Ed Lacy - South Pacific Affair Страница 2

     “Stop gassing! I want to know why—”

     “Ray, you haven't heard the best of the dream yet I went over to this tall white man, pushed the gal away, carefully dug my toes into the sand, and belted him flush on the kisser. Man, it was a wonderful punch. But the silly girl, she cried and ran from me. That's when you woke me. Wonder, in my dream, if I would have caught her again?”

     “You miserable goon, you know damn well you slugged me!”

     “But Ray, why should I hit you, my partner, my friend?” Eddie waved his hand and I grabbed his left and looked at the knuckles. They weren't even reddened.

     Eddie gave me a sly grin—he could hit a wall and not break the skin on his knuckles. “Ray, is that a way to be? I tell you I've been sleeping here for many hours. Maybe you were dreaming, too.”

     I nodded at his wet outline on his bunk.

     Eddie shrugged. “You never wake up in a sweat? In this dream—”

     “Dream, my rear!” I pointed to my swollen jaw. “Does this look like any dream?”

     Eddie yawned and stretched out on his bunk again. After a moment he said, “Well, all I know is my own dream. And stop worrying—a belt on the puss doesn't do much damage. You should have loved Ruita. You both need it.”

     “Don't hand me any more of that dream. How did you know we didn't ... do anything?”

     “Word of that gets around too. And why shouldn't it? These islanders don't have your phony popaa ideas of making a sex a dirty secret.”

     “I didn't mean that. But if you were sleeping here all the time, how could you know?”

     “Maybe it came to me in the dream. Aita peapea—so what,” Eddie said and began to snore—not loudly but a kind of low grating noise. I knew the sonofabitch was really asleep.

     I had another shot of warm rum, blew out the lamp, then went up on deck because I don't like to go to sleep crocked on our boat. The story about copra bugs eating away a man's toes while he slept may be a tall tale, but I always like to sleep lightly so I can feel the bastards on me.

     I sat with my feet hanging over the stern of the Hooker, examining the reflection of the stars and the moon on the smooth water, thinking what an idiotic evening I'd had. Every man in the USA secretly dreams of having a boat in the South Seas and a beautiful gal waiting for his love on some lonely island. I had the boat and tonight I could have had the girl, who was not only beautiful, but educated and interesting, and owned a whole wonderful island. But clever Ray was taming that down, afraid to give it a whirl, insulting Ruita. If Barry could see me, he'd go nuts laughing. But at least I was in the South Seas and he was still back in Chicago, dreaming about it or bulling about going, over cocktails. He was probably married to Milly by now.

     I tried lighting a cigarette but the pain in my jaw made me give it up. I sat there for a long time, watching the Pacific and the reef and thinking of Barry Kent. There was a movie handle—Barry Kent. But it was really his name and he looked the part, one of these well groomed, handsome, get-ahead boys. He had money and looks, was Milly's boss and I really liked him; the two of us were South Sea crazy. Of course when he took Milly I didn't really give a damn because it had been all over between us for years and maybe there wasn't anything in the first place. Barry really did me a favor, but it still rankled the devil out of me that I hadn't done anything about it. Sometimes I was sure I'd handled it smartly but most times I felt lousy. I don't go for this self-respect slop too much, but still in my own house, in my own bed—I should have busted his face. He looked like a capable joker, though; he might have taken me and that would have made it worse. Despite my size I'm not much of a brawler.

     I sat there feeling blue and sorry for myself and wished I could be a true islander and say aita peapea, nothing matters. Then I found myself dozing off and I went below and hit the sack.

     The next morning we didn't get up till two youngsters came alongside in their outrigger canoe and threw a couple of karma fish on the deck. I vaguely heard them wishing us good eating and then some giggling comments about palm wine for a sleeping potion as they paddled away. The cabin was hot and I went on deck. Judging by the sun it was near noon.

     The karava is a fantastically striped fish, a technicolor dream, and after I kicked them out of the sun I made my morning toilet by diving into the clear water. I swam around the cutter a couple of times and it needed painting. Even the name—the Hooker (Eddie's best punch was a left hook)— was hard to make out. As I climbed up on deck Eddie came out of the cabin and sat in the sun. He cursed wines in general and started the day off by puking over the side. The tide was going out and a moment later Eddie dived in and swam under the boat, came up the battered ladder as sober and wide awake as if he'd stepped out of a Turkish bath.

     While I brewed coffee Eddie neatly cleaned the fish, lit the oil burner we kept in the bottom of a tin drum, and started frying the fish. I wanted them roasted over charcoaled coconut husks, but didn't feel up to telling him .Some days we jabbered all the time, repeating stories, jokes, and lies, over and over. Sometimes we rarely spoke for days, and each understood it was okay.

     I squeezed some limes, opened two drinking coconuts. Soon we were eating fried fish and canned dumplings, dipped in lime sauce, strong coffee with tinned milk. My jaw felt okay, except when I touched it-Eddie lit one of his horrible cigars, made of native twist tobacco, almost outsmelling the sour stink of copra in the hold. I sat in the sun, puffed on the remains of a cigarette. After a long while he asked, “Ray, still want to make time with Ruita?”

     “Why? Do I have to ask your permission?”

     “Only thinking, if you and her are done with that, we ought to raise sail. No more copra here, and we haven't enough trade goods to try the atolls. Best we return to Papeete. Figure we've over a ton of copra, means about hundred and seventy bucks.”

     “Okay. Well go on the tide. Have any more dreams?”

     In a very matter-of-fact voice Eddie said no. When a Polynesian dismisses something from his mind it's completely dismissed.

     I pulled the dinghy in, put on my T-shirt and sneakers. “I'm going to say goodbye to Ruita.”

     Eddie sort of half sat up, sent a blob of spit over the side. He studied the spit on the water for a second, announced, “Plenty of time, tide won't change for four hours.”

     Eddie held captain's papers but I never saw him use any instruments. He could merely glance at the water and tell exactly the time of the next tide. He steered by the sound of waves, by the sun, the clouds, the sight of birds, or the various kinds of seaweed floating by. Sextants, chronometers, and logs were mild mysteries for me but Eddie's navigation left me baffled. I suppose it was all for the best—the “latest” charts for the Tuamotu atolls, for instance, were almost a hundred years old and full of errors. Anyway, we'd sold our instruments long ago.

     I found Ruita in the living room of her house, the room with the heavy old furniture, although there was a modernistic wrought-iron coffee table which has been flown in from Rome. She was reading a three-month-old Paris fashion magazine and listening to radio music from Papeete. There were plenty of chairs but like all islanders she preferred to sit on the floor. She was leaning against her record cabinet—Ruita had a high fidelity record player run by batteries—while in the kitchen I could hear the kerosene refrigerator. The motor needed cleaning; the damn thing sputtered and rattled all day long to make a lone tray of watery ice.

     I stood in the doorway and waited for her to ask me in.

     Ruita had a blue and white pareu wrapped around her and fastened just below her bare shoulders, which were strong and smooth. Her long black hair glistened with coconut oil and was tied in a kind of ponytail by a number of tiny pink flowers. She made a lovely exotic picture: the lush full lips, the light golden skin, the broad face, the large eyes faintly almond shaped.

     She knew I was standing there and after a moment looked up with a practiced smile, said, “Ah, Mr. Jundson. Did you want to see me about something? Would you like to hear some of my latest records, or perhaps you care for an orangeade?”

     The words were practiced too, and I said, “Or, tennis anyone?”

     A puzzled look ran across her face. “Tennis?”

     “A kind of joke, a poor one. Look, Ruita we're sailing in a few hours and—”

     “I trust our accounts are clear. My mother usually handles the business end.”

     There wasn't anything more to say, except goodbye. Ruita walked out of the room. I followed—we were in her bed room, simple furniture made of palm trunk wood. “Will you ever return to Numaga, Mr. Jundson?”

     “Do you want me to?”

     “I? I merely asked because Mother might keep some copra for you and—”

     I grabbed her, turned her gently around. “Ruita, let's stop this kid talk. I'm really sorry about last night. It had nothing to do with you. You know how I feel about you.”

     She pushed my hands from her shoulders.

     “I love you,” I said.

     “Do you, Ray, or is love merely a handy word?”

     “No one really knows what love is, but as much as I understand it, I love you ...” I glanced past her face, saw the little perfume bottles on her dresser. “Do you like perfumes?”

     Ruita gasped. Turning away from me, she asked fiercely, “Are we back to polite talk again, Mr. Jundson?”

     “No, no. That is—perfumes were important in my... wife's life. I used to give her silly little bottles every payday.”

     “They're not important in mine! We islanders bathe many times a day, have no need for covering dirt and odors! I never used these, bought them long ago in Sydney—a whim.”

     “Milly never used hers for another reason. She didn't want the odor to remain in her ... lover's bed. His wife might have found out. It's a cute little yarn, all the way.”

     “But if you've left her, never cared for her, then—why last night, Ray?”

     “She had nothing to do with that I'm afraid to try living with you. I'm afraid I'll mess it up, make us both unhappy.”

     She stood there, trying to figure it out. “Are you afraid because of our difference in color or—?”

     “No, it isn't anything as stupid as that. It's—well, I love you so much I can't risk making you unhappy.”

     “We could only bring joy to each other.”

     I shook my head. “I wish I was sure of that, Ruita. I know myself and ... I can't explain it, it's mixed up in my mind. All I know is I can't chance hurting you.”

     “Don't you think last night—now—hurts?”

     “A tiny hurt compared to what messed-up lives can be. All I can tell you is that I'll try my best to come back to you.”

     I reached over to kiss her and she slapped me hard across my face.

     “Yes, Mr. Jundson, you'll try to come back to your native girl for a little fun. You'll expect her to be waiting!”

     I grabbed her shoulders, and shook her. She began to cry. I held her close and kissed her. Her lips didn't respond. “Darling,” I whispered into her ear, “with us it has to be everything, all down the line or a bust-up. And if we messed up I'm not sure I could stand it, or that you could.”

     She suddenly kissed me as hard as she could, her arms going around me like iron, her whole body alive and pressing. When I started to kiss her back, she pushed me away and said coldly, “Any time you return to Numaga, Mr. Jundson, we shall have copra waiting for you.”

     She walked out of the room slowly and I stood there for a moment, then realized it was a little play to save face and I didn't blame her. I ran down to the beach.

     It took us some time to make the Hooker ready, mainly because every time we were about to pull up anchor, some joker would come rushing out in his canoe with a request to deliver a note to his cousin or somebody in Papeete, or to see about buying this and that for him—although we hadn't said we'd return and this was the first visit we'd made to Numaga.

     I was hoping Ruita would come down to see us off but she didn't. Some people paddled out to bring us a gift of coconut crabs which we tied to the rigging to keep fresh, and we kept horsing around so long I thought we'd miss the tide. I checked the bilge for gas fumes, got our old converted Buick motor working and then turned it off. “We've lost the tide,” I said.

     “Naw, plenty of water. Get her going,” Eddie said as he pulled up anchor and took the wheel. We went over the reef, an angry rusty red beneath the surging water, without bumping the keel.

     We hauled up the sails and the wind was good. I shut off the motor and let Eddie take the first watch since we were in an area of crazy currents. We didn't have any one method of standing watch. We were reasonable about it; each stood watch as long as he felt like it, then awoke the other. When we were a day or more away from any known islands or reefs, running before the steady trade winds, we'd lash the helm down and let the boat run herself.

     Now as I sat atop the cabin and watched Ruita's island become a cloud on the horizon behind us, I felt proud of our boat. I'd really been lucky getting the cutter; she was a fine sea boat—forty-two feet over-all and thirty-two feet on the waterline, gaff-rigged, with a long pole bowsprit you rarely see these days. In fact, you rarely see a cutter like mine.

     The Pacific was choppy and whenever we dipped into a gully of waves and lost some wind for a split second, the copra stench was sickening. We had a good boat, if a smelly one, probably never would luck up on any real money, yet for some unknown reason I wanted to be a seagoing bum rather than settle down with Ruita.