‘We need to give him time,’ Fen said. ‘He associates us with the mine right now.’
‘He needs to talk about it with us, with people who understand what he’s been through.’
‘Nellie, you don’t know what he’s been through.’
‘Of course I do. He’s been an indentured servant to Western greed.’
‘Where? Which mine? For how long? He could have been there three months for all we know. And that chap Barton who manages Edie Creek. He’s a good sort. I bet he runs a decent operation, if Xambun was there.’
‘By my calculations he’s been gone over three years. Malun has all her fronds—’
‘Her fronds!’ Fen turned to me. ‘When we first got here she had half the fronds she does now. There is no way to know how long he was gone.’
‘Barton is not a good sort. He hosts crocodile parties, Fen.’ I didn’t know what she meant. ‘He bets on the croc and his houseboys die.’
‘That’s rubbish and you know it. What’s in that thing anyway, Bankson? Not sure you even brought a rucksack last time.’
‘Minton came by with the post, and he had a few things for the two of you.’
I popped the clasps. I’d put Fen’s five letters in the fabric of the side pocket. Nell’s post—one hundred and forty-seven pieces of it—filled the rest of the space.
‘Schuyler Fenwick.’ I handed Fen the thin packet of letters. ‘Sorry, mate.’
‘No worries. I’m used to it.’
So was she, it appeared. With none of the shock or celebration I had anticipated, she took the suitcase and set about sorting her mountain of correspondence with a businesslike air: family to the left, work to the right, and friends in the middle. She barely paused over any of them, just checked the return address and placed it on a pile. Occasionally a name brought a small smile, but she seemed each time to be hoping for someone else. Fen took his into the workroom and opened them at the desk.
I settled on the sofa and plucked a magazine from Nell’s pile. The New Yorker, which I’d never seen. On its front was a drawing of tourists at a café in Paris. It was dated August 20, 1932, and the perspective was flattened, with the tables nearly floating in the air, the faces geometric, Picasso-like. Smoke came off a cigarette in a black curlicue. The seven-hour trip in the sun caught up with me and though I meant to open the magazine, my hands were heavy and held it closed. It was a lovely drawing, though perhaps I felt that way because I had not seen a piece of Western art in so long. It filled me with longing, too: the menu, the carafes of wine, the red-and-white checked tablecloths. A waiter came up behind me. He took my order. Squab, I said. Then he turned to Nell, who said squib, and we laughed and I jerked awake.
I worried I’d laughed aloud, but Nell was reading a letter and did not hear me in any case. I could still feel it in my chest and throat, a great bubble of warmth that wanted to escape. Squib and squab. I had a small erection beneath the magazine.
‘Bankson!’ Fen nudged me. ‘I want to show you something.’
I stood woozily and followed him out and down.
‘Best to steer clear, really, when she reads all that,’ he said.
‘Why?’
He shook his head. ‘She gets letters now from every crazy person in America. Everyone wants her advice, her approval. Her name on anything is suddenly some magic golden seal. Then there’s Helen.’
Fen had stopped below the ceremonial house with the enormous villainous face looming above us, its black prickly snake tongue hanging six feet out of its mouth.
‘Who’s Helen?’
‘Another one of Papa Franz Boas’ disciples. Mentally imbalanced. Black, black moods. I had to tell Nell to stop seeing her. Nell writes thirty letters to her one. But she never learns. She always fears the worst. Did you see her pawing through that suitcase for letters from Helen? I don’t think there was even one this time.’
But there was a package, I wanted to say. A heavy rectangle with Helen’s name and address in the top left corner. ‘I’m sorry I brought the post then.’
‘Best to get it over with,’ he said, and called up to the men inside.
After we climbed up and passed under the mouth of the hideous face, there was a second entrance, narrower than the first, red on both sides. I saw that it was the lower part of another carving, this one of a woman with a shaved head and large breasts that towered above us. Her waist tapered and her legs split and the opening we were about to pass through was her enormous scarlet vulva. Fen stepped through it without remark.
I took my time, examining how it was constructed.