Ed Lacy - South Pacific Affair

“I'm what?”

“Come, come, Ray, being a weakling can often be a happy circumstance. What I mean is this: Louise couldn't forget the white world she had run from. The false standards she had picked up in Sydney prevented her from enjoying the freedom of the island women, while her travel and education spoiled her ability to be happy with an islander. Then you came along—with your own problems, too weak to solve or forget them. Perhaps that is why Louise likes you, this weakness you have in common, this self-pity. Only you needed a push, a swift kick in the pants.”

“Which you gave me, so subtly!”

She shrugged. “Should I be subtle about my daughter's happiness?”

“Did it ever occur to you I worry about Ruita's happiness, too? That's why I've hesitated.”

“Ray, don't hesitate, don't nibble on the outside of paradise like a blind fool. And make no mistake, one can still make a paradise here.”

“If I could only be sure I'm ready for island living. I don't want to hurt Ruita, be thinking about her over a glass of rum in some crummy waterfront cafe in Samoa, Sydney, or 'Frisco.”

“But exactly what is it you are afraid of? You seem to care for Louise and she—”

“'Care?' That's an severe understatement!”

“Then what is there to be frightened about?”

“I don't know,” I said, trying to put it into words. The hell of it was, I really didn't know myself what I was scared of— except that I was scared of settling down with Ruita. “Call it wanderlust, although that doesn't mean a thing. Look, here in the atolls the people have the two things the rest of the world lacks, peace and security. Yet they leave their atolls to whore in Papeete and when they grow too old for that, they still stay there, old rum-pots peddling flowers outside the bars. The men become sailors—a hard life—and travel all over the world. Why? Maybe humans can't take peace and quiet...”

“That's nonsense.”

“Then why do they take off? Ruita and I need Numaga for happiness, but if I can't... take it... well... even the islanders don't seem able to stand the islands. Why?”

“That's something I have thought about too, and all I can say is we know of the tensions and fears of the outside world and the islanders don't. They assume the rest of the world is as friendly and peaceful as their atoll. Why so few of them ever return to their island—this really puzzles me. Perhaps the answer is, why do so few popaas ever escape from the dull, worried, lives they lead? Because our so-called Western civilization is quicksand; by the time you learn what it is, you are stuck in it, mired down. But you, Ray, you know what the world is like, you've been poor, unhappily married, a soldier. You must know what you can have here in the islands.”

“Must I? I'm like a lush who knows drink is bad for him, yet can't leave it alone.” I got to my feet. “Which reminds me, I'm thirsty. Shall I bring you some beer or punch?”

“No, thank you. I shall see how Titi's wife is. In her condition I hope she hasn't eaten too much. Yes, I will look after her—in a little while.”

The punch cans were empty. About fifty people were still eating and more food was being cooked The radio was silent and the only sounds were those of people snoring or eating. I found a tin of coconut beer but somebody had spiked it with hair tonic tasting like roses—old ones—so I spat that out and finally found a fairly cool drinking nut.

I went down to the lagoon again to relieve myself and stared out at the dark waters, thinking of a then prim Nancy Adams, with her notebook, stepping into a sex orgy—although orgy is probably a popaa word and idea. That must have been something—hundreds of sighing, twisting bodies, a little island full Of the soft cries and heavy smells of passion.

The old man who owned the fresh water outboard came staggering by, recognized me, and held my hand. “You will fix, canoe go with speed of shark?”

I said I would fix. Whoever was spiking the beer must have had a barrel of this rose hair tonic—the old gent stank like an ancient bouquet. He gave me a cigarette and I lit it. He staggered on toward the lagoon and I went back—probably staggering, too—to Ruita.

Her blanket was there, but no Ruita, no Nancy. I looked around and stumbled over a couple of sleeping people, finally sat down and had some canned peaches which were sickeningly sweet. I decided to check the boat and when I reached the dock, Ruita was waiting for me. She had brushed her hair and put on a fresh pareu, and there was a large crimson blossom over her left ear. With a big smile she pointed to a sailing canoe tied to the Hooker. “Come, the stars are starting to fade. It is the right time, we will be there before dawn.”

“Where is there?” I asked, feeling as sluggish as I sounded.

“You will see,” she said, taking my hand.

She looked so clean and cool, so startling pretty, I tried to kiss her. Ruita pushed me away, said sharply, “Aita! You too taata taero!”

This meant “No, you drunkard!” and while I was thinking this over, she stepped on the Hooker, ran lightly to the stern and untied the canoe, jumped in.

I followed her, taking off my sneakers and tying them around my neck before sitting in the canoe. She handed me a paddle and we dug in, making a phosphorescent wash as the outriggers skimmed the water.

We passed many islets, and the paddling was what I needed to sober up. Finally she steered the-canoe toward a little island about a hundred yards wide studded with coconut palms. We carried the canoe high up on the sandy beach. She took off her pareu cloth in one quick movement, told me, “Undress quickly.”

“Undress? Why?” Dawn was breaking in faint red streaks on the horizon, a perfect backdrop for her nude body.

She gave me an odd smile. “I always dreamed when I took a man it would be like this. We have this island to ourselves and we will come as my ancestors arrived—naked— carrying only happiness and love in our hearts. Hurry—it is cold.”

Chapter VI

It started off better than any Hollywood movie—the two of us naked on an islet, alone and without a care between us; a happy dream come to life—and ended leaving me confused, restless, more certain than ever I couldn't make it with Ruita.

Ruita said, “I will show you all of the old ways. Actually I know more of the ancient times than islanders who never have left their villages, for in Papeete and in Sydney I made an effort to study these things in many old books. First, we must make a shelter.”

She tied a sharp hunk of coral in her hair, then climbed a coconut palm and, using the stone as a knife, cut off many branches while I stood below like a dummy, gaped at the graceful way she climbed, her strong legs hugging the palm trunk. When she came down, still using the sharp coral, she split the palm leaves down the center, then quickly wove them together to make a mat. Ruita made a number of these, while I stood around helpless; mats for us to sleep on, mats hung on sticks driven into the sandy ground to form a lean-to. Then we found enough coconut fiber around the various crab holes—the fiber the crabs had cut away in getting to the coconut meat—to put under our sleeping mats till they were fluffy as a mattress. Ruita stretched out on a mat and held out her arms to me as she said, “Come see how soft it is.”

“I know how wonderfully soft it is,” I said, going to her.

After, we used another piece of sharp coral to drive holes in one of the three eyes of a coconut and drank. Then, since we were both sweaty and the sun was out full blast, we took a quick swim. I was knocked out, still hung-over from the feast. While I dozed on and off in the shade of the lean-to, Ruita made a crude cloth by weaving the dry root fibers of the coconut husk together. Her nimble fingers moved with tireless speed and by the time I finally got my lazy male can off the mat, she had a fairly big piece of cloth. I kissed her, asked if she was making a skirt and she said, “Maybe later. I will make a cloth for you too, for too much sun on our middle parts is not good. For now I make this into a bag. See if you can find stones along the beach sharp enough to be used as a knife, then sharpen some heavy sticks so we can husk the nuts.”

I walked along the shore—you could circle the islet in about three minutes of slow walking—and didn't find any sharp stones, except small ones which nicked my feet. Walking barefoot was never one of my favorite sports, especially since they say you catch fey-fey and several other tropical diseases this way. When I passed the canoe I sat down and took a cigarette out of my pants. Then I got my knife and cut and pointed a few good strong sticks. Bringing these back to Ruita I held up the knife, said, “I cheated.”

She laughed. “Like the first popaas here—they cheated, too. Now I shall show you why one never need worry about food as long as they are in the shadow of a coconut tree. Get me an armful of brown nuts—not the new green ones, but the dark brown ones.”

There were many nuts around the base of the trees, most of them eaten away by rats and crabs, but I managed to pick up five good ones. And if you stare at a coconut husk long enough it spooks you—looks too much like an old shaggy head.

Ruita had driven one of the sticks into the sand, sharp end up, and on this point she stripped the husk off the nuts, then opened them. She shredded the white meat of the coconut with a jagged stone, the meat falling into the fiber bag she had made. While she worked on the other nuts, she had me cleaning out the half-shell of the first nut, and after it had dried in the hot sun for many minutes, I rubbed it down with coral stones, polishing it to a deep smooth brown; we had our first bowl.

When the bag was full of coconut shreds, Ruita squeezed it over the bowl till a thick creamy milk oozed out. Covering the bowl with a palm leaf, she said, “This will be for supper. Now we must hurry and get some crabs before the sun goes down.”

“Take it easy, I'll get them,” I said, although I had never caught a crab before—usually Eddie bagged them. Coconut crabs look awkward but although I ran and lunged after several of them, they always disappeared down their holes in the sand ahead of my hand. Ruita thought the crabs and I were putting on a comedy act; she laughed till she cried. She said it was just as well I couldn't catch them, for if I had managed to grab one by its claw—which the crab waved around like a boxer—I would have lost a slice of skin.

She made a long piece of string by braiding strips of coconut fiber, then tied one end onto a stick. A few green young palm leaves were attached to the other end of the string. Ruita quietly approached a crab hole and, using the stick like a fishing pole, jiggled the palm leaves over the hole. Soon as the crab got his claw on them, Ruita jerked him out of his hole and up in the air, expertly grabbed him behind his claw. She got four or five crabs, tied them together, then hunted around for a coconut tree with a nut whose covering was not fibrous, sliced the husk up with my knife, said, “Eat a piece. This will be our salad.”

“Eat coconut husk?”

“Of course. There are many types of nuts. Try it.”

To my surprise the husk tasted as crisp as cool lettuce, made a fine salad. With salad, drinking nuts, and juicy crab legs dipped in sea water and coconut milk, we had a good supper as we watched the sun go down.

We were both tired and quickly fell asleep as soon as we hit our mats, embracing tightly for warmth and waking several times during the night to change positions, warm the exposed parts of our bodies. Toward morning it rained lightly and we got as far under our lean-to as possible, but it wasn't far enough, so we took turns covering each other and Ruita said, “Today I will make more mats—we need a roof.”