Blue Voyage: A Novel (5 page)

“You’re Welsh aren’t you?”

The young woman looked at him sidelong in a manner intended to be vampirine. Her green eyes were by nature narrow and gleaming under long black lashes, and she deliberately over exaggerated this effect. An extraordinarily lascivious face, thought Demarest—the eyes cunning and treacherous, and the mouth, which might have been beautiful had it been more moderate, extravagantly red and rich and extravagantly and cruelly curved downward at the corners. A vampire, a serpent, a lamia, a carrion flower—yes, a mouth like a carrion flower, and giving out poisonous juices; for as she laughed, Demarest noticed that the lower lip, which was undershot, was wet with saliva. She lifted her strange face to laugh, giving only two short musical sounds, then lowered her face again and wiped her mouth with a crumpled handkerchief.

“Welsh? Why do you think I’m Welsh?… You ought to be Welsh, with a harp on your sleeve!”

She gave another laugh, eying Demarest; and Demarest noticed, as she again lifted and dropped her head, that her throat was singularly beautiful. The pianist turned to look at Demarest, smiled, and went on:

“Well, I don’t know if you
look
Welsh: except that you’re dark. But you asked if I had any Welsh songs, so what could be simpler? Eh?… What could be simpler?…” The pianist smiled oilily, showing three gold teeth. He knitted his white plump fingers together before him on the table. “What’s your name?” he then went on.

The young woman assumed an air at the same time injured and arch. She drew back a little, narrowed her eyes at the pianist’s thick spectacles, then directed suddenly at Demarest a serpentine smile, at the same time giving him a gleaming wink quick as the eye of a Kodak.

“Isn’t he smart?… And personal!… sweet hour.”

Demarest smiled, lighting his pipe. He was taken aback, but somewhat excited. The creature was so obviously—What? While she turned, half rising, to look out of a porthole at the sea (again wiping her juicy mouth) he tried to analyze the effect she had on him. Tropical. He had never encountered at such close quarters so scarlet-flowering and rank a growth. The invitation, certainly, was tremendous. Here, close at hand, was the rich jungle—poisonous and naïve, treacherous and rich, with its tenacious creepers, its bright voracious birds, and its fleshlike fruit. Should he enter? He recognized, also, the pressure exerted upon him to do so by the mere fact of the pianist’s presence, the pianist’s prior pursuit and inquisitiveness. His impulse was to compete with the pianist: to be at the same time more tactful, more humorous, and more charming: to snatch the scarlet flower from under his very nose.

Against all this—ah! the manifold complications! For it was easy to foresee that this girl would be swarmed about by the men on the ship; swarmed about as by flies; would be talked about by every one, sniggeringly—“Yes, sir, she’s a warm baby!”—and would be signally avoided by the women. To attach one’s self to her too publicly—and
any
attachment would inevitably involve a publicity sufficiently rank—would be to make one’s self conspicuous and a little ridiculous … Smiling, he picked up his book and opened it. He would neither refuse nor accept.

“Oh well,” he murmured, more to the pianist than to the girl. “We’re all personal on a ship! What else is there to do?”

“Right!” beamed the pianist. “What the devil can we do if we don’t talk?”

“Talk!” sneered the vampire. “A lot of good talking does.”

“What’s wrong with it? There are worse things than talking.”

“Ha—ha!” She laughed, lifting her throat. This amused her intensely, and she contrived without much subtlety to suggest that it was a little wicked of her to be amused. Her chief means to this end was another rapid green wink at Demarest. “Worse things—I should hope so!”

The pianist grinned sharply, eager to take her up on this.

“What do you mean?” he said, leaning toward her.

“Mean?” She drew back, her face becoming hard and distant. She was rebuking him. The rebuke, however, seemed to grow with difficulty in her mind, and before it had flowered into speech (as for a moment Demarest thought it would) she relented, changed her purpose, and again gave her short empty musical laugh.

“What’s he talking about?” she said to Demarest. “I mean worse things, that’s all!…”

“He’s got an evil mind,” said Demarest. “He thought you meant a particular kind of worseness.”

The girl’s undershot jaw dropped. This was too deep for her.

“Are you talking English, or am I crazy?”

“He’s talking Welsh,” the pianist went on … “You haven’t told me your name. I’ll bet it’s Evans or Jones.”

“No, Davis, Peggy. You can call me Peggy, as we’re old friends.”

“Help! I’m married already.”

“
You
married?” she cried. “Well, you do look sort of married, come to think of it.”

“Oh, I say!”

“Don’t you think so? He has that look—you know, sort of meek.” She gave a hoot behind her handkerchief, gleaming at him askance. “I’ll bet he washes the dishes.” She hooted again.

The pianist flushed, grinning. “What about you? Are you married, too? I’ll bet you’re married to a dozen!”

“No, I’m a widow. My husband died last month, in Providence—that’s where we lived.”

“A widow!… You’re a widow?” The pianist was unembarrassed.

“Yes. I had a good job too, but my brother thought I’d better come back.”

“A brother in Wales?”

“Mm! A miner. Oo, such a fine, big boy. He’s going to meet me at Liverpool.”

… Abstracting himself from the persistent dialogue, Demarest tried to read. A phrase—a sentence—but the dull dialogue which kept intruding, mingled with shouts and laughter blowing through the open porthole, and the softened
sh sh
of the sea, prevented him from much concentration. Malvolio, the bar steward, smirking, made a pretense of wiping the table and chairs; opened another port, smirked again at the girl; rearranged the brass spittoons, pushing them with his foot; then came and leaned his long black-haired hands (the wrists bony) on the table, the dusting cloth under one palm. He addressed Demarest ingratiatingly.

“Your friend was looking for you.”

“My friend?”

“The old man,” said Malvolio confidentially. “The one you played drafts with. He said he had something particular to say to you.”

“Oh, did he!”

“Yes. Something about those two young ladies, I think he said it was.”

Demarest felt himself blushing. Malvolio, still leaning his long wrists on the table, turned slow, greedy eyes toward Peggy Davis, who returned the look haughtily.

“Those two young ladies, eh!” pursued the pianist. “Seems to be a lot of young ladies on this ship!”

The bar steward smiled, gave one formal wipe at the table, and withdrew lightly.

“Why all the mystery?” inquired Peggy.

“No mystery. They sit opposite me at meals. Amusing kids—nothing but kids.”

“Oh, yes—these kids! Traveling alone, I’ll bet—under the chief steward’s protection! Ha ha!” Peggy hooted unctuously—dabbed her mouth—gleamed lasciviously.

“You seem to know all about it,” said the pianist.

“Ho! That’ll do for you. You don’t have to do it yourself to know about it.”

“No?”

“No … Say, aren’t you impertinent!…”

Looking at his opened book, Demarest wondered about the old man and the two girls. What was up? Smith had been frank about his interest in them—franker than he himself had been. He found the thought vaguely exciting. Had Smith made advances, taking advantage of the proximity of his cabin to theirs? He hoped Pauline—no … How perfectly ridiculous … Here he was, setting out three thousand miles to see Cynthia, and almost immediately allowing himself to be attracted by the small, impudent, brazen baggage of a vaudeville queen—good God, how disgusting! He flushed, thinking of it. “Off to my love with a boxing glove ten thousand miles away.” Disgusting? No. A pluralistic universe—as plural of morals as of worlds. The magnificent “thickness” of things … A bugle blew just outside the porthole. “Church!” cried Peggy, jumping up. “Don’t go!” the pianist replied holding her hand. She slapped him playfully and departed … Men began coming into the smoking room, evidently from a desire not to be seen on deck during the services. He rose, intending to go out and taste the Sabbath stillness and desertion which he knew would possess the ship at this hour, but as he rose a voice shouted, “Who plays bridge?” and he found himself automatically replying, “I do!” “What’s your name, Mr.——?” “Demarest.” “Mr. Demarest”—the Jew waved a thick hand which hooked a cigar—“Meet Major Kendall, Mr. Hay-Lawrence and myself—Solomon Moses David Menelik Silberstein.” There was a laugh, slightly uneasy, while Silberstein placidly and heavily but with dexterous hands shuffled the cards. “I’m not one of those Jews,” he went on, “who thinks it’s a disgrace to be a Jew. And I always think it a good plan to be explicit on that point—if you’ll forgive my little idiosyncrasy, gentlemen—at the beginning of an acquaintance. It helps to avoid mistakes.”

“Hear, hear,” said Hay-Lawrence faintly, unfrowning his monocle, which fell on its black cord.

“I’ve got time for one rubber—or two fast ones … I’m glad I found this nice corner with you gentlemen,”—Silberstein pursued—“cut, please Major—because anything more like a mausoleum than the first cabin is, on this trip, I’ve never even considered possible. Thirteen passengers altogether, of whom half are octogenarians. One old man in a wheel chair sitting in the smoking room being uproariously rowdy all by himself, and half a dozen female century plants sitting as far from each other as they can in the drawing room. They look to me like Boston’s best … I perceived that if I was to live for another twenty-four hours I would have to seek life down here with you fellows … My God, the meals up there! It’s like a funeral … Your bid, Mr. Demarest … You come from New York?”

“Yes … One spade.”

“One spade he says. My partner’s going to say something—I can see it in his eye. It’s all right so long as I don’t see it in his hand … Sometimes the eye is quicker than the hand, on these boats. No reflections, gentlemen.”

“Double one spade,” said Hay-Lawrence, frowning his monocle into place.

“Now that’s a new one on me,” said the bald-headed Major, flushing. It was explained by Silberstein, and the game proceeded. The Major polished his pince-nez, endeavoring to look firm.

“Observe,” murmured Silberstein placidly, “the game in the opposite corner. Particularly observe the gent sitting with his face toward us. You notice that his left eye is glass—a little too far to starboard—the man, I mean, who strikes you as skull-faced. He was on the same ship with me two months ago. A professional card player, addicted to poker. Notice also the rabbit-faced timid little gent who sits two places to his left. Partners, though they pretend not to know each other. They never meet on deck, you’ll find, and they probably don’t eat at the same table.”

“Poker, what?” said Hay-Lawrence, grimacing as he peered over his shoulder. “I’d like to have a go at him. I’ve got a score to wipe out against poker. I had a little experience in my hotel the night before we sailed.”

Silberstein lifted a slow finger, diamonded, thickly reprehensive.

“Never play poker with strangers … Or bridge either. Not for high stakes.”

“Of course. I’m not a fool, man! In this case, I was bored and I took him on for pure love of adventure. I knew quite well he was some kind of sharper, but wanted to see how he would do it.”

“Well, how
did
he do it?”

“That’s the joke!
I
don’t know. For the life of me I couldn’t see anything wrong with it. He sauntered up to me while I was reading in the lounge, and asked if I’d like to play. I bought a pack of cards, and we went up to my room. Then we sat down and drew cold hands for a dollar a hand. In an hour and a half I’d lost a hundred dollars. Then I quit. He thanked me politely, put on his hat and departed … I watched him like a hawk—mind—and I couldn’t see a
damned
thing that looked wrong.”

“No. You never do. Those men are artists. They wouldn’t do it if they weren’t.”

“Three men asked me to play bridge with them on the train from Buffalo,” said the Major, blushing. “I refused at first, but then as they said they’d been unable to get a fourth anywhere, I joined them, stipulating that there should be no money in it. After three hands, they said there was no fun in it without a small stake—say fifty cents a hundred. ‘Good-by, gentlemen!’ I said and cleared out.” The Major giggled, blushing; then frowned severly, looking at his cards. Silberstein, with green eyes far apart, glanced at him casually and massively. The Frog Prince.

“The Major takes no chances,” he said. “Even in the Army, discretion is the better part of valor … How do you know, Major, that Mr. Demarest and I aren’t conspiring together to defraud you?… Consider the circumstances. We three meet, and look for a fourth … I sing out here in this crowded smoking room in my unabashed Jewish way, and out of all those present, and endowed with bridge talent,
Mr. Demarest,
total stranger, steps forward … Think it over! Looks sort of bad, doesn’t it?”

“You alarm me,” breathed the Major.

“And me too,” said Demarest. “What am I up against?”

“And as for the Duke of Clarence, my partner,” Silberstein placidly pursued, while he arranged his cards and Buddhalike serenely surveyed them with slow slant eyes from end to end of the firmly held fan, “just take a good look at him, gentlemen. I ask you, was there ever a more perfect specimen of the gentleman villain? One look is enough. Monocle and all. Raffles isn’t in it, nor Dracula, nor Heliogabalus. That bored Oxford manner, the
hauteur
—you know, those English go in for a
hauteur—
correct me, partner, if my French pronunciation isn’t all it should be—and the skillfully introduced little story of the hundred dollars lost to a New York con man——Well, I say no more.”

“Oh, dry up, Silberstein,” said Hay-Lawrence, grinning uncomfortably.

“See the guilty look?… That’s the only weakness of these English sharpers. They’re too proud and sensitive. Make personal remarks about them, and they’ll betray themselves every time … Now, Mr.
Demarest
here has the cold, unmoving New England face, the sacred cod; he conceals his feelings better even than the Englishman, simply because he hasn’t got any, Am I right, Mr. Demarest?”