“It's a shame to exploit them that way.”
Nancy winked at me. “Whether we return with money or not makes little difference in our lives for money is not a necessity here, only a trinket.”
“Sometimes Eddie and I miss those 'trinkets,' but it doesn't worry us too much.”
“Money can be a burden. I am the last of my family—in the States—and from various inheritances, some from people I've never seen, I have almost a half-million dollars back in Boston. That will be Louise's some day, but lawyers constantly write me and are puzzled as to why I never invest.”
I stopped walking. “You have a half a million bucks?”
She looked at me sharply. “Why? Does that make any difference? If it was waiting for you in the States, would you give up all this peace, rush to get it?”
“Well ... I don't know.”
She suddenly laughed and reached up and ran her hand through my wild red hair, knocking my cap off. “I like you, Ray, you're honest—I think. Now, let's stop talking about a silly thing like money and start walking. Another turn and we'll be on the other side of this stupid hill, in view of the house.”
When I had my first up-close view of Stewart's house it was breath-taking. The house was made of hard pine wood, all bleached grey-white by the sun, and built like a Swiss chalet. It had three stories and how it clung to the sharp slope of the mountain was a puzzle. From the rear porch one could spit several hundred feet straight down.
“A monstrosity of conceit, isn't it?” Nancy said.
“It must have cost a fortune.”
“Indeed it did. Edmond sold two of his silly books to the motion pictures for a fantastic price back in—can't recall when. Sometime in the twenties. He spent it all on this—much like the islander who has the car below. Unfortunately he has been forced to live in one room for the last several years—he's bedridden. I am anxious for you to meet him, like him.”
We walked through a large and well-cultivated garden with pear and peach trees, along with mangoes and other tropical fruits, and reached the entrance of the house which was on the middle floor. A fat islander in clean white drill shorts came out to greet us, followed by several young girls dressed in pareu cloths. They greeted Nancy with great delight, hugging and kissing her and I could make out enough of their dialect to hear the man say, “We are pleased you return to us so soon, Mama. What is new in Papeete? Did you bring the cigarette holder I want?”
The “Mama” was merely a form of greeting, but the old lady had said she hadn't been here in years and now I wondered why she lied to me. She got a bit flustered and stopped their talk by taking out small gifts from her handbag.
I was standing in the doorway, lost in all this chatter. One of the girls asked if I wanted some cold beer. Before I could answer yes, a deep, bull-like voice roared through the house with mild thunder.
“Nancy Adams! Lord God, what are you waiting out here for? Come to me at once. And bring the young man for me to examine!”
The girls giggled and Nancy sighed. She took me into another room while I wondered how this Stewart knew I was coming.
The room was tremendous, the entire width and depth of the house, with great sliding windows giving a complete view of the harbor and the ocean. In a large bed near the windows a thin little man was propped up on two pillows. He had a crazy white beard starting below his eyes and going half way down his chest, where it was neatly tied with two red ribbons. His long face seemed all hair, but the eyes were sharp and alert, and what little skin could be seen was transparent and wax-like. The beard around his mouth was stained a dirty tobacco brown.
He waved a scrawny hand with two large black pearl rings at us, and his shoulders were bare, sickly and pale. He had a thin blanket over him, and an open book lay upon it. Books were also piled on the floor all over the room. As he waved his arm at us again, the covers fell back a Utile and I saw the butt of an automatic lying beside him.
This almost comic deep voice came out of his shriveled body as he roared, “Well damn it, young man, take a seat! You, Nancy, you look trim and young and if I was able I'd pull you down into bed with me.” This was followed by deep laughter which shook his little body. He had some kind of pillow under his legs for the lower part of the thin cover bulged.
Mrs. Adams laughed coyly, a shrill little laugh. “You must be getting senile, Edmond, you sound like one of your horrible characters.”
This snappy line seemed to amuse the old boy, who looked like he was at least a hundred, and he sent out more waves of bull-laughter. Then he asked, “How long are you staying, Nancy?”
She looked at me and I said, “A day or so, depending upon what trading we can do.”
His eyes brightened and from under the tobacco stains in his beard he said, “A sweet sea boat, Mr. Jundson. I watched you coming through the channel hours ago. A very pleasing boat, indeed. There is not much trading here. We don't bother with copra except the old men make some when they feel like it. Mostly the men go in for diving and naturally that filthy scoundrel, Buck, bleeds them out of every sou. If you were collecting junk and scrap, this would be the island for you.”
Nancy suddenly stood. “Edmond, if you are about to lecture on mankind, I think I'd rather spend the time taking a tub. Hot water working?”
“You know I haven't left this cursed bed for a year. How would I know if the blasted hot water is working? Go, go, wash yourself with smell soap, be a silly female. We men have talk.”
“I know,” Nancy said, heading for the door like a hammy actress murdering an exit line, “and man-talk is so boring.”
When she left, Stewart chuckled in his beard, told me, “Isn't it wonderful the way she is still a child at times?” His eyes were staring at me and I didn't know if I was supposed to answer, or not. So we both were silent for a while, as I tried to figure the old duck out. Then he asked abruptly, “How long have you been in the islands, Mr. Jundson?”
“Over a year.”
The eyes seemed to be judging me for a long moment, then Stewart said, “I doubt you're a crook. Remittance man?”
“Might be called that. I emptied my wife's bank account and came here. You see, I'd read a good deal about the South Pacific, including all of your books.”
Stewart actually snorted, the brown hairs around his mouth flying up. That impossible deep voice asked, “What did you think of my books?”
“Oh ... I'd rather not say.”
Tell me! I'm not a moron. I know they are pure crab dung, but I never thought anybody would take them seriously.”
“Well ...” I felt both angry and uneasy talking to the old guy—everything about him seemed so unreal. “Why didn't you write the truth?”
“The truth is a luxury few can afford. Someplace on the shelves over there you'll find a moldy manuscript. That's the truth. I wrote it in 1937 when my name was at its zenith but not a publisher would take it. I told the most sordid story of history, how every white pig, scum, and crackpot came to a paradise and committed mass murder. How in a little over a century we had killed four-fifths, or over eight hundred thousand, of the sweetest people the Lord God ever put on earth. The most needless and wasteful crime in history!” One thin hand crept down to the butt of the gun under the covers and for a second I thought he was going to shoot me.