When I returned to the living room David was saying that Hawaiian chants are wonderful but difficult to describe. Under the influence of my private dividend, I broke in with: “Why don’t we play some records?”
This brought the usual result: we spent the rest of the night singing and doing hulas. The party broke up at 2 and Troy left only at his wife’s insistence.
Anne reproached me the next day. “You were remiss as a host, fella. I don’t think Mavis Purcell will forgive you.”
“I’m sorry,” I said unregretfully. “I should have realized folklore would be too deep for Troy’s wife.”
“Don’t make the mistake of labeling her stupid,” Anne warned. “She knows exactly what she wants — and she’s got it. You can be sure she has no intention of giving it up.”
“So who cares?” I retorted. “They’re nothing in our lives. David will take Troy in hand from now on. We can put the Purcells out of mind.” But a week or so later conscience drove me to the hotel to inquire how they were getting along. I was startled when the room clerk said that Mr. Purcell was out of town, but did I wish to speak to Mrs. Purcell? I said no, guiltily, and turned to encounter the Garrisons. When they invited me to have a drink I consented, hoping to hear news of Troy.
“He’s on some other island,” Peggy said in a disapproving tone. “That Hawaiian we met at your house sent him over to stay at some kind of native village.”
We were on the terrace of the Royal with an excellent view of Waikiki curving out toward Diamond Head. Peggy waved a hand. “The beach is crawling with Hawaiians. And this island has plenty of scenery. Why should Troy have to sneak off—”
“Peggy!” Her husband interrupted. She flashed an angry look at him.
She was afraid, I thought. The little flicker of desire she had felt at the sight of David was immediately quenched.
“All right,” Peggy said. “He didn’t sneak off. He told us where he was going. But he’s been gone a week, while Mavis is stuck here. Why did he choose some place where he knows she can’t go with him?”
I was beginning to feel uneasy. “Why couldn’t she go?”
“Because,” Peggy informed me, “the place he went to can’t be reached except by plane. And Mavis is deathly afraid of flying. That’s why they came on the Lurline instead of by Clipper.” At this I felt even more disquieted. I thanked them for the drink and left. Bill caught up with me just as I got into the car.
“Look, John.” He hesitated. “What’s on your mind?”
“If you know where Troy is you might hint that he should get back here pretty soon. Mavis doesn’t feel well. She got a skin rash from eating fresh pineapple.”
“Many tourists do. I forgot to caution her about that.”
“It upset her quite a bit. She stayed in the room a couple of days until it went away. But she’s afraid something else might happen.”
“You mean,” I said, “Mavis might be finding this climate too much for her?”
He grinned and nodded. Then he grew more serious. “I’m speaking as a friend of Troy’s now, as well as his insurance broker. He’s lucky he carries a good policy with us because he might not be able to get another. The guy really needs a complete rest. When he’s home he works like crazy — won’t take care of himself. I’d like to see him stay his month out.” He looked at me, then added uncomfortably, “Mavis and Peggy are pretty thick. Neither of them would appreciate knowing that I—”
“Don’t worry. I won’t mention it.”
I went home and called David. When he told me where he had sent Troy, I was really disturbed. I hung up and said to Anne, “Troy Purcell has gone to Kauai. His wife is here alone. And she’s been showing symptoms—” I repeated what Bill had told me, but added, “She may look delicate. I’ll bet she’s tough as an elephant.”
“Remember the elephant’s other attribute,” Anne reminded me. “Both times that Troy Purcell’s had a taste of island life, he forgot his wife entirely. Why don’t you call him?”
“There’s no telephone.” When I told her where on Kauai he had gone, Anne said slowly, “I wonder why David did that?”
“I have a hunch Troy insisted on it.” I was remembering our conversation by the sea wall at the Queen’s Surf. “What should I do, Anne?”
“Well,” she said, “he is in a way your responsibility. You’d better go after him.”
I worried in the inter-island plane all the way to Kauai. David had sent me there when I talked to him about research for my story. It hadn’t upset my emotional balance. But then my choice had been made; the islands were my home, not a tantalizing glimpse of loveliness I must put behind me after a brief vacation. For an artist, high-strung and susceptible, there might be no more dangerous place in all Hawaii — perhaps in all the world — to send a man like Troy.
Tourist literature calls Kauai The Garden Isle. But to many Polynesians the island is a haunted place. There are even a few white people who claim they cannot stand more than a few weeks of its atmosphere. Oldest of the Hawaiian group, Kauai possesses jagged mountains, unexplored legendary canyons, valleys into which waterfalls thunder to become rivers cascading to the sea, sacred regions where ancient heiaus still stand and ghost drums herald nightly processions of ghostly Hawaiian warriors.
On the northern coast of Kauai there exist today a few isolated communities in valleys as lovely as the Garden of Eden, hidden between awesome rock walls and accessible only by tortuous trails pre-dating King Kamehameha. In these localities the rhythm of Polynesian life has hardly changed; here people grow taro and weave lauhala, toss nets from rocky ledges into a churning sea, spear fish at night with kukui torches flaring orange over black waters. In such a place certain personalities succumb irresistibly to enchantment of the spirit.
And Troy Purcell had been there a week.
Since the coastal approach to the village is unnavigable, he had been taken there by plane, and it was in the same Piper Cub, piloted by a Hawaiian named Keoni, that I went after him. I didn’t know what pretext I would use to bring him back to Honolulu.
But none was necessary. When we settled on the landing strip near the lagoon a group came to meet us, and among them was Troy.
“Hi, John. Glad you decided to come over.” As he reached the plane he called to the pilot, “Keoni! You’re a day ahead of time.”
Hawaiians gathered around us, asking, “How’s the fishing? What news from Lihue? Did you bring canned milk?” Troy and I withdrew to the edge of the palm grove and lit cigarettes.
He didn’t seem different, except that his redness had turned to brown and his waist must have been thinner because he had difficulty keeping his pants up. He wore an unbuttoned cotton shirt and he was barefoot.
“I’ve found my models,” he said. “A couple are coming over to Oahu to pose for me. One of them is Keoni.”
“When will you start to work?” I was careful to keep relief out of my voice.
“I was planning to leave tomorrow, but we may as well go today. Unless,” he looked as if it had just occurred to him, “you have some reason for staying here?”
“No. I just came to see how you’re getting on.”
“I’m fine,” he said. “I’ve never been so — hey, Lala! That’s my other model. Isn’t she a beauty?”
I studied the girl as she walked toward us. She was tall, superbly modeled under the cotton dress she wore; in her way (not the Dorothy Lamour way nor even with the sullen secretiveness of Gauguin’s Tahitians) she was very beautiful. Her hair was glossy black and from the thickness of the braids around her head looked to be quite long; the seriousness of her great dark eyes was belied by up-tilted corners of her wide, exquisitely carved Hawaiian mouth.