Chronologically, here's what I know of Joe as he told it to me. He was born in Papeete, Tahiti, and he's the biggest guy in his family. It seems he had a lot of women in his family— sisters, aunts, and grandmothers. One grandmother owns three quarters of an island, and I've a standing invitation to visit and stay forever.
There was only one gendarme on Joe's Island. What they need cops for? Everybody behaves themself. But this gendarme visited Joe's papa and told him if he didn't get that boy aboard some ship and get him off the island he'd lock him up in the calaboose and he, the gendarme, would throw the key away.
Pourquoi?
Mais alors! There was one man on the island who had a bicycle repair shop—the only one on the island. The only people who owned bicycles were the Chinese businessmen, and they took such good care of their bicycles the repair man never had any work to do. When Joe was fourteen he was a big boy. He and the repair man developed a business arrangement. Joe was to ambush Chinese cyclists—run out from some side road as they passed and spill them over. Thus messing up bike, thus making business for the repair man. Joe worked on a commission—a percentage of the size of the repair bill— until the gendarme wised up to their racket and visited Joe's papa.
So his pop got him a berth on a sailing ship carrying a cargo of lumber for San Francisco. They lay becalmed for about six weeks in mid-Pacific. A lot of things had happened: the United States had declared war (the First World War) while Joe's ship waited for a bit of wind.
When they finally reached San Francisco, Joe said, "I came down gangplank. 0-o-o-h, dere were lots of piple. Prettee girls. Two beautiful girl grebs me. Tells me something. I sez sure. 0-o-o-h, they give me kisses, hugs. Oh, boy! Girls on de Island is all right, but oh, boy! not like dis. Dey takes each by hand hugging arms against their nice boosoms. Dey sez more things —I sez sure, why not? Dey brings me to a place, ask me raise my han'. Hokay. Den the girls go way. Somebody give me clothes—show me how to put on. Tings wrap around my legs— I'm in de Army! Soldier show me where I sleep. I fraid to take off clothes. Sleep all dress up spread eagle. Don't know how to put on tings around de legs."
"You mean the puttees?"
"Yes, puttees. I write my modder a lettaire—I'm now soldier. She made a big holler. She write d'govemment of France, write United Steaks Conscience."
"United States Conscience?"
"Yes, United Steaks Conscience, Washington, Disease."
"Good God, Joe, you can't mean United States Congress, Washington, D. C?"
But that's what he meant.
"Sure. She tell I'm only leetle boy, fo'teen year ol'."
Joe got out of the Army that he'd been hugged and kissed into, and he'd been plying the sea since.
He'd been to a lot of places and mixed into a lot of things. There were a couple of knife scars along one side of his face, and his thin hooked nose looked as if it had been broken.
For the past six trips Joe had shipped for Australia on just such a tramp as the S.S. Hermanita. There was a nice girl in Sydney who wanted to marry him. Whenever his ship would come in, Joe'd live ashore with the girl, and she chased the ship up the coast in her car (she had some money, Joe said) when he moved to another port and lived with him there. That would go on till the ship would hoist anchor and sail back to America. Sure, he was going to marry her. Do you know how long it takes to get to Australia on a tramp? Six to eight weeks and then back and then a couple more months along that coast. It's a five- or six-month hitch.
Sure, he was going to marry her sometime. What did you think he'd been "communicationing wit Australia for pas' tree year fer fon?"
"Well, why don't you marry the girl?"
"She's nice—prettee. Good sport."
"So why?" I insisted.
"I dunno," he shrugged his big shoulders. "Seems lak every time I make port I meet her, we 'ave li'l wine—an' we don't get marry. Las' trip we say this time absolooly we'll get marry. She got license, I dress up, tak' fran' wit me . . . bes' man ..."
The big fellow rolled on the hatch at the thought of that. That got him. Then he sobered up and went on, "Not weree best . . . he's good man . . . second cook on ship. We walk to church gonna meet girl and her girl fran'. No drinkin', no foolin' aroun'. Fellow 'n me walks dere all dressed up on hot day. We stop for just one drink in bar. . . . Well, make short story short. We meet girl an' 'er fran' in church. Day both dressed up—wid flowers."
And Joe indicated a gigantic corsage on his left hip.
"Priest already, everytin' fine . . . she kneel down ... I kneel down in front of priest. Everytin' quiet. Priest begin talkin'." He rumbled down his throat in respectful imitation of a priest performing the holy rites of matrimony. "Den de priest say something to me ... I look up . . . den I fall over flat on my moosh. Two beeg full whiskey bottle roll out of my pocket. Well, we don' get marry again. . . . Some day I'll marry dis girl—she's nice girl. ..."
"But, Joe, how come you're on this ship? How come you're not going to Australia again?"
"Dunno. De girl she got mad. . . . Well, I wanna go see Paris anyhow. After all, I'm Frenchmen, no?"
"Yes."
"An' m'modder tells me how beautiful is Paris. Her gran'-modder tol' her. I come 'long to get ship for France. Shipping Board man says what d'hell you wanna take short run like dat for. Here's fine ship going to Argentine. Swell grub. ... So I says hokay. I'll go to Argentine. . . ."
We sat around in silence for a little while. I tried to get him talking again.
"Did you ever get back to the Island again?"
"No—sometime I'll ship dere. Dose Island is beautiful. Always nice, nevaire 'ot, like 'ere, dan col'—always nice." And Joe smiled. "Always same tampeture. Can swim all de time. Swim ever' day, ever' night. I used to swim wit de girls by night—dat's nice. No clo's—"
"What about sharks? Ain't there sharks, especially at night?"
"Sharks—roun' my Island? Naw, sir." Joe shook his head with indignation. "No sharks."
And then as he thought of something else he quietly added, "And no snakes, either."
"No snakes! Hell, Joe, wasn't there any foliage on that Island of yours? There's always snakes if you got foliage— trees, bushes, and things like that."
"Sure—dere's trees, wanderful big trees and prettee bushes, big red and gold flowers—but no snakes. No, sir, dere's no snakes, no sharks, nevaire 'ot, nevaire col', and you know dere's no storms. . . . An' it's fonny dere's no poison ivory or any-ting like dat. You don't have to work on de Island—just pick fruit off de tree. . . . Same when you're hungry for girl. . . . She's laugh and go wit you—no charge. An' all de girls is beautiful on de Island—and all de girls is vierge —all de time."
"Aw, Joe—that's impossible. That's biologically impossible. They can't be I'z'erg'e all the time. . . . Even after?"
The big dope nodded his head solemnly.
"Yep, vierge ... all de time . . . even after. . , ,"
And big Joe lay back on the hatch, closed his eyes, and smiled a gentle reminiscing smile as he thought of his perfect Island where the girls were vierge —all the time.
Well, it looked as if he wasn't going to get up again, and I quit drawing. For the past few nights we'd been headed into the wind. The poopdeck was no place to sit with the soot from the funnel sprinkling down on you. Some of the crew had bellyached that we should ought to have had an awning, like they have on good ships.
The evening before I got Al to sit for a drawing. Then Mush volunteered to sit for me. They liked the drawings I'd made and told everybody about them. We'd sat on this forward hatch, and this evening when Joe had come off watch he asked me to make a picture of him, too. As I drew, he talked and I egged him on. I remember when I was at the art school. One of the old academic sculptors who was instructor there then (forgot his name . . . some kind of a fishy name . . . but it doesn't matter—if everyone hasn't already forgotten him they soon will)—this stodgy old academician once took the class aside and said: