The Niumalu was noted for its luaus, which were held once a month. Guests often asked why the hotel didn't hold their version of a native feast every week, but the truth was, it took seven to ten days to properly prepare for the event.
The central set piece of the affair was itself a daylong chore: the roasting of a kalua pig, hoofs and all. The pig was stuffed with hot rocks, lowered into a barbecue pit called an imu, which was already filled with red-hot rocks, then the unprotesting pig was covered with ti leaves, buried under earth and canvas, and left to slowly cook, hour upon hour.
The result was melt-in-your-mouth succulence, a tender, delicious, fall-off-the-bone meat the likes of which Hully Burroughs had never tasted. Hully was an ardent supporter of the picturesque ritual-even if O. B. did dismiss the tradition of roasting a pig in an imu as "a lot of silly fuss over cooking some damn pork."
All day long, hotel manager Fred Bivens and his staff had been bustling around the palm-shaded grounds, in particular dealing with deliveries of foodstuffs. That little Japanese grocer, Yoshio Harada, had been bringing pickup-truckloads of fresh fish and produce over from his shop at the Aala Market in Chinatown. That afternoon, Hully-in his tennis whites, waiting to meet his father on the court-had helped the nice little guy unload for a while, making a few trips to the rear kitchen door.
Harada-slight, mustached, primly businesslike in a white short-sleeved shirt with a red tie-had an "in" with the hotel staff: his niece, Pearl, was the featured singer with the Niumalu band, which was a popular local attraction.
"You are very kind, Burroughs-san," Harada said. "Pearl speak very well of you."
"She's never given me the time of day, though," Hully said, hauling a bushel basket of sweet potatoes.
"Pearl is popular girl," the grocer said, smile flashing under the neatly trimmed mustache, the little man carrying enough bananas to send Tarzan's pet monkey into a frenzy.
Actually, Hully was aware that the pretty singer-who indeed had been "popular," dating any number of guys in recent months-was seriously seeing Ensign Bill Fielder, a good pal of Hully's. But he didn't mention this to the grocer, as he wasn't sure how the Japanese gent would react to his daughter dating a haole.
When Hully wandered over to the tennis court to wait for his dad, he discovered Pearl sunbathing on the strip of sand nearby. Hully and the singer were friendly, but (as he'd indicated to her uncle) she'd always been involved with one guy or another, and he never seemed to get his turn.
He would've loved to have one: she was a stunning girl in her early twenties, with black hair and a slender, curvy form made obvious by a formfitting pink bathing suit, petite at five-two or — three, with wonderful high cheekbones, a flawless complexion and full lips that always seemed poised to pucker into a kiss. Her father, back home in San Francisco, was Japanese; but her mother, also in Frisco, was white, and the Eurasian combination was exquisite. If he hadn't known of her Japanese blood, Hully would never have guessed its presence, her dark eyes lacking the distinctive Asian almond shape; still, something exotic lurked in those features.
Before his father showed up for tennis, Hully sat hugging his knees on the sand, next to Pearl, and they chatted. She was on her back, half sitting, leaning on her elbows.
"I suppose Bill's got your dance card filled tonight," he said.
Her smile was lazy yet dazzling and as white as her name. "I only get to dance on a few songs-I have to sing for my supper, you know….Is Bill's father going to be here tonight?"
Colonel Kendall Fielder, chief of Army intelligence, was a good Mend of the elder Burroughs, and frequently stopped by the Niumalu.
"I think so," Hully said. "He's a regular at these luaus."
She seemed troubled. "I hope the colonel won't mind seeing his son dance with the likes of me." "He'll only be jealous."
The smile returned. "If Bill's father breaks us up, how about catching me on the rebound?"
Hully felt his heart race-foolish though that was. "Why wait?"
She shrugged, stared toward the vast blue of the ocean, visible through an opening in the palms and across a stubby fence guarding a short drop-off. "I don't think your father would like me much, either. He always growls at me."
"He growls at everybody. Anyway, he doesn't think for me-I'm free, wuh …" He paused.
"White and twenty-one?" The smile was sad now, but no less lovely. "Don't kid yourself, Hully. These are… precarious times. You know Colonel Fielder well, don't you?"
"Fairly well. He and my pop are tight as ticks." The lovely dark eyes tightened. "Do you think you … or your father… could introduce us? I'd really like to talk to Colonel Fielder."
"I'm sure you could meet him." A strange sense of urgency throbbed in the girl's voice. "I really need to see him, alone…. Would you help me? Perhaps speak to your father, and ask him to arrange a meeting?"
"Well… sure."
Hully's heart wasn't racing now. The breathtaking Pearl simply wanted his help so she could make her case to her beau's father-which no doubt meant Bill had finally popped the question. And Hully felt sad for her, sorry for her, because he knew how the colonel was likely to respond, in this climate of war clouds, to the notion of his son marrying a nisei.
Then his father had arrived, and Hully hopped up from the sand and joined the old man on the court. The tantalizing aroma of the nearby roasting pig offered a distraction almost as bad as Pearl in her pink bathing suit, and Hully again lost to his old man, two sets to one.
As he and his dad headed back to the bungalow for cool showers-the Niumalu's accommodations lacked water heaters, typical here in this land of perfect temperatures-Hully told his father that he'd put them in for the luau.
They were moving past hedges of hibiscus and morning glory flowering beneath poinciana and jaca-randa trees.
"I'd rather go to the wrestling match," O. B. grumbled, "and eat hot dogs."
Hully knew his dad wasn't kidding: they frequently attended the professional wrestling bouts at several local arenas, particularly when the champ, Prince Ali Hassan, was competing, as he was tonight; O. B. found the sport "hilariously exciting," relishing what he termed the "sweaty theatricality" and "hokey sadism."
"You know a lot of your Navy and Army pals will be here," Hully said, opening the bungalow door for his dad. Nearby, orchids bloomed in coconut shells hanging from a monkey pod. "The brass always turns out for these Niumalu luaus."
"I'm sure there'll be the usual quota of admirals and colonels," O. B. said, stepping inside. "These admirals are so plentiful they get between your feet and in your hair. I have to comb 'em out every time I come home."
"What hair?" Hully asked, good-naturedly. "Anyway, you love those Navy guys."
"Compared to the Army brass, sure," the old boy said, flopping on the couch. "Our Navy is great, but that Army of ours is undermanned and underequipped, if you ask me."
"I don't remember asking, Pop," Hully said, sitting next to him. "Anyway, Fred said for us, the luau's on the house, as usual."
"Because I'm a celebrity. You know notoriety gives me a royal pain."
Hully also knew his father had once loved publicity-it was the adverse publicity surrounding the Burroughs divorce and remarriage that led to this new-found phobia.
"Anyway, I'm unquestionably the world's poorest conversationalist," O. B. said, folding his arms. "I'm as bad a listener as these idiots are lousy talkers-average man or woman has little or nothing worth saying, and spend much of their waking lives saying it. They exercise their vocal organs while their brains atrophy."
Hully was used to such rants. Calmly he said, "I'm not going to the wrestling match, Pop. Anyway, you're a great conversationalist, and some very interesting people are bound to be there. You're just not used to socializing sober."
Burroughs gave his son a blank, almost stunned look; then the old man burst into laughter.
"You got me," he said. 'Take your damn shower-you smell worse than I do."
Hully took his shower.
He was amused by his father's cantankerousness, and delighted by how the old man's despondency had faded over the last month or so. Frankly amazed by his father's new lease on life, Hully had marveled the other day when, walking back to the hotel along a fence line-, his father had jumped up, swung a leg over and dropped down nimbly on the other side. The younger Burroughs had stood there flabbergasted: the fence was chest-high, and Hully knew he couldn't have vaulted the thing.
Perhaps it was time to get back home, to his mother, in the house in Bel Air. He was well aware she suffered from chronic alcoholism-he'd witnessed her incessant drinking since his childhood. Her periods of sobriety were now very short-a week or two-followed by ten days to two weeks of a bender resulting in delirium tremens and, ultimately, a doctor's care. Hully knew the affliction would follow his mother to the grave-if it didn't send her there, first.
Nothing remained but to try to make her life as happy and as free of worry as possible, and to keep her from injuring herself. Shortly before he left, he'd fired a maid and driver who were aiding and abetting his mother's bingeing, and taking advantage of her financially.
Truth was, he was enjoying himself here in Hawaii, and dreaded going back home-he loved spending time with his father, adored Waikiki with its gentle, flower-scented breezes, and had enjoyed several brief romances here … even if Pearl Harada hadn't been one of them.
A hundred guests had descended upon the Niumalu by sundown, far more than the relatively few residents of the thirty cottages scattered about the tropical grounds. The tables in the dining room had been rearranged, fit together picnic-style, but Hully and his father-and another forty patrons, inclined toward a more authentic, traditional presentation-sat like Indians on the lawn on lau hala mats, gathered around a long narrow spread of food exhibiting great variety and color, including the exotic likes of lomi-lomi (salmon rubbed and raw, mixed with shaved ice, onions and tomatoes); ti-wrapped breadfruit, yams, bananas and beef; opii (raw limpets); pipikaula (Hawaiian jerked beef); limu (dried seaweed); laulau, parcels of pork with salted butterfish; and two kinds of poi, one made from breadfruit, the other of taro. And chicken and mahimahi and, of course, the delicious shredded pork from the imu. Eventually noupio (coconut pudding) was served, but it took a long while, and a lot of serious eating, to get there….
Hully and his father both capitulated to having wine with their meals, passing on the stronger stuff-oke, short for okolehao, ginlike booze derived from ti root and, according to O. B., "every bit as good as horse liniment." Free-flowing oke and wine made the evening even more festive, and casual, and it was plenty casual, with even some of the admirals and colonels wearing the currently popular, colorful silk "aloha" shirts, the women in loose-fitting, equally colorful muumuus, or the occasional kimono-Japanese fashion and culture were much admired locally, despite the threat of war.
In fact, the top brass themselves were here tonight-Admiral Husband E. Kimmel, commander of the Pacific Fleet, and Lieutenant General Walter C. Short, commander of the U.S. Army ground and-air forces. Kimmel wore a white suit with a light gray tie that vaguely invoked his Naval dress whites, while Short was in a red-and-yellow aloha shirt.
Hully's father knew both men. Kimmel and Short sat almost directly across from O. B.-the two most powerful military men on the island had arrived together, with petite, attractive Mrs. Short (it was well-known that Kimmel had left his wife on the mainland, so as not to be distracted in his Hawaiian duty… even if his name was Husband).
As usual, Kimmel-whose strong voice was touched with a Kentucky bluegrass twang-seemed uncomfortable in a casual setting, his broad brow troubled. The admiral was in his late fifties, five feet ten inches of compact muscle and bone, his dark blond hair graying at the temples, with clear, direct blue eyes, a slightly hooked nose, and a sternly set mouth and chin.
Short, on the other hand, was affable and easygoing, and the close friendship between the admiral and the general puzzled many, as they would seem personal and professional opposites. A slim, wiry five feet ten, in his early sixties, Short had a thin, delicately boned, sensitive face with deep-set eyes under frequently lifted brows, with a high-bridged nose and a thin upper Up and sensuous lower one.
"Ed," Short was saying, helping himself to two fingers of poi (no utensils allowed at a luau), "how did a fellow with a military background like you wind up an artiste!"
"Nobody's ever accused me of being an artist before, General," Burroughs said, nibbling a chunk of banana. "Biggest disappointment of my life was when Teddy Roosevelt turned me down for the Rough Riders."
Short frowned and smiled simultaneously. "I thought you were in the cavalry-the 'Bloody Seventh,' who fought at Little Bighorn and Wounded Knee."
"That's true, but the press agents would have you believe I fought side by side with Custer."
"Maybe that's what happened to your scalp," Hully kidded.
His father laughed at that, continuing, "The only Indians I came in contact with, at Fort Grant, were Indian scouts. No, my cavalry career was undistinguished, General. A flop like everything else I ever tried."
"Edgar Rice Burroughs," Kimmel said, putting some pomp into the name, "a flop? That seems unlikely."
"Admiral, I have sold electric lightbulbs to janitors, candy to drugstores and peddled Stoddard's lectures door-to-door. The only interesting job I ever had was as a policeman."
This was news to Hully, sitting next to his father. "You were a cop, Pop?"
Burroughs smiled at the admiral and general, pointing a thumb at his son. "You see, my boy has inherited my literary skill." Then he turned to Hully. "Yes, my poetic offspring, I was a police officer in Salt Lake City, my principal duty rousting drunks and hoboes. Even flashed my gun a few times."
Hully was impressed. "When was this?"
"Maybe ought three, ought four… don't really remember, exactly. But mostly I was a salesman-a bad one. I was peddling pencil sharpeners when I first took up writing."
"Had you always had an interest in literature?" Kim-mel asked.
"I liked Mark Twain, and The Prisoner of Zenda, if you call that literature. I was supervising other salesmen, had a lot of free time, and spent it reading cheap magazines. The fiction I read struck me as lousy, and I figured if other people could get paid for writing such rotten stuff, make room for Burroughs."
"I like your books, Ed," Short said, grinning, "and I won't have you downgrading yourself… and my good taste."
"Don't think I'm not grateful, General. No writer alive has taken more potshots than me-there are li-brarians and literary types who consider my stuff a bad influence, particularly on young minds like yours."
The general laughed, and said, "How on earth could Tarzan be considered harmful?"
"Well, a good number of kids have fallen out of trees, emulating him… otherwise, I think it's good for their imaginations."
Mrs. Short said, rather primly, "Don't you think some children have rather overactive imaginations, Mr. Burroughs?"
"With all due respect, Mrs. Short, the power of imagination is all that differentiates the human from the brute. Without imagination, there's no power to visualize what we have never experienced… and without that, there can be no progress, no invention."
Hully smiled to himself, thinking of his father's self-characterization of being a "lousy conversationalist." Of course, giving in to a little wine had lubricated his dad's tongue, no question….
Kimmel was frowning in thought. "How on earth did you come up with something as imaginative as Tarzan?"
The half smirk disappeared from O. B.'s face and his response was surprisingly serious-in fact, Hully would never forget what his father quietly, humbly said next.
"Frankly, Admiral, I suppose it came out of my daily life consisting of such drab, dull business matters. I think I just wanted to get as far away from commerce as possible-so my mind roamed in scenes and situations I never knew." He gestured to the tropical trees around them. "I've never been to Africa, you know-but I find I can write better about places I've never seen than those I have."
"Excuse me, Mr. Burroughs," said the young Japanese man seated on O. B.'s other side, "but I wonder if you are aware of how very popular you are in my country?"
This was Tadashi Morimura, who had introduced himself earlier-a diplomat in his late twenties, vice consul of the Japanese Consulate in Honolulu. Like Kimmel, Morimura wore a white suit and a tie; he was a boyish, slender man, his longish black hair brushed back on a smooth, high forehead.
"Well, I've had good foreign sales for years, though this European war is playing havoc with 'em."
"My cousin is named Edgar," Morimura said, with a shy smile. "Sir, I know many boys who have been named for you."
O. B. seemed genuinely touched. "That's the first I've heard of that. But I don't see why a boy in your country wouldn't respond to what kids here do-kids including General Short, of course."
"You mean the constant urge for escape," Kimmel said thoughtfully, even a little pompously. 'To trade the confines of city streets for the freedom of the wilderness …"
"I think it's more," O. B. said. "I think on some primal level, we all would like to throw off the restrictions of man-made laws, the inhibitions that society has placed on us. Every boy, of any age, would like to be Tarzan… I know I would."
"As would I," Morimura said, raising his cup of wine.
Despite the pleasantness of the evening, the great food, the wonderful conversation, Hully couldn't help but be struck by the surreal incongruity of this social gathering: the commanders of the Army and Navy sharing poi with a Japanese diplomat, when everyone seemed to agree war between their two countries was both inevitable and imminent.
But Morimura seemed a pleasant sort, harmless, well-spoken, typically polite.
As the dining wound down, the entertainment increased, the evening alive with flaming torches and swinging swords, and various renditions of the hula from seductive, lyrical swaying to the frenetic hip-twitching version tourists craved. Wandering troubadours with ukuleles and steel guitars sang traditional Hawaiian standards, but also Tin Pan Alley island fare like "Sweet Leilani" and "Blue Hawaii."
By around ten, the luau proper was over and the guests were milling around the grounds, lounging throughout the lodge, in the rock-garden courtyard, and in the enclosed rear lanai, with its wicker furnishings and soothing view onto a tropical garden. The music, however, had shifted to the big-band music of Pearl and the Harbor Lights on the dance floor adjacent to the dining room.
Hully and his father split up-he noticed O. B. talking to Colonel Fielder at one point, out on the lawn, and to that German playboy Otto Kuhn, in the rock garden-and the younger Burroughs sat at a table with Ensign Bill Fielder and Seaman Dan Pressman, smoking cigarettes, drinking oke (except for Hully, who had switched from wine to coffee), listening to Pearl and the band do "Oh, Look at Me Now."
The only concession to Hawaiian-style music made by Pearl and the Harbor Lights was the inclusion of two guitars, one of them steel, and of course the boys in the band did wear blue aloha shirts with a yellow-and-red floral pattern. Bathed in pale pink stage lighting, Pearl-standing at her center-stage microphone, which she occasionally touched, in a sensually caressing fashion-wore a clinging blue gown, with a daring dEcolletage that showed off her medium-size but firm, high breasts to fine advantage.
"I'm going to tell the old man tonight," Bill was saying. He was a handsome Naval officer in his early twenties with dark hair and a cleft chin-despite his crisply military haircut, he looked more like a kid than a sailor, in his green aloha shirt and white slacks.
"I can see what you see in Pearl," Hully said, and he certainly could, his eyes returning to the ethereal, erotic vision she made on stage under the pink lighting in the low-cut blue gown. "But you've only been going with her for a month…. Can't you wait-"
"What, till war breaks out, and I'm at sea, fighting her relatives?" Bill's dark eyes were sharp, but his speech was slightly slurred-too much oke. "There's not going to be a better time to break this to Dad-certainly after we're at war with Japan, it's not gonna be any easier."
"Bill," his friend Dan said, a blue-eyed blond sailor
from California, "she's a nice girl, and I mean you'd have to be blind not to see she's a living doll… but you gotta admit-she's been around."
“Take that back!" Bill said, stiffening.
"Okay, okay," Dan said, patting the air with his palms. "I didn't mean she was … fast or anything. Just that she's dated a few guys…. Maybe you should wait a couple months, get to know each other better."
"Dan's right," Hully said. "Wait a little bit-get past the physical attraction and know each other as people … just to make sure…."
"I am sure-Pearl's the girl for me. She's sweet and she's nice and she'll give everything up for me, her singing, everything… just to be my wife and have my babies."
"Maybe you ought to think about that, too," Dan said.
Bill glared at him. "What?"
"What it'll put your kids through-you know, the racial thing."
"Pearl's half white. Our kids'11 be all American. Dan, I won't hear this kind of talk."
"Okay, buddy … I'm just trying to help. You've helped me before, plenty of times-I'm just trying to be your friend."
Bill sighed and nodded.
The band was starting to play "I'll Remember April," and one of the guitar players began to sing the lilting ballad. Bill shot out of his chair as if from a cannon, muttering, "This is one of Pearl's free songs," and headed for the bandstand.
Then he was out there dancing with her, holding her close, gazing into her eyes like a lovesick puppy, and she was gazing back, a beautiful woman who seemed equally in love. It was romantic, and frightening.
"His father is going to kick Bill's ass," Dan said.
"I know," Hully said, and nodded toward the entry-way to the lobby.
Colonel Fielder-slim, casually attired in red aloha shirt and white slacks, his dark hair widow's-peaked, with a narrow face and hawkish eyes and hawkish nose-stood just inside the doorway, staring out at the dance floor, obviously viewing his son dancing with the nisei singer-and just as obviously unhappy.
Shaking his head in apparent disgust, Fielder exited.
"It's gonna be ugly," Dan said.
"Pearl asked me to set up a meeting between her and the colonel-she wants to plead her case."
“If she thinks batting her lashes at that hardnose is going to do the trick, she's dreamin'."
Out on the dance floor, something "ugly" was already transpiring. A soldier-a handsome brown-haired kid in a green sportshirt and tan slacks, not very tall but with wide shoulders and an athletic carriage-was tapping Bill on the shoulder-hard-as if to cut in.
"Oh hell," Hully said, shaking his head.
"Who is that guy?" Dan asked.
"Jack Stanton-he's a corporal over at Hickam… used to date Pearl."
"Ouch."
"Fact, that's who she threw over for Bill."
"Double ouch."
Out on the dance floor, Pearl was desperately trying to keep the peace as the sailor and the soldier began shoving each other.
"You take Bill," Hully said, getting up, "I got the dogface."
The crowd was forming a circle around what was clearly about to erupt into a fight, with reactions that ranged from shouts of indignation to squeals of delight. Hully and Dan broke through just in time to see Stan-ton connect with a right hook to Bill's jaw.
Bill went down on a knee, but came up with his own right hand to the soldier's belly, doubling the boy over.
And the fight was over before Hully and Dan could break it up, because the soldier-like everyone here-had been to that sumptuous, endless luau, and his stomach … filled with poi and raw fish and roast pork and a dozen other delicacies … did not take a punch well.
The soldier, clutching his stomach, scrambled out of there, struggling not to throw up, heading for the men's room, as relieved laughter rippled across the crowd. Soon the onlookers began to dance again, the Harbor Lights beginning to play "Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy," with Pearl magically back onstage to sing it.
"I'm going after that bastard," Bill said, lurching forward, and Hully grabbed him around the arms, from behind.
Hully whispered harshly in his friend's ear. "You get back to the Arizona-you want your dad to see this? Much less get wind of what this fight is about?"
Bill, oke or not, sighed and nodded.
"Get him the hell out of here," Hully said to Dan.
"Sure thing," Dan said, and took charge of his friend, walking him out.
Then, suddenly, O. B. was at Hully's side. "Did I miss some action?"
"Just a sailor and a soldier, fighting over a dame," Hully said.
Jitterbuggers were jumping and kicking before them.
O. B. asked, over the blaring music, "Fielder's son?"
Hully nodded.
The old man shook his head, nodded up toward the pretty girl in the low-cut blue dress, her breasts jiggling provocatively as she sang the up-tempo tune.
"That little Pearl of the Pacific up there," he said, "is gonna get some poor fool killed."
And then O. B. turned and went out, leaving his son to marvel at how little got past his old man.