State of Wonder - Ann Patchett [72]
“We always feel better heading home,” Dr. Swenson said.
Six
There was traffic on the Negro, barges and tugs, water taxis with rotting thatched roofs where river swallows nested, dugout canoes containing entire families—sisters with babies and brothers and cousins and grandfathers and aunts holding open umbrellas, so many people crammed into one log that the lip of the boat sat nearly level with the surface of the brown water as one man in the back rowed carefully on. The smaller boats stayed near the shore, while a cruise ship, white as a sailor’s dress uniform, churned up the center aisle. Easter remained fiercely alert, his damp hair pushed back by the breeze, his eyes sweeping slowly side to side. He pulled the throttle to cut his wake in deference to the boats that were smaller, and he waved to those larger boats that cut their wake for him. Every appearance was that of an orderly world. Then the boy would turn and look behind him, and when he did he would nod to Marina and Dr. Swenson and they would nod back.
“Does he drive all the way?” Marina asked, not having any idea how far they were going.
Dr. Swenson nodded. “He likes it.” She was sitting on a box of canned hash while Marina stood. “What boy wouldn’t want to drive the boat? It gives him standing in the tribe. I drive or Easter drives, no one else. A few of the men have outboard motors that they’ve traded for over the years, but they’ve never captained a boat like this. It forces them to show respect when they see how much I trust him. He’s good with the engine, too. He’s figured it out.”
Marina was no judge of children but she would say that Easter looked too young to captain a boat or fix an engine or walk alone in a city at night, though not a mile back she had seen a child alone in a child-sized log who could not have been more than five, a spear lying over the bow, his paddle even as it went in and out of the water. “How old is Easter?”
Dr. Swenson looked up and gave a squint in Marina’s direction. “Shall I ask him?”
If Dr. Swenson had not been changed by time or experience or geography or climate, was it possible that Marina had not been substantively changed either? Was she in fact the person she had been in medical school, in grade school? “You’ll have to forgive me,” Marina said, and then set about restating the question. “I don’t know any more about the Lakashi than what you’ve written and you’ve written nothing about their ability to record time. Does anyone know how old anyone is? Do his parents know?”
“You make no end of suppositions, Dr. Singh. Is that a habit of yours? I have to say that was one thing I admired about Dr. Eckman: no preconceived conclusions whatsoever. A truly open mind is a scientist’s greatest asset. He must have been very thoughtful in his research. Had the circumstances been different I could have imagined asking him to stay on.”
Marina was not in the least bit unsettled by the praise for Anders. She knew the role of compliments in Dr. Swenson’s pedagogy: they were used not to raise one person up but to tap another down into place. She was only sorry that she didn’t have Anders to repeat it to, no doubt he would be shocked to hear such kindness after his death.
“You, however, suppose that Easter is Lakashi. He is not. I of course cannot be certain where he came from as he simply appeared in camp one morning and could neither hear nor speak. Were I to follow your example, I would suppose that he was Hummocca based on the shape of his head and the arrangement of his sinuses. The Hummocca have sinus cavities that are less pronounced than the Lakashi. Their faces are more curved, not quite so flat, but the difference is subtle. The Hummocca are somewhat smaller as well, and this goes to your original question about his age. I say all of this based on a single brief and unpleasant encounter with the tribe many years ago. Still,