Visitants by Randolph Stow Page B

him?’
    ‘No, taubada. He did truly vanish. And when he was gone, that madness was over.’
    ‘You did not kill him, you Kaga people?’
    ‘No, taubada!’ Sagova cried out. ‘He just vanished, and afterwards nobody saw him. Taubada, I am not lying.’
    ‘I believe,’ Mister Cawdor said. ‘I believe your word. Well, enough of Taudoga. My talk is finished.’
    By that time Mister Dalwood had finished his mango, and threw the mango-stone at a gull. Then he walked in the sand, pulling the strings of the fruit out of his big teeth. ‘Very good,’ Mister Dalwood exclaimed, nodding to Sagova. But in English he said: ‘It wasn’t too bad, but let’s push off quick. I was watched. Any minute now we’ll have the ladies from Meals on Wheels.’
    ‘Right,’ Mister Cawdor said, beginning to get up from the sand. ‘Sagova, our gratitude, and goodbye.’
    ‘Taubada,’ Sagova said, putting his hand on Mister Cawdor’s arm, ‘wait a little. I want to ask a question. The people are talking about the star. Taubada, what is the star?’
    ‘Star?’ Mister Cawdor said. ‘Which star?’
    ‘It flies,’ Sagova said. ‘It flew last night from the south-east wind to the north-east wind.’
    ‘Perhaps it is a
mulukwausi
,’ Mister Cawdor said, ‘a flying witch.’ And he laughed, as all the Dimdims do at the
mulukwausi
that ignorant people believe in, because they think it is funny that fire should stream from their women’s parts.
    ‘No, taubada,’ Sagova said, sounding annoyed. ‘Not
mulukwausi
, taubada. A star, that flies.’
    ‘E,’ said Mister Cawdor, ‘I will tell you my mind. I think it is a machine, a Dimdim machine, and its name is Sputnik. It does nobody any harm. It flies in the sky and shines, that is all, like one of those glass floats of the Japanese fishermen.’
    ‘True?’ said Sagova. ‘Well, I will tell the people.’
    ‘Yes, tell them,’ said Mister Cawdor; ‘and tell them also that I am sorry that I spoke of what they did not want to remember. Well, the dinghy has come back. Goodbye, my friend. I will see you perhaps at Wayouyo when you come on the
kula
.’
    ‘Yes, perhaps,’ Sagova said, and he shook hands with Mister Cawdor and Mister Dalwood and me. Then we waded to the dinghy and rowed away, with chickens packed all around us like Dimdim cushions.
DALWOOD
    In those first days the weather was like early mornings when I was a kid, the south-easterly blew quiet and cool, hardly marking the sea, and the clouds were fairweather wisps along the horizons. That evening, between Kaga and Kailuana, the sea died to a smooth curve of bottomless blue, and the blue of the sky faded and changed to green: an apple-green peacock-green sky pouring down a pink and golden light. The
Igau
turned rosy in the glow, which coloured the sea, too, so that it passed through lavender to deep violet, while the faces and shapes of the people became ghostly and strange.
    Sayam stood at the wheel wearing the face of a Mexican god, and listened to the plop of eggs behind him. Seventy-three eggs must have been dropped that evening in the belly of the fresh-painted
Igau.
So Sayam scowled and snapped at his admirers, steering that enormous omelette through the purple sea.
    I thought Alistair would be asleep, I was so nearly asleep myself, and everything was so quiet, and I felt so alone. When the singing began I didn’t even wonder about it, it just seemed right, and meant for me. I lay by Alistair on the decking over Sayam’s head and let the song come to me.
    ‘I attempt from Love’s sickness
    To fly in vain,
    Since I am myself my own fever,
    Since I am myself my own fever and pain.’
    Hard to believe that he understood perhaps four words of that, he sang with such passionate sadness. When it struck me, I scrambled to my knees and stared at him: coal-black in that light, his mauve rami burning. Cross-legged near Alistair’s head, singing to Alistair.
    I thought of the music books in the cupboard where he had