Chapter V: Part 5

Deane did not move away from him, but she had an odd feeling. Once, she had had a dream that had given her the same sensation. She dreamed that in an adventurous moment she had descended to the bottom of the ocean, there to play with the mermaids, look at the starfish, and perhaps start a flirtation, harmless or otherwise, with friendly old Poseidon. She had dropped softly to the sands of the sea and it was more beautiful than she had expected. The water was the kind of blue pretty girls like in nightgowns. It was cool and restful and it felt good around her legs and her waist. She walked slowly and gracefully over the white sand and through the blue water. At last she saw a rock, half-embedded in moss; and there, holding it tightly, was her starfish. She knelt down to look at it. It was a large one of delicate yellow—not at all like those dried, smelly things she had studied at school. It was yellow, and it clung to the green moss. It seemed to be in love; but it was quiet. Deane knew it was asleep when she looked closer. Its crisp points were symmetrical and straight. Deane blushed, and through the twilight blue of the water the color of her cheeks was attractive to King Poseidon who had been peeking at her through a wall of seaweed. He was infatuated. She was different from Amphitrite. He loved Amphitrite—her long green hair, her white face and jeweled hips. Nevertheless, he wanted to kiss this strange woman. He wanted to kiss the color in her cheeks and touch her. But King Poseidon shook his head. Amphitrite could be very difficult if she became angry. Confound these appetites for rare and inedible dishes! Poseidon smiled though, a boyish, sheepish, proud smile. He had appetites. He was getting to be a little gray; and still, he had appetites. He looked at Deane once more, wistfully, and took his appetites to Amphitrite.

Amphitrite combed his beard. Poseidon looked at her and poked his finger at her and winked. She regarded him suspiciously, but when she saw the expression in his eyes something happened to her. Through the darkening blue her white cheeks softened, became pink and sent out threads of coral. Poseidon shook his head in wonderment and happiness. It was just what a man wanted. That was all. The memory of Deane faded from him as Amphitrite, her face still coral, gently removed his crown.

As the water became darker, Deane’s dream became less happy. She couldn’t compete with green hair, a white face and those commanding, jeweled hips. She was despondent. She didn’t want King Poseidon. She wanted the earth again and stars and a warm, comfortable hand. It was the didactic part of her spoiling a beautiful dream.

Some dreams can’t be shut off. As she drifted toward the surface of the water a white shadow crossed above her and twisted under her face. Its white was not a pure white, and there were dark objects fastened to its shoulders. Deane wasn’t afraid. The creature didn’t want her. It didn’t have any sense; but it was close and revolting. In her dream she floated slowly upward. She was strong and disdainful, but that didn’t push the creature from her. She rose slowly, grimly, with hate—motionless. Her hair caught the surface of the water. Stars poured into her eyes, the white shadow faded, and she awakened. She had gone into the bathroom and washed her teeth.

In the dining room Deane remembered this dream and her feeling for the snub-faced shadow. Carol leaned toward her. She did not fear him. She did not move from him, but she wanted clean air and a chance to brush her teeth.

“Carol,” she said, “Martin and I are very good friends. I believe in him.”

Carol lit another cigarette. He was bewildered. It was unfair. He had gone to Deane as a pal. He had tried to help her. His eloquent monologue still boomed within him. Then a friendly sorrow for himself killed some of the pain. He had done his duty although it had been unappreciated. He saw women—all womankind rotating under the phallic thumb of bestial domination. He shivered, reached for the check and stood up. Deane noticed that he left no tip for the waiter.

She hurried home and Carol returned to his hotel. He sat carefully on the edge of his bed and looked out at the moving cars and people. His face was serious. Deane needed him. His affection would win over this—this—he put his head down on the pillow and refused to think any more.

* * * * *

Deane glanced at the clock. Only an hour to wait. She was glad that Martin was coming at five. She was glad to get out of her tailored clothes and into the bath. It would be comfortable to feel her skin against the warm porcelain; to smell the soap and to watch the steam cover the glass. There was no aroma from the step-ins dropped upon the tile. Only the faint resonance of a discriminate healthiness from the underclothes was in the corner. Deane slipped into the tub, still wearing her brassiere and her wristwatch. Impatiently she took them off and now, she lay flat across the shoulders of the tub. Reaching around, with her eyes closed, she felt the cake of soap next her hips. She weighed it in her hands for an absent moment, thinking of Martin, and with a slow smile laid the bar upon one breast, which she had candidly lifted out of the water. The pride she held in her own body seemed an important thing to her and she constantly soaped the skin around her nipple in amusement—but laved it also, in possibilities too far to speak of, even to herself. At last the warmth of the bath claimed her more expressively than she had believed it could; and she remembered, with a shiver, the snows of childhood and buried herself again in the heat of the tub. One of her hands went gently, but shockingly to her knee; and again with a smile, not understandable, she lifted her body out of the water, which rang in constant drops of different colors from her naked throat.

While she dressed, she thought of her earrings. She chose a slender East Indian pair of beaten silver. They were long, nearly touching her bare shoulders, and of a deceptive quietness. She looked at her slippers—gold, vermilion, rust—at last selecting ones of purple from which she decided her gown. Its bodice, which she laced and tied, peasant fashion, closed tightly about her waist. The skirt swung slowly from her hips. She looked once more into the mirror and fastened her hair on one side behind her ear.

When Martin came, he put his arms around her, kissing her earrings and her throat, the scented smooth hollow under her arm, pressing her so close to him that she trembled.

“Tell me—what did you do to-day?” he whispered, holding her hand to his cheek.

“I went shopping,” she said. “And later, I had lunch with Carol.”

Martin spoke irritably.

“That one again? Why doesn’t he go back to the Dust Bowl?”

“He isn’t that bad, Martin.” Deane tried to sound convincing.

“I should think,” Martin said bitterly, “that you would be the last one to question my judgment where such people are concerned.”

Deane lifted her delicate eyebrows.

“I’m glad I’m your sweetheart,” she said. “That remark would sound curious to others.”

“I suppose it would,” replied Martin, a bit unhappily. “I’ll admit, I’m prejudiced as the devil, but I can’t help but see it. Carol’s learning new tricks. The crust is breaking. He lives among his fantasies—dreams fired by sagebrush and loneliness. His desire is volatile and his friends right now may affect the nature of his entire life. I’m sorry Roberts is mixed up in it.”

Deane was thoughtful for a moment. She cupped her chin in her hands and drew her small, slippered feet up under her.

“I believe you’re right, Martin,” she observed at last. “For the first time I see that it’s a dangerous combination. I still believe, though, that Roberts is the one who, ultimately, will try to harm you. He’s done it once and although you came out, he will try it again. He seems to know your vulnerable points.”

Martin sounded a little angry.

“Why can’t we just eliminate them?”

“It isn’t quite so simple as that, Martin,” answered Deane. “Roberts and I have mutual friends. I’d always be running into him. As for Carol—he has no one; and I couldn’t bear to hurt him.” Deane stared before her. “Besides,” she added, “I’m wondering if elimination could bring about anything but superficial results. Roberts is ingenious.” She turned to Martin impulsively and put her hand upon his arm. “Martin!—somehow, I don’t know how—but somehow, Roberts will strike at us!”

In the city light, in the dusk, Deane’s eyes were wide, as though some new and frightening thought had crossed her mind.

_CHAPTER XIV_

Rio left the bitt on which he had been sitting. He crossed the deck and walked down the ladder as the sea caught the ship and sent her rolling in long swells toward the Gulf Stream. He was going to his bunk when a man with a blue chin and hard, bloodshot eyes got up from the table where he had been drinking beer and went to him.

“Where’s your book?” the man said abruptly, in a high, angry voice.

“That ain’t no way to ask for it,” Rio said slowly.

The sailors’ delegate swore.

“Break out that god-damned union book!”

“You’ll find it under this,” said Rio, rubbing his fist.

“Oh! That’s it!” said the delegate, coming closer, unconscious that his lips were still moving.

“Sure,” continued Rio. “A chink in the Celebes told me wisdom came with lost teeth.”

“Get wise then!” yelled the delegate, and swung hard.

Rio ducked, but the blow caught him across the jaw and a little blood ran down his neck. For an instant, his face was the outlawed Baptist’s.

“Turn in,” he said, almost in a whisper. “The next time you might fall.”

The man swung again and Rio drove a wide fist straight into his face. Blood squirted out all over, covering both men. The delegate fell backwards; his head struck a stanchion. He rocked slowly and fell loosely sideways, his shoulder hitting the deck. Rio stepped over to the table and picked up the empty beer bottle.

“My God!” said one of the men. The rest of the crew turned the delegate’s face over. They couldn’t see the features. They talked among themselves quietly for a moment, then walked menacingly toward Rio. He jumped like a monkey into a corner, with the bottle in his left hand and his right fist cocked. He had pulled off his skivy-shirt and the men looked at his chest. It was brown and curiously bare. There was the mark of a slice bar and a dent across his ribs. They had never seen anything like it. They stopped and seemed to smell the blood. Suddenly they recognized the man—his style of fighting, the way animals do, without thought or compassion. Rio stood there, silent, massive, and the men went back to their bunks.

The able-bodied seamen carried the delegate into the washroom and started working on him. Rio put the bottle back on the table. Then he took his bucket and towel into the washroom. He didn’t look at the huddle in the corner, or at the delegate crying softly on a bench, or hear an occasional curse from one of the sailors. He took his bath and returned to his bunk, turned in and stared at the overhead. He could feel the slow roll and sudden pitch of the ship. He loved it and felt at home again....

There were swift movements in the dark around him. Then the main light in the fo’c’sle came on and it was quiet for a moment. He could hear a man cough.

“Is he?”

Another voice.

“Yeah. He’s dead.”

And still another.

“Let’s tell the mate on watch.”

“And have your gear turned inside out, you fool?” said the first voice.

“You’d look funny in the commissioner’s office, too,” answered the third.

“For God’s sake then, pipe down and let’s drop him to Davy. I can’t stand him in here. We’ll say he got drunk ashore and when he came in he fell on his face. He said his head ached and went on deck. We looked for him an hour.... I go to the second mate. He’ll soon be on watch. I tell him the story. Before he gets aft or calls the Old Man, you have the fo’c’sle cleaned and the beer hid. Stick by the story. That’s all.”

“What about the fellow who done it? He’ll be on watch with the second.”

“That guy ain’t human. He won’t show nothin’. O.K.?”

“O.K.”

Rio heard the noise die down and went to sleep.

* * * * *

Rio felt his arm being shaken. He saw a figure bent over him, wearing oilskins which glistened from a flashlight.

“Seven bells,” said the figure. “Coffee on the boatdeck. Watch it goin’ ’midships. She’s takin’ a few seas.”

Rio dressed silently, pulled on his sea boots and fastened his oilskins and sou’wester. On deck, he looked around the lee corner of the house and waited for a sea to break over. A small one came under the rail and hissed across the deck, winding up with a crash against the hatches. The white water ran into the scuppers. As she started to roll back, Rio ran as fast as he could to a ladder to the boatdeck. Then he went forward to a small house where a light was burning.

In there was a young man pouring coffee. His face was white and anxious. When he saw Rio he said, “They tell me you’re my watch partner.”

Rio smiled and nodded his head. He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down to drink it.

The young man spoke again.

“I was told to report for lookout duty on the port side of the bridge. I don’t know where that is.”

“I’ll show you.”

“But what do I do as lookout?”

“Ask the man you relieve,” said Rio. “And don’t be upset if the mate yells a bit. It’s hard for some of ’em to fasten a twelve-inch neck in a seventeen collar. Just lay low unless you see a ship comin’ up. Then tell it to him as best you can and let him swear all he pleases. We better go up now,” he added.

They went out into the wind and up the ladder to the bridge. The quartermaster, seeing Rio, left the wheel.

“One ninety-five,” he said. “One ninety-five,” he called to the third officer in the chartroom. The officer counted out the numbers and the quartermaster left.

The second mate entered the chartroom, relieving the third officer.

Rio saw the ship was on her course and looked out where his watch partner was walking hesitatingly toward the wheelhouse. He waved him back.

Soon, the second mate came in without speaking. He looked at the compass under the binnacle light. Then he stood up and silently regarded Rio, who gave the wheel a spoke or two. The mate became exasperated. He walked up and down, staring out of the glass. Suddenly he came over and looked at the compass again.

“You’re off six degrees. Heading this way, we might make Jamaica.”

“I had a wife there once,” said Rio, his face impassive. “It’s a good island.”

“Wife! You said—‘wife’?”

“Yeah. Up in the hills. She was a good worker, too.”

The mate lit a cigarette. It was twelve-thirty and Rio struck one bell. Attentively, the officer waited for a few minutes.

“Where’s that god-damned lookout?” He fastened his pea-jacket and went out on the bridge. Rio could hear voices through the wind and shrugged his shoulders. After awhile, the second mate came back puffing.

“A fine lot—a fine lot to work with!” he said.

A seaman stepped inside the wheelhouse and addressed the mate.

“There’s a man missin’, sir.”

“A man missing—a man missing? What do you mean? What happened?”

“I dunno. The sailors’ delegate got drunk ashore. He was a little foggy and fell on the deck. He didn’t seem to mind and said he’d take a little air topside. When he didn’t come down we went up and looked around.”

“Mother of Christ!” cried the second mate. “Break out the crew—No!” He recalled the man. “I’ll get the skipper.” He ran out of the wheelhouse, his jacket open.

The man who had reported the accident looked at Rio. Rio’s face was dark and kindly from the glow of the binnacle light.

* * * * *

Several nights later they passed the Gulf Stream and when Rio got up about eleven in the morning he saw the deep-purple waters of the Caribbean Sea. It was getting warmer. He put on clean dungarees and went to the sailors’ mess for a plate of soup. He could tell little from the expression of the men around him, but rather, felt their sullen disapproval and was indifferent to it. He ate his soup, asked for another plateful, ate it and went up to the wheelhouse again. He had been steering for about five minutes with the second mate beside him when the latter went out of the house. Rio could hear him climb the ladder to the flying bridge to check the compass. When he came down, he walked in front of Rio and closed the door on the weather side, although it was hot already. He came back, looked at the compass and smiled a peculiar smile. Suddenly, there was a sharp noise and a saccharine odor and the second mate, still smiling, went out on the lee side of the bridge.

Rio held his nose.

“A virgin,” he said to himself, leaving the wheel and throwing open the door.

The mate returned and brought the door to. A curious expression was on his face; but he still smiled as he left once more for the bridge.

“_That_ fish was picked up in Nagasaki,” said Rio aloud, and opened the door again.

The second mate slammed the door this time, standing by the wheel only a moment before wind cracked at his heels. Rio could see his tiny, blond mustache jump in the sunlight. But this time, Rio did not open the door. He followed the mate and stood beside him.

“For God’s sake! Get back to that wheel, you damned fool!” yelled the officer.

“Not till both doors are open and the weather’s cleared,” said Rio in an even voice. He leaned on the rail, his fine eyes glistening.

The second mate rushed into the house where the wheel had turned until the ship was twenty degrees off her course. Nervously, but with a calculated deliberation, he gave her a few spokes at a time, trying to protect himself from the captain’s eternal damnation. After awhile Rio walked past him, opened the weather door and took over. Neither man spoke until Rio was relieved.

The next day Rio was chipping spots on the deck when he felt a knee against his side. He pulled off his goggles and looked up. It was the second mate. Rio laid down his hammer and said, “I can hear.”

“You can hear—what?”

“I can hear trouble if that’s the way you wake me up again.”

The mate grew excited.

“Listen! What’s the matter with you? Don’t you know discipline?”

Rio got up. He didn’t say anything but his heavy brown face looked down with contempt.

The officer tried to retain his dignity.

“Why did you raise hell in the wheelhouse?” he asked.

Rio continued to look down at him.

“Because I’m a quiet-livin’ man. I’m modest. And I don’t like to be intimate.”

The second mate’s face turned red.

“Show me your union book,” he said briefly.

Rio shook his head.

“That’d be too intimate. You don’t carry your school-ship papers all the time, do you?”

“By God!” shouted the mate. “I’ll have you thrown in the brig. It’s hot in the forepeak.”

Rio grinned, a slow, malicious grin.

“And there’s dark nights and twenty-foot shark in the Gulf of Darien—a hell of a place for a snotty little mate to slip.”

The officer walked away. His eyes seemed red in the sun and he seemed to be thinking.

Rio adjusted his goggles and went to work. He liked to see each rusted, brown flake disappear under the blows of his hammer and uncover the bright blue steel below. Suddenly, once more, he felt a knee against his side. The mate had come back. He ordered Rio to move over to the port side and chip rust near the fishplate. Rio crossed the deck, watching from the corner of his eye the vicious look of the officer who was crawling into No. 2 hatch. Rio grinned again.

“A good place for ’im if a freak wave shifts the cargo,” he thought.

He had worked for an hour when he heard men shouting. The captain came down and ran aft, then back to the fore deck. Seeing Rio at work he hurried to him.

“Have you seen the second mate forward?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. About an hour ago. He told me to chip rust by the fishplate,” answered Rio.

The captain looked puzzled.

“By the _fishplate_? Quick, man!—was that the last you saw him?”

“That’s the last, sir.”

“Put her about!” the captain shouted up at the bridge. “See that a boat’s ready.”

The ship had just swung round when the second mate’s head appeared above the hatch. He blinked in the sunlight. His shirt was torn, his flashlight was crushed and he had a skinned right arm. He limped slowly toward the captain.

“I was just checking the cargo, sir,” he said. He turned angrily toward Rio. “I know that man saw me go down.”

The captain addressed his officer severely.

“Why aren’t you on the bridge, Mr. Birch? Do you check cargo on your own watch?—And with a beam sea like this running?”

“I’m sorry, sir,” answered the mate, looking away.

“Go and clean yourself up, Mr. Birch.” The captain turned to speak to Rio, but the steady blows of the chipping hammer were sounding by the fishplate.

* * * * *

Rio was standing outside the galley on the _Nancy II_ when she steamed along the South American coast into the harbor of Santa de Marina. Once before, when he had entered the bay, it had been night; and there, tucked at the feet of the Andes, the town was obliterated by the proximity of the moon. This time, by day, he knew that nature had sustained a lasting brilliance to endure around the many-colored houses—beyond, the olive shade of mountain; and before, the whitest line of sand between the elbows of the cliff that closed upon a canvas of blue harbor. Lesser energies surrendered in an atmosphere of light that dominated cooler tones.

It was late morning and Rio saw the ancient, Spanish town suspended. Soon it would be siesta time—a quiet drink and heavy sleep while native children watched the ship and languorously ate their fruit. Rio did not know he had the same pure look of indolence. The shore’s breath and the sound of hidden insects were leeward to the ship; but Rio recognized them all. This was a town so close to him with heat and spiced, familiar odors, its bright mantle turned away the thoughts of other things. New York—its equidistant problems that changed with unexpectedness—was left behind, or so he felt; and just before him was a point of tropics with a sweet demand he understood.

As the _Nancy II_ came alongside the banana docks she pulled up aft of another ship of about the same tonnage. The letters on her stern spelled _Swamp Rat_.

Rio ran forward to help with the lines. The gangplank was lowered and he went back to the fo’c’sle to wash up. Later, he saw the first mate, spoke with him and went down the gangplank into the heavy glare of the sun. Longshoremen were already unloading No. 4 hatch and the banana machine was being set up. A large gang of peons waited patiently to go to work. A sad-faced one with a skin of pure black saw Rio looking at them. He smiled suddenly, and from his squatting position jumped six feet in the air, clicking his bare heels together rapidly and coming down on one foot, his ragged trousers flapping. The rest of the peons clapped and laughed, shoving each other. But the black was watching Rio; and when Rio smiled, the black clapped louder than all the rest. Then quickly, as though he had just thought of it, he ran to a stack of freshly-cut bananas of a lizard-green. Seizing a huge bunch from the pile, he tossed it in the air and Rio, moving nearer, could see the hard muscles of the man strain as he caught it in both hands before it hit the ground. Some of the peons were chanting now, and some were slapping the boards of the warehouse with a native rhythm. But the black still watched for Rio’s approval and this time, when Rio clapped, the peon squatted down again, rolling his big eyes and making a clucking sound.

Amused, yet abiding by an adolescent impulse to exhibit, Rio walked to the bunch of bananas which the black had returned to the pile and took firm hold of the large stem with one hand. He threw himself forward, then backward and down, till the tip of the bunch was pointing upward and the stem was braced against his neck. Slowly he came up, the veins pulsing in his forehead and sweat trickling into his eyes. For a second he stood at full height. Then the white heat, the black men and the misty, green bananas began to turn. He staggered; but pulling himself together, lowered the bananas to the pile again. The peons laughed loudly and the big black jumped up and down. Easing closer, he examined Rio’s arm. At last, he called out to the others.

“_Dos músculos en un brazo!_” he shouted triumphantly.

A young oiler from the _Swamp Rat_ nudged Rio.

“What did he say?” he asked.

“He said I have two muscles in one arm.” Rio turned to the black and shook his head. “_Fué un engaño_—it was a trick!”

The peon grinned and his fellow-workers yelled, “_Engaño! Engaño!_—Trick! Trick!”

They were still noisy when Rio started for town. Off the edge of the wharf he heard children laughing happily. He noticed that a group of five was huddled around a bunch of bananas which had fallen from a truck. One of the children, a boy, dressed in a clean cotton shirt and ankle-length trousers, had his back to him and was flicking a little whip at the fruit. As Rio walked that way there was a shrill, warning whistle and the boy with the whip turned as though he had been pinched. When he saw Rio however, he straightened up and for a moment surveyed him carefully. Then he modestly lowered his eyes.

“A penny, sir mate?” begged the child.

Rio stared at the boy and struggled to think clearly. The face was that of Martin—the same chin, the same forehead. He had the same way of standing. Yes, he was a dark replica of Martin, much younger and with a more beautiful face—but still the face of his friend. One thing further startled Rio. On each cheekbone of the child was a clearly defined disk of rouge, the size of a dollar.

Rio felt a little angry and spoke roughly.

“What have you done to earn a penny?” he asked.

The boy seemed quietly mischievous and a flush appeared above the rouge. Rio thought he posed against the sunlight.

“If I trap my enemy, sir tarantula, sir,” he said, “then will I earn a penny?”

The rest of the children laughed.

“How will you catch him?” asked Rio, bending over the bananas for a possible sight of the creature.

The boy cracked his whip and pointed to the edge of the wharf. At his command several children ran and brought back an old piece of tarpaulin. This they held silently over the bananas, making sure that no light could filter in. Then the boy drew a line in the sand and spoke softly in a jargon unfamiliar to Rio. Whereupon with a shout the others threw back the canvas and a large, hairy spider which had crawled out into the darkness was revealed. The boy flicked his little whip—and the tarantula was divided. For a second, the halves quivered. The beauty of the boy’s eyes sharpened and the other children shrieked with glee. When the quivering ceased the lad stooped, and picking up one broken part of the spider, fastened it to the end of his whip. Rio dropped a penny, studying the little fellow, who looked down admiringly at his kill and at the coin.

Rio was suddenly thirsty and headed down a road by the sea for the town. It was a hot patch to cross that day and he stopped often to look at the harbor which somehow gave him the illusion of coolness. Once, as he stood, he noticed the boy with the little whip silently following. Rio put his hands on his hips and waited for him.

The child was excited, but restrained. He had been running and was breathing rapidly. His shirt was open and the damp cotton fabric was plastered to his slender body. Ringlets of dark copper hung to the small beads of perspiration on his forehead or curled away from his brow. His intense brown eyes looked directly at Rio and he stood most straight as though expectant and afraid. Rio was struck by the attitude and by the sudden unnatural impression of maturity. He had never seen a lad so full of fever—and knew this picture was as colorful as any wild and distant fragment of his own. The boy stepped nearer and pointed toward the town.

“May I walk through you, sir mate?” he asked.

Rio nodded his head and when the boy came alongside he dropped his hand on his shoulder. The lad was shaking. Rio took his hand away and the boy quieted. Rio started sweating. This wasn’t sense. He walked on more rapidly, the boy keeping pace with him.

“The Cafe El Americano stays open long, sir mate. Will you not see my sister first? She comes from the sea.” The child took long strides, matching those of Rio. He was nearly breathless. “Always ... out of the sea ... come our sisters and daughters.... Even to your big hefty.”

The sidewalks were narrow and Rio sat down on the curb and rocked and laughed and rocked till the charming old ladies crossed both themselves and the street for the rum this sailor must have taken. In solemn condemnation, they shook their fingers behind black fans with each other—but hastened away where they could laugh delightedly in their loneliness. At last, Rio stood up and wiped his eyes. He gave the boy ten cents in silver, looked at the drying tarantula still fastened to the little whip, and entered the Cafe El Americano. The lad’s face was wistful. He shook the spider violently, flinging up one delicate, brown hand.

Instead of standing at the bar, a group of seamen had grabbed some chairs and were sitting around while the proprietor brought drinks. Rio pulled up a chair and asked for a rum punch. The seamen were from the other ship and he did not know any of them. They were teasing a young sailor who was apparently making his first trip. The boy looked sullen. One good-natured seaman with the face of a German butcher whom the others called “Dutch,” was particularly amused. He turned to Rio, who was near him, and said, “The kid did like all of us, first time out—struck bells for stars, thinkin’ they was ships’ lights. The pay-off came after the mate gave him the devil and told him not to miss a god-damned ship, but to skip the stars; for we met the whole Pacific Fleet doin’ maneuvers, and the kid hit so many bells the Old Man came down and asked where in hell the fire was.”

The sailors roared and Rio smiled; but the harassed young seaman said, “Aw, shut up. God! You’ve told that fifteen times.” His face was as red as the German’s.

Dutch was still laughing.

“Wait till I tell it the thirtieth, lad—wait till I tell it to your mutter.”

“Wait till you tell it to my ‘mutter’!—God!” The kid threw himself at Dutch, both arms flailing. The sailors laughed and scrambled for him, holding him from Dutch who had his head in his lap and was howling louder than ever. Finally the kid was exhausted and the sailors set him up in his chair. Dutch got up, went over to him and gave him a pat on the back.

“I’ll tell you the last one I picked up,” he said. “I was in Iran when I got this yarn out of a peddler who had brought it down from Baghdad. He sold it to me for coffee.”

The kid grinned and the sailors settled down.

“This peddler,” continued Dutch, “said there was a couple up there soon to be married when the Sultan spotted the woman. He takes her into his harem and bein’ a cruel son-of-a-bitch, orders his Chief Barber to castrate the man. Then he plans to bring the poor bastard into the Royal Household as Chief Eunuch so he can watch the guy suffer every time he sees his old girl. The fellow asks one favor—that his father, who is also a barber, be the one to do the trick.

“The Sultan says yes, but that he’ll take a look afterwards to see there’s no funny business. Well, the father’s a sport and gives his son a stroke with his blade ’midships, and fastens him up with a few stitches. The man takes it like a good egg, only he fans himself a bit and takes a bottle of spirits in one swig. He lays around for several days, and finally gets up, a little pale, but whole in body except for his watch pocket. Then he goes to the Palace and the Sultan takes a few sights at the evacuated area and is satisfied.

“Now the Sultan has led a hell of a life, and the girl tips off her sweetheart that in spite of turtle eggs, snake wine, pampas beetles and blended herbs from Crete, the old boy can’t get it up. So the Chief Eunuch tells her he has a little surprise for her; and they go down to the lily pond to observe the constellations. Then he returns to his post and she to her couch to sleep sweetly. A few months later the Sultan gets suspicious.

“The Favorite says, ‘You did it in your dreams, Celestial Master.’

“‘O.K., my little sugared rose leaf,’ says the Sultan.

“And when the brat is born the Sultan slices off the heads of twenty prisoners to celebrate.

“Well, it wasn’t no time before the Favorite sidles up to him again.

“‘You had another dream, Celestial Master.’

“But this time he’s wise. He hides behind the reeds of the lily pond one night, and sees the Eunuch and his old girl come down the trail. In a few minutes the Sultan’s eyes pop out of his head. He hears the rustle of the grass and the next thing he knows, a tight mainstay and a tall foremast is reflected in the water of the pond beside the lily pads.

“Of course, both heads was thrown into the Tigris. But the Sultan, thinkin’ maybe the first time was a dream, handed over ten concubines and the Great Emerald of Phallis to his son.”

Dutch stopped talking. The seamen’s faces were blank.

“I don’t get it,” said one of the sailors. “How could Balled Billy swing it?”

“That’s what I paid coffee to find out,” said Dutch, solemnly. “There was a god-damned testicle under his vest. It didn’t come down when he was born. It was hangin’ high—but it worked.”

There was a moment of silence.

“God!” said the kid.

Rio went to the bar, had a small rum straight and left the Cafe El Americano.

The boy who looked like Martin sat, half sleeping, on the sidewalk where there was shade. He still clutched his little whip and Rio noticed that the dried portion of the spider was still fastened to it. When the child saw Rio he jumped up.

“At last, sir mate, are you ready to go to the house of my sister?”

It was mid-afternoon and as hot as a volcano. Rio wanted to find the coolest place he could and take a nap; but he looked at the youngster and said yes.

The boy piloted him through a small market. The siesta hour was over and the stalls were being reopened. The air was heavy with the odor of pawpaw and fish; heavier still with the heat. The cloying scent of khus-khus arose from one section of the market as an ageless woman, more Indian than Spanish, smiled between her shoulders and bobbed in front of Rio, one arm around a bundle of the grass. Rio, enjoying its fragrance, handed her a coin. In the stalls much of the fruit was so thickly covered with flies it was impossible to tell its original colors. The vendors, mostly Spanish, seemed indifferent to sales and followed Rio apathetically. Once, he stopped to admire a woven mat, then walked on laughing at the obscene pattern.

Alongside him the child waved his whip at the flies. At the next corner he stole a piece of dried fish. They passed the square gray box which was the solitary bank, the stucco houses with their virulent colors well moderated by the prodigality of vines, went on to the outskirts of town and into the Street of Curtains.

There was no sidewalk. They walked unhurriedly along the dusty road. Everywhere, the heat fell like individual hammers. It lay in a transparent film between the rows of houses and gathered in blue puddles across their path. It was too early for the girls to work and everything was quiet except for a wind from the harbor which disturbed the curtains that formed the entire front wall of each house. Once a small brown arm reached out languidly, and once they heard a giggle and a soft whistle.

“I like this Street, sir mate,” said the boy. “Everyone gets happy here by ten o’clock every night. Believe me, sir, they get fine and drunk here. Last night a girl smoked weeds and ran nakedly down the Street. She screamed beautifully and nakedly. And a seaman from the _Swamp Rat_ wouldn’t pay El Gaucho.” The boy laughed.

“Who’s El Gaucho?” asked Rio.

“She is the biggest woman on the Street, and has four Snakes working for her. When the seaman didn’t pay for one of her girls, we all knew what. Yes, he was fine and bloody when she finished whipping him with her garbage can. Some of the girls, sir mate, call her ‘Mister.’ And that might be truth, for I saw her give money for just a feel to a woman. But sir, we are home.” He took Rio by the hand, pushed aside the curtains and they went into the house.

A girl was sitting in the corner, reading a book by the dim light of a lamp. The boy ran to the table upon which the lamp was burning and turned up the flame, although it was blazing outside beyond the tightly drawn curtains.

The girl closed her book and looked at Rio steadily for a moment; and Rio felt that he had entered a different country. There was a wild perfume, sharp as a chemical. In the angle of light and cut of the draperies the girl’s skin became darker. Rio tried desperately to find her eyes which were vague under the heavy lashes. She was not so beautiful as her little brother; but some mystical quality outlined her charm more severely.

“Hello,” she said.

The boy went to her and caught her about the waist, holding on until the girl bent over and kissed him on the forehead.

“Hello,” said Rio, feeling awkward, and yet wanting savagely to hold them both in his arms. That might be his salvation. He desired them both with such a horrible necessity that for a second he was paralyzed. They moved apart and Rio felt that one moment of fruition had been blasted into Hell. He took off his cap.

“My sister isn’t from here,” said the boy to him jubilantly. “I love her, and I like it here. But I wouldn’t want her from here.” He turned to the girl. “I’m going to make a cool green drink for sir mate, and bring him a cool towel, sister. For he’s had that bad rum at the Americano.”

The girl’s expression did not change when the boy had gone; but she motioned Rio into a chair.

“Where did you find him?” she asked. “Where did you find my little brother? Marius is a strange child. He drifts around, but he seems safe from everybody—” her voice rose passionately, “—everybody.”

Rio replied absently, fascinated by the girl’s frail dignity, so contrary to her enterprise.

“I found him playin’ in the sand by the banana docks,” he said. “He kind of reminded me of my best friend. Somehow, he made me think of Martin.”

The girl spoke frankly.

“It only happens so. Our father loved our mother and lived here many years with her. One day he was caught in a storm. He was fishing—” She hesitated. “And after that, our mother could not remember things. It was well she died.... He was an educated man—a gentleman who came this way.... That is why the boy speaks as he does. He remembers the lessons of our father.”

Marius returned to the room with a chilled lime drink for Rio, and rubbed Rio’s face with a moist towel.

“Where did you get the ice?” asked his sister, smiling. “Did you steal it?”

“No,” answered the child. “I bought two pennies’ worth from the ugly red man in the ugly red cart.” He picked up a box of rouge and went to a wide mirror. Then he carefully repainted his cheeks. The deep color, though applied in indiscriminate and garish quantities, served still further the willful abandonment of his features.

“You use too much,” said his sister. “Why do you use so much?”

“Because it makes me look like an old girl. Just like an old girl I know,” replied the boy.

“That isn’t true, Marius,” answered his sister scornfully. “You think it makes you pretty. You’re too pretty already. The Snakes have told you it was pretty, and you let them play with you. I won’t let them play with you.” The girl’s cheeks were flushed.

“A damned poor women are the Snakes,” said the boy. “Before that happened, I’d talk sassily. Besides, I don’t like women.” He threw the rouge back on the dresser and left.

Rio walked over to the girl.

“This is a queer place, sis, and he’s a queer boy, and you’re a queer girl. I don’t get it. I feel almost like one of the family, and yet—” he put his arms under the girl’s shoulders and lifted her to her feet, “—and yet, I feel funny. Like I been doped. I’m crazy about you and the kid and the story you told me. Aw, hell! Why talk about it.” Almost angrily he took a twenty dollar bill from his pocket and laid it on the dresser.

The girl didn’t smile. She looked curiously at the money for a moment and then covered it with a book.

Rio held her tightly and then stepped away, his eyes closed. When he opened them she was quietly undressing. He tried to help her. But his fingers were clumsy.

The girl threw back the curtain around the bed and lay down, her eyes staring upward as though searching for something. Rio looked up too, and saw a tapestry hung like a canopy over them.

“The Madonna!” he cried. “Good God! Not here!—where She can see!”

The girl lifted herself. On her face lay the shadow of pain. She spread her thick hair on the pillow with swift fingers, except for one dark strand which cut across her breast like a wound.

“Why do you mind Her?” she asked. “She is kind.... She is forgiving.... She is there, where one can pray to Her—afterwards.”

There was no hesitation in the girl’s voice—no quality of naïveté or assumed virginity. There was a cold knowledge of fatality and an inflexible acceptance. There was even the protective shroud of fanaticism; and Rio saw her, gentle, but receptively immune.

He thought of Martin. Martin would turn the picture of the Madonna upside down and go ahead.... Yes, he thought, Martin would take her and her sisters—and even old Agnes in the unplowed field. But he wasn’t Martin, thank God!... And for a second or two he repeated to himself, “Thank God! Thank God!”

“No,” he said. He knelt down and held the girl as though she were a child. He whispered something to her and she smiled at him. After a bit, he stood up and searched through all his pockets for coins. He found that it amounted to about ten dollars. He laid this with the other money.

The girl had put on her light dress and they stood for a second by the curtain. They stood looking at each other. Then Rio went out into the early twilight.

That evening the girl did not light the tiny kerosene lamp outside her curtained doorway.

* * * * *

As Rio started up the Street of Curtains Marius ran to him. The boy was chewing vigorously on a sandwich and in the hand in which he held the whip was a package. He gave it to Rio who found a similar sandwich within the package.

“Try it, sir mate,” he said. “It’s good, if you’re on the gamey-flavor side of things.”

Rio bit into the sandwich, found it tough and certainly on the gamey side, but made palatable with some lettuce and pepper sauce. It was refreshing to him; and he was glad to see the boy again; gladder still to leave, for awhile, the world of frangipani—a world which called and yet rebelled inevitably against him.

By this time lights were beginning to be seen along the Street, and a few brown girls began to call to Rio. One unusually persistent one followed them for several paces.

Marius stopped, turned round and said in Spanish, “Bah! How many times would you have a man break his back!”

The woman replied in a high voice.

“Shut up, little pimp!”

To which the boy shouted, “How will your favorite cat look when I eat him to-morrow night?”

The woman screamed and ran back to her stall.

Rio looked at his sandwich suspiciously, then dropped it guardedly where the child could not see.

They went back to the ship the same way they had come. On the edge of the town by the road to the sea, the boy tugged at Rio. Nearby, an hibiscus bush was in full bloom. Marius pointed to it. The red disks on his cheeks glowed in the twilight. Fastening his trousers about his slim, bare ankles, he leaped into the air and caught one blossom. Then he gave Rio a shy, sweet glance and gravely hung the flower behind his ear....

* * * * *

Rio was carrying the little whip when they walked onto the docks. He looked down at the child beside him.

“Sir,” he said to the boy, “do you think I could catch sir tarantula, sir?”

He didn’t know whether Marius was crying, for his own eyes were wet. But he did know that a child of untranslatable beauty, with a mouth like a bow and a heart which he knew was indisputedly his, was standing quite still before him. He lifted the boy—kissed him on the mouth, and headed for his ship, half stumbling.

_CHAPTER XV_

When Deane opened the door Rio was standing there. He bent his head a little as the light from the room beyond fell upon him. He looked at the back of his wrist where an ugly scab, ripped by a loose strand of cable, seemed an offensive sight in front of this woman. He tried to cover up the wound with his cap. It was such a painful moment as he stared at his great crude hands that Deane moved instinctively toward him. She saw the hurt, shamed child in him, but more than that, within the tense breach she saw the man. Rio’s arms, which now hung by his side as though he were disgraced, fascinated her, then became repellent by her very daintiness. Yet she ventured still further. What a wide cloth across his wrist! And why the heavy jaw and painted muscles of his neck—dark by one edge and golden by his collar!... What a tie!—so hideous, that clarified the purpose in his eyes! For now he was looking down at her.

“Close,” he said in a low voice. “Very close,” he repeated, remembering the urge, the fomenting inspiration when he had left her before. In his eyes Deane had the appearance of a small, dark seal. It was more than the shimmering under her dress—more than a watery sea movement of her hips that led him on until he touched her. As he held her by the arm her black velvet gown fell sharply away from her throat, and he looked for the first time at her breasts. The maturity, the obvious, sleek movement contained within her resembled his own feeling now. He lowered his head. Deane closed the door and clasped her hands behind his neck. His lips were burning her unbearably. She tried weakly to brush them off.

“I can’t help it,” she almost cried. “I can’t.”

Rio took his face away from her throat and laid his hands upon her thighs. Without effort he lifted her high above him. He was calm. There was no note of hysteria in his voice, only a slight tension of his muscles. Then he said, “Spit!” turning his face sideways so that he could feel it better. “Two dogs,” he repeated intensely. “Spit!”

Held like a doll above him—understanding his meaning, accepting the fact of her treachery, Deane turned as wild as the awakened animal beneath her. She knew that she was floating, knew that she was full of hatred for Martin and not Rio. She opened her little red mouth and spat against Rio’s cheek—once, twice, three times!—until she was breathless. And Rio, grim, lost again from his friend, lowered her and shook her by the hair until they came together squarely and the dull sound of illicit kisses moaned through the empty corridor.

When Rio released her they stood apart, looking at each other with only Deane’s breath and the metallic drops upon his cheek as a memory. Then Rio sighed and wiped his face with the cuff of his sleeve.

“Whatever kind of God there is,” he said, “I’m damned! _Now_ I’ve showed Martin the kind I am!” he continued as if to himself. “He’s crazy—he’ll know.... And as for you,” Rio turned to the woman once more and whispered fiercely, “you’re a black witch.”

Deane was leaning against the wall, still breathing heavily. She made no attempt to answer and Rio continued.

“We better go in now and face him,” he said. “It’s the first time in my life I been ashamed like this.”

“I’ve kissed a fool,” replied Deane in a soft voice, “and I don’t want to stand here any longer with him!” She bit her lips. “Mr. Roberts will be glad to see you. Come on in.” She opened the door.

“I’ll come,” said Rio, following her.

Martin heard his voice and stood up.

“Hello, Rio,” he called. “That was a short trip.”

Without speaking, Rio went to him. Then he looked around, frowning, saw Roberts, saw the young man he had met in the hall and another, a stranger. Martin watched him with a puzzled expression.

“What the devil?” he asked.

Deane interrupted.

“I believe you know Mr. Roberts, Rio,” she said.

Rio turned in the adviser’s direction, shrugged his shoulders and nodded.

“I know him, Mrs. Idara.”

Roberts was sitting at the far end of the room. The north light from the window was so severe that it formed a blue overshadow on his dark hair and outlined his proud face in a series of sharp angles, unnoticed by any but Deane. He arose and bowed stiffly, his lips set.

Carol had been watching the newcomer intently all the while and now at this cue from Roberts, he skirted two chairs and smilingly eager, held out his hand to Rio who looked amused.