Crossing on the Paris (33 page)

She amused herself, then, by watching Mr. Thomas produce little flecks of spit when he got enthusiastic and the Dutchmen turn different shades of red when particularly adamant. She looked over at Captain Fielding. His hairless pink skin reminded her of some of the war victims she'd seen in Paris.

One day, when Constance was having tea at a sidewalk café and, like today, was bored by company who ignored her, she'd watched a man with similar burns and only half an arm. That man was hanging colorful posters on an advertising pillar. Although his handicap made the work a challenge, he slathered them up like wallpaper, quickly but carefully, making sure to leave no bubbles or folds. He had not been gone five minutes when a herd of dairy goats came through (who would have guessed that livestock would trample through the capital of France!) and, straightaway, they began to eat those very posters. She remembered being rather shocked at the she-goats' grotesque anatomy, their engorged udders. With those twin pendulous organs hanging almost to the ground, they did not seem female at all, but rather virile males.

Constance, suddenly uncomfortable with her own thoughts, looked swiftly around the table to make sure her dining companions were still talking. They were—talking and drinking wine. Storing it for the dry months ahead, she supposed. Only Mrs. Thomas was watching her with that secret little smile.

“Penny for your thoughts, dear,” she said.

At that moment, images collided in Constance's head: Serge
Chabron, twin udders, and an advertising pillar. Startled, she breathed in a bit of saliva, then began to cough—great choking hacks—until a Dutchman felt compelled to pat her on the back and pour her some more water.

“There, there,” he muttered awkwardly as she took a few sips.

Red in the face, she nodded silently to her tablemates to assure them she was fine. They immediately resumed their conversation and Constance, determined not to chat with Mildred, gave them her full attention. They were discussing the ship's magnificent engines, which they had visited the day before.

“The
Paris
is making about twenty-two knots,” Captain Fielding said. “Can't compare to the British ship, the old
Mauretania,
launched back in 1906. It still holds the Blue Riband record for fastest crossing, at twenty-eight knots. With steam turbine propulsion, you know, 'twas truly revolutionary in its day.”

“Are you betting on the speed here on the
Paris
?” one of the Dutchmen asked the other men. “Today will certainly be a hard call. Shame there's not a proper casino on board.”

“Yes, I love a good game of roulette.” Captain Fielding smiled, his reconstructed skin taut with the effort. He took a casino token out of his pocket. “I won quite a sum at Monte Carlo before the war and always carry this old chip with me. Good luck, and all that.”

Constance was mildly surprised that Captain Fielding—a stuffy old bore—would carry a good-luck charm. Did he think it actually worked? She supposed he was lucky to have survived the war, but unfortunate enough to have been seriously injured. Did mere survival count as luck?

Thinking about her own life, she wondered whether she would be considered lucky. She was attractive, well mannered, and educated; she could boast three charming daughters and a nice home. And her marriage? Had she been lucky in love? George was certainly reliable, loyal, and usually quite courteous. Her gaze fell on the corner table where the crossword honeymooners dined; defying
convention, they were sitting next to each other, holding hands. So like Faith and Michel!

Now Faith had always been lucky, the world her oyster. Although Constance had always been more refined, more responsible, and more respected in the community, Faith had independence, confidence, happiness. Would she trade with her younger sister? Should she take more chances? Stake her bets on joy? Take drastic risks, trusting the fates, to live a fuller life?

“May I see your token, Captain Fielding?” she asked suddenly, interrupting the first words of what promised to be one of Mr. Thomas's lengthy preambles.

They all stopped talking and looked her way, wondering whether words might prompt another coughing fit. The conversation had already moved on, but the British officer still had the chip in his hand, flipping it through his fingers. He passed it to her, and the discourse—on American poker, from the sound of it—resumed at once.

Constance examined the chip, a thin, mother-of-pearl oval with “10 Francs” engraved on both sides, wondering whether her luck might possibly change.

Vera was wrapped in her baby-blue shawl, her feet curled up on the armchair, sweating but cold. She was flipping through her anecdotes and illustrations, thinking of the Richter men, Laszlo and Josef. It seemed each had managed to blame
her
for his unhappiness. Breezing past her life's events, she consoled herself with the notion that she, Vera Sinclair, had always taken responsibility for her own failings. Of course, she'd complained, cursed, quarreled, and wished for other realities. But, no, she didn't think she had ever laid blame elsewhere. And, lord knows, she too had had a lonely childhood, not without its problems.

Closing her journal, she looked down at her watch. What was taking Amandine?

Releasing an impatient gust of air, she looked out on the dramatic sea below. How would this storm, she wondered, compare to Robinson Crusoe's hurricane? That book had been one of Warren's favorites, but it was far too moralistic for her taste. Poor Robinson got his just recompense for disobeying his father and running off to sea. If Providence truly punished the wicked and corrupt, what a different place this world would be! Indeed. And what might Providence make of her?

She watched what seemed to be a battle of black clouds above, thinking what an exciting finale a shipwreck would make to her own tale. An unforgettable ending (with or without cannibals or mutineers—or even an island!) to her life story.

She heard a slight scratch at the door, then Bibi and Amandine entered the cabin.

“It's really nasty out there!” Amandine uttered, taking off her hat. The Scotty plopped down next to Vera's chair.

“Well? Were you successful?” Vera asked the two.

“We ran into Mrs. Richter on her way to the hairdresser's. She was on her own and I was able to deliver the message.” Amandine nodded. “She will bring the boy at five sharp.”

“Excellent,” Vera said with a weary cough. “Thank you so much.”

Amandine felt Vera's brow, frowned, and prepared a fresh compress.

“Would you like me to order some bouillon?” she asked.

“That would be lovely,” Vera replied. “And while you're there, perhaps you should order tea. Now, what does one serve a small boy?”

“Cocoa and cakes?” proposed the maid.

“Are we to worry about spoiling his supper?”

“Spoil
him,
ma'am.” Amandine looked serious.

“Always right, aren't you.” Vera smiled. “Cocoa and cakes it is. And order the richest, gooiest, most extravagant cakes possible.”

Amandine put her hat back on.

“Oh, before you leave, would you mind handing me those old marionettes? They're on the trunk.”

Peering into the bathroom mirror, Julie checked her hair for lice, searching for sticky white nits around her ears, behind her neck. It was a difficult task to do alone—the other girls were all grooming each other—but she didn't think she had any; when working in steerage, she always had her hair tucked under a cap. Satisfied, she put the comb down and looked at her face in the mirror. How different was she today from yesterday? In it, she saw one unhappy girl.

All during the lunch shift, she had kept her eye on the doorway, expecting to see Nikolai. She imagined the gestures he would make from the corridor—the praying hands to beg forgiveness, the thrown kisses, the dramatic clutching of his heart—and knew that he would have a good excuse for visiting her later than planned. But lunch had come and gone and now, on break, she decided to go down to the engine room to see what had become of him.

She took a few gulps of water from the faucet and rinsed her mouth, spitting several times to rid her mouth of the rancid taste of sick. Nikolai would want to kiss her, wouldn't he? She shuddered, thinking of the other things he had done to her. Her whole body ached; blood still trickled from the tear between her legs. Biting her lip to keep from crying, she looked back into the mirror. Was looking for him a good idea? Would he want to have another go? Did she need a boyfriend who, when excited, could not hear or feel her?

“Boyfriend,” she murmured to herself, as if this were a delicacy, a nearly extinct species. She reached up to the birthmark he had playfully licked and turned to go find him.

Walking past the common room, Julie saw a group of children trying to get the attention of a shy cat standing out in the corridor. Scruffy and stained with grease, it nonetheless fascinated the bored children, trapped under the waterline during the tempest.

“Come, kitty!” called a small blond girl, trying to entice the animal with a bit of bread she'd pocketed at lunch.

“Hey! Let's call him ‘Stormy'!” said a tall, skinny girl next to her. “For today's weather and also—look!—it has a black spiral on its side! Do you see it?” she asked the other children. “It's like a whirlpool!”

“Come here, Stormy, come!” they sang out in chorus.

However, having no interest in bread and fearful of the children's affections, the cat quickly disappeared. Julie was wondering how it came to be in steerage, then recalled the mouse she'd seen her first night on board. This cat must have plenty to feed on belowdecks.

Julie began her slow descent to the engines, holding on to the rails, which were moist from the heat. The hull was creaking with every pitch, the engine pounding. She stepped down onto the floor and groaned; at once, her feet were drenched.

With little stomach for exploring (not only did she feel terrible, but these dark, howling rooms gave her the jitters), she started out, trying to keep her footing like Pascal, two steps up, three steps back. Nikolai must be down here somewhere.

As she tramped around the engines, Julie saw at least a dozen other men—all extremely busy and indifferent to her visit—but he was not among them. After a series of turns, she found herself next to the auxiliary engine; she could just see the mattress poking out from behind. Frozen, she stared at the corner of the filthy bedsheet, trailing down to the wet floor. That's where it happened. Her heart beating wildly (would Nikolai be sleeping there?), she crept around the machine to face the bed.

It was empty. She breathed out in relief, wiping her clammy
hands on her skirt. Although she had to see him, she didn't want to meet here, ever again. Trembling, she glared down at the crumpled sheet, the place where Nikolai had become an animal. There, alongside the grime and oil stains, she saw his dried, crusty sperm and the paths of her own blood. Feeling again his body crushing her, ripping her, Julie's knees wobbled and saliva filled her mouth. She closed her eyes and sank down on the mattress; her head fell onto her knees. The machines pounding around her recalled the rhythm of sex. Julie sat motionless, pitched in the storm in that timeless, windowless chamber, her mind racing.

When she was able, Julie opened her eyes. From the vantage point of her lap she spied her bloated panties next to a crate, floating there like a dead fish. So they had not been celebrated that morning, run up the flagpole or worn on some joker's head. She supposed that, in this weather, the men had been too busy to waste time in their jerry-built rumpus room. She hoisted herself up, lurched over to her underpants, and gave them a violent kick. Her legs were solidly splashed; the panties barely moved. Long since indifferent to the fate of the ridiculous lace ruff, she did not bother looking for it, but turned around and left.

Back in the women's lounge, she kept to herself, drying her shoes with yesterday's newspaper. As afternoon began to wane, she stopped looking toward the door.