We dropped anchor in the horseshoe bay of Roogona, one of the smaller Marquesas Islands. The bay held the usual parts of a short reef … coral lumps and islets. There was a white sandy beach with its dock of rough coral blocks, a village of several dozen huts and the sun-bleached white church steeple … all at the foot of a mountain covered with lush green trees, salted with colorful patches of frangipani and hibiscus flowers. A few canoes were resting on the beach, while a large and ugly island schooner, flying the flag of Peru, of all places, was anchored several hundred yards from the DOUBLE-TAKE. It was a dirty boat, badly in need of paint.
We’d left Numega three days before. Ruita, now technical consultant for the picture, stayed behind to finish some work on our pearl breeding baskets, and to read the script. She had suggested we try the lonely Marquesas for a locale; pick her up on the trip back to Papeete.
I’d been badly hung over when I started the voyage and kind of dizzy ever since; didn’t know exactly what I was supposed to be on this deal. Mostly I seemed to be a listening post. We all took turns at the wheel and at cooking. Matt, who remained fairly sober, and actually did a lot of exercises to keep in shape, bent my ear about what a great athlete he might have been if he hadn’t become lost in the Hollywood rat-race. He blamed it all on his hair, which was a natural silver color, for some reason.
Walt Sing hated his job of being Matt’s keeper, told me he wanted to make documentaries, especially about the lonely life and hard work of the Chinese laundryman in the States. Walt’s father had sweated away his life washing, putting his son through college. Working for Matt and McCarthy was not only giving Walt some capital, but a chance to learn all the ins of movie production — when he wasn’t choking the actor into submission.
Herb McCarthy was a cheerful cosmopolitan, who had lived and married all over the world. He told me, “I’ve learned you must have dreams, old chap, but more important, keep them in their blooming proper perspective, or they can ruin you. I’m aware I’ve turned out mediocre films, even if they are superior to the ruddy other dung being screened. But I’ve enjoyed myself, lived well, and when I start for that final horizon, I’ll be able to truly say life doesn’t owe me a damn thing. Oh, I still think I’ll make a picture, some day, which will be a work of art, and believe me, Ray, film is a great art medium, no matter how badly it’s been dirtied by morons and fast-buck bastards. I’ll probably take that dream to my grave.”
Of course, I listened politely to all of them; there wasn’t much else to do. In a way I was content, the DOUBLE-TAKE was a tremendous ship, under full sail we made twenty knots. After the years I’d spent with Eddie on our HOOKER, it was a novelty to sail without copra stink or bugs. Matt and Herb were fair seamen and it was a boot for me to be sailing with Eddie again, his miracle navigation; by merely watching the water, the sea-weed floating by, the sound of the waves, the stars and the birds, he could sail a truer course than any captain working with full instruments.
Matt and McCarthy were pleased at the way Roogona looked, were anxious to go ashore. On the other schooner, its crew of islanders and several popaas were examining us through glasses, obviously amused at the sleek lines of our ‘yacht.’
As we pointed the skiff toward shore, a small crowd of islanders, mostly elderly women in torn print dresses, were silently watching us. They were strangely quiet when we landed, seemed upset. A plump old woman in a tent-like worn grey dress was weeping loudly, the others trying to comfort her. Eddie, who spoke the island dialect, went over to ask where the French Administrator was; we’d need his okay to shoot the picture on the island. “Find out how many people are here,” McCarthy called out.
There was this air of mourning about Roogona which spooked me, the Marquesas always effect me like this, as though the ghosts of the hundreds of thousands of islanders who died here of the popaas’ TB and syph, were looking down, or up, at us.
Matt was busy smoking his usual new corncob, skimming pebbles for a few kids admiring his flying boots, when Eddie returned. “Little trouble here. That’s Von Rumple’s schooner out there, a tough Kraut thrown out of Samoa for smuggling. Lately he’s been trading in the Tuamotu Atolls. Even though he was with the Foreign Legion in Indochina, he ain’t exactly popular with French Oceania officials. In fact, the local government man is out on the schooner now. Von Rumple took a drunken young girl aboard. That’s her grandmother carrying on….”
The squat schooner was anchored some fifty yards from the coral dock we stood on and at that moment somebody was thrown off the boat, hitting the water with a sharp splash, to the laughter of the crew, especially a big blonde joker wearing a battered captain’s hat, and little else.
A skinny old man with the wispy white beard of a goat came sputtering and thrashing to the surface, shook a tiny fist up at the schooner, shouting in French, then started swimming, awkwardly, toward the dock.
Kicking off his boots, hurling his pipe high in the air, Matt plunged into the blue Pacific, swam out to help the old guy. Eddie grunted, “Herbie, you wanted to meet the French Administrator, must be him out in the drink.”
“That’s the French Government here?” McCarthy asked, yanking out a tiny Minox camera, snapping Matt swimming ashore with the old man.
A shrill wail went up from the women, the fat grandma yelling, much as I could make of her dialect, “They have my Titin drunk! Of her own will I would not mind, but this … to force her while drunk is hupe hupe!”
I translated for McCarthy and Walt. “She says taking her granddaughter while under the influence of booze is a most ugly thing.”
“By God, she’s bloody well right, you know!” Herb said, busy snapping Matt placing this skeleton of a man on the dock, the wet and dirty linen suit making the old boy look pathetic. Spitting water, he drew himself up to his full five feet, wrung out his beard, screaming in French at the schooner, “Be assured I shall report this in detail to the highest officials in Papeete! You swine shall be jailed!”
Matt said something to him in French, and as if seeing us for the first time, the old man tried to straighten out his wet suit, patched silk shirt, the long, snarled white hair, hanging to his shoulders … walked stiffly toward us. “You must pardon my appearance. I am Philippe Clichy, descendant of Napoleon’s admiral. The troubles we island officials suffer! These beasts dropped anchor last night, to trade — although I run Roogona’s only store, carry a large stock of goods. An hour ago they took Titin, a beautiful child of 13, aboard — first getting her so drunk on cough syrup she has no idea what is happening to her. Unhappily, our men are away making copra on an island some 63 miles north of Roogona, so I went aboard…. I’ll make a complete report of this outrage, a….”
“What’s the population of Roogona, sir?” McCarthy cut in.
“309, at the last census,” Clichy said as the old fat grandma let go another howl.
Flexing his thick muscles, Eddie said, “I think we’ll pay a visit to the schooner.”
The Frenchman turned to stare at Eddie, thin mouth open in shock.
Matt’s booming voice split the air with, “We’ll get the girl; let’s go!” He actually sounded the hero, dramatically racing toward our skiff.
As we piled in after Matt, Clichy screamed at Eddie, “A Lion Face! We want no lepers on Roogona!”
This was Eddie’s usual trouble on a new island; his flattened nose spread over the middle of his brown face, the puffed ridge of old scar tissue above his eyes, the cauliflower ears, did give him the look of a leper.
As Walt started the boat’s motor, Eddie called back, “Don’t be alarmed, Monsieur Clichy, my face is the result of absorbing leather, not germs.”
Seconds later we were scrambling up the rough rope ladder of the schooner. The blonde giant, Von Rumple, two other ratty and beefy white men, plus a dozen or so crewmen of all sizes and shades of brown, watching us with amusement.
Up close, Von Rumple was a powerful bastard in his late 40’s, several wounds and knife scars on his wide body. He wasn’t armed, but one of the other popaas, a creep with a stringy black beard, some sort of foreign words tattooed on his heavy arms, held a belaying pin in his right hand, while the third popaa, a swarthy joker wearing red bedroom slippers and an evil sneer, had a knife stuck in the waist of his dirty trunks. If they had tried to knock us off as we came up the ladder, we wouldn’t have stood a chance, but they were so damn sure of themselves, they let us come on deck. In broken, guttural English, Von Rumple asked, “Americans? This is a work ship, not a yacht, but welcome….”
“Where’s Titin?” Eddie asked.
Looking at us, talking over Eddie’s head, Von Rumple asked, “Who is captain? I speak only to captain.”
“I’m the captain, you’ll talk to me!” Eddie grunted, rocking on his feet a little, the way he did when ready to brawl.
“We want the young lady….” Matt began.
“Shut up!” Eddie snapped, rasping voice in sharp contrast to the actor’s booming sounds. “This big bastard talks to me!”
Eddie fought as a middleweight years ago and even now didn’t weigh much over 165 pounds. Von Rumple, who looked at least 220 pounds of solid man, screwed up his ugly, meaty face. “Watch what your brown mouth calls me! I see by your face you were a pug, and it means nothing to me. As captain, I order you off my ship at once, before I boot your ass off!”
McCarthy suddenly said something in German. The blonde giant smiled, clicked his bare feet like a damn fool, bowed, and answered in a flood of Kraut. Matt’s hands were hanging loosely at his sides, his usual spitting-pout on his face. Walt Sing had moved in front of Matt, quietly watching the guys with the club and knife. I seemed to be the only one showing any nerves, I was shivering slightly. I was very much aware that Matt, Von Rumple, and I were the biggest jokers aboard; that I hadn’t been in a real fight in years. The nightmare feeling swept over me — what was I doing on this strange boat, far away from Ruita and our island? Certainly be a hell of a stupid way of dying …
Touching his flat nose gingerly, Herb McCarthy told us, “He says the gal is merely sleeping off a binge, nobody has got into her yet….”
“Damnit, told you, let me do the talking!” Eddie cut in.
“Slow, old chap, slow,” Herb said. “This can be settled without trouble.”
“He lets Titin go — now; won’t be any trouble!” Eddie said, never taking his eyes off Von Rumple.
“Just where is the young babe?” Matt boomed.
“Maybe I take pretty big fairy like you over vahine,” Von Rumple said, spitting at Matt’s feet.
The action broke fast.
Titin, who had been sleeping it off on top of the cabin, staggered to her feet — a gorgeous girl in a dirty red and white pareu wrapped around an unbelievable lithe figure. Staring at us all with utter disbelief, she broke the silence with a childish giggle.
Eddie and Von Rumple both started toward her, Eddie popping the German with a fast left hook on his square kisser first. The Kraut did a kind of weird weak-kneed dance before hitting the deck. Eddie hadn’t caught him flush — he wasn’t cold — and I’ve seen Eddie “take out” bigger chumps than the German with his hook.
Sing went for the knife man, smoothly grabbing the hand holding the flashing knife above the wrist … seemingly pulling the man toward him, then, somehow, flinging the creep over his hips and against the cabin wall with a terrible crash.
Motioning for Titin to jump into his arms, Eddie then dumped her over the railing. I saw McCarthy neatly kick a rushing crew remember in the groin as Herbie jumped up on top of the cabin. I saw all this in the very small part of a split second; bearded bully-boy with the belaying pin had staked me out for himself. Feigning with my left, I jumped him as he swung, trying to get inside the arc of his club. I almost made it — the damn club grazed my left shoulder as I put all I had into a wild right wallop to his beard. It should have kayoed him, but he merely shook all over and started swinging the belaying pin again. I kicked his ankle, as an afterthought. He doubled over and Walt — passing by — without looking, gave him a Judo chop on the back of his neck, sending the guy tumbling face down on the deck.
Glancing around, I saw Eddie yelling at the crew in Tahitian, telling them to keep out of it, not to be fools. When some heavyset cluck came at him, swinging like a gate, Eddie put an exclamation point to his few words by flooring the guy with a short right to the gut. McCarthy was kneeling atop the cabin, snapping pictures with his candid Minox. Titin was swimming gracefully toward the beach.
Von Rumple had staggered to his feet, glassy-eyed. Matt strode over to him, past Walt and myself, blocked a clumsy right from the groggy Kraut, set himself, clouted him with a terrific belt on the chin. Von Rumple was stiff before he crashed to the deck.
Dancing excitedly atop the cabin, Herb yelled, “Great, Matt, best pixs ever! Superb, absolutely superb!”
Eddie said, “Hell with pictures — let’s get off here, fast!”
“Relax,” Matt boomed, “I haven’t even worked up a sweat.”
With Walt at his side he took a few cocky steps toward the crew, asked, “Any of you stumblebums want to try me next?”
“Aw cut it,” Eddie told him. “They don’t know what the hell you’re saying anyway.”
“Walt, stand more to one side, out of the way,” Herb called, the little camera covering one eye. “Hold your hands up, Matt.”
With his fists raised like a boxer, Matt asked in Tahitian if anybody wanted to fight him … then, followed by Walt, he strode over to the railing, vaulted over — silver hair a technicolor flash — started swimming to the beach.
Eddie told McCarthy, “Come on, get off the cabin and stop all this slop! Get down to the boat. You follow him, Ray, then Walt!”
Walt picked up the knife which had fallen from the guy now laying at the foot of the cabin wall, blood streaming from his open mouth; hurled the cheese sticker into the Pacific as we scrambled down the rope ladder. Sing had the motor going and soon as Eddie was in the skiff we cut water for the beach.
The director sighed, “What I’d give for a blooming snap of Matt coming out of the water with that girl — Titin — in his arms! What an appropriate name — the child has a pair of headlights firm as those on a statue.”
“Titin is Christine in Tahitian, as Ruita stands for Louise,” I mumbled, suddenly aware of the pain in my shoulder.
As if I didn’t exist, Herb asked Walt, “You think they have the equipment in Papeete to radio a picture to the
States?”
“Doubt it. Beside, those pictures generally print fuzzy,” Sing said solemnly. “I suggest we wait until we return to Tahiti, fly the negatives and a story directly to the States. Meantime radio whoever is handling PR in Papeete to start thinking where to plant the story.”
“You’re right. I could develop this on the boat, but it’s color film and I don’t want to chance lousing it up,” McCarthy said, as if discussing something important as atomic secrets.
Trying to rub the back of my left shoulder, I told them, “I’ve seen some candid camera loons, but you overdo it.”
Herb smiled at me. “That snap of Matt carrying little Monsieur Clichy out of the water plus those on the schooner of him bashing the German bugger — worth a million bucks to us!”
I must have looked blank for the director touched his busted nose and added, as if talking to a backward kid, “The ruddy IMAGE, Ray! We’re pitching Matt as the All-American male, every man and woman’s dream of the dynamic, virile, freebooter. These pictures get it across better than a thousand bloody press releases. These are the real thing, Lord God!” He turned to Sing. “Walt, radio our seaplane at Papeete to drop over and pick up the film…. No, best I talk to the flacks myself on this; too big to handle indirectly. Should be able to leave here by tonight, dock in Papeete by the end of the week.” McCarthy seemed to be talking to himself as Eddie shut the motor and the skiff glided up to rest its bow on the sand.
Titin and Matt were surrounded by the old women and McCarthy started snapping pictures again. With her wet pareu clinging to her, Titin, now fairly sober, revealed the curves of compact hips, wonderful breasts and tiny nipples; the clean, strong lines of her shoulders and good arms. Her face was standard cute, for any young girl, with the soft, black hair flowing down to the basketball behind. Skin a creamy gold, eyes the shape of lush almonds, long legs a little on the sturdy side.
Clichy had changed to a dry linen suit, as worn and sweat-stained as the other one, and an old straw hat. He was strutting about, shaking a World War 2 carbine at the trading schooner, mumbling in fast French.
Matt was accepting the gratitude of Titin’s grandmother with practiced modesty; his whole body one casual stance, an arm around the girl, who barely reached his chest … his big fingers resting in their favorite position — cupping one of her firm breasts. Happy to be the center of attraction, Titin was trying to tell everybody about the fight, the heroes we all were. They must have gotten her crocked on hair tonic, not cough syrup, there was a horrible rose scented halo around her words.
The bell in the little church steeple began making a racket, while the old women buzzed about wanting to roast a pig for us. McCarthy got Matt aside for a whispered conversation, then they started talking to Clichy about using Roogona for their movie. But the old Frenchman kept shaking his head violently, waving his carbine and beard, shouting he could talk over nothing until the trading schooner left the harbor. As we piled back into our skiff, with him, and headed for the boat, I didn’t see Von Rumple or the others aboard … wondered if they’d gone below for guns.
Circling the schooner, Clichy shouted through cupped hands he was ordering them to raise anchor and leave at once. After a moment the schooner’s motor began to cough, then the anchor chain came rattling up. The schooner started a lazy circle of the harbor, heading for the opening.
I felt a wave of relief, mixed with the pain in my shoulder, until Eddie shouted, “The bastards are going to sideswipe the DOUBLE-TAKE!”
Grabbing the carbine from Clichy’s claw-like hands, Matt told Eddie to head directly for the schooner. The actor shouted in French for them to change course, then taking careful aim, he splintered a spoke on the helm as we veered away from the schooner! The islander at the wheel spun it around quickly, forcing the big ship to heel for a second, then steered directly for the pass.
I was impressed. Considering the 100 or more feet separating us from the schooner, our speed and bouncing around in the schooner’s wake — it was a hell of a shot. Eddie blinked, asked, “Was that luck, or can you do it again?”
Matt fired a second time; splintered another spoke. We heard the helmsman yelling for more speed. Von Rumple appeared at the railing, waving his fist and cursing through puffed lips.
Matt wanted to shoot off the German’s cap but Herb put his little camera down long enough to tell him it was too risky. When Walt took a step toward him, Matt handed the carbine back to Monsieur Clichy.
Returning to the beach, Eddie rubbed my shoulder with coconut oil, still talking about Matt’s sharp shooting. Matt, Herb and Clichy were having a long talk, asking how soon the men of the island would return, the general weather, and a lot of other nonsense. We all went out to the DOUBLE-TAKE, along with Monsieur Clichy and a very old islander, who still had all his teeth — he was the only member of the Roogona Council around, the Chief and the others were making copra. I found a bottle of liniment to use on my shoulder, while Matt, Sing, and McCarthy now sported tiny blue glass viewers from black ribbons around their necks. We circled the island in the skiff — a good 50 miles in circumference — with the three of them busy pointing out “locations” through the blue glasses, which seemingly showed how it would all look in film. There was a great deal of technical talk … of which I couldn’t care less about.
Reaching the village hours later, completely shaken by the pounding the powerful skiff had taken, it was agreed the movie company would return within 15 days. Each islander, kids included, was to receive an outright gift of five cans of beef and fruits, a carton of American cigarettes, and two bottles of aspirin. Whenever any of them worked before the cameras, they would be paid 500 Pacific Francs per day — about $5.75. The Chief, and each Roogona Council member, would also be given an electric clock. Monsieur Clichy was to be paid 5000 francs for any loss in trade the gifts caused his store, and a free stock of twist tobacco, cloth, and canned goods. The entire Roogona population would be on hand by the time we returned, and have cleared a strip of land near the village for Hollywood carpenters to erect an “authentic” Polynesian village.
Although Matt and McCarthy were now anxious to reach Papeete as fast as possible with Herb’s rush-rush pictures, late in the afternoon we stopped to eat a pig Titin’s grandmother had roasted in an oven of hot stones, taro and fruits. Herb McCarthy made a short speech in Tahitian, assuring the islanders the company would remain on Roogona for at least a month, and make everybody rich. Matt not only consumed an enormous amount of fruit, but delighted the islanders by walking a 100 yards on his hands. He also gave me a swift pain by confiding in me, “Crazy man, the Chief and the others wanting electric clocks — and no electricity on the island!”
“What’s so odd about that? Owning such a clock, or an electric toaster, is a symbol of prosperity — like some of you movie characters who have swimming pools and can’t swim.”
“I swim like a fish and never owned a pool in my life,” Matt said. I gave up arguing with him.
By nightfall we were headed for Numega, the DOUBLE-TAKE foaming through the Pacific like a speedboat, under every inch of canvas she could carry. I thought we were taking a hell of a chance, but Eddie merely gazed at the stars, sniffed the wind, announced there wasn’t any danger of sudden squalls.
In the morning I was astonished to see Titin walk out of Matt’s cabin, wide feet cramped into hideous, spike-heeled shoes, but not even a silly red evening gown or make-up spoiling her young beauty. The others didn’t seem surprised at all and Titin said she’d always wanted to see Papeete. After a couple of painful hours, she kicked off her shoes, then changed to a pareu, spent all her time listening to jazz on the lounge stereo and drinking ginger-ale. Both Matt and Herb were very business-like now, didn’t allow anybody to take on a load.
Eddie told me sadly, “How do you like my luck; with the scarcity of single girls in the islands, I have to have a goddamn movie star with me when I stumble across a Titin. My ugly puss can’t compete with a profile.”
Although they all paid polite attention to Titin, and Eddie tried hard to make time with her — showing off his muscle control as his muscles snaked up and down his shoulders and arms — during the little free time he had off from piloting — there was a new kind of tenseness on the voyage back to Numega. Everything centered around the snapshots Herb had taken. It was decided Life would be given the honor of displaying the “image in action” in the States, Paris-Match, the London News, and Oggi, in Europe. Matt said it was a darn shame Hemingway was dead — he would have been “the” man to write captions for the pictures, while both the director and Walt thought James Michener would be dandy — if they could get him.
Actually, I spent more time with Titin than the others. She kept asking me silly questions about life in Papeete, the price of clothes there. I found her as amusing and boring as all the “important” talk about the lousy snapshots. Despite all of Titin’s obvious charms on display under her thin pareau … it probably will sound trite, but for me it was very true: after Ruita there weren’t any women worth fooling with.
Keeping full sail on, with all of us sleeping only a few hours between watches, exactly 52 hours later we dropped anchor off Numega’s old reef — which had faithfully protected the little island from traders and “civilization.” The warm sight of Numega was like seeing an old friend. I went ashore with Eddie to pick up Ruita, McCarthy urging me to “make it snappy, Ray, we want to be on our way to Papeete within an hour.” I wanted to tell him he could shove the whole deal, but was too excited at the thought of seeing my wife to start an argument.
As I was kissing and hugging Ruita, mentioned the rush the others were in to reach Papeete, she surprised me by saying she was anxious to discuss the script with McCarthy. Within minutes Ruita had tossed a few dresses into a bag, was ready to leave. Tupateka came around to ask if I had an extra pack of cigarettes, and without our mentioning it, it was understood he would keep an eye on our windows and boats — in case of a storm. Puffing on a “Cam-mel,” he watched Ruita pack with a puzzled air, asked, “Why such hurry? The boat is outside the reef, no need to go with any tide?”
“The, eh … others, are in a great rush to reach Papeete,” I said, rubbing my shoulder — the soreness was practically gone — and almost feeling like a stranger in my own house.
Tupateka nodded as though I’d made a profound statement.
“Ay, there is a great hurry to go there — and the return trip is always slower. You be gone long time?”
“A month or two, perhaps longer,” Ruita told him, tucking the bulky movie script and some notes under her arm as I took the suitcase.
Tupateka mumbled, “Aita peapea,” meaning it didn’t matter, and walked us down to the skiff as Ruita reminded him to look at our pearl buoys every other day.
Eddie was sleeping on the sand and I awoke him gently — he sometimes came awake swinging. Sitting up, stretching, he waved at Ruita — who was quite a picture in a red flared skirt, blue and white striped boat-neck blouse, and bare footed. Her jet black hair was piled atop her head a la a picture of Brigitte Bardot she’d seen in Réalités — except she had a tiny blue orchid over one ear.
Jumping to his feet, Eddie gave Ruita a friendly kiss, grunted, “Let’s shove off.” I wondered if the both of them were suffering from the movie itch, or worse yet — from ambition. I could remember many a day when it took Eddie hours to decide if he would arise to pee.
Once aboard, sails were raised and Ruita was introduced to Titin, who immediately lifted my wife’s skirts high to admire the material. Then Ruita sat down with McCarthy and Matt, started telling them what she thought was wrong with the script.
Eddie and I took the wheel. I could hear Ruita saying, “Of course, you know in actual fact, Princess Purea was 45 years old and quite fat when she met Captain Samuel Wallis. Another thing; while it is true Tahitians had never seen iron, thought iron nails were some kind of fruit from a tree … even tried planting the nails … and it is also true that nails became such a favorite gift to the women that Wallis had to post armed guards — to stop his sailors from literally yanking out every nail on the DOLPHIN and sinking it … I object to the islanders being pictured as ‘simple children.’ You forget we Polynesians were bathing three and four times daily when the whole of Europe stank of dirt and sweat! Perfume was discovered to cover the body odors of the court ladies. Some place in the story it must be stressed that islanders were living a full and happy life when popaas were freezing their pale derrières in European caves, ignorant of fire; that our canoes were navigating the Pacific when your ancestors feared water, thought the stars evil eyes!”
“Honey,” Matt boomed, “we’re making a movie, not writing a history book. Might use this bit about Wallis firing on the Tahitians when they first flocked to greet him — thinking they were attacking him. You sure of that?”
“Of course. Europeans could only conceive of people rushing at them as an enemy — many islanders were killed, yet they were ‘civilized’ enough to forgive and forget,” Ruita said.
“That’s a nice bit, good dramatic possibilities — I’ll think about it. But in the love department we’ll have to keep Princess Purea a slim, young doll … fits in with the escapist image of the romantic island bimbo you know …” McCarthy’s clipped voice said, as Ruita went off on a lecture about the hypocrisy of Western sex customs.
Yawning, Eddie asked me, “How’s your image this afternoon, Ray?”
But that night was a true dream, Ruita and I in a comfortable cabin bunk — making love to the sweet clean tune of racing water hissing on the other side of the hull. Later, as we made sleepy small talk, she told me, “I seem to have lost that big baroque pearl we found in the giant mussel. The first time we saw Matt — when I was fighting with him — I must have dropped it. I’ve carefully examined the beach, but a wave could have carried it out …”
“Aita peapea … we’ll grow others,” I mumbled, my hand on warm curve of her belly. “Hey, what do you think of Titin?”
“A beautiful child.”
“Crummy thing, Matt taking her to Papeete.”
Ruita shrugged, many soft things moving, then kissing me she whispered, “You still hold on to your silly popaa morals. Titin came because she wanted to, would have reached Papeete sooner or later. She looks upon it as a kind of heaven, and nobody would be able to convince her otherwise. What’s more, she told me Matt isn’t much in bed, rates Herb, Walt, and Eddie as superior lovers.”
Falling off into a deep sleep I mumbled, “Eddie? He never told me he was getting with that.”
“Titin was quite puzzled at not being invited to this bunk,” Ruita said, kissing me again.
A day later we closed in on that most beautiful of all sights — the approach to Tahiti. With Moorea behind us, we lowered sails and started the powerful Diesels soon as we saw the beacon atop Point Venus. Sailing through the pass, we stopped at the customs station on the tiny island of Motuiti, opposite the Papeete waterfront. And from the speedy attention the officials gave our permit de séjour, I realized what a big deal the movie company was in Papeete.
Almost with the ease of handling an outboard, Eddie backed the DOUBLE-TAKE to the quay, not far from where our old HOOKER was bobbing on the swell, and near a large, four engined ex-Navy flying boat.
I felt great. True, Papeete’s ratty-carnival atmosphere, now combined with the hard sell of the new tourist hotels — tourists were water-skiing not far from us and McCarthy had radioed for two rented drive-it-yourself cars to be waiting for them … I knew all this would annoy me after a few days. But I looked forward to seeing the bustle of shops on the Quai de Commerce, an old friend like Mr. Olin’s ritual of wine and rice cakes.
The movie company had a suite of rooms in the Grand Palm Hotel, a six story, elevator, affair built since I was last in Papeete — and for the next few hours Ruita and I were in a whirl of meeting new people — everybody so busy-busy.
Kitty Merry, the golden-haired, short, sexboat who was to play the princess in the epic, was pretty in a dull and hard-boiled way — the practiced leaning forward to show off her big breasts in the low cut blouse phoney as her name. There were several featured actors, the head cameraman, key grip, carpenters, make-up … Buddy, a queer and nervous young man — head completely shaved — who was “director of the second unit” — whatever that meant. He’d just returned in the seaplane from shooting “sky and cloud backgrounds.” The public relations man was a very tense joker, looking young enough to be in high school instead of dashing around the rooms as if he had the itch. The only calm person seemed to be Molly Watson, the script woman. She was in her mid 50’s, very pale, grey hair in a severe bun emphasizing the harsh lines of her thin face — yet I also realized she’d once been quite a beauty. The efficient type, Molly seemed the gal Friday of the outfit, and always working, quietly listening, taking daily Orinase pills — calmly telling Ruita she’d been a diabetic for years.
There seemed to be a thousand details to be straightened out and Herb McCarthy was in high gear. Kitty Merry started to fuss with Matt, coyly pouting he had been away from her arms far too long. Matt cut her act short with a fast kiss plus a solid slap on her backside, then went into a huddle with McCarthy and the publicity man, while waiting for the snapshots to be developed. All this nonsense was starting to drag, I suggested to Ruita we go to the quay and look at the old HOOKER, but she said she had to stay around to press for her “script changes.” I noticed Kitty was studying Ruita, probably wondering where my wife bought her chic Riviera dress.
Eddie and I went down to the HOOKER, passing an excited Titin with Wal Sing — his arms full of packages — he’d taken Titin shopping at Marie Ah You’s swank shop. I wanted to stop at Quinn’s Tahitian Hut for a beer, but the place was full of loud tourists. Our cutter was a beautiful sight — like an old man still full of strength — even if it stunk of the stale odor of sour copra, and giant roaches greeted us on opening the cabin hatch. We had a couple of warm beers on deck, as Eddie decided he had much sleep to catch up on, before collecting his pay — seeing about the new suits of sails for the rugged cutter.
I wandered back to the hotel. The great snapshot deal had been finally settled — junior, the PR man, was taking them back to the States in the morning on a T.A.I. jet. Herb McCarthy proudly showed me the blown-up snaps, like stills from any of Matt’s action movies. I was in the corner of one photo — looking a true ocean bum with my long hair, more than a stubble of whiskers. Herb said Ruita was busy with Molly Watson going over the script.
Although the Pacific was less than a two minute walk, the hotel had an idiotic swimming pool — in the shape of a palm leaf, of course. Matt was in swim trunks, stretched out on a beach mat — sipping a drink. Kitty was next to him in a skimpy bikini. Although very short without her high-heeled shoes, her compact figure didn’t have a wrong curve — almost as if she’d been turned out on some factory belt line.
Kitty was angry — about something — while behind his sun glasses Matt seemed to be dozing. I decided to get a shave and haircut in the hotel barbershop. My deeply burned skin, dirty sport shirt, worn slacks, and torn sneakers caused a couple of plump tourists getting shaved to stare at me with pop-eyed uneasiness.
Gossip is Papeete’s main amusement and no matter how crummy I looked, the barbers knew I was from Numega — I soon heard them whispering to the tourists I had an island of my own and was a “millionaire.” The shop opened on the terrace overlooking the pool and the barber had finished shaving me, was starting to cut my hair, when I heard Kitty Merry shout, “What the hell you mean I can’t look Polynesian? When make-up finishes with me I’ll …!”
“You will look a Hollywood beauty made-up as an islander,” Ruita cut in, talking slow, studied, English. “Please understand, this has nothing to do with your acting ability. But the fact remains your features are far too thin, as are your ankles. By Polynesian beauty standards you are not …”
“Matt, do I have to be insulted by this native whore! The hell with that crap about hunting for location — I know damn well why you were away so long — having your tomcat fun with this brown bitch, and now she thinks she’ll get my role!”
“What is the meaning of ‘bitch?’ ”
Ruita asked in Tahitian, anger rising in her voice.
I didn’t hear Matt’s answer — was out of the chair and running at the sounds of screams. There was a hell of a tableau at the poolside; Ruita and Kitty rolling on the white sand, punching and clawing each other — the actress’ halter was off while my wife’s hair was undone, blouse ripped. Matt was sitting on his beach mattress, lips forming his famous sneer, as he made like Rodin’s The Thinker — watching the women battle. The terrace and hotel windows were full of spectators.
I pulled Ruita to her feet as she was cursing in hysterical French and Tahitian, blood on her tan face from a scratch. Kitty Merry had a puffed eye and there was blood on her over-red lips as she jumped to her feet — bare breasts moving like two fat pendulums — screaming words I hadn’t heard in years. I looked at Matt to hold her; had my hands full with Ruita. When he didn’t move, I pushed Kitty into the pool with my free hand, snarled at him, “Do your act, hero — maybe this will get your picture in the Brick-house Monthly!”
Matt glanced up at me with his studied arrogance — as if I wasn’t worth getting up to fight. When Kitty gurgled for help, he nonchalantly stuck his long leg over the pool for her to grab.
I walked Ruita to the ladies room, trying to calm her. When she came out minutes later, with her blouse pinned up, we pushed our way through the rubber-necking tourists in the lobby, hailed a taxi.
Once in our cabin aboard the DOUBLE-TAKE, Ruita changed into another dress while I took care of the scratch on her face. Ruita was quite cool as she explained she had been trying to tell Kitty why Titin should play the role of the Tahitian princess. Packing her things, I said, “We’ve had it. We’ll move to a hotel, or aboard the HOOKER, until we can find a boat to carry us back to Numega.”
“No, no, Ray. While I understand that stupid little blonde’s ambitions. I also feel a responsibility to remain with the picture-fight to see they give a balanced portrait of the islands to the world and …”
“Honey, they have their lousy ‘images’ so fixed in their moron-minds, they won’t change a comma! What’s come over you?”
“Come over me? If you think I intend to run from that hardfaced little … bitch! …”
Ruita and I had our first real argument in years and when Herb McCarthy came aboard to apologize for the company, I shouted I’d be on the HOOKER — if she was interested — and walked off the schooner carrying Ruita’s bag.
Eddie was still snoring as I put her suitcase in the cockpit. Shaking roaches off a mat, I stretched out atop the cabin, wondering how in the devil I’d allowed myself to be talked into leaving the peace of Numega.
About an hour or two later, I saw Ruita talking to McCarthy on the deck of the DOUBLE-TAKE, still carrying the goddamn picture script under her arm. Walking off the schooner, Ruita came over to the plank, bridging the stern of the cutter and land, asked if I wanted to take her to supper. I said I wasn’t hungry. Ruita said she’d be at the Waikki, a Chinese restaurant we both enjoyed, and walked off.
Twilight comes on fast in the islands and when the sinking sun turned distant Moorea’s jagged peaks fiery red, I went looking for my wife. She hadn’t been at the Waikki I was told. I had a lonely meal and a few beers, started for the hotel — then turned abruptly in the darkness, returned to the HOOKER. Although still steamed, I knew I’d been a stubborn fool: the movie was important to Ruita — somehow — if a bore to me. Smoking one of Eddie’s horrible cigars, listening to him snoring below, I sat in the cockpit waiting for Ruita’s footsteps, knowing exactly how I’d kiss and hug her by way of apology.
Footsteps coming aboard awoke me. Two of Papeete’s police officers stood on the deck of the HOOKER: one an islander, the other a Frenchman with a tough, pitted face. He asked, “Where is your wife, Monsieur Judson?”
“I … eh … don’t know. Why?” I asked, coming awake fast, frantically wondering if Ruita had been hit by a car.
“We wish to question her.”
I shook the sleep out of my mind. “Question Ruita? What the hell’s this all about?”
“About the murder of the American actress, Mademoiselle Kitty Merry.”