years with her. One day he was caught in a storm. He was fishing—” She
hesitated. “And after that, our mother could not remember things. It
was well she died.... He was an educated man—a gentleman who came this
way.... That is why the boy speaks as he does. He remembers the lessons
of our father.”
Marius returned to the room with a chilled lime drink for Rio, and rubbed
Rio’s face with a moist towel.
“Where did you get the ice?” asked his sister, smiling. “Did you steal
it?”
“No,” answered the child. “I bought two pennies’ worth from the ugly red
man in the ugly red cart.” He picked up a box of rouge and went to a wide
mirror. Then he carefully repainted his cheeks. The deep color, though
applied in indiscriminate and garish quantities, served still further the
willful abandonment of his features.
“You use too much,” said his sister. “Why do you use so much?”
“Because it makes me look like an old girl. Just like an old girl I
know,” replied the boy.
“That isn’t true, Marius,” answered his sister scornfully. “You think it
makes you pretty. You’re too pretty already. The Snakes have told you it
was pretty, and you let them play with you. I won’t let them play with
you.” The girl’s cheeks were flushed.
“A damned poor women are the Snakes,” said the boy. “Before that
happened, I’d talk sassily. Besides, I don’t like women.” He threw the
rouge back on the dresser and left.
Rio walked over to the girl.
“This is a queer place, sis, and he’s a queer boy, and you’re a queer
girl. I don’t get it. I feel almost like one of the family, and yet—” he
put his arms under the girl’s shoulders and lifted her to her feet, “—and
yet, I feel funny. Like I been doped. I’m crazy about you and the kid and
the story you told me. Aw, hell! Why talk about it.” Almost angrily he
took a twenty dollar bill from his pocket and laid it on the dresser.
The girl didn’t smile. She looked curiously at the money for a moment and
then covered it with a book.
Rio held her tightly and then stepped away, his eyes closed. When he
opened them she was quietly undressing. He tried to help her. But his
fingers were clumsy.
The girl threw back the curtain around the bed and lay down, her eyes
staring upward as though searching for something. Rio looked up too, and
saw a tapestry hung like a canopy over them.
“The Madonna!” he cried. “Good God! Not here!—where She can see!”
The girl lifted herself. On her face lay the shadow of pain. She spread
her thick hair on the pillow with swift fingers, except for one dark
strand which cut across her breast like a wound.
“Why do you mind Her?” she asked. “She is kind.... She is forgiving....
She is there, where one can pray to Her—afterwards.”
There was no hesitation in the girl’s voice—no quality of naïveté
or assumed virginity. There was a cold knowledge of fatality and
an inflexible acceptance. There was even the protective shroud of
fanaticism; and Rio saw her, gentle, but receptively immune.
He thought of Martin. Martin would turn the picture of the Madonna upside
down and go ahead.... Yes, he thought, Martin would take her and her
sisters—and even old Agnes in the unplowed field. But he wasn’t Martin,
thank God!... And for a second or two he repeated to himself, “Thank God!
Thank God!”
“No,” he said. He knelt down and held the girl as though she were a
child. He whispered something to her and she smiled at him. After a bit,
he stood up and searched through all his pockets for coins. He found that
it amounted to about ten dollars. He laid this with the other money.
The girl had put on her light dress and they stood for a second by the
curtain. They stood looking at each other. Then Rio went out into the
early twilight.
That evening the girl did not light the tiny kerosene lamp outside her
curtained doorway.
* * * * *
As Rio started up the Street of Curtains Marius ran to him. The boy was
chewing vigorously on a sandwich and in the hand in which he held the
whip was a package. He gave it to Rio who found a similar sandwich within
the package.
“Try it, sir mate,” he said. “It’s good, if you’re on the gamey-flavor
side of things.”
Rio bit into the sandwich, found it tough and certainly on the gamey
side, but made palatable with some lettuce and pepper sauce. It was
refreshing to him; and he was glad to see the boy again; gladder still to
leave, for awhile, the world of frangipani—a world which called and yet
rebelled inevitably against him.
By this time lights were beginning to be seen along the Street, and a few
brown girls began to call to Rio. One unusually persistent one followed
them for several paces.
Marius stopped, turned round and said in Spanish, “Bah! How many times
would you have a man break his back!”
The woman replied in a high voice.
“Shut up, little pimp!”
To which the boy shouted, “How will your favorite cat look when I eat him
to-morrow night?”
The woman screamed and ran back to her stall.
Rio looked at his sandwich suspiciously, then dropped it guardedly where
the child could not see.
They went back to the ship the same way they had come. On the edge of the
town by the road to the sea, the boy tugged at Rio. Nearby, an hibiscus
bush was in full bloom. Marius pointed to it. The red disks on his cheeks
glowed in the twilight. Fastening his trousers about his slim, bare
ankles, he leaped into the air and caught one blossom. Then he gave Rio a
shy, sweet glance and gravely hung the flower behind his ear....
* * * * *
Rio was carrying the little whip when they walked onto the docks. He
looked down at the child beside him.
“Sir,” he said to the boy, “do you think I could catch sir tarantula,
sir?”
He didn’t know whether Marius was crying, for his own eyes were wet. But
he did know that a child of untranslatable beauty, with a mouth like a
bow and a heart which he knew was indisputedly his, was standing quite
still before him. He lifted the boy—kissed him on the mouth, and headed
for his ship, half stumbling.
_CHAPTER XV_
When Deane opened the door Rio was standing there. He bent his head a
little as the light from the room beyond fell upon him. He looked at the
back of his wrist where an ugly scab, ripped by a loose strand of cable,
seemed an offensive sight in front of this woman. He tried to cover up
the wound with his cap. It was such a painful moment as he stared at his
great crude hands that Deane moved instinctively toward him. She saw the
hurt, shamed child in him, but more than that, within the tense breach
she saw the man. Rio’s arms, which now hung by his side as though he were
disgraced, fascinated her, then became repellent by her very daintiness.
Yet she ventured still further. What a wide cloth across his wrist! And
why the heavy jaw and painted muscles of his neck—dark by one edge and
golden by his collar!... What a tie!—so hideous, that clarified the
purpose in his eyes! For now he was looking down at her.
“Close,” he said in a low voice. “Very close,” he repeated, remembering
the urge, the fomenting inspiration when he had left her before. In his
eyes Deane had the appearance of a small, dark seal. It was more than
the shimmering under her dress—more than a watery sea movement of her
hips that led him on until he touched her. As he held her by the arm her
black velvet gown fell sharply away from her throat, and he looked for
the first time at her breasts. The maturity, the obvious, sleek movement
contained within her resembled his own feeling now. He lowered his head.
Deane closed the door and clasped her hands behind his neck. His lips
were burning her unbearably. She tried weakly to brush them off.
“I can’t help it,” she almost cried. “I can’t.”
Rio took his face away from her throat and laid his hands upon her
thighs. Without effort he lifted her high above him. He was calm. There
was no note of hysteria in his voice, only a slight tension of his
muscles. Then he said, “Spit!” turning his face sideways so that he could
feel it better. “Two dogs,” he repeated intensely. “Spit!”
Held like a doll above him—understanding his meaning, accepting the fact
of her treachery, Deane turned as wild as the awakened animal beneath
her. She knew that she was floating, knew that she was full of hatred
for Martin and not Rio. She opened her little red mouth and spat against
Rio’s cheek—once, twice, three times!—until she was breathless. And Rio,
grim, lost again from his friend, lowered her and shook her by the hair
until they came together squarely and the dull sound of illicit kisses
moaned through the empty corridor.
When Rio released her they stood apart, looking at each other with only
Deane’s breath and the metallic drops upon his cheek as a memory. Then
Rio sighed and wiped his face with the cuff of his sleeve.
“Whatever kind of God there is,” he said, “I’m damned! _Now_ I’ve showed
Martin the kind I am!” he continued as if to himself. “He’s crazy—he’ll
know.... And as for you,” Rio turned to the woman once more and whispered
fiercely, “you’re a black witch.”
Deane was leaning against the wall, still breathing heavily. She made no
attempt to answer and Rio continued.
“We better go in now and face him,” he said. “It’s the first time in my
life I been ashamed like this.”
“I’ve kissed a fool,” replied Deane in a soft voice, “and I don’t want to
stand here any longer with him!” She bit her lips. “Mr. Roberts will be
glad to see you. Come on in.” She opened the door.
“I’ll come,” said Rio, following her.
Martin heard his voice and stood up.
“Hello, Rio,” he called. “That was a short trip.”
Without speaking, Rio went to him. Then he looked around, frowning,
saw Roberts, saw the young man he had met in the hall and another, a
stranger. Martin watched him with a puzzled expression.
“What the devil?” he asked.
Deane interrupted.
“I believe you know Mr. Roberts, Rio,” she said.
Rio turned in the adviser’s direction, shrugged his shoulders and nodded.
“I know him, Mrs. Idara.”
Roberts was sitting at the far end of the room. The north light from the
window was so severe that it formed a blue overshadow on his dark hair
and outlined his proud face in a series of sharp angles, unnoticed by any
but Deane. He arose and bowed stiffly, his lips set.
Carol had been watching the newcomer intently all the while and now at
this cue from Roberts, he skirted two chairs and smilingly eager, held
out his hand to Rio who looked amused.
“My name is Stevens,” he said. “Carol Stevens.” Rio pulled his hand away
but Carol continued. “I know why you boys look like sailors.” He glanced
at Martin, then back at Rio. “You both do, you know. You get so nice and
tan. My goodness!—but you travel so! It’s simply romantic, isn’t it,
Deane?” he added, still staring at Rio.
“Yes,” Deane answered, preoccupied, her hand to her hair. “It is
romantic, Carol.” She turned to Drew who was standing patiently by his
chair, a rather vacant expression on his face.
Rio looked at the immaculate, slender fellow sourly when he was
introduced. Drew, however, gestured in mild acknowledgment, maintaining
his appearance of abstraction. Then deliberately he stepped forward and
reached for a short, thick cigarette on the small end-table where Rio,
partly leaning, had placed his hand. The cigarette glowed unnaturally
as Drew touched a match to it, and he looked straight into the eyes of
the sailor which were now even with his own. Then, as the two men stood
there face to face, Drew’s lips parted slightly and the smoke curled in
a heavy roll from his mouth. When the dense vapor disappeared, he smiled
unevenly, and with eyes lowered, returned to his chair where he leaned
upon it gracefully, one slim hand upon its back.
Martin watched the fantastic play in a stolid, philosophic mood, coldly
regarding Rio’s frightened look.
Deane became uneasy.... “What was Drew’s secret action that had
accomplished such an unthinkable expression upon Rio’s face. Was it,”
she reminded herself, “the smoke?—or Drew’s protective anger based on
his uncanny knowledge of her own affair beyond the door?—or was his
melancholy fury a safekeeping just for Martin!”
Roberts had begun to cough violently. With each paroxysm he held a
handkerchief closely to his lips. Deane went to him but he waved at her
with petulance.
“I’m all right,” he answered in reply to her question of concern. “It’s
this strangulation! Damn such an affair!” he said irritably and sat down.
“I don’t understand it, and I don’t want to,” he added, and immediately
went off into another seizure of coughing. The others stood around him
anxiously, not knowing what to do.
“Oh, please sit down,” said Deane, throwing herself on the divan and
waving her pretty arms in little, indecisive movements.
Rio and Carol obeyed her, but Martin hurried into the kitchen and Drew,
still pensive, continued to lean upon the back of his chair, watching
Roberts as though but vaguely aware of his predicament. Martin returned
with a glass of water and putting his arm around the adviser’s shoulders,
held the glass to his lips, trying to get him to swallow between spasms.
Gradually the spell quieted and Roberts looked up at his friend. Then he
took the glass from the other’s hand and gulped the rest of the water.
“I’d like another,” he said, wiping his eyes.
Martin nodded, took the glass and returned to the kitchen. When he came
back Roberts accepted the drink more slowly.
“Will you please hold your arm the way it supported me before?” he asked,
looking again at Martin, this time with a rather contemptuous smile.
Martin put his hands in his pockets and stared out of the window, his
eyes the color of the gray, low-sweeping clouds.
The adviser watched him for a moment, then put down the tumbler of water
almost untouched. With a half suspicious expression he now looked around
at the others.
“No,” he said distinctly, “I’m not afflicted. And Drew, this isn’t
hysteria, so stop thinking of that.”
“I know,” agreed Drew, nodding his head.
“Let me make some tea,” suggested Deane, as spiritedly as she could.
For a moment the adviser was gentle.
“No, Deane,” he said. “You shouldn’t bother. You see,” he smiled somewhat
wanly, “everything is stimulated enough.”
“Of course,” said Drew. “It’s getting too late anyway.”
Across from them, Carol’s head seemed to pivot around the side of his
chair like the brass plate of a revolving door.
“Of course, dear,” he repeated. “It’s getting too late.” Then with a
slithering movement, his head spun slowly round again and he could be
heard faintly whispering, “It will soon be cocktail time ... cocktail
time.”
Roberts shuddered.
“That should settle it,” said Martin. He lit a cigarette and looked at
Rio. “But it won’t. Do you have anything to add about tea, sailor?”
“No, by heaven!” exclaimed Rio. “What I have to say ain’t about tea. Of
all the people and talk I ever seen—” He had started to rise when Deane
stopped him.
“Tell us about your trip, Rio,” she said. “Where did you go?”
He hesitated, but finally sat down on the edge of his chair, looking
sullen.
“A little banana town. In South America,” he answered at last.
“Santa de Marina?” asked Martin, looking interested.
“Yeah,” said Rio.
Martin turned to the others and spoke proudly.
“Rio took his own ship into that harbor once.”
“So Rio was a master!” observed Roberts. Then, staring at the floor,
he said with a cruel abstractness, “Yes, the sea is relentless. Many
derelicts seek my aid on land when they find deep water too deep.”
“That’s true,” declared Martin instantly. “And many landlubbers are
drowned because _they_ can’t step a mudpuddle. But they are not even
derelicts. They’re just old bags. Of course,” he said, turning round,
“you’re a derelict, Rio. But Mr. Roberts wasn’t thinking of you. I’m sure
of that.”
Rio was watching Roberts with such dreadful intensity that when Martin
finished, the adviser’s head snapped back like that of a toy.
Carol shifted about in his chair and stretched his legs. He felt the
confused streams in the room, and it made him restless.
“That’s right,” said Rio, still watching Roberts intently. “He didn’t
mean me. Once he made a mistake and I saved him from a derelict. Maybe
the fellow let him go just so he could try it again some time. That thing
you said about the mudpuddle is right, too, Martin. I’d think Mr. Roberts
would be afraid. But he ain’t, Martin.”
Roberts did not hear all of this. He remembered those bitter eyes and
hands too clearly.
Carol broke in.
“I wish I could talk like _you_ talk,” he said, addressing Martin. “I
think you have the most—well, the most _exciting_ things to say.” His
face was pink and moist.
Rio grinned wickedly.
“He’s an exciting man, Carol. That’s why he says exciting things,” he
declared, emphasizing his words with a sly nod of approval.
Roberts looked distastefully about him. “My God! This!—all over again!”
he thought.
But Carol continued, beaming, “I knew a boy in Chicago that was almost
the same way as you, Martin. Every one of us boys said it must have been
a trick. He could just turn everything into the best time. And my!—he
was handsome! I think he was a bouncer at some cafe. And strong—Oooooh!”
Carol adjusted his yellow tie and his eyelids fluttered.
Martin felt increasing annoyance at Rio’s persistent grin.
Still Carol went on blindly. “I’d like to work the way you do, Martin,
and get oil and things on me from those machines. And that linotype you
operate!” he continued. “I’d just _love_ that!” He put his hands flat on
his trousers. “Imagine,” he said, turning to Deane at last, “having one
of those big things to play with!”
Rio laughed openly, and Roberts turned away in disgust; but Martin said,
“That’s right, Carol. We’ll have a talk one day, all by ourselves.”
He went over to Rio. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to say
anything. But he cursed him with his eyes, and with a vagrant motion of
his lips.
“What is it?” Rio asked him.
Martin replied coldly, “You’re a fundamentalist. I can tell it from the
expression on your face.” Then he went to the door. Before he closed it
behind him he looked back. “It’s taken me nearly thirty years to get this
picture,” he said, and he was gone.
Rio stared at the door where Martin had left.
“There goes a clever lad,” he said. “He knows us well.” He turned to
Roberts and glared at him. “He knows you well, indeed. I’d hate to be
you. I can see the black days. And,” he added, laughing, “he knows me,
all right—but, he don’t know himself. He’ll whip himself to death.”
At the word “whip,” Rio had hesitated. Although the room was cool, he
started sweating. Without even saying good-by to Deane, he put on his
cap, quickly went outside and slammed the door so hard that the floor
shook.
“Thank heaven,” said Roberts quietly. “Humanity is maintained—the
anthropoids have gone—civilization stands. Let them yell into space and
beat their knuckles on drums made of their own skins. But pray God, they
yell in the forest and not here. Thank heaven for Society!—even if it
is covered by a fool’s cap,” he continued, watching Carol. Turning his
eyes to the ceiling and then to Deane, he added incoherently, “We have
been shown our destiny. Our portraits, painted by savages, hang on
Olympus.... I hope, Deane, that you are not disturbed by the painting,
or,” he said, bowing, “by your destiny.” He breathed deeply, painfully.
His shoulders were bowed, his face whiter. “You must excuse me,” he said.
He walked to the door, opened it, walked out and closed it gently.
Drew also went to Deane and spoke so that Carol could not hear.
“A strange afternoon, little sister,” he said, bending over her
affectionately. Then he turned around. “I’m holding a drag to-morrow
night, Carol. I’d like to have you come.”
Carol’s eyes sparkled.
“Oh, Drew, I’d love it! To think!—I can come in drag!”
Drew restrained an impulse to pet the boy who was regarding him
delightedly, as in some glorious enchantment.
“There is a sort of radiance about him,” he thought, half smiling at
himself for thinking it. But as he left, Drew took Deane’s hand once
more. “Don’t see Roberts until I talk with you,” he whispered. Deane
nodded her head and Drew went into the hall.
Carol twisted his cigarette holder, put in a cigarette and lit it grandly.
“Isn’t he sweet?” he said. “Martin’s sweeter, though.... But the others!”
he added with disdain. “Of course, you have your own life, Deane, so I
won’t ask you why you tolerate such people about.” He sighed gratefully.
“But isn’t it nice, dear, to be alone? I never could stand vulgarness.
I’m really quite surprised at Mr. Roberts to let himself be upset by—”
Carol thought hard, but couldn’t quite understand what he was talking
about. He smiled gently though, and continued, “—to be upset by—well—just
everything.” He leaned back against his chair and put his feet up on
another. That was well said. He could tell from the way Deane looked that
it had affected her.
Deane regarded the smiling, piggish face.
“Sometimes, Carol,” she said, thoughtfully, “I don’t understand, either.”
The night became darker and the lamps inside softened Carol’s features.
Deane tried to rest. It was good to be away from men for awhile. Even
Drew was difficult at times. She unfastened one of her stockings. Carol
smoked and smiled and nodded his head at the wall. This was as it should
be.
Suddenly, to Deane, came the sickening realization that both Carol and
herself were thinking of the same man.
_CHAPTER XVI_
After the maids had cleaned the apartment and had left, Drew went to the
dressing room, removed his white shirt and collar, handed them to a small
Chinese boy and seated himself before the vanity, observing the strain on
his features which had come so suddenly.
“Your father was a wise man, little Tai,” he said to the child. “Place
your hand on my shoulder. Do you find it hot?”
The child bowed and went to Drew, acting as he had been bidden. He
avoided Drew’s eyes in the mirror and his voice trembled.
“Yes, Master,” he said, but he could not keep back his tears; so cupping
his tiny hand, the little, hot gems were caught before they fell upon
Drew’s head, which now rested upon the edge of the vanity.
“We will go away very soon, Tai,” Drew said at last.
The Chinese boy did not answer, still fearful of betraying his emotion;
but for an instant he hovered over Drew with the same patient love of his
own distant gods.
“Master,” he whispered finally, “I have some secret petals from my
father. He told—he told me—” Little Tai burst into open tears and
kneeling, placed his head upon the floor.
Drew turned around in surprise and seeing the lad prostrated before him,
bent his own shoulders lower, the Orient in his eyes. Then, scorning in
his tenderness all laws of blood and caste, he picked up the boy and laid
him upon the ottoman. Still weeping, Tai lay in a tiny curl, his golden
tunic tight against his back. Drew quickly knelt down and whispered to
him.
“Were the petals for my bath, little one?” he asked.
“Yes,” sobbed the child.
“Tai,” said Drew gently, his soft fingers brushing the tears away, “they
were given to you for a time when I should be very sick. Is that not so?”
“It is so, Master,” whispered the child. He sat up with a cat-like
movement. “I have a little golden whip, Master. Will you strike me?”
Drew looked at him strangely. Rio had mentioned that word in a curious
fashion only the day before. Could it be that by coincidence?—Drew
stopped the course of his reflections and arose. The symbol of the whip
was ridiculous!
“Bring me the scourge!” he said.
Tai ran to a wall-cabinet, and from the vase which held his father’s
ashes he pulled, coil by coil, a gilded whip and handed it to Drew who
took it by its handle looking with intensity at the cruel barbs at the
end, and wondering if they were poisonous.
“I shall not beat you, Tai,” he said finally. He looked now at the handle
and thong which held his wrist. “Tai,” he said, “are the petals a secret,
really?”
“Yes, Master,” said the boy, smiling shyly.
Drew held out his delicate fingers.
Blushing, and timidly approaching, Tai bowed over his master’s hand;
and in his moment of adoration murmured a little prayer his mother had
taught him. Then taking a small, scented package from the breast of his
tunic, he ran toward the bathroom, turning once in the doorway to bow his
devotion.
When he had gone, Drew replaced the whip and laid his arms across his
face. And as he heard the sound of small feet on the tile and the water
running for his bath, he looked again into the vanity and cried out in a
high, soft voice an unintelligible name....
* * * * *
Tai twisted a white satin robe about Drew’s slender form as Floyd, the
hairdresser, was announced.