by Ed Lacy
I found the name plate on the motor and felt sorry for the old guy—they had sent him a fresh water model, and what it needed was cleaning and oiling, scrape off the salt water corrosion.
“Can this popaa marvel be made to run with speed of a flying fish once more?”
“I think so.”
He had a large-featured face with a great nose and deep wrinkles, a rather solemn puss, but now it became one big smile as he shook my hand hard, asking, “You can truly do this?”
“If nothing is broken I will make it run again.”
“You will make me most happy. For an old man, new happiness is a rare thing. I make many sacks of copra for you. If I was younger, I would dive and bring you shell for trade.”
“I'll look at it tomorrow. Now I must dress for the wedding.”
“God be with you.”
Walking by the other huts I heard the hum of sewing machines, last minute preparations for holiday dress. On the Hooker Eddie was already dressed in a shirt and tie and an old pair of clean suntans. He had on his new sneakers and his hair was brushed down, heavily greased with a scented pomade he must have borrowed from an islander.
I dug out a white sport shirt and white drill pants which were in fair condition. As I dressed Eddie smoked an American butt he had chiseled, said, “We'll do okay here. The men are rested from diving and will make copra for us.”
We took a knife and a pair of scissors as gifts and walked toward the church, joining a steady stream of chattering islanders, most of them walking gingerly as if breaking in new shoes—or maybe breaking in feet which only saw shoes for an hour or so on Sundays, and on occasions like this.
The sun had almost disappeared on the horizon when we entered the church, or rather, got as near the doorway as we could. The islanders politely made room for us to step inside but we said it was okay—it was hot and stuffy in the church and there were about as many people outside as inside. The kids were up front, the women on the right, the men on the left, all of them sitting on the floor. The Deacon was dressed in a cheap black woolen suit which must have been very uncomfortable. He stepped up to the altar and read from a bible, the two catechists—also in hot woolen black suits— then read some more and the Deacon made a speech, which I didn't get as he was talking in the true Tuamotu dialect.
The bride's father spoke from the floor, then the Chief made a short speech, and at last came the hymn singing. The islanders sang loudly and with great enjoyment, for religion is alive, a thing of joy and pleasure in the islands.
I tried to find Ruita, but she was sitting inside on the coral floor. After another short talk by the Deacon, the church “ceremony” was finished and with much eager laughter presents were heaped on the bride and groom. Then everybody rushed toward the fire pit, where great piles of food were ready.
Overturned wooden crates covered with palm leaves served as a long banquet table—over two hundred people were eating—and at the head of it Titi sat with a portable radio which was blaring forth music and news from Papeete. Every few minutes somebody would pop up and make a quick speech, wishing the newlyweds much happiness, but aside from the radio music and the speeches, the only other sounds were those of solid eating. Using palm leaves as both plates and napkins, we ate sizzling portions of roast pig, rice, turtle meat, breadfruit, fish, chickens, crabs, canned meats, fruits, and for dessert a sort of coconut pudding. Of course everybody made many trips to the punch bowls between stuffing his gut.
- There is an art to stuffing yourself; it's something like getting drunk. You eat deliberately and slowly, pausing to rest whenever you feel on the verge of throwing up; one can not only put away a remarkable amount of food but your entire body takes on a heavy numb feeling. Added to this, the punch had a kick like raw whiskey. I was getting high as a kite.
Every once in a while I would turn and find Ruita smiling at me as she finished a mouthful of food. I would squeeze her hand or press her thigh, but nothing stopped us from the business at hand—eating. The radio gave out a steady stream of French classical music, jazz, and some island songs having the sour sadness of hill-billy ballads. When the island music was played some of the men would get up and dance— mostly a great deal of wild arm- and leg-flinging. Of course, these dances only lasted a few seconds; then the dancer, being stuffed, would fall to the sand and rest flat on his back. Others kept eating till they toppled over backwards; they lay, snoring and breaking wind, for a half-hour or so, and then they would sit up and tackle chunks of raw fish floating in lime juice.
At one point, the belching drowned out the noise of the radio. I found the lime juice good for calming my stomach— the skin over my gut was actually drum tight—and once when I was simply staring at the sand, too full to move my hands, Ruita passed a palm leaf with something on it that looked like a spaghetti. I'd never seen it before and it had an interesting oyster-taste. I ate them like I was hungry, asked Ruita what they were. She told me, “Palolo.”
“What's that?”
“Darling, I'm too full to talk,” she said, rubbing her greasy mouth against my beard. “Mama, tell Ray what palolo is.”
Mrs. Adams, who must have put away food equal to her weight, belched our way as she asked Eddie to pass her some orange beer, and said, “They are worms.”
“Worms?” I repeated stupidly.
“A great delicacy,” the old woman said. “They come out of the coral and surface twice a year. Very easy to catch, simply scoop them out of the water with a pail.”
She finished a shell full of orange beer, most of it running down her dress, then said, “Weddings are wonderful affairs, aren't they, Ray?”
“Yeah. But take it easy, Nancy .You been needling me the past week and... well!” The hair tonic-rum punch made my tongue too thick for talk.
“I am like one drugged,” Ruita said, getting up on her hands and knees. “Mama, we must sleep off this food.”
“Indeed, we shall sleep and return to the feast again.” Nancy peered past me. “Where has Eddie gone to?”
“Off trying to make time,” I mumbled, staggering to my feet. All my weight seemed to be in my stomach, Ruita grabbed my legs and pulled herself up. Nancy tried to stand but sprawled out. Ruita and I pulled her to her feet; then, holding onto each other, we staggered a few yards away and sat down in the sand again. I opened my belt and stared up at the sky full of stars for a moment, felt Ruita's even breathing beside me, heard Nancy's snoring.
I awoke several hours later. My clothes were damp and the sky cloudy, so it must have rained. It was early morning but judging from the sounds, the feast was still going strong. I felt cold and rubbed my arms. Ruita was still sleeping; curled up with her dress way past her hips, showing tight panties. I pulled her dress back over her cold legs. Mama Adams was gone.
I considered going back for some coconut beer—my mouth was dry—then walked heavily down to the lagoon and relieved myself. A number of people were doing the same thing.
As the saying goes, I immediately felt like a new man, and after knocking off a drinking nut, I returned to Ruita. Nancy Adams was sitting beside her daughter, a blanket over the both of them. The old girl was finishing a cigarette as I sat down; she held up the blanket and I put my legs under it. She asked, “How do you feel, Ray?”
“Like a stuffed tomato.”
“These feasts are great fun. Where else in the world—this world of want—can one stuff himself to the point of unconsciousness?”
“Have a point there.”
“I love the atolls—and happily they haven't been of much value to the popaas, especially after the pearls ran out, so they have been left alone. Forliga is almost untouched, and I only pray it always stays this way.”
I smiled up at the moon peeking through the clouds. The way she said “popaas” as though she wasn't one herself. Although what makes a popaa? Certainly not a white skin, for the Chinese traders were popaas, too.
“I first came here about a year after Tom died,” Nancy said, thinking
aloud over her cigarette. “I was a young woman but already starting to take on that dried-up look which seems to be an occupational disease among missionary wives. I came here to write a paper on the lives of the atoll people, came to Forliga because they were so untouched by Western ways. That seems like another life ago.”
“You ever write the paper?” I asked, not really caring. I was watching the beauty of Ruita's face in sleep, the rise and fall of her bosom under the blanket.
“Lord no, I never even started it. That was merely an excuse. With Tom dead I was at loose ends, yet I had this feeling I didn't want to return to the States. So I gave myself this would-be scientific task, tried not to be too much of a pest. I spent about six months here taking notes. The islanders were very polite to me. There's a coral head not far out in the lagoon—you can easily see it in the daytime, a speck of land with a few palm trees and brush. They had a custom on Forliga which has since died out, due to the lack of women. On a certain night young men and women went out to this islet, undressed, and everybody simply made love as often as possible.”
“Eddie would have gone for that.”
I saw her cigarette end turn toward me like a tiny beacon in the darkness. “And you, wouldn't you have been out there, too?”
“I guess so.”
Nancy sighed. “You remind me of myself in those days— you wear the so-called conventions like a badly fitting suit, refuse to make yourself comfortable. I went to the islet, as a spectator, of course. But it was a dark moonless night, and soon as I stepped ashore among all those trembling bodies, a man pulled me down. In a way it was much like this feast, you made love again and again, rested, then blindly searched for the nearest free man. Before dawn, everybody swam back to the atoll. You know I forget many things these days, but I hope I shall never forget the joy of that night. Within a few seconds I passed from blushing protest, even shame, to outright enjoyment, on to a passion which both surprised and left me proud.”
“Why did you ever leave Forliga?”
“When I adopted Louise I decided to raise her so she would have the benefit of both cultures. That was a mistake. She's been very unhappy ... till you came along. Her father was the son of the last chief of Numaga, so legally the land was hers upon his death. After the hurricane nearly washed this atoll away, we settled down on Numaga.”
I thought for a moment. “Why do you say it was a mistake? Don't you think there is such a thing as a popaa culture?”
“Of course there is, but she never had a chance to appreciate 'our' culture. Ruita was swamped with racial bitterness and frustration.” The old woman hesitated, looked down at Ruita to make sure she was asleep. “Ray, growing up is a wonderful and serene experience here—not a time for doubts and grasping, as it is elsewhere. Actually, in our 'civilized' countries, adolescence is a time of cruel torture. In the islands there are no hidden secrets of life, no worry about the future—each young man or woman knows exactly what his... uh... life's work, profession, will be. Nor are there sexual frustrations But in Louise's case, and I shall never forgive myself for this blunder, when she was sixteen instead of being on the beach with a young man of her fancy, she was in a stuffy school for 'young ladies' in Sydney, not only learning the banal inhibitions of our day, but also that she was 'colored.' I imagine she even got a small taste of that in school in Papeete. So she returned to Numaga bitter, afraid, upset. A weakling. You're weak, too.”
“I'm what?”
“Come, come, Ray, being a weakling can often be a happy circumstance. What I mean is this: Louise couldn't forget the white world she had run from. The false standards she had picked up in Sydney prevented her from enjoying the freedom of the island women, while her travel and education spoiled her ability to be happy with an islander. Then you came along—with your own problems, too weak to solve or forget them. Perhaps that is why Louise likes you, this weakness you have in common, this self-pity. Only you needed a push, a swift kick in the pants.”
“Which you gave me, so subtly!”
She shrugged. “Should I be subtle about my daughter's happiness?”
“Did it ever occur to you I worry about Ruita's happiness, too? That's why I've hesitated.”
“Ray, don't hesitate, don't nibble on the outside of paradise like a blind fool. And make no mistake, one can still make a paradise here.”
“If I could only be sure I'm ready for island living. I don't want to hurt Ruita, be thinking about her over a glass of rum in some crummy waterfront cafe in Samoa, Sydney, or 'Frisco.”
“But exactly what is it you are afraid of? You seem to care for Louise and she—”
“'Care?' That's an severe understatement!”
“Then what is there to be frightened about?”
“I don't know,” I said, trying to put it into words. The hell of it was, I really didn't know myself what I was scared of— except that I was scared of settling down with Ruita. “Call it wanderlust, although that doesn't mean a thing. Look, here in the atolls the people have the two things the rest of the world lacks, peace and security. Yet they leave their atolls to whore in Papeete and when they grow too old for that, they still stay there, old rum-pots peddling flowers outside the bars. The men become sailors—a hard life—and travel all over the world. Why? Maybe humans can't take peace and quiet...”
“That's nonsense.”
“Then why do they take off? Ruita and I need Numaga for happiness, but if I can't... take it... well... even the islanders don't seem able to stand the islands. Why?”
“That's something I have thought about too, and all I can say is we know of the tensions and fears of the outside world and the islanders don't. They assume the rest of the world is as friendly and peaceful as their atoll. Why so few of them ever return to their island—this really puzzles me. Perhaps the answer is, why do so few popaas ever escape from the dull, worried, lives they lead? Because our so-called Western civilization is quicksand; by the time you learn what it is, you are stuck in it, mired down. But you, Ray, you know what the world is like, you've been poor, unhappily married, a soldier. You must know what you can have here in the islands.”
“Must I? I'm like a lush who knows drink is bad for him, yet can't leave it alone.” I got to my feet. “Which reminds me, I'm thirsty. Shall I bring you some beer or punch?”
“No, thank you. I shall see how Titi's wife is. In her condition I hope she hasn't eaten too much. Yes, I will look after her—in a little while.”
The punch cans were empty. About fifty people were still eating and more food was being cooked The radio was silent and the only sounds were those of people snoring or eating. I found a tin of coconut beer but somebody had spiked it with hair tonic tasting like roses—old ones—so I spat that out and finally found a fairly cool drinking nut.
I went down to the lagoon again to relieve myself and stared out at the dark waters, thinking of a then prim Nancy Adams, with her notebook, stepping into a sex orgy—although orgy is probably a popaa word and idea. That must have been something—hundreds of sighing, twisting bodies, a little island full Of the soft cries and heavy smells of passion.
The old man who owned the fresh water outboard came staggering by, recognized me, and held my hand. “You will fix, canoe go with speed of shark?”
I said I would fix. Whoever was spiking the beer must have had a barrel of this rose hair tonic—the old gent stank like an ancient bouquet. He gave me a cigarette and I lit it. He staggered on toward the lagoon and I went back—probably staggering, too—to Ruita.
Her blanket was there, but no Ruita, no Nancy. I looked around and stumbled over a couple of sleeping people, finally sat down and had some canned peaches which were sickeningly sweet. I decided to check the boat and when I reached the dock, Ruita was waiting for me. She had brushed her hair and put on a fresh pareu, and there was a large crimson blossom over her left ear. With a big smile she pointed to a sailing canoe tied to the Hooker. “Come, the stars are starting to fade. It is the right time, we will be
there before dawn.”
“Where is there?” I asked, feeling as sluggish as I sounded.
“You will see,” she said, taking my hand.
She looked so clean and cool, so startling pretty, I tried to kiss her. Ruita pushed me away, said sharply, “Aita! You too taata taero!”
This meant “No, you drunkard!” and while I was thinking this over, she stepped on the Hooker, ran lightly to the stern and untied the canoe, jumped in.
I followed her, taking off my sneakers and tying them around my neck before sitting in the canoe. She handed me a paddle and we dug in, making a phosphorescent wash as the outriggers skimmed the water.
We passed many islets, and the paddling was what I needed to sober up. Finally she steered the-canoe toward a little island about a hundred yards wide studded with coconut palms. We carried the canoe high up on the sandy beach. She took off her pareu cloth in one quick movement, told me, “Undress quickly.”
