Ed Lacy - South Pacific Affair

“A monstrosity of conceit, isn't it?” Nancy said.

“It must have cost a fortune.”

“Indeed it did. Edmond sold two of his silly books to the motion pictures for a fantastic price back in—can't recall when. Sometime in the twenties. He spent it all on this—much like the islander who has the car below. Unfortunately he has been forced to live in one room for the last several years—he's bedridden. I am anxious for you to meet him, like him.”

We walked through a large and well-cultivated garden with pear and peach trees, along with mangoes and other tropical fruits, and reached the entrance of the house which was on the middle floor. A fat islander in clean white drill shorts came out to greet us, followed by several young girls dressed in pareu cloths. They greeted Nancy with great delight, hugging and kissing her and I could make out enough of their dialect to hear the man say, “We are pleased you return to us so soon, Mama. What is new in Papeete? Did you bring the cigarette holder I want?”

The “Mama” was merely a form of greeting, but the old lady had said she hadn't been here in years and now I wondered why she lied to me. She got a bit flustered and stopped their talk by taking out small gifts from her handbag.

I was standing in the doorway, lost in all this chatter. One of the girls asked if I wanted some cold beer. Before I could answer yes, a deep, bull-like voice roared through the house with mild thunder.

“Nancy Adams! Lord God, what are you waiting out here for? Come to me at once. And bring the young man for me to examine!”

The girls giggled and Nancy sighed. She took me into another room while I wondered how this Stewart knew I was coming.

The room was tremendous, the entire width and depth of the house, with great sliding windows giving a complete view of the harbor and the ocean. In a large bed near the windows a thin little man was propped up on two pillows. He had a crazy white beard starting below his eyes and going half way down his chest, where it was neatly tied with two red ribbons. His long face seemed all hair, but the eyes were sharp and alert, and what little skin could be seen was transparent and wax-like. The beard around his mouth was stained a dirty tobacco brown.

He waved a scrawny hand with two large black pearl rings at us, and his shoulders were bare, sickly and pale. He had a thin blanket over him, and an open book lay upon it. Books were also piled on the floor all over the room. As he waved his arm at us again, the covers fell back a Utile and I saw the butt of an automatic lying beside him.

This almost comic deep voice came out of his shriveled body as he roared, “Well damn it, young man, take a seat! You, Nancy, you look trim and young and if I was able I'd pull you down into bed with me.” This was followed by deep laughter which shook his little body. He had some kind of pillow under his legs for the lower part of the thin cover bulged.

Mrs. Adams laughed coyly, a shrill little laugh. “You must be getting senile, Edmond, you sound like one of your horrible characters.”

This snappy line seemed to amuse the old boy, who looked like he was at least a hundred, and he sent out more waves of bull-laughter. Then he asked, “How long are you staying, Nancy?”

She looked at me and I said, “A day or so, depending upon what trading we can do.”

His eyes brightened and from under the tobacco stains in his beard he said, “A sweet sea boat, Mr. Jundson. I watched you coming through the channel hours ago. A very pleasing boat, indeed. There is not much trading here. We don't bother with copra except the old men make some when they feel like it. Mostly the men go in for diving and naturally that filthy scoundrel, Buck, bleeds them out of every sou. If you were collecting junk and scrap, this would be the island for you.”

Nancy suddenly stood. “Edmond, if you are about to lecture on mankind, I think I'd rather spend the time taking a tub. Hot water working?”

“You know I haven't left this cursed bed for a year. How would I know if the blasted hot water is working? Go, go, wash yourself with smell soap, be a silly female. We men have talk.”

“I know,” Nancy said, heading for the door like a hammy actress murdering an exit line, “and man-talk is so boring.”

When she left, Stewart chuckled in his beard, told me, “Isn't it wonderful the way she is still a child at times?” His eyes were staring at me and I didn't know if I was supposed to answer, or not. So we both were silent for a while, as I tried to figure the old duck out. Then he asked abruptly, “How long have you been in the islands, Mr. Jundson?”

“Over a year.”

The eyes seemed to be judging me for a long moment, then Stewart said, “I doubt you're a crook. Remittance man?”

“Might be called that. I emptied my wife's bank account and came here. You see, I'd read a good deal about the South Pacific, including all of your books.”

Stewart actually snorted, the brown hairs around his mouth flying up. That impossible deep voice asked, “What did you think of my books?”

“Oh ... I'd rather not say.”

Tell me! I'm not a moron. I know they are pure crab dung, but I never thought anybody would take them seriously.”

“Well ...” I felt both angry and uneasy talking to the old guy—everything about him seemed so unreal. “Why didn't you write the truth?”

“The truth is a luxury few can afford. Someplace on the shelves over there you'll find a moldy manuscript. That's the truth. I wrote it in 1937 when my name was at its zenith but not a publisher would take it. I told the most sordid story of history, how every white pig, scum, and crackpot came to a paradise and committed mass murder. How in a little over a century we had killed four-fifths, or over eight hundred thousand, of the sweetest people the Lord God ever put on earth. The most needless and wasteful crime in history!” One thin hand crept down to the butt of the gun under the covers and for a second I thought he was going to shoot me.

I said quickly, “Guess we all came here too late for our dreams. Come starry-eyed and found—”

“Starry-eyed!” he shouted and how that bull voice ever came from the tiny body was a miracle. “That's utter cynicism, Jundson, and cynicism is a shallow thing, the shield of the stupid. Damn it, we weren't starry-eyed! We came out of a jungle of greed with deliberate murder and misery, with—” He stopped abruptly, the room thick with the boom of his voice. “Speeches at a wake are senseless. Jundson, listen to me, the dream is still here if a man is ready for it. The islands must become a retreat, a final retreat a palm monastery, if you will. However, if you're not prepared, then it's suicide. You go on the reef. Do you follow me, Mr. Jundson?”

“No, sir.”

“An honest answer, at least,” he said, brushing the hair from his mouth. I had a glimpse of thin wet lips. “Jundson, I'm talking to you like I've talked to few white men—and I don't use white in a color sense. The difficulty here is we try to live like Bostonians, or New Yorkers, or Londoners, with all the false values and standards, instead of living like islanders. I don't mean any nonsense like 'going native'; the very terminology is an asinine bit of patronizing—we don't have the skills of the islanders. No, consider that whore house called Papeete, the 'Paris of the Pacific' Lord God, Paris doesn't belong in the Pacific! It's as out of place as a palm tree in Pigalle!”

He stopped talking in that sudden way he had, reached under the bedtable and came up with a cigar. “Want one?”

“Not at the moment,” I said.

“When you do, take some.” He lit the cigar and threw the match on the floor, then turned his head and sent a batch of spit which missed the match. We both watched it burn out. I still had this uneasy feeling as I waited for him to continue, somehow certain Nancy had brought me here only to hear him. Finally I said, “It is difficult to—uh—adjust completely.”

“Young man, if you have to adjust you're licked. You must be ready to accept this new life. Be ready to give up ambition and this inane thing we call drive. Here it doesn't matter a tinker's damn if you have four coconuts and I have a dozen. I can't be any happier with my dozen than you with your few.”

“Have you been happy?”

“No. I wasn't prepared, or able to shed my old ideas, until it was to late. This caught up with me.” He held up the cover for a moment. I not only saw the gun again, but his horrible legs—like swollen lumpy potato sacks, the skin hardened and cracked. His thighs were several feet thick. Fey-fey is the island name for elephantitis.

“I'm dying,” Stewart said calmly, dropping the blanket and puffing on his cigar. “If a man isn't afraid to die he's got his life made. But in the months I've been lying in this linen cage, I think for the first time I've found peace—understood the islands and myself. Lord God, life should mean more than the memories of the number of bottles you've killed, the expensive foods you've eaten, the endless women—so many they have no identity!”

“What should it mean?”

“I don't know!” he snapped, glaring at me, moving the cigar around with his teeth. “I'm not a mystic, young man, but perhaps life is the things we don't understand but simply know are beautiful—the sense of peace living on an atoll gives one, the dawns and sunsets so vivid you want to cry, a man and woman locked in an embrace because of all the humans in this world they want only each other...” He lapsed into silence and after a few seconds giggled—an obscene laugh. “I don't know why I'm telling you all this, Jundson. If somebody had dared to give me advice when I first came here—Lord God, I wouldn't have paid him any attention.”

“Then why are you telling me this?”

“Because I'd like to see one popaa make it here—really make it.” He blew out a fierce cloud of smoke and shut his eyes. After a moment he said softly, “I have talked too much, I am weary. The twin monsters I call legs sap my strength. Did I say I wasn't afraid to die? This is a lie. Or maybe it isn't fear as much as curiosity which stops me from blowing my worn brains out. But enough talk. I will sleep.”

I stared at the long stained beard, the cigar still sticking up and smoking evenly, the ridiculous red ribbon bows. After a few seconds he opened his lips to snore—the cigar fell over on his beard. Before I could reach it, a girl raced into the room, grabbed the cigar, pinched out the few singed hairs. I stared at her as if this was all a nightmare—was her sole job to wait for the damn cigar to fall?

She was very cute, with crimson hibiscus flowers over her left ear—meaning she was looking for a sweetheart. As she bent over, I'd seen the delightful lines of her body beneath her pareu. Placing the cigar on the bedtable, she looked me over, her eyes teasing. I asked in Tahitian, “Why does he wear red ribbons?”

“Because it pleases him.”

Okay, ask a dumb question and all that, but I'd taken enough crap for one day. I walked out onto the balcony, around to another room. The village and harbor seemed directly below me. The Hooker looked tiny, a perfect toy boat; even the Shanghai seemed small. On the beach the soccer players crowded around a squat brown man who could only be Eddie. He seemed to be talking to two men in white shirts and pants.

I went inside. I was in a dining room. Going through the drawers of a sideboard, I found several pairs of German field glasses. With a view like this a man would have glasses about.