South Pacific Affair

Chinatown—Chinese women walking in long slit gowns, and dozens of stores all with Chinese characters on the windows. The Chinese are the merchants of the islands and in Papeete they have their own club, a very imposing building and every bit as snobbish as the Circle Bougainville or the Tahiti Yacht Club, where the business men and tourists flock for an aperitif before going home to dejeuner, or stop for a petit dejeuner on their way to the office or shop.

     Mr. Olin, our agent, ran a general store and glorified hock shop, and also went in for money lending. His main store and office was a two-story ramshackle wooden frame building which seemed on the verge of collapse. But he had a modern brick warehouse on the waterfront, a fleet of three new Ford trucks, and probably could raise a million dollars any time he had to. One of his clerks told me he was busy at the moment so I sat down on some wooden crates of canned milk, got a cigarette working as the clerk handed me a San Francisco paper which was exactly forty-three day old. The worn newspaper gave me a strong whiff of the tension and Stateside rat-race—I was damn glad to be reading it in the shop of a Chinese merchant in Papeete. The messy news and headlines seemed unreal, another world away from me, except for some business about testing more atomic bombs in the Pacific. Would be part of the “march of civilization” for a radioactive cloud to drift over Tahiti and...

     The Chinese clerk said Mr. Olin would see me now. I walked up the trembling steps to his office. Mr. Olin was a fat, short man wearing slacks ready to burst, and an outrageous bright green sport shirt. His face was as round and flat as a large pebble, with a tuft of short dark silky hair crowning it. He always had a good smile and his eyes seemed amused. Off-hand you'd think Mr. Olin a very mild joker; he was shrewd, sharp, and tough.

     His office was plainly furnished—a rusty file cabinet, a table with some dusty samples of trade goods on it, and a single strong light bulb hung from the ceiling. He gave me his big smile as he stood up from behind his large polished desk and we shook hands. If the rest of him was flabby, his hand was hard. He said in English, “Ah, my cockroach trader. You have a fine trip, Mr. Jundson?”

     The cockroach title was his private joke and of course had to do with the fact our cutter was a bug compared to the big trading schooners.

     “Nothing to shout about,” I said, sitting in a bamboo chair. “Around a ton of copra plus a few small bags of shell.”

     “One should be grateful for even the smallest of fortune's smiles. Will you join me in wine and cakes?”

     I nodded. Mr. Olin pressed a button and a young man immediately brought in a tray of sugar cookies and a silver bottle of cool rice wine. This was what I liked about Olin; he treated us as politely as if we were important traders.

     I drank a lot of wine, finished the cakes and we made small talk about business. Then Mr. Olin brought out his account book and announced that until he got the exact weight and condition of our cargo, we were still some eleven thousand Tahitian francs in debt, which is roughly about three hundred thirty dollars.

     Debts never seem to worry either party in the islands and Mr. Olin made out a credit slip for sixty dollars worth of trade goods at his warehouse. This was decent of him; he didn't have to advance us a sou. As I stood up I asked, “Would it be possible to add about a thousand francs in cash?”

     Olin shook his head. “Sorry, no money. You would only drink it up. You need but wind and water for your boat and there is more than enough of that. However, should you wish some money as a lien against your fine boat, I should be pleased...”

     “No, thanks. Without the boat I'd really be a bum. Do you have a cargo for us?”

     “I'm afraid not. Should anything come up I shall contact you immediately.”

     We shook hands and I thanked him for the wine and cakes, said we'd probably hang around Papeete for a few weeks, hoping for a cargo.

     “Mr. Judson, with a boat your size one makes a big mistake to deal in copra. Your boat is fast and strong and good for only one thing—smuggling spirits.”

     “You tell me that every time. But we like trading. Who knows, maybe we'll luck up on a bag of real pearls.”

     Olin smiled, showing his several gold teeth. “My dear sir, that is only done in the cinema, and not very successfully there, either.”

     I left his shop and walked back to our boat, passing the market place which was a tremendous iron roof open on all sides like a copra shed, and very busy in the morning. People came in from all parts of the island to sell vegetables and fruit and gossip. I stopped at Olin's warehouse and ordered a case of tinned Australian beef, the usual aspirin, boxes of hard candies, combs and thread and safety pins.

     By the time I reached the Hooker it was almost noon and Eddie was sitting on the cabin and smoking a cigar. He said Olin's truck had already picked up our cargo and did I get any cash?

     I said I didn't and he laughed, told me, “See how smart it was to save a bag of copra? I shall sell it this afternoon.”

     “Just be careful Olin doesn't hear of it.” Before I could ask where Heru was, she stepped out of the cabin wearing one of my old suntan shirts which only partly covered her sturdy round hips, gave her the startling look of a living barbershop calendar. She was munching on a piece of raw fish and looked as fresh and clear-eyed as if she had slept all night. She said hello, asked if I had brought any rum with me. When I said I hadn't she merely shrugged and Eddie said, “Get your upa upa taria out, Ray—if it works.”

     Upa upa taria is Tahitian for phonograph and mine was an old wind-up portable. When I dug it out, the damn thing was moldy and damp from the sea air. I gave the motor a quick clean-up with oil and the machine turned slowly, completely distorting the Duke Ellington record I put on, whose grooves were well worn anyway. But Heru seemed to enjoy the queer noises and squatted beside it, playing the record over and over as she ate the raw fish.

     I joined Eddie atop the cabin in the hot sun. “What's with her?”

     “Seems the lads on the Shanghai owe her money. When she asked for it they tossed her over.”

     “Guess we must have run up a bill with her, too. Maybe we can help her collect and square our accounts?”

     Eddie flexed his powerful muscles. “Two minds with a single thought. But she says 'her man' will handle it. He's Henri Dubon.”

     “Who's that?”

     “You've seen him around, tall and soft, sharp-faced, always wearing a dirty linen suit and a tie. Pimp and tourist shill.”

     “Oh—him.” I'd certainly seen him about—he was all over Papeete. I'd heard he had come to Papeete before the war as a minor government clerk, fresh from Paris. Then during World War II he had spent several years with the American troops in the Pacific—in what capacity nobody ever knew or could imagine—but he had returned to Papeete in 'forty-nine firmly imbued with the spirit of the fast buck.

     The sun was making me sleepy and I kicked off my sneak-ears and half- watched a tubby old schooner heading for the pass. Eddie asked, “Pass the Post Office and see the sailing schedules? We might outsail one of these old loads, reach some copra first.”

     “I will— later. I've had a hard night.”

     Eddie nodded along the deck where Heru was sleeping peacefully beside the phonograph, the shirt tails way above her delightful middle. I gazed at her and thought how little this girl and I had in common. Now, with Ruita it would be different—only maybe too different. With Heru, if I ever pulled up and left, the tears would be short and then— aita peapea, and settling down with the next man. And who was to say which attitude was the more intelligent?

     I was too sleepy to argue, even with myself. The next thing I knew Eddie was shaking me awake. I yawned and asked what was up. Eddie nodded toward the quay and said, “Watch this.”

     Monsieur Henri Dubon was marching toward our boat. He walked with short, nervous, maybe authoritative, steps. His white- grey shirt was stained with sweat, as was his tight linen suit and straw hat Heru was watching him with little interest and I wondered how Dubon knew where she was. Dubon carried a battered briefcase under his arm and when I asked Eddie, “What's he got in the bag?” Eddie said, “Probably his underwear—looks like a briefcase hustler.”

     We had a plank running from the stern of the Hooker to the quay—there's not much of a rise or fall in the tide at Papeete. Dubon marched up the plank and told me in English with a heavy French accent, which was probably his tourist special tone: “I am Mr. Henri Dubon and I have business with my girl.” He pointed a dirty fingernail toward Heru.

     “Business is business,” I said with a mock bow.

     “You are American?” Dubon asked, the accent dropping from his plain hard English.

     He knew I was an American; it was part of the petty gossip blanket covering the Papeete waterfront. I said I was an American and introduced myself and Eddie. Henri shook hands with me, nodded at Eddie, then barked in Tahitian at Heru, “Where is the money?”

     She explained about not getting it and Henri shouted, “You can not fool me with such childish lies!” and started for Heru. Eddie tripped him without seeming to move his bare feet. Dubon sprawled on our deck, dropping his briefcase which would have skidded over the side if I hadn't grabbed it. Eddie said, “Aboard this ship no one hits a lady without permission from the captain—that's me. And Heru tells the truth. She swam over here after they threw her off the Shanghai. She had no money on her. She had nothing on.

     Henri stared up at Eddie's tough face, asked with almost servile respect in his voice, “You speak okay English. Hawaiian?”

     It was comical the way Dubon kept up this polite game. Everybody