Martin felt himself beset by an out-of-time capriciousness. Yet he knew these words, so like the emptying of a fool’s wounds, were no more idle than the turn of water and wind and all their purposes, though whistled through a child’s melody. He knew also that certain eccentricities of men, of winds, of waters, must be directed and employed; therefore, without looking at his friend, he spoke to him.
“The boundaries of the home have been extended. The boundaries of your mind are arbitrary.”
“That serves me up, I guess.” Rio yawned. “But you ain’t no seaman.”
Rio, persistent, glanced at him sideways.
“You ain’t happy here, and I am.” He breathed the hot, moist wind and looked at the moon and the quiet length under it. “I’m happy. This is the kind of night I live for. It’s clean and hot. It burns the yellow out of your blood. Some day,” he nodded toward the island fading behind them, “I’m goin’ to get a little shack over there with a shakedown roof, and maybe a small stove.”
“So you’re happy,” answered Martin. “Happy!” he repeated in a louder voice. “That word doesn’t belong on this deck.”
The lights of a ship came up on the port bow. Martin crossed the deck and struck two bells. When he returned he spoke abstractedly.
“I’d like to find a quiet beach myself. A beach that walks with you in the daytime and sings with you at night.... A place to rest.... But I can’t rest.”
Rio became confused. He put his hands on Martin’s shoulders and for a second they stood motionless, like mildewed lovers in a gloom proportionately obscure. Then Rio whispered, “I’ll do my bit, my friend. I’ll take your last illusion.”
Martin saw the fluid, hurt eyes and the bitter smile. He struck Rio’s arms from his shoulders.
“How do you know that I still possess this ‘last illusion?’ ... Why do you follow me?... You call for the water and the heat. You’re part of the land we passed and of your buccaneering ancestors. That doesn’t include me. I’m a foreigner.”
“Meanin’, my fine lad, I ain’t part of you? Well, maybe I ain’t.” He brought one fist down on the rail, then pointed at the water. “Christ, you’re wrong about it all, though. You ain’t no sailor—but you _are_ the ‘part of.’ I’m the foreigner. My father buccaneered from the pulpit. A hard-shell, hell-fire Baptist, he cheapened a pirate’s trade with pennies out of a palm leaf.... I remember him well; a dirty man from the west, with green eyes and a thin beard. He showed me your English and your habits and shouted his bad theology. And all the time, my native mother, with the sound of the beach for religion, stared at him——” He turned clumsily, more like an anthropoid than a man. “I don’t get myself, Martin. Maybe I’m starved. It’s been a long time. I’ve lived in a monastery since a brown girl——”