"So they’re selling their children?": a purchase in the Pacific
The Seaside Inn wasn’t at all the sort of hotel that Nicola would have chosen for her tropical break. Three-storeyed and of concrete construction, the inn had no pool, no lift, and a cramped lobby. It was also located in a rather rough part of Savaiiki’s capital town, Maroto. But as the country was Covid-free, and she had found a cheap fare on the internet, she’d decided to take pot luck with her accommodation. Only to find that the two best hotels in the town were fully booked. One by young American women on a medical mission, the other by delegates to the Australasian Acne Management Conference. Nicola had sat among both groups during her transfer from the airport to town. The medical missionary girls wore T-shirts with Jesus Is Our Vaccine printed on them; the Acne Management delegates were mostly elderly men whose wives were overdressed for the heat. They all seemed reasonably free of acne themselves, though, Nicola noted.
After two days Nicola felt quite at home at the inn. There was a view of the picturesque harbour from her room, and the staff were cheerful and obliging. All the other guests were Europeans, Nicola had observed, early middle-aged American couples mainly, very serious, saying little to each other at meal-times. Other conference-attenders, Nicola assumed. Savaiiki seemed big on conferences.
She opened the window of her first floor room. The sky was filled with layers of dark grey clouds, piled into interesting shapes. The rain usually came in the afternoon, in a thundering deluge which lasted only minutes, followed by steaming heat. Nicola collected her togs and towel and strolled along the road to the lagoonside beach.
After swimming and rinsing off, Nicola stretched out in the sun to dry. It was good to be here and get away from everything. Months earlier her nine-year-long marriage to David had broken down, "irretrievably", to use the lawyers’ quaint expression. She and David were only too well aware of the cause of the breakdown – Nicola’s failure to conceive. None of the fertility treatments had worked. As the years went by their love-making took on more of an air of desperation, then futility, and finally, despair. Until neither of them had anything left to give. Divorce papers had been filed. The house had been sold, the assets divided. She’d bought an inner-city apartment, David was renting on the North Shore. He’d bought an Aston Martin. Already, she’d been informed by a friend, he was dating someone else. A twenty-three-year-old. Ten years younger than Nicola, and no doubt oozing eggs.
Towelling her hair dry, Nicola thought the same, bitter thought – that other women became pregnant with such apparent ease. For years now she’d glanced at their swelling bodies with a mixture of awe and resentment, the old question forever crushing her. So why did it never happen to me?
She brushed the coral sand from her legs and wrapped her pareu around herself. Further along the beach, a pair of back-packers were pulling on masks and snorkels. Everywhere she looked, there were couples. She still couldn’t get used to the fact that she was no longer one half of a pair.
As Nicola entered the South Pacific’s little lobby, the pretty Savaiikian girl behind the reception desk smiled broadly and called out, "Hello Miss Davidson. Did you have a nice swim?"
"I did, thank you Marina."
The girl beamed. That was the thing about this place, Nicola thought, it might be rough around the edges, but the staff are so genuinely friendly. On the first floor the stairs opened onto a dining area, which overlooked the inn’s entranceway. Nicola bought a fruit punch at the bar and sat at a table. Glancing at the lunch menu, she smiled. Among its offerings was a dish called ‘Nazi Goreng’ and the list concluded with the words, ‘Bonna Petit!’ She looked into the large room beyond the bar. Parquet-floored and with a low ceiling, it was very dark, almost gloomy. Some sort of conference room, Nicola concluded, as it contained several trestle tables and a whiteboard. She glimpsed a big Savaiikian man, in a white shirt and tie, writing names on the board. Nicola strolled over to the balcony.
Below, ancient cars were drawing up by the inn’s forecourt and people were alighting from them. Savaiikian couples, the men in suits and ties, the women in long dresses. All were carrying infants. The American couples staying at the inn emerged from their rooms and walked into the conference room. Nicola noticed how tense they looked. Were they going to a religious meeting? she wondered. She was aware of how devout a nation Savaiiki was. On the drive from the airport to Maroto she had counted thirty-eight churches.
Now she saw the Savaiikian couples walking into the big room, carrying their infants. Staring at the children – the little boys in tiny suits and ties, the girls in frilly dresses – Nicola felt the familiar pangs of distress. So many children. But what were they here for? What sort of a function were these two very different groups of people going to? Then the Savaiikian man shut the room’s door and she could see no more.
Unable to contain her curiosity, Nicola said to Mele, the girl behind the bar, "What’s the meeting about?"
"Oh, the children," Mele replied, lightly.
"The American couples are here to meet the parents. And to choose the children they will take back to America."
"Do you mean…those people are giving their children away?"
"Oh no. Not giving. The Americans pay for them."
"So they’re selling their children?"
Suddenly embarrassed, Mele looked away. Then after a pause, she said, "The Americans give the parents money. For things like clothes, and the children’s education." Mele still avoided Nicola’s doubtful stare. "The Savaiikian parents know their children will have a much better life in the States. Better schools, better future there."
"But how do the children get passports? To leave the country?"
"There’s a man from the government in there. He organises the documents."
Nicola stared at the room’s closed door. She was aware that Savaiiki was in some ways a very poor country. She had heard that the medical system was in a parlous state, that the schools and hospitals had not enough money for proper equipment. Yes, Savaiiki was poor. But to sell one’s child? And to strangers from a foreign land?
Walking over to the balcony, she looked down at the street. School must be out, because she could see scores of barefoot children, clutching their bags, calling to each other as they made their way home. So many children. And all she had ever wanted was one. Nicola went to her room, lay down on the bed and turned her face to the wall. Minutes later, she opened her eyes, sat up. An idea had come into her mind.
Mele was feeding pieces of pineapple into a blender. She smiled. "Hello Miss Davidson. Having a nice day?"
"Yes, thank you." She allowed a pause. "Mele, that man from the government, the one who arranges the adoptions. Is he still here?"
"Mr Tavasi? Yes, he’s getting ready for today’s meeting."
"I’d like to talk to him, please."
Looking surprised, Mele said, "Oh, all right. Come with me."
He was a burly man, with shiny black hair and a full face which sagged under the eyes. He wore a white shirt and tie and a grey sulu, and panted as he spoke. Sitting Nicola down at one of the trestle tables, he said, "You are from the States, Mrs Davidson?"
"No,
"Ah…."
"Is that a problem?"
"No," he replied, wheezingly. "Our governments are quite close.’ He smiled. "Your husband is here in Savaiiki with you?"
"No. He couldn’t come.’
"I see. Well, I should explain that tomorrow’s meeting is what we call Stage One, when the local people come along to meet the adoptive parents. Then, if the match is satisfactory, the handover is carried out a month later."
"And the fee…?"
"Twenty thousand US dollars."
She had the money. Left over from the settlement. She could arrange for an electronic transfer.
Mr Tavasi was looking at her, levelly. "Does that suit you, Mrs Davidson?"
"Yes. That suits very well, thank you."
He picked up a form from the desk. "Please fill this in and return it to me later today."
She took it away. In her room, she looked over the form. The questions were predictable. Income level, occupation, health status, clearance from the police. Nothing unsurmountable. Legally, she was still married. The last option stated: Preferred gender of child. She had never cared if she had a boy or a girl. Just as long as there was a child. But now… now she had a definite preference. Knowing that she would need a companion, now and in later life. She circled firmly, GIRL.
Handing the completed form over to Mr Tavasi, her hand trembled. But for the rest of that day her mind teemed with the new possibilities which had so unexpectedly presented themselves to her.
She was having breakfast the next morning when an American couple took the table next to hers. Both looked to be in their mid-thirties, the woman with a corona of frizzy blonde hair; the man short and stocky, with close-cropped hair. With them was a little Savaiikian girl of about three, wearing a frilly pink dress and clutching a doll, also with a pink dress. The woman sat the little girl on her knee. She was very pretty, with huge brown eyes. Her hair was in bangs, with a butterfly clip on each side. The child’s eyes were full of confusion. The woman and the man stared at her, their expressions anxious. "Are you hungry, darling?" asked the woman loudly. The child pouted. The woman picked up a banana, peeled it and brandished it. The child shook her head. The man looked across at the woman. "Maybe she’d like a drink." Leaning forward, he demanded, "Coke? Pepsi? Sprite?"
The child closed her eyes, shook her head again. The man flicked up his chin impatiently and his wife glared at him. At that moment Mele appeared at the top of the stairs. She smiled. "Mr and Mrs Schultz, your taxi for the airport is here."
The woman scooped the little girl up in her arms and the couple made for the stairs. Nicola went to the balcony, from where she watched the couple and the child get into the taxi. The little girl was still clutching her doll. The driver placed their luggage in the boot and drove off.
Later that day Nicola returned to the beach. She hired a mask and snorkel, then floated out into the lagoon. Shoals of neon fish darted about among the coral heads. But as Nicola stared at the coral and the fish, all she saw was a pair of child’s eyes, staring at her imploringly. Nicola was not naïve, she understood only too well the despair of the childless couple, the anguish that would have led them here to do what they had done. And yet those huge, bewildered child’s eyes were something she could not dispel from her consciousness.
An hour later Nicola was back in the hotel. She showered, dried herself and put on the pareu she had bought from a roadside stall. Then she went into the room where Mr Tavasi was sitting behind his desk. Looking up, he smiled broadly.
"Ah, Mrs Davidson, hello. I have your filled-in form. You have brought the money?"
Nicola looked into the man’s broad, sagging face. He was peering at her expectantly. Next week's short story is "Lake Pukaki" by Hawkes Bay writer John Prin
