Ship of Fools (75 page)

Clutching the solid roll of money he believed could buy him everything he wanted, Johann blurted helplessly, baffled and bewildered by his uncle's determination to keep him forever in the wrong, “Uncle, you treat me like a servant, but you wouldn't dare cheat a servant as you cheated me!”

“I never mistook you for a servant, Johann. Don't attempt to justify yourself in such a dishonest way … and now, please help me to go to bed, for I am very tired.”

Johann stuffed the money in his inside jacket pocket, and went about his duties with a smoldering face. “And give me a sleeping draught, please,” said Herr Graf. Watching him drink it, Johann was moved with pity. He fought this new strange feeling as he undressed the little skeleton carefully as he had been taught, without immodest exposure in the change from dress to nightgown, lifting the arms one at a time and laying them down gently, pulling the gown over the swollen knee joints and lifting the limp body in his arms as if it were a child's, straightening the limbs, and tucking in the blanket lightly. “There you are,” he said, in a husky voice. “Thank you, thank you always,” said his uncle. “Now I can rest.”

Johann stood over him hesitating, then said, “Uncle, thank
you
. I will do better, I promise—”

“No promises, please,” said Herr Graf, lifting a hand and smiling his frightful dying smile. “Alas, my needs have not changed. I must still be a burden to you until the end of the voyage. I must live, Johann, to see Germany once more. Be patient.”

“Uncle, you will not be a burden,” said Johann eagerly. Herr Graf looked for the first time into a candid, friendly face, strangely a
forgiving
face, so transformed he could hardly recognize his hard-hearted sister's hard-hearted child. “Good night,” he said, as Johann dashed for the door and paused to look back for an instant to say “Good night, Uncle, and sleep well.”

Herr Graf closed his eyes and let the blessed narcotic take its way in the slow blood and the pained nerves—ah, to close his eyes and extinguish breath, to conjure a lightless world, no, a universe of darkness, that would be pure bliss. O, God, darken the sun and the moon, put out Your planets as I would blow out candles. Drop from Your great nerveless hands darkness and silence, silence and stillness, stillness of dust buried under dust, the darkness and silence and stillness of the eyeless deeps of the sea. Heal my sorrows in your darkness, O God, I am blinded in your light. Remember me for one merciful moment, answer my only prayer: live and be in Your own Being and rule in Your light for all eternity, but let me go—let me go. Do not deny me the gift of Your divine silence, Your eternal darkness. O God, let me die forever.…

Johann as he neared the end of the long dim passageway could already hear the music, and voices, and the sound of the sea. He lingered a moment at the bottom of the stairs, confused and melancholy, his nerves still raw from the punishment they had received, deep in his mind a lingering resentment, a sense of being wronged still, in some way that could never be made up to him. He resisted the softening of his heart towards his uncle, though he could not deny it. He argued with himself that his uncle had done for him only what he should have done long ago, and without waiting to be asked, much less threatened. Johann thought almost in despair, “I'll never get rid of this—never—”

Running his hand into his jacket pocket to touch the roll of money, he straightened his shoulders and, with an unpleasant apprehensive sinking in the pit of his stomach, set out to look for Concha.

He had not far to look; there she was, idling with Amparo and Tito near the piano, where a small covered basket with the raffle tickets had been set up, and the prizes were on display—the lacy feminine assortment of tablecloths, scarfs and fans, and the two ruffled petticoats, of flimsy red cotton edged with coarse white lace. His heart gave such a jolt he stopped short for an instant, then moved to the open deck where she might notice him. She did not, but went on holding one of the petticoats before her, kicking lightly under the ruffles. It was Tito who saw him first. He gave Concha a discreet sign, at which she handed the petticoat to Amparo, wiggled her fingers at Johann, and walked to meet him, face very serious, hand lifted, her hips swaying in that rhythm he had heard her call the
Meneo
. Once when they were walking together, she took his hand and placed it on her side at the waist, just above the hipbone, and said: “Feel that? Only Spanish women move like that. It is called the
Meneo
. Feel? I am not a gypsy, you know that? I am real Spanish, and this is the sign.” He had been set on fire by the delicate side-to-side rocking of the hips, perfectly natural, in the bones not in the muscles, so she insisted. “You are doing it on purpose,” he accused her, but she said seriously, “No, I was born that way. You hear what they say, my hipbones? They say
Meneo, Meneo
, all by themselves.”

He stood waiting for her to come all the way to him, still doubtful, still shaken by his painful victory over his uncle, with something very like terror in his blood as he realized what he had done and what he now faced. Their glances locked as she neared, and were fixed unsmiling until she was under his very chin, looking up, no coquetry, no trickiness at all in her eyes. He even thought he saw anxiety in them. He was in such a rigorous tremor of excitement he hardly dared to speak for fear his voice would betray him, but she did not hesitate. Setting her hand over his heart she spoke at once: “Did you do as I told you?”

He frowned and said in a bullying tone: “Did you think I would? Do you take me for such a fool?”

Her hand dropped away. “
Valgame Dios
, so you haven't got it.” Her despair infuriated him.

“Of course I've got it,” he boasted angrily without shame, “and I didn't even steal it, either.”

Concha flung herself upon him and attempted to leap into his arms. He seized her by the waist and swung her above his head and set her down again still without smiling.

“Let's dance,” she whispered, nipping the lobe of his ear with her smooth white teeth, “I don't care what you did! And let's have some champagne,” she added, as they turned slowly together, not dancing, in time to the music. “Remember? You promised.”

He tightened his grip around her ribs until she could hardly breathe. “We're going to bed,” he told her, “now. Remember? Now, while everybody is out here. Where's your cabin?” Concha said, “Don't be such a German!” as he marched her across the deck more like a police officer than a lover.

“What do you expect me to be?” he asked, but not as if his mind were on the question.

“Well,” said Concha, uneasily, “look—” and he could feel resistance in her whole body through the slight yielding arm. “Look then, if you are going to be like this, I'll show you my cabin when you show me your money. How do I know you are telling me the truth? Manolo would kill me … how do I know?”

“You'll know,” he said. “Just wait.” Now he was sure, there was nothing to worry about, he had the winning card in his pocket. His face cleared and grew amiable, he gave her a warm little squeeze that could almost pass for tenderness.

“Well,” said Concha, her doubts vanishing also, “if you fool me, I'll kill you.” She nuzzled under his arm.

“You think so?” said Johann, with lordly indulgence. “Try it.” He drew her swiftly in front of him, stopped in the dim passageway and closed his hands lightly around her throat. “Like this?”

Concha quivered with pleasure and smiled up at him without a shadow of uneasiness, and said, “No, not like that. Another way. Better.” They laughed in each other's faces and went on, his arm around her shoulders.

“Here we are,” she told him, opening the door and going in first to turn on the light. She expected an onslaught, a violent blind fumbling brutality such as she knew too well from the inexperienced and overwrought; or worse even, panic and impotence and the fury of impotence or its deathly despair, which she must coddle and flatter and persuade away without seeming to, for men in such disgrace with themselves were likely to turn resentful, unmanageable, even dangerous, blaming her and wanting revenge for their outraged male pride. She was on guard, ready for anything; but he just stood there looking at her expectantly, all shining and golden-haired. She had a weakness for blond men, and this one had turned eager and warm and simple; he put out his hand and stroked her smooth black hair and said in German, “Beautiful, beautiful.”

She laughed with relief to find that everything would be easier than she had thought, took his hand in both of hers and said, “Come in, don't be strange, you are with me—we are going to be gay together.” She drew his head down and kissed him, then began to loosen his tie, saying, “And you must help me undress, too. It is more fun to do everything together. Tell me darling, am I your very first girl?” He nodded, and blushed, then gathered himself together and said, “Why do you say that?” Concha sheered away from the subject. “Do you love me, ah, well—do you love me just a little?”

“I don't know,” he said, hoarsely, wrapping himself around her so resolutely she could hardly get his shirt off him. He began to pull at the front of her dress to get at her breasts. “Wait,” she said, “are you going to let me be very nice to you?” and she wriggled out of her shabby little black frock, dropped her colored silk petticoat and was naked. “I am a very bad girl,” she said, teasing, “you'll see.” He did not seem to hear her, and he did not need any blandishments.

Herr Rieber sent beer once more to the band, and called for “Tales from the Vienna Woods” for the fourth time. The music, the
Schaumwein
, the starry sky, Lizzi in a tender promising mood whirling in the waltz almost caused him to forget future pleasures in the wanton luxury of his present delights. His bib worked round under his ear, his baby cap slipped to the back of his neck, he had not a care in the world. His wide tireless smile showed the tip of his wet pink tongue, when now and then he smacked his lips over the sweet morsel of his joy. Taking a fresh grip on Lizzi's waist and hand, he pressed his hard little stomach against her and burst wordlessly into high tenor song. “La dedada, la dedada, la de da, de daa!” sang Herr Rieber, frisking like a faun, turning lightly on his toes gazing up in ecstasy at Lizzi, who answered at once “La dedada,” like Echo herself. He felt he was a faun, a fleet prancing faun deep in the forest glade, stamping a pattern of cleft flowers into the leaf mold under his sharp little polished hoofs; with the winds moaning like violins in the treetops, the sweet voices of birds calling la de da to each other among the branches where the harp strings were sighing, and the nymph waiting for the young goat-boy, half god, light on his hoofs and ready to leap the likely, long-legged creature in the green gown who loved a good caper! Ah, lade-dada, de da, sang the young faun at the top of his voice in a panic rapture as he spun wildly on the very tiptoe of his sharp hoofs, while the nymph, leaning backward from the waist, whirled so steadily her lace skirts rose and spread out slowly upward at the back like an opening fan.

Hansen, sunk in his chair, nursing his bottle of beer, glared at them from under his frown clutched hard over his nose. They had passed him several times, and the last time they came so near Lizzi's skirt brushed his knees, an outrage so unbearable he resolved that, if she did it again, he would put out his foot and trip her up and send the pair of them sprawling. As they careered towards him again more wildly than ever, he gathered himself and put a foot forward in readiness. Lizzi's flying skirts brushed his face this time, he blinked and flinched, and Herr Rieber's boot came down grinding cruelly into his toes. Her Hansen, with a subterranean rumble of groans, rose instantly, opened out to his full height and brought his beer bottle down forcefully on Herr Rieber's naked defenseless skull. Herr Rieber stopped dead in his tracks looking immensely surprised. The glass shattered and a long, bright red track appeared at once on his head and began streaking and trailing downward rapidly.

“You see?” inquired Herr Hansen sternly as if he had proved something beyond argument. “You see?”

The blow knocked Herr Riber still deeper into his fantasy. He bleated like a goat, “Baaah, meeeeh!” and charged Herr Hansen, butting him accurately in the sensitive midriff just where the ribs divide. Herr Hansen doubled over deeply and fought for breath. Before he could recover it, a matter of seconds, Herr Rieber charged again. “Baaaah, meeeeeh!” he bawled and butted with all his might, leaving untidy red smears on Herr Hansen's shirt front.

“Just stop that now,” gasped Herr Hansen, his chest heaving. He caved in once more, and pushed Herr Rieber's face away with the flat of his hand. “Just you now, you
stop
that!”

Herr Rieber threw the hand off and drew away for a third charge. The trap drummer pushed his paper hat off his forehead and grappled with Herr Rieber, who looked confused and did not resist. The violinist laid a gently restraining hand on Herr Hansen's arm and was shaken off like a kitten. When the music stopped so suddenly, the Cuban students, dancing with the Spanish girls, crowded about to see the show, and when they saw Herr Rieber's blood-festooned head, they shouted, “
Que vive la sangre! Viva la barbaridad
!” Frau Rittersdorf and the Huttens had been sitting together not so much as spectators as living models of decorum publicly rebuking an indecorous spectacle. They now rose ostentatiously though nobody noticed, and took themselves away. Frau Rittersdorf said, “We shall do very well if we reach port alive!” a conclusion so obvious the Huttens thought it not worth answering.

Lizzi stood staring, her hand over her mouth, her forehead wrung with shock. The violinist patted her on the cheek. “So, so,” he said soothingly, and at this gentleness she woke to a sense of her disaster. Little fine wrinkles leaped about in her face, she turned from him and ran blindly, bent forward, hands up, palm outward, uttering the shrill cries of an anguished peahen. The violinist followed swiftly and said, “My dear Fräulein, let me help you if I can. Don't try to go by yourself.” She hunched her shoulder away from his hand, and broke into shrill laughter and tears. She moved past Herr Rieber without a glance at him, and he did not see her go, or remember her. Herr Hansen walked away alone, his arms folded tightly across his stomach. The trap drummer stayed firmly by Herr Rieber, who was plainly dazed. Both Rieber and Hansen stopped abruptly, some distance apart, and leaned over the rail. They stood back after some moments of agitation, wiped their faces and went on weaving with the rise and fall of the deck.