Ed Lacy - South Pacific Affair

“I'll look at it tomorrow. Now I must dress for the wedding.”

“God be with you.”

Walking by the other huts I heard the hum of sewing machines, last minute preparations for holiday dress. On the Hooker Eddie was already dressed in a shirt and tie and an old pair of clean suntans. He had on his new sneakers and his hair was brushed down, heavily greased with a scented pomade he must have borrowed from an islander.

I dug out a white sport shirt and white drill pants which were in fair condition. As I dressed Eddie smoked an American butt he had chiseled, said, “We'll do okay here. The men are rested from diving and will make copra for us.”

We took a knife and a pair of scissors as gifts and walked toward the church, joining a steady stream of chattering islanders, most of them walking gingerly as if breaking in new shoes—or maybe breaking in feet which only saw shoes for an hour or so on Sundays, and on occasions like this.

The sun had almost disappeared on the horizon when we entered the church, or rather, got as near the doorway as we could. The islanders politely made room for us to step inside but we said it was okay—it was hot and stuffy in the church and there were about as many people outside as inside. The kids were up front, the women on the right, the men on the left, all of them sitting on the floor. The Deacon was dressed in a cheap black woolen suit which must have been very uncomfortable. He stepped up to the altar and read from a bible, the two catechists—also in hot woolen black suits— then read some more and the Deacon made a speech, which I didn't get as he was talking in the true Tuamotu dialect.

The bride's father spoke from the floor, then the Chief made a short speech, and at last came the hymn singing. The islanders sang loudly and with great enjoyment, for religion is alive, a thing of joy and pleasure in the islands.

I tried to find Ruita, but she was sitting inside on the coral floor. After another short talk by the Deacon, the church “ceremony” was finished and with much eager laughter presents were heaped on the bride and groom. Then everybody rushed toward the fire pit, where great piles of food were ready.

Overturned wooden crates covered with palm leaves served as a long banquet table—over two hundred people were eating—and at the head of it Titi sat with a portable radio which was blaring forth music and news from Papeete. Every few minutes somebody would pop up and make a quick speech, wishing the newlyweds much happiness, but aside from the radio music and the speeches, the only other sounds were those of solid eating. Using palm leaves as both plates and napkins, we ate sizzling portions of roast pig, rice, turtle meat, breadfruit, fish, chickens, crabs, canned meats, fruits, and for dessert a sort of coconut pudding. Of course everybody made many trips to the punch bowls between stuffing his gut.

- There is an art to stuffing yourself; it's something like getting drunk. You eat deliberately and slowly, pausing to rest whenever you feel on the verge of throwing up; one can not only put away a remarkable amount of food but your entire body takes on a heavy numb feeling. Added to this, the punch had a kick like raw whiskey. I was getting high as a kite.

Every once in a while I would turn and find Ruita smiling at me as she finished a mouthful of food. I would squeeze her hand or press her thigh, but nothing stopped us from the business at hand—eating. The radio gave out a steady stream of French classical music, jazz, and some island songs having the sour sadness of hill-billy ballads. When the island music was played some of the men would get up and dance— mostly a great deal of wild arm- and leg-flinging. Of course, these dances only lasted a few seconds; then the dancer, being stuffed, would fall to the sand and rest flat on his back. Others kept eating till they toppled over backwards; they lay, snoring and breaking wind, for a half-hour or so, and then they would sit up and tackle chunks of raw fish floating in lime juice.

At one point, the belching drowned out the noise of the radio. I found the lime juice good for calming my stomach— the skin over my gut was actually drum tight—and once when I was simply staring at the sand, too full to move my hands, Ruita passed a palm leaf with something on it that looked like a spaghetti. I'd never seen it before and it had an interesting oyster-taste. I ate them like I was hungry, asked Ruita what they were. She told me, “Palolo.”

“What's that?”

“Darling, I'm too full to talk,” she said, rubbing her greasy mouth against my beard. “Mama, tell Ray what palolo is.”

Mrs. Adams, who must have put away food equal to her weight, belched our way as she asked Eddie to pass her some orange beer, and said, “They are worms.”

“Worms?” I repeated stupidly.

“A great delicacy,” the old woman said. “They come out of the coral and surface twice a year. Very easy to catch, simply scoop them out of the water with a pail.”

She finished a shell full of orange beer, most of it running down her dress, then said, “Weddings are wonderful affairs, aren't they, Ray?”

“Yeah. But take it easy, Nancy .You been needling me the past week and... well!” The hair tonic-rum punch made my tongue too thick for talk.

“I am like one drugged,” Ruita said, getting up on her hands and knees. “Mama, we must sleep off this food.”

“Indeed, we shall sleep and return to the feast again.” Nancy peered past me. “Where has Eddie gone to?”

“Off trying to make time,” I mumbled, staggering to my feet. All my weight seemed to be in my stomach, Ruita grabbed my legs and pulled herself up. Nancy tried to stand but sprawled out. Ruita and I pulled her to her feet; then, holding onto each other, we staggered a few yards away and sat down in the sand again. I opened my belt and stared up at the sky full of stars for a moment, felt Ruita's even breathing beside me, heard Nancy's snoring.

I awoke several hours later. My clothes were damp and the sky cloudy, so it must have rained. It was early morning but judging from the sounds, the feast was still going strong. I felt cold and rubbed my arms. Ruita was still sleeping; curled up with her dress way past her hips, showing tight panties. I pulled her dress back over her cold legs. Mama Adams was gone.

I considered going back for some coconut beer—my mouth was dry—then walked heavily down to the lagoon and relieved myself. A number of people were doing the same thing.

As the saying goes, I immediately felt like a new man, and after knocking off a drinking nut, I returned to Ruita. Nancy Adams was sitting beside her daughter, a blanket over the both of them. The old girl was finishing a cigarette as I sat down; she held up the blanket and I put my legs under it. She asked, “How do you feel, Ray?”

“Like a stuffed tomato.”

“These feasts are great fun. Where else in the world—this world of want—can one stuff himself to the point of unconsciousness?”

“Have a point there.”

“I love the atolls—and happily they haven't been of much value to the popaas, especially after the pearls ran out, so they have been left alone. Forliga is almost untouched, and I only pray it always stays this way.”

I smiled up at the moon peeking through the clouds. The way she said “popaas” as though she wasn't one herself. Although what makes a popaa? Certainly not a white skin, for the Chinese traders were popaas, too.

“I first came here about a year after Tom died,” Nancy said, thinking aloud over her cigarette. “I was a young woman but already starting to take on that dried-up look which seems to be an occupational disease among missionary wives. I came here to write a paper on the lives of the atoll people, came to Forliga because they were so untouched by Western ways. That seems like another life ago.”