The Dutch Wife (15 page)

They were laughing over that when the girl padded in with more of the yellow gin-and-fruit-juice mix.

As she left, Macphee nodded towards her. “The Tarapa are supposed to be a weird lot, aren’t they?” he said to Rowland.

“Yes, you might say that. My Consort and my daughter are both Tarapa,” he told Thomas. “It’s one of the most fascinating of the mountain clans, full of little sects and secret societies. In fact, everything indicates the Tarapa have been here for thousands of years.” He was very much the scholar now, absorbed in his subject. “A rule of thumb in anthropology is this: the more ancient the people, the more impenetrable their customs.” The rain battered heavily on the roof as they sipped their gin. “I’ve lived here now for many years and I have a Tarapa woman and child. I’ve found out quite a good deal. But there’s a lot they either won’t or can’t tell me about their traditions. I hope some day they’ll let me in on their secrets. That would be quite a coup for an anthropologist.”

“Macphee said this house was formerly a Medical Centre,” said Thomas. “So there used to be a doctor here?”

“Indeed there was—a Medical Officer,” said Rowland. “Most tribes welcome the benefits of modern medicine. But not the Tarapa. The Medical Officer was a Frenchman called Dupont. He loved it up here and you couldn’t imagine a more sympathetic man. But he could make no headway at all with the Tarapa. You see, they believe in reincarnation. For them, all illnesses must be endured, otherwise they’ll come back in an even worse form in the next existence.” Rowland shook his head. “Poor old Dupont. You can imagine that way of thinking was quite a challenge to him. I asked him why he didn’t tell them that things like quinine were gifts from the gods. He might have had some success then. But he was a rational man, a scientist, and he wouldn’t have considered telling what he considered to be outright lies. In his own way, he was as stubborn as the Tarapa. He practises at Venuva Atoll now.”

– 10 –

THE RAIN WAS STILL DRUMMING
steadily and the jug of gin was empty again.

“I’ll go get us some more,” Rowland said and went into the house.

Macphee yawned and got up from his chair. “I’ll turn in now,” he said to Thomas. “I’m sure you two have lots of things to talk about.” He leaned closer and said softly: “Make sure you lock your door tonight.” Then he left.

Thomas wondered what he meant, but for the most part, he thought about Rowland Vanderlinden, whom he’d come all this way to find. At times throughout the evening, Rowland had seemed like a younger man, prematurely aged by the climate here. At others, he’d seemed an old man who’d miraculously retained the enthusiasm and mental energy of his youth. No matter; Thomas couldn’t help admiring him as a scholar and an idealist who’d devoted his life to this remote place.

Rowland returned with more gin. “So, Macphee’s had enough?” he said. “That should be a warning to us. Let’s just have one last glass to celebrate the occasion.” He filled Thomas’s glass and they toasted each other and drank. Rowland inspected him again. “You do look very like your mother,” he said.

Thomas had heard that before. He’d often looked in the mirror, searching in vain for the resemblance that was so clear to others.

Rowland now began, in a most friendly way, to interrogate him. Was he married? What did he do for a living? Did he have any brothers or sisters? Then he asked more about Rachel. He was shocked to hear she’d been ill, and even more surprised that she’d been living in Camberloo all those years. “I’d always envisaged her in Queensville in the house by the Lake,” he said, shaking his head at this new image of her. Then his eyes narrowed—he was all attention. “Does she have . . . someone?”

“Yes, she does,” said Thomas. “They’ve been friends for years—since I was a boy. He’s a physician, retired now. His name’s Jeremiah Webber. He says he knew you. You were helping the Coroner and he was an assistant.”

“Webber?” Rowland said. “Yes, I think I remember him. And you say she’s known him since you were a boy? So he’s not your father?”

“No,” said Thomas. “My father died when I was a baby. He was killed in the War. That’s why she wants to see you. She seems to think you can tell her about him.”

Rowland seemed puzzled.

“He just showed up one day using your name,” said Thomas.

Rowland sat quite still, saying nothing. So Thomas briefly told him Rachel’s story about that day, so long ago, when the stranger had knocked at her door.

Rowland heard him out. “Ah!” was all he said when Thomas had finished. Then a particularly heavy downpour caused a loud drumming on the roof. It was well after midnight now, and mosquitoes, sheltering from the rain, were whining around them.

“So, does it make sense to you?” said Thomas when the drumming eased up. “Do you know who he was?”

Rowland slowly nodded his head.

“Yes,” he said. “Indeed I do.”

“Then you’ll come back with me and talk to her?” said Thomas. “She said to remind you you’d once promised her you’d come if she needed you.” Then he said something he hadn’t even allowed himself to think. “I don’t know how much longer she has to live. It would mean a lot to her.”

Rowland didn’t hesitate. “Of course I’ll come. I haven’t forgotten my promise. I’m looking forward to seeing her again.

Even though we separated, we were never nasty to each other. We just couldn’t live together.” The black teeth glinted. “As a matter of fact, I’ve been planning a book on my research among the Tarapa. I’ll take some of my notebooks along and see what the University Press thinks. But you must understand—you have to make Rachel understand—I won’t be able to stay long. This is where I belong.”

Thomas was delighted it had been so easy. “When should we start?” he said.

“Tomorrow morning,” said Rowland. “There’s no point in lingering.” He got up out of his chair. “Well, we’d better call it a night. I must go now and tell my family I’ll be gone for a while. I can’t say I’m looking forward to that.” He picked up the
paru
and licked it and passed it to Thomas. “Have a last lick—it’ll help counter the effects of the gin.”

Thomas took the fish and ran his tongue along the spotted part twice, like Rowland. It clung to his tongue, though it had no taste any more. He got to his feet unsteadily.

“By the way,” Rowland said, “make sure you shake your boots out in the morning before you put them on—there are scorpions and poisonous spiders and various other insects that like to climb into them at night.”

Thomas thanked him for that information. And he wondered, for the thousandth time, why anyone would want to live in such a place.

Rowland again seemed to read his mind. “To an outsider,” he said, “it may seem like chaos here. But under it all, you have a sense there’s really some kind of order that’s so complicated you can’t quite pin it down. Maybe if you could just find that order, it wouldn’t matter where you lived.” His face looked very weary. “At times, I’ve thought it might have been nicer just to have stayed at home, studying the slowness of change—you know: watching the pattern fade on the sofa in the living room and all of that. It seems to satisfy most people. But it wasn’t the life for me.”

Rowland looked his age now and Thomas wondered about him. How capable would he be of making the strenuous journey down through the jungle to the coast? Then sailing halfway across the world? And then making the return trip? He was thinking that as Rowland said goodnight and went inside. Thomas got to his feet and had to hold on to the arms of the chair to stop falling. He walked as steadily as he could, the rain pounding an accompaniment, round the corner of the verandah to his room.

– 11 –

THE ROOM WAS LIT BY A CANDLE
that made little hissing noises as it incinerated wandering mosquitoes and moths. On the table beside the candle was a red orchid in a green vase. Thomas’s attention was again drawn to the drumming of the rain on the roof. It had undergone another remarkable change in pitch and rhythm and seemed no longer a random production of nature but something artificial and full of meaning. He was both astonished and too fatigued to think about it. He slipped off his sandals. The night was cool, so he kept the robe on. He blew out the candle and got into bed, pulling the mosquito net around him. The few mosquitoes that had managed to come in with him whined around his head. He swatted at them tiredly and, in the midst of that activity, fell asleep.

Not long after, he heard the door creak. The rain must have stopped, for the moon had come out and was lighting up the entire room. He would have turned towards the door but felt as though a heavy boulder lay upon him, pinning him down.

Two shapes approached his bed, one on either side. He tried to speak but could manage only a whimper. The mosquito net was lifted and in the moonlight he could clearly see two women—he was sure they had to be the Consort and the daughter. But he couldn’t be certain which was which. They wore lurid wooden masks, like those he’d seen on the wall of the dining room. Their heavy bodies were completely unclothed and shone with oil. Each of them was tattooed from the neck down to the navel in the shape of an intricate red orchid. In the very heart of the flower crouched a great insect, its tattooed eyes yellow in the moonlight.

One of the women leaned over him and opened his robe. The other held out a little box, opened the lid and shook something from it onto his belly—something light and cold that felt like a dead leaf. The leaf began to move. It scrabbled softly along his body onto his chest towards his face. With a grunt of effort, he was able to raise his head a few inches to look.

A huge scorpion, its tail raised to strike, stood on his chest. He braced himself, ready for the stab of pain. But suddenly, the scorpion wheeled around and began to move down his body in the other direction, over his belly, and down, down. He sobbed, and tensed his body, awaiting the excruciating sting.

At that very moment, the woman with the box lowered it on the scorpion and scooped it away from him. He could have wept with relief, with joy. Now the other woman climbed heavily onto the bed. She straddled herself over him and looked down at him. Through the holes in the mask, he could see dark, oily eyes. Whether it was mother or daughter, he didn’t care. A wave of euphoria swept through him as she enclosed him in her soft, moist warmth. She rocked back and forth, back and forth. He was unable to restrain himself. He let out a great howl of pleasure.

MACPHEE CAME THROUGH THE DOOR,
pulling on his robe. “Are you all right?” he said. “What’s the matter?”

Thomas, who found he could move now, pulled his own robe together and raised the mosquito net. The little room was clearly illuminated by the moonlight, and there were no women.

“I . . . I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought someone was here . . . Look,” he said. On the floor lay a broken vase with the red orchid spilled out of it.

“It must have been the cat,” said Macphee. “I thought I saw it running out of here. Your door was wide open. I told you to lock it. Bolt it now after me.”

He left, and Thomas slid in the bolt and went back to bed. He lay for a long time trying to re-create that strange dream—if dream it was. But it was like looking at the outline of something through frosted glass, and the effort wore him out. He fell into a deep sleep.

At first light, the crowing of a cock awoke him. He felt quite refreshed, in spite of the gin the night before. He got out of bed and looked around the room carefully but could find no sign of intruders—only a regiment of ants swarming over the red orchid on the floor. He picked it up between thumb and finger, went out onto the verandah and dropped the orchid and its tiny predators into the long, wet grass.

– 12 –

THOMAS VANDERLINDEN DRESSED
and walked round the verandah to the front door. Macphee was already sitting there, looking well rested, his long hair slicked back. He was smoking one of his first cigarettes of the day and was contented. “We’re to have breakfast out here,” he said.

Thomas sat down and waited. After a while, the girl came padding out of the house carrying a tray of food and coffee. Her hair was freshly oiled and she was wearing a bright yellow wrap with the tattoo protruding. Thomas, sure now he knew what that tattoo was, looked at her for any hint that he hadn’t been dreaming the night before. But she seemed quite at ease, her dark eyes betraying nothing. She put the tray down on the little table, poured cups of thick coffee with a steady hand and left. If she was innocent, Thomas thought, might it have been the Consort who straddled him? In those masks, in the moonlight, it had been impossible to tell which was the younger of the two women. Of course, it might have been strangers, interlopers. Or it might all have been a dream.

He ate some fried plantains from a platter on the tray and was sitting back sipping his coffee when Rowland joined them. In the morning light, his face was wrinkled from too much sun and yellowish from whatever fevers he had contracted over a lifetime in such a climate. Like his visitors, he was now dressed for travelling, wearing brown walking boots that were well worn. He seemed anxious and didn’t talk much over his coffee.

When he’d finished, he got up and took a deep breath. “Well, I’d better get this over with,” he said, and went inside.

THOMAS AND MACPHEE WERE WAITING,
ready to depart. Rowland had been gone for ten minutes. There was a loud noise from inside the house and he came through the door, carrying a duffle bag. The two women followed him, howling. Indeed, now that they were outside, their howling was raised a notch into a scream. Thomas had to brace himself against it, as if against a strong wind at sea.

“Don’t worry,” Rowland shouted. “It’s a custom!” He seemed quite proud of the noise they were making.

Thomas could see that the women’s eyes were quite dry and that they were watchful.

The three men set off down the path, the noise pursuing them.

“It doesn’t mean they’ll miss me that much,” Rowland told Thomas. “They just want to give the spirits a sample of the kind of racket they’ll make if I don’t come back.”