Tales of the South Pacific

by James A. Michener

  "Corporal!" he shouted. That sleepy fellow came back to the bare office. "Oh, go on back to bed!" the colonel said.

  "Wish he'd make up his mind," the corporal muttered.

  "I'm sorry," the colonel shouted. Deep within him a voice kept saying over and over, "They were having a good time. And I'm not having a good time. I've never had any fun since I left high school in Terre Haute. Maybe they sing after dinner! Or maybe they just sit around and talk. There was nothing wrong there tonight. And they were having a good time."

  "I'll go back and apologize," he said firmly. "That's what Mother would tell me to do. I was terribly rude up there. I'll go back and apologize. Corporal! Corporal!"

  At the gate the sentry challenged him. "It's me! Colonel Haricot. Anybody leave yet?"

  "Oh, no, sir!"

  "Pretty scared in there, I guess?"

  "Oh, yes, sir!"

  When Haricot arrived we were all in the salon. The officers rose and bowed. Haricot was in his early forties and fat. His rump was quite round and bobbed grotesquely when he clicked his heels before Latouche. "I have come to apologize," he said simply. "I acted like a fool."

  Latouche rose, extended her lovely hand, and forgave him. She managed to brush against him hesitatingly as she did so. Col. Haricot made a motion as if he wished to sit down and apologize further. But Latouche had foreseen this. Gently twining her arm in his she said, "I am so sorry, Colonel Haricot. After you so nice to come back this way. I have engagement with the pilot here." Whereupon, with no further comment, she grabbed my arm and led me from the salon.

  Outside she sprang into activity. "Noé!" she called in a low voice. "Hurry! Find Laurencin!" When that frail girl, then only seventeen, came up, Latouche hurriedly adjusted her sister's dress, straightened the flowers in her hair, and kissed her. "Look pretty," she whispered. She patted Laurencin's hips, fluffed up the frills of her dress. "Now you' big chance!" She half slapped, half pushed the hesitating Laurencin toward the salon door where Colonel Haricot was preparing to leave. "Good luck, Laurencin," she whispered. "This you' big chance!"

  A few days later the guard was removed. This was a mistake, because one night the plantation was aroused by shooting. Latouche and I had already gone to bed. Colonel Haricot was in the garden with Laurencin. I hastily dressed and went out toward the sound of the shooting. To my surprise I found a naval officer in the salon. An enlisted man was arguing with him, trying to get a revolver away from him.

  "Where's the girls?" the officer bellowed.

  "Come on, Lieut. Harbison!" the enlisted driver begged.

  "Don't pull me, son!" the drunken officer cried. He waved his gun at the serious enlisted man. Then, seeing me, he lurched across the salon to greet me. "Where's the girls?" he demanded.

  "There are no girls here," I said.

  "Don't give me that. I know you fliers! Keep everything for yourself! I know you. Girls used to be here. Plenty of them!" He banged into a post as I sidestepped him. The bamboo walls shook. Latouche appeared at this moment.

  "There she is!" Harbison cried. "You remember me, baby! That time the PBY went down. You remember me!"

  "Throw him out, Bus," Latouche said quietly.

  "You try to throw me out!" Harbison bellowed. "Nothin' but a goddam whore-house. I know you, sister! I know you!"

  I leaped at the intruder. But he saw me coming. With a quick football manner he sidestepped me, tripped me, and smashed me in the face as I went down. The revolver butt knocked my jaw loose, and I fainted.

  About three o'clock in the morning I came to. I was in Latouche's little house. On the bed. And I had the strangest feeling. My jaw was numb. The Army doctor had shot it full of cocaine. And I thought I heard my old friend Tony Fry talking, from a great distance.

  "I should never have brought that foul ball down here," Tony was saying. "But don't worry! Latouche and the enlisted man beat him up. Swell job."

  My eyes closed with pain and Tony patted me on the head. "You tried, Bus," he said. "But you should see what the enlisted man did to Harbison. Latouche helped, too."

  Later that night, when the room was empty, I heard Tony's voice again. He was talking to Latouche in that quiet, earnest way he had. He was saying, in French, "Paris is the city most lovely. I went there with my Mother as a little boy." And I knew by the silence that I would never sleep with Latouche again. The pain in my heart grew greater than the hurt in my face. I tried to bury myself beneath the covers, but the Army doctor had them pinned to the sheets.

  When I awoke next morning a French woman about twenty-five was fixing up the room. "Who are you?" I asked, through clenched teeth.

  "Lisette," she replied.

  "What are you doing here?"

  "Latouche, she bring me up early this morning."

  "What for?"

  "For take care of you, Mister Bus." She motioned to an Army cot.

  "Where'd you get that?"

  "Colonel Haricot. He bring it up las' night." Lisette was pretty, plump, and kind. Her husband was in Africa. Hadn't been heard from since Bir Hacheim. She knew what a man down from the islands needed. They moved us out of Latouche's bedroom in about a week. When I could get around again I looked up two old parachutes for Lisette, one red, one white.

  I didn't see either Tony or Latouche for three days after the brawl. They went to live in a little house near the edge of the jungle. Noé took them food. Finally, they came to see me. They motioned Lisette out of the room. Fry looked at me and said nothing. Latouche stood far from the bed and said in a hurried sing-song voice, "I sorry, Bus. You one good man. I wish I had a man like you. A good fighter. Tony tell me about you at Munda. What you do. I wish we meeting for the first time, Bus. No other husban'. No other wife. I sorry, Bus."

  At night I would hear Tony at the small piano, picking out French tunes and themes from the operas. When the salon was empty, when Colonel Haricot's jeep had left, I would see Latouche dancing by herself among the chairs while Tony worked the small Army radio Colonel Haricot had given Laurencin.

  "Come back to bed," Lisette would snap in French. "Leave them alone! Now Latouche has herself a man!"

  I could not drag myself from spying. God, I don't know how I felt. But I would hear Lisette's soft voice again, in English: "Coming back to bed, Bus. It's her affair."

  I should have stopped Tony right then. I knew he was fascinated by Latouche, But I never guessed at what would happen. With the rest of us, well, you know how it was. The girls were there. They were lonely. We had lots of money and Navy gear. It was a nice life.

  But with Tony it was different. He learned to speak a little Javanese. He went everywhere with Latouche as she supervised the plantation. Didn't show up at camp for days in a row. They sat on a bench in the garden and he read to her. Latouche, I'd never seen her the way she was then. She told him the history of the islands, how her father had come there as a boy. They talked in French, in English, and in broken Javanese. At night a light would burn in her little house till almost morning.

  Our drowsy routine was broken when we found that Marthe was going to have a baby. "That sergeant!" Latouche sniffled. "That goddam sergeant!"

  "Well," I said. "I told you this would happen."

  "Oh, you!" she shouted hoarsely. "What good that do now?" She pulled Marthe tenderly into a big chair made of teakwood. "How this thing happen?" she asked softly.

  "I love him," Marthe replied in French.

  "Sure you love him!" Latouche agreed. "We always do. But how you do it?" Marthe buried her head on her sister's shoulder. Latouche rocked her back and forth. "How you do this thing?" she whispered.

  "We get a room in the Green House," Marthe said.

  Latouche sprang to her feet and threw Marthe to the floor. She kicked the pregnant girl and jumped upon her, slapping her face. Then, in great fury, she dashed to her bedroom and returned with her revolver. I dived at her and caught her by the wrist. I wrenched the revolver from her.

  She panted heavily for a moment and
then said, "We go now, Bus." I followed her to the jeep Colonel Haricot had loaned her. She climbed in. We drove to the Green House. Eight or ten cars stood outside.

  Latouche left the jeep and strode up to the door. Inside we could hear the cheap piano and sounds of dancing. Latouche pushed the door wide open. The girls inside gasped as they saw her flashing beauty. "It's Madame Barzan!" they whispered, and drew back along the wall.

  Latouche surveyed the garish room. Then, seeing the madame in a plush chair, she walked up, grabbed the plump middle-aged woman by the shoulders and dragged her to her feet.

  "Damned fool!" Latouche hissed. She slapped the woman's face eight or ten times and gave her a brutal shove in the stomach. The whimpering madame fell backward into the chair. Latouche scowled over her. "Good thing the officer take away my gun. I kill you for sure! My sister in here!" She turned slowly and studied the room and its occupants. "We go!" she said.

  Back at the plantation Latouche sought Marthe and told her she was sorry. She placed her arm about the lovely little girl and began to cry a little. "Is no good," she mumbled. "All this love-making with soldiers. Somebody gonna get hurt. This time maybe it's you! How long you gone, Marthe?"

  "Three month," the fifteen-year-old girl replied.

  "Oh, mon Dieu!" Latouche sighed. "Well, what we can do, Tony? What you think? We make her get married?"

  "We usually do in America," Tony replied. "We call it compounding the error."

  From the snorts and puffings outside we judged that Colonel Haricot had arrived with the offending sergeant, whom he was giving some sound abuse. He entered the salon in the grand manner, bowed low to Latouche, and tenderly approached Marthe as if that poor child were already encouched.

  "Well!" he shouted at the embarrassed sergeant. "What are you going to do about it?"

  "I want to marry her," the sergeant said, stepping beside his pale sweetheart.

  "It's about time!" the colonel snorted. Then he magnanimously grasped the sergeant's hand, adding in a voice of great emotion, "It's good to see a decent fellow play the man." The sergeant was bewildered. He had wanted to marry Marthe from the first day he had seen her.

  At this moment Laurencin entered the salon. The colonel looked at her briefly and dropped his head, blushing furiously. "We are going to be married, too," be said.

  "Oh, Colonel Haricot!" Latouche cried, as if she alone in the salon were surprised at this astonishing news. As senior naval officer present I was very crisp, very proper. I extended the congratulations of my service.

  "I don't know what they'll say in Terre Haute!" Haricot chuckled. "But to the devil with them, whatever they say. You know, gentlemen, I've had more fun in this house... More honest-to-John fun..."

  "That's true of a lot of us, colonel," Fry said.

  "It's awful to think of leaving this plantation," Haricot confided.

  "Moving north?"

  "Yep," he replied. "I wrote to my Mother about Laurencin. Her being half Javanese, you know. Mom was very broadminded. Been giving money to missions all her life. A Baptist, Mom is. She said if she'd given all that money to save souls, she guessed some of them must be saved by now!" He nudged me and grinned broadly. "Get it?" he asked.

  But the colonel put his foot down when a double wedding was suggested. "After all," he observed righteously, "there is a difference. A considerable difference." What it was that constituted the difference, his rank as compared with the sergeant's or Laurencin's virginity as compared with Marthe's family status, I never knew.

  Latouche took me aside after the colonel had left and begged me to get her three old parachutes, one red, one yellow, and one white.

  "I can't just go out and steal parachutes," I protested.

  "You got two for Lisette," she reminded me.

  "But she was special."

  "I not something special?" she asked, pirouetting. She twirled near me and I tried to pull her into the shadows. She pushed me away. "You Tony's friend, I think," she said.

  "Then ask Tony to get the parachutes."

  "I can't, Bus! I want to surprise Tony." She ran her fingers down my shirt sleeve. And I knew I was in the parachute business.

  Lt. Col. Haricot and Laurencin were married in the salon. An island missionary, a Baptist, officiated. Tony Fry was best man. I gave the bride away. As always, I had tears in my eyes. I'm a sucker for a wedding. Latouche, in a simple white store dress, stood inconspicuously with her sister.

  But at the reception Latouche appeared in the doorway dressed in shimmering parachute silk. We all gasped! Not even if I was drunk could I imagine a girl so beautiful. She had taken my three old 'chutes and cut them into many pointed strips. Do you know parachute silk? Soft as a baby's breath. Well she had made herself a sweeping gown that measured more than twenty-five yards around the hem. Yet the silk was so delicate that it came to a thin band about her tiny waist. She wore a bodice that seemed nothing at all. Up here she was framed in silk, and we didn't look at much but Latouche that night. Strange, but the clashing red and yellow colors blended delicately against her golden skin.

  "You were mine, once, baby," I whispered to myself.

  As she passed me in the salon she pressed my hand and said in a hushed voice, "Meet me by the shed. Please." My heart thumped as I hastened down a dark path which led to the little huts in which the Javanese workmen lived. Latouche was waiting for me in the shadows. To my dismay, Tony was with her. "A surprise!" she said.

  There, ahead of us, in a hollow square formed by two huts, the shed, and a bamboo screen, the local Buddhists had set up a temple. They were holding sacred ceremonials to honor the marriage of Marthe De Becque and her American sergeant.

  In the darkness two teak logs had been placed upright about twenty feet apart. Between them were nailed three wide teak planks, one above the other, to form an altar. White cloths were placed over each plank. Candles flickered on the topmost cloth. Four bronze objects, like plates, glistened on the lower planks.

  On a finely woven mat in front of the altar an old Buddhist priest, in white pants and black silk coat, knelt and prayed. On either side of him, sitting cross-legged, were two other Javanese, also in black. One hammered a small drum in irregular rhythms. The other tapped a tinkling bell at intervals. In time the drum and the bell filled our minds and seemed to echo all about us.

  We sat upon the ground. In ghastly and uncertain light from flickering candles Marthe and the sergeant stood before the priest. Women from the plantation, Javanese prostitutes from the two houses, and old men from the cacao bins moaned in the night. The drum and bell beat on.

  The priest rose and blessed the couple before him. Upon Marthe he placed the special blessing of fertility, a kind of priestly second-guessing. An old Javanese next to Tony explained the meaning of the rites. Fry, who was learning the language, replied sagely.

  The drum beat on. The tinkling bell haunted my ears when I became aware of a disturbance behind me. Suddenly there was shouting in Javanese and then bold words in French.

  "Mon Dieu!" Latouche cried and became pale.

  "This is it!" Fry whispered, licking his thin lips.

  Into the holy place strode a gaunt Frenchman. Achille Barzan was down from the hills. "Idolaters!" he shouted. "Thieves! Adulterers!" He rushed toward the altar and knocked it over. Then seeing Latouche in her brilliant dress he lunged at her. I interceded. Barzan struck me with a heavy club. I stumbled backward. I thought my arm was broken.

  Seeing this, Latouche screamed and rushed from the enclosure. Her flowing gown caught in the bamboo screen and pulled it down. Her flying skirt flashing in the candlelight, she rushed up the hill toward the safety of her white house. Although my arm was aching, I tried to stop Barzan. I made a football dive for him but bumped into Tony Fry instead. If I had been quicker on my feet, I might have stopped a tragedy.

  For Latouche did not reach her room in time to lock the door. In a wild burst of fury Achille Barzan pushed his way into the white house. Swinging his club over hi
s head, he lunged at his wife. There were four pistol shots. Barzan, stumbling backward, clutched twice at the stars, and fell dead.

  In the long questioning that ensued Lt. Col. Haricot was superb. The French interrogators liked him. He had a French name and could speak their language badly enough to win both their respect and pity. He was also a moral man, a man of sentiment.

  He insisted that Latouche had acted in self-defense. That she was a proper and well brought up girl. That Achille Barzan was a bully and a tyrant. That Achille was a dirty dog and a Pétainist as well. "Nothing to do with the case!" the commissioner said.

  "It shows he was without honor!" Haricot insisted. The colonel spoke for both Tony and me. We were not allowed to testify, for example, that we even knew where her room was. I was not asked if I had heard her threaten to kill two different persons. Nor did I speak about her wish that her husband was dead. No, we were model witnesses.

  "Had Tony Fry been a frequent visitor at the plantation?" He had. "Was he, what you might call..." Oh, no, he was not! "Had he ever, what you might say..." Never! "Then, colonel, what was he doing at the plantation?" The colonel blustered and asked Fry what he was doing there. "Learning to speak Javanese."

  "Could the lieutenant speak a little Javanese?" He could and he would. "What did the lieutenant say, interpreter?" He said, "Copra will stay high it the United States keeps on buying."

  At this point Colonel Haricot pointed out four facts. "Had Achille Barzan threatened his wife?" He had. "Had he tried to break the American pilot's arm?" He had. "Had he raised a club to strike his wife?" Nine witnesses saw that. "Had she shot him in self-defense?" Obviously.

  Bien! What can one say? Especially when this fellow Haricot keeps talking all the time? Well, commissioner? Well... Yes... Of course, Madame Barzan must be arrested, yes. A mere formality. Colonel Haricot's testimony has already taken care of that.