Our attentions were diverted by the sounds of crashing surf that had filled the island for days all the way to the mountains; now, heavy winds were coming in. I stepped over piles of books, walking to the open window and peering down at the incredible view to the water.
“Mr. Fergins, the rain will roar like the blue sea. Yes, no doubt about it—the rains will be coming. But first will come the winds and more wind, until you can’t take more, and pray for the rain.”
I lifted my eyes to our host. I could sense the excitement from Davenport.
Stevenson glanced over at him with the full force of his piercing eyes, which in the dim light of the library looked almost black. Drumming out the sound of rain on the table, his long, tapered fingers made the sounds heavier and heavier. He put himself into a meditative state that was infectious.
“I always feared the sound of wind beyond everything. I do not love noise. I am like my grandfather in that, and my time in these islands has ingrained the sentiment. In my hell a gale would always blow. That reminds me of a chapter I’ve written for the final section of this novel.”
Davenport asked if there was a storm in the book.
“Not a storm, Porter. The foreboding, some evil yet unknown that approaches us.”
? ? ?
THE END OF THE MISSION could come even more easily, more quickly than my companion had yet dared to hope. How perfect for the purposes of the bookaneer: while Stevenson approached the conclusion of his book, the rainy season would soon throw down a curtain to keep him from being distracted by matters outside the house and to keep Belial or anyone else who might interfere far from the island. Davenport couldn’t ask for a better development. Not that Davenport ever took anything for granted in one of his missions, something I observed in Samoa even more than I ever had in the past. The matter of Belial, for instance. Though there was still no sign of him, he would have been using an alias if he was on the island. Early in our stay, during one of our first visits to the village of Apia, Davenport made it known that he was looking to interview visitors to the island for their impressions to include in his travelogue, and would pay to hear of any new whites arriving. But there were none to speak of. We had very good reason to conclude that his rival bookaneer simply never made it, or that our informants back in Europe had been mistaken that he’d even tried.
One evening, we were back in the library, where Davenport was sipping from a goblet of beer, looking over the family’s collection of books. He had been playing a hand of cards with Stevenson before the novelist stepped onto the verandah to give instruction to one of the houseboys, who was beginning preparations around the estate for the island’s storms, which everyone anticipated landing in a few weeks. Browsing the shelves, Davenport located three and a half pages from what appeared to be an early draft of Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, which had apparently been misplaced in a pile of newspaper clippings. His eyes went wide. It included characters not seen in the novel, and for that reason alone would be invaluable to collectors.
“What are you doing?” I asked, worried he was taking too long.
“Keep your eye on Stevenson. I knew these could be here.” He had previously found clues to the existence of this original version. Now he could hardly resist devouring the pages for a moment. Then he pushed them back inside the clippings and the clippings between two books.
“More beer, White Chief?” It was Charlie, who had hurried into the room as Davenport turned his back to the bookshelf, displaying his endearing keenness both to practice his English and to make us feel at home.
“Thank you, I still have some,” said Davenport.
“Have you seen?” the servant asked me excitedly. He pointed out a ceramic bowl and fork displayed on a table near where I was sitting.
“I hadn’t noticed those, Charlie,” I admitted. “What are they?”
“It is a brain bowl—and a cannibal fork! Used by the Solomon Islanders to eat their enemies.”
I cringed at the thought and replaced the objects as he moved on to show Davenport a pistol gifted to the Stevensons by the son of Percy and Mary Shelley.
I found Charlie delightful. In addition to the charming orange dye in his hair, he had sparkling eyes and a wider build than most of his race. In physical stature, in fact, he was rather similar to me. His curiosity to learn about everything, too, flattered me as mirroring my own. He had a nice way of finishing his sentences in a quieter voice than where he began them. In answer to his questions, I told him about London, about newspapers, operas, streets divided into blocks and squares, and the underground rail system, which he seemed to take as a fairy tale.
Then there was Vao, the maiden who would chew and spit out our ’ava. Her name was spelled V-A-O but pronounced “Veeawoo.”
She was a pretty eighteen-year-old, the prettiest of Vailima’s female servants and, in fact, the prettiest girl we had seen among the generally handsome Samoan natives. Interestingly, her striking beauty did not leave her with an obvious air of superiority. If her looks alone did not make her easy enough to notice, she was, I should add, almost always trailed by the same dwarf we had seen at the ’ava ceremony, whose sole occupation seemed to be following her.
One morning, this young woman was setting the table for a family meal while I was in an armchair reading a book of poetry borrowed from Stevenson’s library. Davenport was outside helping the novelist clear some brush and trying to draw out additional details about the progress of the novel, but I had become too hot and feared fainting if I did not go inside when it was nearly as hot. At least I had a book. For readers, books are a universal salve. When we are hot, we read to feel cooler; when we are cold, we read to warm up; tired, books wake us; anxious, they calm us.
“She doesn’t favor white men,” the dwarf said to me in English, poking me with his finger.
“Who?”
“Her.”
I was doing my best to avoid looking at her uncovered bosom, so I merely murmured in response and tried to read more from Lapsus Calami.