I had to be honest. “Your made-up story … it’s pretty bad. But your real story …”
“What do you mean?” he asked sharply.
“The story about you,” I said. “About your Noumea wife. How she ran off to Brooklyn. The lonely years that followed. And then your sense of identification with Fietelbaum. If you are willing, Larcom, we can make an immense story.”
The cadaverous planter stepped away and said, with furious venom, “You idiot! You damned stinking fool! You’ve guessed none of it right. I’ll write the book myself.”
Quivering with fury he left me, but as he reached the launch he turned in anger and shouted, “So you think I felt a bond of affection for Fietelbaum! Ask your tattle-tales at the bar what I did to Fietelbaum when his plane left.” Then he added derisively, “You bloody dreamer!”
I was furious with myself for having caused an open breach with this man who had wanted me as a friend. I returned to my shack and lay most of the night staring at the single light on his schooner, riding in the mists of Iron Bottom Bay.
In the morning I hurried to the Chinaman’s for coffee, and since there were no white men abroad at that hour I tackled the Chinaman as he fried the morning ration of Spam.
“You know Larcom?”
“Sure, me know. He no good.”
“You know Mr. Fietelbaum?”
The Oriental face burst into a sunny smile. “Sure, he good fella too much. Each day he rent my jeep. Twenty-five dollars! Whoopee!”
“Were you at the plane when Mr. Fietelbaum left?”
“Sure! He give me twenty-five more dollars drive him there.”
“Was Larcom there, too?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
The Chinaman looked back at his skillet and would say nothing. I downed my battery acid, asked him about Hong Kong and then asked again, “What did Larcom do?”
“He bad fella too much! He come up with paper in hand. Check for thousand dollars.”
“Where’d he get it?”
“Mr. Fietelbaum send it to him. For helping find son in jungle.”
“Then what happened?”
“Larcom tear check in small pieces. Push them in Mr. Fietelbaum’s face.”
“Did Larcom say anything?”
“He swear. He say he bloody God Damn well not take bloody God damn money for work like that. Police drag him away.”
“What did Mr. Fietelbaum do?”
“Tears come to his eyes. He run up to where police hold Larcom.”
“Then what?”
“Mr. Fietelbaum—he good too much—he stoop and kiss Larcom on hand and say, ‘Forgive me.’ ”
“Why did he say that?” I pressed.
“Maybe they know something together,” the cook suggested. “They good friends, because when Mr. Fietelbaum grab his hand, Larcom cry, ‘For God’s sake, no!’ Then he run away from police and we not see him many months.”
I left the smelly restaurant and walked along the dusty roads of Honiara until the government offices opened. Then I burst in on Dennison and cried, “I’m sorry as hell I kept you up last night. But sometimes I get fixations. Terrible, gnawing ideas. Ninety-nine of them are a waste of time. But the hundredth! That’s what keeps me going.”
“Sure, old fellow!” the expansive clerk said, sucking his moustache. “Used to do a bit of watercolor myself. Many an essay before you strike the thing.”
“I’m trying to piece together some things Larcom has told me. Under what circumstances did he go to Sydney?”
“The most astonishing, I sh’d say.”
“Such as?”
“His son, Raoul.”
“Son?” I echoed.
“Yes. The French whore left him a baby when she absconded. He was the pride of Larcom’s life. Fine chappie. I taught him Latin. He won a bursary in Australia, and I must say I felt rather proud.”
A native messenger appeared and said, in perfect English, “Sir, the Governor has asked me to inform you that he is still waiting for those reports.”
“Oh, dear!” Dennison cried. “Oh, dear me!” He grabbed up a sheaf of papers tied in red and blue ribbons and hurried off like a schoolboy. In a moment he returned and said apologetically, “Very methodical, the Governor.” Quickly he added, “What we need in the tropics, of course. Very methodical.”
“Why did Larcom go to Sydney?” I asked.
“Ah, yes! In 1939 the lad volunteered to join the British Army. Larcom used all his savings to go down to see the boy off. He was a grave sight when he left here. A Chinese tailor in Tulagi made him a proper suit. He looked abominable. But even those of us who despised the man had a moment of compassion when we saw him go grimly forth to say farewell to Raoul.”
“Why do you say ‘compassion’?”
“Because Larcom hated England. He hated what the English system had done to him. Yet he knew that Raoul had no such feelings. The boy loved distant England, and with a willing heart he went to fight for a land he had never seen.”
“How did Larcom take that?”
“For once in his life he behaved like a decent man. He did not try to dissuade his son.”
I left Dennison’s neat office with a new knowledge of Larcom, the lonely man whose life had been tied up with his son, but I was not prepared for what happened as I stepped out into the road, for there was the tall planter, waiting for me with a greasy notebook under his arm.
“You must read this,” he said. “I lied to you that first night. Because I have the novel all written. What I really wanted was for you to touch it up and find a publisher.”
He insisted that I sit right down on a log—the bar was not yet open—and read his masterpiece. I opened the cover and read the title page: The Mountain of Gold. I turned the page and there, beautifully handlettered, was the inscription: To Raoul, With Love.
The first paragraph read as follows: “When Harry McGonnigle left Brooklyn little did he realize that ere long he would be plunged into the depth of one of the most big adventures ever recorded in the history of mankind. Harry McGonnigle was a fine, handsome, upstanding young Marine pilot who knew no fear. His country was at war and who was he to stay cowardly at home even though his father objected at the idea of his son fighting a war, especially airplanes?” Then came a freshly inked insert, added the night before: “I forgot to say that Harry’s mother once lived on Guadalcanal.”
Resolutely I handed the manuscript back to Mr. Larcom. I think he saw in my eyes the inescapable conclusion that it was hopeless.
“So it’s no good?” he asked bluntly.
“That’s right.”
“What’s the matter with it?”
“It’s hard for me to say. Maybe an illustration will explain. You’ve heard of Alexander Dumas? The Three Musketeers. Well, one day a young man came to him and cried, ‘I have the most superb idea for a novel!’ Dumas asked, ‘You have a good plot?’ The young man kissed his fingers and exclaimed, ‘A plot that is all excitement. Characters that breathe. Settings that bedazzle the eye. And the suspense is truly unbearable!’ Dumas clapped him on the shoulder and cried, ‘Good! Now all you need to make it a novel is 200,000 words.’ ”
For the first time in our acquaintance Mr. Larcom laughed. “You mean I don’t have the words?”
“That’s right.”
Now he really guffawed. “You should get a job telling people bad news. You make it palatable.”
“The bar’s opening,” I said, and we had a couple of whiskeys. We had a rare hour together, the tension of the book no longer coming between us, and I was inspired to say, “You must not regret the hours you spent writing your book. It has been like a medicine for you.”
“How do you mean?” he asked.
“It prepared you for when Fietelbaum arrived, looking for his dead son. You could sympathize with him, having lost your own boy in the war.”
With great control Larcom put down his glass. Coldly, in a colorless voice, he said, “You are
still an idiot. Raoul was not killed in the war. He served throughout with great gallantry.”
“Then what happened to him, Larcom? You must tell me, for Raoul is now eating away your heart as his mother did during those long years of bitterness.”
“There is nothing to tell,” he said austerely, preparing to go.
“Do you know where he is? Now?”
“Yes. In Jerusalem.”
For a moment I was bewildered. I was so close to the truth about this man that I could not bear to see him leave. “Larcom!” I called. “Wait a minute!”
“Good-bye,” he said in his ashen voice. “It was good knowing you.”
“Wait!” I cried, but he started off for the wharf. I ran along beside him saying, “Don’t go like this, man. In these days you’ve come to know me as a friend. Don’t pull the veils of bitterness and hate about yourself again.”
“What is it you want?” he demanded, but in his voice I could hear that he wanted to talk further with me.
I said, “There’s a powerful story. In you. Think of the Americans to whom Guadalcanal is a sacred name!”
“I offered you a story,” he said, hammering his notebook with his fist. “You turned it down.”
“But tell me just one thing.”
“What?”
“Why did you track down Fietelbaum? What impelled you?”
Again there came the weighty pause. Could he trust me? Would I understand? Then the decision: “There is no explanation.” With that he strode onto the wharf.
“No!” I shouted. “Damn it, Larcom, you mustn’t run away like this. You’re no outcast. You’re a passionate human being. Don’t let the clerks of this island …”
Contemptuously he said, “You’re still guessing.” And within ten minutes he had cast off the schooner and was coasting down the gloomy shores of Guadalcanal, seeking out the plantation to which he had brought his French whore, from which he had sent his English son. I never saw him again.
But on the last day, as I waited for my plane in the blinding heat of Henderson Field—that empty, sanctified strip of coral—the Governor of Guadalcanal came to bid me good-bye.
Apsley-Grieve was the perfect symbol of all that Larcom had hated: cold, aloof, opinionated, capable, relentless in enforcing English moral and social systems. He bowed stiffly, said he hoped my stay had been profitable. Then he surprised me by adding apologetically, “You know, sometimes we feel we hold Guadalcanal in trust for you Yanks. It’s your national shrine, not ours.”
I tried to counter with some felicity, but he interrupted. “Damned sorry if that bounder Larcom annoyed you. But please discount any unfavorable reports you heard about his treatment of your countryman Fietelbaum … I mean, the scene here at the Field … Most distressing, you know. What I mean to say is, he cursed Fietelbaum and tried to strike him in the face. Well, point I’m making, poor devil’s to be excused. What you must bear in mind is something that’s not generally known. While Fietelbaum was in the jungle searching for his son, Larcom got news that his son … Raoul, you know … Splendid chap … Apple of the old man’s eye and properly so. Raoul was murdered while on duty in Jerusalem. The Stern Gang, you know.”
Apsley-Grieve’s cold voice was like the gray report of history.
“What happened then?” I asked.
“We were most apprehensive. Larcom rushed into the jungle with that murderous Vata. Swore he’d assassinate Fietelbaum. But when they finally met, some kind of miracle took place. Queer fish, Larcom. Beat the bush for two months till he found all that was left of Fietelbaum’s son. Some buttons and a cap brim. You see, the cable had reported that after the bomb explosion in Jerusalem there was no trace of his own son, Raoul. No trace at all.”
Espiritu Santo
During the War men who served on the bad islands had two unquestioned beliefs. When the Americans left, the local people would revert to the old somnolence. And the jungle would quickly devour everything that we had accomplished. Espiritu Santo is a good place to test these two theories.
In the early stages of war, Santo was our biggest base. In 1942 we landed ships at the edge of a jungle so dense that it even invaded land which was uncovered at low tide. In two months we had a flourishing city that soon grew to a population of 100,000. I say “city” because Santo had more public services than many American cities. A telephone system with seven exchanges and 570 distinct distribution boards, a superb interlocking teletype network, a radio station, miles of fine roads, forty-three movies, a PX department store, industrial shops of all descriptions, an optical laboratory, four huge hospitals, a mammoth steam laundry, and on the edge of everything a full-fledged Masonic temple!
At one end of this vast installation there were a few homes occupied by Frenchmen, and a few grubby tropical stores. Farther out were the hovels in which indentured Tonkinese slept after working the plantations. And beyond them, in the bush, lived some of the world’s most primitive savages. How did peace affect these people? A visit to postwar Santo is a revelation!
Along the foreshore stretches a newborn tropical town of about fifteen hundred. There’s a hotel, a half dozen tailors, two barbers, a shoemaker, two movies and a dance hall. The town, called Luganville, probably sets a record in length per population. It runs for six miles, never more than one house deep. It is terribly inconvenient, since the postoffice is three miles from the business center. Automobiles are a necessity and gasoline is 80¢ a gallon. Says one resident, “In Luganville everywhere is on the outskirts of town.”
A social and economic revolution has occurred in Santo. The Tonkinese have been set free and now have all civil privileges. They won’t work for planters, whom they hate, and they won’t patronize the established stores because they have opened shops of their own. They run the taxis and own the barbershops. They are ingrained in Santo life and the white men foresee another Pacific tragedy. Like the Chinese in Tahiti and the Indians in Fiji, the Tonks seem destined to oust the natives.
The black men have also changed considerably. Those about Luganville now wear tailor-made shorts ($2.25) and T-shirts (85¢). They work a few days and then knock off for a good time. Although the law forbids it, the Tonkinese sell bootleg whiskey to them, and pathetic figures lurching along the road are common. Some of the natives have bought trucks, which they run as taxis for their friends, filling the trucks to the last inch with singing, shouting, arm-waving blacks. Even in the deepest jungle the American invasion had an effect. Stone-age families now have gasoline drums for water, army blankets, and cartridge cases to be used as trunks.
The white man has profited from the material comforts which he has newly gained. He often has two cars, a refrigerator, two or three big quonsets and all sorts of Yankee odds and ends. In addition he usually has a couple of thousand American dollars stashed away, less than the avaricious Tonks, but still a good nest egg.
Life in Santo is delightful, free, riotous, happy. Take the Club Civile, for example. The officer’s mess at the P. T. base has been completely refurnished and enlarged. The paneled walls have been waxed, expensive paint has been used to make the dining room a medley of bright color, and draperies of good quality set off the windows.
The food is terrific! At dinner you sit in an upholstered chair at a table with a bright red cloth. Before you, amid the sparkling glassware, is a nest of plates. Navy silver, brightly polished, is lined up. The soup is split pea with croutons baked in oil. The second course is a local fish, cooked in wine and served with a delicate French sauce. The next course is a brief one, asparagus in oil and vinegar. Now you are down to two plates and the main dish arrives: steak with golden French fries and a chicory salad. Red wine is served, and there are five cruets with different condiments.
For dessert you get a French cheese or a piece of pastry, following which, if you wish it, a liqueur. Probably no American town of 1,500 could provide such a meal.
The game room has a poker table with a green felt cover, darts, bridge tables and a bar. A lounge
, which stops eight feet from the water’s edge, is enclosed in glass and provides a magnificent view of the channel.
After a sojourn in British islands, one aspect of life at the Club Civile is arresting. People of all colors belong. There are Melanesian half-castes, Martiniques of high color, and tomboy Tahitian girls. It is disturbing to remember that in a British colony these people would live beyond the pale, despised by whites, hated by natives. Although I have not settled in my mind what the relationship between Pacific races should be, I feel, when I see the uninhibited happiness of a French gathering, that brotherhood has been attained.
But to see Santo at its boisterous best you must go to the movies. In a huge quonset by the sea, a full-fledged cinema operates with an American projectionist, Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer films and individual wooden seats.
There is a show each Wednesday and Saturday, with some talk of a Sunday matinee. Europeans pay 40¢, Tonkinese 32¢, and natives—who would never be allowed near a British cinema—21¢ The house is packed. Four short items are shown, during which the whole place roars with laughter at comedy or shrieks with delight at scenes of really violent disasters.
The main feature starts and then, at some critical point, the lights come up and everybody scrambles outside to the refreshment bar. Here six waiters dish up beer, ice cream, cookies, soft drinks and candy. An old Tonk woman in a peach-basket hat tosses down a lemonade while across from her a native in blue-duck shorts gulps a beer which some white has bought for him. The intermission lasts about forty minutes and then the show continues. On Saturday nights, when the movie ends, the seats are pushed back, jazz records are played, and everybody has a whale of a dance till 3 or 4 in the morning.
The proprietor of this amusement palace is one of the great characters of the Pacific. On Guadalcanal I complained that I hadn’t seen an alligator. My host consoled me. “Don’t worry. At Santo you’ll see Tom Harris.”
Actually, he’s a wonderful veteran of the rough old days. He’s knocked about the island for thirty years, been thrown out of same, been a trader for Burns Philp—known as Bloody Pirates—and bought up plantations. He has a face like Punch, a belly laugh like Falstaff. He was a wonderful friend to the American forces who alternated between raiding him for selling grog to enlisted men and awarding him letters of commendation. He knew most of the important figures and has a treasured batch of war correspondence:
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