Ship of Fools (53 page)

Concha, dancing with Johann, shuddered and hid her face as they drew near his uncle's chair, and said: “Ah, God, how dead he looks—let's not go nearer. Take me away. Why is he not dead?”

Johann said bitterly, “God knows I wish he were.” He laid his smooth cheek on the top of her beautiful calm-looking little head with its young sleek black bands of hair, his own hair golden and glittering even in the dull light, and Dr. Schumann, passing on his way to the steerage to attend another birth, paused to look at them with pleasure and pure generous joy in their freshness of beauty—how could such beauty come out of such dinginess and poverty as theirs? For he knew their origins, and no doubt their natures were as poor and shabby as their lives, yet there they went, as perfectly formed as champion-bred race horses, the look of longing and uncertainty in their faces as touching as the tears of a wronged child. “It
is
of the Devil,” he said finally, turning on his way to help bring another lump of mortal procreation into the world, “of the Devil, that beauty, and he will desert them presently—even now he is going, what a pity!”

When Concha danced with Johann, or any man, she did not just dance close, or press herself against him, she melted softly into him from top to toe, warm, solid, yet without weight; her breath came and went lightly on his cheek with a small simmering sound; she purred warmly in the hollow of his ear, nuzzled him cheek and neck, with the tip of her tongue discreetly and invisibly she left a moist shivering-hot trail of miniature kisses under his jaw. “Stop that!” he said, clutching her desperately around the neck instead of her waist. “Do you want to drive me crazy?”

“Oh, you talk, you talk like that, but you do not really love me—you do not even really want me very badly.” She leaned her head far back on his arm and looked up helplessly. “What should I do, then? You say you have no money—well, neither have I. You have your uncle to take care of you, but I have nobody but myself. I have not asked you for much, but I must have something! You are stronger than he is—why do you not just make him give you some money?”

Johann said desolately, “He is nearly dead, that is so. And he is going to leave me his money, and he tells me often it can't be long, for me to be patient. I hate him when he says that—I hate him for knowing all my bad feelings, for talking about it when he knows how miserable he is making me! But he is not dead yet, and I must wait.” His voice almost broke, he closed his eyes and gripped her as if she were his one hold on life.

“Not so tight, please,” said Concha, with a pretty smile of appreciation of his strength. “Well, do you love me a little, or not? Do you take me for one of those creatures who stand in doorways at night?”

“Aren't you a dancer? Can't you make a living at that?”

“Not a very good one,” said Concha, coolly, “not until I am famous. Not enough. But you are shameless—do you want to be my ‘manager' instead of Manolo? He beats me if I do not give him all the money. Would you?”

“If he gets all your money, what good does it do you to make it?” asked Johann, his German merchant blood warming to the financial aspects of her trade, curiosity almost overcoming his other feelings.

“He does not get it all, not by any means,” said Concha. “And if he did, how are you any better than he? He wants me to sleep with men for money to give to him; you want to sleep with me for nothing—a cheat both ways! And you talk about love!”

“I never did,” said Johann, furiously, “I never said that word!”

“Well,” said Concha, her light contemptuous laugh stinging him to the marrow, “you are just a coward, after all—you cannot face anything, even the word love. You are just not a man yet.…”

“I'll show you, I'll show you,” Johann raged, charging forward and pushing her back so rudely they almost lost balance.

“No,” said Concha, “that is not what I mean by being a man … it is something much better. Yes. Let's dance away from the others and I'll tell you.” She pressed the palm of her hand against his cheek and said sweetly, “Don't be angry, my love.” Turning in step and rhythm with him, yet guiding him, she said warningly, “Oh, take care!” as they almost stepped on the fat white bulldog wandering aimlessly by himself through the dancers. He sniffed at them and went on indifferently. They leaned on the rail and Concha said, “I cannot think how you can put up with such miseries when none of it is necessary, not in the least. It would be so easy, and so safe, to end it—no danger at all. Look at him—”

They watched Herr Graf for a moment, far down the deck, head on chest, eyes closed—“That big ugly girl is gone,” said Concha, “why, he is not really alive even now. He hardly breathes. Just a pillow, a soft one, over his face for a few minutes—
un momentito
,” she said, seriously, measuring the smallest fraction of time with thumb and forefinger—“oh, it has been done often successfully. Then you would have the money he carries with him, and when you get home, you will be rich! Ah, have a little courage, my darling. No one would ever know—not even I! If he should die tonight, I shouldn't be surprised, or ask any questions—neither would anybody else.… What we all wonder about is, Why is he still alive at all? How does he keep on breathing? So you see …?”

Johann, listening in horror, kept turning his head and swallowing as if he were being strangled. He who had so often wished his uncle dead was nearly stunned at the proposal that he should murder him. He could swear that thought had never entered his mind. His ears roared, he felt a great charge of electricity flash through him. He could not in that second even feel the small hand on his wrist, slipping into his sleeve up his arm.

“Do that,” she said, with urgent tenderness, breathing upon his face, “do that, and you will know what it is to be a man.”

“You mean tonight?” he asked, forcing his voice through his closing throat.

“Why not? Is tomorrow any better?”

“I never dreamed of it,” he said with a great burst of anguish, “never, never!”

“It is time you did, then,” she said, “and now, oh, how I wish we could celebrate with a bottle of champagne. We must drink champagne together, can't you buy us even one little bottle—even the German kind—this evening?”

Johann groaned in a shame so deep it seemed to poison his bones. “Wait,” he stammered in the voice of one begging for mercy, “wait! I haven't a pfennig—tomorrow, I promise, I promise, I will buy you champagne!”

“Well, then, let me buy it for us tonight, and you may pay me back tomorrow. Only, you must do what I tell you, you must not be a timid child any more. Now I will give you the money—” and she reached into the bosom of her flimsy black bodice.

“No!” shouted Johann, the wind carrying his voice over the water. “You will give me nothing. What are you trying to do? Do you take me for that pimp of yours? You will see what kind of man I am … do you dare to say such things to me? Well, tomorrow you try saying them!”

“I dare now,” she said, leaning lightly upon him and stroking his hand, “and I dare tomorrow. Don't threaten me. I am not afraid of you, how could I be? You will never harm me? I shall be so pleasant to you, you will never want to harm me! Let's not quarrel, it's so dull, let's dance.…”

“I don't want to dance,” said Johann with honest brutality, “I'm sick of dancing. I want something more, something real, the real thing, you've fooled me long enough. The next time, there'll be something different!”

“Oh, I hope so,” said Concha, “or what are we talking about? Are you going?”

“Of course,” he said. “It is late and I must put my uncle to bed.”

“What will you do?”

“Put him to bed, what did I say?” he asked. “What else do you think?”

“And then you put him to sleep?…”

He brushed her hand off his arm and gave it a good wrench as he threw it from him. “If he should die tonight you would accuse me,” he said, “you would say I did it. I'll show you, he won't die tonight—you don't get me that easily!”

“Tomorrow night, maybe?” she called after him, as he took off towards his uncle's chair like a man running for his life. She stood watching him pushing the chair through the doorway, rubbing her wrist, her face entirely expressionless. Then she went in the bar, where Manolo sat before a half-emptied bottle of red wine, with two glasses. She sat across from him and their eyes met briefly; she pushed her glass towards him and he poured for her. They lit fresh cigarettes and sat smoking as if each were alone, or they were strangers.

Bébé halted for a moment, and sniffed politely at the extended hand of Herr Graf, who patted him on the head and blessed him as he went by. “We are all God's children, safe in His loving hands,” he assured the dog, who wagged faintly in response to the benevolent tone, but shook his head and blew the odor of the hand out of his nostrils as he waddled around the bow and disappeared just as Herr Professor and Frau Hutten emerged from the door of the bar and began inquiring of the dancers, “Have you seen our white bulldog? Do you remember him?”

Ric and Rac, having spun slowly to a stop, bored and ready for a good fight, saw as if with one pair of eyes Bébé's dignified rear end walloping away from the sick man's chair. Without even exchanging glances, they turned and loped through the ship to the deserted lee side to head him off. They ran full tilt updeck to meet Bébé, who saw them coming and stopped uncertainly, his nose working. Ric and Rac whirled down upon him, fell upon him fore and aft, clutching him at random but with utter purpose, and carried him instantly to the rail.

Bébé was again somewhat seasick, he could not resist, but he deeply resented being hauled around in this fashion. He rolled his eyes and growled and muttered under his breath, waggling feebly. They managed to lift him, limp legs dangling, helpless soft belly heaving, up to the rail, where his hind quarters stuck for a moment, but they pushed hard, together, and over he went, with a dolorous yelp. He hit the water like a sack of sand, went down, the sea rolled over him, he came up at once, took a good breath and stayed up bravely, keeping his nose and his frantically working front paws above water.

Denny loitered about pretending to watch the dancers, though his sole constantly baffled aim was to catch a glance from Pastora. One of those Cuban students had latched on to her and they had settled down for the evening together, dance after dance. Denny was forced to admit at last that his prospects were gone, and in his disappointment even the desire for liquor had abandoned him. Getting drunk was not the answer to this one. From mere habit he stood at the bar and absorbed three or four quick ones, then carrying a double bourbon with him he took himself away, to the other side of the ship where he might brood unseen, staring into the monotonous waves streakily lighted from the portholes and decks, sulking corrosively and consoling himself by spitting through his teeth and repeating under his breath short nasty names for women—all women, the whole dirty mess of them, not just Pastora. Why pick on her out of all the millions? One as much a bitch as the other, he decided, noticing a bulky white bundle strike the water about midway of the deck—a bale of garbage from the galley he supposed—as Ric and Rac scurried past with wild eyes and open mouths, tongues strained out of the corners, crazy as ever, he observed; and almost instantly he saw another long dark bundle hit the water near the white one and there rose from the steerage a long hoarse bloodcurdling howl like a pack of coyotes. The sound rose, died down, renewed itself with shrill high women's screams running above it. Denny spilt his whiskey, dropped his glass without noticing, scurried to the rail overlooking the lower open deck and saw the shapeless dark mass huddled and heaped, leaning far out and over, working madly within itself as if the people were all entangled and could not break apart, but the anguished howl had become human and was full of tears, and Denny in his drunken fog was filled with tears too. He put his hand over his mouth and began to cry, and raced back to the side again to see, now falling in the ship's wake, a half dozen life-rings floating near a man and a white dog struggling in the sea, both swimming, the man holding the dog by the collar, a lifeboat with small white figures rowing hard towards them, leaping and falling with each bound forward. He felt an abrupt halt in the ship's progress, an internal shock as if her engines had been stopped suddenly. He saw the course changing, felt the ship swinging around with a heavy churning and commotion at her prow, circling slowly around the lifeboat and the floating ring. A hard white searchlight showed the swimming man, still wearing his
boina
, reaching for the nearest ring; he missed and sank once more. The dog was seized over the side of the lifeboat, and as he came up again, the man.

Herr Baumgartner appeared, in more than usual distress, and asked Denny, “Why were those people howling?”

“Man overboard,” said Denny with authority, his tears dried. Herr Baumgartner responded with gratifying intensity, grimacing so deeply his ears and scalp moved, slapping himself on the forehead, uttering a loud groan and rushing to view what was left of the spectacle. He was joined presently by Herr Freytag, and then the alarm, or diversion, became general. The dancers left the music, the members of the band put down their instruments, all flocked to the rail to watch the rescue. Officers began moving among them asking them not to crowd the side, to keep away from the boat when it came up, please to stand back, there was, they declared, nothing to see; the rescue had been effected. The passengers glanced about as if they were listening, but no one moved or answered. Frau Hutten, who had been growing more and more frantic in her search, was almost in despair. She began to be resentful of the indifference shown by everyone, nobody sympathized or wished to help her. She was by now dragging her husband along by the arm, her limp had almost disappeared. Seeing that disreputable young Denny, the nearest person to her, she forgot all reserve and rushed upon him, close to tears. “Oh Herr Denny, please—have you seen my good Bébé, my white bulldog Bébé? Oh we cannot find him anywhere!”