The Last Bookaneer

“It is time for ’ava,” he said to us with a grin.

 

We sat crossed-legged in a semicircle on the large front verandah, joined by Fanny and Belle.

 

I discovered now why Fanny Stevenson was so keen on having an English bookseller in her company. She seemed to think I could convince him to return to civilization.

 

“Oh, Mr. Fergins has been telling me with what reverence you would be greeted in London or Edinburgh,” she said as the servants passed out lemonade and cookies. “He knows the sympathies of the public as well as anyone. Tell him, Mr. Fergins.”

 

“Well, in a manner of speaking, I oughtn’t try to claim—”

 

“Tell him exactly what you told me, Mr. Fergins.”

 

I repeated my assessment—King Arthur and Avalon, Dickens and Wordsworth, the English language come alive.

 

Stevenson seemed unaffected. “Barkis worries what the politicians think of me being here, with the British consulate on the island always wrestled into submission by the Germans, who have the most firepower and money,” he said without looking at me. “Barkis,” he called, repeating his curious pet address for his wife. Nobody ever bothered to explain it to us, so I assume it was inspired by Dickens’s famous line “Barkis is willing,” now applied to Fanny’s rather amazing willingness to follow the writer to the ends of the earth. “Barkis, my dear fellow, do not concern yourself with politicians. I once thought meanly of the plumber, but how he shines beside today’s politician.”

 

“It was merely an informed speculation on Mr. Fergins’s part. A welcome one, if you ask me, Louis.”

 

“Tusitala,” he said, not to correct his wife but to instruct us. He turned to Davenport. “Did my wife tell you that she dislikes Americans?”

 

“Not yet, but I’d like to hear why,” Davenport said.

 

“She thinks Americans and Australians are dangerous when they go to foreign lands because they care only about conquest and do not mind what the public will think of their actions. Frankly, I lost my only chance for the public to love me unconditionally by not dying. What do you have to say to that, Mr.”—Fergins, his wife reminded him—“Mr. Bookseller?”

 

I wilted under Stevenson’s sidelong gaze. “Well, but, in truth . . . I daresay . . . regarding any speculation on my part . . .” I never properly began or ended.

 

Stevenson clapped his hands together as several bowls of different sizes were brought over. One of these bowls, filled with the roots of a native plant, was carried by a very pretty girl. Her ample bosom was draped with six or seven necklaces of beads, stones, and small animal teeth hanging down; around her neck was a rather beautiful collar made from whale teeth. The exposure of so much skin, like anything else on a primitive island, began to seem normal after a while. Her black hair was oiled tightly over her ears and in three buns around her head, with a few strands falling freely along with a display of flowers down her neck. Her cheeks were round, while her eyes were close together and sharp, suggesting simultaneously a childish angelic nature and a touch of craftiness. Behind her stood a middle-aged dwarf, perhaps three or three and a half feet tall, with long arms and a watchful glance at the whole party.

 

The scantily clad girl began to chew a piece of the plant root, then added another piece of the root, chewing vigorously, though keeping her lips closed. She added another piece and one more, until I was astounded she could fit anything more in her mouth. She was carefully shifting the already chewed-up roots into her cheeks until finally there was no more room. She spit the masticated roots into the bowl, poured water from another bowl, and then mixed the concoction together. The first serving was poured into a carved coconut shell and passed to Stevenson, who drank it in one draught.

 

“Here is the ’ava,” said our host in an apparent part of the ritual. “Now let it be shared!”

 

After the shell was filled again, Stevenson passed it to me. “’Ava is a great tradition here,” he assured me. “The honor of making it is to go to the most beautiful maiden in the village, or, in our case, here at Vailima. Do not worry, she rinses her mouth quite thoroughly first.”

 

I must have blanched visibly at the thought of drinking the spit-up brew because all at once I saw the following happen: Stevenson laughed, Belle nodded knowingly, the silent dwarf squinted, and Fanny raised impatient eyes.

 

“You grow accustomed to this life,” Belle said, more a warning than an assurance.

 

“In some places in Samoa, a visitor would be imprisoned for refusing ’ava,” Stevenson added, enjoying my discomfort, perhaps revenge for complimenting his literary status too highly.

 

“To tradition,” I said, raising the shell to my lips. The mixture had a strong odor of sand and oil and looked like soapy water. It had a pungent, unpleasant taste. I hoped I would not grow accustomed to it.

 

Davenport took the next portion that was poured. With his eyes on the girl’s face, he drank the vile liquid down without pause. She cast her head down as each drinker took a turn, though I noticed her gaze kept drifting to Davenport’s.

 

“Compliments, Tusitala,” he said.

 

“A pleasure,” Stevenson said. “You see that I have gone into far lands to die, and here will I stay until buried—unless, of course, we can manage one more visit to Italy; I always wanted to return there one day. But I imagine the reality is obvious to outsiders like you gentlemen. The word is out, and my doom is written.”