I clipped him with all I had in the way of a right hand and although he rolled with the punch, it still dropped him. When he jumped up and came at me, I dived over the side of the Hooker. Despite his being an islander, I was a better swimmer than Eddie, my fat making me more comfortable in the water. He knew he had no chance against me as long as I stayed in the water and after a couple minutes of cursing, Eddie suddenly laughed and shouted, “Come on out before you make the fish drunk.”
He helped me back on deck, asked, “No kidding, Ray, why don't you go back to Numaga?”
“I don't really know, except I'm scared.”
“If you're scared, don't go. What are you scared of?”
“I don't know,” I said stupidly.
Another time, when we were out in the dinghy, fishing, I told Eddie, “If I settle down on Numaga, you find yourself a girl and do the same.”
He shook his head. “No. I'll buy you out, pay you when I have the francs. Living in one spot ain't for me.”
“Why not?” I asked eagerly, hoping he had the answer for me, too.
“Because when I stand still some damn popaa comes along and gives me this 'colored' crap, the 'dumb, childish native' line. This way, on my own boat, it never catches up with me.”
It all added up to one fact: instead of being on Numaga with the girl I loved, I was slobbering all over the Papeete waterfront, making a damn fool of myself.
Now, I heard Eddie move and looked his way. He had his eyes half-opened, as if he was too lazy to either completely close or open them. There was couple of nuts in the shade near him and I said, “Hand me a nut—I'm dry as sand inside.”
Eddie rolled over, grabbed two coconuts and we each had one. He took out a cigar. I was surprised; we hadn't seen a franc in weeks. I asked him where he got it. He just said, “Found it,” and sent out a cloud of stinking smoke, making my eyes smart.
I felt Eddie's toes nudge me as he said, “We got a visitor. Dubon. Wish we had some francs. I could do with a night of Heru again.”
I raised myself on one elbow and looked toward the stern. Henri Dubon waved as he came up the gangplank, his face wet with sweat; the dirty linen suit was stained under the armpits.
He shoved his old straw hat back on his head, dropped his battered briefcase as he sat between us, cleverly announced, “Goddamn, is very hot.” He said this in English with the phony French accent he put on for tourists.
When Eddie told him, “Then why don't you jump overboard and cool off? You could stand a bath,” Henri grunted and answered in his best GI English, “Up yours. Can you spare a nut?”
Eddie pushed a drinking nut toward Dubon, who took out his switchblade and cut an opening, put the nut to his lips. A knife had to be real sharp to slash a nut like that.
Dubon tossed the nut overboard but it struck the railing and bounced back on the deck, at his feet. Henri took out a pack of English cigarettes, lit one, and quickly slipped the pack in his pocket. Eddie blew cigar smoke in his face, said, “Dubon, you smell like a pig but there's a rumor you're human. We keep a clean ship. Kick that damn nut into the water.”
Henri slipped Eddie a lazy glance, then grunted as he shoved the nut over the side. We all watched the splash. Henri wiped his forehead with a pink handkerchief, announced it was damn hot again, and what a busy-busy morning he'd had. A large yacht from Canada had sailed into the harbor the day before—a sleek mahogany and teak yawl anchored off the quay within sight of the Hooker. Henri jerked his thumb at the boat and told us he had been busy showing three fat couples the sights of Papeete that morning. At noon he'd suggested the ladies retire to their boat, escape the heat, while he had steered the men to Heru. Unhappily, he went on in explosive fast French, she had found a bottle of wine and was so drunk the yachtsmen had turned her down. Dubon finished by wiping his sweaty face as he cursed Heru, his luck, the tourists, and the world in general.
Henri opened his briefcase and took out a battered copy of Billboard, pretended he was reading it. I wondered how in hell he ever got ahold of the magazine and Eddie gave me the eye—we were waiting for his proposition. Henri never dropped in just to chatter and he knew we were broke, so he had a deal of some sort cooking in his fat brain.
Henri kept reading and finally Eddie's curiosity got the best of him and he asked, “What kind of a magazine is that?”
“A theatrical periodical from the States,” Henri said with comic seriousness. “One day I my take a troupe of Tahitian dancers on tour of the States and Europe.”
I said, “Old hat.”
“Old hat?” he repeated, puzzled, and asked in French what that meant. When I told him he repeated the words several times with great pleasure and I knew I'd hear the phrase the next time we talked. He said, “But this will not be any old stuff like the shimmy. A Tahitian hula will knock them in the aisles.”
“A real one is pretty hot,” Eddie agreed.
Henri sighed. “But these natives, they will not—”
“Islanders,” Eddie cut in.
“Yes, these islanders, they will not rehearse, make a name here so we can arrange bookings in the States. They have no understanding of making money. Look at the pitiful tourist business we get here. The government should encourage tourists, like they do in Hawaii.”
“Hawaii? Jeez!” Eddie said, neatly spitting over the rail.
“Everything is run here on a small scale, with great inefficiency as I have often said,” Henri went on. “The few tourists who do come here, like the people from this yacht we take them for only a handful of francs. We need a package deal.” He pronounced these last two words with great care, as though tasting them.
Eddie blew out a cloud of smoke. “A what?”
“You have been in America and do not know what a package deal means?” Henri asked, amazed. “I read much about it in this magazine and in other copies I have read. Instead of a cafe hiring a band, a singer, and dancers, the agent furnishes all the entertainment. A package means less trouble and more money for all. We should have a package deal for the tourist.”
“Like what?” Eddie asked.
“Dubon means he'll have postal cards already stamped, written, and addressed—save the tourist time,” I cornballed.
“I mean,” Henri shrilled, “we sell them what they want, they will pay hundreds of dollars instead of a hundred francs!”
“You give them what they want—when Heru is sober,” Eddie told him.
Henri didn't pay any attention to Eddie; instead he turned to me and added, “Monsieur Ray, if we tied our paradise package in bright pareu ribbons, we could make much money.”
“We?” My hangover didn't allow for any hard thinking.
Henri nodded, broke into fast French. “The pretty ribbons are the coral heads off Moorea—any place not more than a few hours sailing. These worthless dabs of land with a few coconut palms are too small for any use. But for us they become islets of dollars!”