Читать книгу Mid-Pacific - James Norman Hall - Страница 6

Table of Contents

As a matter of fact I didn’t awake until nine o’clock. My host had slipped a note under my door. ‘Good-morning!’ it read. ‘Your coffee shall be waiting for you when you wish it. You shall find me at my store.’ And there it was I found him a few moments later. He had just opened another packing-case, and had arranged along his counter a dozen large funeral wreaths of imitation flowers made of colored glass beads strung on wire framework—the kind one saw during the war in every French cemetery back of the trenches. Evidently the holocaust of 1914-18 had not fulfilled the expectations of the makers of such equipment, and the surplus stocks were being disposed of wherever a market for them could be found. All the wreaths bore ornate beaded inscriptions twined among the flowers: ‘Mort Pour La France,’ ‘Mort Pour La Patrie,’ and the like. Monsieur Clémont stood before them, lost in admiration.

‘These shall be so beautiful in our cemetery,’ he said. He carried one to the doorway to examine it under a better light, but immediately he turned to me with an exclamation of astonishment.

‘My guest! Captain Handy is coming! Never he visits the land since long time! He wishes to greet you!’

He stuffed the funeral wreaths back in their box, moved it to one side, brought out another chair and placed a small table beside it. Then, excusing himself, he hurried over to his house and returned with a pitcher of water and two tumblers which he placed on the table. Meanwhile the captain, who was being rowed ashore by one of his retainers, had almost reached the wharf.

‘Way enough!’ he roared, and then, ‘Stern all!’ as though in command of at least a dozen rowers. The old native backed gently on his oars and made fast at the end of the pier. The captain climbed the ladder, and with the sailor following at a respectful distance, came slowly up the beach. Under an enormous sun helmet, with his white beard streaming out from under it, he looked even more gnomelike than he had the day before. Monsieur Clémont went out to meet him, but he waved him aside without speaking and entered the store. He gave me a nod, sat down, and with his hands braced on his knees and his head drooping forward, breathed heavily for some time, puffing out his cheeks as he exhaled. It was plain that he was all but exhausted.

‘Warm,’ he said at length, and again I gave an inward start of surprise at the deep, sonorous voice issuing from the corpse-like body.

I agreed that it was.

He turned his head slightly, and the ancient retainer, who was standing behind his chair, stepped forward and put a bottle on the table.

‘Have a drink?’ he asked.

‘With pleasure,’ I replied, and he poured out two half-tumblers of rum. He drank his own at a gulp.

‘Well, sir!’ he said, smacking his lips and sucking in on his beard, ‘I understand you’re going to make us a visit? This your first trip in the Pacific?’

‘The first, I replied. ‘I came six months ago.’

‘Hmm! I’ve been out here fifty-two years.’

‘As long as that! You must know these islands pretty well.’

‘I’d like to meet the man, white or kanaka, that knows ’em better. But they’re not what they were. You ought to have been here in the seventies. Then you might have had something to write about. Our friend here,’ with a contemptuous nod toward Monsieur Clémont, ‘tells me you’re an author.’

‘Oh, no. Hardly that. I’m merely traveling. I’ve always wanted to visit the South Seas.’

He poured himself another stiff drink.

‘That’s right. Keep your business to yourself. That’s been my practice. I reckon story writers are like the rest of us—they want a free field if they can get it and no competition. Ever hear of a man named Becke?’

‘Becke? Do you mean Louis Becke, the writer?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘Oh, yes, I’ve read many of his stories.’

‘They say he made a pile of money out of ’em?’

‘It may be,’ I replied. ‘His work is popular in America. Did you know him by any chance? I believe he spent most of his life in the Pacific.’

‘Know him! I’ve got the best of Louis Becke many a time trading through these islands. But I wouldn’t have thought he had it in him to be an author.’

‘His stories have the stamp of truth on them,’ I remarked, ‘and they’re written simply. Readers like that.’

The captain snorted contemptuously.

‘Truth? I can tell you more truth about the South Seas in twenty minutes than Louis Becke could tell you in twenty years. And that’s what I’ve come to see you about,’ he added. ‘I’ve got an offer to make you.’

Again he turned his head, and the old native who watched his every move, placed before him a parcel wrapped in a newspaper.

‘As I said,’ he went on, ‘I’ve been fifty-two years in the Pacific. I know it from the Carolines to Easter Island as well as you know the back of your hand. Romance? Adventure? I’ve had more of it in a day than most men have in a lifetime. Well, the last two or three years I’ve been writing out some of my recollections. I’ve got ’em in the back of this old ledger, not everything, of course, but the most interesting ones. Now, then, what I want you to do is this: take this book, read it over, print it out for me on your writing machine on nice paper, put in any fancy work you want to about waving palms and blue lagoons, and when you go back to America get it made into a proper book for me. Here’s a chance you won’t have again in your whole life. It’ll sell, you needn’t worry about that, and I’ll go halves with you. We’ll split fifty-fifty. How’s that? Fair enough?’

I tried to excuse myself, but it was useless. He thought I was merely holding out for better terms. By that time he had more than half emptied the rum bottle, and he went on at great length to assure me that I should have little to do except to make a fair copy of his manuscript and carry it to some publisher.

‘It’s all there,’ he said, laying his hand on the parcel; ‘and better as it stands than any story Louis Becke ever wrote. Wait till you read it! Man! there’s a fortune in it! But mind! I want my share! I’ll go fifty-fifty and not a penny above it!’

‘It’s not that,’ I explained again, and so it went on. I was astonished to see that frail old man—he looked as though he might drop dead at any moment—carry his liquor so well. I had had but the one drink. He alone finished the rest of the bottle, and the only apparent effect was to make him more loquacious and argumentative, to accentuate the bell-like quality of his voice, and to deepen his conviction, both that he had a masterpiece here and that I wanted the lion’s share of the proceeds from the sale of it. At last I agreed to read it. He pushed the parcel across the table, and keeping his hand on it, drew down his eyebrows and regarded me suspiciously.

‘I can trust you?’ he asked.

‘You’ll have to,’ I replied, ‘if you leave it with me.’

He weighed the matter and decided that the risk must be taken. Then he tried to pour himself another drink. Noticing that the bottle was empty, he rose.

‘Time to go aboard,’ he said.

He grasped the corner of the table, swaying slightly. The ancient retainer gave him his helmet, and made a timid offer of assistance, but the captain threw off his arm and walked gingerly to the door. I watched with concern as he went along the rickety wharf and down the ladder to his skiff. He managed it without accident, however, took the tiller, and ordered his oarsman to push off. When halfway out to the vessel he turned with difficulty in his seat, and looked back, holding his helmet against the sun.

‘Be careful of that ledger,’ he called out. ‘And mind! Fifty-fifty! Not a penny more!’