Zero Balans, the new play from Wan Smolbag Theatre, seems to argue that you can be powerful and you can be good, but you can’t be both at once.

This political morality tale recounts the story of Ezekiel. A charismatic, intelligent and powerful man, his weakness and self-indulgence have led him to achieve only notoriety in his years as a cabinet minister. Struck down by an early heart attack and faced with eternal damnation, he demands, cajoles and finally begs the Recording Angels for just a little more time to achieve all the good he intended.

We follow him through flashbacks from his early days in politics. His wildly optimistic promises inflame and inspire the fictional community of Lagoon Saed. The delirium of his first election victory quickly wanes, however; before the celebration is properly over, he is already beset with demands from above and below.

Derek, Ezekiel’s mentor and financier, quickly reminds him where his sympathies had better lie, but not before Ezekiel’s wife and sister have begun to plague him with demands for the family. The community chief, an amiable old rascal, is quickest of all, proclaiming the newly-minted MP’s value to the community even as the voting results are being read.

This is Vanuatu. Everybody needs something, and it’s never something small. In a cutely staged scene, community members literally climb over one another to bend Ezekiel’s ear – and open his wallet. His political masters are happy to keep him flush with cash, but only as long as he toes the party line.

Politicians in Ezekiel’s world seem to have a nodding acquaintance with policy and development, but the ever-present threat of a confidence motion leaves them perpetually scrambling after cash and other emoluments to keep their MPs onside. Happily for them, they do not lack in assistance from outside ‘investors’ willing to grease the wheels of the political machine.

Ezekiel is willing to say anything to avoid damnation. But as events progress, we come to see him as merely human, a man fallen victim to the same desires and temptations as any other man – albeit sometimes two at a time. Beset as he is in a morass of venality, short-sightedness and fickleness, he is, ultimately, no better than he should be.

It’s notable that the play’s purportedly moral and upright citizens come out with very little shine remaining on their respective halos. Playwright Jo Dorras, as she always does, avoids the easy accusations. Refusing the lie that politicians are just amoral rascals sprung sui generis from the ranks of humanity, she shows how the scramble for advancement and advantage afflicts everyone, inside politics and out.

But this is not a society of villains. If Ezekiel’s sister wants more money, it’s to send her children to a better school. The chief comes seeking hundreds of thousands, not for himself but for the local church. Ezekiel protests to the Recording Angels that it was these demands (and not the endless spending on baubles, booze and debauchery) that have driven him into the company of men who are altogether too comfortable in the faithless, venal world of Vanuatu politics.

Given a chance at redemption, however, Ezekiel quickly finds himself bereft of friends and influence. In becoming a good man at last, he is stripped of the influence he once had.

As with all Smolbag productions, Zero Balans avoids polemic and prescription. The play seeks primarily to subvert the common conception that simply changing one’s MP is enough to change the cycle of corruption and callous disregard for the future. It is a mordant indictment of Vanuatu society’s inability to look beyond its immediate needs and desires, to forego quick reward in order to strive for a greater good.

Nobody, it appears, is willing to forebear in order for all to thrive.

The only characters who demonstrate any degree of redemption are those who, like Ezekiel, are at last left with nothing but the clarity of their own vision. The performance of the night was provided by Helen Kailo, who played Lisa on the evening we went. (She shares the role with Florence Taga, another powerful young actor.) Kailo’s fluid, natural and finally heart-breaking rendition of a young woman seduced, discarded and ultimately cast out of her own community was one of the best yet seen onstage in Vanuatu.

But the wisdom of misplaced love and bitter experience isn’t enough to obviate the oppression of society and circumstance. In this world, some forces are too great for any of us.

Director Peter Walker says, “[W]e collude with politicians and it takes a brave person to rock the boat. However the danger is that even if someone does rock the boat it may be too late because some people are beyond the law.”

Zero Balans features some of the most polished and professional performances to grace Wan Smolbag’s stage so far – and certainly its best ensemble effort. It’s testament to the commitment of the husband and wife team of Peter Walker and Jo Dorras that many of Smolbag’s actors have been appearing consistently on stage and screen for years now – some for decades. Their maturity, experience and enduring passion add fluidity and considerable nuance to a complex, demanding script.

Morinda Tari, as the protagonist’s importunate sister Elise, was so consistently powerful and natural that we’re not sure people even realised they were watching a character. She has the power to carry an entire play. We hope to see her in a leading role some day soon.

Noel Aru (who alternates with veteran Titus Joseph as Ezekiel) created a mannered, professional portrayal of a complex, deeply flawed man who quite literally fights for his life from the beginning of the play. He showed the maturity of a seasoned actor, sustaining his presence yet allowing space for others such as Donald Frank, whose smooth, serpent-like self-awareness made Derek, a mephistophelian political leader, at once alluring and repugnant.

Special mention goes to Danny Marcel, who plays two key roles (as the PM and the community’s chief) with such adroitness and flair that we honestly didn’t realise we were watching the same man. His sense of timing and physicality is superb. Aru, Frank and Marcel’s first scene together is a comic gem that competes with the best British political satire.

Zero Balans is performed at 7:00 p.m. every Wednesday, Friday and Saturday evening at Wan Smolbag until June 25th. Tickets are 50 vatu each. Arrive at least an hour early to be guaranteed a seat.

Given that:

1. Doctor Who is wildly popular;
2. Following each regeneration, the Doctor can end up looking like anyone;
3. He can appear at any point in space and time;

The BBC should sponsor a ‘Doctor You’ fanvid contest, in which the most implausibly plausible people play the Doctor. In the interests of actually being able to finish in a reasonable amount of time, contestants should create only the pre-credit opening scene.

This whole idea is inspired by the realisation that Matt Smith looks TOO MUCH like the Doctor. He’s not entirely credible because he’s too plausible.

See, David Tennant and Christopher Eccleston are really not unusual-looking. Their only visible eccentricity is in their clothing, and even that isn’t something that would leap out if they walked past you on the High Street.

And that’s why we experience delight when we see, for example, Tennant yelling, ‘Allons-y!’ and leaping out of a spaceship in a suicidal suborbital descent, down through a Victorian skylight, just in time to send the Time Lords back into oblivion.

One look at Matt Smith’s features, though, and we’re more inclined to say, ‘Oh well, he would do that, wouldn’t he?’ Worse, we’re left slightly mystified when he demonstrates normal human emotions, which is a good deal of the time.

So let’s play with the assumption that Doctor could look like anybody. That there’s really no reason he wasn’t more than slightly Sheldon Cooper-esque back when he was in his 200s. That he might be a corpulent middle-aged middle-brow more likely to yell ‘Trot!’ than ‘Run!’.

None of these details really matter. Not nearly so much as the fact that this is a (mostly) human character wandering alone in the Cosmos with the fate of civilizations resting on his –or her– shoulders. That’s character enough, don’t you think?

Anyway, everyone should make an entry. Here’s mine….

POWERS OF TWO

The Doctor [voice-over, concurrent to the following]: Tchilumba Mera! The Tree Planet. Only 6 million years ago, a single kelekele seed fell through the atmosphere onto a barren rock. Now, the root system covers every inch of it, delving below to surface, below the mantle, into the volcanic core of the planet, translating its heat into world-spanning concupiscence!

[Establishing shot - a birds-eye view, as if flying at cloud level over seemingly endless cloud forest, down through the mist, then through the branches of a vast, planet-size banyan-like tree. Two figures become visible, clambering over a giant root. The camera comes to a halt, as if on a tree branch above The Doctor and his companion. ]

Anna: ‘Concupiscence?’

Doctor: Concupiscence! Watch your step, concupiscence can be a little–

[They slip, teeter and then fall precipitately. Snap cut with an accompanying thump to a tight close-up of the Doctor and his companion Anna. They are lying tumbled together on the forest floor.]

Doctor: –slick.

[Awkward pause]

The Doctor [bounding up and giving a hand to Anna]: Alley-oop!

[Traveling shot: The Doctor and Anna continue walking. Close up on Anna in profile as she pauses, watching the Doctor.]

Anna: Doctor? Why am I here?

The Doctor: Here on this planet, or here in this Universe? If it’s the latter, I shall have to have a word with your parents.

Anna [patiently]: Here with you. I mean, it’s clearly not because you… you know…

Doctor: I do? What?

Anna: …

Doctor: What? Oh!

Anna: Yeah.

Doctor: Ha! Yes! NO! No, no. Ha! No. Ha. Why are you here with me? Ah. Well… tell me what you know about this planet.

Anna: Well, it’s concupiscent. And wet. And covered end to end with forest.

Doctor: Tree.

Anna: Yes, covered with trees.

Doctor: No-oh. Tree.

Anna: What? This… all this…. This is all one…

Doctor [topping]: One, immense, planetary tree. One single organism, grown to astronomical proportions, encompassing literally everything within the boundaries of its world.

Anna: That’s incredible. [laughing out loud] It’s wonderful.

Doctor: No it’s not.

Anna: It’s… why not?

Doctor: It’s utterly alone. Imagine being the only living thing in your entire world. How would you even know you were alive without someone to remind you?

Anna: Without a… companion.

Doctor: Yes.

[beat]

[They continue walking.]

Anna: So we’ve got to find this planetary tree a companion!

Doctor: Tried that already. Didn’t work out so well.

Anna: Why not?

Doctor: Well, what’s the perfect companion for a lonely tree? A bird. Better yet, a lonely bird. A pretty, lonely bird, with plumage that changes with the light, a song so varied and wonderful that musicians travel across the galaxy to be inspired by it and come back dumb-struck, unable to play another note. Found a nice one. Just the ticket. So I thought.

Anna: What happened?

Doctor: Well, it was a mockingbird.

Anna [mimicking the Doctor]: Wot, got a little taste of your own medicine, did you? Familiarity bred contempt, did it?

Doctor: Well yes. No! No, that wasn’t it. It was a Phrygian Mockingbird, you see. Normally harmless. They mate for life, and as long as the pair are together, they only imitate one another. Perfectly. Literally. Atom for atom. They complete one another. Alone, they’re liable to mimic anything.

Anna: And you only brought one?

Doctor: I didn’t know!

Anna: So what’s the problem? Just pop into the Tardis, grab another up and Bob’s your uncle.

Doctor [testy]: I haven’t got an uncle, and it’s not that easy.

Anna: So you’re just going to giv–

Doctor: The last time I took one in the Tardis, it mimicked the entire universe!

Anna: The entire…

Doctor: Universe, yes. It looked into the heart of the Tardis and created a duplicate universe.

Anna: So what happened to it?

Doctor: I dumped it here on this planet.

Anna: No, the universe!

Doctor: The Duplicate Universe.

Anna: The Duplicate Universe. What happened to it?

Doctor: I destroyed it.

Anna: You destroyed the universe?!

Doctor: The Duplicate Universe. It was a duplicate.

Anna: But how could you know which was which?

Doctor: Oh, I’d know.

[Camera backs off as the Doctor looks around uncertainly. Beat.]

Anna [worried]: Doctor?

Doctor: What is it?

Anna: You left that… that bird…

Doctor: The Phrygian Mockingbird?

Anna: Yeah, that bird. You left it here? On this planet?

Doctor: Yes, well I had to, you see –

Anna: Do you know where it is right now?

Doctor: It’s a Phrygian Mockingbird, capable of imitating anything, down the last atom. How could I know for sure where it is?

Anna [staring off-camera]: Doctor? I know where it is.

[Snap cut to a medium shot of two identical Tardises, side by side.]

Doctor: Ah. No, my dear, you see, that’s the problem: You don’t know where it is. You don’t know at all.

[Freeze frame. Opening Credits.]

Vanuatu seemed made for Tim Drefahl, and he for it. He wasn’t the typical Peace Corps volunteer. Older than most, much younger than the rest, he struggled to find his place in the fraternity. Perhaps it was his outsider status that made him a true friend for some of us and a devoted, caring member of his adoptive family in the Maskelyne islands.

In his first real foray outside the confines of Reaganite California, Tim found himself bewildered by the sarcasm and piss-taking of his newfound expat mates. He struggled and, as he always did, adjusted. By his second year here, he was leaning into the banter, trying gamely to give as good as he got.

No such struggle was required in his integration with ni-Vanuatu society, not at first. His love for the people of the Maskelynes and his devotion to their development gave focus to his unquenchable determination. An American Dreamer to the last, he KNEW that, with a liberal application of sweat and willpower, anything could be achieved. No matter what the world threw at him, no matter how he struggled to find his stance, this was one lesson he never un-learned.

Tim could be thick, occasionally breath-takingly wrong. He was awkward, often comically lacking in timing and sense. But he was true. Few people can be said to be genuinely pure of heart, but this man was one. And the world, with its piercing subtleties and sharpened edges, made sure that he paid more for every lesson.

Tim never learned caution and never lost hope. He stumbled into success and failure with equal resolve and unending faith in the rightness of his cause. It was his misguided clarity, ultimately, that closed Vanuatu’s door to him. Contracted to work in the administration of donor funds on a project close to his heart, he butted heads continually with departmental staff. No battle was too small. Right was right and wrong was wrong and that was it.

He was too Good. He succeeded too well. His project stayed on track, more or less, but winning so bluntly guaranteed that he would not work here again.

His exile from Vanuatu was purest misery. Alone and nearly friendless, he kept himself going through a year teaching English in Korea with the promise of return. But an extended vacation was the most he could muster. The world, as usual, exacted its price. The realisation that he could not make this his home nearly broke him.

He never stopped fighting, though; we knew he wouldn’t. Back to the US, then to Seoul for a time, just long enough to find a new passion: The city of Osaka, Japan. A clownish barbarian at the gates, he threw himself into this new exploration with blind enthusiasm. Appropriating friends like a pinball gaining points, he bounced and stumbled and clutched his way toward work, a home, a place of his own.

But the world does not reward the quixotic. Courage untempered by caution is brittle indeed. The causes are unclear, but on the 22nd of June, Tim was admitted to hospital with severe head injuries. He lingered for a few weeks, and on July 13th, 2010 he died.

“I miss you,” wrote one of his newfound Japanese friends, “I’m very sorry that I couldn’t save you even though I was near you.”

There are many in Vanuatu who feel the same.

The world is not gentle to the innocent, but no matter how it battered him, Tim Drefahl never let it win. Vanuatu offered solace for a while and, on an island ringed by an azure lagoon, there are people who will never forget his duty, his devotion, his love.

Behind and up, the hillside’s clad in mauve petals,
A decade’s worth of candy wrappers cast
Aside in moments by adolescent hands.

These hands. These hands are holding hands
In fervent, sweating, anxious rhapsody.
Aching out hilarity, too close to see the comedy.

A ten year old with awkward teeth, all knees
And elbows, nestles in the crook between the boughs
And spies upon the lovers, mystified.

The world, alas, is far too hurried for the truth.

this is only evidence

the rattling that betrays
a flock of sparrows
in the branches of a barren shrub

gathered
and pressing the stems
like a small cold wind

the rattling that betrays
a cat in a dry rose bush

collected like parts of a rumour

2

there are no petals
on a wet black bough

no apparition to blend
these two mysteries

that I found your love without looking
is not your fault
and not mine

I’m going to leave current events alone for a week. Not for lack of news, but because the smaller things in life need our attention, too.

This week, let’s take a lighthearted look at a few expressions that make Bislama such a delightful language. Before we do, though, I must apologise to native Bislama speakers: I’m not going to tell you anything you don’t already know. Nonetheless, it’s sometimes useful to record such trifles for posterity.

Because of its impoverished vocabulary, Bislama relies heavily on metaphor, imagery and euphemism. The pictures it paints are remarkably vivid and often frankly indecent, generating wild laughter among the interlocutors. Propriety dictates that I leave out the most scandalous of them….

Faea I Ded – The full expression is ‘Faea blong yu i ded,’ though it’s often reduced to a single exclamation: ‘Faea!’ It means, literally, ‘Your fire is dead.’ It’s used as a capping statement, gleefully punctuating the fact your interlocutor has been left speechless, unable to respond to a winning argument or repartee.

Many statements are overtly positive, but have extremely sarcastic connotations:

Yu laf gud ia? – Literally, ‘Are you laughing enough?’ A friend translates it thusly: ‘What the heck are you laughing at? If I hear another sound coming out of your hyena mouth, I will pummel you!’

Some of the most amusing expressions refer to, er, social activities, including kava drinking and other after-hours shenanigans:

Wire i taj – Literally, ‘The wires have touched.’ Used to suggest that someone’s neural circuitry is positively sparking from the effects of strong kava. It’s not entirely a positive thing, connoting a circuit that’s been shorted out more than a properly functioning one. Contrast with ‘feeling a buzz’ in English.

Rod I Smol – Literally, ‘The path is [too] small.’ In Bislama, any human-navigable pathway is a ‘rod’. A particularly narrow hillside trail, for example, might be called ‘rod blong nani’ – a goat track. This expression usually refers to someone so intoxicated that they cannot keep to the path. The road, therefore, is too narrow for their staggering gait.

Fo Wheel I Fas – Literally, ‘[All] four wheels are stuck.’ This term refers to someone so inebriated that they can’t even crawl on hands and knees (hence four wheels). Note the archaic use of ‘fast’, meaning ‘bound up’, not ‘speedy’.

Danis Rap – Literally, ‘Rap Dancing.’ Someone who’s overdosed on kava will often fall prey to violent muscular convulsions alarmingly similar to a rap dancer ‘popping’, that is, jerking their limbs about in a robotic fashion.

Karen Blong Hem – Literally, ‘His/Her garden.’ It’s used as a euphemistic reference to someone’s boyfriend/girlfriend, usually because they’re not formally associated to one another. In that sense, it implies a slightly risqué – or at least casual – relationship. (This is only the first part of an extended metaphor that becomes far too explicit for present company.)

Hem I Pas Bihaen – Literally ‘S/He has gone behind [someone else].’ A euphemistic way for saying that someone has been cheating on their partner.

… Blong Rod – Literally, ‘[Someone/thing] from the street.’ In the possessive form (shown here), it alludes to refuse lying at the side of the road. So a ‘pikinini blong rod’ is a worthless person, essentially ‘born in the gutter’. Likewise, ‘toktok blong rod’ is baseless rumour. If we say of a woman, ‘Hemi stap wokbaot long rod’ (‘She’s walking about on the road’), we’re using a term identical to ‘steet walker’ in English.

Mi Holem Taet Yu – Literally, ‘I hold you tight.’ Quite suggestive in English, this expression is actually perfectly innocuous. It’s the equivalent of saying, ‘Wait a minute.’ It’s usually spoken in an apologetic tone.

There are many more such vivid turns of phrase, but alas, most of them aren’t fit for these pages.
Commonplace nuisances also give rise to remarkably apt metaphor:

Rat I Kaekae… – Literally, ‘Rats have eaten [something].’ Used to describe the pilfering and petty theft endemic throughout Vanuatu. See also:

… I Grow Leg – Literally ‘[Something] has grown legs.’ Again, this refers to petty theft, describing the propensity of all things in Vanuatu to mysteriously grow legs and walk away of their own volition.

Reading this, you already have formed the impression that Bislama consists of nothing but scandalous language. That’s not true. When used in formal circumstances, Bislama can take on a cadence and oratorical power similar to the classical Latin of Cicero’s senatorial speeches.

But in its most common usage, the laughing, chaffing exchanges that punctuate our daily exchanges, it’s good-natured, inventive and cheeky, strikingly similar to the bawdy discourse in a Dublin pub on any given Friday.

Perhaps the most enjoyable linguistic trope is the verbal ellipses, wherein one begins an ostensibly innocuous statement and trails off just before it declines to outright scandal. As in so many other languages, timing is the essence of comedy.

My point – and I do have one – is that visitors ignore the nuance and linguistic flair inherent in Vanuatu discourse at their peril. No one can truly say they understand Bislama until they’ve grasped its vividly metaphorical, highly contextual fluidity and made it their own.

ABOUT THIS SHOW: 40 Dei plays at Wan Smolbag Haos in Tagabe on Wednesdays, Fridays and Saturdays. The show starts at 6:30 p.m. Tickets are 50 vatu for adults, students and children. Because of its popularity, attendees should arrive at least one hour before show time to be guaranteed seating.

The thematic heart of 40 Dei (40 Days), Wan Smolbag’s powerful new play, is the story of Jesus’ 40 days of suffering and temptation in the desert. With Satan constantly at his side, Jesus fasted, contemplated and steadfastly resisted the Devil’s threats and inducements. Even in the extremities of suffering, he accepted his humanity, refusing assistance either from above or below.

As the New Testament tells it, Jesus embarked on this pilgrimage of suffering immediately after his baptism. It was, in a sense, his preparation to enter into the world. We first meet Matthew, the protagonist in Jo Dorras’ stark, deeply probing script, as he emerges from his own moral desert, a wasted youth of faithlessness, drinking and violence.

Lying on the roadside, bloody, filthy, half-clothed, Matthew presents a repulsive figure. Only Lei, a pastor’s daughter, sees him for what he is – a lost soul. Ignoring imprecations to leave this filth, this ‘doti blong taon’ where he lies, she instead recalls the parable of the Good Samaritan to her father.

Matthew awakes from his stupor to a vision of love – a beautiful young woman beside him, joyous music and light emerging from a nearby chapel. He is transformed, and decides at that moment to leave his errant past behind, to seek redemption and salvation.

But as with Jesus in the desert, the Devil is always at his side. And Matthew is human, all too human. Beset by difficulties, he tries to navigate the narrow passage between hypocritical moral rectitude and the nihilistic, hopeless existence of his young friends.

Like all of Wan Smolbag’s productions, 40 Dei is a powerful, provocative show, acted with conviction and world class talent by its cast. It reminds us again and again that there are no easy answers, that Christian kindness demands more than many – most – are willing to give. Its characters find themselves tested repeatedly. Events conspire to probe the limits of their ability to forgive, to embrace others regardless of their path in life, and to withstand the temptation to trade their fundamental humanity for worldly privilege.

Nobody wins. Dorras’ script is too honest an evocation of mundane human weakness to pretend that our world is populated only by angels and devils. Sinners are not always saved, and the devout are not always as unblemished as they first seem.

Where others fall prey to petty ambition, moral weakness and, in one starkly moving sub-plot, to madness, Matthew is almost alone in his willingness to confront the difficulties he faces. More often than not, this means that things go harder for him than for the others. He sacrifices friendship, even love, to his sense of duty. But in the end, his decision to show kindness to his outcast comrades proves to be his greatest test.

Anybody who’s opened a newspaper in the last few years will recognise the characters and events portrayed here. Smolbag’s greatest gift to us is its ability to show us our own world. The play is populated by the same reprobates, righteous hypocrites, prostitutes, politicians and just plain folks as we find in any neighbourhood in Port Vila.

We all walk with the Devil at our shoulder. Without surrendering to dogmatic, moralistic finger-wagging, 40 Dei confronts us with the knowledge that the most insidious enemy to Vanuatu society lies within it, not without. Until we recognise that there are no easy answers to the complex afflictions of a society in transition, until we accept that prostitutes, prisoners and penitents alike are all our family, until we recognise our own weakness in the face of venality and ambition, we will never completely be whole.

In the words of the immortal Walt Kelly, “We have met the enemy and it is us.”

I can’t recommend this play strongly enough. Those who have never wandered far from Vanuatu’s shores might not realise what a remarkable thing Wan Smolbag’s contribution to the national dialogue really is. Its painful, sometimes tortured honesty, its willingness to forego simplistic moralising and to grope for the deeper causes, and its stubborn refusal to accept the easy answers stand it in good stead with some of the most notable theatre companies working today.

I sincerely hope their consistent excellence doesn’t make us complacent. As a lifelong devotee of the theatre (and one-time participant), I can testify to the immense effort and sacrifice that this courageous troupe gifts us with in every performance.

If their efforts are to bear fruit, we too need to engage in the dialogue they offer. We need to recognise our own weakness, turpitude and occasional hypocrisy. We need to resist the urge to cast out those who fall by the wayside. We need to live with the difficult, complicated and discomfiting knowledge that we are – all of us – one people.

And cold preserves itself, so don’t pretend
That Spring will leaven spirits with its dole.
I know this winter isn’t going to end.

I’m not so bold that I could not defend
Against my guilt, against the life you stole.
But cold can best preserve what cannot mend,

So now, unlike Raskolnikov, I lend
No weight to claims that time can heal the soul.
I know this winter isn’t going to end.

The day you died, I ceased to be your friend;
Became instead the warden of your soul.
What cold can best preserve, it cannot mend.

Your life gave in to time and mine to cold,
And this, love, is my curse, my fate, my goal:
What cold can best preserve, it cannot mend;
I know this winter isn’t going to end.

I found myself searching for something to say after Tracy wrote to tell me that a mutual friend had died, unexpectedly and far, far too soon. This is what came out.

It should really be sung, a capella, with a slowly moving melody reminiscent of Cathedrals, by Jump Little Children. Maybe Tori can come up with something….

It’s for John, and for all of those who knew Shannon best.

Aidan stepped out smartly as the Jetta rolled up. He was at the driver door before the occupant finished shifting into park. A fast Young Republican type, Brooks Brothers aspirant, tossed Aidan the keys, his eyes already scanning the entrance to the lounge. As if dodging a tackle, he swung smoothly round the quarter panel.

“You scratch it, I fuck you up,” he said, as if to the world in general.

Impassive, Aidan lowered himself into the driver’s seat, engaged the gear and slid away.

Four blocks should be enough. He found a half-block outdoor lot without cameras, circled once to be sure, then parked the hunter green sedan in the middle. From ten steps away, it was just another yuppie drive.

He walked back to the hotel feeling more bemused than excited. He wasn’t wearing a uniform, but that’s the kind of understated smartness people expect from these new boutique hotels. All glass and class; no epaulettes, no piping. He was just what the guests expected him to be.

He wasn’t really black or white. Handsome, but not strikingly so. He strode the sidewalk smoothly. One would have to pay attention to notice that in spite of all the standing water, he left no ripple behind.

Slowing as he approached the entrance, he allowed a silver-haired man with a briefcase to pass, then followed him through the glass doorway. He didn’t pause on his way across the lobby to the stairs, took them two at a time with the easy lope of someone saving effort, not time.

He reached the third floor corridor, whistling softly as if to apologise for his silence. He fished in his trousers pocket and produced a room key, slid it into the lock on 337 and stepped inside. The suitcase was already open, lying on the bottom quarter of the bed.

Aidan sorted through the contents quickly, pausing only once to compare the shoes’ size to his own. When he was done, he had set aside four shirts, two pairs of trousers, a tie and a belt. He lifted the rejected heap and placed it back into the case, closed the lid and set the latch. An overstuffed plastic shopping bag took his winnings. He could press them later.

Down in the lobby, a tired and slightly drab young man leaned against the marble fronted reception. Beaten down but not defeated, he appeared to be committed to a dogged war of attrition with the night clerk. The clerk, phone draped over a shoulder, armoured in professionalism, was laying out in certain terms the futility of the fight.

Aidan left his bag beside the planter and walked across.

“It’s not just you, sir,” the clerk explained. “Nobody’s flying anywhere east of here. That front is hundreds of miles long.”

“Well, then, give me my room back.”

“Sir, you checked out at 8:00 a.m. We cleaned the room and checked someone else in by noon. We’re not going to ask them to leave. We have no rooms for you here.”

“Look, you have my credit card, all my details. Maybe there’s a cancellation. Somebody always cancels. Why don’t I just wait and you can put me into the first room that comes up.”

“Every room is accounted for. I’ve checked twice. I’m sorry, but I don’t want to give you false hope. Nobody is going to cancel, sir. Not this late.”

“I’ll wait. Lord knows, I have time. I don’t care. I’ll share a room, even. Look, I spent 12 bloody hours at the airport for nothing. I need a room. I just want to fucking sleep. Sorry.”

Aidan intervened.

He smiled conspiratorially to the desk clerk, said, “Betty, maybe I can help.”

He asked the man, “Where are you trying to get to?”

“Cleveland. But nothing’s flying. Nothing’s going east, anyway. I’m sick of even trying, and now I can’t get a goddam room, even.”

“And you won’t,” Aidan replied. “Not within forty miles of Chicago. But look, maybe we can help each other out. I’m driving back to Buffalo. What do you say you chip in for gas and tolls, and I let you sleep all the way? It’s not ideal, but the seats are alright; it’s this year’s Jetta.”

The man didn’t reply.

“What’s your name?”

“Jerry.”

“Jerry, look, I’m Aidan.” He extended his hand. “It’s a lousy situation, but I’ll get you home sooner than the plane, and it’ll cost you less. I can’t promise about the quality of the food, but….”

“Tell you what,” Aidan continued. “At least let me buy you a drink. You look like you could use one. You can think it over. I’ll just grab my stuff.”

Jerry laughed defeatedly and followed him outside.

“There’s a better place than this just about a block from here,” Aidan explained as they stepped into the night. “Hotel prices murder you.”

“Yeah. No kidding.”

Chester’s was a popular but quiet pub occupying an old, ex-industrial stone building. Aidan was reaching for the brass handle when the door opened on its own, disgorging two women. The leading one, a tinted blonde, jerked to a stop a foot in front of him.

“Adam! Hi!” She glanced at her companion and composed herself.

“Aidan,” he corrected gently.

“Aidan. Of course. How are you?”

“Fine. I’m fine, thanks.” He smiled.

“God….” She paused, caught herself staring and lowered her eyes with a chuckle. “How long has it been?”

“Thirteen months, give or take,” he replied, looking at her shoulder.

“So what are you doing in Chicago?” Before Aidan could reply, she added, “Sorry, Ad – Aidan, this is my friend Bonny.”

“A pleasure.” They shook hands.

“Jerry, this is Nancy, Bonny.”

A brittle pause, then Nancy broke it. “Look,” she lied, “I said I call. I’d still like to. If that’s okay.”

Aidan smiled warmly, “That’s not just the wine talking?”

Nancy laughed, relieved. “No it is not just the wine. I’d like to. May I?”

“Of course,” Aidan held her gaze until she turned. He kept watching as she strode away in whispered conference with her friend, smiled when they looked back at him and giggled.

“I’m not supposed to be thinking what I’m thinking.” Jerry eyed him with wry admiration. “I’m a married man.”

“She’s not going to call,” said Aidan, and ushered Jerry inside.

Jerry came back with another round. “Heineken for me, apple juice for the driver.” He slid into the booth Aidan had chosen for them. “So you’re from around here, then?”

“Grad school,” Aidan replied, swirling the ice. “I stayed on for a bit, but it never felt like home.”

“Grad school? Huh, I wouldn’t have taken you for the professor type.”

“I’m definitely not.” Aidan spoke in measured tones. His voice managed to bridge distance without volume. “It just took me longer to find out than most people. And cost a little more.”

“Heh. Yeah. I been out ten years already, I’m still two years away from finishing my loans. Assuming my bank stays afloat that long.” Jerry seemed pleased with his joke, so Aidan smile appreciatively.

“So you’re from Buffalo, then?”

“My mother is. That’s where she is now, anyway.”

Jerry took a long sip, and then another. “You two get along,” he ventured. “Wish I could say the same.”

“Families are peculiar things.”

“Too fucking right.” Jerry glanced across the table, shrugged. “Sorry. I’m just wasted. Spent the entire fucking day at O’Hare trying to get a flight. It’s funny, you know? I’d rather jab myself in the eye with a toothpick than look at my wife some days, but when I’m away there’s nothing I want more than to get back to that sweet, uncomplaining icicle. Sorry.”

He gestured with his bottle. “This,” he said, “is not making me any clearer.”

Aidan watched the gloomy street outside. A police cruiser glided pass, slowed as it turned the corner.

“Look,” he said, “it’s gonna take us at least five hours to get you home. What do you say we get a move on?”

Jerry took a breath. “Sure, if you want. Just let me take a piss first. By the way, we need to stop at an ATM at some point.”

“No problem. I’ll bring the car around. It’s a dark green Jetta.”

Traffic was minimal, what with the weather and the time. The Jetta was a turbo six; it barely felt the road beneath it, hissed softly as it uncoiled. Aidan kept it reined back to a safe sixty-five, didn’t pass more than he had to. It was a nice ride. Too much plastic in the body work, but you didn’t have to look that closely. It was just another dark sedan.

“I never said thank you.”

Aidan started slightly. “I thought you’d dozed off.”

“I almost did. This thing rides like a good buzz. Seriously, though: thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I thought you were the manager at first. Thought you were going to pull a room key out of your pocket. Now I find myself thinking I’m almost glad you weren’t. You’re not, I mean.”

Aidan felt himself being watched.

“Do you mind my asking why?”

“I don’t like driving alone.”

“No, I mean why me? You could’ve just walked by. Anybody would. I mean, I’m grateful, but why didn’t you just call a buddy – heh, your friend Cindy there….”

“Nancy.”

“Nancy, right. But seriously, this it not the American Way. Frank Capra is dead and gone, and you don’t look like Jimmy Stewart to me.”

Aidan laughed. “No,” he agreed. “I don’t.”

Jerry shifted in his seat. “So? Why me.”

“It’s hard to say.” Why him, indeed? To Aidan, it was like a telegraph. Everybody ticked a different way. You could just tell who had something to give, who needed a little more. He felt he understood, but hadn’t ever bothered to explain. He decided to try.

“I guess… I guess I just had a feeling. Look, this isn’t charity. It’s uh… it’s an investment. You look at the prospects, and try to extrapolate the return. Now, I’m cutting my driving costs, I’m making things safer for myself. I can use the carpool lanes.” He smiled. “But it’s not Adam Smith. At least it’s not Adam Smith the way the brokers understand him. They see a simple one-to-one, a give and take. I sell, you buy, we’re both happy.

“But commerce goes in all directions. I don’t want to get too philosophical, but there’s a system involved. I give to you, you give to someone else. The System profits. I don’t get everything back from you directly. You don’t pay me back directly. But – and this is just an example – I get you back to your wife. Maybe not on time, but I get you back to her, and you get there in a good mood. Maybe you’re happy to see her. Maybe she’s happy to see you. That’s not my responsibility. I let the System take care of that part.

“I’m going to get a little existential, but bear with me. There’s a kind of a rhythm to things, or a harmonic. Every now and then, you catch a note that’s out of place, like a badly tuned string in an orchestra. I’m no maestro, but I like to think I have an ear for things.”

“So I was a badly tuned fiddle,” Jerry interjected.

Aidan stifled a laugh, “Kind of, yeah.”

“So you tune me up and put me back in my place, and the world just gets better?”

Aidan watched the road.

“Look man, I gotta confess: I don’t really think too much about that shit. Maybe you got a point. All I know is that I lucked out. And for that, I thank you. You alright to drive, still?”

“No problem. I said I’d do the driving. Sleep all you want.”

The fog lights gazed down on the obsidian road.

“Jerry, sorry.”

Jerry roused himself. “What?”

“We’re going to need to fill up fairly soon.”

Jerry hunched his hips, pulled a wallet from his back pocket and placed it on the dash.

“Card’s in there. Use the Visa. That way I can expense it.”

Aidan scanned the empty highway ahead, then turned his gaze to the wallet.

“Goodnight, Jerry,” he said.

“Goodnight.”

Tawi blong mi;

I write to you from the enthralling, magical island of Manhattan. This jewel of the North Atlantic is a marvelous place. It is visited by all the races of the world. They are drawn by its legendary abundance and wealth. Here, one can achieve one’s every desire. One has only to learn the curious local rituals to gather a bountiful harvest.

The Manhattoes – as they’re known – seem peculiar to us, but we should not judge them based only on a passing glimpse of their kastom and tabus. We can’t expect everyone to be like us.

The people of this lovely island have a peculiar cargo culture in which they equate meaningless numbers with material goods. I confess it’s a difficult concept to grasp. Let me explain….

Imagine a great chief, a big man among us who one day decides that he wants to buy his entire island. (Yes, I know that sole ownership of so great a resource is the height of folly; bear with me.) To do so, he needs money, which is like mats and pigs, only without any innate value.

According to custom, new money is created by buying goods, improving them and selling them. As befits a chief, our big man achieves this by sharing with everyone. He gives heaps of paper manna to anyone who asks, regardless of whether they can pay him back or not. ‘Go,’ he instructs them, ‘and make great houses for yourselves. Don’t worry about returning it to me just yet. For now, give me only two vatu for every hundred I gave you. When you have completed your great house, it will be worth more than ever, and you can use its value to repay me.’

What a powerful vision, tawi! His villagers’ reluctance is drowned in the immensity of his wisdom.

This great chief is not finished, though. He visits chiefs from other villages and borrows money from them. If any ask how he will pay them back, he tells them about the vast sums he will collect from his people. He says that he has bundled all this debt into very low-risk packages, so if any of them have doubts – Heaven forbid – about his good name, they can accept the further reassurance that he is borrowing only against the best of all possible debts.

But no chief would gainsay this great man, so they lend him a fortune equal to that which he will reap when his people’s houses are complete.

Tawi, try to imagine: There are even greater chiefs than this. These are the ones who lent our chief the money to give to his villagers. And now he goes to them with this vastly greater sum, and he says, ‘I will buy this entire island! Give it to me on the same terms as I have offered houses to my villagers.’

The great chiefs are glad. The chief has bought his island, but he has helped them buy the whole country.

A wondrous ritual, indeed. But recently there have been perturbations in its observance. You see, now the grace period is over, one of the families is having difficulty keeping up with the higher repayments that are now required. Not to fear, though; there is another ritual through which a man can absolve himself of debt. It is called bankruptcy. A penniless man can put himself at the mercy of the nasara and his chief takes solace in his losses by removing the man’s possessions and selling them.

Unfortunately, even the sum of these possessions is not equal to what the man has borrowed. Too many people have borrowed already; nobody can afford the full value of his half-built house.

The chief is in a difficult position. He announces to the other chiefs that he cannot pay them back just yet, due to regrettable, wholly unforeseeable circumstances. If he could just borrow a little more, he will surely be able to find other villagers who desire a beautiful house, and then all will be made well.

The other chiefs would love to do so, but they have their own problems. You see, they are in the same predicament. Now, nobody can lend to anyone. Tawi, I tell you: If a man cannot pay for his house, he has a problem. But if a man cannot pay for a hundred houses, his village has a problem.

As with all primitive customs, the day comes when it is confronted by hard reality. Tawi, that day came when one of the villagers stopped paying back his loan. Because he could not pay his loan, his chief could not pay the others. And when the chiefs could not pay, the great chiefs – owners of the entire land – could not pay theirs.

For want of a house, an entire country was lost.

Tawi, I encourage you to ponder the power of this curious ritual over kava this evening: The man who can’t buy a house may be poor, but the man who tries to buy a country impoverishes us all.

I remain, etc.

Queequeg.