Power, as I discovered during those weeks in which the rites and customs of that island were revealed to me in the ethnological reports of the first missionaries, was not passed down through the generations on Mangaia, but won—seized in battle or snatched in a nighttime spree that, more often than not, degenerated into a massacre in which the betrayed, anesthetized with ground kava root, were dumped in a pit, covered in hot stones and left to stew in their own juices until they were fit to eat.
Now, though, Mourua’s hands clasped the strangely gleaming ax, and anyone regarding it as nothing but a lump of iron on a wooden shaft, a well-meant gift, fails to do justice to its power. From then on, this ax was conferred upon whoever emerged victorious on Mangaia, since it was more useful than any other tool, allowing wood to be split with the same ease as the skull of a doomed man on Rongo’s altar at the start of the reign of each new ruler.
Mangaia was not just one island among countless thousands in this fathomless ocean but a whole world in itself, in which it made no difference whether you were condemned to starve to death in the labyrinth of moldy grottoes or to perish in a rotten pirogue under the scorching sun. The loser forfeited everything, his name, his land, his life, and those who contrived to save themselves harbored no thought of returning. Some managed to escape, and evidence suggests that those lucky few found refuge on the island of Tuanaki, two days’ voyage away. On Mangaia, though, one ruler followed another until the cycle of victory and defeat was brought to an abrupt end. It’s the same old story, in its various versions: strangers came, invaders who needed to be repelled, whalers bearing a mottled seashell in their chapped hands, its toothed opening like a hungry mouth; missionaries and their wives who, barely had they reached the shore, cast themselves back into the surf in mortal fear, leaving all their worldly goods behind on the beach: a boar and a sow, which henceforth, dressed in bast, would be revered as a pair of divinities, thick books filled with black characters resembling tattoos, whose torn-out, wafer-thin pages made a rustling adornment for the dancers, and lastly an unnamed plague that claimed more victims than all the battles put together. That was the beginning—and what then followed was the end, a long process of parting company with the gods. Their ironwood images were stripped bare, their sacred groves desecrated, their shrines burned down. The protests of the last pagan tribe went as unheeded as their pleas for mercy in the final battle. Those who would not be converted were killed with axes made of American steel, and from the rubble of the Rongo statue soon a church was built. Cook’s ax was now no more than a rusty relic of past times and past rulers which, now that it had served its purpose, was presented to a second-generation English missionary, whether with pride or in the vague hope of thereby strengthening or rupturing the bond once forged I could not discover. Since it was not clear to the missionary either, he promptly dispatched the lump of iron to the British Museum.
I found myself thinking about the forces in the Earth’s interior. Wherever they prevail, the age-old cycle of rise and fall, blossom and decay is cut short. Islands emerge and are submerged. They have a shorter lifespan than the lands of the continent; they are temporary phenomena—compared to the lifetime, running into millions of years, and the endless expanse of this ocean represented in turquoise, azure, or light blue on the reverse sides of all the globes on display in the cartography department, which I now ceremoniously patrolled, convinced I had finally found the thread, the thin umbilical cord binding Mangaia and Tuanaki together: it was the might of a marine earthquake that one day lifted Mangaia up from the seabed and out of the water, a ring of dead coral and basalt lava, a mountain summit rising steeply out of the depths. And it was the might of a marine earthquake that one day dragged Tuanaki down into the depths and submerged it beneath the water masses of the Pacific Ocean, not long after missionaries had started looking for the atoll. The gray shadow of a giant wave must have approached from the horizon almost without a sound and engulfed everything in one go. The next day, so I imagined, there was nothing in the place where the island had been but dead trees floating on the glassy surface of the ocean.
Only a year earlier, a small schooner with a crew of seven had found the entrance to the reef and made it to the deserted shores of Tuanaki. One of the sailors, at the behest of the captain, had set off, armed only with a sword, towards the interior of the island, made his way through the jungle of banana trees, coconut palms, bougainvillea, and wild orchids, breathed in the air perfumed with frangipani, hibiscus, and white jasmine, and finally discovered, in a clearing, a meeting house in which a number of men were gathered. All of them, I read with endless satisfaction in the one and only report describing that encounter, wore the Mangaian poncho and spoke the Mangaian dialect.
One of them, no doubt the eldest, motioned to the visitor to enter, and when he complied, the old man inquired as to the whereabouts of the ship’s captain.
“He’s in the boat,” the sailor replied truthfully.
“Why doesn’t he come inland?” the man asked, without altering his expression. A shell horn dangled from his neck.
“He is afraid you might kill him.”
Silence fell, and for a brief moment the breakers seemed ominously close. The old man gazed at the forest foliage. At last he said, with utter calm: “We don’t know how to fight. We only know how to dance.”
My gaze alighted on the pale-blue globe one last time. I soon found the location. Right there, to the south of the equator, between a few scattered islands, this perfect patch of land had stood, remote from the world, having forgotten everything it had ever known about it. The world, though, only grieves for what it knows, and has no inkling of what it lost with that tiny islet, even though, given the spherical form of the Earth, this vanished dot could just as easily have been its navel, even if it was not the sturdy ropes of war and commerce that bound them one to the other, but the incomparably finer-spun thread of a dream. For myth is the highest of all realities and—so it struck me—the library the true theater of world events.
Outside, rain had set in, a damp monsoon, unusually warm for these northern latitudes.
Ancient Rome
Caspian Tiger
Panthera tigris virgata, also known as Persian, Mazandaran, Hyrcanian and Turanian tiger
* It was the separation of their territories, less than ten thousand years ago, that led to the split into two subspecies, the Siberian and the Caspian tiger. The Caspian tiger lived in the upper reaches of the River Aras, from the forested slopes and plains of the Talysh mountain range to the Lankaran lowlands, on the southern and eastern shores of the Caspian Sea, on the northern side of the Alborz mountain range up to the River Atrek, in the southern part of the Kopet Dag mountain range as far as the Murgab River basin, as well as along the upper stretch of the Amu Darya and its tributaries, in the Amu Darya valley to the point where it reaches the Aral Sea, and in the lower reaches of the Zeravshan, upstream of the Ili, along the River Tekes and into the Taklamakan desert.
† Direct hunting, a dwindling habitat and a decline in its main prey populations were the reasons for the extinction of the Caspian tiger. One was shot in 1954 in the Sumbar River valley in the Kopet Dag range, on the Iran-Turkmenia border. Other reports suggest the last tiger was killed in 1959 in the Golestan National Park in northern Iran. Caspian tigers were last sighted in 1964 in the foothills of the Talysh mountains and the river basin of the Lankaran lowlands near the Caspian Sea. In the early 1970s, biologists from the Iranian Department of Environment spent years scouring the remote, uninhabited Caspian forests for them, in vain. None survived in captivity. A handful of preserved cadavers found their way into natural history collections in London, Tehran, Baku, Almaty, Novosibirsk, Moscow, and St. Petersburg. A stuffed Caspian tiger was on display in the Tashkent Museum of Natural History until the mid-1960s, when it was destroyed in a fire.
In the evening they are hungry and restless. No meat for days. No hunting since they thems
elves were captured. Instincts worn down by captivity until they lie bare like gnawed bones. Fire blazes in the cats’ eyes. It is the reflection of the torches. These herald the arrival of the handlers who, each time they pass by on their rounds, peer through the bars, listen into the darkness for signs that their cargo is still alive.
The cage opens. Yet rather than a meal, it is a den that awaits them. Torches guide the way. Spears force them into a black, windowless hole, two wooden crates barely higher than their withers. These are rolled onto the waiting wagons. Senses sharpened by hunger. Commotion, movement, a clamor of voices: the barked orders of the handlers, the piercing whistle of the driver, the jangling of the bridles, the clunking of the corn barges against a far-off quay, the clatter of the wheels, the flick of a rope.
The convoy jerks into motion, sets out on its preordained path. To the innermost heart of the city. To the outermost reaches of being. The axles creak at every turn.
The two animals are separated by a single partition. They crouch in the darkness. They know everything and see nothing. Not the moldering docks and the steaming knacker’s yard, not the Praenestine Gate, which they pass, not the buildings of marble and Tiburtine stone that gleam even at night. They are animals. Animals like us. Doomed like us.
It is still night when they are taken into the catacombs. During the last hours of darkness they turn in tight, aimless circles, strangers to one another—whether equally matched remains to be seen. The cells are musty; dungeons hidden from the sun. And when it finally rises, not one ray filters down here, into this underworld of passageways, ramps, and lifts, of traps and doors.
Far above them a sail is now unfurled until it arches like a second sky over the stone bowl that is gradually filling with people: consuls and senators, vestal virgins and knights, citizens and freedmen, discharged legionaries—and at the very top, around the edge, the women. They have all come to see. They have come to be seen. It is a feast day, a spectacle, and anyone calling it a game has failed to appreciate the holy order inherent in it and the deadly seriousness that attends it.
The day is still young as the emperor steps into his box, pushes back the hood of his robe, shows off his tall sturdy physique, his stout neck, his imposing profile that everyone knows from the coins. When finally he sits down, the dungeon is unlocked, a chasm opens at ground level and a colossal animal of a kind never before seen emerges from the pit, bursts into the ring, races around the enclosure, leaps high against the parapet separating the public from the arena and, with a thunderous din, beats its mighty paws against the iron gate, stops, looks around, and for an infinite moment stands still.
This beast is preceded by a reputation that transcends oceans and mountains: it is said to originate from the depths of the forests of Hyrcania, the wild, rugged, evergreen land that borders the Caspian Sea. Its name is at once a curse and an incantation. It is reputed to be swift as an arrow, wild as the Tigris, the fastest flowing of all rivers, from which it takes its name. Its fur blazes red as an open fire, the sooty stripes akin to branches in the embers, the facial features finely drawn, the ears upstanding, the cheeks powerful, the muzzle bristling with white whiskers, the eyes glowing green beneath heavy brows, and on its forehead a dark symmetrical marking, the meaning of which no one knows.
The creature shakes its huge head, reveals its large, terrible teeth, its two pointed fangs, its fleshy maw. It runs its tongue over its bare nose. A growl rises up from its throat; a hoarse snarl unlike anything heard before echoes through the terraces—a bloodcurdling sound, after which every word becomes a whisper. And a rumor circulates, half lore, half poem: that there exist only females of its species, for the animal is savage, as savage as only a mother can be when robbed of her offspring. Chance alone bears out the assertion: beneath the tail with its brown-black rings lies concealed a fertile womb that will bear no more cubs.
The animal moves off again, paces the ring with silent steps, clings to the shadow cast by the walls, looks for a spot offering refuge, quiet, and shelter—and finds none. There is only the greasy gray of the palisade, the barred openings, the white dazzle of the billowing togas, patches of brightness, naked faces frozen into masks.
When, in fact, had they first set eyes on this animal? Not in a nightmare, as a man-eating manticore with the sneering face of a child, its bared jaws full of powerful teeth, its tail armed with stings, but in the flesh, part of an Indian delegation on the shores of the island of Samos. On that occasion too it had been a female, the only one of the group of solitary beasts to have survived the desperately long, torturous journey. It was paraded before Augustus on a wrought-iron chain as a gesture of reverence—and as a hideous wonder of nature, as rare and horrifying as the herm-like boy who had been made to stand beside it: half-naked, his whole body dusted with spices, with no arms, these having been cut off at the shoulders when he was still an infant. There they stood, the snarling animal and the mutilated human—two wondrous beings, a bizarre pair, a cue for poets to pen epigrams about the majesty of the abominable.
It was six years later that this creature was first seen in Rome. On the Nones of May, it was paraded at the long-awaited inauguration of this theater, together with a rhinoceros and a patterned snake ten cubits in length. The beast was changed beyond all recognition, for it could be seen licking its handler’s hands with its rough tongue like a dog.
The empire of the Romans was vast, extending raggedly in every direction under the sun. Not only had they subjugated the Latins, the Volsci, the Aequi, the Sabines and Etruscans, they had also conquered the Macedonians, the Carthaginians and Phrygians, even claimed victory over the Syrians and Cantabrians—and had now tamed this monster as they would a barbarian people, driving out its wild nature with whips and crowbars, winning its trust with goat and rabbit meat, and in return granting it protection, as they did all their subjects. It seemed almost as though this tigress, who blinked away every ray of sunshine yet did not flinch from the intrusive glances of the humans, were about to be declared a citizen of this empire, like a slave about to be set free. But then from somewhere, more out of whim than conviction, came the call for revenge, which never fails to resonate, the unchanging shrill chorus of budding suspicion and sudden distrust. It was suspected that their submission was merely feigned, their gentleness but a ruse. The predator may have hidden its claws, rolled on its back and, with its belly fur exposed, asked the handler for a caress, yet it lost none of its terror. Almost nothing stokes fear as surely as having won power over an enemy to whom one still feels inferior despite the victory. For as always, there was no denying the truth: nature was not vanquished, the wild remained untamed. Every breath the animal took served as a reminder of long-held fears and impending doom—and rendered its swift death as necessary as the sacrifice of thanksgiving after victory in battle. The verdict was unanimous: the tame beast was to die in combat, like all enemies of Rome. Yet when they set about choosing an adversary, no one could be found who dared to take up the challenge. So they killed it in its cage.
Chains rattle, swords clatter, a wooden hatch drops onto the sand. The ground opens. A murmur passes through the tiers. Out of the darkness a tan head appears. A lion steps into the arena, calm, composed, his head held high, framed by the cloak of his rusty-black mane. The dark wool extends down over his shoulders to his underbelly, a shaggy coat. He sees the unfamiliar feline, takes in her perfect predator’s build. The two animals stand there and eye each other for the first time—from a safe distance. Beyond the gates, a horse whinnies, a whip cracks. Otherwise all is quiet. Everyone is leaning forward to try and interpret the beasts’ expressions, their mute demeanor, their motionless stance. But nothing gives them away. No hint of superiority, nor any trace of that understanding that binds predator and prey out in the wild.
The lion now sits, enthroned, showing no sign of agitation, with his shoulders drawn in and his chest proud, rigid as a statue, a long-serving monarch. No one can say which cam
e first: his noble status or his heroic appearance. A world that does not venerate him is unthinkable. A fable that does not make him the ruler not worth telling. His mane shimmers reddish in the sunlight. His gaze is frozen. His eyes gleam amber. The furry tassel of his tail whips the grainy dry sand. He opens his jaws, wider and wider, reveals his big yellow teeth, pushes his head forward, pricks back his ears, narrows his eyes to a thin slit—and starts to roar, a groan issuing from the depths of his chest, again and again, followed by a terrible rumble that seems to rise from an even deeper abyss each time, growing ever louder and more breathless, ever more urgent and menacing. It is the howl of a raging tempest, say the Indians, the roar of a charging army, the Egyptians, the thunder of Jehovah’s fury, the Hebrews. But it might also be the elemental sound of creation announcing the end of the world.
An Inventory of Losses Page 4
