Men Die

by H. L. Humes

  Suddenly the Commander came out again. “I forgot one part of it,” he said. “Did you notice that in Isaiah Two, the ‘spears’ were plural? That would require more than one ‘shake,’ wouldn't it? Well, count twenty-three—the number of the psalm where his first name, Will, appears—count twenty-three from the end and you'll find the other ‘shake.’ Thus the name appears twice in the same place, that is, in the second chapter of Isaiah—which is why you have to raise his name to the second power of its natural number. Go ahead, count back twenty-three. The word ‘wherein’ can be counted as two words. Then you might read the two verses that contain the ‘shakes’ that match the ‘spears.’ Then think of what we're doing on this island.”

  Hake watched Sulgrave until he took the Bible out again, then said, “Tell me Monday what you think of it. I'm going to take a nap.” He went back into his room and closed the door, and Sulgrave could hear him going around closing the louvers of his room against the sun; he leafed back and forth looking for Isaiah, suddenly felt foolish, irritated with Hake, But curiosity prevailed.

  Counting back twenty-three words, he found the other “shake”; then he read the two verses twice over to himself.

  19 And they shall go into the holes

  of the rocks, and into the caves of the

  earth, for fear of the Lord, and for

  the glory of his majesty, when he

  ariseth to shake terribly the earth.

  The other seemed almost identical.

  21 To go into the clefts of the rocks,

  and into the tops of the ragged rocks,

  for fear of the Lord, and for the glory

  of his majesty, when he ariseth to

  shake terribly the earth.

  “You mean how can I be sure, now that he's gone?”

  She fell silent a moment, her face pensive, deeply serious, as though she was searching for precise words. Immediately he realized that he'd asked her a question she had already crucially asked herself. She didn't look at him, but kept her gaze fixed on her cigarette as though mesmerized by the endless ribbon of smoke unspooling from the base of the soft gray ash. She'd finished her martini.

  “Once you've loved someone, you don't fall out of love. You simply learn to hate. You still have your love inside you and it can never die before you die, because it's a part of you just as your lungs and your bowels are a part of you. Hate can submerge love, can drown it the way a tide drowns a rock, but the love is still there just as real and just as solid as it always was. The hate simply counterbalances it. And when the reason for hating is gone—when that someone is gone and can no longer hurt you—then hate gets off the seesaw without warning and down you come with a crash in love again. And you hurt. That's how you know.”

  He's a nut

  Commander or no Commander…

  Jig jog. Down the Admiral's path.

  Completely off his head. But he is.

  Is a man crazy because he believes something, or only when he tries to prove it? Skully says he's strange, didn't say crazy.

  Maybe

  If I try to prove it.

  try to prove it

  That crazy sword. Ride a cocked hat to Barbary Cross.

  If you have to prove, you don't believe.

  He can't believe

  … whole island crazy, we're all insane.

  He wants to believe it.

  Whoa, now. I'm trying to laugh it off. Trying too hard, too quick. Vulnerable, that's right, to fear.

  Something's very wrong. Maybe he's right.

  Is a man crazy who can't believe in something?

  Hungry. Am I capable of crazy?

  Forget it.

  Ask Skully, little crazy too.

  He's a nut.

  Commander or no Commander …

  Home again home again.

  “Stop hogging the bottle.”

  “The Commander's sure interested in numbers, isn't he.”

  “Ah, Columbus discovers America.”

  “I see. It doesn't worry you?”

  “You worried about being dead, son?”

  “Aren't you?”

  “We're too scared to worry, laddie. It's fear keeps us young.”

  “Who's hogging the bottle?”

  “I who am about to, salute you.”

  “Pour me a salute.”

  There was more to Little Misery than Sulgrave had suspected. Separated from the minuscule village by a nearly impassable sand road—Dolfus: “Take your shoes off, man, before you bog down completely …” —was a part of the island that had obviously once been a small coco plantation, now revitalized to serve the additional function of a sort of picnic ground. Sulgrave learned that his host for the afternoon was the enterprising Surinamese barber, who was also the island's doctor, notary and unofficial mayor. They received his greeting as they paid their admission. It was Sul-grave's introduction into island society.

  “I think it's about time,” Skully said. “I've got one of mine fighting this afternoon.”

  The sandy track was heavily footprinted where they entered the grassy coco grove through a gap in the impenetrable sea grape which grew wild and surrounded the place. In the center of the grove was a cockpit with crudely made seats, sagging planks that were raised in three tiers around all four sides. It was the size of a bandstand, with a shaky roof that heightened the resemblance. All around the pit, tethered to stakes at the shaded foot of each coco tree, were brightly plumed roosters, fighting cocks. Several dozen T-shirted men from the base were lounging near an improvised bar, a plank laid across two packing crates, from behind which a spindly mocha-colored woman Sulgrave had never seen before was dispensing beer. All around were women of various ages and degrees of color; all were strangers to Sulgrave's eye.

  “Where do they all come from?” he asked Dolfus.

  Dolfus pointed through the trees for answer. Sulgrave looked and saw the rough masts of a native schooner standing above the wall of sea grape. Dolfus said, “If customers can't come to the merchant, the merchant comes to the customer. True love always finds a way.”

  “Where do they come from?”

  Dolfus shrugged. “There are several dozen islands within two days' sail from here, many more beyond that. These people use sloops and schooners as you and I use taxis and subways. They think nothing of sleeping and cooking on an open deck.”

  Looking around the rim of the grove, Sulgrave saw several other masts, shorter ones whose main trucks barely showed above the heavy sea grape—these would be sloops. “I'll be damned,” he said.

  “Saturday afternoon is for officers, warrants, chiefs, and petty officers first and second. Tomorrow for all other ranks.”

  Sulgrave laughed. “Rank has its privileges.”

  A coffee-colored man whom Sulgrave had seen several times with the Surinam barber came up cradling a large fighting cock. “You gonta fight 'im today, mon.”

  “Yes, mon. Whachu t'ink,” Dolfus said, falling easily into the accent.

  “Got 'im match with Randy's bird. He only bird his weight left. Randy say he fight with without spurs. What you say?”

  “Didn't bring any heavy birds this trip?”

  “No, mon. They all mos' frightful-lookin' chickens this week. Ain't none a match for yo' two. My hurt she leg las' week.”

  “Then let's go without spurs, or I won't have anyone to work up my bird on. Same rules as last week, O.K.?”

  The man nodded and went off to get ready.

  Dolfus explained to Sulgrave that there was a chronic shortage of birds, and that sometimes they fought them without spurs against a time limit. “It's not real cockfighting. But …”

  “Who makes the decision?”

  “Mr. Sung. He's the expert around here. Let's get a beer.”

  The beer was cooled in a makeshift well and was not cheap. Sulgrave asked, “Where does it come from?”

  Dolfus shrugged. “Same place the other commodities dot I guess.”

  Sulgrave sipped silendy at his bee
r, which was bitter and lukewarm, and stared around at the unsuspected life of the place, wondering if the Commander knew of its existence. The tethered cocks crowed raucous challenges to each other; he'd often heard them faintly at dawn when the wind was right, never noticing that there seemed to be a disproportionate number of roosters for such a small place as Little Misery. If anything, he'd dismissed them as a few roosters that did a great deal of crowing. But tethered under the trees were at least three dozen that he could count.

  “That was my handler you saw,” Dolfus said. “He imports them and fattens them up, then sells them to the boys. Mr. Sung owns the pit and holds the money.”

  There were twelve fights that afternoon, all with spurs but the last. The men and their fancy women crowded the pit and stomped their feet on the sagging planks and shouted out their bets. Half the time, Sulgrave watched the crowd rather than the birds, undecided as to which was the better spectacle. The birds all had names: Red Demon, Toolshed, Sig-nifier, Potluck, Rocking Horse, Compressor (who fought Jackhammer and lost), Skylark, Admiral Luck, Toenail— Sulgrave tried to remember them all, and indeed when discussing the fights afterward, remembered a great many of them. He'd picked up the names by simply listening to the money-waving cries of the crowd; bets were made at any point in the match by holding up a sum and shouting the offered odds and the name of the bird, until a taker shouted agreement. Mr. Sung stood at the side of the pit, taking the money as it was passed to him and keeping track in his head of the bettors and amounts. He operated with all the aplomb of a croupier, and never once in paying off to the winners did he come out short or over. He was simply the clearing house through which money flowed as it changed hands. During the fights, trays of beer flowed in as empty bottles flowed out from the wildly waving shouting sweating crowd. The incredible thing to Sulgrave was that the stomping, swaying structure didn't cave in completely; several times, at the heights, the excitement became totally hysterical. Whenever a favorite bird was downed or was on the receiving end of a “marriage”—pronounced Frenchwise and referring to a bird's being impaled by one of the needlesharp steel spurs, a situation requiring separation by the handlers—at several such times the attendant frenzy was such that Sulgrave was certain the frail structure would collapse on the instant.

  But it didn't, and he stayed with Dolfus to the end. The crowd booed good-naturedly when they saw that Skully's and Randy's birds would fight without spurs, but they bet anyway. Mr. Sung's judgment was disputed, but accepted; within the time allotted, he called the match a draw.

  When the afternoon was over, the air was edged with the smell of baking fish—Sulgrave learned from Dolfus that a fish fry would bridge the gap between afternoon and evening, but that they wouldn't stay for it. Dolfus had to get ready for his “art class.”

  “Would you like to get a little rockdust in your ears?” he asked Sulgrave. “We'll go back and chow down first.”

  “I'm not sure I can handle a jackhammer, but I'd like to come along and try.” And he was elated beyond all reason.

  When they left the coco grove, the sun was lowering toward the sea, and the place was calm, peaceful, waiting. The smell of cooking, everyone hungry. A few men were coming back from swimming, skylarking among themselves snapping at each other with towels. At the far end of the grove several women, supervised by Mr. Sung, were working over the dozen open braziers that studded the ground like smoking mushrooms. The smell of food was in itself a pleasure to be enjoyed, and men lazed aimlessly about the grove, talking and laughing in groups around the women. To one side, three men sat with their backs around a palm tree. One played a slow thin melody on his harmonica, as around them, barefooted on the accidental grass, a girl danced bemused, as though talking to herself.

  Sulgrave saw Dolfus stiffen, like a sleeper aroused from a dream; the girl saw them in the same instant, and ran.

  As they left the grove, Sulgrave noticed Arielle again, darting around the edge of sea grape hiding from them. Instantly he felt uneasy. Dolfus muttered an oath and started walking quickly, leaving the pleasant afternoon in the grove behind him. He walked ahead of Sulgrave, saying nothing. He was silent all the way to Mother-in-Trouble's shack. Sulgrave was sweating from the pace.

  “Wait here.”

  Sulgrave waited. Dolfus silently approached the shack, slipped inside without a sound.

  Suddenly from inside the shack there was a surprised shout of pain and Mother-in-Trouble tumbled out holding her back. Dolfus was behind her swinging his belt like a strap.

  “You get that girl away from there or I'll beat you white. You know what I've told you.”

  “You don't proper her,” the woman said. She looked very angry, yet guilty before Dolfus' wrath.

  “Did you send her down there? If you did, woman …”

  “I aren't see her all day.”

  “Do you know what Randy will do to you if he finds out you let her down there. He'll …”

  “That black mon no her father.”

  “He's the closest thing she ever had to one, you mean-fisted old money grub. You want me to tell him what you just said?”

  She backed down, still rubbing her back. “Non, 'sieur.”

  “You going down there and get her and keep her here?”

  “Oui,'sieur.”

  “Allez, done. Vite. Je vais envoyer Randy plus tard pour vous surveiller. Comprende, Señora?”

  “Si, Señor.”

  With that she waddled off in the direction they had just come from, not looking at Sulgrave as she passed him. Dolfus started walking toward the cut, putting his belt back through its loops as he went. Sulgrave followed him twenty paces behind, not catching up until they reached the boat.

  “What was that all about?” Sulgrave asked.

  Dolfus only shook his head sullenly and wrapped the starting rope around the flywheel. “Ignore it,” he said, and yanked viciously. The unmuffled noise of the outboard ended conversation, and they crossed the cut each looking straight ahead.

  “You mean the old woman tried to beat her?”

  “After Randy and him left, yessir.”

  “What did this? Mon, look at that welt.”

  “What she hit you with, girl?”

  “She got pizzle from man on boat this morning.”

  “What's she mean?”

  “A bull's pizzle. They dry them for flogs.”

  “You no tell her I tol' you.” The girl bit her lip. “She drink now. You no tell Skully?”

  “Skully won't let her hurt you,” Sulgrave said.

  The girl's eyes flicked toward Sulgrave, then down at the floor. She giggled privately. Sulgrave watched her, but she wouldn't look up at him. He felt fooled, suddenly clumsy.

  “Will you take me to dinner?” She spoke over her shoulder as she filled out the registration card. The desk clerk brought his palm down on the bell; a rich ding sounded; a bellboy stepped forward from between potted philodendrons.

  “Of course. Fd be delighted.”

  She finished her signature without flourish, and turned around to face him. “Will you come up and wait while I change? I'm very hungry.”

  “Anything you say, ma'am.”

  “You're being very amenable all of a sudden. Have you become resigned to your fate?”

  Sulgrave glanced at her as they walked toward the elevators, saw her smile, said nothing.

  In the elevator they said nothing. While they followed the bellhop through the plushly carpeted corridor, they said nothing. When they entered the room, he took the two bags and tipped the boy, who left closing the door behind him. Sulgrave carried her luggage into the bedroom and put it down, wondering why she hadn't told him earlier that the bags were in the trunk of the limousine. The trip was less impromptu than she'd made it seem. He stood up, found himself facing her. She was removing her gloves, watching him.

  “You've been a very good boy,” she said, “so far. And very sweet. Now sit down and talk to me while I change.”

  He sat down on the b
ed and watched her as she opened the suitcases and began putting her things in order. The dresses she hung in the closet, the rest she apportioned carefully among the drawers of the dresser. The items from her vanity case she carried into the bathroom and arrayed one by one on the plate-glass shelf above the sink. He watched her through the open door.

  But they didn't talk. She seemed absorbed in what she was doing, and he was completely absorbed in watching her. Finally she went to the closet and took out a dress, a dark blue one of watered silk, and held it up for his approval.

  “All right?” she asked.

  “Very nice.”

  “I got it on sale,” she said irrelevantly.

  She laid it carefully across the foot of the bed. Then, as though he weren't in the room at all, she crossed to the mirror and stood before it, as though appraising herself. For a long moment she studied her reflection. Then she reached up behind her back and unzipped her dress to the waist, pulled it off her arms, and stepped out of it. Her shoulders seemed even more whitely naked for the black slip she was wearing. She held up the dress she'd just taken off and cocked her head to one side as she examined it. Then she turned it inside out and threw it at the bed; it fell short and slid off onto the rug. She made no move to pick it up, but simply stood looking at it impassively, her arms folded.

  “I hate black,” she said.

  “But why …”

  “Sometimes I feel … listen to me now.”

  “I'm listening.”

  “… obsessed. I dream about my big rock head at night sometimes. It's the only sensible thing I'm doing on this island. It won't hurt anyone. It's not for war or for peace, but for pastime. When this rock blows sky-high we'll all go with it, but my old statue will have the last laugh, or last cry, depending whether we're men or boys. Listen to me, don't interrupt! You think I started that sculpture just to provide recreation for the boys? Like hell. I started carving to provide Creation with something new, something that never existed before. It's the least a man can do before he goes. You ask me if the skipper is liable to crack up—I ask you: Are you sane? If so, why did you join a military organization? I know why I joined and it's none of your business, but why did you join? At the moment, Hake is who we've got, and until all men are angels it will never be any different. We were and are supposed to have three more white officers here—think of what that could mean. Are you deaf, dumb and blind to what's going on here? You don't think these boys know that they get the garbage and sweat details in this man's navy? How often do you see white troops loading ammunition? No, that's a black job. It'll change, of course, but not before tomorrow, not before the next day, either. You don't think men don't know that? How would you feel? You think they're happy just because they laugh, just because they sing and dance and get drunk—innocent savages. But I tell you you're sitting on more than one powder keg. There's men on this island who would rather kill you than sit at your table. They know what's going on here. They know that certain death hangs over their head—it hangs from a single white thread. Hake knows the risks, but he's trying to do a job on urgent orders. They want this place built, and built fast. He's doing exactly what has to be done: taking a risk. He won't put in for increased personnel because he knows he won't get it. And why ask for more men and risk more lives than he's already risking? He reads his books, and probably he's a fool as well as a gambler. I've almost come to hate him, and at times even tried to undermine him. I can tell myself he's not sanctified, and he's not. But a war isn't sanctified either, except as legal murder, so how can I fret about whether he'll stay in his right mind when the whole goddamned world is going crazy? Someone's got to stop the Tamerlanes. Washington wants this built in a hurry because we are going to war—the irony is that Hake can't even believe that, because he thinks war means the end of the world. Is that so crazy? Am I so sane for not deserting on a native sloop? The best I can do is to try to balance destruction with creation. I work with my hands to stay sane, to stay alive. I impose order on this chaos by carving it out of a hundred-ton rock with an airhammer. If it helps to stay alive, I'll try to do it … shit, it's the least I can do. Shit on suicide. We'll all be dead soon enough.”