Grave Doubts by John Moss Page B

Brazil!”
    “That’s right.”
    “What were you doing there, for goodness sake?”
    “Stopping over from Santiago.”
    “Chile!”
    “Well done.”
    “What was in Chile? You are very strange.”
    “Easter Island. Santiago is the jumping off point for Easter Island.”
    “You’re serious. You were at Easter Island.”
    “‘On,’ not ‘at.’ It’s very small.”
    “Morgan, it’s too early. Meet me on, or at, Fran’s for breakfast.”
    “I’ll meet you at Starbucks in an hour.”
    They both knew which Starbucks — the one over from police headquarters on the corner of College and Yonge.
    “So, you’ve been away?” she said when she saw him.
    He rose, kissed her on both cheeks, and slumped back into his chair. He had a large cappuccino waiting for her, with the saucer on top to keep it warm. His eyes were bloodshot and his hands swollen, but he looked content, like the cat, having swallowed the canary, who endured indigestion as a reasonable price for the pleasure.
    “Tell me.”
    “Well,” he said, “I got on an Air Canada flight at Pearson, heading for Easter Island. When I transferred to Varig Air in Brazil, I was travelling to Isla de Pascua. In Santiago, I boarded Lan Chile for Rapa Nui. And I landed on Te pito o te henua. All the same place. It was a magical journey. Did you ever read Leacock’s Sunshine Sketches , where he gets on a modern train in the Metropolis, and transfers to an older train on his way to Mariposa as he travels back into another world defined by nostalgia and wit? I have just emerged from another dimension, defined by enchantment and mystery.”
    “You sound slightly demented. What on earth took you… there?” Miranda gazed across the table at her partner, who was dishevelled, buoyant with enthusiasm. He was precious in her life, she wanted to tell him. She wanted to hug him and keep him invulnerable. “You are an idiot, Morgan. No one knew where you were.”
    “On Rapa Nui. That’s what they call themselves, and their language, and the island. Te pito o te henua means navel of the world. It’s not really a name; for a thousand years they didn’t know there was anyone else on the planet. It’s a geographical declaration.”
    “I wrote an essay on Thor Heyerdahl as an anthropological entrepreneur when I was in university.”
    “How very cynical. You were ahead of your time.”
    “Yeah, actually I wrote it in high school. ‘ Kon Tiki : Boys at Sea.’ ‘ Aku Aku : Boys Still at Sea.’ ‘Indiana Jones: An Autobiography.’ Whatever. Got an ‘A.’ Or should have.”
    “You ever notice how people ask about your travels so they can talk about themselves?”
    “Yes, I’ve noticed that.”
    They sipped their coffees, each looking over the rims at the other. Miranda smiled, inhaled coffee, and, as she choked, slammed down her cup on the table. Morgan grimaced in sympathy. Her eyes watered, she tried to speak, she waved her hand to reassure witnesses that she was not about to expire. Everyone but Morgan looked away.
    “Well then,” he said. “Given this opportunity to say a few words, let me fill in possible gaps in your memory of Heyerdahl. Rapa Nui is about three thousand kilometres off South America, another three thousand from Tahiti. There are almost nine hundred moai — that’s what the statues are called — and about three times that many people.
    “Nine hundred,” she mouthed in astonishment.
    “Yeah, from three feet to sixty feet tall, not all completed. Every one is unique, like a signature — you know, the same and yet each version is different. They were created over an eight-hundred-year period.”
    “Sixty feet?”
    “That one’s still in the quarry at Rano Raraku. I spent alot of time out there.”
    He talked on and on, and Miranda was spellbound. Eventually, it was Morgan who exclaimed, “It’s time we get back to work.”
    “I was working while you were away, you know. The world didn’t hold its breath in your absence. Things