Return to Paradise

by James A. Michener

  The Good Life

  A social and economic revolution has occurred in Santo. The Tonkinese have been set free of their indentures and now have all civil privileges.

  Not long ago I was sent from Efate to investigate a rather astonishing report which had reached the British half of the Condominium Government. I proceeded aboard a small schooner which fortunately was putting in at the very plantation I intended visiting.

  At dawn two mornings later I caught my first glimpse of La Fécondité, the famous establishment of Jean Perouse, who was the cause of my embarrassing inspection. La Fécondité was well named, for great copra plantings ran right to the water’s edge, except where a belvedere had been built over the fringes of a placid bay. There a fine pavilion stood with iron chairs and a long table, where diners could enjoy their dinner in the evening while they watched the lights along a superb reach of channel. Behind the belvedere stood an imposing house, built in the colonial style with many verandahs, and behind it clustered a half dozen small red-and-white cook houses, card rooms, dining quarters and American refrigerator units. Deeper in the jungle, beyond a small stream, were ranged forty of the dismal huts inhabited by the Tonkinese laborers, and beyond them were the famous cacao groves that had made Jean Perouse a wealthy man.

  He had given us trouble before. During the war, American Military Police were constantly raiding La Fécondité, and Perouse was charged with almost every kind of offense. We discovered, however, that he maintained good relations with American commanding officers, so that as fast as the M.P.’s arrested him, the responsible officers set him free, and it was in this way that he assembled the finest collection of American heavy equipment in the Hebrides.

  But it was not regarding material things that I was seeking M. Perouse. I left the schooner, climbed the steps to the belvedere and proceeded to the main house. There I was met by a ruddy faced man of fifty-five, well preserved, handsome, hearty in what one might call the British fashion. He spoke to me first in French, but, since I am only adequate in that language, promptly switched to English.

  I was brief. “M. Perouse,” I said. “It has been brought to our attention that you are harboring on your plantation a young woman who is—shall we say?—wanted in Australia.”

  He appreciated my candor and greeted me with a disarming grin. “Come in, Mr. Crompton,” he said. “Would you be averse to a whiskey so early in the morning?” He was most generous and led me to a large room exquisitely furnished in bamboo, where he placed a full bottle at my elbow. Then he apologized and asked me to excuse him for a moment, since, as he explained, he always tried to listen to the morning news from Los Angeles.

  The radio was dull that day. You know, the usual dreadful stuff from America. Gangsters killing people and strikers rioting. When it was finished he said, “Rather boring, Crompton, but I did get to like the damned Americans when they were here. Now what can I do for you?”

  “About the Australian girl,” I reminded him. “I’ve got to lodge a formal protest and to ask that she be sent back to Australia.”

  M. Perouse laughed heartily and said, “Old man, you’re too late. Your pretty has flown the coop! She returned two weeks ago.”

  This rather took me aback, but I said. “How in the world did she ever get up here in the first place?”

  “Simple,” he laughed contentedly as he recalled the incident. “I live here alone. That is not good. So I wrote to a trusted friend in Sydney and said, ‘Surely there must be some pretty girl down there who would enjoy a long vacation on a real tropical island.’ To my surprise, and I may add satisfaction, Phyllis arrived on the next plane.”

  I have to admit that I gulped and asked, “What?”

  “Yes,” he said frankly. “There are many lonely men in the world. Even more lonely women. I could afford to pay the plane fare, so what was more natural?”

  “You mean an Australian girl.… She spoke English?”

  “But naturally! Fine girl, too. Not well educated, perhaps, but a fine girl. Sang soprano.”

  I hardly knew what to say. I’ve lived in the New Hebrides long enough to realize that no Englishman will ever completely understand the French mind. Of course, that wretched affair at Oran when we had to sink the French fleet didn’t help, either, but the more I study the French the more convinced I become that their way of life is certainly not appropriate for decent Englishmen.

  I said, “So the girl Phyllis Crump has returned to Sydney?”

  “Yes, Mr. Crompton, she has.” I asked for a few additional particulars about this most irregular affair and then, since the schooner had not yet left the channel, I proposed to rejoin it and thus save several days of unpleasant travel. But as I was about to go there was a commotion outside the house and M. Perouse asked to be excused. He was gone but a moment. Then he returned with a scrawny Tonkinese foreman.

  “This is Nguyen Bo,” he said, introducing the Oriental to me as if he were a gentleman.

  “I’ve heard of Nguyen,” I said, for this was the Tonkinese who was causing the French Government so much trouble about the repatriation claims.

  “Better stop with us,” Perouse suggested. “You may be interested in this.”

  “If you’ll excuse me,” I said, not wishing to be involved in any way with the Tonkinese problem. The French had brought these Orientals into the New Hebrides years ago under an ironclad agreement to repatriate them to Tonkin when their indentures were discharged. Now, faced with postwar troubles in Tonkin and having no ships, the French were autocratically extending the contracts. It was a ugly situation in which I, as British civil servant, must express no opinion.

  But M. Perouse insisted. “Forget the schooner. I’ll drive you down to the wharf. Sit down, Nguyen.”

  I had to admit, as I listened to the Tonkinese, that he presented his case admirably. He said, as I recall, that his people were willing to go on working for the French under certain conditions. More rice, a pig a week for ten families, whitewash for the huts and pay in cash. The critical point, however, was their freedom to work for whom they wanted, even if it entailed travel from one island to another.

  M. Perouse told Nguyen that he considered the terms reasonable, but that the French were inflexible on two of the points. No pay in French money. No freedom to leave present contracts. Nguyen said, “But you accept the terms, do you not?”

  “Of course!” Perouse said. “Haven’t we always got along together at La Fécondité?”

  “With you, yes,” the Tonkinese promptly replied. “But the Government?”

  “The Government?” M. Perouse shrugged his shoulders. “The Government is always wrong.” Then he added, much to my discomfort, “In times of change all governments are always wrong.”

  Nguyen then asked, “What are we going to do?”

  Perouse replied, “Those that work for me have no complaint. The rest must be patient.”

  Nguyen said, “Not much longer. Soon there will be trouble.”

  “Nguyen!” Perouse shouted. “Don’t be a fool. Because if trouble comes I shall side with the white men. Remember that.”

  “With you no trouble,” the Tonkinese leader insisted. “With the Government, yes.”

  There was a moment of tension and then M. Perouse laughed. “Well, I warned you.”

  Nguyen laughed, too. “And I warned the French Government.”

  I report this conversation in detail so that you will more clearly understand what happened later. Specifically, however, on that day there was no ill will between the men, and in the presence of Nguyen Bo, M. Perouse said to me, “I hope you’ll report honestly what the situation is.” This was decidedly improper for him to have said and I told him so.

  “M. Perouse,” I protested. “And you, too, Nguyen. You must consider that I was not present at this discussion. Officially I know nothing about it.”

  This time I rose in earnest, but as Nguyen Bo left, a native rushed up in a jeep crying, “Mastuh! Plane he come!”

  “I’ll be d
amned!” the hearty Frenchman cried. “Come along, Crompton. Important business!”

  He pushed the black driver out of the jeep and after I had managed to climb aboard—what a horrid vehicle!—he drove like mad along his coral road. I noticed, when the dust permitted me to look, that his establishment was the only one in these parts actually cleared and in full production. He had wire fence to keep his cattle in, several American army trucks, six quonsets and an ice plant. I asked him how it was that his lands looked so good, and he said, “I can always get coons or Tonks to work for me. I give them good pay and extra rice.”

  It seemed that we would miss the plane’s arrival, for as we neared the edge of his plantation we were blocked by a road grader. “Where did you get that monstrous thing?” I asked.

  “Handsome, isn’t it?” he asked with much pride. “I got that for teaching a fat American colonel how to shoot flying fox.” I affected not to have heard this, but M. Perouse slapped me on the shoulder. “Come, my friend,” he said. “Your country and mine, they did great things together in the old days. Now, for a while, we are finished. It is the time of the Yankees. Look! Anyone who can build a machine like that deserves to rule the world—for a few years.”

  I simply refused to acknowledge such blasphemy and by my manner I indicated as much. It may be true that Britain—I shall not speak for France—is undergoing present difficulties, occasioned I must say mostly by a Labor Government, but I should never wish it said of me that even in the darkest days did I for one moment believe or even fancy that what we have known as British leadership could decline one jot or tittle.

  M. Perouse accepted my rebuke, not graciously, perhaps, for he stopped pointedly by the grader and patted it fondly, saying, in French, “My little sweetheart of the fat colonel!” Then he plunged his foot down on the accelerator and we fairly bounced along. “I mustn’t be late,” he chanted. “Not today of all days.”

  We arrived at the seaplane base just as the PBY came in for a very wet landing. When the tug went out to unload the passengers there was a moment of great commotion, following which a girl of about twenty stuck her head through the hatchway, screaming, “Hiya, Monsoor! We made it!” Beside her a redheaded girl, who looked as if she hadn’t bathed in three days, peered at the dock and shouted, “Coo! That’s him in the helmet! Yoo hoo, Monsoor Peroose!”

  I am ashamed to add that the distasteful picture was completed by M. Perouse, who jumped up and down shouting, “Flora! Gracie! Over here!”

  The next half hour was a nightmare. The two girls made a great noise as they came ashore, each with a cheap guitar. They were, I will concede, rather pretty in a vulgar sort of way. During the first five minutes they informed M. Perouse, whom they had never met before, that Phyllis Crump had skipped out on a Dutch steamer before the police could catch her. “Phyllis was a darling,” the redheaded girl, Gracie Dalrymple, said. Then the other regrettable person, Flora Keats, laughed and said, “Phyllis thought this was the best island in the world, Monsoor.”

  “It is!” Perouse agreed, and that was where I left them. In all fairness I must explain that these girls were Australian and not English.

  In the next four or five months we heard many reports about M. Perouse and his two visitors. Each week-end there was a gay party at La Fécondité. The girls became famous as guitar players and, I am ashamed to add, as consumers of practically all the alcohol the French could provide. Yet strange as it seems there were no reports of obnoxious drunkenness, but you must remember that French officials are notoriously lax in checking upon such details.

  That was the way things continued for about half a year. In Efate we British took no official notice of the girls, because M. Perouse lived under French law, and it was no concern of ours what he did to wreck the morals of his community. Many persons have made fun at the expense of the Condominium Government, but I am proud to say that this spirit of laissez-faire of which I have been speaking has permitted two great nations to live side by side in peace for more than fifty years, and that I think is no small accomplishment, even though I do sometimes feel the amity has been preserved principally through the willingness of us British to overlook some fairly irritating behavior on the part of the French.

  For example, about this time two Tonkinese workmen on an island near La Fécondité were murdered, and since only Frenchmen were involved, there was some dissatisfaction when I was dispatched from Efate to inquire into the particulars. It was not a pretty story; indeed it was not. A brutal French planter had decided that the Tonkinese were being pampered, so on his own recognizance he had cut the rice ration. The Tonks had protested and in the confusion of argument two men were killed. No one could say who had done the shooting, so no one was charged with the murders.

  French gendarmes moved onto the small island and evacuated all Tonkinese to the mainland, where M. Perouse hired them at the wages they requested. He issued a double ration of rice and spent long hours with Nguyen Bo, explaining what rights the Tonkinese had so long as they behaved themselves.

  This time I participated officially in all negotiations, and much as I had to deplore the way M. Perouse lived, I was nevertheless impressed by the scope of his thinking and by his fair play. At times he seemed more like an Englishman than a Frenchman.

  While the negotiations were in progress he insisted that I stop with him and I am somewhat embarrassed to admit that never during my entire service in the New Hebrides did I enjoy myself so much. La Fécondité was a most charming place. It had curtains at the windows, polished floors and wonderful food. Normally I do not drink wine with my meals, but M. Perouse offered such excellent vintages that I could not refuse. At first I found it awkward to sit at the same table with Gracie and Flora, but under M. Perouse’s kindly tutelage they had lost much of the garishness I noticed that first day at the plane.

  I recall two aspects of my stay with special pleasure. The singing was magnificent. The two girls each played the guitar, a rather trifling instrument, but when it accompanied their hearty voices the result was rather pleasing. Planters came from many miles to attend the musical evenings, and I shall pass over without comment the fact that occasionally one of them spent the night, nor do I think it proper for me to discuss what seemed to be the arrangements between M. Perouse and his two guests.

  The second reassuring aspect of my stay was the substantial work accomplished by my host in bringing to the attention of all French planters the critical nature of the Tonkinese problem. Once he had Nguyen Bo meet with four Frenchmen who up to that time had been adamant in their refusal to consider any contract revision. Occasionally, much against my will, I was brought into these meetings and I recall vividly a speech by M. Perouse, in the course of which he reasoned, “We are all seeking the good life. Each of us calls it by some different name. My father conceived it as Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité. Our English friend here calls it fair play. What the Tonkinese call it, I don’t know. But we had better find out.”

  An official who had served in Indo-China said haughtily, “The only reasoning they understand is a rifle jammed down their throats.” This infuriated M. Perouse, who called for Nguyen Bo, but the official said he would leave La Fécondité that night if he were forced to discuss anything with a damned Oriental bastard. M. Perouse looked at him sadly and said, “Our English cousins once said that about Indians. Now it’s the Indians who won’t talk with the British.”

  The French official jumped to his feet. “Am I to understand, M. Perouse, that you are willing to release the contracts?”

  “No!” Perouse cried sharply. “By God, I’m not willing to release these men. I made a fortune out of the yellow devils and if they were stupid enough to honor the old contract I’d make another.” Then he dropped his voice and said, “I am not willing to release them. But even less am I willing to murder them for a few francs.”

  There was a moment of silence and the fonctionnaire asked, “Who spoke of murder?”

  “Anyone who thinks he can keep backward
races backward much longer.”

  I could have cheered M. Perouse for that statement, but of course it would have been most improper for me to have done so. As a matter of fact, I would subsequently have been disgusted with myself had I publicly approved the man in view of what was to happen next day.

  M. Perouse called for me right after breakfast and said, “Mr. Crompton, I have a most difficult problem and I must enlist your aid.”

  “Certainly,” I said, for I was beginning to like the cut of this man’s jib.

  “It’s about money,” he said.

  At this I gasped, for he was reputed to be wealthy, whereas I made only a few pounds … Well, since it’s a matter of public record I make four hundred eighty pounds a year plus living expenses, which with prices what they are is truly inadequate. “I’m sorry,” I said with what I hope was honest frankness.

  “I didn’t mean a loan,” he laughed. “I mean I want to buy some pounds to be delivered in Sydney.”

  “That’s not difficult,” I assured him. “How many?”

  He replied, “I want each of the girls to have a thousand pounds, clear.”

  “The girls?” I gasped.

  “Yes. They’re going home. On today’s plane.” He became very melancholy and rang for the servant to bring the girls in. I immediately begged to be excused, but he wouldn’t hear of it.