Part 11

“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.

“My name is Stevens,” he said. “Carol Stevens.” Rio pulled his hand away but Carol continued. “I know why you boys look like sailors.” He glanced at Martin, then back at Rio. “You both do, you know. You get so nice and tan. My goodness!—but you travel so! It’s simply romantic, isn’t it, Deane?” he added, still staring at Rio.

“Yes,” Deane answered, preoccupied, her hand to her hair. “It is romantic, Carol.” She turned to Drew who was standing patiently by his chair, a rather vacant expression on his face.

Rio looked at the immaculate, slender fellow sourly when he was introduced. Drew, however, gestured in mild acknowledgment, maintaining his appearance of abstraction. Then deliberately he stepped forward and reached for a short, thick cigarette on the small end-table where Rio, partly leaning, had placed his hand. The cigarette glowed unnaturally as Drew touched a match to it, and he looked straight into the eyes of the sailor which were now even with his own. Then, as the two men stood there face to face, Drew’s lips parted slightly and the smoke curled in a heavy roll from his mouth. When the dense vapor disappeared, he smiled unevenly, and with eyes lowered, returned to his chair where he leaned upon it gracefully, one slim hand upon its back.

Martin watched the fantastic play in a stolid, philosophic mood, coldly regarding Rio’s frightened look.

Deane became uneasy.... “What was Drew’s secret action that had accomplished such an unthinkable expression upon Rio’s face. Was it,” she reminded herself, “the smoke?—or Drew’s protective anger based on his uncanny knowledge of her own affair beyond the door?—or was his melancholy fury a safekeeping just for Martin!”

Roberts had begun to cough violently. With each paroxysm he held a handkerchief closely to his lips. Deane went to him but he waved at her with petulance.

“I’m all right,” he answered in reply to her question of concern. “It’s this strangulation! Damn such an affair!” he said irritably and sat down. “I don’t understand it, and I don’t want to,” he added, and immediately went off into another seizure of coughing. The others stood around him anxiously, not knowing what to do.

“Oh, please sit down,” said Deane, throwing herself on the divan and waving her pretty arms in little, indecisive movements.

Rio and Carol obeyed her, but Martin hurried into the kitchen and Drew, still pensive, continued to lean upon the back of his chair, watching Roberts as though but vaguely aware of his predicament. Martin returned with a glass of water and putting his arm around the adviser’s shoulders, held the glass to his lips, trying to get him to swallow between spasms. Gradually the spell quieted and Roberts looked up at his friend. Then he took the glass from the other’s hand and gulped the rest of the water.

“I’d like another,” he said, wiping his eyes.

Martin nodded, took the glass and returned to the kitchen. When he came back Roberts accepted the drink more slowly.

“Will you please hold your arm the way it supported me before?” he asked, looking again at Martin, this time with a rather contemptuous smile.

Martin put his hands in his pockets and stared out of the window, his eyes the color of the gray, low-sweeping clouds.

The adviser watched him for a moment, then put down the tumbler of water almost untouched. With a half suspicious expression he now looked around at the others.

“No,” he said distinctly, “I’m not afflicted. And Drew, this isn’t hysteria, so stop thinking of that.”

“I know,” agreed Drew, nodding his head.

“Let me make some tea,” suggested Deane, as spiritedly as she could.

For a moment the adviser was gentle.

“No, Deane,” he said. “You shouldn’t bother. You see,” he smiled somewhat wanly, “everything is stimulated enough.”

“Of course,” said Drew. “It’s getting too late anyway.”

Across from them, Carol’s head seemed to pivot around the side of his chair like the brass plate of a revolving door.

“Of course, dear,” he repeated. “It’s getting too late.” Then with a slithering movement, his head spun slowly round again and he could be heard faintly whispering, “It will soon be cocktail time ... cocktail time.”

Roberts shuddered.

“That should settle it,” said Martin. He lit a cigarette and looked at Rio. “But it won’t. Do you have anything to add about tea, sailor?”

“No, by heaven!” exclaimed Rio. “What I have to say ain’t about tea. Of all the people and talk I ever seen—” He had started to rise when Deane stopped him.

“Tell us about your trip, Rio,” she said. “Where did you go?”

He hesitated, but finally sat down on the edge of his chair, looking sullen.

“A little banana town. In South America,” he answered at last.

“Santa de Marina?” asked Martin, looking interested.

“Yeah,” said Rio.

Martin turned to the others and spoke proudly.

“Rio took his own ship into that harbor once.”

“So Rio was a master!” observed Roberts. Then, staring at the floor, he said with a cruel abstractness, “Yes, the sea is relentless. Many derelicts seek my aid on land when they find deep water too deep.”

“That’s true,” declared Martin instantly. “And many landlubbers are drowned because _they_ can’t step a mudpuddle. But they are not even derelicts. They’re just old bags. Of course,” he said, turning round, “you’re a derelict, Rio. But Mr. Roberts wasn’t thinking of you. I’m sure of that.”

Rio was watching Roberts with such dreadful intensity that when Martin finished, the adviser’s head snapped back like that of a toy.

Carol shifted about in his chair and stretched his legs. He felt the confused streams in the room, and it made him restless.

“That’s right,” said Rio, still watching Roberts intently. “He didn’t mean me. Once he made a mistake and I saved him from a derelict. Maybe the fellow let him go just so he could try it again some time. That thing you said about the mudpuddle is right, too, Martin. I’d think Mr. Roberts would be afraid. But he ain’t, Martin.”

Roberts did not hear all of this. He remembered those bitter eyes and hands too clearly.

Carol broke in.

“I wish I could talk like _you_ talk,” he said, addressing Martin. “I think you have the most—well, the most _exciting_ things to say.” His face was pink and moist.

Rio grinned wickedly.

“He’s an exciting man, Carol. That’s why he says exciting things,” he declared, emphasizing his words with a sly nod of approval.

Roberts looked distastefully about him. “My God! This!—all over again!” he thought.

But Carol continued, beaming, “I knew a boy in Chicago that was almost the same way as you, Martin. Every one of us boys said it must have been a trick. He could just turn everything into the best time. And my!—he was handsome! I think he was a bouncer at some cafe. And strong—Oooooh!” Carol adjusted his yellow tie and his eyelids fluttered.

Martin felt increasing annoyance at Rio’s persistent grin.

Still Carol went on blindly. “I’d like to work the way you do, Martin, and get oil and things on me from those machines. And that linotype you operate!” he continued. “I’d just _love_ that!” He put his hands flat on his trousers. “Imagine,” he said, turning to Deane at last, “having one of those big things to play with!”