This seemed to perplex him, so I tried a different line of questioning: “Where is he? Where did Davenport go from here?”
“He was held in Tale-Pui-Pui for about a month before being released. Soon after leaving the prison he found passage back to London. I saw him frequently in that period after I left New York and went back to England. He even stayed in my rooms for a while. ‘You, my dear Fergins, are my greatest friend in the whole world, or at least in London,’ he’d say with rare affection and his usual obliviously insulting tone. He never did suspect that I had been the one to deceive him, and though I do not know if he would have sympathized with my reasons, I’m not certain he would have cared by that point. There was nothing behind his eyes anymore, and now he lies beneath the earth.
“When a great author dies, it is cried out by the newspapers and the newsboys who sell them. But when a bookaneer left us, what memorial did he ever have? Davenport was unmoored, perhaps not so different from how Belial himself became after turning poet. Davenport drank and drank. Unlike Belial, Davenport had never been able to keep a penny in his pocket, especially after Kitten’s death. He owed a large sum of money to an infamous printer in Paris, and when he did not profit from the Samoan affair he could not pay his debt. He eventually had to work for the man in France, delivering messages and packages. When he could be found, I ought to say. I heard from one French binder that Davenport disappeared for seven days straight once on a binge. One day he was asleep in the woods, and when he woke, not knowing where he was, he tried to cross a frozen lake, but he fell in and drowned. Ovid once wrote that suppressed grief suffocates and multiplies its strength.” He was silent for a long time. “I warned you not to involve yourself in the story I would tell you, that it would lead to dark passages. Mr. Clover, why dwell on any of it now?” His expression cleared itself of concern and I saw the face of eager, open friendliness I remembered, though I could hardly enjoy it.
“How is it you came to be on this storm-blasted little island, of all places on earth?”
“Now, that’s a sensible topic. When I was first on Upolu with Davenport, I had overheard that the King of Tonga was seeking to devise and print a constitution that could be shown to interlopers in order to prove Tonga was free and self-ruled, and prevent the foreign powers that had fragmented so many nations in the South Seas. When I was back in London without my bookstall and without even the occupation of helping Davenport, I did not know what to do, but I knew what I would not do. I would not be left with nothing. I would not feel myself wither and fade away. I began to corresponded with the King of Tonga and made my arrangement with him. I would help write and print his constitution, in return for his financing my own ambitions here.”
He was about to continue, but the tall native returned and whispered something in the bookseller’s ear. Mr. Fergins nodded. He turned back to me, saying, “Rest, Mr. Clover. You have had a tiring expedition here. I must tend to some business, and then will return.”
I wanted to ask exactly what ambitions and what business he had on this island, but he and the other man were already resuming their conversation in the soft language of this region, and exited. I followed at a distance, as quietly as possible. I heard them leave the building and so found an open window where I could look for them. They were standing outside with a dark-skinned man, dressed in ragged clothes, balanced on a wooden crutch to compensate for a missing leg. He had a simple haversack with him. Mr. Fergins raised his right arm in the fashion of an oath taker and the crippled man did the same. I could hear the bookseller say: “I am the keeper . . .” but he spoke the rest of his statement in a whisper, or maybe it was the strong southeast winds that prevented me from hearing what else he said. The other man seemed to repeat the saying.
I returned to the parlor and laid my head down on a white mat to wait.
My skin and hair stuck to the woven surface of the mat. It was dark outside the windows, but the darkness was starting to lift. A palm leaf of food was on a shelf in the corner of the room. A pig lay on its side and snored rhythmically. Realizing I had slept the night, I jumped to my feet. Outside, I found an older native man cooking over a stone fire pit. I explained to him that it was urgent I return to the shore and see if the guides I had hired were still there. He did not seem to understand a word, but took his leave to fetch someone at an unhurried pace. A few minutes later, Mr. Fergins appeared, once again in a formless suit that looked like a sack, decorated with a string of shells around his neck, and a crown of leaves.
“Do not worry at all, my dear friend,” he said, interrupting me as I stated my concerns. “I took care of everything. When we found that you had fallen into such a deep sleep, I had one of my boys release your vessel and explain that I would arrange for your transportation whenever you needed to go. I hope you feel better rested?”
I said I did.
“Good fellow. It is such a rare pleasure to have a visitor here. Please”—he gestured—“have your breakfast and I will show you what I’ve been doing.”
“Is that . . . ?” I began, staring at the selection before me as a native unwrapped a palm leaf from it.
“Turtle. Baked in its shell,” said my host proudly. “Some gannet’s eggs and some nuts.”