I had to hand it to him, he didn't react the way I expected. He barely reacted at all—merely glanced up at me, his eyes widening a little but nothing else disturbing that groomed after-shaving-lotion face. Then he threw back his head and laughed, real deep laughter.
I pulled out a chair and sat down. “Thought I looked a fright, not funny,” I said. ”
“Ray Jundson! So this is where you've been staked out!” he said. His Dale Carnegie voice hadn't changed. “My God, I've looked all over the country for you, even hired a private dick. It's rather funny to stumble across you here! What are you doing in Tahiti?”
“I didn't come on any cruise ship with a round trip ticket in my pocket,” I said, taking a cigarette out of his pack and lighting it. I still couldn't feel angry at the guy.
He finished his drink, his eyes taking in all my torn and worn clothing. He held up his empty glass and I nodded. He ordered two. Barry said, “You look good. Weather-beaten face, body leaner. Just what are you doing here?”
“Living the good life, the one we always bulled about. I'm a South Seas trader, with my own boat and all the rest of it. Or has the South Seas kick worn off for you?”
“No, the dream is still there. Or I wouldn't be on this cruise. Ray, you really went and did it, like in the books?”
“Yeah. The books were liars but it still is pretty good. I've even been to the house of Edmond Stewart.” The waiter put bur drinks before us and I grinned at Barry. “Like the old days, gassing about the islands over cocktails.”
Barry pushed his hat back. “I can't believe it. Never thought you'd have the nerve.”
“You gave me that,” I said, taking a drink. The gin was smooth and strong. “When I... uh ... found you and Milly, this seemed to be the ideal way of getting even. How is she?”
“You really want to know?”
“No, but how is she?”
“Exactly as you left her, hard, tough, pushing. You know, Ray, I always thought of you as a good-natured dope. Not about Milly, but in general, a slob in a middle-class rut. But by God, you fixed me! I never thought you'd be here, living my dreams and ...”
There was sincere envy in his voice and I enjoyed it. “Milly with you?”
“Hell no, she certainly is not with me. Frankly, Ray, I kind of ran off. She's put me through a grinder this last year and when I lucked up on a small windfall, returned taxes, I simply chucked everything and left. Does she write you?”
“Doesn't know where I am.”
“You don't know she divorced you?”
“Did she?”
Barry slapped his hand on the table. “That bitch! Said she was in touch with you all the time. You were out west supposedly drinking your sorrow and getting ready to sue me, big scandal stuff. Milly even nicked me for a couple of grand to 'keep you quiet.' Then she insisted I get a divorce and marry her. I had to give my wife damn near every cent I had.”
“This is mere curiosity—did you ever care for your wife, Barry?”
“In a way. She was convenient, like a perfect maid. Ran my house exactly right, could be relied upon to say the correct things when we entertained. She was a wife in quotes, never came alive for me. Much as I hate Milly, in her own bitchy way she's real—all Milly. She secured a divorce, claimed with your consent—and by God, maybe her divorce isn't legal! Wire my lawyers to look into that. That would be the first piece of luck I've had since you pulled out.”
“You and Milly are married?”
He nodded. “Trapped would be a better word. She's got her hooks into everything I have, tied me up proper. Even pulled a phony pregnancy trick on me to make sure I married her. Milly is ... I didn't come to Tahiti to talk about Milly. Man, tell me the truth, how is it—really?”
It took me a half a dozen drinks to tell him, and I told him pretty straight—about Olin and Buck and Forliga and Pella-Pella—puffing things up just a little, maybe forgetting about the copra stink and the bugs. Barry sopped it all up, envy on his face. And we both kept drinking gin and limes, were pretty crocked by the time I got around to Ruita.
He said, “God, a beautiful girl and an island, too! But if you didn't know you were divorced how could you consider marrying her?”
“Still have your suspicious mind, don't you Barry? Look, in the islands the marriage ceremony isn't important. People live together because they want to, not because a hunk of paper binds them together.”
“But are you married to her or not?”
“That is a question I've been trying to decide myself,” I said, staring at his expensive yacht cap: where the gold anchor was I saw a small TV screen and on the screen was the scene of Barry and Milly in my bed, me merely turning and walking out of the room without hitting him. I kept watching this scene, over and over, right on his cap—and knowing I was damn drunk—as I tried to explain my doubts about settling down with Ruita.
When I finished, Barry stood up and swayed as he fought to keep his balance, announced, “Ray, you've been selling me a crock of bull. You have a dream girl on a beautiful island but you're worried about too much quiet! Know what I think? You haven't a boat, haven't a damn thing! You're on the bum here. By God� bet you've only been here a few days at that, probably thrown off some tramp freighter!”
When he stood it was hard for me to see the scene on his cap. I stood up too, said, “Okay, I'll show you my boat. Pay for the drinks, executive.” Now the scene came into sharp focus. Barry on his stomach, Milly sitting up and saying, 'Well, Ray?' What a stupid, pained look on my puss as I turned and left the room, like a noble motion picture gentleman.
Barry called the Chinese waiter over, grandly waved a twenty-dollar bill in his face as he said, “Here, keep the change. I know you're overcharging me, but I'd do the same if I was in your place. All right, let's see the alleged boat.”
We staggered out into the street and down to the docks, holding onto each other like queers, for balance. We were the subject of much local giggling and camera snapping.
“You still can't hold your liquor.” He took off the cap. “Stop staring at it. Here, I'll make you a present of it.”
When he took the cap off my little private TV screen disappeared and I shouted, “No! Wear it. Damn it, Barry, put that cap on!”
“Afraid I'll get sunstroke? Trade it for your cap.”
I pushed his hand away from my head and he put his cap on, with a mock bow which nearly upset the both of us as he said, “Aye, aye, Captain. Ahoy, Captain. Captain Ray Jundson of Papeete—oh, God!”
Soon as he put the cap at an angle, the tiny TV scene returned.
The sun was dropping and it was fairly cool when we reached the quay. As we staggered up the gangplank of the Hooker I said proudly, “This is mine. Finest cutter afloat.”
As if caressing a woman, Barry wandered around the ship, feeling the wheel, touching the rigging, the sails, looking into the cabin. He kept mumbling, “My, my, what a sweet job I Oh, what a honey!” Then he said loudly, curtly, “Ray, you're a lying swine. This can't be yours!”