The man took off his panama hat and mopped his brow with a handkerchief. He had curly black hair. He kept looking at Joe as if he was making up his mind about something. Finally he said, “Say my name's . . . Wa-wa-wa-. . . Warner Jones.” “They call me Yank on the
Argyle
. . . In the navy they called me Slim.”
“So you were in the navy, were you? I thought you looked more like a jackie than a merchant seaman, Slim.”
“That so?”
The man who said his name was Jones ordered two more of the same. Joe was worried. But what the hell, they can't arrest a guy for a deserter on British soil. “Say, did you say you knew anything about the baseball scores? The leagues must be pretty well underway by now.”
“I got the papers up at the hotel . . . like to look at them?”
“I sure would.”
The rain stopped. The pavement was already dry when they came out of the bar.
“Say, I'm going to take a ride around this island. Tell me you can see wild monkeys and all sorts of things. Why don't you come along? I'm bored to death of sightseeing by myself.”
Joe thought a minute. “These clothes ain't fit. . . .”
“What the hell, this isn't Fifth Avenue. Come ahead.” The man who said his name was Jones signalled a nicely polished Ford driven by a young chinaman. The chinaman wore glasses and a dark blue suit and looked like a college student; he talked with an English accent. He said he'd drive them round the town and out to the Blue Pool. As they were setting off the man who said his name was Jones said, “Wait a minute,” and ran in the bar and got a flask of Planter's punch.
He talked a blue streak all the time they were driving out past the British bungalows and brick institution buildings and after that out along the road through rubbery blue woods so dense and steamy it seemed to Joe there must be a glass roof overhead somewhere. He said how he liked adventure and travel and wished he was free to ship on boats and bum around and see the world and that it must be wonderful to depend only on your own sweat and muscle the way Joe was doing. Joe said, “Yare?” But the man who said his name was Jones paid no attention and went right on and said how he had to take care of his mother and that was a great responsibility and sometimes he thought he'd go mad and he'd been to a doctor about it and the doctor had advised him to take a trip, but that the food wasn't any good on the boat and gave him indigestion and it was all full of old women with daughters they wanted to marry off and it made him nervous having women run after him like that. The worst of it was not having a friend to talk to about whatever he had on his mind when he got lonely. He wished he had a nice good looking fellow who'd been around and wasn't a softy and knew what life was and could appreciate beauty for a friend, a fellow like Joe in fact. His mother was awfully jealous and didn't like the idea of his having any intimate friends and would always get sick or try to hold out on his allowance when she found out about his having any friends, because she wanted him to be always tied to her apron strings but he was sick and tired of that and from now on he was going to do what he damn pleased, and she didn't have to know about everything he did anyway.
He kept giving Joe cigarettes and offering them to the chinaman who said each time, “Thank you very much, sir. I have forgone smoking.” Between them they had finished the flask of punch and the man who said his name was Jones was beginning to edge over towards Joe in the seat, when the chinaman stopped the car at the end of a little path and said, “If you wish to view the Blue Pool you must walk up there almost seven minutes, sir. It is the principal attraction of the island of Trinidad.”
Joe hopped out of the car and went to make water beside a big tree with shaggy red bark. The man who said his name was Jones came up beside him. “Two minds with but a single thought,” he said. Joe said, “Yare,” and went and asked the chinaman where they could see some monkeys.
“The Blue Pool,” said the chinaman, “is one of their favorite re
sorts.” He got out of the car and walked around it looking intently with his black beads of eyes into the foliage over their heads. Suddenly he pointed. Something black was behind a shaking bunch of foliage. A screechy giggle came from behind it and three monkeys went off flying from branch to branch with long swinging leaps. In a second they were gone and all you could see was the branches stirring at intervals through the woods where they jumped. One of them had a pinkish baby monkey hanging on in front. Joe was tickled. He'd never seen monkeys really wild like that before. He went off up the path, walking fast so that the man who said his name was Jones had trouble keeping up to him. Joe wanted to see some more monkeys.
After a few minutes' walk up hill he began to hear a waterfall. Something made him think of Great Falls and Rock Creek and he went all soft inside. There was a pool under a waterfall hemmed in by giant trees. “Dod gast it, I've a mind to take me a dip,” he said. “Wouldn't there be snakes, Slim?” “Snakes won't bother you, 'less you bother 'em first.”
But when they got right up to the pool they saw that there were people picnicking there, girls in light pink and blue dresses, two or three men in white ducks, grouped under striped umbrellas. Two Hindoo servants were waiting on them, bringing dishes out of a hamper. Across the pool came the chirp-chirp of cultivated English voices. “Shoot, we can't go swimmin' here and they won't be any monkeys either.”
“Suppose we joined them . . . I might introduce myself and you would be my kid brother. I've got a letter to a Colonel Somebody but I felt too blue to present it.”
“What the hell do they want to be fartin' around here for?” said Joe and started back down the path again. He didn't see any more monkeys and by the time he'd got back to the car big drops had started to fall.
“That'll spoil their goddam picnic,” he said, grinning to the man who said his name was Jones when he came up, the sweat running in streams down his face. “My, you're a fast walker, Slim.” He puffed and patted him on the back. Joe got into the car. “I guess we're goin' to get it.” “Sirs,” said the chinaman, “I will return to the city for I perceive that a downpour is imminent.”
By the time they'd gone a half a mile it was raining so hard the
chinaman couldn't see to drive. He ran the car into a small shed on the side of the road. The rain pounding on the tin roof overhead sounded loud as a steamboat letting off steam. The man who said his name was Jones started talking; he had to yell to make himself heard above the rain. “I guess you see some funny sights, Slim, leading the life you lead.”
Joe got out of the car and stood facing the sudden curtain of rain; the spray in his face felt almost cool. The man who said his name was Jones sidled up to him holding out a cigarette. “How did you like it in the navy?”
Joe took the cigarette, lit it and said, “Not so good.”
“I've been friends with lots of navy boys . . . I suppose you liked raising cain on shore leave, didn't you?” Joe said he didn't usually have much pay to raise cain with, used to play ball sometimes, that wasn't so bad. “But, Slim, I thought sailors didn't care what they did when they got in port.” “I guess some of the boys try to paint the town red, but they don't usually have enough jack to get very far.” “Maybe you and I can paint the town red in Port of Spain, Slim.” Joe shook his head. “No, I gotta go back on board ship.”
The rain increased till the tin roof roared so Joe couldn't hear what the man who said his name was Jones was trying to say, then slackened and stopped entirely. “Well, at least you come up to my room in the hotel, Slim, and we'll have a couple of drinks. Nobody knows me here. I can do anything I like.” “I'd like to see the sports page of that paper from home if you don't mind.”
They got into the car and rode back to town along roads brimmed with water like canals. The sun came out hot and everything was in a blue steam. It was late afternoon. The streets of the town were crowded; hindoos with turbans, chinks in natty Hart Schaffner and Marx clothes, redfaced white men dressed in white, raggedy shines of all colors.
Joe felt uncomfortable going through the lobby of the hotel in his dungarees, pretty wet at that, and he needed a shave. The man who said his name was Jones put his arm over his shoulders going up the stairs. His room was big with tall narrow shuttered windows and smelt of bay rum. “My, but I'm hot and wet,” he said. “I'm going to take a shower . . . but first we'd better ring for a couple of gin fizzes. . . . Don't you want to take your clothes off and take it easy? His
skin's about as much clothes as a fellow can stand in this weather.” Joe shook his head, “They stink too much,” he said. “Say, have you got them papers?”
The hindoo servant came with the drinks while the man who said his name was Jones was in the bathroom. Joe took the tray. There was something about the expression of the hindoo's thin mouth and black eyes looking at something behind you in the room that made Joe sore. He wanted to hit the tobaccocolored bastard. The man who said his name was Jones came back looking cool in a silk bathrobe.
“Sit down, Slim, and we'll have a drink and a chat.” The man ran his fingers gently over his forehead as if it ached and through his curly black hair and settled in an armchair. Joe sat down in a straight chair across the room. “My, I think this heat would be the end of me if I stayed a week in this place. I don't see how you stand it, doing manual work and everything. You must be pretty tough!”
Joe wanted to ask about the newspapers but the man who said his name was Jones was talking again, saying how he wished he was tough, seeing the world like that, meeting all kinds of fellows, going to all kinds of joints, must see some funny sights, must be funny all these fellows bunking together all these days at sea, rough and tumble, hey? and then nights ashore, raising cain, painting the town red, several fellows with one girl. “If I was living like that, I wouldn't care what I did, no reputation to lose, no danger of somebody trying to blackmail you, only have to be careful to keep out of jail, hay? Why, Slim, I'd like to go along with you and lead a life like that.” “Yare?” said Joe.
The man who said his name was Jones rang for another drink. When the hindoo servant had gone Joe asked again about the papers. “Honestly, Slim, I looked everywhere for them. They must have been thrown out.” “Well, I guess I'll be gettin' aboard my bloody limejuicer.” Joe had his hand on the door. The man who said his name was Jones came running over and took his hand and said, “No, you're not going. You said you'd go on a party with me. You're an awful nice boy. You won't be sorry. You can't go away like this, now that you've got me feeling all sort of chummy and you know amorous. Don't you ever feel that way, Slim? I'll do the handsome thing. I'll give you fifty dollars.” Joe shook his head and pulled his hand away.
He had to give him a shove to get the door open; he ran down the white marble steps and out into the street.
It was about dark; Joe walked along fast. The sweat was pouring off him. He was cussing under his breath as he walked along. He felt rotten and sore and he'd wanted real bad to see some papers from home.
He loafed up and down in a little in the sort of park place where he'd sat that afternoon, then he started down towards the wharves. Might as well turn in. The smell of frying from eating joints reminded him he was hungry. He turned into one before he remembered he didn't have a cent in his pocket. He followed the sound of a mechanical piano and found himself in the red light district. Standing in the doorways of the little shacks there were nigger wenches of all colors and shapes, halfbreed Chinese and Indian women, a few faded fat German or French women; one little mulatto girl who reached her hand out and touched his shoulder as he passed was damn pretty. He stopped to talk to her, but when he said he was broke, she laughed and said, “Go long from here, Mister No-Money Man . . . no room here for a No-Money Man.”
When he got back on board he couldn't find the cook to try and beg a little grub off him so he took a chaw and let it go at that. The focastle was like an oven. He went up on deck with only a pair of overalls on and walked up and down with the watchman who was a pinkfaced youngster from Dover everybody called Tiny. Tiny said he'd heard the old man and Mr. McGregor talking in the cabin about how they'd be off tomorrow to St. Luce to load limes and then 'ome to blighty and would 'e be glad to see the tight little hile an' get off this bleedin' crahft, not 'arf. Joe said a hell of a lot of good it'd do him, his home was in Washington, D.C. “I want to get out of the cââg life and get a job that pays something. This way every bastardly tourist with a little jack thinks he can hire you for his punk.” Joe told Tiny about the man who said his name was Jones and he laughed like he'd split. “Fifty dollars, that's ten quid. I'd a 'ad 'arf a mind to let the toff 'ave a go at me for ten quid.”
The night was absolutely airless. The mosquitoes were beginning to get at Joe's bare neck and arms. A sweet hot haze came up from the slack water round the wharves blurring the lights down the waterfront. They took a couple of turns without saying anything.
“My eye what did 'e want ye to do, Yank?” said Tiny giggling. “Aw to hell with him,” said Joe. “I'm goin' to get out of this life. Whatever happens, wherever you are, the seaman gets the'sây end of the stick. Ain't that true, Tiny?”
“Not 'arf . . . ten quid! Why, the bleedin' toff ought to be ashaymed of hisself. Corruptin' morals, that's what 'e's after. Ought to go to 'is 'otel with a couple of shipmytes and myke him pay blackmyl. There's many an old toff in Dover payin' blackmyl for doin' less 'n 'e did. They comes down on a vacaytion and goes after the bath'ouse boys. . . . Blackmyl 'im, that's what I'd do, Yank.”