Hawaii - James Michener [557]
In late 1947 however a night-club singer from New York arrived in the islands--a two-night wahine, she turned out to be--and she took such a boisterous joy in Kelly that one night she cried, "God, they ought to build a monument to you, Beachboy!"
She was outraged when she learned that the current popular song, "The Rolling Surf," was something that Kelly had composed on the beach and had given away to whoever wanted it. A mainland musician had glommed onto it, added a few professional twists, and made a pile of money from it.
"You ought to sue the dirty bastard!" she yelled. Later she tested Kelly's voice and found it good. "Tomorrow night, Kelly Kanakoa, you're going to sing with me. In the dining room of the Lagoon."
"I no like singin'," Kelly protested, but she asked, "What's that lovely thing you and the falsetto boy were doing with your ukuleles?" "You speak da kine 'Hawaiian Wedding Song'?" he asked. "The one where you start low, and he comes in high?" Casually, Kelly started singing "Ke Kali Ne Au," the greatest of all Hawaiian songs, a glorious, haunting evocation of the islands. At the moment he was wearing a Lagoon towel as a sarong, with a hibiscus flower in his hair, and as he sang, the night-club girl sensed his full power and cried, "Kelly, nothing can stop you."
After one day's rehearsal, for the girl was a real professional and learned quickly, Kelly Kanakoa, dressed in a red and white sarong, with one of his mother's whale-tooth hooks dangling from a silver chain about his neck, and with a flower in his hair, came onto the floor of the Lagoon and started singing with the voice that was to become famous throughout the islands. "The Wedding Song" was unusual in that it provided a powerful solo for a baritone voice and a high, soaring dreamlike melody for a soprano. It was a true art song, worthy of Schubert or Hugo Wolf, and although that night's audience had heard it often before, sung by blowzy baritones and worse sopranos, they had not really heard the full majesty of the lyric outcry. Kelly was a man in love, a muscular, bronzed god, and the slim blond girl from New York was in all ways his counterfoil. It was a memorable evening, and as it ended, the singer called to Kelly while he washed down in her shower, "How'd you like to come to New York with me?"
"I doan' leave da rock," he called back.
"You don't have to marry me," she assured him, aware before he was of his apprehensions. "Just sing."
"Me 'n' da beach, we akamai," he said, and although she begged him several more times while they were in bed, he insisted that his place was in Hawaii. "See da kine wha' hoppen Florsheim!" he repeated.
"Well, anyway," she said as she dressed for the plane. "We taught one another a lot in a few days." "You speak da trufe," Kelly agreed. "You gonna keep on singing?" she asked. "Skoshi singin', skoshi surfin'."
"Don't give up the surfing," she said sardonically. "You got a real good thing working for you there."
"Seestah, dis kanaka doan' aim to lose it," Kelly laughed. "I'm sure you don't," she cracked. She was brassy, and her hair was dark at the roots, but she was a good clean companion, and Kelly appreciated her.
"I ain't able to come out to da airport," he said apologetically. "You took care of things here," she assured him, patting the bed, "and that's where it counts."
Then, in early 1948, when the tourist business was beginning to boom, he received a cable from some wahine in Boston named Rennie, but he couldn't remember who she was, but anyway she said, "MEET MOANA LOA MRS. DALE HENDERSON." And when the ship came in, Florsheim, barefooted and staring up at the railing asked, "Which one you wahine, Kelly blalah?"
"Maybe da kine," he indicated with a shrug of his shoulder.
"You s'pose she gonna lay?" Florsheim asked, appraising the