One Big Damn Puzzler by John Harding
Well, here was a damn good one. If Hamlet thought there was a rat behind the wall at what height did he thrust his sword through it? He would surely have expected a rat to be upon the ground, but if he had stabbed at that height he would only have hit Polonius in the ankle. Would that really have been enough to kill him? And so quickly, in less than two pages? It was simply not credible. Unless of course, the sword had been dipped in deadly poison, some Danish kind of terrada venom, perhaps, something that was, of course, entirely possible, given that a poisoned sword was used at the end of the play by Laertes in the duel. Although that fact might equally well suggest the opposite since it was quite clear in the duel scene that the use of a poisoned weapon was considered both unfair and unusual. Then again, perhaps Polonius was lying down behind the wall, though why the old man should do that wasn’t at all clear. Perhaps he was ill? Or was suddenly tired and lay down to sleep?
Managua’s head was spinning from it all. He’d spent the whole morning trying to reconstruct the missing pages from what he knew. He had to do this. He couldn’t rely on another, entire Hamlet magically appearing before he’d finished the rest of the play; he’d waited a year already and nothing had turned up yet. Even Miss Lucy hadn’t managed to get him a copy although she’d written to the people from whom she ordered her magazines. She’d even written to relatives in England requesting one, but either her letter or their reply had gone astray because nothing had turned up. She said she would write again but the trouble was he didn’t think he could carry on with his translation until that missing bit was taken care of. He had to know what had happened so far before he could move on to what came next. It was not easy, trying to write Shakespeare so that no-one would be able to spot the difference between his work and the Bard’s. He hadn’t been sure he was up to the task. But then once you got stuck in you absorbed the man’s style and after two or three hours Managua felt the stuff he was producing was pretty convincing. He’d come up with a more plausible explanation for Polonius’s death, too.
He tossed his pencil aside and came out of the writerly trance that he entered whenever he picked it up and that cut off all extraneous sounds. He realized that the hut was quiet, that Lamua wasn’t there. He strapped on his leg and limped to the doorway where he took in the position of the sun and worked out that this was the same time his wife had been absent the last few afternoons. He wondered where she was. He knew that some of the women chose this time to collect water from the hole. Perhaps Lamua had changed her time and begun going with this group; some petty falling-out with those she went with customarily, perhaps. But then he noticed the large water pot standing by the door.
He didn’t have time to speculate further about where she might be. This was his opportunity. He grabbed a cloth shoulder bag and hurriedly began to fill it with food. He was just putting in a loaf of minoa bread when he noticed something at the bottom of the old tin they kept bread in to protect it from termites. He picked it up and stared at it. One of those American things that was full of numbers. A pocket calculator. Now what was that doing here? It could only have been brought into the hut by Lamua. But how had she come by it? Presumably it must be one the village boys had dropped, or perhaps the gwanga. But in that case, why had Lamua hidden it in the bread tin? He stared at the calculator for a moment and then put it back where he had found it. It was one big damn puzzler, all right, but he didn’t have time to think about it now. He shouldered his bag and limped off, looking this way and that, just to make sure Lamua wasn’t watching him. It would be just like her to spend several days establishing this regular absence to lure him into carelessness when he took the food.
What Managua didn’t know was that Lamua wasn’t the only one who was trying to find the pig now. And so he wasn’t concerned when he passed Lintoa as he made his way into the jungle.
Lintoa had been watching Managua’s hut for a couple of hours. He’d made an excuse not to go hunting for turtle eggs with Tigua and Sussua today, saying he didn’t feel well.
As Managua limped by, Lintoa bent down to fiddle with the strap of one of his slingbacks, pretending to do it up. He was actually undoing it, ready to slip the shoes off as soon as Managua entered the jungle, so that he could move more swiftly and silently as he shadowed the old man. He was also avoiding conversation with Managua. If they got talking he would have to ask Managua where he was going which would mean that if Managua was on his way to feed the pig he would have to invent some other destination and would probably end up not going near the animal at all.
As soon as Managua plunged into the forest, Lintoa stashed his shoes in the crook between two branches of a tree where he hoped nobody would notice them and followed.
It was hard to figure out where Managua was going. The route meandered and at one point actually went in a circle and crossed over itself, so that Managua was suddenly coming back towards Lintoa who had to duck behind a tree to avoid being seen. At another it went across the shitting beach. Lintoa couldn’t step out into the open because if Managua should happen to turn around the game would be up; it would be obvious he was following him. So when the old man hobbled once more into the jungle, Lintoa had to sprint across the shitting beach – with predictable results, the tide hadn’t been in yet – so as not to lose him.
Eventually, though, as they emerged further along the shoreline, it became apparent where they were headed. There was only one place it could be, the Captain Cook. Of course, Managua must be taking food to the gwanga. Lintoa heaved a sigh of frustration and turned back. To think he’d wasted the best part of the day on this when he could have been finding eggs. And he needed the eggs to exchange for yams to pay Managua and Purnu for all the magic. It was such a damn joke! Here he was, following Managua to pay for the spells and instead it had cost him yams and made him less able to pay.
And then he remembered that he’d earlier seen the gwanga talking to Managua, then setting off in the direction of Miss Lucy’s. Of course he could have returned while Managua was in his hut and Lintoa was watching for him, but equally well he might not. The gwanga usually walked through the village going to and from Miss Lucy’s, talking to people he saw there, asking questions to help him get them the reward for having their feet blown off. It was unlikely he had returned yet. Besides, if Managua had food for the American, wouldn’t he have given it to him then and there? Or wouldn’t the gwanga have said he’d pick it up on his way back home? There was no need for Managua to go to the Captain Cook. So what was he up to? Suppose he had come now precisely because he knew the gwanga was out?
Lintoa turned and ran back to the hotel. There was no sign of Managua. But he hadn’t met him returning to the village which meant he’d either walked past the hotel on his way somewhere else, or that he’d gone into it.
It would be pointless for Lintoa to walk past the building. For one thing, if Managua had walked on and gone into the jungle, he’d never be able to find him now. And if he’d gone into the hotel and came out again they would walk slap-bang into one another. Lintoa couldn’t think of a plausible reason for his being there. So he lowered himself behind a bush where he had a good view of the hotel entrance and steeled himself for another vigil. It didn’t last long. A few minutes later Managua came out, the bag on his shoulder flat and empty-looking now. Obviously he’d just fed the pig! Lintoa smiled. It was hard not to laugh out loud. Purnu sure was going to let him off some yams for this!
He kept low as Managua limped past his bush and watched him along the beach until he was out of sight. Then he emerged from his hiding place and walked towards the hotel. There was just one mystery. How had Managua concealed the pig from the gwanga? Unless, of course, the gwanga was in on it too. Then again, the hotel was a large building. Bigger than twenty huts maybe. What if the pig was at the far end? Then he had a sudden inspiration. What if it was upstairs?
He walked as softly as his huge feet would allow and stood pondering outside the hotel entrance. He imagined walking triumphantly into the village wit
He stepped through the doorway of the hotel and stopped dead. There was one thing he’d forgotten. The hotel was possessed by bad spirits. Everyone knew that. He could remember Managua telling all the children about them many years ago, when he himself was only a little girl. He took a step back and was about to leave when the thought came to him that, if the story was true, why had Managua gone in there himself? Was it because he was a sorcerer and able to deal with bad spirits? Or was it because he knew there was none there? He turned again and was about to pass through the doorway once more when he heard voices. They were distant, murmuring softly, as though not seeking to advertise themselves in the still of the afternoon. It was the hottest part of the day now, when even the insects slept.
Lintoa was out of there like a shot. In three seconds flat he was behind his bush again. He was shaking and for once he cursed his clumsy bigness. The bush scarcely concealed him. If only he had been slightly built like Tigua! He listened. He could hear nothing from here. Perhaps, after all, he’d imagined the voices. Perhaps it had been nothing more than the pig squeaking its pig noises. He reassured himself that this must be so. But, even so, he would forget about carrying the pig home in triumph. What if it escaped? There was more than a chance that it would; black bantams were plenty damn good at that! And if it did, however would he find it and save his yams? No, much safer, safer all round, just to go back and tell Purnu where the pig was. And he was on the very point of doing this when the slightest movement from above caught his eye. He looked up towards the balcony that ran along the whole of the back of the hotel’s first floor, intended for the British to sit upon and watch the ocean, he’d been told, though why they should have wanted to do that he had no idea. No matter, he couldn’t even think of that now. He couldn’t think of anything at all. For on the balcony stood the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. So beautiful that had she been standing next to Kiroa you would never have even noticed the latter was there. Her skin was pale, white he would have said, and she looked to be tall, almost as tall as him, perhaps. Lintoa rose and was about to call out to her when his shoulder strap slipped. For once he didn’t curse it. How could he have forgotten? How could he approach this vision in his stupid girl’s clothes? Not to mention the stink of his feet from having crossed the shitting beach too fast and carelessly. He threw himself behind the bush again, hoping she hadn’t noticed the movement. He waited a moment, then lifted his head and peeped through the fronds of the shrub. The balcony was empty. The white girl, if she had ever been there, was now gone.
THIRTY-THREE
AFTER WILLIAM LEFT, Lucy sat on her veranda sipping wine. It was probably not the best thing to do given that she’d woken with a massive kassa hangover. What was worse was the nagging anxiety that accompanied it. Lintoa. It was like having been very drunk and remembering just enough to know that you have made a fool of yourself. Only this was worse. This might cost her her life.
William had said he couldn’t believe any of the natives he knew would harm her but Lucy had told him he didn’t understand the power of the taboo. Besides, one of his friendly natives had attacked William. He had fallen quite a distance. He could easily have been killed. Even now, as she sat here, looking at the ocean, hearing the comforting sound of the breakers falling on the shore, she didn’t know if Lintoa had betrayed her or not. If he’d told, it was all up with her. Her only hope was that he obviously hadn’t done it last night or she’d know about it by now. If she could talk to him she might be able to use her past kindnesses to him, the dresses, the bras, the high heels and the beers, to plead his silence.
She heard a foot on the stair of the veranda and there, as though conjured by her thought, stood Lintoa. He was breathless and appeared as anxious as she herself felt.
‘Miss Lucy—’ he began.
She rose from the chair. ‘We’d better go inside.’ She managed to make it sound businesslike. She couldn’t go letting him think he had a big advantage over her.
Inside they stood facing one another. Lintoa seemed too excited to say anything. She’d never seen him like this. A great adolescent boy whose masculinity was suddenly emphasized rather than denied by the silly dress he wore.
‘About last night . . .’ she began.
‘Miss Lucy, I is want for you is do something for me,’ he said.
‘If I can. Will it mean you won’t tell?’
‘You is must do now,’ he said and shucked first one muscular shoulder and then the other out of their shoulder straps and began peeling the dress down his body.
Lucy watched in horror. It was several beats before she could speak. ‘No!’ she gasped. ‘Not that. I will not do that. I would rather die than let someone force me to do something against my will!’
Lintoa stopped pulling down the dress and stared at her. ‘Miss Lucy, why you is be cross? I is not go hurt you. I is never go hurt you.’
She backed away from him and began circling the room, always facing him, hoping that she could reach the door and duck out of it before he made his move. Not that that would solve her problems. He was powerfully built and could easily outrun her. And once it was over, he had nothing to fear, because he knew she couldn’t tell Managua or anyone else or he would tell about her being in the kassa house.
‘I’m not worried about being hurt,’ she said, although of course she was. She couldn’t believe she was having this conversation with Lintoa, of all people. That great galumphing innocent! She got herself calm. ‘I am not afraid. I just will not be forced to do it.’
Lintoa stared at her as if she’d lost her reason. ‘Force? Who is force you for do anything?’ Then his eyes widened. He looked like a child who has been unfairly smacked. ‘Miss Lucy! You is think I is want for make fug-a-fug with you?You is be crazy!’ A grin spread across his big lips and then he started to laugh.
Lucy was relieved by the laughter. And a bit put out too. Was it really so incredible that he might want to make love to her? Then she remembered the taboo against the islanders having sex with outsiders and saw that it was. She didn’t know that Lintoa had already mentally abandoned any adherence to that particular taboo with just one glimpse of the white girl. ‘What then?’ she said. ‘What is it you want?’
He had the dress down to his waist and reached behind him to undo his bra. ‘I is want for you is look at me. I is want for you is say if I is look like boy.’
He dropped the dress to the floor and kicked off his high heels. He stood there in only a pubic leaf, a well-filled pubic leaf, Lucy noticed.
‘You is wait,’ he ordered. He lifted his hands to grab his hair and push it up behind his head so it looked as if it was cut short.
‘Well?’ he said.
‘Oh yes,’ she said, ‘you’re a boy all right.’
‘You is be sure?’ His voice was husky now, throaty with anxiety. ‘I is sorry I is frighten you. I is not mean for do that. Is be no-one else I is can ask. Is be taboo against I is dress like boy.’
‘I understand. Lintoa, you have no need to worry, you’re definitely a boy.’
His face relaxed. ‘Is be plenty good news. I is be girl all my life so I is worry plenty damn much.’
‘What’s brought all this on, Lintoa?’ she asked. ‘Why come here and do this today?’
He thought for a minute. ‘OK, Miss Lucy, I is know you secret so I is tell you
He told her about what he’d seen at the Captain Cook. Lucy was baffled. How could there be a white girl on the island and neither of them know about it? But she’d been in the kassa house only a few hours earlier and that had changed her perspective on things around here. Ghosts did walk this island, she knew that now. She’d never quite believed it until she’d seen it for herself. But if that were so, to whom then did this ghost belong?
‘What can I do for you?’
‘I is go see she tonight, but I is go as boy.’
‘Isn’t that awfully dangerous for you, dressing as a boy, breaking the taboo? What if someone sees you?’
‘No, no-one is go near Captain Cook ’cept gwanga. I is wait until is be dark. Is be big moon tonight. I is leave village in dress. When I is reach hotel I is take off dress and is become boy. Girl is only see me as boy. She is fall in love with boy, is not be so?’
‘Hmm, maybe. You can’t guarantee someone will fall in love with you.’
‘Is be OK, I is get magic for that. That is not be problem. Problem is be hair.’ He let it drop and it fell upon his shoulders. ‘What is I can do with this damn silly hair? I is not be allow for have cut off.’ Tears of frustration brimmed his eyes.
‘Oh, I think we can do something about that. Wait a minute.’ She found an elastic band and showed him how to tie it up. He practised.
‘Now I is look like boy?’
‘Nobody could think you were anything else.’
THIRTY-FOUR
MANAGUA HAD ONLY got another hour or so in on the scene he’d devised to fill the missing two pages when Lintoa burst into the hut.
‘Not now,’ Managua snapped after the briefest glance from his page revealed who his visitor was. ‘I is be busy with one damn tricky scene.’
Lintoa stood in the doorway. He didn’t say anything. Peering up over his spectacles the old man could see the she-boy was anxious. He flung down his pencil with an anger he didn’t really feel. He knew he couldn’t leave the she-boy in this state but he was wary of setting a precedent that allowed any fool to come in here and start wasting his precious time.