South Pacific Affair

Chapter IX

I moved deeper into the shade of the cabin, watching the aeoei-shaded Papeete waterfront, hearing the sharp horns of the bicycles and frantic taxis on the Quai du Commerce. I was trying to sleep off a hangover. Eddie was stretched out near me, merely trying to sleep. I had been falling down drunk the night before; in fact I had been on a bender for several weeks.

It was all very dramatic and like a bad movie. Four days ago had been exactly a month since we'd left Numaga and Ruita had probably long since arrived there. I was still in Papeete, trying to find my future in a bottle.

We had sighted Point Venus on the third day out from Numaga, a stiff breeze pushing us all the way. Olin had taken our cargo, a doctor said my lungs were okay, and within two days after we landed there wasn't a single thing holding me in Papeete—except myself. And whenever I was sober enough to think, I held a number of all-night conversations with me as I lay atop the cabin, the cool night hupi drying off the rum sweating out of my pores.

They weren't very bright conversations. Sometimes I felt downright sorry for myself, giving up Ruita and our love, making a sacrifice for her happiness. I told myself I would be very honest—I was afraid of the responsibilities of another marriage, I didn't want to give up the carefree life of being a starving trader. Or I came up with a new idea: somehow I would get a bigger boat and Ruita and I would sail around the islands, trading. As I was chewing this one over, the hupi died down and the stench from our hold damn near made me give up.

Days and weeks went by with me either drunk—on credit while it lasted—or arguing with myself, and never winning an argument. Eddie wisely kept out of things. My “official” excuse was we were waiting for a cargo, which didn't make any sense: who would be shipping a cargo to an almost deserted island like Numaga?

Once, when we first ran out of francs and credit, Eddie came apart with, “You bastard, acting like all the other lousy popaas! I bet you've knocked her up already and are scared of—”

I clipped him with all I had in the way of a right hand and although he rolled with the punch, it still dropped him. When he jumped up and came at me, I dived over the side of the Hooker. Despite his being an islander, I was a better swimmer than Eddie, my fat making me more comfortable in the water. He knew he had no chance against me as long as I stayed in the water and after a couple minutes of cursing, Eddie suddenly laughed and shouted, “Come on out before you make the fish drunk.”

He helped me back on deck, asked, “No kidding, Ray, why don't you go back to Numaga?”

“I don't really know, except I'm scared.”

“If you're scared, don't go. What are you scared of?”

“I don't know,” I said stupidly.

Another time, when we were out in the dinghy, fishing, I told Eddie, “If I settle down on Numaga, you find yourself a girl and do the same.”

He shook his head. “No. I'll buy you out, pay you when I have the francs. Living in one spot ain't for me.”

“Why not?” I asked eagerly, hoping he had the answer for me, too.

“Because when I stand still some damn popaa comes along and gives me this 'colored' crap, the 'dumb, childish native' line. This way, on my own boat, it never catches up with me.”

It all added up to one fact: instead of being on Numaga with the girl I loved, I was slobbering all over the Papeete waterfront, making a damn fool of myself.

Now, I heard Eddie move and looked his way. He had his eyes half-opened, as if he was too lazy to either completely close or open them. There was couple of nuts in the shade near him and I said, “Hand me a nut—I'm dry as sand inside.”

Eddie rolled over, grabbed two coconuts and we each had one. He took out a cigar. I was surprised; we hadn't seen a franc in weeks. I asked him where he got it. He just said, “Found it,” and sent out a cloud of stinking smoke, making my eyes smart.

I felt Eddie's toes nudge me as he said, “We got a visitor. Dubon. Wish we had some francs. I could do with a night of Heru again.”

I raised myself on one elbow and looked toward the stern. Henri Dubon waved as he came up the gangplank, his face wet with sweat; the dirty linen suit was stained under the armpits.

He shoved his old straw hat back on his head, dropped his battered briefcase as he sat between us, cleverly announced, “Goddamn, is very hot.” He said this in English with the phony French accent he put on for tourists.

When Eddie told him, “Then why don't you jump overboard and cool off? You could stand a bath,” Henri grunted and answered in his best GI English, “Up yours. Can you spare a nut?”

Eddie pushed a drinking nut toward Dubon, who took out his switchblade and cut an opening, put the nut to his lips. A knife had to be real sharp to slash a nut like that.

Dubon tossed the nut overboard but it struck the railing and bounced back on the deck, at his feet. Henri took out a pack of English cigarettes, lit one, and quickly slipped the pack in his pocket. Eddie blew cigar smoke in his face, said, “Dubon, you smell like a pig but there's a rumor you're human. We keep a clean ship. Kick that damn nut into the water.”

Henri slipped Eddie a lazy glance, then grunted as he shoved the nut over the side. We all watched the splash. Henri wiped his forehead with a pink handkerchief, announced it was damn hot again, and what a busy-busy morning he'd had. A large yacht from Canada had sailed into the harbor the day before—a sleek mahogany and teak yawl anchored off the quay within sight of the Hooker. Henri jerked his thumb at the boat and told us he had been busy showing three fat couples the sights of Papeete that morning. At noon he'd suggested the ladies retire to their boat, escape the heat, while he had steered the men to Heru. Unhappily, he went on in explosive fast French, she had found a bottle of wine and was so drunk the yachtsmen had turned her down. Dubon finished by wiping his sweaty face as he cursed Heru, his luck, the tourists, and the world in general.

Henri opened his briefcase and took out a battered copy of Billboard, pretended he was reading it. I wondered how in hell he ever got ahold of the magazine and Eddie gave me the eye—we were waiting for his proposition. Henri never dropped in just to chatter and he knew we were broke, so he had a deal of some sort cooking in his fat brain.

Henri kept reading and finally Eddie's curiosity got the best of him and he asked, “What kind of a magazine is that?”

“A theatrical periodical from the States,” Henri said with comic seriousness. “One day I my take a troupe of Tahitian dancers on tour of the States and Europe.”

I said, “Old hat.”

“Old hat?” he repeated, puzzled, and asked in French what that meant. When I told him he repeated the words several times with great pleasure and I knew I'd hear the phrase the next time we talked. He said, “But this will not be any old stuff like the shimmy. A Tahitian hula will knock them in the aisles.”

“A real one is pretty hot,” Eddie agreed.

Henri sighed. “But these natives, they will not—”

“Islanders,” Eddie cut in.

“Yes, these islanders, they will not rehearse, make a name here so we can arrange bookings in the States. They have no understanding of making money. Look at the pitiful tourist business we get here. The government should encourage tourists, like they do in Hawaii.”

“Hawaii? Jeez!” Eddie said, neatly spitting over the rail.

“Everything is run here on a small scale, with great inefficiency as I have often said,” Henri went on. “The few tourists who do come here, like the people from this yacht we take them for only a handful of francs. We need a package deal.” He pronounced these last two words with great care, as though tasting them.

Eddie blew out a cloud of smoke. “A what?”

“You have been in America and do not know what a package deal means?” Henri asked, amazed. “I read much about it in this magazine and in other copies I have read. Instead of a cafe hiring a band, a singer, and dancers, the agent furnishes all the entertainment. A package means less trouble and more money for all. We should have a package deal for the tourist.”

“Like what?” Eddie asked.

“Dubon means he'll have postal cards already stamped, written, and addressed—save the tourist time,” I cornballed.

“I mean,” Henri shrilled, “we sell them what they want, they will pay hundreds of dollars instead of a hundred francs!”

“You give them what they want—when Heru is sober,” Eddie told him.

Henri didn't pay any attention to Eddie; instead he turned to me and added, “Monsieur Ray, if we tied our paradise package in bright pareu ribbons, we could make much money.”

“We?” My hangover didn't allow for any hard thinking.

Henri nodded, broke into fast French. “The pretty ribbons are the coral heads off Moorea—any place not more than a few hours sailing. These worthless dabs of land with a few coconut palms are too small for any use. But for us they become islets of dollars!”

“Okay, what about them?” I asked. This was his pitch— he needed a boat.

“Suppose we take over one of them, build a thatched hut? I put Heru there with flowers in her hair, some tapa bark cloth around her hips. We stock up plenty of food, let Eddie act like a nat... an islander. Perhaps we will cut in another tone and vahine. You see the package?”

Eddie and I shook our heads like puppets.

Henri waved a fat hand in the air, sweat rolled down his neck, onto his dirty collar. “Sometimes I believe I am the only man in Tahiti with a head for business! Now listen to me: instead of hustling these tourists for a few lousy francs, I pick out a man who has money. I get into a conversation with him at a bar, and off-hand I mention I know of an unknown island, so small no whites ever bothered with it.

On this island there is a beautiful vahine who it is said longs to see a nice popaa, all for free, of course. I say I wish I wasn't married here in Papeete, or I would surely go for this beautiful and lonely girl. The sucker bites, wants to know if it is possible for him to go there in the few days he has in port. I inform him it is possible in a small boat, that in truth I happen to know of a boat for charter—yours. We start off modestly, we charge the man three hundred American dollars. Are you interested?”

“What's the rest of this sales talk?” Eddie asked.

Henri waved the fat hand again. “Mon Dieu, can you not see it?”

I shrugged and Dubon said, “You are both blind! Once the man is on this boat, the money paid in advance of course, we sail out to sea and at night we cut back, so our sucker believes we have been sailing all night. Maybe we are only two dozen miles from here, say at the other end of Tahiti, off Point Puha. The exact spot we shall have to hunt for with care. But we land in the morning and Heru welcomes him as the great popaa god. Eddie cooks a big meal, a whole roasted pig and many fruits. Maybe we even hire some fool to drum and dance. Heru and Eddie are delighted with gifts of beads and other crap. The man has been fed well, and at night Heru will take care of his other appetites. The following day we sail, return to Papeete in the morning. Our tourist is most happy. At last he has seen the real South Seas, found a lovely princess madly in love with him. He will be the hero of all the cafe gossip back in his home town. Paradise in a package! This has many angles. Now, you like the idea?”

“Nobody would be dummy enough to fall for a set-up like that,” Eddie said.

“Yes, they would,” I said. “World is full of island-happy dreamers.” I almost added, “I know!”

“So what you think?” Henri asked impatiently.

“I don't like the idea, but what's our cut?” Eddie asked, re-lighting the stub of his cigar.

“Half. You will supply the boat and the food. I find the sucker, toss in Heru and what other... islanders we need. On the Post Office bulletin board there is an announcement of a round-the-world cruise ship putting into Papeete next week. She will remain four days. That is our chance.”

Eddie fingered his prune-ear and flattened nose. “Won't my puss make the joker suspicious?” .

“We have to be careful about speaking English or French. As for your face, we can tell him you really are a Lion Face... no, that would frighten him. Don't worry—with Heru around why should he worry about your face?” Dubon turned to me. “You have not made a comment, Ray.”

I belched several times by way of an answer. I felt a little better—the deal wasn't too far-fetched. Our cut would be a hundred and fifty bucks, more than we cleared on a cargo. Of course this would put us in Henri's class, kind of panders by accessory. But with seventy-five bucks I could bring Ruita something decent—even a real wedding ring. I told myself maybe that was the thing troubling me. I felt like a poor relation, a kept man; she had everything.

Dubon said, “Why the silence?”

“I'm thinking,” I said.

He stood up and pulled a wad of money from his pants pocket, peeled off a thousand franc note, said, “Perhaps this will seal our deal.”

I glanced at Eddie. He nodded. “That will bind it for Ray, but for me—maybe I'll go over and see Heru now. One partner talking to another.”

“You are welcome to her,” Henri began. “I will—”

“I didn't ask you if I would be welcome or not.”

Henri handed me the money, got his magazine and briefcase together, straightened his greasy hat as he said, “In a day or so we shall find our hunk of paradise and prepare things. Come, Eddie, I shall take you to Heru.”

As Eddie stood up, Dubon took his arm. Eddie pushed him away. “I can find her myself.” As they walked off the cutter Eddie called over his shoulder, “Save a bottle for me, Ray.”

I didn't run off the ship and buy a bottle—right away. I sat on the cabin, a little excited about the deal. Maybe I could make the Hooker a part of a real sightseeing business, daily cruise around Tahiti? Hell, I was only helping Heru make some folding money—if she gave it all to Henri that was her business. And if the tourists were looking for that, it really didn't make any difference where they found it. There was talk of more cruise ships, tourist planes, stopping at Papeete, this could be the start of a real business; I could settle down in Papeete with Ruita, be a big man in the islands.

The idea was full of holes—I didn't want to be a big man, Ruita hated Papeete. Also there was no point in kidding myself, I was pimping. Without arguing about it, I decided I was going through with the deal. That decided, I went ashore and bought a litre of rum, got properly juiced.

Two days later, with Dubon and Heru aboard, we pulled anchor, went hunting for our islet. Although we were leaving port we didn't bother stopping at customs. The Papeete gossip already was broadcasting our plan and customs knew we weren't doing any trading on this trip. Henri was in a bad mood; he had wanted Heru to stay ashore and tend to her regulars, but she hadn't been sailing since she came to Papeete, and like all atoll people, she loved boats.

Eddie wasn't in a bright mood either. The night before he had been against the whole idea, saying it made him feel crummy. I'd told him, “But we've spent Dubon's francs.”

“Let him whistle up his nose for it. So he put on a show with his knife, slashing that nut open—a shiv don't mean nothing to me.”

“No, we've committed ourselves, we're in it,” I'd said, and somehow the whole messy idea fascinated me—as if I was punishing myself for being such a jerk with Ruita.

We sailed around Tahiti's tail end, which sticks out like a clam neck, with a number of coral heads long ago fertilized by bird droppings and seeds till palm trees and brush had sprung up. But there were too many villages on the mainland, not to mention a car scooting along Boom Road now and then.

We sailed around Moorea, whose jagged mountains made the sunsets as seen from Papeete so terrific. We found a tiny island which would do, but it was impossible to bring the boat up close, and I wasn't risking the Hooker for any seventy-five bucks. We decided to try the island of Huahine, which is about eighty miles from Tahiti—a six-hour sail for a fast boat.

We got there late in the afternoon and found our islet— an oval-shaped hunk of sand and coral about three hundred feet long, with a cluster of coconut trees in the center, plus some brush. It was part of the reef, and about a half a mile from the main island of Huahine, but there was enough water for the Hooker and we couldn't see a hut or a person on the mainland.

We spent the night on the boat, all of us sleeping on deck, each of us taking a three-hour anchor watch. Henri had been thoughtful enough to bring a couple of jugs of vin ordinaire and Heru got high. She seemed stupidly vulgar to me, a coarseness which was neither islander or Western, but rather unreal.

When the sun awoke us we went ashore. Heru looked pretty bad. She was wearing a gaudy green satin dress, wide feet crammed into slightly cockeyed high-heel shoes. Her eyes were bloodshot, her dress stained with sweat and wine. Eddie managed to climb a palm tree and throw down some nuts and leaves. A drink of coconut water seemed to straighten Heru out and she kicked off her shoes, washed the dirty make-up off her face, and wove the leaves into mats. For a second I thought of Ruita on our islet and felt so angry with myself for being a lousy coward that I started working like an eager beaver. We cleaned the island of coral rocks, built several lean-tos and one good hut, dug a fire pit, and in general made things look livable. We all worked hard, even Henri who refused to take off his shirt or linen suit although they were both soaking with sweat.

An old man paddled over from the island, politely asked what we were doing. He was a fat man with a very large face making him look bigger than he was. Somehow his name was Jack Pund. We told him we were about to rehearse a movie. He asked if Bill Cody was with us as he saw him every week on the screen. Eddie later found out they had one movie on Huahine, a Western, which was shown over and over.

Dubon gave Jack a slug of wine and a few francs and he helped us make more mats, showed us a spot where it was possible to swim without cutting yourself to pieces on the coral. Henri sort of hired Jack to look after things—and mainly to keep his mouth shut and keep any of the other islanders away—with the promise we would bring him a glass ash tray from Papeete. We sailed before sundown and reached Papeete in the morning.

Two days later we reached the islet in the middle of the day, put Eddie ashore with Heru, a small live pig, fishing spears, some food, and a couple of cigars. Tack Pund came paddling over wearing a torn shirt and a pair of almost new dungarees. We set up the mats to form a hut and a number of lean-tos, started a fire. Eddie gave me last minute instructions on how to sail the Hooker to Papeete and back by compass, wrote down the exact course. We agreed I wasn't to try it single-handed unless the weather was perfect.

“I can steer,” Henri said. “I have been to sea in—”

“Shut up,” Eddie said, gazing up at the sky and then at the horizon. “Don't think anything will come up within the next few days, but remember, Ray, if you have any doubts about the weather, stay in Papeete.”

Heru was sleeping under a palm tree and Jack Pund reminded us we hadn't brought his ash tray, a red glass one he wanted now. He was busy making a little brew by the simple process of putting sugar in a nut and carefully burying it. The last thing we took off the Hooker was a bolt of blue and white Pearl cloth to be worn as a pareu. Henri told Eddie, “Remember, now, plenty of flowers for Heru's hair, you and Pund wrap some of these around yourselves. Hide your clothes and her dress good. The cruise ship is due tomorrow, so we should be out by tomorrow night or the next morning.”

Jack Pund told us in Tahitian not to forget his ash tray, then asked, “Why must I wear a silly cloth around my behind instead of pants?”

“I'll explain later. It is part of the movie we are doing,” Eddie told him, then added in English, “Be best to keep this joker drunk.”

We made it back to Papeete before dark and I was damn proud of my navigating. Henri talked all the way, about how tough it was to make a fast franc in France these days and what a smart operator he was for staying in the Pacific. Some day he would surely return with a fortune and settle on the Cote d'Azure.

When I asked if the Riviera was as pretty as Tahiti he looked at me as if I was a moron and said, “But, Ray, the Riviera is in France!”

I was glad to dock and be rid of him. I cleaned the decks and slept like a rock. In the morning, flags were hoisted on the tower atop Signal Hill and a few hours later the cruise ship entered the harbor. She was a twenty-two thousand ton beauty and dwarfed everything. I sat on the Hooker as she steamed by, watched the tourists watching me. She was too large to anchor at the quay and soon boats were busy ferrying the tourists in, the men wearing slacks and loud shirts as though they were a uniform; most of the women fat and noisy in light dresses. Of course everybody was sporting a camera.

Late in the afternoon Henri rushed aboard, said he was working on a possible sucker, but this pitch took time and by tomorrow the sucker would either bite or we had wasted a few days. I was so angry at the very thought that this might fall through, you'd think I pimped every day. I cursed Henri out and he told me to stop acting the fool, gave me some francs to buy a bottle.

“What the hell is this, a handout?”

“When a man is in need of a drink he should drink. Now be patient, I am very busy on this deal.”

Henri left and I cooked a can of beans and went ashore. It was funny, maybe pathetic, to see the several hundred tourists decked out in flowers like walking corpses, haggling over trinkets, and then dumping dollars into the merchants' hands. My red beard was a big attraction and I must have been photographed a hundred times to the whispers of, “Look, a beachcomber!” Or: “He looks big enough to be an American.”

All the bars were doing a big business and as I passed one a woman cried out with a slight drawl, “Herbert, you stop smiling at those nigga-gals!”

I turned to see what this specimen looked like, and saw him. He was sitting alone at a table near the door, handsome face in profile toward me. He was wearing a new yachting cap at a rakish angle, a light blue silk jacket and a very white silk scarf knotted around his neck. He was toying with a lime and gin.

It had to be Barry Kent. I knew that handsome face too well, and the outfit was exactly what he would wear. I wondered if Milly was with him. But somehow, from the way the empty chairs were close to the table, I knew he was alone. I stared at him for several uncertain minutes, wondering what I should do. He took out a pack of cigarettes and put the entire pack to his mouth, pulled the pack away, leaving a cigarette between his lips. That did it—it was Barry, all right; I'd seen him do that practiced movement too often.

I saw myself in the dusty glass window of the bar. My sneakers were tom and without laces, my pants bleached a dirty tan by the sun and salt, my T-shirt was sweat-stained. My “yacht” cap was all out of shape, while my face looked as if a handful of red hair was hanging down over my chin. I looked exactly like what I was—a sea-going bum.

Walking into the bar, I passed his table and he didn't recognize me. I came up behind him, swallowed, then asked as casually as I could, “Spare a cigarette, Barry?”

I had to hand it to him, he didn't react the way I expected. He barely reacted at all—merely glanced up at me, his eyes widening a little but nothing else disturbing that groomed after-shaving-lotion face. Then he threw back his head and laughed, real deep laughter.

I pulled out a chair and sat down. “Thought I looked a fright, not funny,” I said. ”

“Ray Jundson! So this is where you've been staked out!” he said. His Dale Carnegie voice hadn't changed. “My God, I've looked all over the country for you, even hired a private dick. It's rather funny to stumble across you here! What are you doing in Tahiti?”

“I didn't come on any cruise ship with a round trip ticket in my pocket,” I said, taking a cigarette out of his pack and lighting it. I still couldn't feel angry at the guy.

He finished his drink, his eyes taking in all my torn and worn clothing. He held up his empty glass and I nodded. He ordered two. Barry said, “You look good. Weather-beaten face, body leaner. Just what are you doing here?”

“Living the good life, the one we always bulled about. I'm a South Seas trader, with my own boat and all the rest of it. Or has the South Seas kick worn off for you?”

“No, the dream is still there. Or I wouldn't be on this cruise. Ray, you really went and did it, like in the books?”

“Yeah. The books were liars but it still is pretty good. I've even been to the house of Edmond Stewart.” The waiter put bur drinks before us and I grinned at Barry. “Like the old days, gassing about the islands over cocktails.”

Barry pushed his hat back. “I can't believe it. Never thought you'd have the nerve.”

“You gave me that,” I said, taking a drink. The gin was smooth and strong. “When I... uh ... found you and Milly, this seemed to be the ideal way of getting even. How is she?”

“You really want to know?”

“No, but how is she?”

“Exactly as you left her, hard, tough, pushing. You know, Ray, I always thought of you as a good-natured dope. Not about Milly, but in general, a slob in a middle-class rut. But by God, you fixed me! I never thought you'd be here, living my dreams and ...”

There was sincere envy in his voice and I enjoyed it. “Milly with you?”

“Hell no, she certainly is not with me. Frankly, Ray, I kind of ran off. She's put me through a grinder this last year and when I lucked up on a small windfall, returned taxes, I simply chucked everything and left. Does she write you?”

“Doesn't know where I am.”

“You don't know she divorced you?”

“Did she?”

Barry slapped his hand on the table. “That bitch! Said she was in touch with you all the time. You were out west supposedly drinking your sorrow and getting ready to sue me, big scandal stuff. Milly even nicked me for a couple of grand to 'keep you quiet.' Then she insisted I get a divorce and marry her. I had to give my wife damn near every cent I had.”

“This is mere curiosity—did you ever care for your wife, Barry?”

“In a way. She was convenient, like a perfect maid. Ran my house exactly right, could be relied upon to say the correct things when we entertained. She was a wife in quotes, never came alive for me. Much as I hate Milly, in her own bitchy way she's real—all Milly. She secured a divorce, claimed with your consent—and by God, maybe her divorce isn't legal! Wire my lawyers to look into that. That would be the first piece of luck I've had since you pulled out.”

“You and Milly are married?”

He nodded. “Trapped would be a better word. She's got her hooks into everything I have, tied me up proper. Even pulled a phony pregnancy trick on me to make sure I married her. Milly is ... I didn't come to Tahiti to talk about Milly. Man, tell me the truth, how is it—really?”

It took me a half a dozen drinks to tell him, and I told him pretty straight—about Olin and Buck and Forliga and Pella-Pella—puffing things up just a little, maybe forgetting about the copra stink and the bugs. Barry sopped it all up, envy on his face. And we both kept drinking gin and limes, were pretty crocked by the time I got around to Ruita.

He said, “God, a beautiful girl and an island, too! But if you didn't know you were divorced how could you consider marrying her?”

“Still have your suspicious mind, don't you Barry? Look, in the islands the marriage ceremony isn't important. People live together because they want to, not because a hunk of paper binds them together.”

“But are you married to her or not?”

“That is a question I've been trying to decide myself,” I said, staring at his expensive yacht cap: where the gold anchor was I saw a small TV screen and on the screen was the scene of Barry and Milly in my bed, me merely turning and walking out of the room without hitting him. I kept watching this scene, over and over, right on his cap—and knowing I was damn drunk—as I tried to explain my doubts about settling down with Ruita.

When I finished, Barry stood up and swayed as he fought to keep his balance, announced, “Ray, you've been selling me a crock of bull. You have a dream girl on a beautiful island but you're worried about too much quiet! Know what I think? You haven't a boat, haven't a damn thing! You're on the bum here. By God� bet you've only been here a few days at that, probably thrown off some tramp freighter!”

When he stood it was hard for me to see the scene on his cap. I stood up too, said, “Okay, I'll show you my boat. Pay for the drinks, executive.” Now the scene came into sharp focus. Barry on his stomach, Milly sitting up and saying, 'Well, Ray?' What a stupid, pained look on my puss as I turned and left the room, like a noble motion picture gentleman.

Barry called the Chinese waiter over, grandly waved a twenty-dollar bill in his face as he said, “Here, keep the change. I know you're overcharging me, but I'd do the same if I was in your place. All right, let's see the alleged boat.”

We staggered out into the street and down to the docks, holding onto each other like queers, for balance. We were the subject of much local giggling and camera snapping.

“You still can't hold your liquor.” He took off the cap. “Stop staring at it. Here, I'll make you a present of it.”

When he took the cap off my little private TV screen disappeared and I shouted, “No! Wear it. Damn it, Barry, put that cap on!”

“Afraid I'll get sunstroke? Trade it for your cap.”

I pushed his hand away from my head and he put his cap on, with a mock bow which nearly upset the both of us as he said, “Aye, aye, Captain. Ahoy, Captain. Captain Ray Jundson of Papeete—oh, God!”

Soon as he put the cap at an angle, the tiny TV scene returned.

The sun was dropping and it was fairly cool when we reached the quay. As we staggered up the gangplank of the Hooker I said proudly, “This is mine. Finest cutter afloat.”

As if caressing a woman, Barry wandered around the ship, feeling the wheel, touching the rigging, the sails, looking into the cabin. He kept mumbling, “My, my, what a sweet job I Oh, what a honey!” Then he said loudly, curtly, “Ray, you're a lying swine. This can't be yours!”

“Ill show you the papers,” I said, but Barry had walked off the gangplank and was standing on the quay, where he had a full view of the cutter's lines. He sat down and held his knees, stared at the Hooker.

I staggered over. He was weeping. I sat beside him, so I could see the scene on his cap again, and asked, “You sick?”

“Sick with jealousy,” Barry said, drunken tears slopping down his handsome face. “Listen to me, Ray, I have some money, let me stay here as your partner!”

“Already have a partner. As for money, I tore up a check for fifty grand yesterday—no—that was over a month ago. A long lousy month!”

“Ray, I'm sick of the States. Everything is all double-talk. Ray, we can buy a larger ship, a—”

I shook my head and it almost came off. I hadn't had any gin in a long time and it was really kicking me. I was having a hard time keeping Barry's cap in focus; the picture of myself being so smart and noble. The perfect sap in...

“Ray, you're not even listening to me. With my money we can get a better boat, do more business.”

“I don't want a bigger boat and there isn't any better. Barry, go back to Chicago where you belong.”

“Who the hell are you to tell me where I belong? Ray, please, maybe I can get a native girl and then the four...?”

On this cap my face suddenly filled the screen, a close-up reflecting the painful resignation, the stupid cuckolded husband walking away from it all.

I vaguely heard myself mumbling, “They are islanders, never call them natives...” Then I couldn't stand the picture of myself any longer: I swung on Barry.

Even though I was sitting I managed to get enough weight behind the blow to knock him sideways. His lips were bloody as he scrambled to his feet. Barry looked fantastically big and tall standing over me, yelling, “Get up, you dumb bastard!”

I started to get up. Something exploded on my right eye. I fell on my back. The punch rattled my brains, sobered me up. Of course there weren't any more pictures on his cap.

Getting half-way up, I tackled Barry and we rolled over and over, throwing short punches at each other. I tasted blood in my mouth but blood was running from his nose and mouth, his fancy scarf was ripped, his hair was mussed—the first time I could remember seeing it that way; even in bed it had been perfectly combed—and above all, the panic in Barry's eyes was the sweetest thing I ever saw.

Even though we were both puffing and grunting, I knew I was in better shape—till Barry got a knee working in my stomach and I blacked out for a split second. I vomited up all the lime and gins, over the both of us, and had a moment of wild relief as I got my shoulders off the sand and belted Barry on the nose.

Blood spread over the lower part of his face and he rolled off me, gasped, “Okay, Ray, I've had it.”

We lay flat on our backs, breathing hard. Oddly enough, not a soul was standing around or watching us. Barry stuffed the torn ends of his scarf up his nose to stop the bleeding. “What did I say that was wrong? What started this?”

“I've been thinking about smacking you for a long time. This is what I should have done when I found you with Milly.”

He shook his head and a little blood started from his stuffed nose. “I don't get it. Even if you felt that way, what's the point in slugging me now?”

“Has a lot of point, for me. Trite as this may sound, now that I've hit you there's a big load off my chest.”

Barry said, “Oh, for Chrissakes, this climate is softening your head!” and got to his feet. “Where can I wash up? Use the bathroom on your boat?”

“The bathroom on my boat is right here,” I told him, pointing to the water's edge.

We washed our heads and faces, went aboard the Hooker and made some bad coffee. My eyes was turning purple and my lower lip was puffed, while Barry couldn't stop the blood trickling from his nose, had a bruise on his cheek, a nasty cut on his forehead, plus a torn shirt and scarf. When we finished our coffee he said, “I have to buy some clothes, cant go back like this.”

“Why not? You'll be the hero of the cruise, battled a beachcomber and all that derelict stuff.”

He said, “Ray, you know you've become a mean bastard?”

“No, I never could get mean enough, I guess. Look, to buy clothes you'll have to go to a Chinese store, the others will be shut by now. Come on, I'll show you.”

I took him down through one of the Chinese streets. He bought a white sport shirt and a new cap, threw his old ones away. We stopped for a sandwich and more coffee. When we hit the street I told him, “I have to return to the ship, expecting a joker on a deal.” And I thought how hysterical it would be if Henri's sucker turned out to be Barry.

Kent said, “Look here, Ray, I may have been drunk awhile back, but I meant that about going in with you.”

“No dice. Hell, nobody stopping you from going to the States, taking what cash you have and returning.”

“It wouldn't work. I'd have to make the break now or never.”

“That's right,” I told him, “and for you it will be never. Just as well. You're not ready for anything but armchair sailing.”

“Damn, you've become a smug bastard as well as a mean sonofabitch!”

I laughed at him. “I been eating crow for a long year, maybe all my life. Let me be smug for tonight.”

Barry told me to do something to myself and walked away. From the rear, in his new clothes, he looked as smooth and confident as ever.