Blue Voyage: A Novel (7 page)

“I mean,” said Smith, rocking gently backward with the ship, “do you think they’re straight?”

“Straight!…” Demarest gave a short laugh. “God knows … My guess would be that they are. Faubion is, I should think anyway—I’m not so sure about Dacey … I saw her flirting with the Chief Steward last night.”

“Oh! You think Faubion’s straight?… I wonder!…” He ruminated sadly. He sat down on the edge of his bunk, drawing himself up like a jackknife so as not to bump his tweed hat, still ruminating. He tucked his plump hairless hands under his knees. “What makes you think so? Sit down. We’ve got a few minutes before dinner … Nice sound the sea makes through a porthole—wish they wouldn’t clamp it shut at night.”

“I wish I had a porthole at all … I don’t know, she strikes me as straight—that’s all. Straight but fidgety.”

“Straight but fidgety! No siree, Bob. I’m an old fool, and never knew a woman, if that girl isn’t——!” He lifted a twinkle, sidelong, toward Demarest. Demarest sat down on the red plush divan. A sour smell came up from it; and the clicking of the water bottle in its wooden socket, and then the loosely delayed return click, hollow and slack, made him slightly giddy. He lifted his nose toward the pure stream of air from the port. Porpoises. Flying fish. Icebergs. Cobalt and snow … A slice of porpoise, Mr. Smith? Thank you no, Mr. Demarest … Wing of Faubion, Mr. Smith? A little off the breast, please, Mr. Demarest … Faubion gazed at him, morose and somber, reserved but yielding, implacable but affectionate. Poising the bread knife, with waved edge damascene, he prepared to make Faubion an Amazon. One-breasted. Tell me when it hurts, Faubion. Does it hurt?… A-a-ah-mmm—you’re hurting—
now!…
Still hurting?…
Phhh
—not so—much.… She turned her head far to one side, closing her eyes … This was the moment—this was always the moment; that delicious moment of utter anguished surrender: the flushed face turned extravagantly aside, eyelids shut, mouth relaxed with pleasure but curved with apprehension and rigid with pain … The dew on the forehead … Singular, that we should so desire this of all possible moments, a moment the essentially fleetingest of moments, that one must dedicate one’s life to its pursuit. A half dozen such moments in a lifetime—moments which yield the full goblet, the nymph-cry in the blood, the whizzing off into space of the body … Helen Shafter, lying face downward on the beach, crying, while it began slowly to rain … Eunice, suddenly letting her arm fall over the frayed edge of the couch, nerveless and abandoned, while with her other hand she covered her eyes, murmuring … Mary, on the hill near Banstead, looking at him through her fingers, frightened, while a little way off they heard the mowing machine clattering and slaughtering among tall grass and poppies … What is man that thou art mindful of him? Melancholy. Men, in a smoking room, recounting their conquests to one another. Was it, as always assumed, a mere boastfulness, a mere rooster crow from the dunghill? No … It was the passionate desire to recreate, to live over again those inestimable instants of life, so tragically few, so irrecoverably lost. “
That reminds me of one time when I was staying
——” Yes, you can see the wretched man trying to summon them back, those few paltry episodes, and make of them, for his solace, a tiny immortal bouquet.

“She’s damned attractive,” he said.

“Attractive!” moaned Smith. “She’s a ringtailed screecher. She’s got me going—yes, sir, she’s got me going. She can put her slippers——”

He broke off, pondering. Click, and then cluck, went the water bottle, while he ponderously pondered. The throb of the ship’s engines was the throb of Smith, pondering the imponderable. One could see him in the act of evoking Faubion; an old wizard, toothless and long-bearded, putting one claw out of his coffin to make the last sign, then hooking his nail over the coffin’s edge, batlike. What, to him, was Faubion? “
Faubion
!” cried the withered brain; and saw flames dancing scarflike in a jungle of lewd sounds and sights. Faubion, flame-bodied, wavered toward the coffin, bearing a slipper in each hand. Zebra-striped were the slippers, white and green, ophidian, with ruby eyes; and a fount of ostrich plumes jetted from each. She placed these adoringly beside the coffin, kneeling, and the bat claw was drawn in, drawing with it flames and plumes … Are you warm enough, Mr. Smith?… Quite warm enough, thank you, Mr. Demarest!… And what is the flavor of Faubion, Mr. Smith?… Flamingo, hibiscus, and guava, Mr. Demarest!… Take then—eat, drink, live!… And lo, Smith lived; the coffin glowed about him, an incadescent chrysalis, burning translucently, within which lay Smith, gleaming and waxing; the fiery chrysalis flaked away, in small dissolving flakes of flame; and Smith, luminously waxing, with fiery veins and godlike nimbus, sprang up rejoicing, naked and blazing, a leafy vine of gold rapidly growing all over his body and burning off as it grew. To right and left of him jetted the ostrich plumes, spouted higher, arched flashing, and crashed upon him foaming. Caligula. King Caligula and the immortal daughter.
King Caligula setting forth: after a seven days’ meditation: marched huge armies a day to the north: and in the evening took his station: on a green hilltop: peaked and
——

“I wouldn’t like to make a mistake though. No, sir. Not much … Barnes—that officer—is supposed to be looking after her. Suppose my foot slipped?—Mmmm. No.”

“You’d be shot at sunrise. Walk the plank.”

“All the same—with care. And the circumstances are favorable. These dresses—and their cabin being just opposite—don’t you think——?”

“Take my advice and go slow.”

Smith blinked brown eyes under his tweed hat.

“You know—it’s bad when you get to my age. Bad.”

“When
isn’t
it bad?”

“You wait … Specially if you’re sort of a timid fellow like me. I never was much good at love affairs. Guess they don’t like the timid fellows. That’s where I always made my mistake …”

“Well, I don’t think there’s any golden rule for success. I’m no Don Juan myself.”

“No? You look like the sort they throw themselves at. I’ve only had one what you’d call “affair” in my life—yes, sir, just one. And
that
was my wife.”

“Oh … Is your wife dead?” Demarest smoothed his voice—discreetly, hypocritically.

“I don’t know, and I don’t care much. She ran away from me after six months. Flew the coop. With a little shrimp of a one-lunged candy salesman—married man, too. Sixteen years ago—all but three weeks. She wrote me a couple of years afterward and wanted to come back … Not much! No siree, Bob. She had another ‘think’ coming.”

“Was she young?”

“Young? Yes—too young. Twenty-one, and I was thirty-five. She came to work in the piano department; played the piano, too; good little pianist … Last I heard of her she was playing the piano in a movie in St. Louis … Good riddance, I guess … Of course I’ve had a little fling now and then—you know—but never what you’d call a nice girl … That’s what I’d like, to settle down for good with a nice girl.”

“Marry again?”

“Oh, well, I’m not so particular about marriage—besides, I’ve never got a divorce … But some nice young girl to wash the dishes, and look after me, and get my money when I die. I’ve got a tidy little sum saved up and nobody to leave it to.”

… I’m tired of living alone
.

I’d like some young wife of my own
.

Some bow-legged Venus
,

To call me Silenus
——

Smith had bored his young Venus? Too attentive and exacting, too worshiping. Pawing her all the time, probably. “Now, darling! I don’t want you tiring yourself out. You stay home and rest this afternoon, and I’ll come home early …” Mrs. Smith sat down at the piano when she heard the front door shut.
The Holy City. Ho-sanna-i-in the highest, ho-sann-a-a-for-evAH mooore …
Singing captivatingly, eyes on the ceiling, nevertheless she revolved on her stool now and then to see if anyone was coming. Nope!—not yet.
Flutter—flutter.—Waltz me around again Will-ee; around—around—around
. A footstep on the “stoop?” Mrs. Smith turned sharply her eager white chin and oystery blue eyes. There he was. He had a newspaper in one hand and a box of candy in the other. He tapped with the folded newspaper on the window. She rose and opened it. “Did you meet him?” “Yes, but he didn’t notice me. I’ve got tickets to Nashville. Four o’clock.” “I told you not to.” “Hurry up and pack your things.” “Don’t stand
there
!—wait for me at the station. I haven’t got a cent.” “Here … if you leave a note for him,
don’t
tell him where you’ve gone.” “Darling! Do you think I’m such a fool? I may be
crazy
——!” She took the five-dollar bill and the box of chocolates. Huylers: with pistachio acorns. Smiling, she put her forefinger to her lip, transferred the kiss to the back of his right hand, drawing it softly the whole length of his yellow-haired little finger, then shut the window and ran to pack …
Waltz me around again Will-ee … around—around
… At four-twenty Smith came in, beaming. “Coo-hoo!” he fluted, and then again softly stepping toward the kitchen, “Coo-hoo!” … No answer. “Waltz Me Around Again Willie” on the piano, and still hanging in the air. An opened box of chocolates, with only the pistachio acorns gone. A note on the dining-room table. “
Frank—I’ve gone away. Try to forgive me. I couldn’t have stood it. I don’t love you and wouldn’t have made you a good wife. Terribly sorry. Will write you sometime. Miss Dillingham will be glad to take the cat. Try not to think too badly of me. I’m not good enough for you, and that’s a fact. Maydie …
” Poor old Smith. Incredulous, he cried “Coo-hoo” again; then again. All a joke. He flapped his wings, goggled, and turned into a cuckoo, flying from top to bottom of the house, dashing against walls, looking repeatedly and dementedly in the cellar, the kitchen, the bathroom, the attic. “Coo-hoo!” he cried, and even put his absurd head out of the cupola window and coo-hooed at the roof, thinking she might be there. No answer. Not a sound. He returned to the kitchen, where he met Nicodemus, the cat. “Ptrnyow!” said Nicodemus. His saucer was empty, and Smith filled it. Tears came into his eyes. “Poor old Nik,” he said, “was a nice old Nickums …” Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone … He had a sense of having been excavated—a hollow, aching shell. He sat and thought. At eight o’clock, getting hungry, he opened the ice chest. And at the sight of the butter dish he burst into tears. Coo-hoo: boo-hoo. Tohubohu.

III

Hay-Lawrence frowned his monocle into his left eye socket, stretching the left corner of his refined cruel mouth. A point of green handkerchief protruded from the checked breast pocket. The offensive plushy shoes—brown suède?—were neatly crossed under the table. Blue cuff edges showed, starched and sharp, at the sleeves, as he held out his brown lean hands.

“Which?” he said.

“Right,” said Demarest, touching the right with light forefinger, refined and arch.

“Right is white,” said Hay-Lawrence, replacing the white pawn and then the black. He turned the chessboard. Pawn to king four—Pawn to king four—Knight to king’s bishop three—Knight to queen’s bishop three. Bishop to knight five—Pawn to queen’s rook three. Bishop to rook four …

“Ruy Lopez,” murmured Hay-Lawrence haughtily.

“Ruy Lopez.”

The Major, self-conscious, smiling, blushing, stepped over the sill with the Welsh Rarebit, one hand under her arm, his tweed cap and book in the other. The gray flat sea washed in with the opening door, was shut out hissing.

“
There’s
a corner,” he said, consciously a man of the world, conscious because he was from Murryville, Ohio.

“Where?” The Welsh Rarebit wiped her mouth. She peered cupidinously into the smoke.

“There.” He lifted his book and cap. “Hello! The intelligentsia are exercising their brains.”

“You flatter us,” said Demarest. “Do you play?”

“Not often. I used to play a good deal in Constantinople—I knew an old Turk general who played a most awfully good game. He’d have been too good for me—if he hadn’t constantly made howlers!” He twinkled, apologetic and vain.

“What is it?” said Peggy Davis, smiling with moist affection at Demarest and then with fleeting slyness at Hay-Lawrence. “Halma?”

“The Royal Game of Chess, Mrs. Davis! Shame on you. He he!” The Major giggled, wriggling.

“Royal crumbs!” croaked Peggy. “Let’s sit down.” They moved to the next corner, stiff-kneeing past the table edge, the Major putting his book down, then his cap on the book, then his pince-nez on his cap. Leaning his neat striped arms on the table he turned and inclined his flushed academic brow toward the Welsh Rarebit, pinkly and intimately. He began speaking in low tones. Malvolio smirked at them through the smoke, corkscrew in hand.

“God,” swore Hay-Lawrence, “that woman gives me the pip … Did you ever see such a face in your life?”

Knight to bishop three he curved with lean fist.

“Is this the face that scuttled a thousand ships? Opened the sea cocks. It’s that undershot wet lower lip that gets me,” said Demarest, castling. “Can you imagine kissing it? Holy Smackerel! It glistens!”

“Good God! Don’t suggest it:
cloaca maxima
. Accidental death by drowning would be the verdict at the inquest.”

“No … suicide while of unsound mind.”

Hay-Lawrence, smiling retrospectively, with slow-consuming satisfaction, lifted the king’s bishop. To king two. A careful player, orthodox and gingerly. Rook to king square, Demarest moved delicately, conscious of Hay-Lawrence’s sharp refinement and expensive dress. He must be, in England, well connected. Latent arrogance, and rudeness overlaid by good manners. Sloane Square—or a Sloane Square Mews?… Cheyne Walk?… Perhaps he had met Cynthia. There was something a little flashy about him, however. And the sort of refinement that invites coarseness in the beholder.

“She reminds me,” Demarest refinedly grinned with one side of his mouth, “of the little song about the spittoon.”

Out came the monocle.

“The spittoon? No! What is it?” The pawn in his paw went to queen’s knight four. Back, bishop. Draw in your miter! To knight three.

“Say not spittoon … Nor cuspidor … Spit not too soon … Nor yet too far … Spit on the floor … Not on the wall … Or better yet … Spit not at all!…”