was a glassless circle in the wall above them, and the raucous sounds of the drinkers in the yard outside drifted into the room. Over and around their own body aromas he could smell strong spirits, smoke, the unwashed sweat of others.
‘I have told you once.’ Her eyes did not open, but she sounded fully awake.
‘And I could not hear what you said. It was too noisy out there. We are in private now.’
‘My name is Firentsa, or that is the name by which you should know me. You must never address me as Firentsa when anyone else is around. I told you that I am sworn to modesty, but that was merely a simple promise made to the people who send me out on my missions. The Word demands that every promise made should be honoured.’
‘You didn’t mind me taking photos of you.’
‘They were irrelevant to me at the time.’
‘Don’t photographs threaten your modesty?’
‘I am modest in word, not deed.’
‘What if I were to photograph you naked?’
‘I am modest in word, not deed. You may do with me whatever you wish, in any depraved circumstances you choose. I know nothing about physical modesty because my body is simply what I have been given. There are some people who consider me shameless. But they are wrong, because I cannot for example speak the vulgar words that describe what you and I have just done together. But physical action is one thing, while silence is a judged option. That is my choice. What I cannot say out loud I exult in doing.’
‘Yes,’ said Tallant, thinking back.
‘Many of the people who follow the same calling are alike.’
‘You spread the word.’
‘I do.’
She opened her eyes, turned against him so that as her position changed his hand slipped from one breast to the other. He held the nipple lightly between two extended fingers.
‘Do you know where we are?’ he said.
‘Do you mean where we are emotionally, or do you mean physically?’
‘I mean – where are we? Where on Prachous have we reached? Are we near the coast yet?’
‘We’ll reach the sea tomorrow. Where we are at the moment – I’m not sure exactly.’
‘That shanty town we passed through, the settlement, the slum. I have never seen anything like it before.’
‘It’s the largest settlement on the island.’
‘Have you
been there before?’
‘I took the Word to Adjacent last year. I would not attempt it again.’
‘Were you threatened?’
‘Ignored would be a more accurate description.’
‘How long were you there?’
‘I persevered for a whole year. I would not return.’
‘I thought Prachous City was the largest on the island.’
‘It’s the capital, but Adjacent is more populous.’
‘What is that name you are using?’ Tallant said.
‘The shanty town is known as Adjacent.’
‘Adjacent to what?’
‘I have no idea.’ Firentsa shifted position again, easing her back on the uneven mattress. ‘Would you like to do again what we did just now?’
‘For which there are no words?’
‘There are words, but I don’t want you to say them. Well, would you do it again?’
‘Yes, but not yet.’
‘I thought you would.’
‘Soon. Tell me about Adjacent.’
‘There’s nothing I can tell you. It’s a social problem for which no solution has yet been found.’
‘How big is the shanty town?’
‘You saw today how long it takes to cross it. The settlement spreads over a large part of the south-east corner of the island. More people constantly arrive, so it’s almost impossible to estimate the total population. When I was there last year it was thought there were about a million inhabitants, but it must be larger than that now.’
‘Who are they?’ Tallant said. ‘Where have they come from? It’s supposed to be impossible to get past the border controls.’
‘The people in Adjacent have found a way. In theory they are all at risk of deportation.’
The Adjacent Page 32
