“It seemed to calm him down a bit, me saying I’d seen them too. But then he just sort of looked at me hard, like he knew I was lying. And he told me so. And that started him coughing again. I guess it wasn’t long after that he died. After that the captain took care of things, contacted all the proper authorities and so forth.”
“Thank you for telling me.”
She looked drained, and I felt wrung out too, as if I’d swung across the air to board the sinking balloon all over again. We had reached the end of the keel catwalk, and I opened the door to the passenger quarters and led her inside to B-Deck.
At the base of the grand staircase, I asked her, “Do you know what it was your grandfather was talking about?”
She nodded. “That’s why I’m here. To see what he saw.”
4
HOT CHOCOLATE FOR TWO
Kate could tell me nothing more, for Miss Simpkins was teetering down the grand staircase in her high heels, looking like she’d just been electrocuted.
“Kate, you gave me the worst fright!”
Kate rolled her eyes at me before turning to face her chaperone.
“I’m sorry, Marjorie, but you were sound asleep, and I didn’t have the heart to wake you. I thought I’d just go on the tour by myself.”
Miss Simpkins looked at Kate then at me.
“This is the tour? Just you and…him.”
She said him like I was something oozing from the bottom of a trash can.
“That’s right, Marjorie. He is the tour guide, after all.”
“Well, I can only say it’s most inappropriate. Most inappropriate indeed. Your parents will not be pleased to hear of it.”
“You’re quite right,” Kate said. “They’ll be most distressed that their trusted chaperone fell asleep and left their little baby girl helpless.” She tilted up her chin ever so slightly as she said this, and her nostrils narrowed disdainfully. I’d never seen anything quite like it. Plenty of times I’d seen people flare their nostrils when they were angry; Mr. Lisbon did it all the time when he and Chef Vlad were arguing. But Miss de Vries somehow made her nostrils smaller, so they were almost little slits. It was really something, the effect it had on Miss Simpkins. The chaperone hemmed a bit and patted her hair, taking little sips of air. I hoped I never got a look like that from Miss de Vries.
I was busting with questions about Kate’s grandfather, but there seemed no chance of continuing the conversation with the chaperone hovering around. So I thought it best to take my leave.
“Thank you so much,” Kate told me. “I do hope we get a chance to talk some more.”
I smiled at her and set off toward the crew quarters. As I neared my cabin, I felt an unaccustomed tiredness descend on me like a cold drizzle. Probably just the bad news I’d received earlier. Normally I would’ve gone to the control car and asked if I might watch and take notes. But right now I didn’t have the heart. Baz was sitting on the edge of the bottom bunk, kicking off his shoes and socks, whistling. He was just getting off duty too.
“You look shattered, mate,” he said.
“I’ll tell you all about it later.” I climbed up to the top bunk and fell asleep the moment my cheek touched the pillow.
My alarm clock clattered me out of sleep. 7:00 P.M. Baz was already up, ironing his shirt. We both had lounge duty from eight till midnight, serving tea and coffee and cognac and whatever else the first-class passengers might desire.
For a moment I just lay there. I loved my cabin, small though it was. On my bunk was the eiderdown quilt my mother had made for me. Stuck with putty to the wall near my pillow were some pictures from home: one of my father in his sailmaker’s uniform, another of my mother and Isabel and Sylvia on the balcony of their little apartment in Lionsgate City. I always thought of it as their apartment, not mine, because I was aloft so much now. Three years ago, after my father died, we’d needed money badly, times being what they were, and I was lucky the Aurora had offered me a job as cabin boy. It was Captain Walken I had to thank for that.
My mother had not wanted me to take the position, not after what happened to my father. I’d never seen her so upset. I’d tried to hide how much I wanted the job, but she knew anyway. All my life I’d wanted to fly. What she didn’t know was that I wanted to fly away from her too. I wanted to fly to my father, and I couldn’t do that landlocked in the small apartment with its low ceilings and gray views of rainy city streets. My father had spent so little time there. It was not the place I could be near him.
Built into the headboard of the bunk was a little shelf where I had my library. Crew weren’t allowed many books aboard, as they were just extra ballast, so I only had a few. I’d chosen the ones my father had kept with him aboard the Aurora. How I loved having them here, their leatherbound spines and tooled titles like friends waiting for my return. Sometimes I just liked taking them down and holding them between my hands, even if I was too tired to read. I was lucky to have them. Eight I had, and each read many times.
With my cheek on the pillow, I could see straight out my porthole. Sky and cloud—and, if I pressed my nose to the glass, I saw the aft engine car, its propeller awhirl, and below the water of the Pacificus. I squinted at the clear sky.
There was something flying out there.
No, it was just a trick, a little crease of shadow on the cloud’s underside. But for a moment it had looked like something large and winged. I wondered if this is what Kate’s grandfather had seen. Cloud mirages. I wanted to know more and wondered how I’d get a chance to talk to Kate again, without her appalling chaperone.
“You want me to do yours?” Baz asked when I swung myself out of bed. I thanked him and handed over my white serving shirt for him to iron. I was lucky to have Baz Hilcock as my cabin mate. He was kind, funny, and always in a good mood. He shimmied as he ironed, humming some catchy show tune. He was eighteen and from Australia. When we reached Sydney he was off on shore leave for a month.
“Three more days, I’ll be with Teresa,” he said, giving me a wink. Teresa was his sweetheart. Her picture was taped to the wall beside his bunk. She was in a daring one-piece bathing suit, laughing, her skin all tanned, and she looked so womanly that it made me uncomfortable to gaze at it too long—though I wanted to—as though I was peeping at something I shouldn’t. Baz liked talking about her, and I mostly liked listening, glad he confided in me, reading out bits of her letters.
Baz looked up from his ironing and grinned at me.
“Know what, mate? I’m going to propose to her.”
“You are?” I said, amazed. Getting married seemed big, and more grown-up than I wanted to contemplate. I felt a fierce twinge of sadness, like Baz had just said good-bye to me for good, and was bound someplace I could never follow.
“Sure,” he nodded, buttoning up and checking his hair in the tiny mirror that hung from the back of our door. “We’ve been talking about it, and I figure it’s high time. I’ve got a good job, and in all likelihood I’ll make second steward in a year or two when Cleaves finally jumps overboard. Sooner probably—he looks so frazzled.”
I laughed as I pulled on my blue trousers. I looked at my shoes and decided they could go another night without a polish. I slipped on my vest.
“So, what’s up with you?” Baz asked. “You looked glum when you came in.”
“I’m not junior sailmaker,” I said and told him about my talk with the captain.
“I think I’ve seen the fellow,” Baz said. “Ten to one he’ll fall off the ship before we make land. I’m sorry, Matt. Doesn’t get more rotten than that.”
“The captain says he went to the Academy.”
“Oooh, yes, the great Academy,” sang Baz in a high fluting voice. “The Academy where one learns how to say please and thank you while in flight.”
I chuckled, but the fact was I longed to go to the Academy. A place where I could learn how to be a rudder man or an elevator man, and be certified. But it was expensive. Most of my wages I sent back home to my
mother. She and Isabel and Sylvia needed it more than me. I didn’t need money up here—all my meals and clothing were taken care of by the Aurora.
Baz winked at me. “Don’t fret, Matt. You’re a sailor through and through. There’s no keeping you back. I bet my molars and a leg you’ll be flying the Aurora within ten years. And remember, you’re still young! The baby of the ship! Why, I remember when we first brought you aboard, wrapped in swaddling clothes. Ahhh, those were sweet days, when I got to bottle feed you—”
“Oh, shut up!” I said, laughing.
“We’re all so proud of how you’ve grown up, young Matt,” he said, dancing out of the way as I tried to bullwhip him with my tie. But his good humor and confidence cheered me up.
“Come on,” he said, handing me my white shirt, warm and freshly ironed. “Get your tie on and let’s grab some dinner!”
The crew’s mess was on B-Deck, beside the smaller downstairs kitchen and bakery. It was a cozy room with six large booths that sat about a third of the crew at any one time. The officers had their own mess farther along; they got roomier tables and china place settings and napkins—but exactly the same food. Meals were heaven aboard the Aurora. Crew and officers ate as well as the first-class passengers—no point in having the cooks prepare more dishes than necessary.
Baz and I sat down after checking out the menu posted on the wall. Tonight it was venison cutlets and Yukon mashed potatoes—so creamy not even the tip of your tongue could feel a lump—and asparagus spears, glazed with lemon butter. There were pitchers of fresh milk and water and ale for those going off duty, jugs of gravy for the mashed potatoes, dishes of butter balls glistening with dew, and baskets of granary bread baked fresh that afternoon.
I went to the kitchen window to collect my dinner and Baz’s. I always liked watching the bustle in there. And I was riveted by the chef, Vlad Herzog, who happened to be cooking downstairs tonight.
“Watch out for that one,” Baz had told me on my very first day, three years ago. “Chef Vlad, he’s volatile.”
The word had stuck with me. It made me think of nitroglycerin. In my years aboard the Aurora, I’d spent plenty of time around the kitchens, and believe me, Vlad was scary. He had some kind of Transylvanian accent, and Mr. Lisbon, the chief steward, had a completely different accent, just as thick. The two claimed they never understood each other. This was a problem, seeing as they needed to communicate pretty much on an hourly basis. It led to some interesting misunderstandings during meal times.
It wasn’t that Vlad was crazy, not in any obvious way. He didn’t shout or clatter pots and pans or yank his hair out by the roots. Not at first anyway. He always started out very calm, and when he was really angry, he got even calmer and quieter and spoke so slowly you thought he was falling asleep between words. A few weeks ago, just as an example, there had been some confusion over the dinner menu.
“You want that I what?” he had whispered politely to Mr. Lisbon. “You want that I cook duck? Duck? Duck?” He muttered the word softly, as though he didn’t know what it meant. Mr. Lisbon began to explain.
“No, I know what duck is, many thanks to you,” said Vlad, giving a terrifying smile. “I make good acquaintance with duck. Little water bird, splash splash, yes? No, that is not my problem. Problem, Mr. Lisbon, is this. Problem is duck is not on menu tonight!”
All the kitchen help casually took a few steps back, but pretended that nothing was the matter.
Mr. Lisbon had insisted that duck was, in fact, on the menu.
“Oh,” said Vlad, tossing his hands up in the air. “Well, just let me double-check!” He made a big show of looking at a sheaf of papers on the counter. “No. Duck is not on menu tonight. That is tomorrow. You what? You have changed the menu. Without telling me, I think? I see. I understand now that you change menu without telling me. Yes, I see. Thank you very greatly for this. Good.”
Then Vlad had reached over to his block of big cutting knives and started laying them ominously out on the counter, arranged by size.
“Duck,” he muttered to himself. “Duck. But today is Tuesday. And duck was for Wednesday.”
Everyone knew to leave him alone when he got all his knives out like that. He would spend several minutes checking them over, testing their sharpness, and this seemed to soothe him. Then he had taken the duck from the icebox and started cooking.
And it had been wonderful.
Chef Vlad might be loony, but it would be a sad day if he ever left the ship. Or was dragged off kicking and screaming in a straitjacket, as Baz said was more likely. Tonight he seemed fairly calm, and he even smiled at me when he placed the two plates on the counter. Just the smell alone was enough to feed you.
I often thought of my father during meal times. He had once eaten at this very table, with many of these same people I now rubbed shoulders with. They’d known my father. They’d known he’d served dutifully and well aboard the Aurora. Some had been his friends. I liked being near them all. I didn’t need to talk about my father with them; I just liked knowing he’d been here.
I was finishing off my second helping of mashed potatoes when the mess door opened and a crew member I’d never seen before entered. I knew right away it must be the Lunardi fellow. The potatoes nearly stuck in my throat, and I had to swallow them down with a gulp of milk. Lunardi looked around a bit uncertainly and then sat down at the end of my table.
“Hello,” he said. He was seventeen or eighteen and, I noticed dejectedly, as handsome as a matinee idol. There was no denying it. In fact, he looked like the hero in the last swashbuckler I’d seen. I felt my mouth go dry with indignation. Well, I supposed money could buy anything, even good looks. He sat down, and the first thing he did was knock over a pitcher of milk. Unfortunately it was nearly empty and only wetted his lap a bit. He mopped it up with his napkin, ears burning red.
“Not too swift, was it?” he said, attempting a laugh, looking right at me.
I kept staring at the junior sailmaker insignias on both corners of his jacket collar. A small gold steering wheel stamped into the fabric. I couldn’t meet his eyes. Surely he must know who I was, what he’d done to me. But maybe he didn’t. Maybe no one had told him and the blinking oaf didn’t know.
“I’m Bruce Lunardi,” he said to everyone. “I’m the trainee sailmaker.”
Everyone nodded and said polite hellos, nothing more. Some of them looked at me, checking my reaction. Well, if they were expecting a show, I wasn’t giving it to them. Next to me, Baz gave me a friendly wink and nudge. I said nothing and slowly drank another glass of milk.
“So, you’re Otto Lunardi’s boy, then?” one of the machinists asked.
“Yes, I am,” he said.
“D’you think your father would give me a raise?” someone asked, and laughter rose from the table.
“I’ll be sure to put in a good word for you,” Lunardi said. “But he’s a stingy old goat, I can tell you.”
This brought more laughter, but it wasn’t against Lunardi this time, and even I couldn’t help smiling and giving a quick sniff of amusement.
Meals were a delicious but quick affair aboard ship. No one really had time to linger, except those coming off watch and willing to trade sleep for company and some friendly gab. Anyway, I’d lost my appetite, even though there was crème caramel for dessert, served with fresh Brazilian strawberries and vanilla cream. I nodded good-bye to the other crew and made my exit, relieved to get away from Lunardi.
I wished he’d come to the table bold and cocky, crowing about his position, complaining about the ship and his cabin and the discomfort he now had to endure compared to his palatial mansion ashore. But, no, it looked like he might be a decent fellow, and that made things worse somehow.
Upstairs, the first-class lounge was filling up as most of the passengers finished off their dinner. All the gentlemen were in black jackets and wing-tip collars and bow ties, and the ladies in long evening dresses and jewels. Mostly it was the ladies in the lounge, as the men
seemed to prefer the smoking room where they could take their drinks and talk about important matters like profits and the price of things.
At a table by the windows sat Miss Simpkins and Kate de Vries. I was stunned at the way Kate looked. Kate was like a different person altogether in her silk gown. She wore her hair up this evening, and around her throat was a simple sparkling necklace. Her shoulders were showing. When I’d met her this morning she’d been a girl, and now she was suddenly too much like a woman. Beside her, drinking tea, sat Miss Simpkins, her hair in some kind of terrifying hive. Kate saw me and smiled, and her smile I recognized at least. I nodded as I made my way to the bar to replace Jack Mobius.
“Watch out for the woman with the scary hair,” he whispered to me as we traded places.
“I know all about her,” I whispered back.
“Said her tea tasted like a fish had bathed in it.”
“Should have taken the poor fellow out earlier,” I told him. “Then she wouldn’t have known.”
“Night, Matt,” he said with a laugh.
Baz came up later to play the baby grand. A marvel it was, all alumiron if you can believe it, and weighing only a few hundred pounds. And Baz was a wonder himself, the way his hands waltzed and tangoed across the keys.
“This music’s too loud,” I heard Miss Simpkins complain. “It’s too raucous. Completely inappropriate for young ears.” A few minutes later, she stood to leave, and Kate reluctantly stood as well. Kate caught my eye and held it for a moment, like there was something she wanted to tell me. Miss Simpkins, I noticed, took her time walking out, pausing to look at the paintings and glance at the last red wash of the sunset on the ocean. She walked like someone who expected people to watch her, and funnily enough, a few of the men were. They seemed to find her pleasing, and I suppose she was an attractive woman. I guess they hadn’t talked to her yet. Maybe they didn’t think her hair was as scary as I did.
Kate had a lot of lovely mahogany hair, and it was piled up on the back of her head. But it was her eyes I liked best, the way there always seemed to be something going on behind them, sparks and swift gusts. A right little thunderstorm in her head.