and plunging half the island homes into darkness. It took two days for David Peters to get over his hangover sufficiently to get the electrical circuits sorted out, and three weeks for Mr Bacon’s broken nose, rearranged by the steering wheel and then pushed back into place by the bemused doctor, to heal, but it took two months until the next ship brought a new radiator, bonnet and fender to fix his vehicle. In the meantime, it stood forlornly at the back of his shop – a reminder to the whole community never to overdo it, reflected the doctor.
The night after the ship came in, yet other islanders plunged into the intoxicating worlds of books, music, art. Liesa Pelani, who had discovered a love of painting, would open new boxes of watercolours and enamels, Mannie Mobara would caress his new guitar like a lover, Martha Schoones would fall into the arms of the latest prize-winning novel and Elijah Mobara, who spent his spare hours combing the island for driftwood, would set to work with a new set of chisels.
The next day was the day of the Hunt. Years ago, someone had made the mistake of importing to the island a breed of cattle that had a tendency to be excitable; a number had got loose, disappearing into parts of the island that were barely accessible, breeding and going wild. Catching them was near impossible, and if the islanders went out and shot a few, it was difficult to get the large carcasses down the steep mountain paths and back to the village. But the December ship also happened to be a research vessel with a helicopter on board, and the mayor had an informal arrangement with the captain: in exchange for one carcass, some world-class crayfish and five crates of island-brewed spirits, the captain would assist the islanders by airlifting the cattle carcasses down to the village for the Summer Solstice Ball.
First the cattle had to be shot; but the day after the ship came in, there were few able to aim straight. The women would mutter prayers and shake their heads as the men lurched off, fish and crayfish nets forgotten, in search of larger prey. One year, Ricardo Bagonata got shot in the leg when Frank Bardelli mistook him for a heifer; another year, a wild bull gored Lucien Peters while he was trying to remember how to release the safety catch on his rifle. Both injured parties had to be airlifted to the hospital.
Once the cattle carcasses had descended from the heavens and been deposited in the square in front of the community hall, everybody fell in. While some helped Nelson Peters prepare for the feast, butchering and soaking the beef in huge tubs of marinade, others laboured to load the frozen fish, crayfish and potatoes destined for the world markets onto the ship, which sailed the following day. Because the time of the arrival of the ship and therefore the day of the Hunt was uncertain, the islanders always held the Summer Solstice Ball three days after the ship’s arrival, whether it was the true solstice or not. Great fires were made in the square, both for atmosphere and for cooking. It was understood that if anyone was in the jail cell, they would be let out for the occasion, and any hospital patients were wrapped up and wheeled out under the night sky, some even on oxygen. The cleaning tables from the fish factory were carried out and laden with bowls of salads, and breads, and nuts and fruits brought from the mainland. Jojo Schoones’s hi-fi was cranked up until the volume of the music competed successfully with the noise of the generator, and young and old joined in to celebrate after two months of hard work: eating, dancing, singing, flirting.
There was only one rule. Everyone, from great-grandparents to great-grandchildren, was required to wear a mask. Some spent the whole year making their masks spectacular, not only in an attempt to win a prize, but also because they needed to believe they could spend one night each year incognito on this island where everyone knew practically everything about everyone else – even though you could easily hear it was Cyn Peters’s high staccato laugh, or spot at a glance Elijah Mobara’s loping gait or Mr Bacon’s potbelly. Masks allowed for some abandon. As a result, an unusually high proportion of the islanders had their birthdays nine months later, in September – another busy month for the doctor – and the fathers of September babies would look closely at their offspring, trying to discern familiar features.
* * *
Dorado Bardelli glued the last few strands of dried seaweed onto her papier-mâché mask. She was pleased by how she had managed to crimp and plaster the forehead and cheeks the previous night into a fierce, rugged face with heavy brows. The seaweed created a ragged beard, adding to the effect. But she was annoyed with herself for having left it so late: there was a danger of the glue not drying adequately by the evening. She placed the mask next to the crown, then started on the trident, fixing a parabola of wire to one end of a broom handle to create the fork, then padding it by winding strips of sea-green cloth around it. Clarence knew what she would be wearing; they would find each other in the throng that night, and he would surreptitiously cup her buttock in his hand and press himself against her. Later they would find a way to be alone; they would wash up together in a delicious, cocooned island moment. For a while she could pretend it was just the two of them, marooned in each others’ arms, falling into paradise.
She glanced at the clock. She was almost late for work: signing out the goods for export, calculating the export duty and harbour tax, and stamping the crew’s passports. She was meeting with Clarence at two to discuss the adequacy of the fire extinguishers in the co-op; their attention to business would be punctuated by their hands brushing occasionally in anticipation. Her days were organised around these moments, these brief encounters that made her thrill with a painful pleasure.
By two-thirty he had not arrived. This was unusual. Dorado sent Absalom Pelani’s youngest son, Harry, to look for him; he came panting back to say that the mayor had last been seen in his boat early that morning, heading off in the direction of Impossible. Something tightened in Dorado’s chest; what on earth was he doing? Some time ago, Clarence had taken to going fishing: something he had come to late in life, a solitary pleasure he insisted on despite Dorado’s concerns for his safety. But today was one of the busiest days of the year, what with the ship in and the preparations for the Ball; the mayor should be available to be consulted about any attendant problems. Dorado went outside and felt how the wind was picking up and swinging round from the south, scrubbing the surface of the sea into a corrugated washboard, feeding her own turbulence. She locked up the police station and went to check herself. Clarence’s boat was not in the boat shed. She went to Jerome Peters, Clarence’s elder son, for help. The factory was closing early. The ship had been loaded in record time, and men and women were hurrying home to wash and change for the festivities ahead. Jerome checked with his mother; it transpired she was unaware that her husband had gone off in his boat.
Dorado prepared the police launch for the search with a double dread. In living memory, there had been three occasions when men had gone missing at sea – but none had been found. Also, why had he not told her of his plans?
Jerome and his brother Nelson came with her. The launch ploughed through the ruck and chop, heading for Dead Man’s Cove on Impossible, where the fish were so plentiful they almost jumped into the boat. By the time they reached the cove, the sky was heavy with grey constellations of cloud, and visibility was becoming poor. There was no sign of Clarence’s boat, so they put in at the landing beach and went to interrogate Sophia, her young son crawling at her feet. Three hours later, when they could not get Sophia to admit she had seen Clarence or knew his whereabouts, they were forced to sleep over in the fishermen’s cottages.
* * *
Nelson lay in the darkness listening to his brother’s breathing, his body tight and cold, his father lost, perhaps forever. This woman Sophia had something to do with it, he knew; he remembered his father’s scratched face on his return after he had escorted her into exile.
Jerome thought this idea far-fetched. “He should never have gone out alone,” he said, raising his voice above the wind’s whine.
“The sea was calm enough most of the day,” Nelson pointed out, wanting his wife’s warm arms around him, angry with his brother for not seeing the obvious.
“You also don’t know the sea, Nelson. It’s not only storms can wreck you.”
Nelson did not sleep much that night, not having brought his tablets with him, and with his father’s ghost already sitting on his chest, whispering disparaging comments in his ear. The past could not be changed; certain memories stood solid and immutable, set in stone amidst the flux and wash of vague recollections.