Paul Theroux - Saint Jack

“Friend,” I said, “the only thing I don’t know about you is your name.”

“Why don’t we have lunch? Then I can tell you my name.”

“I’m busy.”

“After work.”

“For Christ’s sake, don’t you understand? My meat’s getting all thawed out!”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“My meat’s in the van,” I said.

“I won’t argue about it,” he said.

“So long, then,” I said.

“Give me a chance,” he said. “Surely the Bandung can spare you for one night.”

The Bandung was my private funk hole: “What is your name, friend?”

And: “Eddie Shuck, pleased to meet you,” he said that evening in the floodlit garden of the Adelphi. I had just come from the Strode , where I had spent the whole afternoon on a shady part of the breezy deck playing gin rummy with the chief steward.

“Hope I haven’t kept you waiting,” I said.

“Not at all,” said Shuck. “What’ll you have?”

“I usually have a pink gin about this time of day.”

“That’s a good navy drink,” he said, and he called out, “Boy!” to the waiter.

I found that objectionable, but something interested me about this Edwin Shuck. It was his lisp — not an ordinary lisp, the tongue lodged between the teeth, that gives the point to the joke about the doctor who examines the teen-age girl with a stethoscope and says, “Big breaths”; Shuck’s was the parted fishmouth: his folded tongue softened and wetted every sibilant into a spongy drunken buzz. He prolonged “Flowers” with the buzz, and what was endearing was that his lisp prevented him from saying his own name correctly.

“Got some homework, I see.”

“This?” I had a thick envelope on my lap, pornography from the Strode , a parting gift from the friendly steward. I said, “Filthy pictures.”

“Seriously?” Buzz, buzz; he lisped companionably.

“The real McCoy,” I said.

“Can I have a look?”

We were the only ones in the garden. I put the envelope on the table and pulled out the pictures. I said, “If anyone comes out here, turn them over, quick. We could be put in the cooler for these.”

“You’ve sure got enough of them!”

“They’re in sets. Get them in sequence. Ah, there we are. Starts off nice, all the folks in their skivvies having a cozy drink in the living room.”

“What’s the next one?” Shuck was impatient.

“Now we’re in the bedroom. A few preliminaries, I guess you could call that.”

“Kind of a group thing, huh? That gal—”

The waiter came over with our drinks. I flipped the large envelope over the pictures. I wasn’t afraid of being arrested for them, but the thought of that old polite Chinese waiter seeing them embarrassed me. Pornography affected me that way: I could not help thinking that whoever looked at the stuff was responsible for what was happening in the picture. That girl, that dog; those kneeling men and vaulting women; those flying bums. A single look included you in the act and completed it. Until you looked it was unfinished.

“Down the old canal,” said Shuck, guzzling his fresh lime. “Hey, is that the guy’s arm or what?”

“No, that’s his bugle.”

“His what? ”

“Pecker, I think.” I turned it over. “Here are your Japanese ones.”

“You can’t see their faces,” he said. “How do you know they’re Japs?”

“By their feet. See? That’s your Japanese foot.”

“It’s in a damned strange position.”

“This one’s blurry. Can’t make heads or tails of it.”

“Wise guy.” Shuck laughed. “What else have you got?”

“I’ve seen this bunch before,” I said. “From some hamlet in Denmark.”

“I wonder why that guy’s wearing red socks?”

“Search me,” I said. “Got some more — here we are. God, I hate these. I really pity those poor animals.”

“Labrador retriever,” said Shuck. “Foaming at the mouth.”

“Poor bugger,” I said. “Well, that’s the lot.”

“Huh?” Shuck was surprised. He didn’t speak at once. He frowned and said thoughtfully, “Haven’t you got any where the guy’s on top and the girl’s on the bottom, and they’re — well, you know, screwing? ”

“Funnily enough,” I said, “no. Not the missionary position.”

“That’s a riot,” said Shuck.

“It’s pitiful,” I said. “There’s not much call for that kind. Here, you can have these if you want. My compliments. Strictly for horror interest.”

“That’s mighty neighborly,” said Shuck. “Shall we eat here?”

“Up to you,” I said. “What time is your plane leaving?”

“I’m not taking any plane,” said Shuck. “I live here.”

“What business are you in? I’ve never seen you around town.”

“This and that,” he said. “I do a lot of traveling.”

“Where to?”

“K.L., Bangkok, Vientiane,” he said. “Sometimes Saigon. How about you? How long do you aim to stay in Singapore?”

“As long as my citronella holds out,” I said. “What’s Saigon like?”

“Not much,” said Shuck. “I was there when the balloon went up.”

I didn’t press him. He was either a spy and wouldn’t admit to it, of course; or he was a businessman who was ashamed to say so and took pleasure in trying to give me the impression he was a spy. In any case, hemming and hawing, a mediocre adventurer.

We had a meal at the Sikh restaurant on St. Gregory’s Place and then went on to a nightclub, the Eastern Palace, where Hing had taken me in my Allegro days. Shuck fed me questions — about hustling, the fantastic rumors (a new one: was I the feller who appeared in What’s-his-name’s novel?), the “meat run,” Dunroamin, short-time rates, all-nighters. It was the same interview I got from other fellers, the gabbing that was like a substitute for the real thing.

The Eastern Palace had changed. “Years ago, this place had a bunch of Korean chorus girls, and a little Chinese orchestra. It wasn’t as noisy as this. There was even a dance floor.”

“Tell me a little bit more about this Madam Lum,” said Shuck. “How does she get away with it in town?”

“Good question. She—” But I could not be heard over the roaring of a machine offstage. The curtains parted and in the center of the stage a girl crouched on a black motorcycle. The back wall slipped sideways — it was a moving landscape, a film of trees and telephone poles shooting past. By concentrating I could imagine that stationary girl actually speeding along a country road.

She flung off her goggles and helmet. A fan in the wings started up and blew her long hair straight back. She wriggled out of her leather jacket and let that fly. The music became louder, a pumping rhythm that emphasized the motorcycle roar.

“I don’t like this,” I said.

Shuck frowned, as he had when he had said, “Haven’t you got any where the guy’s on top—?”

The girl stood up on the motorcycle saddle and kicked off her boots and tore off her britches. She was buffeted by the wind from the fan; she undid her bra and squirmed out of her pants — they sailed away. Then she hopped back onto the seat, naked, and pretended to ride, bobbing up and down, chafing herself on the saddle.

“I’m shocked,” said Shuck.

I liked him for that. I said, “Isn’t that a Harley-Davidson?”

The film landscape was moving faster now, the music was frenzied, the engine screamed. The girl started doing little stunts, horsing around on the motorcycle, lifting her legs, throwing her head back.

She bugged out her eyes and shrieked; she covered her face with her hands. There was a terrific crash. The landscape halted, the motorcycle tipped over, the naked girl took a spill and sprawled across the machine in the posture of an injured rider, her legs spread, her head awry, her arms tangled in the wheels.