Читать книгу The Dark River - James Norman Hall - Страница 5

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Strolling through the Papeete market place on Sunday morning, Tyson found George McLeod awaiting him in front of a coffee shop at the end of the busy Place. McLeod was a slight, wiry young man, with dark eyes and hair, and something in his carriage reminded the consul of the alert manner and the easy grace of a lightweight boxer.

“Hope I haven’t kept you, George,” the consul remarked, as they exchanged greetings.

“I’ve only just come, sir,” McLeod replied. “Alan will be along in a few minutes. He said not to wait for him.”

The consul led the way into the restaurant and they seated themselves in a corner of the large bare room well filled with early morning breakfasters. On the floor beside nearly every table stood baskets filled with the day’s marketing. Waiters moved briskly back and forth with trays of fruit, coffee and rolls, white wine, sausage, and omelets. Tyson ordered breakfast for three in the curious mutilated Polynesian jargon used with the Chinese. He then turned to McLeod.

“You won’t remember it, George, but you had breakfast with me here with your parents, seventeen years ago. Shouldn’t wonder if it was at this very table. It was when they first came. How old are you now?”

“Twenty-one.”

“If you want to know what your father was like at your age, you’ve only to look in a glass. It gave me a start when I caught sight of you a moment ago, as I came down the square.”

“General Hardie’s told me the same thing, sir.”

“No doubt. Now then, before Alan comes in: he went to see Dr. Brocard?”

“Yesterday afternoon. I went along to make sure he did it.”

“Good. Brocard’s an excellent man. He was one of the best oculists in Paris. He came here to retire and enjoy life, not to practise, but I knew he’d be willing to see Alan for my sake. What did he say?”

“When he’d finished the examination I understood that there was something he didn’t want to tell Alan, so I went back alone, later. He’ll be seeing you too, of course. He says that, unless Alan is extremely careful, there’s about an even chance of his going blind.”

“Good God! I’d no idea it was as serious as that.”

“It bears out what the London oculists said. Alan doesn’t know it, but his father does.”

“What did Brocard say about treatment?”

“There is nothing much Alan can do beside giving his eyes a rest from all strain. He advised him to spend an hour or two every day in a darkened room, but he’ll never do that. And he’s to wear dark glasses from dawn till sunset. I’m afraid he’ll not do that, either.”

“You must see that he does, George, if you can.”

“I’ll try, of course; but Alan’s damnably stubborn. He tells me to go to hell if I’m too solicitous.”

“His father warned me that he is more than sensitive about it. What foolishness! Why should he be?”

“I know. It’s absurd, but I’ve found there’s no joking him out of it. He seems to feel that there’s something shameful in having anything wrong with him ...”

“Here he is!” warned Tyson. He pulled back a chair as Hardie made his way among the crowded tables. “I’ve ordered your breakfast, Alan: bacon and eggs. Thought I couldn’t go wrong on that.”

“Thanks; just what I want.”

Hardie seated himself and removed a pair of dark glasses which he passed to McLeod. “How do you like ’em, Mac? Pretty swanky, aren’t they?” He turned to the consul. “I’ve just bought them, sir. Your friend Brocard advised it.”

“You’ll make no mistake in following his advice. The sunlight here isn’t what you’re used to at home, Alan. Don’t forget that.”

Hardie smiled wryly. “All I need now is a false beard and I can pass for a first-class amateur sleuth. How much time have we?”

“Before the bus goes? Any amount. Takes them at least half an hour to get the thing started. I’m more than put out about the launch,” he added. “I’d counted on taking you out myself. They’ll be another week, at least, overhauling the engine.”

“It doesn’t matter, sir, but we’re sorry to miss going with you,” said Hardie. “We’re to get off at ... what’s the name of the place?”

“Tautira. It’s at the very end of the road, so you can’t miss it. You’ll see something of native life there—what remains to be seen in these days. If I were you two, I’d stay on for a bit.”

“That would suit me. What do you say, Mac?”

“I’ll decide when we get there,” said McLeod. “Can’t say that I’m tired of Papeete, so far. Alan thinks this place is the hell hole of creation, Mr. Tyson.”

“See here, George, drop the ‘Mister,’ will you? And that’s for you, Alan, as well. I was ‘Tyson’ to both your fathers and I see no reason why I shouldn’t be to the sons.”

“Good. We will, sir.” He smiled. “You don’t mind that one bit of respect?”

“No. ‘Sir’ me, if you like. It’s a good old fashion, though it seems to be falling into disuse among young men in these days. I’m glad to see that it hasn’t with you two. What’s this about the hell hole of creation, Alan?”

Hardie grinned. “I like to get George’s back up. It’s not a bad little hole, but I’ve seen more than enough half-castes. I want to look at a few real Tahitians, if there are any left.”

“They’re still to be found,” Tyson replied, “and Tautira is as good a place as any to find them.”

“How do you feel about the natives, sir? You must know them well after all these years.”

Tyson wrinkled his nose in an odd grimace. “They belong to the human race, Alan. Yes, I do know them well, and I endure them well. That’s about as far as I care to go in the way of praise.” His eyes twinkled. “Don’t take that too seriously,” he added. “The truth is I’m rather fond of Polynesians. I’m preparing, already, to defend them against your father.”

“You can count on my support,” McLeod said.

“Do you think he’ll like it here?”

“He’s certain to,” McLeod replied. “He’ll be walking your legs off. You know how he loves mountains.”

“Yes, but I’m speaking of the inhabited part. He’s always disapproved of French colonial administration. He believes that England is the only nation on earth that knows anything about government.”

Hardie smiled. “He’s not to be shaken there. And he has a very decided color prejudice.”

Tyson nodded. “I remember that. He’ll be shocked to see the natives here treated with perfect equality.... Hello! There’s your coach.”

An ancient three-ton bus drew up outside, its motor jarring and clattering to a stop. The driver, a broad-faced half-caste lacking most of his front teeth, gave a shattering blast on his horn, and waved to Tyson through the open doorway. The consul rose, and McLeod and Hardie followed him to the street.

“We’ve fifty miles to go in that?” Hardie asked, incredulously. “We’ll never make it, surely!”

“Oh, yes, you will,” said Tyson. “This is the mail coach. It always gets there sooner or later. George, you know cars. What’s your guess about this one?”

“I wouldn’t venture even a guess,” McLeod replied.

“You’d never believe that it came from the U.S.A., would you? Nevertheless, it did. It was a Buick originally. Now it’s a peréoo uira and more Polynesian than the natives themselves.”

The bus was furnished with half a dozen seats, each of them capable of holding seven or eight passengers, at a pinch. The roof, enclosed with a kind of pig wire, had been made into extra cargo space. On its wabbling supports it sagged from one side to the other when the car was in motion. It was now loaded with crates of live fowls, some lumber and sheets of corrugated iron, two or three bicycles, a sewing machine, and a disorderly heap of battered household furniture. Festooned along the sides of the bus were strings of fish, bunches of bananas, green bamboos filled with taioro and other island delicacies from the market, and bundles belonging to the various passengers, tied up in faded pareu cloth. All the seats were filled with the exception of a small space on the front seat which the consul had reserved in advance for his two guests. Observing how small the space was, Tyson went forward to speak to the driver.

“See here, Tihoni! Do you call this room for two?”

The driver grinned apologetically. “I didn’t know how big a two you wanted it for, Mr. Tyson. There’s some could squeeze in it.”

“Well, these two can’t. And they’re going all the way to Tautira. You’ve got to shift someone.”

Tihoni turned with a hopeful glance to examine the seats behind. They were crowded to more than capacity. The two rear seats were packed with Chinamen who looked like truck gardeners or country shopkeepers. They had been fitted into their space with remarkable skill, and bulged out over the ends of the seats. The others, occupied by natives and half-castes, would have held not even the ghost of a passenger more; nearly every woman had a child on her lap and some had two or three. Tihoni scratched his head, but his face lit up as his glance fell on one of his fares in the second seat. This was a little old man at the end, sound asleep and clutching a three-gallon demijohn against his breast. With a nod to his supercargo, a burly youth with a cigarette hanging from his lower lip, Tihoni got down from his seat. The supercargo shinned up to the roof, which swayed perilously as he did so, and reached down to receive the aged sleeper as the driver boosted him up and tossed the demijohn after him.

“Good Lord, Tihoni!” the consul protested.

“ ’Sallright, Mr. Tyson. I always put him there anyway, when I got a load. He can’t fall off. Now, then ...”

Another front-seat passenger obligingly moved to the place thus emptied, and the others squeezed over a few inches so that Hardie and McLeod were able to wedge themselves down at the end of the seat. Their bags were tossed up to the supercargo, who stowed them away on the roof and then slid nimbly down. With a huge splay thumb, Tihoni pressed the button on his horn, which emitted a deafening blast.

McLeod winced. “Good-bye, Tyson,” he said.

“You haven’t gone yet, George,” Tyson replied. “That’s merely Tihoni’s signal that he’s ready to go if the engine is.”

“That’s right, Mr. Tyson,” Tihoni said with a grin. “I ain’t never sure just what she’ll do, but sometimes I can scare her into it.... Hey, Méa!”

The supercargo seized the crank and spun it until the sweat poured down his face, the passengers looking on hopefully. Presently the driver got down to take a turn. Tyson chuckled as he watched them.

“Tihoni has been driving this bus for the past fifteen years,” he said. “Every morning he has the same job, getting off, but the miracle always happens. I’ve never known him to fail to make his run.”

“What nationality is he?” Hardie asked. “He doesn’t look Tahitian.”

“You may well ask,” Tyson replied. “Not even the League of Nations could decide it. George, I ought to have told you something more about Mauri. She’s certain to ask you to stop at Vaihiva. Fara, the man you’re to stop with in Tautira, will direct you to her place. It’s eight or ten miles farther down the coast.”

At last, after prolonged and exhausting efforts at the crank, the worn-out engine burst into a clattering roar. Tyson waved good-bye. The ancient ruin leaped forward as the driver released the clutch, the heavily loaded top swaying from one side to the other on its rickety supports. The supercargo, who had turned to speak to a girl at the curb, swung himself aboard without taking his eyes from her face, and continued waving as long as she was in sight.

McLeod squirmed down more firmly in his seat. “I’ve a feeling that we’re going to enjoy this ride,” he said.

Hardie grinned. “Shouldn’t wonder. Who’s this sitting next me, did you notice?”

“Can’t say I did. Why don’t you look?”

“It’s impossible without rubbing noses.”

“Well, that’s an ancient island custom.”

“For all that, Mac, there’s something more than pathetic about it.”

“About what?”

“This thing we’re on.”

“Remember, it isn’t a motor bus. It’s a—what did Tyson call it? Anyway, something purely native.”

“Imagine traveling in the old days: twenty or thirty paddlers on a side in one of their superb canoes. And now, this contraption!”

“Well, there’s nothing we can do about it. I’ll bet these people are having just as good a time as their ancestors did in their canoes, and they don’t have to work so hard. What a jolly lot they are! I’ve heard more honest laughter in the past five minutes than you’ll hear in as many months, at home.”

“Wish I understood the language. I’d like to know what they’re so merry about.” Hardie regarded the swaying top. “Wonder how our old friend is, upstairs? He was tight, wasn’t he?”

“Tight! He didn’t even know they hoisted him up.”

“I’m beginning to like these people, Mac.”

“I’ve liked them from the day we landed. I can understand why Tyson’s stayed on here, all these years.”

“He’s a good sort, isn’t he?” said Hardie. “Hello! What’s all this?”

A vague sound of screaming was heard high above the clatter of the bus, then bowling along at its full twenty miles per hour. The driver brought the coach to a shuddering stop, and with his head turned over his shoulder backed fifty or sixty yards to a bridge over a small mountain stream. Having halted, he sat contemplating his bare toes while shrill cries of “Tapéa! Tapéa!” continued to be heard. They came from a small screened enclosure made of palm fronds at the bank of the stream, about a dozen yards from the bridge. The head and shoulders of a woman, evidently of huge proportions, could be seen above the enclosure. Tihoni, the driver, leaned across to speak to Hardie, regarding the old woman with disgust as he did so. “Ain’t she got a voice?” he said.

“What does tapéa mean?” Hardie asked.

“Stop,” said Tihoni. “Well, I have stopped, ain’t I? But old grandma don’t seem to know it.”

The old lady, certain at last that the bus was waiting for her, ceased her outcry, smiled amiably up at the passengers, and went quietly on with her morning toilet, exchanging gossip with several women aboard the bus while she toweled her head and bare shoulders vigorously. Meanwhile, the supercargo filled a gasoline tin with water at the stream and replenished the supply in the leaky radiator, which was steaming violently. When he stepped down he threw what water was left in the tin over the enclosure, where the old lady had just finished drying herself, wetting her thoroughly again to the delight of everyone, including the bather herself, after the first shock of indignation had passed. She then gave the young man a tongue lashing that must have been a diverting one, judging by the hilarity it caused. A moment later she emerged into full view with a pareu wrapped tightly around her fat body, and with one last “Tapéa” warning she waddled slowly toward her small house, thirty or forty yards distant. Some of the passengers got down to stretch their legs while waiting, and mothers led their small children behind convenient bushes; or, if the bushes were not convenient, it didn’t seem to matter. Ten or fifteen minutes passed before the old lady appeared again, dressed in a black Mother Hubbard and carrying a huge bundle which Méa tossed on top of the bus. She was about to scramble aboard when she remembered something she had left behind and returned to the house once more. McLeod slapped his knee. “Alan, we don’t have a bus ride like this every day. Tautira’s beginning to look farther and farther away.”

“I don’t care if we never get there.... Here she comes again. Maybe she’ll be ready now.”

This time she was, in fact, prepared to go, and, after scanning the various seats, the supercargo boosted her into one that already held six passengers, where she sank down on the joint laps of two protesting youths, and the bus proceeded on its way.

The early morning air was cool and refreshing and the sun still hidden behind the mountains. Stops were made frequently to unload parcels or passengers. Other travelers replaced the ones who descended, and for all the great variety of things delivered along the way, the bus seemed to be as fully loaded as when it had left the market place in Papeete. They crossed the mouth of a great valley where Hardie and McLeod had a glimpse of far-off jagged peaks, so blue with the color of distance that they were hardly to be distinguished from the sky itself.

Some miles farther on, another halt was made before an unpainted two-room house, as decayed as it looked deserted. The driver twisted his neck to question a passenger on one of the rear seats, and several others took part in the discussion which followed. Presently people began to climb down from the bus, the men helping the driver and supercargo to unload a great assortment of articles which had been stowed away beneath the seats. Two live pigs were hauled out from some place in the rear and tethered to the verandah posts. Then, from the roof, came a crate of fowls, the sewing machine, an old-fashioned gramophone with a horn, several family portraits in heavy gilt frames, enlarged and colored from photographs, and all the other household furnishings that had been piled there. While the perspiring workers stacked their burdens on the porch, an elderly native appeared from behind the house and stood regarding them with an air of detached benevolence. At last the job was done, the seats replaced, and the passengers were getting aboard once more. Dashing the sweat from his forehead, Tihoni now found time to greet the aged spectator, who smiled and made some brief and casual remark. To McLeod and Hardie, looking on at a distance, the pantomime which followed revealed its meaning with perfect clearness: the furniture had been unloaded at the wrong house. Back it all went on the bus, the desperate cranking of the engine was repeated, and they got under way once more. The driver turned to Hardie.

“What do you think of that old lizard-neck letting me unload all that stuff at the wrong place?” he said.

“Didn’t he say anything?” Hardie asked.

“Not a word till we was all through. He musta thought I was making him a present of it.” Tihoni grinned, good-naturedly. “I called him seven kinds of sons-of-bitches, in native. But it was my own fault. I ottua ast him first.” He winced and started at the sound of a loud report and the unmistakable hissing of a burst tire. “Sacré nom de Dieu!” he exclaimed. “And I ain’t got no spares with me!”

He had no jack, either, but with a boulder for a fulcrum and a lever of four-by-four pine borrowed from the lumber that was part of the freight, the wheel was soon raised. Two or three of the heaviest passengers sat at the end of the four-by-four, including the old lady who had halted the bus while she finished her bath. Méa removed the inner tube while Tihoni made an anxious search for a patch among the odds and ends of gear under his seat. At last he found one, and after prolonged scrapings of the rubber with a bit of rough coral and squeezings of an almost empty tin of cement, the patch was pressed into place and allowed five minutes to set; then the pumping began. Hardie and McLeod took their turns at this with the other men passengers, for the pump was as old as the bus itself and very little air went into the tube. But at last Tihoni thought the tire would do. The wheel was carefully lowered, but no sooner was the weight upon it than a dejected hissing was heard, the sound of which seemed to deflate Tihoni at the same time. “I ain’t havin’ no luck to-day,” he said. But such emergencies were, apparently, everyday affairs with him, and his usual passengers thought nothing of this one. The wheel was raised again; meanwhile children scattered along the road and into the near-by plantations to gather fallen palm fronds, stripping the leaflets from the central ribs. Armfuls of these were brought to Méa, who stuffed them into the empty tire and rammed the mass tight with a stick. Tihoni stood by to inspect the job, giving the tire a tentative kick from time to time with the ball of his bare foot.

“Do you think we can make it on that?” McLeod asked.

“Sure,” said Tihoni. “This ain’t the first time I’ve had to do it. Mebbe I can borrow an old spare when we get to Taravao. That’s the village on the Isthmus where we’ll stop to have lunch.”

“How’s the old fellow upstairs? Still asleep?”

“Upstairs... ?” Suddenly the driver smote his low forehead. “I forgot all about him,” he said. “Ain’t he off yet?”

“I haven’t seen him go,” said McLeod.

“He belongs in Punaauia,” said Tihoni. “That’s ten kilometres back. Hey, Méa!”

The supercargo glanced up from his work, grinning with brazen delight at the dressing-down given him by the driver. The old native on the roof was awakened and slid to the ground much refreshed, turning at once to receive the demijohn that Méa lowered after him. It was filled with red wine, which he shared generously with the passengers. He offered the cup to McLeod, who drained it with relish, patting his stomach and murmuring “Maitai! Maitai!” as he handed it back. The others smiled with pleasure at this venture into their own speech, and a merry time was had while the repairs were being finished. Then all climbed aboard again except the old man himself, who sat by the side of the road, his greatly lightened demijohn between his knees, smiling and waving his tin cup in farewell as the bus proceeded on its way.

“He doesn’t seem to mind your carrying him past,” McLeod said. “Is he going to walk home?”

“No, I’ll pick him up to-morrow on my way back,” said Tihoni. “He ain’t in no hurry, and he’s got a good copain there in that demijohn, as long as it holds out.... It don’t ride so bad, does it, on that tire? But they won’t be much left of it by the time we get to Taravao.”

It was well past midday when they reached the settlement on the Isthmus. Here a stop was made for lunch at a Chinese restaurant. The bus, rested and refilled with water and gasoline and with a well-worn but usable tire to replace the other, which had been cut to ribbons, seemed as much refreshed as the passengers themselves when they started again, and sped along the Afahiti coast at twenty-five miles per hour. The road wound through an enchanting landscape. Innumerable mountain brooks flowed into the lagoon, and sometimes a larger stream where groups of native women were at work washing clothes. Here on the peninsula the cottages along the road had a well-kept look, and the gardens, watered by almost daily rains, made patches of vivid coloring in the afternoon sunshine. The sun was setting as they rounded a promontory where the open sea dashed at the base of the cliffs, filling the air with spray shot through by rainbow lights. A short distance beyond they crossed a bridge at the mouth of a wide valley and entered the village of Tautira. Tihoni brought the bus to a halt in front of a Chinese store.

“You’re going to Fara’s house, ain’t you?” he asked Hardie, as they got down. “I’ll take you on there in a tick. Won’t be half an hour.”

Hardie smiled, inwardly, at this island conception of a “tick.”

“How much farther is it?” he asked.

“ ’Bout a quarter of a mile.”

“I shouldn’t mind walking. What do you say, Mac?”

“All right, then,” said Tihoni. “You can’t miss Fara’s place. It’s the last one you come to, on the lagoon side of the road.”

“What sort of a man is Fara?” McLeod asked.

“Numera hoé!” Tihoni replied, warmly. “He’s a great friend of Mr. Tyson’s. They go fishing together.”

“That’s all we need to know,” said McLeod. “Thanks for the ride.”

The driver grinned. “Hope you enjoyed it,” he said. “I’ll leave your things at Fara’s.”

The two men walked slowly along the grass-grown road, looking about them with lively interest. Turning to glance back, they discovered a crowd of small children following them at a distance, and from every house along the road they caught glimpses of heads peeping out at them from doorways and windows. The road dwindled to a footpath at Fara’s house. Wheeled vehicles could go no further, and from this point on, around the windward, southeast end of the peninsula to the settlement of Teahupoo, twenty miles distant, the few inhabitants were obliged to travel by canoe.

Fara’s house stood well back from the road with its well-kept lawn shaded by majestic breadfruit and mango trees. He came out to meet them as they approached his steps, and greeted them in very fair French. They were then introduced to Mrs. Fara and a married daughter and her husband, while a numerous brood of bashful curious grandchildren peeped up at them from below the verandah railings. Chairs were brought forth, and when a child had been sent for his spectacles, Fara scanned Tyson’s note of introduction with ceremonial gravity. He glanced benevolently at them over the top of his spectacles.

“Good,” he said. “Mr. Tyson’s friends are my friends. You are welcome here, as long as you wish to stay.”