Wu Ming-Yi - The Man with the Compound Eyes

After Dahu confirmed that Alice was safe and sound, he kept up his coastal cleanup work and his Forest Church work with Anu. Alice would answer when Dahu called. When he went by the Sea House he would sometimes see Alice out and about, and occasionally Detlef and Sara would be there too. Sara was quite intrigued by this woman who’d been living in a hunting hut in the hills ever since her house had gotten inundated. But though Alice was willing to exchange pleasantries, it seemed there was a window in her heart that was always shut. No matter how Dahu tested the waters, Alice remained unwilling to reveal the identity of the person who was living with her at the hut. “Give me some time,” Alice said.

Hafay was busy serving villagers and tourists salama coffee, and Umav was responsible for telling travelers various Pangcah and Bunun tales. She was enjoying herself, and was becoming more of a young lady every day. She’d grown bangs, and used a hair band to gather up her hair, revealing the moles on her ear lobes.

That’s how they passed the winter.

Spring had just arrived, and Detlef and Sara had to leave because Detlef had to give a guest lecture at a university back home. One evening, a few of them were sitting around shooting the breeze, and Hafay recommended Detlef and Sara take a trip south before they left. “It would be a shame if Sara never got the chance to observe the sea down the coast.” The plan quickly took shape: they decided to go in two vehicles, with Dahu and Anu driving. Alice was also invited, but as usual she made up an excuse and declined to go.

“The millet will ripen when it’s time,” Hafay said, to comfort Dahu.

When the car reached the entrance of the village, Dahu rolled down the window and said in Bunun to an old fellow crouching at the side of the road: “Mikua dihanin?” (What’s the weather like today?)

“Na hudanan,” the elder replied. (It’s going to rain).

Actually, it had been raining incessantly since last year, far more than predicted. Rain now seemed to be the only weather, from drizzle and occasional sunshiny rain to afternoon thundershowers and sudden downpours. “We’re drowning!” was the mood of the entire island. There was a deluge of reports of floods and landslides, along with a concomitant economic downturn. The malaise had lasted over a year and had contributed to the low voter turnout — less than fifty percent! — in the election at the end of the previous year. The islanders no longer believed any politician could get them out of this mess.

“How can one mudskipper lead a school of mudskippers out of the mire?” wrote Alice’s cynical friend Ming in a letter to the editor.

One day at dawn Alice was finally done revising. She’d completed two works of fiction, a novel and a short story. Atile’i already had a vague idea of what “fiction” was. It was like he’d always imagined there was a story behind everything he did not understand on Gesi Gesi. When Alice told Atile’i she was done, Atile’i asked: “What’s the name of it?”

“The long one or the short one?”

“The long one.”

“The Man with the Compound Eyes.”

“And the short one?”

“It’s also called, ‘The Man with the Compound Eyes.’ ”

That afternoon, Atile’i insisted on taking Alice somewhere. Alice was initially quite surprised, and extremely apprehensive, because she was still unwilling for Atile’i to be seen in public, lest he get hurt. When they were almost at the coast, Atile’i led Alice into a wood to the right, through which there was no distinct path to be seen. It would originally have been on slope land, but what with recent terrestrial transformations it was now surprisingly close to the shoreline. Various kinds of garbage that had not been (and might never be) cleared were piled up at the edge of the wood. Atile’i had something to show her. He lifted up what seemed to be a huge sheet of scrap canvas, to reveal something astonishing underneath. It was a boat.

All this time, Atile’i had been sneaking down at night while Alice was asleep and coming here to build a boat. But it was not a talawaka this time. It was made out of several kinds of wood from the mountains and some garbage collected at the beach. The basic construction of the hull reminded Alice of the traditional balangays of the Tao people of Orchid Island, only with a rain awning. Atile’i explained, “I saw the boat in a book. I learned how.”

How had the youth before her managed to construct a seemingly well-formed plank canoe with only crude tools and a few pictures in a book to consult?

“I can read books.” It was true. Atile’i had gone through many books since he started reading on Gesi Gesi, even though he never understood the writing. He had his own way of reading.

Alice wished Atile’i would stay, but as he would not give a definite answer, Alice knew that he was determined to go.

“I heard Rasula’s voice. And there were two. Every evening,” Atile’i said. “But lately there’s only one left. Wayo Wayoans … belong at sea. I … must find Rasula.”

With heavy steps, they walked wordlessly back to the hunting hut. They did not sleep the whole night through. By morning, Alice had prepared two full suitcases of things she imagined one should take along on a journey across the sea. Atile’i smiled and reduced the gear to a single suitcase. He asked Alice for a fistful of pens.

“If I die soon, my spirit … might never leave. If I live long, I can … draw pictures on my skin.” He took off the green polo shirt that Alice had bought him, and his chest, arms, belly, and even the parts of the back he could twist his arms to reach, were covered in the stories of their life together on the island: Ohiyo, water flowing into the sea at the river mouth on a rainy day, alpine birds, and even Toto. He drew Toto’s tiny form on a huge, apparently boundless cliff that extended from his hips to his shoulder blades. Alice could not understand how he had managed to do it.

Alice couldn’t resist caressing his dark, youthful body, which was going forth to meet death a second time. Finally, her tears started to fall, and she cried and cried like the rainy season you can never drive away.

Dahu drove Detlef and Sara, Anu, Hafay and Umav. Heading south, they saw a sea that had flooded the rocky coastal terrace terrain. They saw a sea that had forced the tribal villagers of Laeno to move inland. It was like they were on an inspection tour. They witnessed how the great ocean had dumped back all the trash people had dumped into it, and how the mountains had buried the hollows people had dug into the mountains to build roads thinking there would always be roads here.

Dahu was about to turn onto a county highway that had been pushed through by the local government about seven or eight years before. Local politicians claimed that the rationale for the road was improving transportation in remote areas and completing the ring road around the island. Later it was demonstrated that the road had been built for the sole purpose of conveying nuclear waste to a small southern village for dumping. It had absolutely nothing to do with making life more convenient for the local villagers.

The night before, they had stopped at a noodle shop in a small seaside village for some food and rest. Anu ordered two hundred dumplings in one go. Dahu told them about the route they would take the next morning. “I went there nine years ago, before the county highway was completed. Let’s not take the highway all the way. I want to take you guys along the old hiking trail. You’ll see the most sublime coastal scenery. In the beginning, it was the trail the aboriginal people on this side of the mountain took when they wanted to deal with the aboriginal people on the other side of the mountain. I think we should leave at dawn, to make it there for daybreak.”