Christopher Priest - The Islanders

After waiting for more than a minute I pressed it again. This time a woman’s voice came faintly and tinnily through a small metal speaker. ‘May I take your name, please?’

‘I’m Dant Willer,’ I said, pressing my face to the green-painted grille. It was hot from the sun and a number of tiny dead insects crusted the gauze.

‘Madame Willer. I don’t recognize your name. Are you a parent?’

‘No. I’m a journalist.’ I sensed asperity in the silence that followed. ‘Would it be possible to come in?’

I heard the woman clearing her throat — a thin rasping noise in the speaker. She started to say something, but the words would not form. A quick popping noise came through the speaker. I could not help it: in my mind’s eye I imagined an elderly woman, leaning forward unsteadily to the intercom microphone. Another rasping noise, as she cleared her throat.

‘We never grant interviews. If you are not the parent of a student here, you have to make an appointment. But we have nothing to say to the press, so please don’t be troubled by the effort.’

There was finality in her tone and I sensed that she was about to break off the contact.

‘I was hoping to see Madame Caurer,’ I said quickly. ‘Not as a journalist. Would that be possible, please?’

‘Caurer is not here. She is busy on other work.’

‘Then she is normally here in the school?’

‘No. That is incorrect. Tell me your name again and what it is you want.’

‘I am Madame Dant Willer. The truth is that I am a journalist for the Islander Daily Times , but I am here on holiday. I’m not seeking an interview for the paper. I have read the sign on your gate.’ The thirst and the endless blazing heat were making my own voice weaker. I didn’t want to clear my throat, send a rasping noise down the intercom. ‘Please may I speak to Madame Caurer? Or may I make an appointment to meet her?’

‘I’ve remembered your name now. I think you wrote a book about the range wars on Junno. Is that right? Is that who you are?’

‘Madame Caurer —’

But the background hiss of the intercom suddenly ceased and I knew that the brief exchange had ended. My senses were alive. I stood there limply in the heat, the fulgent, unrelenting sunlight, with the sound of the hot breeze passing through the tree branches around me, the insensible dashing of small birds, the stridulation of insects, the white glare on the unmetalled road, the sweat running down my back and between my breasts, the burning of the drive’s stony surface through the thin soles of my sandals.

I suddenly realized I might perish there in the tropical heat because I was unable to move. I held to the metal bars of the gate by a force of will over which I felt I had no control. I tried to raise myself to see better, but from this position the only part of the main building that was visible was a brick wall, next to some white-painted outhouses.

I was convinced I had been speaking to Caurer herself.

I was certain she was there, inside the building a short distance away. I was unsure what to do, and anyway I was incapable of acting on any decision. I pressed the intercom button several more times without response, then sagged again. I felt the back of my neck burning and blistering in the heat.

Then she said, ‘I think you will need this.’

She had appeared on the drive beyond the gate and was approaching me slowly. In one hand she held a tall glass tumbler, in the other a flagon of water. Condensation clouded the side of the jug. The weight of it was making her arm tremble and I saw concentric ripples darting across the surface. Caurer was there, actually there, an arm’s length away from me. She poured the water, her hand shaking because of the weight straining her wrist. She filled the tumbler to the top, passed it to me through the bars of the gate.

Our fingers briefly touched as I took the glass from her.

She stood straight before me as I gulped the water gratefully. She was taller than I had expected, smooth-skinned, not smiling but not unfriendly, steady in her gaze, wearing a pale blue dress, a broad-brimmed white hat.

She said, ‘I admired your book more than I can say.’

I felt overcome with amazed pride and contrary humility. ‘Thank you, Madame Caurer — I didn’t think you would know the book. That’s not why I’m here —’

‘How long have you been out in this heat?’

I just shook my head.

The gate slowly opened making a whirring noise, a motor somewhere hidden. Nothing now separated me from her. She still had not moved — the frosted flagon of cold glass unsteady in her hand. She stood erect, regarding me seriously and with a sudden intensity. I felt so scruffy, unsuitable, dressed in clothes not even good enough for scrambling around lost ruins, let alone meeting this woman. I straightened myself, to try to meet her steady regard as equally as I could. Caurer of Rawthersay, standing there, an arm’s length away.

I had never seen her before, not even a picture. But I stared back at her, dizzy with a sense of recognition. She was me, we looked alike! It was as if a mirror had been thrown up in front of me. I raised one hand. She lifted her own, the one not gripping the jug. I felt the same intensity in me that I was sensing in her. My head began to swim. I could not hold the upright posture, because something had happened to weaken me. I slumped, looking down at the ground. I focused on my legs, my bare feet loosely strapped inside the sandals, and was ashamed of the dirt and dust that begrimed me, the black lines between and around my toes.

She stepped forward quickly, caught me as I fell. The flagon dropped to the ground, and broke in a splashing crash on the hard surface of the drive. She had caught me with one strong arm, her body sagging to brace herself against my weight. Without the jug in her hand she gripped me with her other arm, her leg jolting us both as she changed position. I slumped against her, the fabric of her dress against my face. I felt the tumbler fall from my hand. I thought stupidly of all the broken glass around us. Then I smelled her scent, a light fragrance of mint, or flowers, or something that flew. The warmth of her body, the reassuring grip of her arms. She shifted her weight again, so that she was able to hold me better. I closed my eyes, felt safe, hot, dizzy, grimy, ashamed, thankful, but above all safe in her arms. I knew my knees had given out, that if she let go of me I would crash to the floor. The cicadas rasped around us, the sun was an endless blaze.

I was next aware of being half carried, half dragged. Two strong young men, one on each side, one shaved bald, the other straggle-haired. They were encouraging me, trying to make me feel secure. They urged me on with soft words. My bare feet scraped lightly along the dusty floor, my arms thrown intimately around the men’s necks. It was cool inside the house, the shutters down, a draught of blown air, shiny boards with pale rugs scattered, tall potted plants, terracotta ornaments, a decorated screen, a cushioned bench, long fronds over the windows.

Caurer stood beside me, her wide-brimmed hat now knocked to an angle, not yet adjusted, my dirty sandals dangling from her fingers. She was a slender woman, grey-haired, pale-eyed, in the senior years of her life, a presence of immense but silent power. I was stunned to be with her. Still she wore that same serious, uncritical regard. I hardly dared look at her, this woman who looked just like me.

In the distance, somewhere above, sounds of movement. I was in a school.

An hour later I had almost recovered. I had taken a shower and Caurer found me some clothes I could borrow. I had drunk a lot of water, and eaten a light lunch. At times I was alone, as Caurer had work to do in the school.