Part 1 – Introduction

It gets to be a habit, call it bad or good, to tell someone else’s story. Especially when you haven’t lived long enough to have any particularly fascinating saga yourself. 

I don’t know why I want to tell this story. Or you might want to call it four stories. They made no secret about it – these four men. Each one told his tale to the others – and to me – these four men who were strangers until they happened to meet at the same table in a restaurant at Papeete, Tahiti. it is easier to tell your story to strangers then to your own people. I have never found out why. 

I have often heard that Port Said in the Mediterranean harbored more ships of more nationalities than any other seaport in the world. I would like to, and can, refute that with Tahiti’s reputation. 

The wharf restaurant, run by a Frenchman for Tahiti is, after all, a French possession, was crowded that evening. Three ocean liners with cargoes already unloaded and passengers discharged lay in the harbor. I looked about for an empty table when I caught sight of a hand raised in welcome and a beckoning finger. A voice accompanied the greeting. 

“Here, comrade! Join us. We’ll make room for another.” 

I accepted the invitation gratefully. In a trice the French proprietor was clattering another chair across the tile floor as the four others closed in about the round table. The one with the welcoming salute swept an arm around the circle like a pointer introducing the others, half in English, half in French. His stout little body was seemingly controlled from some inexhaustible inner force for his movements were quick and sudden. His dark brown eyes under a thatch of indifferent gray hair held nothing of sadness or unhappiness. He radiated friendliness and cheerfulness, yet there was nothing worthily gay in his manner. His face was a playground for his every emotion. Nothing seemed to sadden him except when others did not respond with a like mood. I can think of no better term to describe him than “perpetual emotion.” There is no intention on my part to stoop to punning. 

“First, the Russian Pearl Buyer. Names will mean nothing to us tonight. He carries them around, the pearls, in wooden boxes three feet long, two feet wide, and one foot deep – the boxes, mes amis.” 

The man whom he had introduced with such impoverished description did not even lift his eyes to acknowledge me. I don’t know why I felt so, but he seemed to bear everyone an especial grudge. After moving his chair to make more room for me, he had sat in motionless silence. Yet, to look at him, every muscle in his body seemed alert and under perfect control – ready to leap into action like a tight spring at the slightest contact. I had the strange fancy that he could have, at signal, leaped into a wild Cossack dance. I never once saw him change expression from the somber gravity he had when I first looked at him. The look of arrogant superiority made me unwittingly take a secret dislike to him. Then also there was, though I may be misjudging him, an attitude about him that wished to emphasize that he had stepped entirely out of his proper and natural environment. 

What he wore, too, was a rather rude defiance to the white suits and shirts of the others in the restaurant. He had on white knee length shorts, of those affected by the English in the topics for daytime wear, and a white linen jacket but no shirt. That he wore only what was visible I knew for a certainty, for he had left his coat unbuttoned, revealing the hairy sunburned chest in scarlet contrast to the white coat. 

“Then here,” the Frenchman was continuing, “The Artist of Vienna, who dips his brush into the ocean itself and paints his seas with truth and power. And you should see his paintings of the Tahitian women – ah…” and he rolled his eyes heavenward in ecstasy. 

The Artist from Vienna tilted long expressive eyes at me in an amused smile and bowed his thanks to the Frenchman. His left hand tugged at his VanDyke beard. The smile had reached his lips and I saw perfect white teeth gleam in a generous mouth. They were startling against his dark swarthy complexion. He was slim and of medium height, immaculately dressed, fastidious in every detail without, however, being at all foppish. One thing, one little peculiarity, puzzled me. He had a habit of pressing his right arm with his left hand and flexing the fingers of his right hand from time to time. Once I saw him lift his left hand to shift his right arm, as it rested against his knees, to the table. Somehow, though his eyes were clear and straightforward and seemingly pleasant, there was a little smoldering fire of bitterness in their depths. Or was it rebellion that I sensed there at times? 

The Frenchman interrupted my musing. 

“This gentleman here at your left is the Consul from Czechoslovakia. He boasts the profession of his title, besides six feet three inches of sheer pulchritude.” 

The Consul was embarrassed at the florid introduction and though his nod to me was warm and sincere, it was more than apparent that he felt no pride in his “pulchritude”, as the Frenchman had called it. He was built like a Greek God – tall with a classic symmetry of form that vied with the masculine beauty on some ancient Greek mural and would draw the eye of a modern sculptor. He sprawled carelessly in his chair as though he could deflect from himself any unwanted attention. What drew me to him from the very first was the friendliness that effortlessly and unforced emanated from his deep set brown eyes. He would win, wherever he was, immediate confidence and liking. 

The Frenchman was now pointing at himself with an almost apologetic air. 

“I, at your right, oh, I am French and only the owner of a fleet of schooners here in Papeete, and a family of six marriageable daughters.”

A loud guffaw greeted his last boast, but the master of ceremonies paid not attention to it. 

“And now, mon ami,” turning to me. “You are an American?” 

“An aviator,” I said, taken aback for an instant. “On a pleasure trip. I wanted merely to see how it looked downstairs.” 

They laughed in high glee. The Frenchman patted me paternally on the shoulder. 

“You see here, mes amis,” he said, turning to the others. “We chose the right one. A young man of wit!” 

He raised his voice. “Garcon!” And a waiter stood by my shoulder. 

“Ah, of course, food for the American,” the Artist approved. “We have already ordered.But you must first have the lentil soup.” 

I agreed to the soup. 

“Garcon?” the Pearl Buyer had actually unbent to make himself a part of this little party. “Bring all the orders at the same time. We wait. We all eat together.” 

“And the oysters on the shell,” the Consul advised. “You must have some, as we are. With lime juice – ahh.” 

“The petite, dainty white fish in little dough patties,” the Frenchman added. “Fried in the inimitable fashion of Johnny of the Aine Pare. You know him, of course?” he asked me. 

“I am staying there.” 

“Then – ” the Artist finished, “for dessert a great bowl of chopped pineapple and cocoanut – an coffee. Now hurry, garçon! We starve.” 

Reproachfully the Frenchman wagged two fingers back and forth in abegnation. 

“Ah, but no! First we drink of the wine, the best wine, the French wine. Garcon, the proprietor knows – and now, vite!” 

We drank and we ate with ravenous appetites. And though we had finished the food and emptied the bottle of wine, I still kept soaking in the beauty of this Pearl of the Pacific. I never seemed to get my fill of the sights and scents and sounds of Tahiti at night. 

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