by Ed Lacy
“Ain't all our fault—there was a deck full of people on the schooner. Somebody must have glanced over the rail, saw us drifting toward them. And that was sure more than one pail of slops they dropped. Teng figured this out, all right!”
“All Nancy's fault for our corning to this crummy island!” I said like a kid. “She has to stick her nose into my business!”
When the sun came up we went aboard and threw out the mats and blankets we'd been sleeping on, started to clean up the boat. By noon we had her pretty well scrubbed down, although the odor remained. Luckily, nothing had run into the cabin. We made coffee, were just able to keep it down, when Nancy Adams, appeared on the beach, waved to us.
“Get ready to sail!” I told Eddie, jumping into the dinghy. I made the beach as if racing and Nancy looked at me queerly —I only had on a pair of badly torn, dirty shorts. She said, “I'm so sorry I forgot to send anyone to tell you I was staying the night at—”
“Forget it,” I snapped. “We're sailing.”
“Sailing? Edmond is expecting you for lunch.”
“Mrs. Adams, you're a passenger and as owner of the boat I am hereby informing you we're sailing!”
She looked startled. “Ray Jundson, you're being rude.”
“I sure am.” I pointed to the dinghy. “Coming?”
She went over and told a little boy something to tell Stewart, then I pushed the dinghy back into the water and Nancy took a seat, didn't say a word as I started rowing. Finally she said, “Mr. Jundson, you are an inexcusable boor!”
“I wouldn't speak of manners, Mrs. Adams. You've lied to us about not being on PellaPella in months—you were here several weeks ago. Also, I am quite capable of making up my own mind about settling down and asking your daughter to marry me without having a talking beard hand me a lot of gas!”
The old lady simply stared at me with hard eyes, then looked away. She stepped aboard the Hooker and sat on the cabin without saying a word to Eddie. While he tied up the dinghy, I worked on the motor. It took me about twenty minute to get it going, including taking some bits of fish bone out of the carburetor—and don't ask me how they got in there.
As we headed through the channel, out to sea, Nancy wrinkled her thin nose, announced, “Something smells.”
“Ray had the runs last night,” Eddie said, with a straight face. “But you're lucky—the copra bugs shut the door and your cabin wasn't touched.”
“Must you be so crude, Mr. Romanos!” Nancy said, going below.
Outside the reef a smart wind put the Hooker's port rail under and we sped away like a racing sloop as I cut the motor. Our decks were washed by spray and when I asked Eddie what the hell was the idea of straining the mast, he said, “I'm doing it on purpose—clean the decks.”
After a few hours the old lady came back on deck and started making lunch. She was humming to herself and seemed to have forgotten her huff. Eddie started telling her now he was going to break Buck's beak and then went into some bull about his ring career.
Matter of fact I was feeling pretty relaxed myself. The good clean breeze, the singing sound of the Hooker slicing the waves, the fact we had some copra, all made me simmer down and uncoil. It even struck me funny the way the Shanghai people must have watched us inching toward them, and start getting buckets of garbage ready.
Nancy made a simple lunch of roasted bread-fruit, crab legs, and opened a tin of sweet pears for dessert. As we were eating I told her, “Sorry I blew my top back there. We had an accident last night. The Shanghai dumped garbage on our deck, covered us both with slop while we were sleeping-drunk and—well—I was pretty hot about things.”
“It doesn't matter, Ray,” she said sweetly, maybe putting it on.
“Okay,” I said, deciding I could play the game too. Reaching up, Nancy pulled at my red hair. “Worry about such petty things and your hair will grey like mine.” I grinned. “I know, don't tell me—aita peapea.”
Chapter IV
Ruita was laying atop the cabin, sleeping. She was wearing shorts and a halter made of red pareu cloth. She had a pink flower in her hair, over her left ear—which could mean, according to the island custom, she was looking for a sweetheart; or in Ruita's case that she merely felt like wearing a flower over her left ear.
Eddie was at the wheel and Nancy Adams was sitting beside him, both of them chattering about rain in general. I was watching the pitching horizon, the clouds, anything to keep my eyes off Ruita.
Eddie said, “I have some new shampoo I bought off the Chinaman in PellaPella. Maybe I try it now when it rains, although I have heard that to wash your hair makes for baldness. I like rain.”
Mrs. Adams said, “But only when there is high ground handy. Ever in a tidal wave, Eddie?”
“Been in a couple of small hurricanes but no tidal wave.”
“I was in a big one. It was the hurricane of nineteen— What was that year? Nineteen and—?”
Ruita wasn't asleep; she must have been listening, for she called out loudly against the wind, “The year doesn't matter, Mama.” I noticed whenever the old woman got this blank look on her face, when her memory tripped her, Ruita would step in and ease her over the rough spots. I was sure she knew all about her mother's syphilis.
“Well,” Nancy went on—bending Eddie's tin ear, “I'd say it was about 1937. We were on Forliga, the very atoll we're headed for now. It had rained hard for several days in a row...”
I was too restless to listen to tidal wave stories. I went forward, sat beside Ruita. “What about you, Ray, how do you stand with rain?” she asked, watching me through half-closed almond-shaped eyes. She looked all the adjectives—from exotic to sensuous.
“Never thought about it. Since I've been in the islands I like rain because it means a bath. Back home it merely meant rubbers, cold, and taxi cabs.”
“I love to watch the rain clouds building up; a dull angry grey, so threatening and clumsy—and often such a big empty bluff'.”
She had one arm near my leg and I touched her fingers, told her, “Now that we've covered the weather, let's get down to something interesting. You have lovely hands, long strong fingers.”
“Have I, Ray?” she said in an almost listless voice. “Sometimes I paint my nails, as in the fashion magazines. That's such a vain idea, a peacock idea. But I think on my hands it does look good because of the contrast, the red and my brown skin. However, on a popaa woman with pasty pale skin, I imagine it must look rather gaudy.”
“That's like with the rain—hard to say,” I said, not sure if she was needling me or not. I wasn't sure of anything with Ruita.
When we had reach Numaga I was wondering what sort of reception she would give me, what I would say to her when we were alone. But we weren't alone—no sooner had we raced over the reef and dropped anchor when Ruita came out in a canoe, told Nancy her half-brother was being married on the Forliga atoll, and there was to be a big party. They had sent word that they were holding off the ceremony till Nancy and Ruita could attend. Mrs. Adams said they certainly had to go to the wedding, so we refilled our water tanks and took on food while waiting for the next high tide, then sailed out with Ruita aboard.
Ruita's greeting to me had been both warm and merely friendly. I felt sure she was wearing the flower over her left ear for me, and when we shook hands her hand had been warm and demanding in mine. Yet all she had said was, “I am glad to see you again, Mr. Jundson,” which could have been the truth or politeness.
I had a little speech ready in the back of my mind, something about how sorry I was for what had happened on the beach the last time, and was glad I never had a chance to say it. For even now, as I sat beside her, my eyes eating her up, I still had a vague feeling this wasn't for me; I would only wreck the both of us. As that old goat Stewart had said, maybe I wasn't ready for the paradise “rut” although what the hell I was ready for I didn't know.
The rain came down swiftly, a sudden warm driving sheet of water. Ruita jumped up and ran for the cabin
. She came out in a moment with a blouse of her mother's, a red pareu cloth, some panties plus two cakes of soap. She gave a cake to the old lady as Eddie shouted, “Take the wheel, Nancy. I'll go first and try out that shampoo.”
I grabbed the wheel and Eddie jumped down into the cabin, came out as Ruita and Nancy stripped and thoroughly soaped themselves in the fresh water. Eddie slipped off his shorts and started whipping up a lather on his head. He seemed to be having a big time.
Meanwhile Ruita washed her face and her breasts and her hips; then her clothes, using one of her slender thighs as a washing board.
“Civilized” people regard sex as a sin—whether they admit it on the couch or not—and nudity becomes sex and thus wanton and sordid. The islanders look upon nude bathing, or washing in the rain, as something very convenient and practical. I am sure they weren't giving it a second thought, but not having lost all of my “civilization,” I was gaping at Ruita's brown nakedness like a schoolboy at a keyhole.
While Ruita and her mother hung their clothes on the rigging—for the sun that would be out in a few minutes— Eddie came back and hung his shorts on the boom, said the shampoo was wonderful, and to take my bath. I shook my head—not out of false modesty, but to save myself a lot of embarrassment.
Mrs. Adams said, as the sun began streaking through the grey rain clouds, “Have the towels ready, Louise. More people get colds because they wait for the sun to dry them than—”
I said, “I'll get the towels.”
“Hurry,” Nancy said, running a hand over her sagging flat breasts. “Too much wind.”
Down in the cabin I took three towels, shook them free of roaches, then stood on the steps and tossed a towel at Eddie, handed another to Mrs. Adams, and stepped back into the cabin.
Ruita called me and I didn't move. I heard her feet at the top of the cabin steps, then she stood before me, her skin a soft wet golden brown. “You forgot my towel, Ray.”
“I didn't forget.” I held out the towel.
“What?” she asked, coming nearer, and I realized I was talking in a whisper.
She reached for the towel and I pulled it back. “Let me dry you?”
“Ray...”
“Please,” I said and ran the towel over her shoulders, gently dried and blotted every inch of her body. Neither of us looked at the other, the hot stillness of the cabin a protecting blanket about us.
When I finished I saw sweat running down her sides and even through the rough towel I could feel the rapid beat of her heart. Her eyes were closed and for a moment I stood and stared at her naked beauty. Then I said the thing which was deepest in my heart. “Dearest, forgive me for not... on the beach... that time.”
She said, “Ray,” like a tiny sigh and when she opened her eyes they were warm and soft. Taking one end of the towel, she started to dry my shoulders. When I took her in my arms, kissed her, her arms circled my back and pressed me to her with such wonderful strength.
I awoke to find her still sleeping at my side. I let my hands explore the firm softness of her body. I kissed her full lips and she moved in her sleep; her hands caressed my body and her eyes actually opened like two dark pools of softness. The sunlight pouring in through two of the portholes spotlighted the blackness of her hair, the strong curve of her throat and shoulders. She placed both my hands on her breasts and we kissed as fiercely as possible, our lips pressed together tightly.
When I awoke the second time, she was propped up on one elbow, smiling down at me. We had a light blanket over us and the cabin was almost dark. There was a slight buzzing sound in the cabin and glancing through a porthole I saw a star on the pale horizon.
I sat up, brushing against her, said stupidly, “It's late!”
“Late? For what? For this?” And she flung herself on top of me, every part of her, lips, hands, legs, and body, eager and demanding. This time we didn't go back to sleep, held each other, full of a wild peace. Then I whispered, “I must get up—relieve Eddie. It's way past his watch.”
“I suppose you must. And we must eat. Oh darling, I'm so terribly hungry, wonderfully empty and tired.”
I kissed her lightly, then sat up and pulled out one of the drawers below the bunk, got a pair of pants and a sweater. As I jumped out of the bunk and dressed, I noticed Nancy Adams on the other bunk, snoring. I stood there, like an idiot, as Ruita said, “Ray, get me some clothes, I'm—”
“Shhh!” I said, pointing to the old woman.
“Oh, Mama sleeps soundly. Hand me that bag by Mama's bunk, please.”
I gave her the bag, put on my sweater, and stepped up on the deck. It was a clear night, the half-moon out bright and clean. The clothes had been removed from the rigging. Eddie was sitting at the wheel, wearing a sweatshirt and a pair of my old army pants. He was smoking a stinking cigar. When he saw me he said casually, “There's some warm tea in the box, breadfruit, and tinned beef.” He motioned toward the ten-gallon tin inside of which a pot of tea was resting on the slow burning oil stove.
“It's been six, seven hours, way past my watch. Why didn't you call me?”
He glanced at me as if I had said something too stupid to call for an answer. And I had. I took the wheel and he said, “Nice wind. Keep her headed toward that big star ahead of us.” He flexed his muscles for a moment, waved his arms about like a pitcher warming up, then he ran a hand through his thick black hair, said, “That damn shampoo sure makes the hair smooth and soft. Feel.”
He bent his head toward me. I pushed it away and he laughed, said, “I forgot, you have felt of all the soft hair you want, for now.” He grabbed a banana from the food basket next to the stove, went forward and stretched out on his mat atop the cabin.
Ruita came up and sat beside me. She wore slacks and a white turtleneck sweater. When I squeezed her hand and asked if she was cold, she smiled at me, said, “I'll never be really cold again. But I'm hungry.” And I thought if Milly had said she'd never be cold again, I would have told her to stop the soap opera cracks, yet from Ruita it seemed natural and true.
We drank lukewarm tea and then tore through the canned beef and doughy breadfruit. We drank nuts, ate bananas and some over-ripe mangos till we were too stuffed to move.
After awhile she yawned, then reached over and kissed me, asking, “When does Eddie take over so we can go back to sleep?”
“You'll have to sleep alone tonight. Having your mother makes me nervous.”
Ruita looked at me with surprise. “But what has Mama to do with it?”
“I like to love you in private.”
“Fine, then we shall sleep on deck.”
“Eddie will be at the wheel.”
“Eddie has certainly seen people make love so many times, it means nothing to him.”
“I know, but it means something to me.”
“Ray, I want to sleep with you.”
“I want to be with you, but not this way. It would spoil it—for both of us.”
“You and your silly popaa conventions. In the islands love-making is no more hidden than eating. Whole families live in one hut and babies see love-making from the time they are able to look. We are enjoying ourselves, why should not Mama sleep happily near our enjoyment?” She was so upset she said most of this in French.
“Honey, I'm not arguing with you. The point is, it makes me uneasy having people around. Also, I'm pooped.”
She giggled. “Po-oo-oped. That is a funny sounding word. I am full of a delicious weariness myself, but still... The popaa mind is hupe hupe.”
This meant “very ugly” in Tahitian. “Why do you have to keep raising this popaa stuff like a little wall between us?”
“There will never be a wall between us,” she said, kissing my ear. “You are the one who raises the crazy popaa idea —you half-popaa. Tell me, was your great-grandmother, the Indian, beautiful?”
I wanted to tell her that my great-grandmother came from Latvia and I doubted if they had Indians there, but I knew how much Eddie's story had impressed her�
��and Eddie. I said, “Well, I wouldn't know.”
“Were they ashamed of her?” she asked, pulling a little away from me.
I put her face against mine again. “Look, I wasn't around then. You really hate whites, don't you?” I said, not sure what I was saying, or wanted to say.
Ruita nodded, her soft cheek moving against my beard. “Yes, I dislike them all. It's easiest that way. Whites are so needlessly cruel and arrogant. They come here, to a world of brown people, and we do not look down upon them because of their skin. In Sydney, when one of the teachers found I was an islander she asked me, 'Have you ever been to the Marquesas Islands where the great Gauguin lived?' There was a happy and full life in the Marquesas—When popaas were freezing their derrieres in European caves, ignorant of fire. Yet to this smug woman the islands only meant a Frenchman who contributed a few more syphilis germs to the death of people.”
