Fo'castle Waltz

Joe was impatient with this marching around and insisted we sit down in this house a while. Perry was willing to be persuaded, though he reminded us we hadn't seen one tenth of the girls. We'd hardly seated ourselves before some women plumped themselves down in our laps. We had no choice. We were nailed down. The big hard dame with the blue-black hair who pinned me down said a word or two, scrubbed my head with a rough hand, then having begged a cigarette, took up her interrupted talk with the one sitting on Perry. My girl had a heavy beer stimme. Joe's lap held a pleasant brown-skinned girl. He stretched up and spoke to me over her head.

"Hey, keed, you gotta a mam'selle dere. French girls are some stuff—ver' passionate."

I peered around the swinging elbows of my chattering bargain and asked, "Do you wan' her? You can have her."

The hard bones of her meager buttocks wearied my thighs.

"No, no, you keep her, keed. She's good. I got nice leetle peegeon here. She's Malay girl, I tink—"

My passionate raw-boned Frenchie, during pauses in her conversation, would remember she had a living to earn and my love life to cope with, and she'd give me a quick sandpapering pat on the cheek or pinch my body somewhere and make some hurried crack that would bring a smile from people around who heard her and understood her language. I didn't. That done, again she'd dig her sharp elbow into my shoulder hollow, flick cigarette ash in my eye, and take up where she'd left off with the girl on Perry's lap.

There I was, and no getting away from it. If I stood up and dumped this dame on the floor, there might be trouble. I looked around the room, ducking my head occasionally to keep her elbows and that swinging sleeve of her kimono from sweeping my glasses off my face. Chips and his girl were gone. So was big Joe and his little Malay pigeon...

I felt dry mouthed, wished I knew the Spanish for a glass of water. It seems no liquor was served in those places—only little cups of lukewarm, very bitter black coffee. My Frenchie suddenly became very insistent, pawing and clawing away at me with what I understood was a demand I do my duty by her. The Madame of the house was coming over toward our table.

Perry had stood up. As he walked off with his dame he turned and said, "G'wan, kid. Go ahead with her. She's a French dame. You know what dat means—" and he winked significantly.

I called after him, "Hey, Perry—just a minute—please."

He politely disengaged his arm from his lady friend, gave her a sweeping bow, and came over and asked impatiently:

"What's d'matta?"

"Look, Perry," I said, "what's the Spanish for a drink of water?"

''Vaso de agua"—and he started off again.

"Perry—one more thing."

"What's d'matta now?"

"Look, Perry—and how do you say no?"

"No!"

15. Violet Goat's Milk

THE HOT WHITE GLARE FROM THE PORTHOLE flooded our cabin and stabbed the one eye with which I had tasted the dawn of a new day. There was too much light. I withdrew that eye again and tried to straighten out the slowly whirling four-cornered lump that shoved against the inner lining of my brain pan, scraping and bulging the sides.

Slowly, I tried again and looked over to see if Mush had made the ship too. He had, and his shoulders, neck and head were dripping over the side of his bunk in a weird, sagging slump. How could a guy sleep like that?

With each movement carefully planned and calculated I climbed out and began to dress. Sure, Mush was aboard. I'd helped bring him aboard, and as I tried to fit the pieces together of the kaleidoscopic night, there were some pieces missing and others overlapped. When and where had I lost Perry and Big Joe, or had they lost me? What had happened to our pact?

We'd been together when we left that big house, Joe still trim and roarin'—his little Malay pigeon was just an hors d'oeuvre, so to speak. Perry appeared a bit disheveled—the peak of his cap shaded his right ear and the spring was gone from his usually buoyant, heel and toe walk.

It was he who had suggested we go round to the main street again to pick up another pony of cognac. Damn the Cafe Expresso—just straight cognac this time. To "rewitalize ya, see what I mean? Rewitalize. Afterwoids, if you take just a shot, it rewitalizes ya—"

Joe agreed and I saw no objections to being revitalized, so we went and were. We gulped a couple of drinks so quickly and whirled toward the streets with the houses so fast, the waiter stood in the doorway of the cafe calling after us that no trains leave Rio Santiago until the next morning. Perry translated that as we bounced gaily down the alley.

Those narrow, insidious, uncounted ponies of cognac were beginning to take their toll. My knees felt well oiled and were working easily both ways—fore and aft. The patellas weren't functioning or they might have slipped sidewards. My arms felt strangely loose at the elbows and shoulders and swung free in the breeze as we rounded the corner into the streets of the houses.