by Ed Lacy
I sat there feeling blue and sorry for myself and wished I could be a true islander and say aita peapea, nothing matters. Then I found myself dozing off and I went below and hit the sack.
The next morning we didn't get up till two youngsters came alongside in their outrigger canoe and threw a couple of karma fish on the deck. I vaguely heard them wishing us good eating and then some giggling comments about palm wine for a sleeping potion as they paddled away. The cabin was hot and I went on deck. Judging by the sun it was near noon.
The karava is a fantastically striped fish, a technicolor dream, and after I kicked them out of the sun I made my morning toilet by diving into the clear water. I swam around the cutter a couple of times and it needed painting. Even the name—the Hooker (Eddie's best punch was a left hook)— was hard to make out. As I climbed up on deck Eddie came out of the cabin and sat in the sun. He cursed wines in general and started the day off by puking over the side. The tide was going out and a moment later Eddie dived in and swam under the boat, came up the battered ladder as sober and wide awake as if he'd stepped out of a Turkish bath.
While I brewed coffee Eddie neatly cleaned the fish, lit the oil burner we kept in the bottom of a tin drum, and started frying the fish. I wanted them roasted over charcoaled coconut husks, but didn't feel up to telling him .Some days we jabbered all the time, repeating stories, jokes, and lies, over and over. Sometimes we rarely spoke for days, and each understood it was okay.
I squeezed some limes, opened two drinking coconuts. Soon we were eating fried fish and canned dumplings, dipped in lime sauce, strong coffee with tinned milk. My jaw felt okay, except when I touched it-Eddie lit one of his horrible cigars, made of native twist tobacco, almost outsmelling the sour stink of copra in the hold. I sat in the sun, puffed on the remains of a cigarette. After a long while he asked, “Ray, still want to make time with Ruita?”
“Why? Do I have to ask your permission?”
“Only thinking, if you and her are done with that, we ought to raise sail. No more copra here, and we haven't enough trade goods to try the atolls. Best we return to Papeete. Figure we've over a ton of copra, means about hundred and seventy bucks.”
“Okay. Well go on the tide. Have any more dreams?”
In a very matter-of-fact voice Eddie said no. When a Polynesian dismisses something from his mind it's completely dismissed.
I pulled the dinghy in, put on my T-shirt and sneakers. “I'm going to say goodbye to Ruita.”
Eddie sort of half sat up, sent a blob of spit over the side. He studied the spit on the water for a second, announced, “Plenty of time, tide won't change for four hours.”
Eddie held captain's papers but I never saw him use any instruments. He could merely glance at the water and tell exactly the time of the next tide. He steered by the sound of waves, by the sun, the clouds, the sight of birds, or the various kinds of seaweed floating by. Sextants, chronometers, and logs were mild mysteries for me but Eddie's navigation left me baffled. I suppose it was all for the best—the “latest” charts for the Tuamotu atolls, for instance, were almost a hundred years old and full of errors. Anyway, we'd sold our instruments long ago.
I found Ruita in the living room of her house, the room with the heavy old furniture, although there was a modernistic wrought-iron coffee table which has been flown in from Rome. She was reading a three-month-old Paris fashion magazine and listening to radio music from Papeete. There were plenty of chairs but like all islanders she preferred to sit on the floor. She was leaning against her record cabinet—Ruita had a high fidelity record player run by batteries—while in the kitchen I could hear the kerosene refrigerator. The motor needed cleaning; the damn thing sputtered and rattled all day long to make a lone tray of watery ice.
I stood in the doorway and waited for her to ask me in.
Ruita had a blue and white pareu wrapped around her and fastened just below her bare shoulders, which were strong and smooth. Her long black hair glistened with coconut oil and was tied in a kind of ponytail by a number of tiny pink flowers. She made a lovely exotic picture: the lush full lips, the light golden skin, the broad face, the large eyes faintly almond shaped.
She knew I was standing there and after a moment looked up with a practiced smile, said, “Ah, Mr. Jundson. Did you want to see me about something? Would you like to hear some of my latest records, or perhaps you care for an orangeade?”
The words were practiced too, and I said, “Or, tennis anyone?”
A puzzled look ran across her face. “Tennis?”
“A kind of joke, a poor one. Look, Ruita we're sailing in a few hours and—”
“I trust our accounts are clear. My mother usually handles the business end.”
There wasn't anything more to say, except goodbye. Ruita walked out of the room. I followed—we were in her bed room, simple furniture made of palm trunk wood. “Will you ever return to Numaga, Mr. Jundson?”
“Do you want me to?”
“I? I merely asked because Mother might keep some copra for you and—”
I grabbed her, turned her gently around. “Ruita, let's stop this kid talk. I'm really sorry about last night. It had nothing to do with you. You know how I feel about you.”
She pushed my hands from her shoulders.
“I love you,” I said.
“Do you, Ray, or is love merely a handy word?”
“No one really knows what love is, but as much as I understand it, I love you ...” I glanced past her face, saw the little perfume bottles on her dresser. “Do you like perfumes?”
Ruita gasped. Turning away from me, she asked fiercely, “Are we back to polite talk again, Mr. Jundson?”
“No, no. That is—perfumes were important in my... wife's life. I used to give her silly little bottles every payday.”
“They're not important in mine! We islanders bathe many times a day, have no need for covering dirt and odors! I never used these, bought them long ago in Sydney—a whim.”
“Milly never used hers for another reason. She didn't want the odor to remain in her ... lover's bed. His wife might have found out. It's a cute little yarn, all the way.”
“But if you've left her, never cared for her, then—why last night, Ray?”
“She had nothing to do with that I'm afraid to try living with you. I'm afraid I'll mess it up, make us both unhappy.”
She stood there, trying to figure it out. “Are you afraid because of our difference in color or—?”
“No, it isn't anything as stupid as that. It's—well, I love you so much I can't risk making you unhappy.”
“We could only bring joy to each other.”
I shook my head. “I wish I was sure of that, Ruita. I know myself and ... I can't explain it, it's mixed up in my mind. All I know is I can't chance hurting you.”
“Don't you think last night—now—hurts?”
“A tiny hurt compared to what messed-up lives can be. All I can tell you is that I'll try my best to come back to you.”
I reached over to kiss her and she slapped me hard across my face.
“Yes, Mr. Jundson, you'll try to come back to your native girl for a little fun. You'll expect her to be waiting!”
I grabbed her shoulders, and shook her. She began to cry. I held her close and kissed her. Her lips didn't respond. “Darling,” I whispered into her ear, “with us it has to be everything, all down the line or a bust-up. And if we messed up I'm not sure I could stand it, or that you could.”
She suddenly kissed me as hard as she could, her arms going around me like iron, her whole body alive and pressing. When I started to kiss her back, she pushed me away and said coldly, “Any time you return to Numaga, Mr. Jundson, we shall have copra waiting for you.”
She walked out of the room slowly and I stood there for a moment, then realized it was a little play to save face and I didn't blame her. I ran down to the beach.
It took us some time to make the Hooker ready, mainly because every time we were about to pu
ll up anchor, some joker would come rushing out in his canoe with a request to deliver a note to his cousin or somebody in Papeete, or to see about buying this and that for him—although we hadn't said we'd return and this was the first visit we'd made to Numaga.
I was hoping Ruita would come down to see us off but she didn't. Some people paddled out to bring us a gift of coconut crabs which we tied to the rigging to keep fresh, and we kept horsing around so long I thought we'd miss the tide. I checked the bilge for gas fumes, got our old converted Buick motor working and then turned it off. “We've lost the tide,” I said.
“Naw, plenty of water. Get her going,” Eddie said as he pulled up anchor and took the wheel. We went over the reef, an angry rusty red beneath the surging water, without bumping the keel.
We hauled up the sails and the wind was good. I shut off the motor and let Eddie take the first watch since we were in an area of crazy currents. We didn't have any one method of standing watch. We were reasonable about it; each stood watch as long as he felt like it, then awoke the other. When we were a day or more away from any known islands or reefs, running before the steady trade winds, we'd lash the helm down and let the boat run herself.
Now as I sat atop the cabin and watched Ruita's island become a cloud on the horizon behind us, I felt proud of our boat. I'd really been lucky getting the cutter; she was a fine sea boat—forty-two feet over-all and thirty-two feet on the waterline, gaff-rigged, with a long pole bowsprit you rarely see these days. In fact, you rarely see a cutter like mine.
The Pacific was choppy and whenever we dipped into a gully of waves and lost some wind for a split second, the copra stench was sickening. We had a good boat, if a smelly one, probably never would luck up on any real money, yet for some unknown reason I wanted to be a seagoing bum rather than settle down with Ruita.
As Numaga disappeared on the horizon I tried to find the reason, but couldn't think of one that made sense. Eddie and I didn't have a bad life, nor a wonderfully good one; rather it was a painless way of passing time.
Still, living with Ruita would be just as carefree, and in many delightful ways even more so. Yet, while I was sure I could take life as a small-time trader, I was afraid to stick myself on some isolated island, even with a Ruita. Or was the real reason the fact that I was frightened of a second failure in marriage? Or was it that marrying Ruita would mean I'd stay in the islands forever? I kept telling myself I wanted to remain here for the rest of my days, but did I really?
Eddie leaned over the wheel and yawned, said, “Sure can't figure you and Ruita. A gal with everything—looks...”
“Why don't you shut up!”
He shrugged and we were on a silent kick for the rest of the day and most of the following morning.
Two days later when we were within sight of Tahiti, or rather the jagged outline of Moorea, Eddie opened the hold and, screwing up his tan face at the stench, removed a fifty-pound bag of copra. “This bag we hide—for drinking and movie money.”
“We haven't got much of a cargo as it is,” I began.
“Even if we brought in a full load of shell we'd still owe the Chinaman. He'll advance us trade goods against the next cargo, like he always does.”
“That's why we're always in debt.”
Eddie closed the hatch and held the bag at arm's length. “Ray, a lousy five or ten bucks ain't going to make us rich or poor, but it will mean a girl and I'm sure in need of one.”
“What was wrong with your, uh, dream girl back in Numaga?”
“That dream. She was kind of sloppy and it took me time to work up to it. Just when things were set this popaa came along, in the dream, spoiled everything. Guess I forgot to tell you that.”
Approaching Tahiti is one of the most beautiful sights in the world, although Papeete itself has some of the ratty atmosphere of a cheap carnival, a pitch show. With Moorea behind us, I got the motor going soon as we saw the beacon on Point Venus. We went through the pass and stopped at the tiny island of Motuiti opposite the Papeeta waterfront. In the old days the famous Queen Pomare used the island as a pleasure resort but now it's a quarantine and customs station.
There was a new officer on duty. I gave him our papers, our permit de sejour, and everything was in order. He took one look at Eddie's face, gasped, “Lion Face—you are a leper!”
Eddie ran into this one in every new port. His flattened nose, puffed lips, the ridge of scar tissue over his eyes, not to forget his wrinkled right “tin” ear, did give him a “Lion Face,” and you have the disease real bad when your face reaches that stage. Eddie explained about punches, not bugs, changing his face, but the quarantine office hadn't the slightest idea what a pug was and refused to let us go. Happily, as Eddie was getting angry, one of the old hands came in and okayed our papers.
As the sun was setting, trimming Moorea's rugged peaks with fire, I started the motor and we backed the Hooker into the quay and made her fast. The nearest ship to us was a very big schooner, the Shanghai, supposedly owned by a senile Tahitian who lived in a rum bottle and was a front for a Swede named Buck and a sharp Chinese supercargo named Tom Teng. Buck was in his late fifties, a wide powerful man with an odd face—the upper half seemed to run directly down to the tip of his big nose and gave him a kind of Andy Gump appearance. He and Teng were big traders, operators who ran booze and hired their own divers for mother-of-pearl shell.
The short tropical twilight is when most islanders take their last bath of the day. We had a swim and finished the last of the crabs tied to the rigging. Eddie cursed the quarantine man, because now was it too late to sell the bag of copra. We washed the deck down and I said I was going ashore anyway, just to walk among people. Eddie said, “Not me. Nothing worse than walking by the bars and girls without a franc in your pockets, like a hungry dog. I'd rather—”
There was some shouting aboard the Shanghai, followed by drunken laughter, and then a splash as somebody either dove off the high schooner or was thrown off.
In the dim light we could see a person swimming toward our boat and a moment later a hand grasped the rope ladder and a girl pulled herself aboard, flopped on the deck like a caught fish. She was buck naked, slim, with a rather plain and pretty face. She pressed the water out of her long black hair as she sat up. She was both drunk and angry. Looking toward the schooner, she shouted curses in French, then stood up and grinned at us.
She was about seventeen and for sheer physical beauty the most perfectly shaped girl I'd ever seen. She belched slightly, shivered with the night air, her pointed breasts dancing. She giggled, showing stubby teeth, then walked gracefully and casually down the cabin steps, telling us in Tahitian, “I am cold. After a good drink and some clothes, you can be my friends.”
She disappeared into the cabin and Eddie stared at me with open mouth, then asked, “Still going ashore?”
“You crazy?” Absentmindedly I searched my pockets for a coin, then took Eddie's knife from his belt and tossed it in the air.
He said, “Trade-mark up!” as I got out my lighter and we knelt to look at the knife.
The plain side was showing and I ran for the cabin.
Chapter II
I was passing Les Dames de Saint Joseph de Cluny, the Catholic girl's school in Papeete, and a number of the youngsters in neat smocks were out walking. Some of them smiled politely at me. I clicked my heels and slipped them a smart bow which caused the sister in charge to grin and the kids to giggle.
It was the start of a bright cool day and I was feeling very fine; for the moment I wasn't worrying about a thing, not even thinking of Ruita. Last night had been the South Seas of the phony books, the stuff Barry and I had bulled about in Chicago bars—you're on your own little ship and a beautiful girl comes to spend the night with you; a few good hours and it's all over and on to the next one. Wam-bam and thank you, Ma'am.
Her name was Heru and she had arrived in Papeete some five months ago from a far-away atoll, down near Easter Island. As I walked along I thought about her
and why she was here. The atoll people are not only well supplied by nature with about everything they need, but each family averages some fifteen hundred dollars a year from shell and copra, working at it when ever they feel in the mood. But most of the atoll people leave their heaven as soon as they can—that's always puzzled me. The men ship over the world as sailors, while the girls rush to Papeete to whore, either as amateurs or as pros. In fact (I am told) many of them actually can be found hustling in Paris, which is certainly a long way to travel to walk a shabby street.
Heru was a girl of great appetites and very good at all of them. She was crocked when she came aboard, finished our last bottle of rum during the night, and was still able to walk a straight line between my bunk and Eddie's. They soon knocked me out of this sheet marathon and I managed to get some sleep. When I left the Hooker Eddie and the girl were snoring on deck, both nude and cold with the early morning dampness. I threw a blanket over them, made some coffee, and took off.
