Hot Countries (6 page)

There was Tania, one of the last direct descendants of the old royal family of the Pomaris, her black hair dressed high upon her head, a rose silk Spanish shawl about her shoulders, chattering to the half-dozen or so girls with whom he would idle most afternoons away over ice creams in the Mariposa Café. There was the Australian trader with whom he would discuss the relative merits of Woodfull and Macartney. A couple of French officials he had met at the
Cercle Coloniale
and others whom he knew by sight, the girls from the post office, the assistants from the three big stores, the skipper of the
Saint Antoine
; all that numerous crowd that he had watched from the balcony of his hotel, strolling lazily along the harbour-side. He had learnt to recognise most of the people in the town by sight during that three weeks' stay.

And he had done most of the things that one does do at
Tahiti during one's first three weeks there. He had driven out round the island, through Mataiea, past the short wooden pier on which during the last spring of the world's peace a doomed poet wrote lines for Mamua. He had spanned the narrow isthmus of Taravao; he had lunched at Keane's off a sweet shrimp curry; he had bathed on the dark sands at Arue, and in the cool waters of the Papeno River. He had chartered a glass-bottomed boat and, sailing out towards the reef, had watched the fish swimming in and out of the many-coloured coral. And day after day the sun had shone out of a blue sky ceaselessly and night after night moonshine and starlight had brooded over the scented darkness, and Ray Girling was beginning to feel just ever such a little bored.

“It may be,” he thought, “that that girl was right about a year being too little a time and a month too long.”

And gazing a little despondently at the thronged roadway, he wondered how he should employ the fourteen or so weeks that must pass before the sailing of the
Louqsor,
the French cargo boat, by which he had planned to return to Europe.

“Well,” a voice was asking at his elbow, “and is it still the Eden that you expected?”

The question was so appropriate to his mood that he could not resist laughing as he turned to meet the smiling flower-like features of Colette Garonne.

“At that precise moment,” he said, “I was just wondering whether you weren't right about Adam and Eve finding it a little dull in Eden.”

“You too, then, and so soon.”

“I was just feeling …” But she was so divinely pretty, even under the harsh glare of the electric lights, that he could not retain his temper of despondency. “I was just feeling,” he said instead, “what an enormous pity it was that we couldn't go on to supper and a cabaret after this, as we would if we were in New York or London.”

“So you've come ail this way to regret New York.”

“To regret that there's nothing to do after eleven; for there isn't, is there?”

“Not in the way of cabarets.”

“In any way, then?”

She pouted.

“The Bright Spirits drive off now and again in cars”.

“In cars, where?”

“Oh, anywhere. To bathe, or out to Keane's, or just to sing. That's the island idea of cabaret.”

“Well, then …” He hesitated. Often as he had sal before going to bed on the hotel verandah he had envied the crowded cars that had driven singing through the night below him. It had seemed so care-free and light-hearted with a light-heartedness with which he was not in tune. But he had felt always shy of suggesting such an expedition to any of his friends. On this occasion, however, the impelling influence of pale blue eyes emboldened him. “Wouldn't it be rather fun,” he said, “to have an impromptu cabaret this evening?”

It was her turn to hesitate. “Well,” she said, pausing doubtfully.

He could tell what was passing in her mind. Though he had seen her often enough, smiling greetings at her, they had not talked together since the night when Demster had introduced them. And she was uncertain, he could guess that, as to the types of companion that he would be selecting for her. He made no effort, however, to persuade her. He had the intuition to realise that at such moments it is the wiser plan not to urge the reluctant to say “Yes,” but to make it difficult for them to say “No.” Less than a yard away Tania was chattering noisily in the centre of a crowd of friends, and stretching out his hand, Ray Girling touched her on the arm.

“Tania,” he said, “we were thinking of driving out somewhere after the show. What's your idea of it?”

“Sweetheart, that it would be heavenly.”

“And who else'll come?

Tania glanced round her slowly.

“There's you, and I, and Colette, and Marie; and we'd better have Paul to amuse Tepia.”

In a minute or two it had been arranged.

“Then well meet,” said Girling, “outside Gustave's the moment the show's over.”

§

It was one of those nights that are not to be found elsewhere than in Tahiti. It was October and the night was calm. From the mountains a breeze was blowing, swaying gently the white-flowered shrubs along the road, ruffling ever so slightly the languidly bending palms. Westwards over the Pacific, a long street of silver to the jagged outline of Moorea, was a waxing moon; clouds moved lazily between the stars. The air was mild, sweet scented with the
tiare,
a sweetness that lay soft upon their cheeks as the car swayed and shook and rattled eastwards. The hood of the car was up, for in Tahiti there is always a possibility of rain: and for the islanders the landscape is too familiar to be attractive in itself. It is for the sensation of speed that motoring is so highly valued an entertainment. And as the car swayed over the uneven road, they laughed and sang, beating their hands in time with the accordion.

For an hour and a half they drove on, singing under the stars.

“Where are we going?” asked Ray at length. “Isn't it time we were thinking about a bathe?”

“Not yet, sweetheart,” laughed Tania. “Let's sec if Keane's up still.”

“At this hour?”

“One never knows.”

For there are no such things as regular hours in the Islands. One is up certainly with the sun, and usually by nine o'clock in the evening one is thinking about bed; but there is always a possibility that friends will come: that a car will stop outside your bungalow: that a voice will cry, “What about driving to Papeno?” And you will forget that you are sleepy, and a rum punch will be prepared, and there will be a banjo and an accordion, and there will be singing and Hula-Hulas, and hours later you will remember that a car is in the road outside, that you were planning to bathe in
the Papeno River, and, laughing and chattering, you will stumble out of the bungalow, pack yourselves anyhow into a pre-war Ford and, still laughing and still singing, you will drive away into the night, to wrap
pareos
around you and splash till you are a-weary in the cool, fresh mountain stream. It is an island saying that no night has ended till the dawn has broken, and at Keane's there is always a chance of finding merriment long after the streets are silent in Papeete. And sure enough, “Look, what did I say?” Tania was crying a few moments later. Through the thick tangle of trees a light was glimmering; there was the sound of a gramophone and clapping hands.

There were some dozen people on the verandah when they arrived; a planter from Taravao had stopped on his way back from Papeete for a rum punch; there had been a new record to try on the gramophone, some boys on their way back from fishing had seen lights and had heard singing, one of Keane's daughters had taken down her banjo and a grand-daughter of Keane's had danced Hula-Hulas, while beakers of rum punch had been filled and emptied; twenty minutes had become five hours and no one had thought of bed. It was after midnight, though, and probably, without the arrival of any fresh incentive, in another half-hour or so the party would have broken up. As it was, a cry of eager welcome was sent up as Girling's car drove up, and another half-dozen glasses were bustled out, another beaker of rum punch brewed, and Tania, seated cross-legged upon the floor, her banjo across her knees, was singing that softest and sweetest of Polynesian songs,

Ave, Ave, te vahini upipi
E patia tona, e pareo repo.

that haunting air that will linger for ever in the ears of those that hear it; that across the miles and across the years will wake an irresistible nostalgia for the long star-drenched nights of Polynesia, for the soft breezes, and the bending palm trees, the white bloom of the hibiscus, and the murmur of the Pacific rollers on the reef; for the sights and sounds and scents, for the flower-haired, dark-skinned people of Polynesia. And
as Tania sang and the girls danced, and the men beat their hands in time, the magic and beauty of the night filled over-brimmingly, as thriftlessly poured wine a beaker, the Western mind and spirit of Ray Girling.

“There's nothing like it,” he murmured. “Not in this world, certainly.”

“Nor probably,” quoted Colette, “in the next.”

And he remembered how a few hours earlier, in a mood of boredom, he had thought of Tahiti as a frame without a picture. He could understand now why he had felt like that. He had been looking at it from the outside. One had to surrender to Tahiti, to let oneself be absorbed by it.

Something of this sentiment he tried to convey to Colette.

“It's no good,” he said, “looking at Tahiti from outside.”

She sighed. “Outside. But that's what so many of us have to be.”

He looked down at her in surprise.

“Outside! You!”

“It's not always so easy to surrender. You've got to surrender so much else as well.” She paused, looked at him, questioningly, then seeing that his eyes were kind, continued: “For me to be absorbed in it, for me to be inside this life, it would mean living the same life as all these other girls, and, well, you know what that is. I just couldn't; it's not that I'm a prude, but you know what my life's been; my mother's had a bad time. I'm all she's got. It would break her if anything were to happen to me.”

“If you were to marry, though.”

She laughed, a little bitterly. “But who's to marry me? Who, at least, that I'd care to marry. There aren't so many white men here. It's not for marriage that the tourist comes. The English and the Americans who settle here as often as not have left wives behind them. At any rate they've come because they've tired of civilisation. They're not the type that make a conventional marriage. And though the French may be broadminded about liaisons, they're very particular about marriages. As far as they're concerned I'm
damaged goods. It's not even as though I had any money. And I can't go. I can't leave my mother. I'm not complaining. Please don't think that. I'm pretty happy really. But I've never felt, I don't suppose I ever shall feel, as though I really belonged here.”

She had spoken softly, her voice sinking to a whisper; and as Ray Girling listened, a deep feeling of pity overcame him. She was so sweet, so pretty; it was cruel that life should have been harsh to her, here of all places, in Tahiti. It was true, though, what she had said. What they had both said about belonging here. One had to surrender to Tahiti, to take it on its own terms. Otherwise for all time there would be an angel before that Eden, with the drawn sword that was the knowledge of good and evil. He had talked a few minutes since of being himself inside it, but that he could never be as long as he was content to remain a sojourner. He was a tourist like any other, with his life and interests ten thousand miles away. He had a few weeks to spend here: a few weeks in which to gather as many impressions as he could. And perhaps because he loved the place so well, something of its mystery would be laid on him. But it was not thus and to such as he that Tahiti would lay bare her secrets. You had to come empty-handed to that altar; you had to surrender utterly; you could not be of Tahiti and of Europe. You would have to cut away from that other life, those other interests. Your whole life must be bounded by Tahiti; you must take root there by the palm-fringed lagoons, and then, little by little, you would absorb that: magic. The spirit of Tahiti would whisper its secrets into your ear. You must surrender or remain outside. Wistfully he looked out over the verandah.

It was so lovely, the garden with its tangled masses of fruits and flowers. The dark sand, with the faint line of white where the water rippled among the oyster beds; and the long line of coast, swerving outwards to a hidden headland, with beyond it, above the bending heads of the coconut palms, the dark shadow that was the mountains of Taravao; and over it all was the silver moonlight and the music of
the breakers on the reef; and here at his feet, one with the magic of the night, were the dark-skinned, laughing people to whose ears alone the spirit of Tahiti whispered the syllables of its magic.

And as he leant back against the verandah railing there came to him such thoughts as have come to all of us under the moonlight on Tahitian nights. He thought of the turmoil and the conflict that was Europe: the hurry and the malice and the greed: the ceaseless battle for self-protection: the ceaseless exploitation of advantage: the long battle that wearies and hardens and embitters: that brings you ultimately to see all men as your enemies, since all men are in competition with you, since your success can only be purchased at the price of another's failure. He thought of what his life would be for the next forty years; he contrasted it with the gentleness and sweetness and simplicity of this island life, where there is no hatred since there is no need for hatred; where there is no rivalry since life is easy, since the sun shines and the rain is soft, and the
feis
grow wild along the valleys, and livelihood lies ready to man's hand. Where there is no reason why you should not trust your neighbour, since in a world where there are no possessions there is nothing that he can rob you of; where you can believe in the softness of a glance, since in a world where there are no social ladders there is nothing that a woman can gain from love-making but love. Such thoughts as we all have on Tahitian nights. And thinking them, he told himself that were he to sell now his share in his father's business there would be a yearly income for him of some six hundred pounds, a sum that would purchase little enough in Europe, where everything had a market price, but that would mean for him in Tahiti a bungalow on the edge of a lagoon, wide and clear and open to the moonlight, and there would be so much of work as to keep idleness from fretting him; and there would be a companion in the bungalow, and children—smiling, happy children, who would grow to manhood in a country where there is no need to arm yourself from childhood for the fight for livelihood.