Job: A Comedy of Justice Page 4

  First the troupe, eight girls, two men, danced for us, much the same dancing that had preceded the fire walk today, much the same as I had seen when a troupe had come aboard M.V. Konge Knut in Papeete. Perhaps you know that the hula of Tahiti differs from the slow and graceful hula of the Kingdom of Hawaii by being at a much faster beat and is much more energetic. I’m no expert on the arts of the dance but at least I have seen both styles of hula in the lands where each was native.

  I prefer the Hawaiian hula, which I had seen when the Count von Zeppelin had stopped at Hilo for a day on her way to Papeete. The Tahitian hula strikes me as an athletic accomplishment rather than an art form. But its very energy and speed make it still more startling in the dress or undress these native girls wore.

  There was more to come. After a long dance sequence which included paired dancing between girls and each of the two young men—in which they did things that would have been astonishing even among barnyard fowl (I kept expecting Captain Hansen to put a stop to it), the ship’s master of ceremonies or cruise director stepped forward.

  “Ladeez and gentlemen,” he announced, “and the rest of you intoxicated persons of irregular birth—” (I am forced to amend his language.) “Most of you setters and even a few pointers have made good use of the four days our dancers have been with us to add the Tahitian hula to your repertoire. Shortly you’ll be given a chance to demonstrate what you’ve learned and to receive diplomas as authentic Papeete papayas. But what you don’t know is that others in the good ole knutty Knut have been practicing, too. Maestro, strike up the band!”

  Out from behind the lounge stage danced a dozen more hula dancers. But these girls were not Polynesian; these girls were Caucasian. They were dressed authentically, grass skirts and necklaces, a flower in the hair, nothing else. But instead of warm brown, their skins were white; most of them were blondes, two were redheads.

  It makes a difference. By then I was ready to concede that Polynesian women were correctly and even modestly dressed in their native costume—other places, other customs. Was not Mother Eve modest in her simplicity before the Fall?

  But white women are grossly out of place in South Seas garb.

  However, this did not keep me from watching the dancing. I was amazed to see that these girls danced that fast and complex dance as well (to my untutored eye) as did the island girls. I remarked on it to the Captain. “They learned to dance that precisely in only four days?”

  He snorted. “They practice every cruise, those who ship with us before. All have practiced at least since San Diego.”

  At that point I recognized one of the dancers—Astrid, the sweet young woman who had let me into “my” stateroom—and I then understood why they had had time and incentive to practice together: These girls were ship’s crew. I looked at her—stared, in fact—with more interest. She caught my eye and smiled. Like a dolt, a bumpkin, instead of smiling back I looked away and blushed, and tried to cover my embarrassment by taking a big sip of the drink I found in my hand.

  One of the kanaka dancers whirled out in front of the white girls and called one of them out for a pair dance. Heaven save me, it was Margrethe!

  I choked up and could not breathe. She was the most blindingly beautiful sight I had ever seen in all my life.

  “Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair; thou hast doves’ eyes within thy locks: thy hair is as a flock of goats, that appear from Mount Gilead.

  “Thy navel is like a round goblet, which wanteth not liquor: thy belly is like a heap of wheat set about with lilies.

  “Thy two breasts are like two young roes that are twins.

  “Thou art all fair, my love; there is no spot in thee.”

  IV

  Although affliction cometh not forth of the dust,

  neither doth trouble spring out of the ground;

  yet man is born unto trouble,

  as the sparks fly upward.

  Job 5:6-7

  I slowly became aware of myself and wished I had not; a most terrible nightmare was chasing me. I jammed my eyes shut against the light and tried to go back to sleep.

  Native drums were beating in my head; I tried to shut them out by covering my ears.

  They got louder.

  I gave up, opened my eyes and lifted my head. A mistake—my stomach flipflopped and my ears shook. My eyes would not track and those infernal drums were tearing my skull apart.

  I finally got my eyes to track, although the focus was fuzzy. I looked around, found that I was in a strange room, lying on top of a bed and only half dressed.

  That began to bring it back to me. A party aboard ship. Spirits. Lots of spirits. Noise. Nakedness. The Captain in a grass skirt, dancing heartily, and the orchestra keeping step with him. Some of the lady passengers wearing grass skirts and some wearing even less. Rattle of bamboo, boom of drums.

  Drums—

  Those weren’t drums in my head; that was the booming of the worst headache of my life. Why in Ned did I let them—

  Never mind “them.” You did it yourself, chum.

  Yes, but—

  “Yes, but.” Always “Yes, but.” All your life it’s been “Yes, but.” When are you going to straighten up and take full responsibility for your life and all that happens to you?

  Yes, but this isn’t my fault. I’m not A. L. Graham. That isn’t my name. This isn’t my ship.

  It isn’t? You’re not?

  Of course not—

  I sat up to shake off this bad dream. Sitting up was a mistake; my head did not fall off but a stabbing pain at the base of my neck added itself to the throbbing inside my skull. I was wearing black dress trousers and apparently nothing else and I was in a strange room that was rolling slowly.

  Graham’s trousers. Graham’s room. And that long, slow roll was that of a ship with no stabilizers.

  Not a dream. Or if it is, I can’t shake myself out of it. My teeth itched, my feet didn’t fit. Dried sweat all over me except where I was clammy. My armpits—Don’t even think about armpits!

  My mouth needed to have lye dumped into it.

  I remembered everything now. Or almost. The fire pit. Villagers. Chickens scurrying out of the way. The ship that wasn’t my ship—but was. Margrethe—

  Margrethe!

  “Thy two breasts are like two roes—thou art all fair, my love!”

  Margrethe among the dancers, her bosom as bare as her feet. Margrethe dancing with that villainous kanaka, and shaking her—

  No wonder I got drunk!

  Stow it, chum! You were drunk before that. All you’ve got against that native lad is that it was he instead of you. You wanted to dance with her yourself. Only you can’t dance.

  Dancing is a snare of Satan.

  And don’t you wish you knew how!

  “—like two roes”! Yes. I do!

  I heard a light tap at the door, then a rattle of keys. Margrethe stuck her head in. “Awake? Good.” She came in, carrying a tray, closed the door, came to me. “Drink this.”

  “What is it?”

  “Tomato juice, mostly. Don’t argue—drink it!”

  “I don’t think I can.”

  “Yes, you can. You must. Do it.”

  I sniffed it, then I took a small sip. To my amazement it did not nauseate me. So I drank some more. After one minor quiver it went down smoothly and lay quietly inside me. Margrethe produced two pills. “Take these. Wash them down with the rest of the tomato juice.”

  “I never take medicine.”

  She sighed, and said something I did not understand. Not English. Not quite. “What did you say?”

  “Just something my grandmother used to say when grandfather argued with her. Mr. Graham, take those pills, They are just aspirin and you need them. If you won’t cooperate, I’ll stop trying to help you. I’ll—I’ll swap you to Astrid, that’s what I’ll do.”

  “Don’t do that.”

  “I will if you keep objecting. Astrid would swap, I know she would. She likes you�
�she told me you were watching her dance last night.”

  I accepted the pills, washed them down with the rest of the tomato juice—ice-cold and very comforting. “I did until I spotted you. Then I watched you.”

  She smiled for the first time. “Yes? Did you like it?”

  “You were beautiful.” (And your dance was obscene. Your immodest dress and your behavior shocked me out of a year’s growth. I hated it—and I wish I could see it all over again this very instant!) “You are very graceful.”

  The smile grew dimples. “I had hoped that you would like it, sir.”

  “I did. Now stop threatening me with Astrid.”

  “All right. As long as you behave. Now get up and into the shower. First very hot, then very cold. Like a sauna.” She waited. “‘Up,’ I said. I’m not leaving until that shower is running and steam is pouring out.”

  “I’ll shower. After you leave.”

  “And you’ll run it lukewarm, I know. Get up, get those trousers off, get into that shower. While you’re showering, I’ll fetch your breakfast tray. There is just enough time before they shut down the galley to set up for lunch…so quit wasting time. Please!”

  “Oh, I can’t eat breakfast! Not today. No.” Food—what a disgusting thought.

  “You must eat. You drank too much last night, you know you did. If you don’t eat, you will feel bad all day. Mr. Graham, I’ve finished making up for all my other guests, so I’m off watch now. I’m fetching your tray, then I’m going to stay and see that you eat it.” She looked at me. “I should have taken your trousers off when I put you to bed. But you were too heavy.”

  “You put me to bed?”

  “Ori helped me. The boy I danced with.” My face must have given me away, for she added hastily, “Oh, I didn’t let him come into your room, sir. I undressed you myself. But I did have to have help to get you up the stairs.”

  “I wasn’t criticizing.” (Did you go back to the party then? Was he there? Did you dance with him again? “—jealousy is cruel as the grave; the coals thereof are coals of fire—” I have no right.) “I thank you both. I must have been a beastly nuisance.”

  “Well…brave men often drink too much, after danger is over. But it’s not good for you.”

  “No, it’s not.” I got up off the bed, went into the bathroom, said, “I’ll turn it up hot. Promise.” I closed the door and bolted it, finished undressing. (So I got so stinking, rubber-limp drunk that a native boy had to help get me to bed. Alex, you’re a disgusting mess! And you haven’t any right to be jealous over a nice girl. You don’t own her, her behavior is not wrong by the standards of this place—wherever this place is—and all she’s done is mother you and take care of you. That does not give you a claim on her.)

  I did turn it up hot, though it durn near kilt poor old Alex. But I left it hot until the nerve ends seemed cauterized—then suddenly switched it to cold, and screamed.

  I let it stay cold until it no longer felt cold, then shut it off and dried down, having opened the door to let out the moisture-charged air. I stepped out into the room…and suddenly realized that I felt wonderful. No headache. No feeling that the world is ending at noon. No stomach queasies. Just hunger. Alex, you must never get drunk again…but if you do, you must do exactly what Margrethe tells you to. You’ve got a smart head on her shoulders, boy—appreciate it.

  I started to whistle and opened Graham’s wardrobe.

  I heard a key in the door, hastily grabbed his bathrobe, managed to cover up before she got the door open. She was slow about it, being hampered by a heavy tray. When I realized this I held the door for her. She put down the tray, then arranged dishes and food on my desk.

  “You were right about the sauna-type shower,” I told her. “It was just what the doctor ordered. Or the nurse, I should say.”

  “I know, it’s what my grandmother used to do for my grandfather.”

  “A smart woman. My, this smells good!” (Scrambled eggs, bacon, lavish amounts of Danish pastry, milk, coffee—a side dish of cheeses, fladbrød, and thin curls of ham, some tropic fruit I can’t name.) “What was that your grandmother used to say when your grandfather argued?”

  “Oh, she was sometimes impatient.”

  “And you never are. Tell me.”

  “Well—She used to say that God created men to test the souls of women.”

  “She may have a point. Do you agree with her?”

  Her smile produced dimples. “I think they have other uses as well.”

  Margrethe tidied my room and cleaned my bath (okay, okay, Graham’s room, Graham’s bath—satisfied?) while I ate. She laid out a pair of slacks, a sport shirt in an island print, and sandals for me, then removed the tray and dishes while leaving coffee and the remaining fruit. I thanked her as she left, wondered if I should offer “payment” and wondered, too, if she performed such valet services for other passengers. It seemed unlikely. I found I could not ask.

  I bolted the door after her and proceeded to search Graham’s room.

  I was wearing his clothes, sleeping in his bed, answering to his name—and now I must decide whether or not I would go whole hawg and be “A. L. Graham”…or should I go to some authority (American consul? If not, whom?), admit the impersonation, and ask for help?

  Events were crowding me. Today’s King Skald showed that S.S. Konge Knut was scheduled to dock at Papeete at 3 p.m. and sail for Mazatlán, Mexico, at 6 p.m. The purser notified all passengers wishing to change francs into dollars that a representative of the Bank of Papeete would be in the ship’s square facing the purser’s office from docking until fifteen minutes before sailing. The purser again wished to notify passengers that shipboard indebtedness such as bar and shop bills could be settled only in dollars, Danish crowns, or by means of validated letters of credit.

  All very reasonable. And troubling. I had expected the ship to stop at Papeete for twenty-four hours at the very least. Docking for only three hours seemed preposterous—why, they would hardly finish tying up before it would be time to start singling up for sailing! Didn’t they have to pay rent for twenty-four hours if they docked at all?

  Then I reminded myself that managing the ship was not my business. Perhaps the Captain was taking advantage of a few hours between departure of one ship and arrival of another. Or there might be six other reasons. The only thing I should worry about was what I could accomplish between three and six, and what I must accomplish between now and three.

  Forty minutes of intense searching turned up the following:

  Clothes, all sorts—no problem other than about five pounds at my waistline.

  Money—the francs in his billfold (must change them) and the eighty-five dollars there; three thousand dollars loose in the desk drawer that held the little case for Graham’s watch, ring, shirt studs, etc. Since the watch and jewelry had been returned to this case, I assumed conclusively that Margrethe had conserved for me the proceeds of that bet that I (or Graham) had won from Forsyth and Jeeves and Henshaw. It is said that the Lord looks out for fools and drunkards; if so, in my case He operated through Margrethe.

  Various impedimenta of no significance to my immediate problem—books, souvenirs, toothpaste, etc.

  No passport.

  When a first search failed to turn up Graham’s passport, I went back and searched again, this time checking the pockets of all clothes hanging in his wardrobe as well as rechecking with care all the usual places and some unusual places that might hide a booklet the size of a passport.

  No passport.

  Some tourists are meticulous about keeping their passports on their persons whenever leaving a ship. I prefer not to carry my passport when I can avoid it because losing a passport is a sticky mess. I had not carried mine the day before…so now mine was gone where the woodbine twineth, gone to Fiddler’s Green, gone where Motor Vessel Konge Knut had gone. And where was that? I had not had time to think about that yet; I was too busy coping with a strange new world.

  If Graham had carried
his passport yesterday, then it too was gone to Fiddler’s Green through a crack in the fourth, dimension. It was beginning to look that way.

  While I fumed, someone slipped an envelope under the stateroom door.

  I picked it up and opened it. Inside was the purser’s billing for “my” (Graham’s) bills aboard ship. Was Graham scheduled to leave the ship at Papeete? Oh, no! If he was, I might be marooned in the islands indefinitely.

  No, maybe not. This appeared to be a routine end-of-a-month billing.

  The size of Graham’s bar bill shocked me…until I noticed some individual items. Then I was still more shocked but for another reason. When a Coca-Cola costs two dollars it does not mean that a Coke is bigger; it means that the dollar is smaller.

  I now knew why a three-hundred-dollar bet on, uh, the other side turned out to be three thousand dollars on this side.

  If I was going to have to live in this world, I was going to have to readjust my thinking about all prices. Treat dollars as I would a foreign currency and convert all prices in my head until I got used to them. For example, if these shipboard prices were representative, then a first-class dinner, steak or prime rib, in a first-class restaurant, let’s say the main dining room of a hotel such as the Brown Palace or the Mark Hopkins—such a dinner could easily cost ten dollars. Whew!

  With cocktails before dinner and wine with it, the tab might reach fifteen dollars! A week’s wages. Thank heaven I don’t drink!

  You don’t what?

  Look—last night was a very special occasion.

  So? So it was, because you lose your virginity only once. Once gone, it’s gone forever. What was that you were drinking just before the lights went out? A Danish zombie? Wouldn’t you like one of those about now? Just to readjust your stability?

  I’ll never touch one again!

  See you later, chum.

  Just one more chance but a good one—I hoped. The small case that Graham used for jewelry and such had in~ it a key, plain save for the number eighty-two stamped on its side. If fate was smiling, that was a key to a lockbox in the purser’s office.

  (And if fate was sneering at me today, it was a key to a lockbox in a bank somewhere in the forty-six states, a bank I would never see. But let’s not borrow trouble; I have all I need.)