Entertain. What did he mean, entertain?

‘You and Pete,’ he said. ‘You seem happy these days.’

‘Yes,’ Martha said. ‘Yes, I suppose we are.’

‘A fine institution, marriage,’ he said, bringing a blush to her cheeks. She thought he was jesting, maybe even flirting a little. He was leaning in towards her, conspiratorial, speaking softly.

‘Do you think,’ he said, ‘that Angel will make me a good wife?’

‘Angel.’ Martha stepped back. ‘From the fjords? She’s sixteen. If that.’

‘I intend to wait. I promised afa Noah.’

‘Promised him what? Girls aren’t for trade.’

‘But it’s a consideration, how it’ll affect the village.’

What kind of a conversation was this?

‘And in the meantime,’ Jacob said, ‘I’ll send her down to Australia. To school.’

‘Train her up, you mean.’

‘I wouldn’t put it like that.’

‘Anyway,’ Martha said, ‘you don’t know what she’ll want in two years’ time.’

‘No?’ They both knew what Angel would want.

‘It’ll be good for the village,’ Jacob said. ‘Noah agrees. It’ll bring the clans together.’ He smiled the smile she was susceptible to; still she couldn’t see him and feel neutral. ‘I’ll teach her to love me,’ he said, ‘and I’ll behave like a western husband.’ He laughed. A very different laugh.

‘Have you told Rika?’

‘There’s much to be arranged.’

‘Don’t do it too soon,’ Martha said. ‘Give her time.’

‘I always give her time. You, surely, know that.’ Those hooded eyes were open, eyebrows raised. ‘Martha,’ he said, lifting her hand to his lips. Then he moved off, into the reception, sleek as a panther, making his way back towards Rika.

MILTON HAD BEEN IN HOHOLA SINCE THE RAIN BEGAN. THE DIRT floor of the shack had turned to mud, and the road a slippery bog. Rifle had to carry out what was left of his vegetables by foot.

On the morning of self-government, Milton walked into town and joined the small crowd outside the building where the administrator and Somare were signing the papers. He was there for history and for art, prowling about in the guise of Baldwin Rufus, looking for revolt, any small moment of resistance, troops for Baldwin Rufus’s rebellion. Milton had no interest in troops for himself, or followers, or even rebellion. Well, he was ambivalent: he’d like to see some spark of something, not this giving over to the new version of themselves that had been handed down from Canberra. If independence was to come, it might as well come as theirs.

His novel was running amok, changing under his nose as he peered over the typewriter to see what he was banging out. Baldwin Rufus was no longer a crude version of Eremiah. Milton had grown to like him, or at any rate not despise him, and he saw that the interior life beginning to arrive on the page was an aspect of his own. He remembered back to Aro’s classes. Madame Bovary, c’est moi. Not all of him, but a part.