Part Five – The Russian Pearl Buyer

Ugly tales, my friend – perhaps tales that should be left untold,” the Russian shook his head. In the harbor, lights cast weird reflections into the water and they were mirrored upon the tense faces about the table. The proprietor came just then, bringing another bottle, and refilled our glasses.

“This, mes amis, is a bottle from my wife. She feels that you are not gay enough for such a night. She wishes me to say that this gravity and soberness is only for the fish which will be caught tomorrow in the lagoon.”

We drank a toast to the man’s wife. We drank another to him. Obediently we laughed a little. The Frenchman sent a pretty compliment back to the kitchen. But my eyes always sought out that arm laying across the Artist’s knees.

I was brought back by the Russian Pearl Buyers’s voice. “The world war – yes. Sometimes I think it has been given undue credit for its battles and the final victory for the one side.

“But I know this – men who make war never finish it. Within the nations they do not realize that dissension, unrest, misery, and sorrow follow wars. And still more wars. The factions aroused within each country, they do not see, nor understand why there should be poverty and rebellion against restrictions and resentment of unjust laws and taxation. How many times have I wished for the fighting tactics of the dim and so-called uncivilized ages? The Kings or Chiefs of the two warring nations would fight each other to the death, while the soldiers of each side would stand back of the chiefs watching the conflict. I ask you my friends, could one call that uncivilized? At least it was merciful. The two settled their own grudge, their own hatred. Now, the war lord, when he has a grievance or even a disagreement with some other ruler howls to the heavens and summons and commands his nation to settle that difficulty or grudge for him. Then he calls in his counselors to devise methods to extract taxes from those unfortunate enough not to be drawn into the army and navy, all so he can carry on a successful campaign.

“Oh, I am becoming bitter, I realize, but there is so much horror and bitterness to remember. There is nothing in a war that is good to remember, not even if the victory falls to your country. And when the war is over – bah! You all remember the Armistice Day? An international brutal rhapsody of sound and fury celebrating those left living, praising and honoring the destruction of the dead. Perhaps those who died are laughing a little. Whenever and whatever wars will follow will not again concern them. They are at peace. They have died to please the war lords. You three who told your stories. Are your memories good? Ah, yes, you are still alive. As am I.

‘I dare never return to my country. I am exiled. Why? Because I refused to let them butcher me as they did all my family. I escaped with my sister. It was after the Armistice. The revolutionists raided the home of my father and mother. They seized everything of value. They smashed and broke or burned all that could not be carried off. Then they left. We thanked the powers that be that we had been spared, that we were still alive and together. But we had not reckoned on the methods of beasts. The second night they returned. My father was first. Every mode of torture that could be conceived they used on his frailty. He did not whimper. They had bound the rest of us during the assault, hand and foot, my mother, my sister and brother, and my wife who was to bear me in a child in a short two months. We were forced to watch the ghastly horror. He died without a sound.

“Then they left again – but now we knew, we knew. And each of us prayed that we would not have to gaze on the bloody fate of the others. There was no escape. We were imprisoned even though we could move around the great room. After that first murder guards had kept close watch, even at the windows. I think they suspected we might try to use them as a quicker more merciful way to death than what they had planned for us.

“The next night they came again, more drunken, more obscene mouthed than before. My mother was the next chosen. I could close my eyes – that was all. I dared open them again only when I heard her half groan – half sigh. Only then I knew it was over. She lay broken on the floor like a dainty doll.

“My wife Kristina crept into my arms when they had gone. ‘I am next Nikolai. I saw the leader point to me. Ah be merciful to me – spare me from them! Kill me before the come. Quickly. I am afraid. I cannot be as brave as the little mother and father when they come again. Oh, Nikolai, be merciful – I pray you.’

“But Kristina was mistaken. It was my little brother they chose. As they seized him he turned his great brown eyes on them and whispered ‘Let me first say farewell to my brother and sister and to Kristina, and also let me say my prayers.’

“They guffawed as they grasped him. ‘Let us get this over with. Come now.’ but he stared at them. ‘But it will take such a little time – and I will be dead a long long time. I beg of you, let me.’

“‘Let the little coward put off the agony for a moment. It will make more entertainment for those who are left.’

“We had been tied hand and foot again, and tossed into one corner to watch their brutality, their sadistic rites. And when it was over Kristina had fainted and my sister, even after they again unbound us, still lay on her face where she had twisted when she had heard our little brother’s first groan.

“I leaped at one of the tormenters, I was almost insane. But they easily struck me aside and turned to leave. They paused at the door.

“‘Ah,’ the leader exulted, licking his thick pink lips and shaking back the greasy black hair that had tumbled down over his forehead during the crucifixion of my brother. ‘That settles on the last victim – he.’ And he pointed at me. ‘He shall be the last, and well entertained to the end.’

He gave curt order to one of his mob. ‘Search the place again. Remove anything left which could be the means of self destruction, or murder.’ With a leer he slammed the door behind him.

“We were watched every moment. We were followed, each of us, from room to room, even though we had been granted the freedom of the chateau.

“The next afternoon the leader came in more sodden drunk than ever. I stopped him. ‘Have mercy on my wife. She is with child.’

“He threw back his head with a stretching of his swinish mouth in a bellow of truculent laughter. Why did I think I could appeal to that drunken animal? By the wild and fiendish glitter of his eyes I realized too late I had only made it worse for Kristina with my useless attempt to soften the senses of that depraved monster. ‘This is even better than I had planned,’ he wheezed.”

The Pearl Buyer paused. A shudder took him. He sat silent for a minute, his eyes damp and hard. When he spoke again he began in a hoarse whisper.

“When they had finished … they left my sister and me clinging to each other. They must have been so drunken and crazed with their fiendish orgy that they failed to leave the usual guards in the room with us. I went quickly to the window. I don’t know why, for I knew there could be no hope of escaping that way. But as I leaned out I noticed on the courtyard pavement in front of the stable – for my father had always kept many riding horses – a two wheeled cart filled with dung. A boy was carrying out a loaded fork. A gave a faint whistle and he looked up. His eyes were swollen as if from weeping. The servants all knew what had been happening, though had not been subjected to our same mistreatment. It was only a few moments before he understood. He drove the horses and cart closer so that it halted just below the window.

“I turned and drew my sister to the window. ‘You must jump now. Down into that cart. Do it at once! I shall follow.’ She obeyed without a word and I watched as the boy steadied her and helped her down. I gave one backward look of farewell at the poor broken and torn thing on the floor then leaped after my sister.

“‘Quick!’ I ordered the boy. ‘Cover us both with the rest of the pile. Then drive us out of the town gates.’

“Almost suffocating in that horrible stench we finally rumbled out of the gates and on to the road. The way was clear and the boy helped us out of the cart. Clutching my sister’s hand I ran toward a thick grove of tall trees that edged the road. We were safe there until sundown, when we could continue on to the next town. We had to stop often because of my poor little sister, but reached it well before sunrise.

“But for her – it was too late. The shock and horror of the last few days had broken her. She died a few days later in the home of a friend with whom we had sought refuge. I remained hidden, for the news came that they were searching for us. I had no more love for my country then. It was now but a land of nightmare and murder. Escape to France was my only hope.”

He paused.

“And now – now I search the seven seas for pearls for the Compagnie de Perles of Paris.”

He looked out upon the bay where the little schooners ceaselessly tugged and strained against their ties and anchors.

“Tomorrow, monsieur, I beg for passage on the Heitare. You said before she sails for Hikeru. I have heard they are finding big pearls there.”

The Frenchman nodded. “So it shall be, mon ami. We leave just past dawn.”

He startled me then when he turned to me. “And now your tale, my young friend.”

“What story could I tell to compete with all those I have just heard?” I shook my head and begged off. Four pairs of eyes rested on me with such an appealing camaraderie that I felt proud.

“God grant,” the Frenchman said softly, “that you may never live through such a war as that one – that you may never have such a tale to tell.”

Editor’s note – While story is undated, there are indications that this was written in the early 1930s. The narrative takes place 36 years after World War I, which should have meant that World War II was nine years in the past at the time the four men and their American aviator friend shared dinner. Given the lack of reference to the second world war, or its impact on the locality where they shared their supper, it can be presumed that violence had not yet broken out again in Europe or Asia, though the grim warning at the end hints that there were indications to the writer of future hostilities.

I chose this as the first of Selma’s stories to transcribe for many reasons, but chief amongst them was the context of history and the presence of several photos she had taken while traveling in the south Pacific (see the Images page) I felt helped to establish the time and perspective so essential to reading and relating to her words.

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