Ed Lacy - South Pacific Affair

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.