some sleep and some food.”
Martin sat up again.
“Where are you going?”
“Down to the docks.”
“What ship?”
“The _Steeldeer_.”
“Where’s she going?”
“Around the Loop.”
“Any chance to make her?”
“The crew’s signed on.”
“I’m sorry to see you go.” Martin couldn’t stop the hurt in his voice.
“I ain’t goin’,” said Rio, not looking at him. He left the room without
further explanation and Martin went to sleep.
* * * * *
It was Saturday afternoon and the office force at the Employment Station
had gone home. Roberts alone remained. He was writing when he heard
someone come in. He did not look up.
“My name’s Rio.”
The adviser threw down his pencil.
“I remember you,” he said, regarding the man in front of him with intense
annoyance, “I might add—unfortunately. I have no desire to see you. I
have not seen your friend.”
“But Mr. Roberts. I got some news. I seen him. I seen Martin, the
cripple.” The big sailor laughed. “He was thin, at that.”
Roberts went around the desk and faced Rio.
“Get out,” he said.
“But Mr. Roberts!” Rio was still smiling. “I like you.” He rubbed his
face gently against Roberts’, who moved back in astonishment and disgust.
“I said, _get out_!” The adviser spoke between his teeth.
“But I like you, Mister.” Rio put one hand back of Roberts’ neck and the
other across his cheekbones. The adviser tried to move but the pressure
stopped him. He stood quietly, his eyes looking frantically back and
forth, the color in his cheeks flickering. Rio squeezed harder. Above the
hand on his face Roberts could see his torturer dimly. The pain changed
to lassitude and Roberts wasn’t afraid anymore. He remembered that he had
dropped his Derby on the street a night or two ago. He had intended to
send it to the cleaner’s, but had forgotten it. He could not condone such
negligence. Then he went to sleep.
Rio looked at the man he was holding. Roberts reminded him of an old
sailing vessel on which he’d once made a trip. She’d struck a reef off
Cocos Island. Rio had watched the ship from the beach. Her stern was up
and her sails dead. A red anchor light flickered like this man’s eyes
before she sank in shoal water.
He carried Roberts to a chair behind the desk. Then he left the
Employment Station, went to a phone booth and looked up Deane Idara’s
address.
* * * * *
At the Employment Station Roberts heard someone in the hall. He tried to
open his eyes, although it didn’t make any difference. It was probably
that fellow returning to make sure that he had killed him.... Again came
the strange fancies. It seemed to Roberts that he was chasing his Derby
which was now being driven violently down the dusty street by the wind.
Thump—thump—thump it went along the sidewalk, and at each corner, when he
thought he had caught up with it, the wind would rise, and he would have
to dash after the hat, trying desperately to retrieve it before the wind
got hold of it again. “The cleaner can never make it right now,” he kept
thinking dismally. “The dirt will be ground into it.” And once more, the
hat made funny, hollow-sounding noises as it turned over and over on the
pavement. Suddenly the Derby changed shape—growing enormous, building
out misshapen shoulders, becoming a terrifying bulk which turned on him.
Stricken with horror, Roberts fled before the onslaught of the monster.
Thump—thump—thump— A janitor walked into the room.
“Mr. Roberts!” he cried. “Mr. Roberts!” He ran to the telephone and tried
to dial the operator, but his hands were shaking too much.
The adviser knew how he looked. He knew that his mouth was open.
Perspiration was pouring from his face and hands. He fought off the
darkness. He got his mouth closed. With consciousness came pain—a
sharpness at the base of his neck that made him sick.
“Leave the phone,” he commanded sternly.
The janitor hesitated.
“Leave the phone,” Roberts repeated. He could move his arms now and was
able to sit straighter in his chair.
The janitor picked up his broom, looked at the adviser again and started
sweeping. Roberts was writing when the janitor left.
* * * * *
Rio got out of the elevator and was approaching Deane’s apartment when
an elegantly dressed young man stepped from her door, closing it behind
him. The sailor’s anger rose at the thought that this woman should betray
his friend, as so it seemed. And when the two men neared each other in
the hall they both hesitated as if by mutual agreement—Rio, still in
his murderous rage, Drew in curiosity. They were barely moving as they
started to pass each other. Rio scowled, then stopped a moment to stare
at the other, who merely lifted his eyebrows and looked at the small
bouquet in his own lapel, smiling as if he had a notion. Rio’s face
became red. Thoroughly embarrassed at his mistake, he could not help
but smile back. His healthy, undisciplined grin allayed any possible
apprehension on the part of Drew who continued down the hall.
Rio found Deane alone. He thought he had never seen a woman so foreign
to him—so sweetly unattainable that for one slow instant his deep native
blood rebelled, reached out in mind, then caught itself. He held his cap
when he sat down.
“I won’t be long, Mrs. Idara,” he said. “My name’s Rio.”
“Martin has mentioned you, Rio,” answered Deane. “I thought it was you.”
The big sailor glared at her.
“I just left Martin. He’s sick.”
“I know.” Deane looked away.
“I’d help him, Mrs. Idara. But he don’t need me.”
“He doesn’t need anyone but himself, Rio.”
“He needs a good woman,” answered Rio coldly.
Deane looked straight at him.
“That is—a stupid one?” she asked.
For a moment Rio stared at her helplessly.
“You’re right,” he said at last. “I can’t talk. But Mrs. Idara, Martin
ain’t the first to break his neck over a woman—only mine died, and her
skin wasn’t your color.”
“I’m sorry, Rio. I’m sorry it had to happen to you.” Deane made a little
gesture of sympathy.
Rio thrust his head forward.
“That’d work better on a live man,” he said bluntly.
“Is Martin alive?” Deane spoke as if to herself.
“He’s crazy,” answered Rio, “but he ain’t dead. And he never lost all his
bearings till he met you. He even handled Roberts.”
Deane was astonished.
“You know Mr. Roberts?”
Rio twirled his cap in his hand.
“Yes, ma’am. He’s a friend of mine.”
“You’re a friend of both Martin and Roberts?” Deane asked incredulously.
“I can get along with anybody.” Rio looked at her and some of his hatred
appeared in his eyes.
“You love Martin very much, don’t you, Rio?”
“Maybe. He said so one night. The way you and him throw that word around,
though, it means anything.”
“I intended it to be a good word, Rio—a brave word.”
Rio grinned. Deane thought it was the strongest, most vicious expression
she had ever seen. She wasn’t afraid, but such clear hatred made her
hesitate.
“Rio,” she said finally, “I love Martin. But I won’t let him escape the
world. It isn’t fear that makes him try it, but he has a quality of
evasiveness that clears him from all reality. It has been convenient for
him at times, but some day it will destroy him. I love him too much to
let this happen.” Deane was tired. She felt older. She didn’t even know
that her eyes were full of tears.
Rio stopped smiling and stared at the floor. Suddenly he got up and went
over to her.
“I made a mistake,” he said.
He put on his cap and Deane walked to the door with him.
“Rio,” she touched his arm, “tell Martin I need to see him. Will you?”
“I’ll tell him, Mrs. Idara.” Deane’s hand against his arm upset him. He
wanted to kiss her. That moment he hated Martin. “I’ll tell him,” he
repeated, and walked down the hall, looking surprised.
* * * * *
Martin was sleeping when Rio returned. He awakened and saw the big sailor
looking down at him.
“What’s the news?” he asked.
“I seen Mrs. Idara. She wants to talk to you.”
“You saw Deane?” Martin sat up.
“She wants to talk to you,” Rio repeated.
“You’re high-handed.” Martin shook his head. “What about the _Steeldeer_,
now that you’ve seen me over the bumps?”
“You ain’t over the bumps, and I don’t want the _Steeldeer_. There’s a
boomer in next week, and no goo-goos in the messroom. I’ll see then.”
Martin tried to hide his embarrassment.
“Unaccustomed as I am—” he began.
“Stow it,” interrupted Rio, jamming his cap on his head. “You got a job.
I’ll see you later.”
“That’s right,” said Martin. He got out of bed and put on his coat. Then
he stood looking solemnly at his friend. “I’ll probably be back next
week—or sooner——”
“You better go.”
Martin kept looking at him. Then, without speaking further, he turned
suddenly, went to the door and walked out.
When Rio could no longer hear his footsteps he sat down on the bed and
lit a cigarette, but put it out immediately and carefully laid it on the
washstand. For awhile he paced back and forth in his room. Then he went
down to the desk and called out to the woman behind it.
“Where’s the Brat, Rosie?” he asked.
* * * * *
Rio left the Brat and went to the waterfront. The salt air, the breeze
and the innocuous drainage of people took away some of his disgust. The
_Comber_, bound for Buenos Aires, was tied up at Pier V 9. A watchman
stopped Rio at the gate.
“Hold off,” he said roughly. “What’s it from you?”
“Flowers for the shore gang,” said Rio, in a high voice.
The watchman laughed.
“Oh. It’s you, eh?” He passed his hand over the gray stubble on his chin.
“I figured you’d be headin’ south about this time.”
“Who’s the mate, Watch?” asked Rio, who was now grinning.
“The same baby they had last trip,” answered the watchman, spitting abeam
of the wind.
“Thanks, Cap,” said Rio. He went through the warehouse to the pier and
started up the gangplank. A mess-boy, flour covering his shoulders, cried
“Gangway!” Rio twisted past him, indifferently brushing his sleeve where
the boy had bumped into him. At the top of the plank Rio called to the
quartermaster. “Where’s the mate?”
“Up at No. 2.”
Rio started forward, then turned and went aft to the last house
’midships. He opened the door of the sailors’ messroom and walked in.
A few men were sitting around the table which was covered with dirty
oilcloth. They were drinking coffee. One of them got up.
“Hello, Rio. I ain’t seen you since you broke your wrist over the Old
Man’s head in the Channel.” The sailor laughed. “From bridge to brig in
one trip.” He rubbed his head with tattooed fingers while the crimson
lady, dotted on his heavy forearm, danced. The printed line, ROTTERDAM
GERTIE, under the figure, stretched as wide as the lady’s hips.
“It wasn’t a bad trip, Joe,” answered Rio. “The brig’s better’n the
chainlocker.” He looked suddenly interested. “How’d the Old Man make out?”
“I dunno. The last I seen him was when we tied up at Rotterdam. They was
packin’ him off down the Lekhaven.”
“Down the Lekhaven, eh?” Rio looked grim. “His bones’d set of themselves
on the Schiedamsche Dyk.”
Joe waved the remark aside.
“What happened to you, Rio?”
“They broke me, and let it go at that.”
“No more brass on your shoulders then.”
“I’d rather polish it than wear it.”
“Are you goin’ to ship on this?”
“Don’t know. Who’s the bos’n?”
“I am. Seventy-five dollars, my own boy and radio.”
“Company man, Joe?”
“Yeah. I never pass up this chicory.” The bos’n poured more coffee. “Have
some,” he said.
Rio looked around the messroom. He saw the college boys staring at him,
the flies on the wall and a cockroach settled under the percolator.
“Take it, Joe,” he said. “And my compliments to B.A.”
The bos’n followed him out of the messroom and walked beside him on the
pier.
“They’re all the same, Rio,” he said, a little sadly. “The ships, the
turnips and the crew. By God!—I won’t rot on shore, though.”
“I won’t neither,” said Rio. “I’ll go back sometime.”
They were passing a waterfront cafe. Its sign read: beer parlour. Joe
pulled Rio inside and they sat down at a table.
“We shipped together for a long time,” said the bos’n. “There’s somethin’
eatin’ you. Drink up and get it off your chest.”
Rio raised his glass and set it down empty. Joe followed and waved his
red hand at the waitress.
“A head on two,” he said.
Rio watched the girl pour the beer.
“I don’t figure it myself, Joe.”
“Drink up. Drink up and get it off your chest.”
“Well, my shipmate, last trip, was a queer one. I don’t mean there was
funny business. I never knew nobody like him. He wasn’t no sailor, and
sometimes I thought he was a little off. I never felt like that before,
and it was all jam. He didn’t know how to take care of himself; so when
he piled off in New York I knew he was in for it. I followed him and he
was all over the town. He met a fag who got him a job. Then he met a girl
and fell in love with her. The fag had him fired, and he went off the
deep end. He got drunk and the girl threw him over. I found him at the
Doghouse. I got hold of the fag and fixed him up a little and went to the
girl’s place. And then—” Rio stopped and looked at the beer.
“Get it off your chest,” said Joe, and the tattooed ring on his
forefinger turned an evil blue in the dim light.
Rio took a deep draught before he spoke.
“You know I ain’t cared for a woman since——”
“I know.” Joe nodded.
“She’s a swell girl,” said Rio, leaning heavily on the table.
“Who?” Joe looked bewildered.
“Martin’s girl. She’s too good for him. I’d hate to see her hurt.”
Joe thought a moment.
“What about you?” he asked.
“None of that,” said Rio shortly.
Joe shoved his glass aside.
“Is that all of it?”
“No.” Rio looked glum. “This Roberts—he’s the fag—don’t like the set-up.
I think Martin and the girl’d make it but for him.” Rio glanced up at Joe
earnestly. “I got him bluffed, though, and as long as I hang around, he
won’t bother no one.”
Joe made a disgusted sound.
“You can’t wet nurse ’em the rest of your life.”
“No, but I could make a short trip and look Roberts up afterwards.”
Joe shook his head.
“And get thrown in jail? Listen!” Joe leaned closer to his friend. “Why
don’t you ship out, Rio? There ain’t no use—” But something about Rio’s
appearance made him stop. “All right,” Joe left the table. “If you change
your mind, I’ll be in No. 5.”
“Good enough,” said Rio, not looking up.
Joe walked back slowly to his ship and Rio drank coffee. When he left the
restaurant he went straight down the waterfront to the South American
Line. A small ship was sailing for Santa de Marina that evening, for
bananas. Rio saw the first officer.
“I want to get out, Mister.”
“We don’t like pierhead jumps on the _Nancy II_” said the blunt little
officer. Then he looked Rio over. “Have you seen the delegate? Is your
gear handy?”
“Yeah.”
“Bring it aboard. See the bos’n—Good Jesus, lad!” the mate yelled to an
ordinary seaman who was scrubbing the whitework. “Soo-gee that bulkhead!
Don’t kiss it!”
Rio was forward when they cast off the lines. After the ship was made
ready for sea he sat down on a bitt and watched the higher lights of
Manhattan fade in the twilight.
_CHAPTER XI_
Martin left Rio’s hotel and walked slowly along Fourteenth Street. His
mind was blended with the darkness about him, for the street seemed to
rest after the petty trading and rush of the day. He passed the cheap
little shops and solitary stragglers, unconsciously accepting them in
their place; nor did he turn his head to glance at the thin blue lights
of a tiny cinema across the way. But a girl, in passing, brushed his
shoulder lightly and asked him for a cigarette. He stopped, felt in his
pockets and pulled out a package which he offered her.
“Mentholated, ain’t they?” she said, pleased at her good luck. “Gee, I
like mentholated.” She took one of the cigarettes and handed back the
package.
Martin looked at her and saw the rakish, ill-fitting dress, the tired
expression in her eyes and the affected smile.
“Won’t you keep them?” he asked.
“Thanks, Mister. That’s swell,” she said, stuffing them in her bag. “But
d’you have any?” Here she hesitated. “You better have one,” she said at
last, carefully selecting a cigarette and handing it to him.
He accepted it and put it in his trousers pocket.
“Not there,” she cautioned. “You’ll smash it. Put it there.” She pointed
to the pocket of his coat.
Unthinkingly, he obeyed her.
“Say,” she said, peering at him. “You look hungry.”
“I’m not hungry,” Martin smiled at her. “But now, I have to hurry.” He
smiled at her again, then walked on rapidly.
The girl kept at his side, looking at him, her mouth slightly open.
“You’re a nice man,” she said finally.
Martin stopped and looked directly at her.
“If you knew what I am, you’d run like a frightened cat. You’d run
anywhere, and afterwards thank God for it.” Then, seeing her eyes widen
and her fingers clutch her bag, he continued more gently, “For you are a
little cat, aren’t you, Cat?” and he hastened on with long strides.
The girl stared after him, then turned, and with her head hanging down,
walked slowly the other way.
As Martin approached Seventh Avenue he noticed a bright-eyed old woman
on the corner. On the pavement in front of her was a basket of French
marigolds. Martin hesitated and stared at the flowers for a second, then
at the old woman.
“What do they mean?” he asked. “They look like wax.”
“Oh, sir, they ain’t. I grew ’em myself.” The old woman watched him, her
hands in her apron.
“Give me a bunch of the prettiest!” Martin pointed. “There!—in the
center. They are for someone I love.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll give ye the bunch that’s prettiest.” She chose the
freshest ones and carefully wrapped the stems in a piece of damp brown
paper.
“Thanks, old lady,” said Martin, dropping a coin in her hand. “And I’ll
give _you_ a wish.” For a moment she smiled, Martin thought rather shyly,
regarding him with a strange, toothless understanding. He held the
marigolds before him, sniffing occasionally as he hurried on.
* * * * *
When Deane saw him she wanted to cry; and taking the flowers, she
fingered the little bouquet lovingly before laying it aside for a moment.
Martin sat down heavily on the divan.
“My God, I’m tired,” he said. “Tired and hungry. Why, I’m just as tired
as when I left here. That seems like a long time ago.”
“Don’t let’s talk about it,” said Deane, sitting down beside him. Martin
could feel each pulse beating from her wrist in time with his own blood.
He put his head against her arm, letting the faint sound ring into his
temples. He rested against her naturally, faithfully, as though returning
from a voyage of centuries or death.
Deane added to this dream-like state, this swift advance of years
to year. She felt the soft wash of logic crumbling within her, loved
him without exception, and remained quiescent. She heard Martin’s
breathing, felt an awakening, a weary happiness. A clear stream of words,
unintelligible, fell through her hair....
Martin sat up.
“Did you sleep, too?” he asked.
“No,” answered Deane, smiling. “But I was very happy. You slept like a
baby. Don’t you ever talk in your dreams?”
“I did have a dream,” declared Martin, now thoroughly awake. “I dreamt
that I met you at the point where the world meets itself. We decided
instantly that we loved each other and——”
“What a lie!” interrupted Deane, laughing.
“I swear it!” said Martin, elaborately crossing his heart. “And I dreamt
also that I was very hungry. Wasn’t that strange?”
“Yes. A coincidence,” said Deane, kissing him on the lips and starting to
rise.
Martin caught the back of her hair and strained her to him.
“Deane!” he cried. But she pushed against his shoulders until he let her
go.
“I’m going to cook some bacon and eggs, Martin,” she said, panting.
“Don’t act that way now. You said you were hungry.”
“For you,” Martin argued, stretching out his body and holding out his
arms.
Deane shook her head and went into the kitchen where she could hear
Martin laughing.
“He is really a terrible person,” she said to herself. But her lips
trembled, and as she brushed the damp hair off her forehead the
implication in her dark eyes was delightful.
When she brought in the feast Martin jumped up to help her with the tray.
He could scarcely wait to taste the coffee.
“It’s perfect,” he said. “And how did you fix the eggs?”
“I beat them up with a little milk before putting them in the pan.”
“They’re wonderful,” he repeated. “Let’s make it a _real_ feast. What do
you say we wait up until dawn. There will be many colors and shapes in
the clouds from this window.” He pointed to where the late moon, a dull,
inverted sickle, was shining in the east. “I can put my hand outside the
window and almost touch Europe, Deane,” he said.
“I don’t want Europe,” Deane said huskily. Her face seemed a little drawn
as she watched him, her eyes half closing and unclosing.
Martin, noting the expression on her face, felt a kind of loving in his
heart which he had never known before.
“Sweet little maniac,” he said gently, and petted and caressed her. The
sedative movement of his hands, which he worked most carefully, so as not
to excite the blood or open the tiny nerves about her spine soon quieted
Deane and she lay in his arms. “I’m going to tell you some stories,” he
said, rubbing his cool cheek against hers. “And later, we’ll watch the
dawn come up over Europe.”
It was midnight. The last light had been extinguished in the giant
buildings and only the raw sky and the face of the radio brought shadow
into the room. Deane rested on the divan, her eyes on Martin who sat
crosslegged on the floor in front of her. Suddenly, he leaned forward.
“This is a magical room, Deane, and this is a magical night. In older
times, in an ancient time, there was a beautiful Princess—the loveliest
in all the world. Arrogant Princes with long gleaming swords and many
dragons to their credit wooed her. But she was unresponsive.
“Her father, the King, said, ‘She is sick.’
“Her mother, the Queen, said, ‘We shall see.’
“And so, one night, when the moon burned like a silver flame over the
Kingdom, they stood at the wall of her room and peered through the chinks
at their daughter. The Princess, a look of ecstasy upon her face, was in
a chair, resting. In front of her was a little, old man—perched like a
bird before her....
“‘What does she see in the little man?’ whispered the King.
“‘What _does_ she see?’ demanded the Queen. Affection? A reflection of
herself? Or some quality in the creature?’”
Martin stopped. Deane’s hands braided and became sexed again. Once more,
Martin leaned forward.
“Would you like to hear the sequel?... It happened in Paris, Deane. There
was a gargoyle struck on the cornice of a gigantic cathedral. His stone
eyes had been forced shut by the ages and his only tears were rain. His
thick shoulders were bent by the centuries, and moss covered his throat.
“A beautiful woman, desired by all men, surfeited by leisure and
adoration, saw this figure. And so, in secret, she took lodging across
from the cathedral that she might watch the shadows move in the
gargoyle’s face by moonlight, by lightning-flash and in sun. Day by day
she contemplated his patient, agonized expression; and day by day she
became more contemptuous of the gracefulness and vanity of her suitors.
“One night, moonlit and vagaried with cloud, she was gazing at the
asymmetrical face. Suddenly the head seemed to move. The woman’s heart
beat quickly and she grasped the sides of her chair. Deliberately, while
she watched, the gargoyle’s eyes opened and turned upon her, asking a
question. The woman, protesting, held out her white hands. At this, the
figure shuddered; then his stone arms pushed on the cornice and his
shoulders broke from the wall.
“The woman ran to her mirror, regarding her pale, excited face. In her
closet she touched her gowns—faster and faster her heart! Dressing
herself in the loveliest gown of all, she returned in haste to her chair.
There she waited, facing the empty cornice where a gargoyle had lain for
centuries....
“There was a soft sound at her door. Now, through the opening, the woman
could hear quick breathing. She pressed her hand against her throat,
observing the figure as it entered.
“Slowly the gargoyle went to her, his movement quiet and purposeful.
Laying his head upon his arms, he dropped down on his knees before her.
Frightened, the woman looked away. Then her love, conquering fear, placed
an infinite pity upon him. Her hands braced under his chin, lifting the
agonized face until his eyes met hers. Lightly, her fingers caressed the
deep cracks in his cheek, brushed the dry moss from his throat—and for
one helpless, inarticulate moment, the gargoyle lived.”