South of the Line/Mother-of-Pearl

F THEY were as progressive as they are inventive," said the Professor, in his best lecture-room manner, "they would rule this earth to-day instead of in a few centuries to come. I have a great admiration for the Chinese," he added magnanimously.

His audience, consisting of a meagrely hirsute young man, an earnest lady in pink, and an elderly gentleman of funereal aspect, grouped about the great man's chair on the promenade deck of the Mana, wagged their heads in unison. They entirely agreed. They would have agreed to black being a light shade of puce, provided Doctor Wigmore had said so. Was he not head of the Manderville Bequest Research Party, that spent more in a month studying the antics of the coral polyp than would provide the normal human with a meal ticket for life?"

Yet a few yards distant Ah Fang smoked on unmoved.

"Fortunately for us," the Professor continued, "they have a knack of getting just so far with a thing, and leaving the rest for others to perfect and profit by. The mariner's compass and gunpowder are indisputably theirs, and now—it really is remarkably interesting—ah...."

His audience waited in a state approaching suspended animation while the Professor blinked thoughtfully at the Pacific.

"Yes?" ventured the earnest lady at length.

"Ah, yes," boomed the Professor, "as I was saying, I saw some remarkable things on the upper reaches of the Tai Tung Kyang"—it will be noticed that the Professor had said nothing of the sort, but this was an engaging habit of his—"amongst others, the manufacture of half-pearls," he ended with dramatic abruptness.

There fell a momentary silence, during which it might have been noticed that Ah Fang knocked out his pipe and moved nearer on the steerage hatch.

"Fish scale dust adhering to wafer glass," suggested the funereal gentleman.

"Not at all," snapped the Professor. "You may buy such trash on Fifth Avenue, in Regent Street, or the Rue de Rivoli. I am speaking of the genuine article. What is a pearl but layer upon layer of ? And so on the Tai Tung Kyang they take the fresh-water mussel—it being a hardier species than the oyster—introduce a pilule of prepared wax—a delicate operation, by the way—and wait for it to be covered. In six months or less they have a half-pearl adhering to the shell that it is impossible to tell from the real thing, except for its foundation, which can easily be hidden in a skilful setting. There is a temple to the discoverer of the process on the Tai Tung, and those engaging in the industry pay tribute—ah..."

Again the Professor lapsed into reverie, and again the earnest lady saw fit to resuscitate him.

"And what is the foundation of the true pearl?" she asked brightly.

"A cestoid," he answered—"a cestoid that enters the digestive organs and sets up irritation."

"And where does the cestoid originate?"

The Professor turned upon her his long-suffering gaze.

"My dear young lady," he sighed, "the man who knows that, and could keep it to himself, would own the earth, or pearls would cease to be of value—one of the two. And now what about that return at deck golf?"

Ah Fang watched the party move for'ard and proceed with the utmost gravity to push blocks of wood with a stick. Their conversation, which he understood perfectly after his year's intensive study of their jaw-breaking language at Canton, had been entertaining and mildly instructive. It showed that others were on the trail on the trail—perhaps half a century behind Ah Fang. Undoubtedly the Professor was an intelligent man, but how he talked! How they all talked! And why? Ah Fang gave it up, as be bad so often been forced to give up an explanation of this people's folly.

One thing, however, he thoroughly understood, and envied them, and that was the Manderville Bequest. With such a backing what could not he, Ah Fang, accomplish? But they did not do things like that in China. Instead, the temple on the banks of the Tai Tung Kyang had seen fit to send its savant steerage. Ah Fang edged still farther from the unclean Tamil at his elbow, and relit his pipe.

At Papeete, moored to the coral wall that forms the beach, her slender spars clear-cut against a dark green background of shady trees, the Manderville auxiliary schooner-yacht Phœnix awaited her distinguished passenger. There was no delay. A trim launch came off to the Mana, the Professor stepped aboard, and half an hour later the yacht was heading for the reef passage, with the great man waving a genial farewell from the bows. He was conducting researches on an outlying atoll of the group. His wife would join him shortly.

For Ah Fang matters were rather more complicated, but when at last, and after a severe manhandling by over-zealous officials, he was allowed to betake himself and his little camphor-wood box ashore, there was no hesitation in his movements. As though acquainted with the place from infancy, he plunged into the town.

Papeete took no heed of his advent—Papeete has other things to do of an evening—and, if she had, it would only have been to note that another Chinaman had come to town—another of those inscrutable, industrious yellow men who are the finest plantation labour on the market, and the hardest but squarest nut to crack in a deal.

Past the club, with its inevitable veranda full of imbibing schooner skippers, past the more pretentious French and British stores, the markets—at this late hour deserted and forlorn—through the maze of tumbledown weatherboard hovels emitting the indescribable, unmistakable odour of a Chinese quarter, Ah Fang wended his way, emerging finally on the open spaces behind the town, where the palm groves rise in waves and rugged mountains loom against the stars.

Across a grass-grown avenue of flamboyants two lights glimmered, a green and a yellow. Ah Fang made straight toward them, swung open the garden gate of a commodious house standing in its own grounds, and was about to ring the bell, when the door opened and he was ushered, camphor-wood box and all, into a brightly lighted room of strange aspect. The chairs and sofa were upholstered in red plush. A heavy pile carpet, that looked as if it had never suffered the pressure of human foot, covered the floor, and enlarged photographs of hideous people in gift frames bespattered the walls. Ah Fang had never before seen the home of a fellow countryman married to a Tahitian half-caste, but he saw it now. Also he saw the parties to this amazing but apparently happy union in the persons of an immensely fat man swathed in sweltering broadcloth and a dainty little lady in pink silk. They were Mr. Lee How, president of the Lee How Trading Co. Inc., and his wife; moreover, they were the first persons to show Ah Fang the slightest respect since he had left Canton.

"We are honoured, Professor," said Lee How, bowing thrice.

"That is so," replied Ah Fang, with new-found dignity, returning the salute. "Shall we go where we may talk?"

His eye traversed the gorgeous apartment, coming to rest on an enlarged photograph, helped out in crayon, of Mrs. Lee How's mother. A telegraphic glance passed from husband to wife, causing the latter to pout prettily and retire.

"It is the women," said Lee How, glancing apologetically about him. "They have their notions, and it is best to humour them."

"Is that so?"

"It is so in this country," affirmed Lee How. "I fear we grow out of touch."

"A pity," mused Ah Fang, whose mind was already occupied with more important matters. "All is prepared?"

"All. I have lately opened a small store, under the name of Woy Tow, on the beach road fifteen miles out of Papeete. There will be little custom, but it will serve its purpose, and shall be attended to by a native boy I have engaged. There is ample living accommodation behind the store, and the backyard adjoins the beach."

"It sounds satisfactory," admitted Ah Fang. "I trust I shall be able to send a favourable report."

Lee How bowed.

The next day one of the motor monstrosities that infest Papeete conveyed a Chinaman and a camphor-wood box to the newly opened Woy Tow store on the beach road. A few scraggy chickens strutted and pecked about the veranda steps. A cat peered round a corner and fled. Against a variegated background of tinned foodstuffs and brightly hued prints a native youth, head on arms and arms on counter, slept the sleep of a Tahitian at two p.m.

Ah Fang deposited the camphor-wood box in the back room and passed out to the yard which, as Lee How had said, adjoined the beach. It is doubtful if there is anything more beautiful than the scene that confronted him—the indescribable colouring of the shallows merging into the dark blue of deep water, the white ribbon of the barrier reef, with its thundering surf and far-flung spindrift, that floated and danced in miniature rainbows before the sun, and, back of all, the fantastic outline of Moorea. But Ah Fang saw none of these things. They were not the affair of a man of single purpose. Without haste or hesitation he waded into the lagoon, knee, waist, chest deep, minutely examining its floor. There were coral rocks and fronds reflecting a green, unearthly light, delicate weeds like a woman's hair flowing and rippling with the current, shells big and little, propelled at amazing speed by their hermit crab inhabitants, and that was all—all that interested Ah Fang.

A native girl waded by with a cast-net, flung it into deeper water and dived, appearing presently with a glittering fish between her teeth. She smiled at Ah Fang and passed on.

This would never do, he decided, and during the week that followed a gang of Lee How's minions was engaged in the prolongation of the backyard fence, so that it crossed the beach and embraced fifty square yards of the lagoon.

From that hour Ah Fang's private affairs became a matter of increasing interest to Miri of the cast-net. Unconsciously he had fenced off the girl's favourite fishing ground, and must put up with the consequences. These consisted, for the present, in an eagle-like watch being kept on his every movement. Did he but sun himself on his strip of beach, then Miri knew of it. Did he sit at the window of his room behind the store, bending over an instrument of polished brass, then Miri saw him. What right had a Chinaman, or any one, to take unto himself the ocean? None. What was to be done about it? Nothing, because nothing much is done about anything on Tahiti. Miri waited and watched.

At dawn of a certain day, and floating upright but motionless in the still water, she saw a heavily laden canoe arrive at the hated fence and miraculously pass inside. There was evidently a door, but doors had little meaning for Miri. With a few effortless strokes she was at the seaward end and peering between the bamboos. Four men stood knee-deep about the canoe, unloading its contents into shallow water, while Ah Fang supervised from the beach. This done, the canoe returned by the way it had come, and Ah Fang proceeded to sort his cargo with extreme care. It was then that Miri saw what he was handling. They were oysters—more oysters and larger oysters than she had ever seen. Ah Fang took them in armfuls, waded waist-deep, and placed them in methodical rows on the floor of the lagoon. Was the man mad? Miri had seen many oysters taken out of the sea, but not put into it. She gave the matter her undivided attention until sunset, and, returning home empty handed, received a severe reprimand from her chronically peevish mother.

"It will be better to-morrow." she assured her irate parent; and it was. The next day they dined on oysters.

The process was repeated twice. It was supremely simple. You merely tied the canoe to a bamboo, insinuated your lithe little body between two others, and dived, remaining under water perhaps two minutes. During this time it was possible to collect an armful of edibles, which you dumped into the canoe, and paddled home singing.

But at the third venture things happened. The end of Miri's underwater tether was almost reached, and she had turned to the canoe, when something seized her by the hair, something that dragged her shrieking into the shallows, and she found herself staring wild-eyed into the face of an enraged Chinaman.

She had never seen such a thing before. It twisted into gruesome shapes, and emitted noises for all the world like a choking dog. In the heat of the moment Ah Fang was employing his native tongue. He checked himself with an effort.

"You steal my oysters," he accused in precise Canton College accents.

Miri was too frightened to notice that he spoke English—better English than the bêche-de-mer she herself had picked up on passing schooners. But the weight of his hand on her hair caused a glint to come into her mild brown eyes.

"You steal my fish!" she retorted, with heat.

Ah Fang pondered the matter. Anger had died out of his face, and presently his hand fell from the girl's hair.

"That is so," he said quietly. "Wait."

Out of mingled surprise and curiosity, Miri waited. Ah Fang ambled up the beach and into the store, returning shortly with three labelled tins that she recognized from afar. They were salmon, that doubtful delicacy for which, for some reason, your South Sea Islander will barter his immortal soul.

"There is more," he told her, placing the tins in her outstretched hands, "if you do not steal the oysters. You swim well," he added judicially. "Where do you live?"

Miri nodded up the beach.

"I will call on your father," said Ah Fang.

"Papa belong me finish," Miri answered, without emotion.

"Your mother then."

"Mama belong me plenty sick."

"All the same, I will call," said Ah Fang, and watched his diminutive prisoner swim for the canoe with the tinned salmon clasped tightly to her breast.

The interview that ensued was short and to the point.

"I wish to buy your daughter," Ah Fang informed a lady of ample proportions squatting on the mats of a dilapidated grass house.

Miri, being the linguist of the family, conducted the proceedings.

"Mama say what for you want buy?" she translated glibly.

"That is my affair," said Ah Fang. "I need assistance in the house—and outside. I am willing to pay for it. My leflence is the Lee How Tlading Company Incorporated." He still had difficulty with his r's.

Following this announcement, the lady on the mats commenced to sway and croon by way of displaying her grief at the prospect of parting with so valuable a daughter. Ah Fang moved toward the door, whereupon the swaying ceased.

"How much?" Miri translated, though her mother had not spoken.

"I will pay one hundred dollars down," replied Ah Fang, "and your mother shall be supplied with food and clothing from the store."

The swaying recommenced. There was a pause, during which the boom of the surf and the rattle of screw pine leaves held sway. Then Miri's mother spoke.

"Mama say you marry, all right," announced Miri, a business-like tang in her usually soft voice.

Ah Fang gazed straight before him for perhaps half a minute, then turned to her with the hint of a smile twisting the corners of his mouth.

"It shall be as your mother wish," he conceded blandly.

To Ah Fang the days immediately following this interview constituted an accumulative nightmare. Beginning with incomprehensible alarms and excursions that interfered abominably with one's work, they dragged their weary length through feastings, music, and dancing to a culminating ceremony that defies faithful description. Yet he suffered it all with outward calm. Such buffooneries were evidently as necessary to these people as Miri was to himself. He let it go at that. It must be remembered that Ah Fang was a man of single purpose.

Miri found him so, and would not have had him otherwise. Provided she dedicated a certain portion of each day to the cultivation of oysters, her time was her own, as also were the contents of the Woy Tow store, where she revelled in tinned salmon and pink silk. Before a fortnight had passed, red plush began to make its appearance in the largest of the two rooms at her disposal. Miri was content.

So also was Ah Fang. The discomforts he had lately endured were amply atoned for by an amphibious wife. It was now possible to plant the oysters at greater depth, and retrieve them by means of a cunning brown hand instead of the clumsy net. Even in their treatment Miri came to have her uses. Her nimble fingers soon became no less deft than Ah Fang's at opening the shell in shallow water with a finely tapered wooden wedge, and by such minute degrees that the delicate fish remained unharmed. But beyond this stage in the proceedings she was not allowed to go. Thereafter Ah Fang took the shells one by one to his stuffy room behind the store, and conjured with them in strict privacy.

What it was all about, Miri had no notion, and at times she wondered—for instance, when the Lee How canoe arrived, towing a half-dead shark in its wake, to be incarcerated in a fish fence partition of its own, or when Ah Fang almost hurried up the beach with weird marine messes to be subjected to the brass instrument that for ever glittered at the back window. But something stayed her from inquiry, perhaps the knowledge that it would be futile, perhaps the memory of her husband's face when he dragged her from the sea by her hair. For the most part, Miri was content to add trophies to her parlour, or, with her strangely rejuvenated mother, parade Papeete beach of an evening in imitation silk stockings, to the lasting envy of relatives and friends. At such times the most that they could say was: "Where is your husband?" To which Miri would reply with a touch of hauteur and scathing emphasis on the pronoun: "My husband works."

And she spoke truth. None but a fanatic—or a Chinaman—could have laboured with the whole-souled concentration of Ah Fang. Yet he had his softer moments, when he would sit in state and extreme discomfort on the parlour sofa, and occasionally speak.

"You have done well," he told his wife on one of these rare occasions. "You will make holiday with your mother. There will be a motor car, and you will visit your fliends for a week."

Now, if there is one thing calculated to elevate the aspiring Tahitian to the seventh heaven, it is sitting back in a bone-shaking machine and smothering less fortunate acquaintances with dust. Miri's eyes sparkled, as Ah Fang had known they would.

"An' you?" she suggested, when the first ecstasy had passed.

"I shall stay," said Ah Fang, and fell to filling his glass pipe, a sure indication that the matter was ended.

In due course the hour and the car arrived, and with equal precision departed, together with Miri and her mother, a bored half-caste chauffeur, a case of peach brandy, and twenty tins of tropically freckled cigarettes.

Miri found it pleasant to sit thus behind a purring monster that devoured the white ribbon of the beach road mile on mile... Ah Fang was kind. They would visit the Maevatuas and the Teahis, and show them life as it should be lived.... Or was it that Ah Fang wished to be rid of her? She had never thought of that. How the wind whistled, and the car rocked, and the lagoon streamed by.... What was this secret that stood between Ah Fang and herself? There, they had nearly accounted for a chicken! How it scuttled and clucked out of their all-conquering path!... And how long would it remain a secret? Just so long as she (Miri) allowed it. Why did she allow it? Because she was afraid. Of what was she afraid? She did not know—unless it was Ah Fang. She laughed and nodded to old Roo, who stood satisfactorily agape in a cloud of dust as they swept by.

Thus did the purring of the road devourer stimulate thought, so that by the time it had reached the first road house Miri had reached a conclusion. She could never rest until she knew. Things came to her like that, of a sudden, out of a clear sky, and with all-consuming force.

Leaving her mother to exchange confidences with the proprietress over peach brandy and cigarettes, Miri discarded her finery for the more serviceable pareu, and sped by short cuts across the lagoon shallows toward the Woy Tow store.

It is a strange experience to approach one's home as a trespasser. Indeed, the thing is impossible. Miri assured herself of this as the canoe glided silently toward the seaward end of the fish fence. Who has better right of entry than the housewife? She asked herself the question while making fast the canoe, and answered it by peering cautiously through the bamboos.

Dusk had fallen, and there was no light in Ah Fang's room. The place was deserted. Yet Miri dived and swam under water to the beach, and, as she swam, her hands, out of habit, passed over the familiar floor of the lagoon. The oysters in the shallows, over a hundred of them, had gone—to the room! The door was locked, as usual, but the window was ill-fitting. Miri lowered herself to the floor and glanced about her. There was nothing—nothing but a litter of oyster shells, reflecting an unctuous sheen in the half-light, and the sickening stench of decayed fish.

It was then that a thought came to Miri—a thought so stupendous as to leave her numb. Presently it led her as in a trance through the window, which she closed with extreme care, and down to the lagoon, where she slid beneath the surface like a seal.

There were still some oysters in the deeper water. Miri took two to the canoe and opened them with a piece of hoop-iron. Out of each rolled a pearl the size of a healthy pea. She handled them in her hands reverently, as a mother would her child. She placed them at the lobes of her ears, and set her head at an angle. Out there in the darkness she trembled at thought of what she knew. Ah Fang could make pearls! As others grew cocoanuts, so her husband could grow pearls. Where was the end of it? There was none. It was like trying to think of space. She sought relief in action on the floor of the lagoon. There were several oysters, but they were scattered. It was necessary to travel far and remain under a long time—a very long time. But there was a pearl in every one, and were they not her children, hers and Ah Fang's? A pearl in every one! The refrain sang in her ears. Her sleek body left trails of phosphorescent light as it darted here and there in the inky water. A pearl in every one! The refrain swelled to a roar as something dragged her down, down....

Ah Fang ambled dripping up the beach, lighted the lamp in his odoriferous back room, and, sweeping a space amongst the litter of oyster shells, indited a letter. Here is the gist of it—