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.