by Ed Lacy
I said quickly, “Guess we all came here too late for our dreams. Come starry-eyed and found—”
“Starry-eyed!” he shouted and how that bull voice ever came from the tiny body was a miracle. “That's utter cynicism, Jundson, and cynicism is a shallow thing, the shield of the stupid. Damn it, we weren't starry-eyed! We came out of a jungle of greed with deliberate murder and misery, with—” He stopped abruptly, the room thick with the boom of his voice. “Speeches at a wake are senseless. Jundson, listen to me, the dream is still here if a man is ready for it. The islands must become a retreat, a final retreat a palm monastery, if you will. However, if you're not prepared, then it's suicide. You go on the reef. Do you follow me, Mr. Jundson?”
“No, sir.”
“An honest answer, at least,” he said, brushing the hair from his mouth. I had a glimpse of thin wet lips. “Jundson, I'm talking to you like I've talked to few white men—and I don't use white in a color sense. The difficulty here is we try to live like Bostonians, or New Yorkers, or Londoners, with all the false values and standards, instead of living like islanders. I don't mean any nonsense like 'going native'; the very terminology is an asinine bit of patronizing—we don't have the skills of the islanders. No, consider that whore house called Papeete, the 'Paris of the Pacific' Lord God, Paris doesn't belong in the Pacific! It's as out of place as a palm tree in Pigalle!”
He stopped talking in that sudden way he had, reached under the bedtable and came up with a cigar. “Want one?”
“Not at the moment,” I said.
“When you do, take some.” He lit the cigar and threw the match on the floor, then turned his head and sent a batch of spit which missed the match. We both watched it burn out. I still had this uneasy feeling as I waited for him to continue, somehow certain Nancy had brought me here only to hear him. Finally I said, “It is difficult to—uh—adjust completely.”
“Young man, if you have to adjust you're licked. You must be ready to accept this new life. Be ready to give up ambition and this inane thing we call drive. Here it doesn't matter a tinker's damn if you have four coconuts and I have a dozen. I can't be any happier with my dozen than you with your few.”
“Have you been happy?”
“No. I wasn't prepared, or able to shed my old ideas, until it was to late. This caught up with me.” He held up the cover for a moment. I not only saw the gun again, but his horrible legs—like swollen lumpy potato sacks, the skin hardened and cracked. His thighs were several feet thick. Fey-fey is the island name for elephantitis.
“I'm dying,” Stewart said calmly, dropping the blanket and puffing on his cigar. “If a man isn't afraid to die he's got his life made. But in the months I've been lying in this linen cage, I think for the first time I've found peace—understood the islands and myself. Lord God, life should mean more than the memories of the number of bottles you've killed, the expensive foods you've eaten, the endless women—so many they have no identity!”
“What should it mean?”
“I don't know!” he snapped, glaring at me, moving the cigar around with his teeth. “I'm not a mystic, young man, but perhaps life is the things we don't understand but simply know are beautiful—the sense of peace living on an atoll gives one, the dawns and sunsets so vivid you want to cry, a man and woman locked in an embrace because of all the humans in this world they want only each other...” He lapsed into silence and after a few seconds giggled—an obscene laugh. “I don't know why I'm telling you all this, Jundson. If somebody had dared to give me advice when I first came here—Lord God, I wouldn't have paid him any attention.”
“Then why are you telling me this?”
“Because I'd like to see one popaa make it here—really make it.” He blew out a fierce cloud of smoke and shut his eyes. After a moment he said softly, “I have talked too much, I am weary. The twin monsters I call legs sap my strength. Did I say I wasn't afraid to die? This is a lie. Or maybe it isn't fear as much as curiosity which stops me from blowing my worn brains out. But enough talk. I will sleep.”
I stared at the long stained beard, the cigar still sticking up and smoking evenly, the ridiculous red ribbon bows. After a few seconds he opened his lips to snore—the cigar fell over on his beard. Before I could reach it, a girl raced into the room, grabbed the cigar, pinched out the few singed hairs. I stared at her as if this was all a nightmare—was her sole job to wait for the damn cigar to fall?
She was very cute, with crimson hibiscus flowers over her left ear—meaning she was looking for a sweetheart. As she bent over, I'd seen the delightful lines of her body beneath her pareu. Placing the cigar on the bedtable, she looked me over, her eyes teasing. I asked in Tahitian, “Why does he wear red ribbons?”
“Because it pleases him.”
Okay, ask a dumb question and all that, but I'd taken enough crap for one day. I walked out onto the balcony, around to another room. The village and harbor seemed directly below me. The Hooker looked tiny, a perfect toy boat; even the Shanghai seemed small. On the beach the soccer players crowded around a squat brown man who could only be Eddie. He seemed to be talking to two men in white shirts and pants.
I went inside. I was in a dining room. Going through the drawers of a sideboard, I found several pairs of German field glasses. With a view like this a man would have glasses about.
Putting the glasses on the group I saw Mr. Teng now stretched out on the sand. Buck was bending over him; he seemed to be shaking with laughter, pointing to an open book which lay on the sand. Eddie was smiling too, but the crowd of islanders seemed more puzzled than amused. Somebody brought a shell full of water to Buck, who dumped it on Teng. Teng got slowly to his feet and rubbed his face. He walked away, followed by Buck, who kept grinning like an ape as he pointed to the book back on the sand.
“Anything happening down there?”
I put the glasses down, turned to see Nancy Adams in the doorway. “Nothing much,” I told her. “Let's go.”
“Yes, Edmond will sleep for the rest of the day. We will see him tomorrow.”
We said goodbye to the man and the girls, started down the mountain road. The sun was directly above us, with not much of a breeze. I asked Nancy, “Why does Stewart keep a gun in his bed?”
“I suppose because he feels helpless. Only has the gun near when a boat is in. Some traders are a bit uncouth. I'm rather good with a rifle for that very reason, myself.”
“Perhaps he keeps it handy because he thinks of suicide?”
“Oh, one day he may blow his head off,” she said calmly, the easy way islanders talk of sex or death. “I'm going to visit some families I know. Like to come along, Ray?”
“Nope, I've had it.”
“I may spend the night at Edmond's house, depending on how tired he is. But in any case I shall send word.” Nancy turned off into a path. I kept going downhill, breaking into a trot.
When I reached the beach the dinghy was gone. I saw Eddie sitting on the deck of the Hooker. I waved and shouted he didn't seem to hear me. Finally two little boys who couldn't be fifteen years old between them, paddled up very proudly in a small open canoe and said they would take me out. I almost capsized them getting in. I bailed while they paddled furiously, and we managed to reach the Hooker, all of us soaking wet.
Eddie was squatting on the deck, trying to read the Spanish label on a bottle of stomach medicine. When I'd thanked the kids for taking me out and they paddled off, I asked Eddie, “Didn't you hear me shouting myself hoarse for the dinghy?”
“Damn, this is good stuff, whatever it is. Has a kick like rum. Why didn't you tell me we were carrying it?”
“Because it's for trade, not for warming your gut. Why didn't you come in for me?”
“I was going to, after I sampled this bottle,” Eddie said, taking a long swig. “Reason I came back to the boat, the damn anchor is slipping. I noticed she was inching away. I got another iron down, but we got to watch her tonight I've been busy while you've been socializing and—”
>
“Find out if there's any shell or copra here for us?” I cut in abruptly.
Eddie gave me a quick look as he took another swig, belched, then put the bottle in the shade. “Kind of jumpy today, aren't you, Ray? Don't take it out on me.”
“Take out what?”
“Whatever you're up in the air about. Look, a couple of old jokers started making some copra last week for the Shanghai but they're sore at Teng because he won't advance them any rum. I opened a case of this stomach medicine and we all got a jag on. So they're selling us their copra, sacking it this afternoon. They figure about six hundred pounds. Have a couple of fine looking gals here but they don't go with strange sailors—afraid of getting sick. What did you find up in the big house, rum?”
“Nothing but an old man full of advice and fey-fey. Ever see this Stewart?”
“No, but I've heard of him all over the Pacific. Old guy has been on a forty-year binge, everything one big party to him. By the way, Mama has been handing us a line—she was here less than a month ago.”
I sat beside Eddie, took a whiff of the bottle. It smelt like stale cough medicine. “Yeah. Also must have wirelessed the old gent we were coming. He handed me a fast pitch about what a dream it'll be to put my ass down on an island for the rest of my life. I don't get the play.”
Eddie lit an American cigarette he must have chiseled from an islander, took a long pull on the bottle, handed me the heel. “Take some, Ray, you ain't bright today.”
The stuff did have a bang, wasn't too bitter. “You full of advice today, too?”
“I'm full of this medicine, feeling high. Ray, he wasn't talking about any island, but about Numaga and Ruita. What's this whole voyage for, except Mama wants to learn the sort of son-in-law you'll make? Make certain daughter isn't placing her chips on a popaa who takes off after a few nights.”
“Everybody is goddamn busy minding my business!” I said, angry—because Eddie had it about right I was restless, tight as a coiled spring. Pulling in the dinghy, I told him, “Let's go ashore, see how they're coming with the copra.”
“In this heat? Everybody's sleeping, except on the Shanghai —they're getting ready to sail. Ray, I kayoed Teng again. There's a hard head for you. I was kidding around on the beach with the soccer players, when Teng comes along with that rat-faced Buck. Teng says, 'I have studied ways of countering a blow. I should like to fight you again. Are you willing?' I told him okay. The Chinaman has this Judo book with him, so when he turned to hand it to Buck, I flattened him. Thought the Swede would bust a gut laughing.”
We rowed by the Shanghai. Mr. Teng was bawling out an islander for not lashing his canoe on deck, but seeing us, he ran to the railing, waved his fist at Eddie as he shouted, “You are a dirty fighter!” The right side of his face was swollen.
Eddie laughed. “That's me. Read the next lesson in your book. What the hell do you think Judo is but 'dirty' fighting!”
Mr. Teng waved his fist a few more times, then went back to bawling out the islander. When we beached the dinghy we found two men fooling with a guitar in the shade of a group of stumpy trees that I'd never seen before. They promised to keep an eye on the Hooker, in case she started dragging her anchor.
We started down the beach and when I asked Eddie, “What kind of trees were those?” he said, “Don't ask me, ask Mama. She knows everything.”
I didn't know if he was razzing me or not, but I felt too mad to talk. We kept walking till we reached a point where the island narrowed—almost like it was pulled out—and nearly reached the reef. Several hundred nuts had been expertly sliced in half, piled in a small pyramid, meat side down to protect them from rotting in the rains. I picked up one of the half-shells; the pulpy white coconut meat seemed dry. There were some empty burlap bags at one side of the pile.
The walk had left us both dripping with sweat. We looked around for whoever was making the copra, but couldn't see a soul. Eddie said, “Let's cool off.”
We stripped and splashed around in the water, but didn't go out far in case there were sharks. The tide was still going out and the coral reef stood rusty red and rough above the water.
Returning to the beach we shook small crabs out of our clothes as we walked around, quickly drying in the scorching sun. Then we dressed and found some shade and stretched out. Eddie said, “This is a nice island Difference of temperature up on that mountain means they can grow a lot of good fruits and vegetables.”
I had my eyes shut against the glare of the sun on the sea and didn't bother answering him. I was thinking about Nancy Adams, both flattered and annoyed that she was taking all this trouble with me. And what an odd old woman she was— certainly the most uninhibited woman I'd ever met. Her knowledge of so many things, a sweet old woman with her dough back in the States. And her syph here with her. Did she pass that on to Ruita?
That was a silly thought. Was Ruita in on this business of pushing me into marriage with her? And what if she was? That was more honest than my fluffing off. I was suddenly full of a terrible warm longing for her—wanted Ruita in the sand beside me ... to open my eyes and see her lovely brown face, the good body, the delicate smell of whatever flowers she crushed into the coconut oil she used for perfume.
I fell asleep thinking of perfumes—dreamed of Milly, the usual dream, always so sharp and clear ... then the cowardly feeling for having run away.
I was home, going directly into the kitchen for a snack, as I always did. Must have been twenty minutes later when I went into the bedroom for a handkerchief. Milly was sitting in bed, smoking a cigarette. Barry was lying face down; even his back looked neat and handsome. Milly asked, “Well, Ray?” I didn't say a word. Barry finally turned over and faced me. He wasn't pale nor flushed. He said, “Sorry, Ray. Guess that's all there is to say, in a situation like this.”
At the time I really didn't feel a thing. I was a stranger folding his handkerchief, watching two people in bed. All that came to my mind was, they shouldn't have done it in my room. The bank book was in the same drawer with the handkerchiefs. I took the book, went out without saying a word; rode a cab to the bank, then another cab to the airport, and the next morning I was on a plane winging toward Hawaii....
Eddie was shaking me. “We're smart, sleeping in the sun. Feel baked enough to eat. Must be after three. They should be along to sack the copra. We'll need the dinghy to get the sacks back to the Hooker. You go back and row it down— and check the anchor. Ill help make copra here. I could use a little exercise.” He pinched his hard stomach.
I had to row the mile or so to the Hooker and back three times that afternoon, taking three seventy-five-pound sacks of copra each trip. By the end of the afternoon I was pooped and had drunk so many coconuts and oranges, I had the runs. Eddie went ashore, bought taro and rice at the Chinese store —after he explained his face to the storekeeper who gave him the usual “Lion Face!” scream—and made a thick fish gumbo which seemed to do some good. Then he suggested I try the stomach medicine and we both knocked off a few bottles and got high—and upset my stomach again.
Eddie and I had our mats atop the cabin and I was keeping an eye on the beach, but Nancy didn't show. Before I fell into a drunken sleep I kept telling myself she had a hell of a nerve. And by God I'd tell her off, let her know she couldn't walk all over me, scheme behind my back like I was a schoolboy.
I dozed off on this thought and the next thing I knew I was covered with stinking slimy slop. Eddie sat up, sputtering, yelled at me, “What the hell did you turn loose, you slob?”
“Me?” I managed to say, tasting something terrible on my lips. The night was clear and I saw the whole deck was covered with dripping slop and garbage. The stench was terrific. Eddie stoop up, shaking himself and cursing and as I got to my feet I was knocked flat in all this swishing, ripe crap and slops sliding over our decks ... as our stern gently bunked into the Shanghai, which loomed up over us like a cliff. While I scooped the garbage off the motor hatch, Eddie jumped into the dinghy and rowed lik
e mad, trying to pull the Hooker away from the schooner.
Above us I heard a polite laugh and made out the flat face of Mr. Teng, heard his soft voice calling out, “Sorry, didn't know you were below us. You must have slipped your anchor.” This was followed by the laughter of the islanders who lined the rail.
Between strokes Eddie grunted from the dinghy, “I'll bet you didn't, you miserable crud!”
Eddie could barely move us with the dinghy. The heavy diesel coughed, then roared, and I was smothered with exhaust gas smelling worse than the slop. The Shanghai's anchor came up as she got under way, bumping us again and throwing me flat in the garbage—like a slapstick movie.
The slime and exhaust stink was making me sick so I dived in, swam over to the dinghy. With the two of us rowing we managed to move the cutter, then Eddie cursed again, said, “Stop rowing! Let's drift over the Shanghai's anchorage— must be a rocky bottom there to hold her.”
We spent the two hours before dawn huddled in the dinghy, mad and cold, and almost giving up every time we drifted in the lee of the Hooker. Eddie kept muttering about killing Mr. Teng, pushing Buck's pointed face inside out. Finally I said, “Aw, shut up! We're a fine couple of sailors—some anchor watch, both of us sleeping one off!”
