Job: A Comedy of Justice (5 page)

I would not have been believed.

How else? I had trouble believing it myself.

Captain Hansen, a hearty no-nonsense man, would have bellowed with laughter at my “joke” and insisted on another toast. Had I persisted in my “delusion” he would have had the ship’s doctor talk to me.

Still, I got through that amazing evening easier by holding tight to the notion that I must concentrate on acting the part of Alec Graham while never letting anyone suspect that I was a changeling, a cuckoo’s egg.

There had just been placed in front of me a slice of princess cake, a beautiful multilayered confection I recalled from the other
Konge Knut,
and a small cup of coffee, when the Captain stood up. “Come, Alec! We go to the lounge now; the show is ready to start—but they can’t start till I get there. So come on! You don’t want all that sweet stuff; it’s not good for you. You can have coffee in the lounge. But before that we have some man’s drinks, henh? Not these joke drinks. You like Russian vodka?”

He linked his arm in mine. I discovered that I was going to the lounge. Volition did not enter into it.

That lounge show was much the mixture I had found earlier in M.V.
Konge Knut
—a magician who did improbable things but not as improbable as what I had done (or been done to?), a standup comedian who should have sat down, a pretty girl who sang, and dancers. The major differences were two I had already been exposed to: bare skin and bare words, and by then I was so numb from earlier shock and akvavit that these additional proofs of a different world had minimal effect.

The girl who sang just barely had clothes on and the lyrics of her songs would have caused her trouble even in the underworld of Newark, New Jersey. Or so I think; I have no direct experience with that notorious sink of iniquity. I paid more attention to her appearance, since here I need not avert my eyes; one is
expected
to stare at performers.

If one admits for the sake of argument that customs in dress can be wildly different without destroying the fabric of society (a possibility I do not concede but will stipulate), then it helps, I think, if the person exhibiting this difference is young and healthy and comely.

The singer was young and healthy and comely. I felt a twinge of regret when she left the spotlight.

The major event was a troupe of Tahitian dancers, and I was truly not surprised that they were costumed bare to the waist save for flowers or shell beads—by then I would have been surprised had they been otherwise. What was still surprising (although I suppose it should not have been) was the subsequent behavior of my fellow passengers.

First the troupe, eight girls, two men, danced for us, much the same dancing that had preceded the fire walk today, much the same as I had seen when a troupe had come aboard M.V.
Konge Knut
in Papeete. Perhaps you know that the hula of Tahiti differs from the slow and graceful hula of the Kingdom of Hawaii by being at a
much
faster beat and is much more energetic. I’m no expert on the arts of the dance but at least I have seen both styles of hula in the lands where each was native.

I prefer the Hawaiian hula, which I had seen when the
Count von Zeppelin
had stopped at Hilo for a day on her way to Papeete. The Tahitian hula strikes me as an athletic accomplishment rather than an art form. But its very energy and speed make it still more startling in the dress or undress these native girls wore.

There was more to come. After a long dance sequence which included paired dancing between girls and each of the two young men—in which they did things that would have been astonishing even among barnyard fowl (I kept expecting Captain Hansen to put a stop to it), the ship’s master of ceremonies or cruise director stepped forward.

“Ladeez and gentlemen,” he announced, “and the rest of you intoxicated persons of irregular birth—” (I am forced to amend his language.) “Most of you setters and even a few pointers have made good use of the four days our dancers have been with us to add the Tahitian hula to your repertoire. Shortly you’ll be given a chance to demonstrate what you’ve learned and to receive diplomas as authentic Papeete papayas. But what you don’t know is that others in the good ole knutty
Knut
have been practicing, too. Maestro, strike up the band!”

Out from behind the lounge stage danced a dozen more hula dancers. But these girls were not Polynesian; these girls were Caucasian. They were dressed authentically, grass skirts and necklaces, a flower in the hair, nothing else. But instead of warm brown, their skins were white; most of them were blondes, two were redheads.

It makes a difference. By then I was ready to concede that Polynesian women were correctly and even modestly dressed in their native costume—other places, other customs. Was not Mother Eve modest in her simplicity before the Fall?

But white women are grossly out of place in South Seas garb.

However, this did not keep me from watching the dancing. I was amazed to see that these girls danced that fast and complex dance as well (to my untutored eye) as did the island girls. I remarked on it to the Captain. “They learned to dance that precisely in only four days?”

He snorted. “They practice every cruise, those who ship with us before. All have practiced at least since San Diego.”

At that point I recognized one of the dancers—Astrid, the sweet young woman who had let me into “my” stateroom—and I then understood why they had had time and incentive to practice together: These girls were ship’s crew. I looked at her—stared, in fact—with more interest. She caught my eye and smiled. Like a dolt, a bumpkin, instead of smiling back I looked away and blushed, and tried to cover my embarrassment by taking a big sip of the drink I found in my hand.

One of the kanaka dancers whirled out in front of the white girls and called one of them out for a pair dance. Heaven save me, it was Margrethe!

I choked up and could not breathe. She was the most blindingly beautiful sight I had ever seen in all my life.

“
Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair; thou hast doves’ eyes within thy locks: thy hair is as a flock of goats, that appear from Mount Gilead.

“
Thy navel is like a round goblet, which wanteth not liquor: thy belly is like a heap of wheat set about with lilies.

“
Thy two breasts are like two young roes that are twins.

“
Thou art all fair, my love; there is no spot in thee.
”

I slowly became aware of myself and wished I had not; a most terrible nightmare was chasing me. I jammed my eyes shut against the light and tried to go back to sleep.

Native drums were beating in my head; I tried to shut them out by covering my ears.

They got louder.

I gave up, opened my eyes and lifted my head. A mistake—my stomach flipflopped and my ears shook. My eyes would not track and those infernal drums were tearing my skull apart.

I finally got my eyes to track, although the focus was fuzzy. I looked around, found that I was in a strange room, lying on top of a bed and only half dressed.

That began to bring it back to me. A party aboard ship. Spirits. Lots of spirits. Noise. Nakedness. The Captain in a grass skirt, dancing heartily, and the orchestra keeping step with him. Some of the lady passengers wearing grass skirts and some wearing even less. Rattle of bamboo, boom of drums.

Drums—

Those weren’t drums in my head; that was the booming of the worst headache of my life. Why in Ned did I let them—

Never mind “them.” You did it yourself, chum.

Yes, but—

“Yes, but.” Always “Yes, but.” All your life it’s been “Yes, but.” When are you going to straighten up and take full responsibility for your life and all that happens to you?

Yes, but
this
isn’t my fault. I’m not A. L. Graham. That isn’t my name. This isn’t my ship.

It isn’t? You’re not?

Of course not—

I sat up to shake off this bad dream. Sitting up was a mistake; my head did not fall off but a stabbing pain at the base of my neck added itself to the throbbing inside my skull. I was wearing black dress trousers and apparently nothing else and I was in a strange room that was rolling slowly.

Graham’s trousers. Graham’s room. And that long, slow roll was that of a ship with no stabilizers.

Not a dream. Or if it is, I can’t shake myself out of it. My teeth itched, my feet didn’t fit. Dried sweat all over me except where I was clammy. My armpits—Don’t even think about armpits!

My mouth needed to have lye dumped into it.

I remembered everything now. Or almost. The fire pit. Villagers. Chickens scurrying out of the way. The ship that wasn’t my ship—but was. Margrethe—

Margrethe!

“
Thy two breasts are like two roes
—
thou art all fair, my love!
”

Margrethe among the dancers, her bosom as bare as her feet. Margrethe dancing with that villainous kanaka, and shaking her—

No wonder I got drunk!

Stow it, chum! You were drunk before that. All you’ve got against that native lad is that it was he instead of
you.
You wanted to dance with her yourself. Only
you
can’t dance.

Dancing is a snare of Satan.

And don’t you wish you knew how!

“—
like two roes”!
Yes. I do!

I heard a light tap at the door, then a rattle of keys. Margrethe stuck her head in. “Awake? Good.” She came in, carrying a tray, closed the door, came to me. “Drink this.”

“What is it?”

“Tomato juice, mostly. Don’t argue—drink it!”

“I don’t think I can.”

“Yes, you can. You must. Do it.”

I sniffed it, then I took a small sip. To my amazement it did not nauseate me. So I drank some more. After one minor quiver it went down smoothly and lay quietly inside me. Margrethe produced two pills. “Take these. Wash them down with the rest of the tomato juice.”

“I never take medicine.”

She sighed, and said something I did not understand. Not English. Not quite. “What did you say?”

“Just something my grandmother used to say when grandfather argued with her. Mr. Graham, take those pills, They are just aspirin and you need them. If you won’t cooperate, I’ll stop trying to help you. I’ll—I’ll swap you to Astrid, that’s what I’ll do.”

“Don’t do that.”

“I will if you keep objecting. Astrid would swap, I know she would. She likes you—she told me you were watching her dance last night.”

I accepted the pills, washed them down with the rest of the tomato juice—ice-cold and very comforting. “I did until I spotted you. Then I watched you.”

She smiled for the first time. “Yes? Did you like it?”

“You were beautiful.” (And your dance was obscene. Your immodest dress and your behavior shocked me out of a year’s growth. I hated it—and I wish I could see it all over again this very instant!) “You are very graceful.”

The smile grew dimples. “I had hoped that you would like it, sir.”

“I did. Now stop threatening me with Astrid.”

“All right. As long as you behave. Now get up and into the shower. First very hot, then very cold. Like a sauna.” She waited. “‘Up,’ I said. I’m not leaving until that shower is running and steam is pouring out.”

“I’ll shower. After you leave.”

“And you’ll run it lukewarm, I know. Get up, get those trousers off, get into that shower. While you’re showering, I’ll fetch your breakfast tray. There is just enough time before they shut down the galley to set up for lunch…so quit wasting time. Please!”

“Oh, I can’t eat breakfast! Not today. No.” Food—what a disgusting thought.

“You
must
eat. You drank too much last night, you know you did. If you don’t eat, you will feel bad all day. Mr. Graham, I’ve finished making up for all my other guests, so I’m off watch now. I’m fetching your tray, then I’m going to stay and see that you eat it.” She looked at me. “I should have taken your trousers off when I put you to bed. But you were too heavy.”

“You put me to bed?”

“Ori helped me. The boy I danced with.” My face must have given me away, for she added hastily, “Oh, I didn’t let him come into your room, sir. I undressed you myself. But I did have to have help to
get you
up the stairs.”

“I wasn’t criticizing.” (Did you go back to the party then? Was he there? Did you dance with him again? “—
jealousy is cruel as the grave; the coals thereof are coals of fire
—” I have no right.) “I thank you both. I must have been a beastly nuisance.”

“Well…brave men often drink too much, after danger is over. But it’s not good for you.”

“No, it’s not.” I got up off the bed, went into the bathroom, said, “I’ll turn it up hot. Promise.” I closed the door and bolted it, finished undressing. (So I got so stinking, rubber-limp drunk that a native boy had to help get me to bed. Alex, you’re a disgusting mess! And you haven’t any right to be jealous over a nice girl. You don’t own her, her behavior is not wrong by the standards of this place—wherever this place is—and all she’s done is mother you and take care of you. That does not give you a claim on her.)

I did turn it up hot, though it durn near kilt poor old Alex. But I left it hot until the nerve ends seemed cauterized—then suddenly switched it to cold, and screamed.

I let it stay cold until it no longer felt cold, then shut it off and dried down, having opened the door to let out the moisture-charged air. I stepped out into the room…and suddenly realized that I felt wonderful. No headache. No feeling that the world is ending at noon. No stomach queasies. Just hunger. Alex, you must never get drunk again…but if you do, you must do exactly what Margrethe tells you to. You’ve got a smart head on her shoulders, boy—appreciate it.

I started to whistle and opened Graham’s wardrobe.

I heard a key in the door, hastily grabbed his bathrobe, managed to cover up before she got the door open. She was slow about it, being hampered by a heavy tray. When I realized this I held the door for her. She put down the tray, then arranged dishes and food on my desk.