Another Throw of The Dice Read online

ANOTHER THROW OF THE DICE

  Mary Clare Morganti

  [email protected]

  Copyright 2014 Mary Clare Morganti

  Dedicated to the Memory of Louis Morganti

  Chapter 1

  The late model Japanese car passed on the other side of the hot tar- sealed road, heading for the hills. Its number indicated a member of the diplomatic corps going home for a long tropical lunch.

  ‘Lucky slob!’ Min hoisted her flax kit full of market produce as she flapped along in her missionary sandals under the leaden sun. Utility vehicles and windowless buses also passed her with their full complement of big brown fleshy elbows protruding like shipped oars. Another smart car and another, with their expatriate contents cocooned in air-conditioned comfort mocked her sweaty discomfort and she snarled again,

  ‘But for the grace of God, there go I.’

  The idea came from deep in her consciousness and she suddenly seemed to understand something about herself. Indeed, was it that “grace” which had brought her to this place and this moment? While she was distracted for some moments by this insight, a voice from the other side of the road called,

  ‘Bye Bye.’

  She looked across and saw a small girl sitting in the grass and smiling. Min smiled back and waved. As she trudged the last few metres to what she would call home for the next few years, she hoped for other compensating moments like these.

  *****

  Outside, the night was pulsing with scuttles and swishes conveyed through the open louvres to where Min was sitting in a circle of light at a large table which was work station, meal table and occasional ironing board. She was nervous, on edge. The opaque blackness beyond the spotlight where she was trying to hatch embryonic ideas for her teaching programme, was slowly being peopled by voyeurs on the prowl for sport. Why there were no coverings for the windows had not been explained and she had assumed politely that she should accept local custom. After all, this was the third world and hardship was the name of the game. That had been made pretty clear by the volunteer organisation which basked vicariously in the virtue of its recruits. Living as much as possible like the locals would bring untold rewards of cultural enrichment. Ah, yes.

  She was struggling with these thoughts and getting nowhere with a teaching strategy when there was a soft knock on the outside wall. She jumped and then froze. In reply to another knock, she called through a constricted throat,

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It’s only me.’ The soft American voice was a relief.

  ‘Oh Polly - hang on a sec.’

  She found the bunch of keys, most of which opened things at home in New Zealand, and unlocked the front door and the wire screen. Polly switched off her torch and said,

  ‘I hope I didn’t scare you. You need drapes for those windows so you’ve got some privacy.’

  ‘I have to get used to it because curtains - or drapes, as you call them - might be a bit of a luxury. Then there’s the heat factor.’ (That thought had only just come to her.)

  Polly sat down on one of the huge wooden cushionless chairs and grimaced.

  ‘And these things remind me of some medieval banqueting hall built for an overweight king.’ She laughed and her teeth reminded Min secretly of a medieval portcullis.

  ‘We’ve got some spare cushions you can have. Total martyrdom isn’t called for you know. As I said to Jim I intend to enjoy myself in paradise but he thinks we have to live like the local people as far as possible. He cooks taro every day and says I’ll get to like it.’

  Min went to the kitchen to heat some water for coffee. She had some ginger biscuits which a friend had sent in a food parcel and which had survived the scrutiny of the customs men. Polly followed her out to the kitchen and told her the reason for her visit.

  ‘It’s partly because we wanted to invite you to a party at our place but also I wanted to prove to Jim that I m not scared of the dark. I’ll admit to you though, that I’ve never experienced blackness quite like this. Without the torch I’d be utterly blind.’

  Polly went on to say that they wanted to get to know some of the newcomers like themselves, as well as some locals.

  ‘Do you think you can make it? Also, there’ll be an American naval ship in town and Jim wants to issue an invitation to the crew but I’m dead against the idea. As I pointed out to him we’re Peace Corps and it’s hardly appropriate for us to entertain the military.’

  Min was aware of the arrival of a nuclear ship in the quiet little harbour and was thinking of writing a letter to the local paper about its sinister hegemony. She didn’t want to offend Polly, so she simply suggested that she let her know what was decided; Polly assured her that she’d persuade Jim not to go ahead with his idea.

  ‘There’ll be an official reception by the Peace Corps anyway, crazy as it seems to me. Jim says I’m naïve and we’re all part of a propaganda machine. At the same time he says we’re all buddies in a foreign country so…’ Polly raised her eyebrows and jerked her head sideways as if to disclaim the idea.

  ‘Anyway, I’d better get back to the afore-mentioned or he’ll think I’ve been abducted. I talked him into letting me come on my own also because I didn’t want to carry on our argument here.’

  Min thanked Polly for offering her a diversion from her solo performance and she offered to go some of the way back in the pitch dark, but Polly said thanks but no thanks (‘I’m halfway through my experiment’) and she was determined not to let the early tropical curfew cramp her style.

  ‘As soon as we come to some accommodation,’ she said, splitting the word syllabically in an attempt at poshness, ‘I’ll be in touch.’ She gave Min a hug and followed her torch beam into the opaque night.

  Min felt cheered by Polly’s visit and the possible sharing of ideas in the future when they knew each other better. Whether she went to the party or not, she would make sure they met again before long.

  She rinsed the coffee things, turned out the light and then sat cross- legged on the couch, invisible. As well as the expected swishes in the undergrowth there was the occasional screech of bats, the mythical creatures of her childhood. Their association with disturbing fairy-tales reinforced her awareness that she had left her comfort zone and she now felt alone and homesick.

  Her mind wandered back to the moment of decision to come to this place. The testing of nuclear devices in the Pacific region had brought the area into focus, away from the pull of Europe where it was customary for antipodeans to get a first-hand experience of the history and culture which for so long had underwritten their intellectual leanings. However, there was something mysterious and unexplored in the near north and she needed to find out about Polynesia where the story was told in oral form and was less accessible to outsiders. It was a tall order and it was far from clear whether she would be robust enough to follow up her ideas. The word martyrdom referred to casually by Polly, had shocked her for a moment with its uncompromising value judgement and now she began to think about her motives again. Were her lofty ideas of service in the underdeveloped world tainted with masochism and its possible concomitant, resentment?

  A good night’s sleep and the coming daylight might erase her misgivings created by darkness and the screech of bats.

  Chapter 2

  The party was well under way when Min arrived. At first she recognised no one because her momentary panic froze the frame and all she saw was a blur of faces and all she heard was a muddle of sound. She walked over to the drinks table to place her contribution. The selection was mostly local beer with a smattering of wine from Australia and New Zealand.

  ‘Hi there,’ said Jim, offering his hand. ‘Polly told me all about your chat. Nice to se
e you. What’s your poison?’

  The firm handshake was reassuring and she suggested wine.

  ‘Wine it shall be.’ He poured her a chardonnay and said he favoured the local beer, telling her that it was one of the first enterprises set up after independence and was not a bad brew. He was a tall robust man with blue eyes under thick fair eyebrows and a slightly receding hairline. Nordic, thought Min, as he told her that he’d never heard of New Zealand before coming to the Pacific, so it was interesting to discover a new breed of people (who spoke rather quaint English, he thought to himself).

  ‘It’s all a revelation in fact. We Americans are not experts in geopolitics but it doesn’t stop us from throwing our weight around.’

  Min smiled.

  ‘I like this chap,’ she thought, as she raised her glass. Having taken a good sip she turned and saw a young Japanese raise his glass from across the room. She recognised Yushi who had stopped her a week earlier in the supermarket and asked if she taught English. Before she was approached by him and his little electronic dictionary again, another tall stranger wearing a loud Hawai’an shirt and dark-rimmed glasses, sidled up and introduced himself. Jim nodded and then moved away when Polly called him from the kitchen.

  ‘I’m Lucky - and you are?’

  ‘Unlucky.’ The reply was automatic. The eyes behind the glasses looked merrily at Min who choked on her wine.

  ‘Sorry - I’m Min - and please don’t say Ha Ha.’ They had got off to a good start.

  ‘Can I get you a refill?’

  ‘Thanks.’ She handed him her glass.

  While Lucky was getting the drinks Min looked nowhere in particular and felt more relaxed.

  He came back and asked her how she was settling into her new surroundings. She said it felt like jumping through hoops in quick succession and the absence of a curriculum at the college was a bit unnerving. He said it was probably the same wherever you ended up, because expatriates were also used to an array of technical backup which was just not available.

  ‘Makes you more resourceful though and I’m told kiwis are well-known for their resourcefulness.’

  ‘I’m the exception that proves that rule then.’

  ‘That’s interesting.’ This time it was a local newspaperman Eturasi, who walked up to them to join in the social chitchat. He wanted to know what rule she was the exception to and Lucky explained and then introduced himself.

  ‘I’m a mere Australian of no particular merit.’ Min didn’t take the bait but nodded slowly.

  Score: One all.

  Eturasi said he had studied in New Zealand and his wife Luatasi, in Australia, so between them they knew the antipodes pretty well. He edited one of the two local papers and travelled regularly to both countries where they had relatives.

  ‘Keep me up to date with anything you find interesting - I’m always on the lookout for news and opinions.’

  Min asked him if he was going to cover the nuclear ship visit and was told that he had a handout from the Peace Corps but wanted something to balance it Min was feeling the confidence that came with the wine after a long drought and said she’d been thinking of writing a letter to the paper, opposing the intrusion into the Pacific of nuclear vessels.

  Later that night at home she wished she hadn’t said a word because Eturasi had leapt at the idea and she felt committed. Lucky had teased her about New Zealand’s nuclear-free policy but she sensed that he was winding her up. He was being devil’s advocate she was sure and she looked forward to finding out what made him tick.

  As she was leaving to wander home in the welcome moonlight, she was stopped by Yushi who was outside, smoking with some friends. He wanted her to meet his girlfriend Noriko, who spoke English rather well.

  Yushi was working in the public works department, and with difficulty he explained that his English, which he had studied for years at school in Japan, was letting him down badly. He needed some functional vocabulary.

  ‘Market, Post Office, bar.’ He ticked them off on his fingers. Did she think she could help?

  When she got home, she was wide awake and the moon was at its zenith. She hardly needed any artificial light as it beamed through the louvres on to her work table. Before sketching out ideas for the letter, she jotted down what might be a good starter kit for Yushi, based on useful situations and at the same time, on a structured grammatical base. This was going to be an interesting exercise for her and would provide her with some pocket money to supplement her meagre wage.

  Her last thought as she lay down to sleep finally, was that she must find out how Lucky had got his name. It had a hint of irony about it.

  Chapter 3

  Sunday. Her favourite day.

  Min was usually woken by the now familiar smell of the earth oven being prepared in the village nearby. The young men had to get up at first light to prepare it and to scrape the coconuts for cream.

  Scrawny freely-ranging hens and roosters picked their way outside her bedroom chortling companionably as they searched for food. On the hour a church bell would ring tinnily. Min was reminded of a village in France where she had spent some time as a student and where church activities dominated life on a Sunday, summoning the faithful to an age- old ritual. Here on this side of the earth, the smell of a slow-cooking pig and other traditional treats replaced the piquant odours of the café and the bakery. She wallowed in the early morning tropical languor.

  Today she was going to spend the day at a beach on the other side of the island with her new friends, Dinah and Robert. They were old hands whose savvy gentle cynicism intrigued her and might be a counter balance to the bushy-tailed enthusiasm of the newly arrived.

  ‘You up yet?’

  Min hadn’t heard the van come along the grassy lane, so she hurriedly wrapped herself in her lava lava and rushed to the door. The food was ready in the fridge and she would leap into the cold shower while Dinah rustled around getting something for them to drink.

  The simple life.

  It was early April and the rainy season was all but over. Each day the sun hurled its merciless rays earthwards, but these would soon be tempered by the trade winds which dried your clothes and sweaty skin. The intense green presence of huge trees and their outsized foliage was a soothing counterpoint to the heavy sultry air and to the jubilant flora. The lush terrain refused a geometric template, except where the constant effort of villagers cultivated their sustaining gardens.

  On the road across the island banyan trees with gothic buttressed roots, the texture of elephant hide, rose alongside the tar seal like behemoths. Nearer the coast, villages sprouted organically in the vegetation, except for the occasional rusting iron roof jarring against the traditional thatch. The beach they were going to was well away from the villages, so their Sabbath play would not interfere with the strictly observed all day religious practices. As they passed an imposing concrete church, they heard sturdy voices raised in the strains of nineteenth century England hymn-singing and they stopped to listen for some moments before going on to communion with nature, well past the village confines.

  The primeval beauty of the spot by the river mouth transported Min more effectively than any human rituals could and this would stay with her, she knew. They crossed the cool tidal river to where the mangroves spread themselves low to the ground. Here they could enjoy the privacy provided by a rising tide.

  After putting some bottles of beer in the river, Robert lay down on his back with his hat over his face and Dinah slipped off her lava lava and waded out beyond the brackish water. Min watched with her chin on her knees while she absorbed the sheer privilege of the place. Dinah’s fair head poked out of the lagoon and from time to time she stretched her arms and lay in a cruciform with her thick ponytail trailing like blond seaweed. Min was delaying the moment of joining her because she wanted to prolong the sensation of sublime oneness with her surroundings. Whatever lay ahead this memory would sustain her, she felt sure.

  Robert propped him
self on his elbows and asked Min if she was going to swim. She said she was but was delaying the pleasure. Robert was a lean tanned fellow who inspired Min with his taciturn practicality while Dinah was a stimulating chatterbox full of humour and refreshing candour. They had taken Min under their wing and Robert, as a fellow New Zealander whose mother had trained as a teacher with Min’s mother, felt a mild sense of responsibility for this solo traveller. He knew something of her background but had delved no further to allow the friendship to take a steady course.

  He stood up to fetch some beer and Min took off her light cotton smock and waded in after Dinah. The sea embraced her like a warm bath on a planetary scale and beyond the still water of the lagoon, was the protective reef where the great swell of the ocean erupted in a spray of foam. She paddled lazily and waved to Dinah who cupped her hands and called,

  ‘Isn’t this perfect?’

  When they waded back to the mangroves, Robert had already opened the food containers and was munching away happily.

  ‘Such gifts,’ said Min succinctly, as he handed her a thick slice of bread and some cheese. She and Dinah raised their glasses of boiled water in a mock toast.

  ‘To the Pacific ocean and all who sail on her.’

  Robert said he missed the surf and found the lagoon rather tame. Min said she appreciated the warmth after the cold water of home which left your body tingling with the virtuous sense of triumph over inclination. Then she talked about swimming in a fresh water lake where the cold and hot water ran into each other, and Robert pointed out that that was because you were swimming in a huge volcanic crater.

  ‘Eek - doesn’t bear thinking about,’ chirped Dinah in an unconvincing regional English accent.

  As they finished the food, Dinah asked Min how she managed to do her shopping without her own transport.

  ‘That’s the hard part - and I haven’t got around to braving the local buses like my friend Polly has. They always look so crowded.’

  ‘But you’ll always get a seat,’ said Robert. ‘It’s local etiquette. You qualify on two counts for displacing some hapless local. You’re female and white.’

  Min was shocked. She asked if that meant that an old man would have to give her his seat.