that this small compacted tablet contained the essence of what had eluded him for so long. Extraordinary that swallowing this tiny dose was sufficient to put an end to his suffering. He downed it with a tot of island brew for good measure, and lay down wide-eyed as an expectant bride. Before long the room tilted, a warm haze oozed in; Nelson felt his body twitch puppet-like before he slid effortlessly down into the muffled velvet depths.
Chapter Eleven
The end of each year heralded highlights of island life: this was the time of the sheep shearing and the potato harvest, the Hunt and the Summer Solstice Masked Ball, Christmas and then New Year – busy times for both the doctor and Minister Kohler. As December approached, the minister’s sermons would become longer and longer. His congregation fidgeted under his stern gaze as he wheezed out his warnings of the peril that lay in wait for the soul indulging in activities traceable to pagan rituals and heathen practices.
“Desire and restraint,” he announced, “quarrel over our every waking moment, they fight over the weakest part of what makes us human! Consider, ladies and gentlemen, the situation in the Garden of Eden.” He loved the pauses in his sermons: the abyss of quiet like a cliff edge that launched his words towards God for His blessing, then allowed the meaning to parachute down onto the field of upturned faces. “Eve and Adam and the serpent all succumbed to desire in the full knowledge of their sin!” He watched for a sign of the impact of his words, praying for assistance in this thankless task. “Consider too: Christ in the Garden of Gethsemane! He desired to live! He feared death! He appealed to God: ‘Take this cup away from me!’ Yet he was the Son of God, and despite his fear, despite his desire, he practised restraint and submission, saying: ‘Thy will, not mine.’” He leaned right over the pulpit for emphasis as he said this, looking down on his pitiful flock in the corrugated landscape of the pews. Often, of late, he had considered going back to the mainland. He felt weakened by the daily labour of his mission, an eternal pushing of a boulder uphill. Yet this was his restraint: God had lashed him to this cross, this place.
Minister Kohler rocked back on his heels, gripping the edge of the pulpit, and contemplated the beams that held the thatch roof of the church in place. “And so, as we near the time when we celebrate the anniversary of the coming of Christ to the earth, let us be mindful of the choices we make. Choices to obey God’s mighty will – or to follow our own corrupt one.” He never went as far as to name the Hunt and the Masked Ball; everyone knew what he was referring to, and for the following month few in the village could look him in the eye. Nothing was going to dissuade the majority from these observances – surely God knew that they were only a bit of revelry, which never got so out of hand that a prayer or two wouldn’t rectify matters? Only Fabio Bagonata, who lived in perpetual dread of the end of the world, would shout “Amen!” with enthusiasm at the end of the minister’s service, and avoided the temptations of the Hunt and the Ball each year by going fishing.
The build-up started with the sheep shearing and the potato harvest. The potatoes were said to be the best in the world, and the portion that was earmarked for export had to be bagged, and the wool carded and spun in time for the departure of the December ship. This same vessel brought to the island post and gifts and books and supplies, as well as occasional locals returning from the mainland, and island teenagers returning from boarding school for the summer holidays, full of stories to savour of life away from an island existence.
Officer Dorado Bardelli was the first to know the expected time of arrival of a ship, as she was in contact with the captain by radio. Sometimes a ship would arrive during the night, and the children would wake early and run down to the harbour, where the bay beyond accommodated the large and imposing ship, too big by far to fit into the small fishing harbour. The best was when it arrived in the day and the weather was good. Mrs Mobara would let the children out of school to climb up the black volcanic slopes of the mountain to the lookout point, trying to be the first to see the speck on the horizon that would slowly grow into a huge ship carrying dreams from far away.
As soon as someone had spotted the vessel, the children would run down to the harbour, hearts racing, to see how the bow thrusters brought the ship to a halt out in the bay, and how the huge anchors fore and aft were released with a splash into the water. They crowded onto the end of the breakwater, barely heeding their mothers’ shouts to them to be careful. The barge, run by Frank Bardelli, would set out for the ship, coming alongside to receive the cargo hauled from the holds by the ship’s crane and swung out over the barge in nets and containers. Then the barge would ferry the precious items into the harbour, where the process would be repeated with the cranes onshore.
In her office, Officer Dorado Bardelli, who doubled up as the customs official, would oversee the issuing of the goods the islanders had ordered. Some things could be opened straight away and savoured, others had to wait for the Summer Solstice Ball or Christmas or birthdays, when they would provide a further surge of pleasure. Fabio Bagonata always received one of the largest parcels: all his spare earnings went on tinned goods, which he stacked in his increasingly cramped cottage in preparation for the end of the world.
By night, half the islanders would be drunk, getting into fights and throwing up their imported wine and food over their new shoes. The year after Sophia was sent into exile, Mr Bacon – as the villagers called Giorgio Bagonata, the shopkeeper, the fourth person on the island rich enough to order a vehicle – mistook two poles for a road, rendering the car undrivable 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
