Ed Lacy - South Pacific Affair

“You ever write the paper?” I asked, not really caring. I was watching the beauty of Ruita's face in sleep, the rise and fall of her bosom under the blanket.

“Lord no, I never even started it. That was merely an excuse. With Tom dead I was at loose ends, yet I had this feeling I didn't want to return to the States. So I gave myself this would-be scientific task, tried not to be too much of a pest. I spent about six months here taking notes. The islanders were very polite to me. There's a coral head not far out in the lagoon—you can easily see it in the daytime, a speck of land with a few palm trees and brush. They had a custom on Forliga which has since died out, due to the lack of women. On a certain night young men and women went out to this islet, undressed, and everybody simply made love as often as possible.”

“Eddie would have gone for that.”

I saw her cigarette end turn toward me like a tiny beacon in the darkness. “And you, wouldn't you have been out there, too?”

“I guess so.”

Nancy sighed. “You remind me of myself in those days— you wear the so-called conventions like a badly fitting suit, refuse to make yourself comfortable. I went to the islet, as a spectator, of course. But it was a dark moonless night, and soon as I stepped ashore among all those trembling bodies, a man pulled me down. In a way it was much like this feast, you made love again and again, rested, then blindly searched for the nearest free man. Before dawn, everybody swam back to the atoll. You know I forget many things these days, but I hope I shall never forget the joy of that night. Within a few seconds I passed from blushing protest, even shame, to outright enjoyment, on to a passion which both surprised and left me proud.”

“Why did you ever leave Forliga?”

“When I adopted Louise I decided to raise her so she would have the benefit of both cultures. That was a mistake. She's been very unhappy ... till you came along. Her father was the son of the last chief of Numaga, so legally the land was hers upon his death. After the hurricane nearly washed this atoll away, we settled down on Numaga.”

I thought for a moment. “Why do you say it was a mistake? Don't you think there is such a thing as a popaa culture?”

“Of course there is, but she never had a chance to appreciate 'our' culture. Ruita was swamped with racial bitterness and frustration.” The old woman hesitated, looked down at Ruita to make sure she was asleep. “Ray, growing up is a wonderful and serene experience here—not a time for doubts and grasping, as it is elsewhere. Actually, in our 'civilized' countries, adolescence is a time of cruel torture. In the islands there are no hidden secrets of life, no worry about the future—each young man or woman knows exactly what his... uh... life's work, profession, will be. Nor are there sexual frustrations But in Louise's case, and I shall never forgive myself for this blunder, when she was sixteen instead of being on the beach with a young man of her fancy, she was in a stuffy school for 'young ladies' in Sydney, not only learning the banal inhibitions of our day, but also that she was 'colored.' I imagine she even got a small taste of that in school in Papeete. So she returned to Numaga bitter, afraid, upset. A weakling. You're weak, too.”

“I'm what?”

“Come, come, Ray, being a weakling can often be a happy circumstance. What I mean is this: Louise couldn't forget the white world she had run from. The false standards she had picked up in Sydney prevented her from enjoying the freedom of the island women, while her travel and education spoiled her ability to be happy with an islander. Then you came along—with your own problems, too weak to solve or forget them. Perhaps that is why Louise likes you, this weakness you have in common, this self-pity. Only you needed a push, a swift kick in the pants.”

“Which you gave me, so subtly!”

She shrugged. “Should I be subtle about my daughter's happiness?”

“Did it ever occur to you I worry about Ruita's happiness, too? That's why I've hesitated.”

“Ray, don't hesitate, don't nibble on the outside of paradise like a blind fool. And make no mistake, one can still make a paradise here.”

“If I could only be sure I'm ready for island living. I don't want to hurt Ruita, be thinking about her over a glass of rum in some crummy waterfront cafe in Samoa, Sydney, or 'Frisco.”

“But exactly what is it you are afraid of? You seem to care for Louise and she—”

“'Care?' That's an severe understatement!”

“Then what is there to be frightened about?”

“I don't know,” I said, trying to put it into words. The hell of it was, I really didn't know myself what I was scared of— except that I was scared of settling down with Ruita. “Call it wanderlust, although that doesn't mean a thing. Look, here in the atolls the people have the two things the rest of the world lacks, peace and security. Yet they leave their atolls to whore in Papeete and when they grow too old for that, they still stay there, old rum-pots peddling flowers outside the bars. The men become sailors—a hard life—and travel all over the world. Why? Maybe humans can't take peace and quiet...”

“That's nonsense.”

“Then why do they take off? Ruita and I need Numaga for happiness, but if I can't... take it... well... even the islanders don't seem able to stand the islands. Why?”

“That's something I have thought about too, and all I can say is we know of the tensions and fears of the outside world and the islanders don't. They assume the rest of the world is as friendly and peaceful as their atoll. Why so few of them ever return to their island—this really puzzles me. Perhaps the answer is, why do so few popaas ever escape from the dull, worried, lives they lead? Because our so-called Western civilization is quicksand; by the time you learn what it is, you are stuck in it, mired down. But you, Ray, you know what the world is like, you've been poor, unhappily married, a soldier. You must know what you can have here in the islands.”

“Must I? I'm like a lush who knows drink is bad for him, yet can't leave it alone.” I got to my feet. “Which reminds me, I'm thirsty. Shall I bring you some beer or punch?”

“No, thank you. I shall see how Titi's wife is. In her condition I hope she hasn't eaten too much. Yes, I will look after her—in a little while.”

The punch cans were empty. About fifty people were still eating and more food was being cooked The radio was silent and the only sounds were those of people snoring or eating. I found a tin of coconut beer but somebody had spiked it with hair tonic tasting like roses—old ones—so I spat that out and finally found a fairly cool drinking nut.

I went down to the lagoon again to relieve myself and stared out at the dark waters, thinking of a then prim Nancy Adams, with her notebook, stepping into a sex orgy—although orgy is probably a popaa word and idea. That must have been something—hundreds of sighing, twisting bodies, a little island full Of the soft cries and heavy smells of passion.

The old man who owned the fresh water outboard came staggering by, recognized me, and held my hand. “You will fix, canoe go with speed of shark?”

I said I would fix. Whoever was spiking the beer must have had a barrel of this rose hair tonic—the old gent stank like an ancient bouquet. He gave me a cigarette and I lit it. He staggered on toward the lagoon and I went back—probably staggering, too—to Ruita.

Her blanket was there, but no Ruita, no Nancy. I looked around and stumbled over a couple of sleeping people, finally sat down and had some canned peaches which were sickeningly sweet. I decided to check the boat and when I reached the dock, Ruita was waiting for me. She had brushed her hair and put on a fresh pareu, and there was a large crimson blossom over her left ear. With a big smile she pointed to a sailing canoe tied to the Hooker. “Come, the stars are starting to fade. It is the right time, we will be there before dawn.”