South Pacific Affair

Chapter II

I was passing Les Dames de Saint Joseph de Cluny, the Catholic girl's school in Papeete, and a number of the youngsters in neat smocks were out walking. Some of them smiled politely at me. I clicked my heels and slipped them a smart bow which caused the sister in charge to grin and the kids to giggle.

It was the start of a bright cool day and I was feeling very fine; for the moment I wasn't worrying about a thing, not even thinking of Ruita. Last night had been the South Seas of the phony books, the stuff Barry and I had bulled about in Chicago bars—you're on your own little ship and a beautiful girl comes to spend the night with you; a few good hours and it's all over and on to the next one. Wam-bam and thank you, Ma'am.

Her name was Heru and she had arrived in Papeete some five months ago from a far-away atoll, down near Easter Island. As I walked along I thought about her and why she was here. The atoll people are not only well supplied by nature with about everything they need, but each family averages some fifteen hundred dollars a year from shell and copra, working at it when ever they feel in the mood. But most of the atoll people leave their heaven as soon as they can—that's always puzzled me. The men ship over the world as sailors, while the girls rush to Papeete to whore, either as amateurs or as pros. In fact (I am told) many of them actually can be found hustling in Paris, which is certainly a long way to travel to walk a shabby street.

Heru was a girl of great appetites and very good at all of them. She was crocked when she came aboard, finished our last bottle of rum during the night, and was still able to walk a straight line between my bunk and Eddie's. They soon knocked me out of this sheet marathon and I managed to get some sleep. When I left the Hooker Eddie and the girl were snoring on deck, both nude and cold with the early morning dampness. I threw a blanket over them, made some coffee, and took off.

I walked along the Quai du Commerce where the largest shops are run by the French and where one can buy almost anything in the world, from a Geiger counter to rubber falsies. I turned down a side street into a regular Chinatown—Chinese women walking in long slit gowns, and dozens of stores all with Chinese characters on the windows. The Chinese are the merchants of the islands and in Papeete they have their own club, a very imposing building and every bit as snobbish as the Circle Bougainville or the Tahiti Yacht Club, where the business men and tourists flock for an aperitif before going home to dejeuner, or stop for a petit dejeuner on their way to the office or shop.

Mr. Olin, our agent, ran a general store and glorified hock shop, and also went in for money lending. His main store and office was a two-story ramshackle wooden frame building which seemed on the verge of collapse. But he had a modern brick warehouse on the waterfront, a fleet of three new Ford trucks, and probably could raise a million dollars any time he had to. One of his clerks told me he was busy at the moment so I sat down on some wooden crates of canned milk, got a cigarette working as the clerk handed me a San Francisco paper which was exactly forty-three day old. The worn newspaper gave me a strong whiff of the tension and Stateside rat-race—I was damn glad to be reading it in the shop of a Chinese merchant in Papeete. The messy news and headlines seemed unreal, another world away from me, except for some business about testing more atomic bombs in the Pacific. Would be part of the “march of civilization” for a radioactive cloud to drift over Tahiti and...

The Chinese clerk said Mr. Olin would see me now. I walked up the trembling steps to his office. Mr. Olin was a fat, short man wearing slacks ready to burst, and an outrageous bright green sport shirt. His face was as round and flat as a large pebble, with a tuft of short dark silky hair crowning it. He always had a good smile and his eyes seemed amused. Off-hand you'd think Mr. Olin a very mild joker; he was shrewd, sharp, and tough.

His office was plainly furnished—a rusty file cabinet, a table with some dusty samples of trade goods on it, and a single strong light bulb hung from the ceiling. He gave me his big smile as he stood up from behind his large polished desk and we shook hands. If the rest of him was flabby, his hand was hard. He said in English, “Ah, my cockroach trader. You have a fine trip, Mr. Jundson?”

The cockroach title was his private joke and of course had to do with the fact our cutter was a bug compared to the big trading schooners.

“Nothing to shout about,” I said, sitting in a bamboo chair. “Around a ton of copra plus a few small bags of shell.”

“One should be grateful for even the smallest of fortune's smiles. Will you join me in wine and cakes?”

I nodded. Mr. Olin pressed a button and a young man immediately brought in a tray of sugar cookies and a silver bottle of cool rice wine. This was what I liked about Olin; he treated us as politely as if we were important traders.

I drank a lot of wine, finished the cakes and we made small talk about business. Then Mr. Olin brought out his account book and announced that until he got the exact weight and condition of our cargo, we were still some eleven thousand Tahitian francs in debt, which is roughly about three hundred thirty dollars.

Debts never seem to worry either party in the islands and Mr. Olin made out a credit slip for sixty dollars worth of trade goods at his warehouse. This was decent of him; he didn't have to advance us a sou. As I stood up I asked, “Would it be possible to add about a thousand francs in cash?”

Olin shook his head. “Sorry, no money. You would only drink it up. You need but wind and water for your boat and there is more than enough of that. However, should you wish some money as a lien against your fine boat, I should be pleased...”

“No, thanks. Without the boat I'd really be a bum. Do you have a cargo for us?”

“I'm afraid not. Should anything come up I shall contact you immediately.”

We shook hands and I thanked him for the wine and cakes, said we'd probably hang around Papeete for a few weeks, hoping for a cargo.

“Mr. Judson, with a boat your size one makes a big mistake to deal in copra. Your boat is fast and strong and good for only one thing—smuggling spirits.”

“You tell me that every time. But we like trading. Who knows, maybe we'll luck up on a bag of real pearls.”

Olin smiled, showing his several gold teeth. “My dear sir, that is only done in the cinema, and not very successfully there, either.”

I left his shop and walked back to our boat, passing the market place which was a tremendous iron roof open on all sides like a copra shed, and very busy in the morning. People came in from all parts of the island to sell vegetables and fruit and gossip. I stopped at Olin's warehouse and ordered a case of tinned Australian beef, the usual aspirin, boxes of hard candies, combs and thread and safety pins.

By the time I reached the Hooker it was almost noon and Eddie was sitting on the cabin and smoking a cigar. He said Olin's truck had already picked up our cargo and did I get any cash?

I said I didn't and he laughed, told me, “See how smart it was to save a bag of copra? I shall sell it this afternoon.”

“Just be careful Olin doesn't hear of it.” Before I could ask where Heru was, she stepped out of the cabin wearing one of my old suntan shirts which only partly covered her sturdy round hips, gave her the startling look of a living barbershop calendar. She was munching on a piece of raw fish and looked as fresh and clear-eyed as if she had slept all night. She said hello, asked if I had brought any rum with me. When I said I hadn't she merely shrugged and Eddie said, “Get your upa upa taria out, Ray—if it works.”

Upa upa taria is Tahitian for phonograph and mine was an old wind-up portable. When I dug it out, the damn thing was moldy and damp from the sea air. I gave the motor a quick clean-up with oil and the machine turned slowly, completely distorting the Duke Ellington record I put on, whose grooves were well worn anyway. But Heru seemed to enjoy the queer noises and squatted beside it, playing the record over and over as she ate the raw fish.

I joined Eddie atop the cabin in the hot sun. “What's with her?”

“Seems the lads on the Shanghai owe her money. When she asked for it they tossed her over.”

“Guess we must have run up a bill with her, too. Maybe we can help her collect and square our accounts?”

Eddie flexed his powerful muscles. “Two minds with a single thought. But she says 'her man' will handle it. He's Henri Dubon.”

“Who's that?”

“You've seen him around, tall and soft, sharp-faced, always wearing a dirty linen suit and a tie. Pimp and tourist shill.”

“Oh—him.” I'd certainly seen him about—he was all over Papeete. I'd heard he had come to Papeete before the war as a minor government clerk, fresh from Paris. Then during World War II he had spent several years with the American troops in the Pacific—in what capacity nobody ever knew or could imagine—but he had returned to Papeete in 'forty-nine firmly imbued with the spirit of the fast buck.

The sun was making me sleepy and I kicked off my sneak-ears and half-watched a tubby old schooner heading for the pass. Eddie asked, “Pass the Post Office and see the sailing schedules? We might outsail one of these old loads, reach some copra first.”

“I will—later. I've had a hard night.”

Eddie nodded along the deck where Heru was sleeping peacefully beside the phonograph, the shirt tails way above her delightful middle. I gazed at her and thought how little this girl and I had in common. Now, with Ruita it would be different—only maybe too different. With Heru, if I ever pulled up and left, the tears would be short and then— aita peapea, and settling down with the next man. And who was to say which attitude was the more intelligent?

I was too sleepy to argue, even with myself. The next thing I knew Eddie was shaking me awake. I yawned and asked what was up. Eddie nodded toward the quay and said, “Watch this.”

Monsieur Henri Dubon was marching toward our boat. He walked with short, nervous, maybe authoritative, steps. His white-grey shirt was stained with sweat, as was his tight linen suit and straw hat Heru was watching him with little interest and I wondered how Dubon knew where she was. Dubon carried a battered briefcase under his arm and when I asked Eddie, “What's he got in the bag?” Eddie said, “Probably his underwear—looks like a briefcase hustler.”

We had a plank running from the stern of the Hooker to the quay—there's not much of a rise or fall in the tide at Papeete. Dubon marched up the plank and told me in English with a heavy French accent, which was probably his tourist special tone: “I am Mr. Henri Dubon and I have business with my girl.” He pointed a dirty fingernail toward Heru.

“Business is business,” I said with a mock bow.

“You are American?” Dubon asked, the accent dropping from his plain hard English.

He knew I was an American; it was part of the petty gossip blanket covering the Papeete waterfront. I said I was an American and introduced myself and Eddie. Henri shook hands with me, nodded at Eddie, then barked in Tahitian at Heru, “Where is the money?”

She explained about not getting it and Henri shouted, “You can not fool me with such childish lies!” and started for Heru. Eddie tripped him without seeming to move his bare feet. Dubon sprawled on our deck, dropping his briefcase which would have skidded over the side if I hadn't grabbed it. Eddie said, “Aboard this ship no one hits a lady without permission from the captain—that's me. And Heru tells the truth. She swam over here after they threw her off the Shanghai. She had no money on her. She had nothing on.

Henri stared up at Eddie's tough face, asked with almost servile respect in his voice, “You speak okay English. Hawaiian?”

It was comical the way Dubon kept up this polite game. Everybody in town also knew Eddie was Hawaiian. Eddie nodded and from the way he looked at the Frenchman it was obvious he didn't like him.

Henri got to his feet, brushed his suit, fixed his straw hat on his head once more. I handed him his briefcase. He asked Heru, “How much do the lying swine owe you?”

She shrugged. “I cannot remember.”

Henri swore in French, turned and informed me in English, “These natives have the business sense of children.” Then he told Heru in Tahitian, “You were there all day. I will demand a thousand francs and settle for not a franc less than eight hundred. Wait here. And get dressed—an English yacht is expected this afternoon.” Henri opened his briefcase and pulled out a new red and white pareu cloth, which he tossed at Heru. Then he took out a pocketknife, half opened the blade, and put it back in his pocket.

He marched off our ship and down the quay to the Shanghai.

Heru giggled and Eddie relit his cigar, said, “Lot of hot air.”

“Looks like he might be handy with that cheese sticker.”

“Sure. In a dark alley he'd be a wiz at giving it to you in the back.”

The Shanghai had what might be called a regular gangplank and Henri marched up that, was met by Teng, the super cargo. We could see much waving of hands as they talked. I saw Buck, the big Swede, come out of his cabin to see what the fuss was about. A moment later Henri was flying over the rail, frantically clutching at the air as he hit the water backside first. There was some laughter from the deck of the Shanghai although Dubon wasn't much of a swimmer.

Heru dived in and helped him to our boat. When we got him on deck I noticed his left eye was starting to swell. He was cursing in hysterical French as he went through his pockets and held up a ruined fountain pen and some wet papers. Finally, shaking his fist at the Shanghai, Henri screamed what to his mind was the lowest of all insults: “Your mother was the world's cheapest whore!”

Heru helped him off with his wet clothes and he stood shivering in white drawers, looking ridiculously pale from the neck down. She stripped and squeezed the water out of her hair, then went down to the cabin and came back with a towel to dry herself and Henri. The sun finished the job and Henri took a mirror and a comb out of his wet suit, started to comb his thin sandy hair. When he saw the swollen eye was turning a red-purple he started to scream and cry. “I will be the laughing stock of Papeete!” he moaned. “I cannot show my face for days and I have much business to do.”

Eddie found a fish he had stored in the shade of the cabin, dipped it in the water, then tore it in half, told Dubon, “Hold the insides to your eye and keep it wet. The black eye will hardly be noticeable in a couple of hours.” Eddie was sort of rocking on the balls of his feet and I knew he was getting ready to fight. He put on his sneakers as he told Henri, “You stay here. Ill collect the thousand francs owed Heru.”

“A million thanks, my friend!” Dubon said, looking like a surrealist picture with the raw fish on his eye. “I will gladly pay you a commission for—”

“Shove the commission. Heru has already paid us that. Anybody pays a commission it will be the whoever hired Heru.”

“That yellow bastard, Teng, the—”

“Cut the 'yellow' slop,” Eddie growled. He motioned to Heru and me. “Come on.”

We walked slowly toward the big schooner, the supercargo and several sailors watching us. As we came up the gangplank the supercargo said, “I am Mr. Tom Teng, supercargo of the Shanghai.”

“I am Captain Eddie Romanos of the Hooker,” Eddie told him very politely. “This young lady is a very special friend of mine and she claims you owe her two thousand francs. I am here to collect—without too much talk.”

Mr. Teng was wearing shoes, clean white duck pants and a new yellow T-shirt. He was tall for a Chinaman, and wiry. He carefully ran his eyes over Eddie's face and muscles, said in French, “I see you are a fighter. I warn you, I am a Judo man.”

“Good for you,” Eddie answered in English. “Two thousand francs.”

I was watching the two sailors, both short and stocky, figuring I could bring them down with a tackle, when Teng turned his back on Eddie and said to me in Tahitian, “I am afraid there has been a misunderstanding. This—”

“Talk to me, I'm handling this!” Eddie cut in.

The Swede appeared in the doorway of his cabin, his big body more than filling the door. He looked like a scrapper but at the moment there was an amused look on his pointed puss, as though he was at a ringside seat.

Teng said to Eddie, “In any event there has been a mistake made. The young lady was well paid in wine and food for—her services. Also, the price agreed upon was one thousand francs and...”

“My services call for another thousand,” Eddie said.

“... and this pretty creature has a tank for a stomach. She consumed well over the price agreed upon in spirits and food, especially in food. Therefore, as I explained to her pimp before throwing him off my ship—”

“Told you I came for the money, without too much talk,” Eddie said and drew back his right fist. Teng moved like a cat as he lunged for Eddie's right hand, only Eddie jerked it back and swiftly crossed a sizzling left to Teng's chin. Eddie could hook—the punch sent Mr. Teng several feet in the air and he was out cold before his body crashed on the deck.

Heru said, “Oh!” and both sailors stared at Eddie with big eyes. One of them—a Malayan I think—went for a knife in his waist cloth and before I could move, Eddie's left flicked out and sent the man stumbling backwards, holding his stomach, as Eddie growled in Tahitian, “Don't be a fool!”

Eddie knelt next to the still body of Mr. Teng, removed a thick wallet and a roll of bills, counted out two thousand francs. The second sailor moved and I stepped toward him— I was about twice his size and scared him badly. At this point Buck roared in Tahitian, “Leave him alone!”

The big Swede came over to us and I wondered if he was talking to me but he told the sailor to beat it, and I was relieved—Buck was several inches above my six-foot-three. Eddie pocketed the two thousand francs, gently kicked the rest of the money at Teng's face. Eddie straightened up and didn't even come to Buck's shoulders. Eddie said softly, “Don't come too close. I don't like to be crowded.”

The Swede held his big hands—and they were big—loosely at his sides and stared down at Eddie with hard eyes. Then he laughed, covering us all with a mild spray, and touched Teng with one of his shiny shoes. Buck said in French, “You are robbing us but I think it is worth it. All the time he reads books on this Judo and in the first real scrap—is he dead?”

With perfect timing Teng rolled over and sat up, worked his chin. Then he got the roll of bills in focus, pounced on them, quickly stuffed the money and the wallet into a pocket I was surprised he didn't count the francs.

Buck said to me, “Your boy has a magnificent punch.”

“I'm not his boy!” Eddie snapped in English. “I'm Captain Romanos of the Hooker, also co-owner of the boat!”

Buck held up a great hand, said in broken English, “Sorry, I no speak much Eng-lash.”

Eddie said to me, out of the side of his big mouth, “What a bird-beak he has for a puss! Made for a belt on the nose, wreck his whole damn silly face!”

Buck flushed as he told us in French, “That I understand!” Then he said to me, over Eddie's head, “Some of the worst features of our European civilization have clung to these people.”

“What European civilization?” I asked to annoy him. “Europe has no civilization, it's dead, starving.”

“Sir, I am talking of Western civilization, the Occidental—” Buck began, his voice thundering.

“Then you mean American civilization. You Europeans passed out of the world picture with the last war. Just one big hungry colony now, not worth as much as these islands,” I added, baiting him.

Buck's streamlined face turned a lobster red as he screamed at my face in French, “You have the arrogance of a German! I've heard of you and your—your rowboat! And I am thankful not many of you childish Americans go in for trading. Life would be unbearable! You Americans think because you have the bomb you can act like an idiot with a gun! Bah!” The force went out of his voice abruptly and he said in a normal tone, “We have enough of insults. Be so good as to join me in my cabin for a drink—all of you.”

Buck spun about and walked to his cabin without waiting to see if we were following. He turned at the doorway and called out to his supercargo, “Mr. Teng! We sail within a few hours. I trust you have checked the cargo, balanced the ship. If not, get busy!”

Eddie muttered, “Captain-of-the-ship-act!” and winked at me. I said, “Hell, why turn down a drink.” As we started for the cabin Heru grabbed Eddie's left hand and looked at it with wonder as she said, “Like a great club!”

Eddie rubbed his knuckles under her chin. “That's it, babes. I couldn't do much else in the ring but I could flatten 'em—if I caught 'em.” He said this in English and Heru giggled as though she knew what he was saying.

Buck's cabin was large and very neat, all the wood a deep red-brown and highly polished. Even the brass lamps were spotless and his bunk had white sheets, a real pillow. Buck put out four glasses and a bottle of Australian whiskey which has the thick smoky taste of Irish whiskey, poured big shots for us. As he handed Heru her glass he told her, “Your shoes are under the basin. Please take them. Well, let us toast Captain Romanos who has proved the old-fashioned ways are still the best.”

Buck took a ten franc coin from his pocket and neatly bent it between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. He tossed the bent coin to Eddie. “I am sixty years old and have engaged in brawls in every port of the world. Remember that, Captain Romanos, should you ever consider hitting my nose. Now if you will excuse me, we are sailing soon.”

Heru got her slippers and we went out on deck. Mr. Teng was peering down the forward hold, a sheaf of papers in his hand. As we passed he nodded, as though nothing had happened.

As we walked toward the Hooker Eddie picked up two stones and flattened the coin. He gave it to Heru. “Have a cup of coffee on Buck.” As she laughed he said to me, “And sometime I'm going to splatter that beak.”

Henri was sitting on top of the cabin, the piece of fish held to his eye. His linen suit was drying on the rigging. “You get the money?”

Eddie counted out a thousand francs, handed them to Heru. Henri merely held out his hand and she gave him the money. He told her, “Get back to your room. Some of the regular customers will soon be coming around.”

“Let me have money for a taxi,” she said.

“Walk, my pet, the exercise is good for your figure.”

Henri still had the wad of money in his hand and Eddie yanked out a fifty franc note, gave it to Heru as he said, “Take a taxi and rest up.”

She giggled and we all watched her walk down the plank, the sway to her hips. Henri said sadly, “She will not take a taxi, only drink it up. And never take money from my hand again. I do not like that.”

“Didn't think you did,” Eddie said, stretching out in the sun beside him. He said to me, “Now that we have money I don't feel much like going ashore. But maybe I'll see a movie tonight.”

Henri shoved his money down his drawers, asked casually, “How much did you make for yourself?”

“Two million bucks,” Eddie said, putting on an old pair of sun glasses.

I lit a cigarette and sat down. Henri didn't say he Wanted a butt and I didn't offer him one. After a moment he asked, “This is your boat?”

He was still playing his silly game. “Eddie's and mine.”

“Good for a pleasure boat but too small for cargo. You smuggle rum?”

“No.”

He changed hands holding the fish, ran his free hand through his thin hair. “I know very well you don't run spirits. You are a couple of starving fools. You lack business sense.”

With his sun glasses on I couldn't tell if Eddie was sleeping or not, but now he jumped up and grabbed Henri— one hand on his hair and the other deep in his crotch. The Frenchman let out a shrill yell as Eddie ran him down the deck and over the gangplank, then tried to boot him along the quay but missed. Dubon looked silly in his drawers and when he had run a few yards he turned and saw Eddie return to the ship. Dubon yelled, “My clothes, please my clothes!”

Eddie took the linen suit, the shirt and tie from the rigging, tossed them ashore, heaving the briefcase as far as he could. Henri dressed quickly; then, with what might be called dignity, he came to the foot of the plank and said, “The fish for my eye, if you please.”

Eddie hurled the fish at him, missing, and Dubon picked it up, wet it, and walked away holding the fish delicately to his eye. We watched him for a second, then Eddie stretched out on the cabin and put his sun glasses on again.

“That stuffed goon,” Eddie said. “A lousy pimp trying to be a super pimp.”

“What makes a pretty girl like Heru hustle, and for a clown like Henri?” I asked, suddenly wondering if Ruita Adams was considered an islander or an outsider. Her mother was a popaa—a missionary, I'd heard. The switcheroo: the white woman missionary and the native man.

“Beats me,” Eddie said, shaking his head, then adjusting his sun glasses. He yawned. “Coming to the movies with me tonight?”

“Maybe. We ought to see about a cargo instead of going to the movies.”

“Hell, everybody knows we're in port—anybody needing a small boat will come to us. You want to look for a cargo, go ahead. I'm sleepy.”

Eddie dozed off and I lit a cigarette, considered going to the Post Office to see if there was any mail. But nobody knew I was here, or cared, and it was a luxurious feeling to be able to ignore the P.O. I knocked off a few hours sleep and awoke as this big English yacht came in the harbor. She was a pretty boat, about eighty feet, diesel powered and with beautiful lines. There was the cough of another diesel—the Shanghai was moving out under power. As the yacht passed her I saw several men playing cards on the deck suddenly point to the big schooner and laugh. I imagined they were saying, “Look at that old tramp tub—didn't think they still built them.” Of course they didn't know they were on an expensive toy and seeing a real ship. Mr. Teng was leaning over the rail and didn't wave as the schooner passed our berth.

I was hot and sweaty so I bathed by jumping in the harbor, and then ran up the sails which were still damp from the sea and rain, giving them a chance to dry. The noise woke Eddie. He lit a cigar and watched me, said, “Guess we should have done that the first thing this morning. We ever have to buy a new sail, we're sunk.”

Eddie went ashore for a chicken and a bottle. We had a big supper and got a little drunk and then went to the movies. There are two movie theaters in Papeete and one had a cowboy picture and I managed to talk Eddie out of that. The other showed a movie about a salesgirl who was probably making about forty-five dollars a week, take-home pay, but who somehow wore a fur coat, lived in an apartment with a dropped living room, and drove a fine car. Crazy as it may sound, I was glad I went to the movie for I was drunk enough to laugh like a loon at the “wrong” places. As the picture limped to its happy ending, I was full of a contented sense of freedom, felt I was my own master for I had a boat that would carry me anyplace there was wind and water. I sat there and watched the nonsense, even listened to the chatter around me, and thought of Ruita: glad I wasn't tied down.

Exactly what “tied down” meant I didn't try to think out. I didn't care. Sure, I knew the movie was only a movie, a dream, a caricature of life in the States. But it did remind me of my life with Milly, the dull hours I put in as a court reporter—at the keyhole of our society. At the moment I could have laughed in Barry Kent's face. I felt rather proud of myself that Barry had the motion picture name and looks, but I was really living the picture, and that's what counted.

As we left the theater I stuck my battered sea cap on my noggin at an angle and almost swaggered down the street, feeling every bit a hero. I suppose when a man is a hero to himself, that's something—for as long at it lasts.

Eddie went off to spend the night with some friends of his. I went back to the Hooker and had a drink. Suddenly I was sick of warm drinks. I went ashore for a whiskey with ice in it and didn't feel much better. There was a plump girl in the bar waiting to be picked up but I told myself we couldn't afford the money. Walking back to the Hooker I knew I didn't want a girl. A Heru was great for a few minutes, then you were sleeping with a stranger. I wanted Ruita, I wanted to talk and explain and argue, even fight with her. I wanted her badly.

The night breeze, the cool hupi which comes down from the mountains, made me glad to get under the blankets. I was sure I would dream of Ruita, but when I did dream it was of Barry's small smile, which seemed to say, “Sorry, old man, just one of those things.” In my dream I kept shouting at him, “Aita Peapea! Aita Peapea!” And somehow he knew what that meant; with a quiet smile he answered, “But Ray, old boy, it would seem some things do matter, at least to you.”

I awoke in the middle of the night with my throat dry. On shore I could hear the soft music of a guitar away in the distance. I got a drinking nut, the coconut water cool and sweet, and I thought to hell with Milly, Barry and even Ruita. All I wanted was to be left alone to do what I felt like. And I had that. I fell asleep again telling myself I really had that.

That night was the start of the restless feeling. Not that I was nervous or jumpy, or too unhappy. Rather I felt as if I was marking time, waiting for something to happen. Being broke didn't help things any. We spread the thousand francs thin, but it was only thirty bucks and at the end of a week we didn't have a franc left. Most of the time we lounged around the deck, sometimes we never left the boat all day except for a swim, or to walk down the Quai du Commerce and look into the shop windows like we had money. Every few days we made the rounds of the cargo brokers, dropped in to see Olin just for the wine and cakes, but we couldn't pick up a cargo.

Of course food wasn't any problem; we didn't touch our tins of trade goods. We had fish three times a day, raw, pickled, fried, broiled, chopped, baked, and every other possible way of eating it. We could drop over a couple of hand lines and get a meal within a few minutes but Eddie liked to go reef fishing at low tide, sloshing along in ankle-deep water, spearing fish. I think he did mostly it to show off. I didn't go for it; walking on a reef is tricky and a coral cut takes a long time to heal.

Now and then Eddie would come aboard with a lime pie, an armful of fruit or vegetables, or even bread. I never asked or cared where he got the food.

Our stay in Papeete wasn't all lazing about the deck. We patched the sails and put our equipment in order, took very good care of the cutter for she was our ace in the hole. Tahiti is shaped like a manta with a thick tail, kind of a crude figure-eight. One morning we got up sail and went by the black sands of Matavai Bay, around Point Venus, to the tail end of the island. We sailed into Tautira Bay on the Tai-arapu Peninsula, and up a small creek. At low tide we careened the Hooker and spent the rest of the day scraping the hull and keel, repairing and painting her. (It had taken two hours of pleading to get the paint from Mr. Olin.) It was a pretty spot. The mountains behind us rose nearly five thousand feet and in one of the many deep gorges we found a wonderful waterfall and took our first fresh-water shower in months.

Working on the hull left us so tired we slept late and missed the tide. It was high tide early in the morning so we stayed up all night and by noon had returned to our old berth on the Papeete quay.

As we were shaking the copra bugs out of our mats and settling down for a sleepy afternoon, one of Mr. Olin's drivers came by and said the old man had been looking for us yesterday. Eddie was already snoring so I went back to the office with the driver. Olin's fat face beamed as he said, “Good news!”

“What's the cargo and where is it going to?” I asked, sure he was going to tell me he had a rum-smuggling deal set.

“Not exactly a cargo—a passenger. A woman.”

“Hell, you know we're not equipped to carry passengers, especially women,” I said,' disappointed.

Mr. Olin took six thousand Tahitian francs from his drawer. “The passenger in question is willing to pay this for a short trip. To Numaga.”

There could only be one female passenger for Numaga— Ruita's mother. I was restless to get out of Papeete and if nothing else I was curious about Mrs. Adams, who was something of a legend in the atolls. But longing for Ruita so badly, I was more afraid than ever of seeing her again.

“You will pick her up at the Tiare Hotel and arrange the sailing—”

“Hold up, I'm not sure I'm taking it.”

“Look, my cockroach trader,” Olin said softly. “This is good money for such a passage. I will only apply half of it toward your debt, leaving you three thousand francs to spend as you wish, although I would advise using it for trade goods.”

“It isn't the money. How did Mrs. Adams happen to come to you?”

A smile lit up his fat face. “Ah, so you know the good lady?”

“Only by name.”

“But she knows you. I hear she was looking for your boat two days ago when she arrived from the Gilbert Islands. I also know you are out of the harbor. Since your interests are my interests, and since I have done business before with Mrs. Adams, I contacted her as a friend to both of you.”

“Okay, okay. Write off three thousand francs against what we owe, give me a thousand and send down two thousand francs worth of supplies. Perhaps cigarettes or...”

“I have something very special,” Olin said, handing me ten one hundred franc notes, “Two cases of stomach medicine imported from South America—forty-eight bottles to the case.”

“What sort of stomach medicine?”

Olin shrugged, all his chins dancing. “As to the medicinal value I can tell you little. The labels are in Spanish, but they will sell very well and bring much happiness, which is the best form of health, for each bottle is twenty-five percent alcohol. Now, will you join me in some rice wine and cakes?”

I nibbled at the cakes and quickly drank the wine, then walked slowly toward the hotel. I felt completely upset and confused. I was terribly excited at the thought of seeing Ruita again, but at the same time I had this feeling that if I saw her I was finished. I'd surely marry her and settle down on Numaga and probably go nuts—if I didn't become a lush.

I hadn't shaved for several weeks, was sporting a ragged blond-red beard, and while my shirt and pants were fairly clean they were obviously never acquainted with an iron. My “yachting” cap was bleached a pale blue and my sneakers were in shreds. I bought a new pair of sneakers, including a pair for Eddie, considered getting a shave and a haircut, then decided against it. I was silly putting on a front for Mrs. Adams—we'd be together on a forty-two-foot boat for at least a week and she'd see what a slob I was. Also, I was annoyed I even thought about dressing up for her.

The Tiare is a rambling old hotel once owned by the famous Lovinia, a wonderful woman around whom a number of South Seas books were written. However, no one ever wrote a book about the influenza epidemic which swept French Oceania after World War One and caused the deaths of thousands of people, including the generous Lovinia.

It was exactly two when I knocked on Mrs. Adams' hotel room door, time for the mid-day snooze to be over. I heard her getting out of bed, the sound of bare feet, and when Mrs. Adams opened the door I saw a little woman wearing only a thin slip. My first impression was of a sweet old lady, a retired school teacher but the sort of teacher you were fond of in school. She had close-cropped iron-grey hair, strong features, weather-beaten skin, and thoughtful eyes. I saw where Ruita got her nose and nice eyes from.

She looked me over, or rather we both looked each other over, then she nodded slowly and said, “Yes, you must be Mr.—” For a split second a blank, frightened look ran across her face, then she smiled quickly, showing good teeth and said, “Yes, you're Ray.” Her voice was calm and firm. “I'm Ray Jundson, Mrs. Adams.”

“Of course. Please come in. And excuse my memory—it plays tricks with me at times.”

The rest of her clothes were scattered over the one chair and on the ancient dresser were a number of sealed battles with specimens of plants and sea life. For a moment neither of us spoke and she still stared at me openly. I pretended to study the bottles and she said, “I am a student of botany. I take it you are willing to sail me to Numaga?”

“Yes, Mrs. Adams. Although you've overpaid for—”

She waved a thin hand. “Money has little meaning for me. And I want to have a chance to know you.”

“Why?”

She smiled. “I always like to know another human being, especially one my daughter likes.”

I didn't know what to say. I knew how gossip gets around but I was amazed it could jump several hundred miles of ocean in less than a month.

“Also, I am anxious to go home. When can you sail?”

“Whenever you wish, Mrs. Adams.”

“Let's make an end of this banal name nonsense, Ray. My name is Nancy.”

“New Englander?”

“Well, yes, although I've spent most of my life in these islands. I came here with Tom—Dr. Adams—in 1912. Where is your boat headed for?”

“Any island where we can find business. I must warn you our cabin is full of roaches and—”

“Come, Ray, I've traveled on island boats before. I'd like to make a few stops on the way, and perhaps you can do some trading. I've just spent several months in the Gilbert Islands—for my malaria.”

“The Gilberts are malaria islands?”

She nodded, scratched her thin breasts through the slip. “I went to get a good dose of malaria. You see, I contracted a disease long ago, without knowing it. And they claim malaria prevents paresis, although in my case the cure may be a bit late. Well, I have seen all my Papeete friends. I shall be ready to sail in the morning. Is that convenient for you?”

She said this in a quiet, soft voice. I stuttered as I told her, “S-sure, guess the morning will be f-fine. I have to check with my p-partner.”

I never had a sweet old lady casually tell me she was suffering from advanced stages—or any stages—of syphilis before.