CHAPTER X
Rio went down to the Seaman’s Institute for breakfast. He had come to a conclusion about Martin. He felt that it was useless to look for him. And Rio needed the sea. It would be easy to get a ship.
The Mediterranean?—Algiers on a hot night, a skiff rubbing its brown keel on a plaque of sand. Turpentine.... South America?—Through the deep night wind one single light on Tierra del Fuego, an invalid blonde on the cruise ship, port of Rio.... Intercoastal?—The French “Babee” Quarter in Cristobal, water changing under the heat.
Rio scuffed his shoes on the concrete floor and looked up moodily. Then he saw him. Martin was sitting alone at one of the small tables. Rio pushed back his chair and walked over to him.
“Well,” he said, looking at Martin’s white face. “Well.”
“Hello, Rio.” Martin raised his cup, but the coffee spilled before it reached his lips, and without drinking, he replaced the cup on the table.
“You’re a fine guy,” Rio was frowning.
“Yes.”
“Try again.”
“No.”
Rio took his arm and they went into the street. In Rio’s hotel, Martin lay down on the bed. The other sat beside him.
“You ain’t quite so funny now,” said Rio.
Martin nodded.
“Where you been?”
Martin raised himself on his elbow.
“I’ve been playing bats with a visitor from Saturn. You know it has many moons. The visitor told me all about them.”
“Yeah,” said Rio dryly. “You only got one. But it ought to be kicked.”
“It has been,” said Martin.
“You son-of-a-bitch.”
Martin couldn’t manage sympathy and started to cry. He didn’t make any noise and there were no tears. There was just a choking, helpless movement as he looked steadily at his friend.
Rio got up, lit a cigarette, then sat down once more on the bed and put the cigarette between Martin’s lips.
“I know all about it, buddy,” he said. “Once in Dairen I piled off a ship....” He looked away as dreamily as a big ape.
Martin laughed inside to see this fellow trying to be tender, but he listened to the story and it made him feel better. Finally he sat up.
“One night in the tropics, Rio, you told me I wasn’t a sailor. I knew you were right, so when we came into New York I got off. I went on Relief and met a man named Roberts at the Employment Station. He was intelligent and interesting, but he was like this—” Martin held out his arms.
Rio nodded.
“However, that didn’t make any difference,” Martin continued, lying down again. “And later, he got me a job.”
“Now ain’t that pretty,” said Rio.
“He got me a job,” Martin went on, “and asked me up to his place. Anyway, to make this a good yarn, along came the girl. I liked her. Roberts’ vanity was hurt. Perhaps he even liked me. But I thought I loved the girl.”
“You do.”
“All right, then. I do.”
“So?”
“So Roberts had me fired.”
“So?”
“I got drunk and the girl told me I was through.”
“You weak punk,” said Rio.
Martin hit him in the face. It was a glancing blow off Rio’s nose and there wasn’t any drive behind it. He tried to get in another one, but Rio shoved him back on the bed and held his shoulders down. Martin saw that the big sailor was grinning.
“It’s all right, buddy,” said Rio. “How about some food?”
Martin looked at his friend’s nose. There was a trickle of blood coming from it.
“All right,” he said, still watching the blood which was dripping over Rio’s lip.
“Here’s a couple of nickels,” said Rio, laying a bill on the bed. “Get some sleep and some food.”
Martin sat up again.
“Where are you going?”
“Down to the docks.”
“What ship?”
“TheSteeldeer.”
“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 oncemade 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 theSteeldeer, now that you’ve seen me over the bumps?”
“You ain’t over the bumps, and I don’t want theSteeldeer. 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. TheComber, 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 warehouseto 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 theNancy 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.