“Why? What’s the connection?”
“I’m not sure, but there is one. Thanks.”
Morgan walked back to his desk. He sat down, he stood up. It was after six; he left for the day.
He picked up smoked meat on rye and coleslaw from a deli on the way home. The air smelled of August as he walked along Harbord Street. The heat of the day was draining away and the cool of the evening was rising from the lengthening shadows. He had been tempted to eat in the restaurant, but decided that he wasn’t all that hungry and would rather change first and crack open a beer and watch some TV or read the paper.
As soon as he approached the door of his condo, one segment of a rambling Victorian house subdivided into a postmodern architectural puzzle, like those three-dimensional intelligence tests where no two pieces are the same, he realized he was already rehearsing his conversation with Miranda. At the door he hesitated for a moment, discerning his spectral reflection in the paint he had applied, layer after layer, when he had first moved in more than a decade earlier. He had been trying to emulate the magic depth on the Georgian doors of Dublin, where he had spent several months half a lifetime before.
He picked up his mail without looking at it and dropped it on an end table beside his answering machine, which registered no calls. He set down his deli parcel on the ottoman, slumped back into the blue sofa, and dialed the very long number of the Hotel Victoria in Hanga Roa. After two rings, someone spoke to him in Spanish. He tried to explain what he wanted, but got nowhere. He hung up and called a Bell Canada operator and asked her to make the connection, person to person. After an interminable wait, during which he could hear voices in Spanish and English negotiating, the operator informed him there was no one registered at the Hotel Victoria by that name.
“Miranda Quin,” he said. “One n.”
“There’s no one there by that name.”
“Did she move out?”
“I don’t know, sir. They said no one by that name has been registered there. She must be staying somewhere else. Is it a big place?”
“What?”
“Isla de Pasqua?”
“No, it’s a very small place. Could you connect me to the police?”
“The Toronto police?”
“I am the Toronto police; to the police on Easter Island.”
“Where, sir?”
“Isla de Pasqua!”
“One moment, sir.”
She came back on the line.
“There is no number for police on Isla de Pasqua. Would you like me to try Santiago. That is also in Chile.”
“Try Carabinaros. Isla de Pasqua Carabinaros.”
“Is that a person or business, sir?”
“Try Guardia Civil.”
“I’m sorry sir, is Guardia the first name or last?”
“Uh, try Policía.”
“Policía. Thank you, sir.”
She came back on the line again. “To whom did you wish to speak?”
“The Isla de Pasqua Policía!”
“This is a person-to-person call, sir.”
“Anyone. Please.”
He could hear muffled voices in the background and then the operator returned. “I will connect you now.”
“Thank you.”
“Thank you for using Bell Canada.”
“Si?” a new voice inquired.
“Carabinaros?”
“No Carabinaros. Policía.”
“Habla Inglés?”
“No, poco. A little.”
“I am looking for Señorita Miranda Quin,” said Morgan in a very slow and deliberate voice. “I am calling from Canada. She is a police officer, she is staying at the Hotel Victoria.”
“I am police, Señor. There is no Miss Quin at Hanga Roa.”
“How do you know?”
“I know, we are a little place.”
“And you know everyone?”
“Señor, it is my job.”
“You know everyone there?”
“Si. I know Rapa Nui. Señorita Miss Quin, she has never arrive. Thank you for your call. Goodbye.”
The line went dead.
She’ll phone, Morgan thought. She’s moved to another hotel. She’ll call this evening. It’s only mid-afternoon in the South Pacific. She’s out exploring at Rano Raraku. He was annoyed that she was inaccessible, irritated by her lack of consideration. He was worried, too. It was not like Miranda to disappear. A pang of fear ran through him, but he shook it loose. She knew how to look after herself.
The telephone rang. Morgan jumped, then took a deep breath and relaxed.
“Miranda?”
“It is Edwin Block.”
“Who?” said Morgan, his anxiety about Miranda rising.
“Eddie, you gave me your card.”
“When?”
“Today on the ferry. I called the office number, but you weren’t there so I called this number.”
“Yes, Eddie, what can I do for you?” said Morgan. He wanted to get off the phone in case Miranda was trying to get through.
“Well, you know, you wanted to know things,” he stopped.
“Yes?”
“Well, you know, it’s not difficult to get over to the RTYC lots of other ways.”
“Such as?”
“Well, you know Toronto Island is just one of the islands, it’s actually called Centre Island, but most people call it Toronto Island, but anyway, the islands are connected, you can take a ferry to Centre Island Park or to the airport, you can hire a water taxi.”
“You’re a good man, Eddie, you’re thinking outside the box.”
“I am?”
“You are. Now, I’m expecting an important call so we’ll have to cut this short. If you think of anything else, you call me. At the office.” Without waiting for a response, Morgan clicked off. He held the phone in his palm, staring at it, but it remained silent.
He set the telephone on the ottoman beside the uneaten sandwich, and sat back and waited, while darkness slowly filled the room. He felt something vaguely like homesickness. She would be fine. If it were him, he’d be out at the quarry among the moai. The sun would be low on the Pacific by now, poised to fall into the sea.
A sharp knock on the door startled him.
He opened it, framed by the darkness behind him and blinded by the light from the street which cast his caller in a stark silhouette.
“Yeah,” he said.
“Morgan. You all right? It’s me.”
“Oh,” he said. “Sorry. I must have fallen asleep. Come in, let’s turn on some lights. There. Well, now, this is a surprise.”
Ellen Ravenscroft gazed around the room. It was not what she had expected. In her mind she had furnished Morgan’s home with oriental carpets and Inuit carvings, time-battered tables and chairs glazed with layers