Charter turns away. Repulsed and despairing, he falls to his knees, his hands held to his ringing ears. When an instant among the many rises above all the rest to seize the mind, what are the consequences? He shivers. He has seen something primal, grotesque. He has seen two little girls transformed into harpies before his eyes.
Or maybe not. Maybe he is overly sensitive. Overly concerned. Perhaps little girls, just like little boys, inflict these punishments on one another thoughtlessly, in the spirit of play, with no ill intention. In childhood he was never in a scuffle; he would watch other boys bewildered, their passions inscrutable, given to an animal impulse. Like the hissing of kittens. After all, he knows his Asthma. Knows her tender ways. Knows her sweetness, the innocence with which she took his hand, whispered in his ear. .
It’s Sunday. Billy and Charter relax with bowls of café au lait and the Ohneka Tribune. The calm is breached by shouting: a child howls, then another. The scene that haunts him infects another hour. Muzzle her! Goldie screams. Pea Pod! Little thief! Billy leaps from the sofa and closes the windows. “It never stops!” Billy mutters, “I think it’s getting worse.” Moments later the doorbell rings. Charter goes to the door. A small, intense woman gazes up at him with impatience.
“I’m Santa,” the woman says, and then trots in to greet Billy. Dr. Santa Fofana, anthropologist, now retired. Back for the weekend for the sake of nostalgia, something like that.
“Divorce suits you, Billy!” she cries. “You’ve never looked better!”
“It’s Charter here,” Billy says. “He has lifted my spirits immeasurably. Come to us from Australia. On a Fulbright. A fan of Loon’s.”
“Loon!” she erupts with laughter.
Charter feels trapped. How does he justify the harebrained project Billy has so eagerly embraced? Needlessly he explains his Fulbright is singular.
“Good for you,” Santa says, “to have been singled out. Loon!” She laughs disdainfully. This burns him. When Billy goes off to fetch more coffee, Santa makes herself at home among the new cushions. Charter feels compelled to say more.
“There are a few of these, uh, singular grants, ah! Sponsored, I should say, by a family foundation—”
“Is that so?” Santa digs into her purse for a cigarette that Charter is quick to light with the gleaming and somewhat ridiculous lighter Billy keeps on the cocktail table.
“Nadine. .,” Charter begins. “Nadine Hettering.”
“Who?” Santa frowns at him. “Who’s this?”
“The Nadine. . the Nadine Lark Hettering Family Trust.”
“What of it?”
“Sponsored—”
“Oh. The Fulbright! Loon! The Eternal lasts only as long as its aspirations.” She snorts.
“He’s much admired in Australia,” Charter says defensively. “Because of his interest, you know, in obscure islands. .”
“The obscurer the better!” Santa says. Billy hands her a cup of coffee.
“It’s fascinating, Santa,” Billy says. “Charter lived among the Mannja Fnadr.”
“The Mannja Fnadr. Er. . never heard of them.”
“Tell her about the Mannja Fnadr, Charter! Tell her about Noola!”
“God. Where is this place?” asks Santa. Billy scurries for the atlas, calling out as he does:
“Sing her the song! There’s a song!” Billy cries. “Charter knows it!” Charter does all he can to escape, but cannot. He has barely a notion of what he had improvised a week earlier over a supper of shad roe. He is sinking into a nightmare and desperately attempts to come up with something not too ridiculous.
“Rapa ta runula,” he begins in a strangled voice, “Ru nulu oho oho.” Santa asks what it means.
“Here we stand naked in the breeze—” Charter says.
“Indeed we do,” says Santa.
“The Noola is the tree; its leaves, the bird; its beak. .”
“Hm,” Santa exhales. “Where did you say this island is? Any connection to Easter Island? Loon was so taken with Easter Island.”
“It is actually quite far from Easter Island,” Charter says desperately.
“Well, what isn’t?” Santa fixes Charter with two very bright brown eyes.
Charter opens the atlas and points to a spot that is barely there.
“Ah,” says Santa. “Rurutu. Its scorpions and its bird gods. Rurutu. A wonderful name, isn’t it? It rolls of the tongue like a spoonful of oil. Rurutu! Noola! I want to go to Rurutu,” Santa says savagely, “and rub myself down with Noola.”
Billy has brought in more coffee and a plate of scones.
“What do they eat on Rurutu?” Santa asks, tearing into one. “Still baking, Billy! Thank god!”
“Ah, well. . the children—” Charter manages.
“The dear little ones. So cute the little ones. So sad they grow up into cannibals. One wonders why.”
“They’re not cannibals!” Billy interjects. “Charter says—”
“The hell they’re not.”
“They. Uh!” Charter thinks his entire upper body is blushing. “They would bring me eggs in little baskets of their making, green leaves and grasses. . you know. All woven together.”
“Oh, I don’t know, Charter. Which is why I asked.”
“Little blue eggs, rather like quail eggs. I don’t recall the names of the birds that lay them. They bake them on coals—”
“Perhaps they were the eggs of the Lulu bird. And the women. Are they perhaps all named Lulu, too, on Rurutu? The men called Roo? I bet my life they all go barefoot, except in the places where the thorny Noola grows.”
“The Noola has no thorns,” Charter tells her.
“Why not?” Santa asks. “Why not give the Noola thorns?” She smiles companionably as she says this.
Billy, wonderfully amused, chuckles, says:
“The world is a dream, after all! Why not invent all our islands!”
“Oh, but we do!” says Santa. “Here’s to the Noola and egg eaters of Rurutu, their Lulus and their Randy Roos, too!” She raises what remains of her scone.
“When the islanders have a feast,” Billy says gaily, “they slap their bellies like drums.”
“Of course they do!” Santa cries. “And I bet they whack the Lulus’ bottoms with a nice fat Noola spoon.” And then, thank heaven, she stops; Santa and Billy get into recollections of the old days, the people come and gone. When she leaves at last, she says to Charter at the door:
“Next time, Charter, dear, we will have to play cards. I do love to gamble, as I dare say you do, too. We will play Jack of Spades — do you know the game? I do! I know the game.” She beams with evident malevolence. “It’s a great game for those who know how to bluff.” Off she goes into an afternoon as rich in the songs of insects and birds as any island paradise.
Charter is so undone he manages to drop any number of things on his way to the kitchen — coffee spoons, an empty dish. But Billy, always in good spirits it seems, does not mind and says only: “I have never seen Santa so playful, so animated! I had no idea she was such a tease. You’ve charmed her, Charter! I’ve not played Jack of Spades; you will have to clue me in!” And on and on — Charter, suddenly overcome, runs to the sink and vomits violently onto the small stack of dishes and cups. When he is done Billy gently mops his face and neck with a damp hand towel and insists he lie down. He walks Charter up the stairs, gently patting his back all the way, and helps him into bed. As Charter lies there in a panic, Billy arrives with a glass of ginger ale and sets it fizzing companionably beside him.