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fish, and Misa Dolu’udi was looking at the man and frowning.
    Misa Dolu’udi spoke to Osana. ‘Has
he
joined us?’ he said.
    ‘Who, taubada?’ said Osana, like a man talking to a child.
    Misa Dolu’udi looked angry for an instant, then he said: ‘Two-bob. He’s back there.’
    ‘He is walking home to his village,’ said Osana, ‘if I may make a suggestion.’
    ‘Well said,’ Misa Dolu’udi told Osana. ‘That was a good drop of English you turned on there.’ Then he turned to go away, but higher up the path he stopped again and stood watching.
    The fish-eyed man went past me. I did not know who he was, or which his village could be. I had never seen him before, but his eyes and face made me feel strange.
    Misa Kodo’s boy was a hunchback, his name was Kailusa. On the steep path he walked like a crab, with his arms spread wide. His face looked as if something hurt him. He stared uphill all the time, towards his taubada.
    Behind him I saw Biyu, wearing a Dimdim shirt of all colours. ‘O, Biyu,’ I called. ‘How are you? What are you doing here?’
    ‘O, Benoni,’ Biyu said. ‘Does Dipapa exist? If not, are you chief of Kailuana?’
    ‘He exists,’ I said, feeling angry with Biyu, who smiled too much.
    ‘Nowadays I am Misa Dolu’udi’s boy,’ Biyu said. Then he looked up the path and saw Misa Dolu’udi standing aside, gazing down, and he stopped smiling and grew worried. ‘Why is my taubada looking at us?’ he said. ‘Did he call?’
    ‘No,’ said Kailusa the hunchback, not caring about Biyu’s taubada. ‘He is looking, that is all.’
    ‘Like a lizard,’ said old man Sayam, the skipper of the
Igau.
‘He stares like a lizard. Go on, go on, little police-master.’
    ‘Not little,’ Biyu said. ‘Big. Very big.’
    ‘Little,’ Sayam said. ‘Later on he will be a grown man.’
    ‘Truly?’ said Biyu, laughing. ‘Then we shall be afraid, as in the days of Dokonikan.’
    ‘I shall not be afraid because of Misa Dolu’udi,’ said Kailusa. ‘He is like a child.’
    ‘You lie,’ cried Biyu. ‘My taubada is strong, very strong. Your taubada—’
    ‘Enough!’ shouted Kailusa, swinging round towards Biyu. He had eyes that were hot and wet. ‘You shall not speak like that!’
    Biyu muttered also: ‘Enough,’ and looked uncertain, because the hunchback was so passionate.
    ‘Enough, both of you,’ Sayam said. ‘Go on, Kailusa.
Tonagowa
,’ he added, loud enough for Kailusa to hear. ‘Defective one.’
    And I saw Kailusa’s face, which Sayam could not see, go stiff, and as he walked on he whispered: ‘You shall not speak like that, Sayam.’
    The people from Osiwa passed, carrying the boxes and all the other somethings that travel with the Dimdims. I thought: I do not think that I can talk now to Misa Kodo about my affair. Because of Misa Kodo my mind was heavy. I believed he was my friend.
DALWOOD
    So the people turned out to line the path, staring at us, talking about us. And Misa Kodo strode on. A tall young bloke tried to catch his eye, but he didn’t notice, and the bloke felt put down, I saw that. I thought of saying something, but then I thought: There is time. Ahead of me Alistair walked loose and mechanical, like a tired man with a job waiting.
    I stood by the side of the path, watching the line. When I turned to follow, Alistair was gone. A clump of hibiscus bushes had hidden him at a turn in the path, and over the leaves I caught sight of the roof of the house, half-buried in palms. So I hurried to catch up with him, as I always did, because he was the only one who spoke my language.
    Once round the bend, the house sprang up in front of me, sudden and close at hand.
    I remember, before I came to this district, asking someone one time: ‘What happens there?’ And he said: ‘It rains.’ Seeing the MacDonnell’s house, on that clear evening, I felt surprised, as if it should have had its own cloud a few feet above the palms. Rain was written on everything, fifty