Hot Countries

by Alec Waugh

  “Tania,” he said, “we were thinking of driving out somewhere after the show. What’s your idea of it?”

  “Sweetheart, that it would be heavenly.”

  “And who else’ll come?

  Tania glanced round her slowly.

  “There’s you, and I, and Colette, and Marie; and we’d better have Paul to amuse Tepia.”

  In a minute or two it had been arranged.

  “Then well meet,” said Girling, “outside Gustave’s the moment the show’s over.”

  §

  It was one of those nights that are not to be found elsewhere than in Tahiti. It was October and the night was calm. From the mountains a breeze was blowing, swaying gently the white-flowered shrubs along the road, ruffling ever so slightly the languidly bending palms. Westwards over the Pacific, a long street of silver to the jagged outline of Moorea, was a waxing moon; clouds moved lazily between the stars. The air was mild, sweet scented with the tiare, a sweetness that lay soft upon their cheeks as the car swayed and shook and rattled eastwards. The hood of the car was up, for in Tahiti there is always a possibility of rain: and for the islanders the landscape is too familiar to be attractive in itself. It is for the sensation of speed that motoring is so highly valued an entertainment. And as the car swayed over the uneven road, they laughed and sang, beating their hands in time with the accordion.

  For an hour and a half they drove on, singing under the stars.

  “Where are we going?” asked Ray at length. “Isn’t it time we were thinking about a bathe?”

  “Not yet, sweetheart,” laughed Tania. “Let’s sec if Keane’s up still.”

  “At this hour?”

  “One never knows.”

  For there are no such things as regular hours in the Islands. One is up certainly with the sun, and usually by nine o’clock in the evening one is thinking about bed; but there is always a possibility that friends will come: that a car will stop outside your bungalow: that a voice will cry, “What about driving to Papeno?” And you will forget that you are sleepy, and a rum punch will be prepared, and there will be a banjo and an accordion, and there will be singing and Hula-Hulas, and hours later you will remember that a car is in the road outside, that you were planning to bathe in the Papeno River, and, laughing and chattering, you will stumble out of the bungalow, pack yourselves anyhow into a pre-war Ford and, still laughing and still singing, you will drive away into the night, to wrap pareos around you and splash till you are a-weary in the cool, fresh mountain stream. It is an island saying that no night has ended till the dawn has broken, and at Keane’s there is always a chance of finding merriment long after the streets are silent in Papeete. And sure enough, “Look, what did I say?” Tania was crying a few moments later. Through the thick tangle of trees a light was glimmering; there was the sound of a gramophone and clapping hands.

  There were some dozen people on the verandah when they arrived; a planter from Taravao had stopped on his way back from Papeete for a rum punch; there had been a new record to try on the gramophone, some boys on their way back from fishing had seen lights and had heard singing, one of Keane’s daughters had taken down her banjo and a grand-daughter of Keane’s had danced Hula-Hulas, while beakers of rum punch had been filled and emptied; twenty minutes had become five hours and no one had thought of bed. It was after midnight, though, and probably, without the arrival of any fresh incentive, in another half-hour or so the party would have broken up. As it was, a cry of eager welcome was sent up as Girling’s car drove up, and another half-dozen glasses were bustled out, another beaker of rum punch brewed, and Tania, seated cross-legged upon the floor, her banjo across her knees, was singing that softest and sweetest of Polynesian songs,

  Ave, Ave, te vahini upipi

  E patia tona, e pareo repo.

  that haunting air that will linger for ever in the ears of those that hear it; that across the miles and across the years will wake an irresistible nostalgia for the long star-drenched nights of Polynesia, for the soft breezes, and the bending palm trees, the white bloom of the hibiscus, and the murmur of the Pacific rollers on the reef; for the sights and sounds and scents, for the flower-haired, dark-skinned people of Polynesia. And as Tania sang and the girls danced, and the men beat their hands in time, the magic and beauty of the night filled over-brimmingly, as thriftlessly poured wine a beaker, the Western mind and spirit of Ray Girling.

  “There’s nothing like it,” he murmured. “Not in this world, certainly.”

  “Nor probably,” quoted Colette, “in the next.”

  And he remembered how a few hours earlier, in a mood of boredom, he had thought of Tahiti as a frame without a picture. He could understand now why he had felt like that. He had been looking at it from the outside. One had to surrender to Tahiti, to let oneself be absorbed by it.

  Something of this sentiment he tried to convey to Colette.

  “It’s no good,” he said, “looking at Tahiti from outside.”

  She sighed. “Outside. But that’s what so many of us have to be.”

  He looked down at her in surprise.

  “Outside! You!”

  “It’s not always so easy to surrender. You’ve got to surrender so much else as well.” She paused, looked at him, questioningly, then seeing that his eyes were kind, continued: “For me to be absorbed in it, for me to be inside this life, it would mean living the same life as all these other girls, and, well, you know what that is. I just couldn’t; it’s not that I’m a prude, but you know what my life’s been; my mother’s had a bad time. I’m all she’s got. It would break her if anything were to happen to me.”

  “If you were to marry, though.”

  She laughed, a little bitterly. “But who’s to marry me? Who, at least, that I’d care to marry. There aren’t so many white men here. It’s not for marriage that the tourist comes. The English and the Americans who settle here as often as not have left wives behind them. At any rate they’ve come because they’ve tired of civilisation. They’re not the type that make a conventional marriage. And though the French may be broadminded about liaisons, they’re very particular about marriages. As far as they’re concerned I’m damaged goods. It’s not even as though I had any money. And I can’t go. I can’t leave my mother. I’m not complaining. Please don’t think that. I’m pretty happy really. But I’ve never felt, I don’t suppose I ever shall feel, as though I really belonged here.”

  She had spoken softly, her voice sinking to a whisper; and as Ray Girling listened, a deep feeling of pity overcame him. She was so sweet, so pretty; it was cruel that life should have been harsh to her, here of all places, in Tahiti. It was true, though, what she had said. What they had both said about belonging here. One had to surrender to Tahiti, to take it on its own terms. Otherwise for all time there would be an angel before that Eden, with the drawn sword that was the knowledge of good and evil. He had talked a few minutes since of being himself inside it, but that he could never be as long as he was content to remain a sojourner. He was a tourist like any other, with his life and interests ten thousand miles away. He had a few weeks to spend here: a few weeks in which to gather as many impressions as he could. And perhaps because he loved the place so well, something of its mystery would be laid on him. But it was not thus and to such as he that Tahiti would lay bare her secrets. You had to come empty-handed to that altar; you had to surrender utterly; you could not be of Tahiti and of Europe. You would have to cut away from that other life, those other interests. Your whole life must be bounded by Tahiti; you must take root there by the palm-fringed lagoons, and then, little by little, you would absorb that: magic. The spirit of Tahiti would whisper its secrets into your ear. You must surrender or remain outside. Wistfully he looked out over the verandah.

  It was so lovely, the garden with its tangled masses of fruits and flowers. The dark sand, with the faint line of white where the water rippled among the oyster beds; and the long line of coast, swerving outwards to a hidden headland, with beyond it,
above the bending heads of the coconut palms, the dark shadow that was the mountains of Taravao; and over it all was the silver moonlight and the music of the breakers on the reef; and here at his feet, one with the magic of the night, were the dark-skinned, laughing people to whose ears alone the spirit of Tahiti whispered the syllables of its magic.

  And as he leant back against the verandah railing there came to him such thoughts as have come to all of us under the moonlight on Tahitian nights. He thought of the turmoil and the conflict that was Europe: the hurry and the malice and the greed: the ceaseless battle for self-protection: the ceaseless exploitation of advantage: the long battle that wearies and hardens and embitters: that brings you ultimately to see all men as your enemies, since all men are in competition with you, since your success can only be purchased at the price of another’s failure. He thought of what his life would be for the next forty years; he contrasted it with the gentleness and sweetness and simplicity of this island life, where there is no hatred since there is no need for hatred; where there is no rivalry since life is easy, since the sun shines and the rain is soft, and the feis grow wild along the valleys, and livelihood lies ready to man’s hand. Where there is no reason why you should not trust your neighbour, since in a world where there are no possessions there is nothing that he can rob you of; where you can believe in the softness of a glance, since in a world where there are no social ladders there is nothing that a woman can gain from love-making but love. Such thoughts as we all have on Tahitian nights. And thinking them, he told himself that were he to sell now his share in his father’s business there would be a yearly income for him of some six hundred pounds, a sum that would purchase little enough in Europe, where everything had a market price, but that would mean for him in Tahiti a bungalow on the edge of a lagoon, wide and clear and open to the moonlight, and there would be so much of work as to keep idleness from fretting him; and there would be a companion in the bungalow, and children—smiling, happy children, who would grow to manhood in a country where there is no need to arm yourself from childhood for the fight for livelihood.

  And at his elbow there was Colette, exquisite and frail and gentle. “Why run for shadows when the prize was here?” England seemed very distant, and very unsubstantial the rewards that England had for offering, and along the verandah railing his hand edged slowly to Colette’s; his little finger closed over hers; her eyes through the half-twilight smiled up at him. They said nothing; but that which is more than words, that of which words are the channels only, had passed between them. And on the next morning when Ray Girling, along with the half of Papeete, was strolling down the waterfront to welcome the American courier, he blushed awkwardly when he heard himself hailed by the gay-toned American voice. “Hullo, hullo,” she called. “And it’s a whole month since we said good-bye to Mr. Demster, and you’re still living virtuously at Gustave’s!” He blushed, for Colette was at her side, and her eyes were smiling into his, and between them the thought was passing that the time was over for him to make an island marriage.

  “I’ve got three months left,” he laughed. But it had ceased, he knew, to be a question of weeks and months. But of whether or not he was to make his home here in Tahiti. The magic of the Island and the softness of Colette had cast the mesh of their net about him: the net that in one way or another is cast on all of us who watch from the harbour-side our ship sail off without us. Of the many thousands who have loitered in these green ways there cannot be one who has not wondered, if only for an instant, whether he would be wise to abandon the incessant struggle that lies eastward in America and Europe. Not one out of all those thousands.

  §

  Yet it is no longer true that those who come to the Islands rarely leave them. Sydney and San Francisco are very close. The story of most loiterers in Papeete is the story of their attempt not to commit themselves too far, to leave open a loophole for escape. Time passes slowly in the Islands, and usually before they have become too enmeshed something has happened to force on them the wisdom of delay.

  For Girling it was the arrival on the Manganui of the liveliest thing in Australian salesmen that he had ever met. It happened shortly before ten o’clock. Like a whirlwind a short, plump, perspiring, serge-suited figure had hustled its way into the Mariposa Café, tossed its felt hat across a table, and leaning back in a chair had begun to fan its face with a vast brown silk handkerchief.

  “My oath,” it cried, “but this is the hottest place I’ve struck! My oath, but a gin sling would be right down bonza!”

  The two waitresses who were leaning against the bar gazed blankly at him.

  “My word, but you aren’t going to tell me that you’ve got no ice!”

  He spoke rapidly, with a marked Australian accent, and the girls, who could only understand English when it was spoken extremely slowly, did not understand him. They looked at one another, then looked at the stranger, then looked again at one another and burst into laughter. It was time, Girling felt, that he came to the rescue of his compatriot.

  “Suppose,” he suggested, “that I were to interpret. These girls don’t understand much beyond French.”

  “Now that would be really kind. And it would be kinder still if you were to order yourself whatever you like and join me with it. You will? Good-oh! That’s bonza. You staying here? Well, I pity you. Myself? My oath, sir, no! When that boat sails for dear old Sydney I’ll be on it. No place like Sydney in the world. Manly and Bondi and the beaches. Nothing like them. Dinky-die. New York can’t touch it. Just come from there. Been travelling in wool. Did I sell much? My oath, sir, I did not. But I’ve learnt the way to sell. Those Yanks know how to advertise. Personal touch. Always gets you there. Straight at the consumer. Me addressing you, that’s the way. The only way. Now look here,” and lifting his eyes he began to glance round the room in search of some advertisement that would illustrate his point. “‘J’irai loin pour un camel,’” he slowly mispronounced; “don’t know enough French to tell if that’s good or not. Let’s see. Ah, look now,” and jumping to his feet he pointed excitedly to a large cardboard notice that had been hung above the bar:

  ASK GUSTAVE

  HE KNOWS.

  “That’s it,” he exclaimed. “Couldn’t be better. No long sentences. Nothing about our being anxious to give any information that tourists may require. Nothing impersonal or official. Nothing to terrify anyone. Just the impression of a friendly fellow who’ll give you a friendly hand. The very impression you want to give. My oath, it is!”

  He began to enlarge his theme. He began to discuss American publicity; international trade and the different conditions in America and Australia; and Girling, as he sat there listening, found himself more interested than he had ever been for months. He had been so long away from business. And when you got down to brass tacks was there a thing in the world half as thrilling? It was a game, the most exciting, and the highest prized. Your wits against the other man’s. And as he sat there listening, Girling felt an itch to be back in that eager competitive society. He had always found that he did his best thinking when he was listening. Something said suggested a train of thought, and as the Australian’s conversation rattled on an idea came suddenly to Girling for the launching of the new model his firm had been designing for the autumn. The exact note of publicity to get. He saw it; he knew it. Get a good artist to illustrate it, and for a few months anyhow they’d have everyone upon the market beat. His blood began to pound hotly through his veins.

  And then, suddenly, he remembered: that there was going to be no return to London; there was going to be a selling of shares and the building of a bungalow: a succession of quiet days spent quietly; and an immense depression came on him, such a depression as one feels on waking from a pleasant dream: a depression that was followed by such a sensation of relief as one feels on waking from a nightmare. “It wasn’t true. None of it had happened yet.”

  And while the Australian chattered on, Ray Girling leant forward across the table, his head upon
his hands. What did he want, to go or to stay? To go or stay? For he realised that he must make a choice, that it must be either England or Tahiti: that the one was precluded by the other. And was it really, he asked himself, that he was weary of the strife of London, that the secret of Polynesia was worth the surrender of all that until now he had held to make life worth living? Was it anything more than a mood, the bewitching effect of moonlight and still water and a pretty girl that was luring him to this Pacific Eden?

  “I must think,” he thought. “I mustn’t decide hurriedly. Whatever happens, I must give myself time to think.”

  Even as he decided that, he saw on the other side of the street beside the schooners, the trim, dainty figure of Colette. She was carrying a parasol: her head was bared, he saw all the daintiness of that shingled hair, and he caught his breath at the thought of saying “Good-bye” to so much charm and gentleness.” I’m not in love with her,” he thought. “But in two days if I were to see more of her I should be. And if I were to fall in love with her, it would be in a way, I believe, that I’m never likely to be again. I shall be saying good-bye to a good deal if I catch the Louqsor.”

  That catching of his breath, however, had warned him that it must not be in Papeete that his decision must be come to. If he were to stay on at Gustave’s, with the certainty of seeing Colette again in a day or two, he knew only too well that he would commit himself irremediably.

  “Whatever happens,” he said, “I must get away for a week and think.”