Paumotuan pearl getters haunt Mambaya, brown-skinned men who have been diving half a year or have captured in half a day the wherewithal for a spree, and on the beach when a ship comes in you will find the Chinese pearl buyers waiting for the pearl men, cigar coloured girls with liquid brown eyes, the keeper of the roulette table in Mossena Street and Fouqui, the seller of oranges, pines, bananas and custard fruit.
But Mambaya does not exist entirely on pearls. The island is rich in produce and it is a beauty spot. Great white yachts drop in and anchor, steamers bring tourists, and on this same lovely beach where they used to boil local missionaries in the old days, you can hear the band playing at night in the Place Canrobert, where the two hotels are situated and where at marble-topped tables the tourists are taking their coffee and liqueurs.
From the island of Laut away down south where the bad men live, came one day to the beach of Mambaya two men of the sea, ragged and tanned, with their pockets stuffed with gold and hungering for pleasure—Bud Davis and Billy Harman, no less.
A big Moonbeam copra boat had given them the lift for the sum of four pounds each, paid in bright Australian sovereigns, but she could not supply them with clothes. However, a Jew who came on board as soon as the anchor was dropped, saved them the indignity of being fired off the beach by the French authorities, and, landing in spotless white ducks, they strung for the nearest bar, swallowed two highballs, lit two cigars and came out wiping their mouths with the backs of their hands.
“By golly,” said Billy, “ain’t this prime, Bud? Look at the place, why it’s half as big as ’Frisco, innocent lookin’ as Mary Ann and only sufferin’ to be scooped or painted red.”
They were in the Place Canrobert where the flame trees grow, where the Kanaka children play naked in the sun and the shops expose faked Island headdresses and curios, imitation jewellery from Paris, canned salmon and Paris hats. The natives of Mambaya are well-to-do and spend their money freely; they are paid in dollars, not trade goods, and have a lively fancy and catholic taste.
“If you’re starting on the painting business,” said Bud, “then give me notice and I’ll take myself off to the woods till you’re done, but I’ll warn you this is no place for painters and decorators. It’s a French Island and you’ll end your jag with a month in the cells or road-making.”
“What you wants is a tub and a prayer book,” said the other, taking his seat at a table in front of the Café Continental and calling for lime juice.
“Who was talkin’ of jags, and can’t a chap use a figure of speech without your jumpin’ down his throat? No, sir, scoopin’ is my idea. Here we are with our pockets full and our teeth sharp, and if we don’t pull off a coup in this smilin’ town where the folks are only standin’ about waitin’ to be took in, why we’d better take to knittin’ for a livin’, that’s my opinion.”
A pretty native girl, all chocolate and foulard, passed, trailing her eyes over the pair at the table; she wore bangles on her arms and was carrying a basket of fruit.