Voyage to Somewhere (24 page)

As the idle days went by I saw less and less of Mr. Rudd. Each morning about ten o'clock he went ashore and did not return until afternoon or evening. The men gossiped about it. Gradually it became accepted that Mr. Rudd had found a woman ashore.

One rare afternoon when Mr. Rudd was aboard I went into his stateroom to ask about the progress of some repairs which were under way in the engine room. I found him laboriously writing at his desk. He put his papers away when I came in. After we had discussed the repairs he invited me to sit down for a drink.

“How's Livingston coming along?” he asked.

“Today he asked me for a transfer again,” I replied. “I'm not going to give it to him. I'm sick of just transferring my problems away.”

“I don't see what good is going to come out of keeping him,” said Mr. Rudd.

“You're a fine one to talk,” I retorted. “All you've done is run off to some damn woman ashore.”

“What?” asked Mr. Rudd, and before I could say anything he started to laugh. “Is that what you think I've been doing?” he said at last. “Why, Captain, you ought to be ashamed of yourself!”

I became confused and a little angry. “What else have you been doing?” I asked. “You're never aboard here!”

Mr. Rudd suddenly stopped laughing and looked very sober. “I wish I had been having a love affair,” he said, “but I'm too old and too fat for that. Any love affair I could have would be only satire, and I don't like satire.”

He got up and rummaged in his desk for some papers. At last he handed me a pile of papers an inch high. I examined them puzzledly. “What are they?” I asked.

“Spanish,” he said. “Spanish exercises. I got pretty bored just waiting around here, and I thought it would be a good opportunity to learn a little Spanish. Besides that, I've always wondered just how hard it would be for an adult to learn a new language. You know the story of the Tower of Babel? I've always wondered how much deliberate effort it would take to remove that curse.”

“Well, I'll be damned!” I exclaimed.

Then Mr Rudd told me that a few days after we had arrived in Manila he had gone ashore and asked a native policeman where he could find a Spanish teacher. The policeman had told him to ask a priest. Not being a Catholic, Mr. Rudd had walked into an old Spanish church with some hesitation. There he had seen a little, bald priest in black robes. The priest had listened to him gravely and had told him that the nuns would be glad to teach him Spanish. He had directed Mr. Rudd to a neighboring convent.

When Mr. Rudd had arrived there he had walked through the bomb-ruined walls and knocked at a door that was half off the hinges. A meticulously clean nun in white robes had let him in. Her name was Sister Broney. She too had listened gravely to Mr. Rudd's request and had waved aside his declaration that he was not a Catholic. She had led him upstairs and introduced him to a tall, white-haired, and very beautiful nun by the name of Sister Teresa. Sister Teresa was Spanish. Each day Mr. Rudd had gone to the convent and received two hours of instruction from Sister Teresa.

After the first two or three days the nuns had asked him to stay for lunch. They had eaten upstairs in a whitewashed room the windows of which had been shattered. Mr. Rudd had met all the nuns of the convent and had made the discovery that they were of many nationalities. There were two Spanish nuns, an English nun, three Italian nuns, two Americans, and one Chinese. Besides them there were six Filipino nuns. Luncheon with them had been very delightful. Their conversation had been both intelligent and witty. Gradually, however, Mr. Rudd had learned that the convent was in great difficulty. It had suffered from several near bomb hits and an artillery shell had gone right through the roof and exploded in the cellar. No materials were available for repairs. The nuns had fixed up enough rooms to live comfortably, but the convent school had been discontinued. The schoolroom in the basement had a large hole in the floor, and there had been a fire which had ruined the walls. The nuns had asked Mr. Rudd for nothing. They had told him they understood that the ships brought nothing but military supplies. They regretted that they could no longer hold classes for the children. Mr. Rudd had ended up by requisitioning, ostensibly for the ship, all kinds of paint and building materials. One day he had driven up to the convent in a truck piled high with plywood, bags of cement, and lumber. These he had unloaded; and each afternoon after his Spanish lessons he had helped the nuns repair the classroom. Hands had not been lacking. Priests, Filipinos, and quite a few servicemen had turned up. Now the school was almost ready to resume its work.

I listened to this idyl in amazement. “Why, that's wonderful!” I said at last.

“Don't say it's too wonderful,” retorted Mr. Rudd. “I had to sign your name by direction to all those requisitions.”

“I never thought I'd get court-martialed for repairing a convent!” I replied. “And I don't think I will. There isn't a court in the world that would hang us for that. Anyway, they'll never find out about it.”

“I rely on that more than on a court's mercy,” said Mr. Rudd.

The next day Mr. Rudd took me to lunch at the convent. I walked through the crumbling walls into an old Spanish house that in spite of the noonday sun was cool and somehow fragrant. Sister Teresa was as gracious as the lady of any manor. She led us upstairs. We sat down with the other nuns to a luncheon of fresh fish, alligator pears, and lettuce. Looking at their slightly bowed heads, I was suprised to hear the merriness of their conversation. Sister Teresa's white veil trembled each time she laughed. I asked them how they had fared during the Jap occupation. Sister Teresa for the first time spoke somberly. “We survived,” she said. I was ashamed of myself for asking.

When luncheon was over Sister Teresa took us down to show me the renovated classroom. The walls were spotlessly painted white plywood. New planks covered the floor and rows of wide board benches led up to a new handmade teacher's desk.

“Much will be learned in this room,” Sister Teresa said. Turning to Mr. Rudd, she added in her gentle voice, “Much has been already learned.”

On the way back to the ship I asked Mr. Rudd if he had, by his contact with the nuns, become religious.

“No,” he said. “In a way I hate to see the nuns. They mean so well and can do so little.”

We strode on, and I saw that Mr. Rudd was thinking. We strode along in silence for a long time. I noticed that his lips were pressed very tight together. Just before we got into the boat he turned to me.

“I'll take a bottle of gin to religion any time,” he concluded.

Our mail caught up to us again in Manila. Mr. Warren was in the wardroom when we sorted it. I handed him a white envelope. He opened it there in the wardroom, which was unusual for him, but after reading a few lines he suddenly fled to his stateroom. He did not show up for any meals that day. In the evening Mr. Rudd and I remained after dinner in the wardroom.

“Do you think I ought to go and see what is the matter with Mr. Warren?” I asked.

“He probably wants to be left alone,” Mr. Rudd replied. “If he wants any help from you he'll ask for it.”

All the rest of the evening I stayed in my cabin. That night I lay wondering exactly what bad news Mr. Warren had received, but I did not let myself go to his stateroom. In the morning, however, he did not show up for breakfast, and I decided it was time I investigated. When I knocked at his stateroom door there was no answer. I knocked again, then opened it. I saw Mr. Warren stretched out in a contorted position in his bunk. For a moment my heart rose in my throat, but I heard him breathing. He stirred as I came in and opened his eyes. He looked at me as though he didn't know who I was; then he rolled over.

“Leave me alone!” he said.

I withdrew and went back to the wardroom. At luncheon time I had the cook take a tray into Mr. Warren's stateroom, but he returned with it untouched. When the next night came I made up my mind I would have to get Mr. Warren to talk to me. Once more I knocked at his door, but still there was no answer. I opened it and went in. Mr. Warren was lying face upward on his bunk. He was wide awake, but he did not even turn toward me when I came in. I sat down at his desk.

“If something has happened,” I said, “we might be able to arrange emergency leave so you can go home.”

“I don't want to go home,” he answered in a low voice.

“Is there anything I can do?” I asked. “I don't want to ask you questions, but maybe I can get you a drink. Would you like that?”

“No,” he said. Suddenly he began groping around his bunk with his hand. Reaching under his back, he pulled out a crumpled letter, and without a word handed it to me. I straightened it out and read:

Dear Son,

I wonder if ever a father has had a job like this one. I have been wondering all night what to do, and I have decided to have confidence in your strength and tell you the truth. Yesterday I called on your wife at the address you gave me. She was not at home. A woman in the apartment next door gave me her forwarding address, and I went there. I found that Rachel is living with another man. You must understand that you have not lost the woman to whom you thought you were married. That woman was never Rachel. It was a case of mistaken identity. I need not say how well I know that mistakes of this kind are easy to make, and I want to tell you that you must not regret this news as you would regret the news of a person dying, or even the news that a good woman had left you for somebody else, for, you see, the whole thing was simply a mistake. When you get divorced from Rachel you will not be divorcing the wife you have been thinking about. You will merely be divorcing a woman you thought was she, and whom you have found was somebody else.

I would not tell you all this at the present time if there were not so many practical considerations. I think it is wrong for this woman to continue to bear your name and to receive all your money. I have taken the liberty of retaining a lawyer, and he is going to mail you papers to sign. I would immediately cut off your allotment to her.

Your mother and I are distressed only because of the unhappiness you must bear. I have contacted Washington, and I think you will be able to get leave and come home to straighten out this whole matter. In the meanwhile, try to remember that you have not lost anyone you love. You have merely found out an impostor.

With the greatest affection,

Dad.

I put the letter down on the desk. Mr. Warren was still lying on his back staring above him. He did not look at me.

“I think you better go home,” I said. “Ill go ashore and arrange it right now.”

“No,” he said. “I want to stay here. Don't make me go home. I'll be all right in a couple of days.”

Without arguing with him I went out of his stateroom. I was going to go ashore to arrange his leave anyway, but when I went on deck I saw a boat come alongside. It was a messenger with our orders. I opened the envelope eagerly. We were directed to come into Pier Seven to load burial supplies for Okinawa.

“Burial supplies!” I said aloud. “What the hell do they mean by that?”

“White crosses for one thing,” the messenger said. “They need a lot of them up there.”

We weighed anchor and moved into the pier. Our hatches were broken open, and we waited for the trucks to come with our cargo. Soon they arrived, a whole procession of trucks loaded with white crosses and with crates marked simply, “Burial Supplies.” We swung out our booms and began to fill our holds.

“I thought we were going to carry ammunition,” Boats said.

“So did I,” I replied, “but this is what we've got.”

“I'd rather carry ammo,” said Boats.

While the crew was taking on cargo I sat on the edge of the bridge and watched them. Suddenly Mr. Warren appeared by the hatch below me.

“What are you loading?” he asked Boats.

“Burial supplies,” Boats answered.

Then Mr. Warren started to laugh. Something about his laughter made everyone on deck turn to look at him. He stopped abruptly. Silence. For a moment Mr. Warren stood there by the holds looking at the white crosses; then he turned and quickly strode off the ship onto the pier and walked up toward the city streets. The men stared after him. Finally the grinding of the cargo winches was resumed, and the men went back to their work.

Mr. Warren did not return to the ship until very late that night. I had already gone to sleep, but he came and banged on the door to my cabin.

“Come in!” I called.

The door did not open. Finally I got up and opened it myself. Mr. Warren was standing there swaying back and forth. Evidently he had been leaning against the door, for when I opened it he almost fell over forward. I put my arm around him and led him to his stateroom. While I took his clothes off and put him in his bunk he did not say a word. Just when I reached up to put the light off he opened his eyes and spoke to me very slowly and distinctly, as a child repeats a memorized lesson.

“Today I finally got laid,” he said. “I made a deal with a Filipino dogface. I asked him where I could get a woman. He said that if I would give him five cartons of cigaretes I could have his wife. I came back to the ship, got the cigarettes, and we went to this Flip's shack. His wife came out and when he talked to her she started to cry. He yelled at her and finally hit her. Then she got down on the floor and I had her. The whole time I was with her she cried. When I was through she got down on her knees and prayed.”

He paused, and then looked up at me. “That's what he said, didn't he? That's what you heard Wortly say.”

“Yes,” I said. “That's what I heard Wortly say. Now you go to sleep and forget about it.”

Mr. Warren turned over and put his head on his arm. Suddenly he began to sob. His whole body quivered and shook. The sobs came like blood from his throat. I stood there a moment looking at him, then put out the light and walked out.