Easter Island (5 page)

The island began lifelessly, thought Greer, but it would have welcomed stray seeds or spores that reached its shores. Igneous soil was rich in lime, potash, and phosphates—nutrients key for plant life. When a volcanic blast in 1883 wiped out all life on the island of Krakatoa, it took only thirty-five years for the island to replenish itself. The eruption was a dream come true for naturalists, the closest thing to witnessing the birth of an island. Hordes of investigators documented the appearance of each new fern and flower on the pumice-covered landscape, until the island’s former forest had returned. Of course, Krakatoa was only twenty-five miles from Java, a warehouse of flora and fauna. Easter Island was fifteen hundred miles from the nearest major supplier, Pitcairn Island. But when you did the math, Easter should have been forested. Two million years was ample time. So what accounted for this barren landscape? The prime suspect was some sort of extinction. A catastrophe that would have undone ages of ecological hospitality.

“Hanga Roa,” announced Mahina as she turned the Jeep inland and jabbed at the brakes. For a moment Mahina tried shifting into all possible gears before she settled on first and gently depressed the accelerator.

“Hanga Roa,” she repeated. They had arrived at the island’s sole town. Small light-blue houses, their front paths obscured by lattices of dusty millers (
Senecio cineraria
) and blankets of orange nasturtiums (
Tropaeolum majus
), lined each side of the road. A broad cypress tree shaded three sleeping dogs, their ears twitching with afternoon dreams. Mahina turned left down a smaller road, this one dotted with flat cement buildings—stores, it seemed—roofed with corrugated tin. Out of nowhere, several children darted in front of the Jeep, racing to touch the lone coconut palm at the street’s end.

Mahina scolded them in Rapa Nui, then turned to Greer. “We have the church, the
correo
for the letters, the school. We are small but we have here what we need. I think you will like it.”

“I’m sure I will,” said Greer.

“Now
mi residencial,
” said Mahina as she turned left and parked the Jeep beneath a pungent
amygdalina
eucalyptus.

“Avenida Policarpo Toro,” Mahina said. “To go to the lab-or-a-tory you walk to Te Pito O Te Henua Street, then left to Atamu Tekana Street. If you like, I draw you map.”

Before them stood a one-story cement building. The pink blooms of two coral trees framed the dark wooden door. A small sign, lettered with black tape, was pitched in the ground:
RESIDENCIAL AO POPOHANGA
.

After climbing from the Jeep, Mahina went to the back and began to pull at Greer’s two duffels. Greer protested, but Mahina insisted, lifting each bag with surprising strength. Just then, through a line of bushes on the side of the house, came an elderly man wearing a faded red baseball cap, rubbing his eyes; the volley of offers and refusals had clearly interrupted his siesta. The man spoke firmly in Rapa Nui to Mahina, gesturing toward the luggage, but something in his tone suggested great tenderness to Greer. And from the measured rhythm of shrugs and sighs, she had the feeling this scene had transpired many times. The man examined the Jeep and when, it seemed, he had discovered no damage, he grinned at Mahina. Mahina, unamused, signaled Greer to follow her into the building. She hastily pointed back to the man, and said, “Ramon Liragos Ika.
Vamos
, Ramon!” she called, at which point he lifted Greer’s bags and followed them inside.

A shower of delicate bells heralded their entrance into a spacious room. The air was cool, the walls dark. From the ceiling hung two rows of green glass spheres in rope nets. Mahina carefully set her hat on the desk beside the doorway and from its stuffed top drawer extracted a key dangling from a white poker chip. Greer followed her across the room and through a door opening onto a lush courtyard: African flame trees, bamboos, and tall cypresses. In the midst of this cluttered vegetation stood a near–life-size statue of the Virgin Mary, her blue dress flaking at the folds. At the opposite end of the courtyard was a narrow porch lined with four doors. Mahina led her past the first three, and at the fourth she lifted the key, unlocked the room, and with a shove of her hip, the door opened.

The room was small. A double bed and two wicker nightstands crowded the far wall. Above the bed hung a round plaque of the Virgin Mary. Beside the door there was a writing desk and chair made of what appeared to be mahogany. Burlap curtains covered the single window.

“Good?” asked Mahina.

“Very good.” Greer needed at least six months on the island to take cores and do the analysis, but most of that time would be spent in her lab.

“Good for the
doctora
!” Mahina smiled. “Of course, no piano. No Ping-Pong. Also, other
residenciales
have blankets much nicer. But we are short walk to laboratory. Yes? And I make the best food.”

Ramon rolled his eyes and placed Greer’s bags at the foot of the bed.

“This is just fine,” said Greer.

“The bathroom is there,” Mahina said, gesturing to a narrow door beside the desk. “When you want the hot water for the shower, you must put it on outside. I will show you. Also, we can get another lamp. Or, we move the desk. And if you are not liking here, we find you other room.”

The room was so small it was hard to imagine the addition of any furniture. But from the expression on Mahina’s face, Greer had the distinct feeling other guests had shown greater enthusiasm.

“This will suit me perfectly. It’s wonderful.” The sparseness of the room, in fact, appealed to her. Her house in Marblehead had become a jumble of furniture and books and artifacts, piles of unsealed boxes of Thomas’s clothing that she hadn’t yet decided what to do with. On top of everything else, it was the mess she had needed to get away from.

“Dinner I serve tonight at eight o’clock,” said Mahina, kissing Greer once more on both cheeks and retreating from the room.

Greer set her purse on the desk and toed off her leather sandals. The floor was pleasantly cool. From her bag she pulled and carefully unwrapped the apothecary jar with her magnolia seed, then held it to the light; there it floated, shiny and fat, in its bath of salt water. This had been Thomas’s wedding present to her—they were going to see how long the seed could survive in ocean water. Eight years so far, more than she had ever expected. For a while she believed the seed was a good-luck charm, taking it on all her field trips, setting it on hotel nightstands in Belgium and Italy. But when Thomas’s research grew frenzied, when Greer stopped fieldwork and spent most of her time in his lab, she’d let the jar sit on the mantel in Marblehead, collecting dust. In two years it had barely moved, but when she’d packed for this trip, she felt she couldn’t leave it behind. She now regretted her decision. Looking at it reminded her too much of Thomas in their first years together, when he still cared for science, and for her.

Greer set the jar down and looked up at the plaque of the Virgin Mary. There was a drift seed named for the Virgin Mary. Mary’s bean,
Merremia discoidesperma
, held the record for the longest distance traveled by any seed: over fifteen thousand miles.

Kneeling on the bed, Greer mashed her way across the sagging mattress, lifted the plaque from the wall, and placed it facedown on the wicker nightstand.

Better, she thought, and began to unpack.

It was late afternoon when Greer headed over to the lab. Ramon had driven her there earlier with her equipment, but now, more awake than she’d anticipated, she thought she would explore the village. As she walked along the dirt road, several stray dogs followed her and then lost interest, and a confused rooster crowed in the distance. She passed a building with a sign that read
HOTEL ESPÍRITU
, a name she recognized as one of the other hotels that housed researchers. Through the front door emerged an older couple, mid-argument, their fingers dueling across the pages of the guidebook. They wore matching Hawaiian shirts.

“
Iorana!
” they called.

“
Iorana,
” said Greer.

“Let me guess,” the woman said. “American. East Coast.”

“Impressive,” said Greer, wondering what had given her away.

“You see?” The woman turned to her husband. “Ten for ten. It’s a skill, I’m telling you. I should work for the state department or an embassy or something. A countryman detector.” She thrust the guidebook toward Greer. “So what do you think of these things?”

“What?”

“The
moai
.”

“I just arrived,” said Greer. “‘Just,’ as in hours ago.”

“Well,” the woman said, nodding at her husband, “she is in for a real treat. You’re in for a real treat. I’m telling you. Whatever photos you’ve seen don’t do them justice. They’re e-nor-mous.”

“The photos were quite small,” said Greer. “I imagine the statues must be larger.”

The woman squinted, then smiled. “Funny.”

“Well, enjoy your stay.”

She turned the corner and continued past another row of houses. Each one, she could see, had an extensive backyard. Chickens bustled and clucked within small wire coops. Guava trees (genus:
Psidium
) and taro plants (genus:
Colocasia
) grew from the thick lawns. Only here, in the village, in carefully tended gardens protected from the wind, could plant life thrive.

Farther along were the cement buildings. No signs advertised their purposes, but Greer could discern a distinct character behind each facade; she recognized the post office and the bank; the market made itself known when a woman emerged hugging a mesh sack stuffed with canned goods. Greer stepped inside and let her eyes adjust to the darkness. A red-haired man smiled from behind the counter.
“Iorana.”

“
Iorana,
” she replied.

He was pale, with a dusting of freckles across his cheeks. She’d read the island had a mixed population. Early voyagers had noted that some people appeared distinctly Polynesian, and others European, known as the
oho-tea:
“the light-haired.” This was one of the reasons the origin of the islanders had been in question. A mixed race left many possibilities.

Greer wandered past bags of rice and grain, boxes of sweets and candies, an enormous pyramid of what looked to be canned peaches. Converting into dollars, Greer found the prices high, especially for the peaches. But all these items would have been shipped from the mainland, a costly endeavor. She pried one banana from a cluster and pulled down some boxes of cookies for the lab, carrying the awkward pile to the counter. She’d exchanged money at the Santiago airport and now handed the proprietor a wad of pesos.

“Inglesa?”

“American.”

“Ahh. New York? Los Angeles?”

“Massachusetts. Marblehead.”

From behind his desk he pulled a dog-eared atlas and opened it on the counter. “You show.”

Greer glanced at North America and saw that small black X’s had been placed over Los Angeles, New York, and Salt Lake City. “Here,” she said, pointing to the East Coast. “Marblehead. Massachusetts is the state.”

“
Riva riva,
” he said, pulling a pen from behind his ear and marking an X on the coastline. “Marblehead. Island? Yes?”

“Peninsula.”

“Pen-in-su-la.
Riva riva
.” He closed the map and slowly counted out her change.

“
Gracias
,” she said.

“
Iorana.
”

Outside, in the fading light, she peeled the banana and continued walking in the direction of the lab. She’d brought with her a well-worn brochure with a map of the island, the lab’s location having been circled by Mahina. The brochure offered in one brief paragraph the island’s historical highlights: the legendary arrival of the first king, Hotu Matua; the construction of the massive
moai;
the undeciphered
rongorongo
hieroglyphics; Captain Cook’s visit; the toppling of the
moai;
the emergence of the bird cult; the war between the long-ears and the short-ears; the cannibalism in the island’s caves; the disappearance of the British scientific expedition; Admiral von Spee’s eight-day anchorage during World War I. No mention, of course, of the island’s geological history or its depleted biota. Amazing how little attention people paid to the narrative of the land itself. As though sixty-four square miles of stone were just a stage for late-arriving human actors, whose performance, in geological time, had happened in the blink of an eye.

Greer continued on, heard the slow plod of a horse’s hooves in the distance. A slight breeze stirred the red dirt of the path. Out of sight, a dog was barking. The quiet reminded her of Mercer, the town in Wisconsin where she’d grown up. Summer evenings, before dinner, she would walk to the general store, watching women sweep dust from their porches, men with rolled shirtsleeves push their daughters on tire swings beneath broad maples. A quiet town, where little happened—that’s how she remembered it. And the quiet here was the same, as though the island’s past catastrophes had been sealed away, untouchable.