Edwina placed her hand on Count von Kresse’s shoulder. “Darf ich sie vereinigen?”
“Please do,” said Dagne.
Lady Mountbatten seated herself, but on the edge of the chair, tentatively.
“Actually, I should have thought you’d join the rest of us,” she said. “The prince quite considers you part of our little party.”
“He’s most kind,” Dagne said. “My brother and I were just having a brief family discussion. We meant to come over presently.”
“I hope I haven’t intruded,” Edwina asked.
“Only in the most welcome way,” said Dagne. “But now I must excuse myself. There is someone it is most important I talk to. I will be with you again in a few minutes.”
When the countess had left, Edwina moved closer to von Kresse. “Perhaps your sister does not like me.”
“She is just all business tonight.”
“Business?”
“She’s concerned about something. Macht nichts. I like you, Gnädige Frau. Very much.”
“You’re a very dear man, Martin. A very noble man.”
“A few days ago we hadn’t even met. A few days from now, after we dock and go our different ways …”
“Who can say, Martin? I could be anywhere. This year I’ve been in South America, Australia, New Guinea, the United States, Malta, France, Spain. All in one year. With air travel now, who knows where we will find ourselves?”
“And in five years, where will we be?”
“In amusing places, I’m sure. Now come, my dearest count, and we shall dance. I’m mad for dancing.”
He yearned for the touch of the flesh revealed by her costume.
“I’m sorry to say, Gnädige Frau, that I do not dance, not since the war. I am happy enough just to walk.”
“If one can walk,” she said, rising and taking his hand, “one can dance. The music is enchanting. I am enchanting. You will forget all your pains.”
“I really can’t.”
“You can. I will be the one to perform the miracle. I shall restore your powers of dance. Come.”
“I can’t possibly move as fast as the music.”
“N’importe. It certainly won’t matter to me. I shall in fact rather prefer that.”
The warmth of her smile and the merry wickedness in her eyes overcame his last resistance. Lying in a hospital seventeen years before, he had day after miserable day brought himself to accept the bitter reality that he would never again ride, never again dance. Now this magical creature, this will o’ the wisp out of Goethe, was offering to restore him. He got unsteadily to his feet and moved into her arms.
Kees was taken by surprise when he came onto the bridge. He had come directly from Olga Maretzka’s cabin and knew nothing about the emergency, although he guessed the nature of it as soon as he saw Captain van der Heyden and Willem Lodewijk poring over a schematic diagram of engine room equipment. There were two red lights twinkling on the alarm panel.
“A fire, sir?”
“Yes, Kees. Yes. A fire,” van der Heyden said without looking up. “Someone get me van Groot again. He was supposed to report in five minutes.”
“Yes, Captain!”
“Captain, do you want me to go down there?” asked Kees. “I checked out all that equipment when we had the alarm the first night out.”
“No. Then you were looking for a fire. Tonight we have found one. Just stand by here, please, until we fully know the situation.”
“Yes, sir.”
A signal man came up, clutching a wireless message. “A weather bulletin, sir.”
Van der Heyden took the piece of paper and studied it blearily. Without another word he went over to the chart table. He shook his head.
“More trouble, gentlemen,” he said, handing the message to Director van Hoorn. “The hurricane that foundered the Rotterdam is passing in front of us on a course to the northeast.” He stroked his chin. “There is this, though. As long as this fire keeps us idled, we may miss most of it.”
When the others had gone off to dance again, Nora pulled her chair close to Spencer and put her arm around his shoulders, the solicitous mother attending to the troubled child.
“Are you all right, Jimmy?” She began to stroke his cheek.
“I’m fine, thank you. Just in shock.”
“Did you know that woman who was killed at the Crillon?”
“Apparently not.”
“Then why are you so sad, about a complete stranger?”
“We should all be sad about strangers once in a while. They may have no one else.”
“She sounded like a hateful person.”
“And I thought she was a very lovely one. But there’s no way of knowing now, is there?”
“You don’t think you might meet her one day in heaven?”
“What?”
“Don’t you believe in heaven, Jimmy?”
“Nora, just how Catholic are you?”
“I’m not a simpleton. But I believe in heaven.”
“I don’t believe in that kind of paradise. Such a heaven would have to have dance bands.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Such a heaven,” he said, with a gesture to the ballroom, “that would admit that poor woman at the Crillon, that would admit me, it would probably be just like this.”
The orchestra was playing “I Get a Kick Out of You.”
She took both his hands in hers and turned him toward her, leaning even closer. “Jimmy. Don’t be like this. You’re ruining my romance.”
“Your romance.”
“With you. My shipboard romance. I always wanted one, ever since I was a little girl, and now here I am. And do you know what? It’s even better than I’d hoped. It’s absolutely wonderful. You’re wonderful, Jimmy. I love you, I love these people, I love this ship. I love everything.”
She kissed him, gently but warmly, her lips parting slightly.
“Now don’t spoil it,” she said.
“I think you picked the wrong fellow,” Spencer said. “I’m just a beaten-up newspaperman with some ridiculous problems. Nothing wonderful about me at all. Just ask Lady Mountbatten.”
“Stop it.” Her voice was sharp. “I mean it, Jimmy. Everything else about my trip ended up ruined. Don’t ruin this.”
He was being a fool, behaving more foolishly even than those who believed in heaven. “I’m sorry, Nora.”
“Don’t be sorry. Be happy. Listen to the music. Look at the others. Everyone is happy. Come dance with me again. I’m particularly happy when we’re dancing. Nothing can go wrong as long as you keep dancing, as long as the music goes on and on.”
He smiled, an effort, but less of one than he expected. “I will accept that as a profound truth.”
“Then come and dance.”
And so he submitted. He did as Whitney would have wished, and set aside all his sorrows and mournful truths. He accepted the reality Nora offered, warmth and love and music and a Catholic heaven in which the wives of Nazi diplomats were admitted for muttering the right ritual phrases, or being accidentally shot. For the remaining days and nights of this voyage, it was as good as any other reality. There was as much compelling fact in Nora’s soft belly and flawless face as there was in the splattered brains and blood of the blond woman on the Crillon balcony. In the long run, Maynard Keynes had said, we’re all dead. This was the short run. “Beauty is the scent of roses,” F. Scott Fitzgerald had written profoundly at the absurdly youthful age of twenty-three, “and the death of roses.” Spencer would sniff the roses.
Clinging to each other tightly, yet without a moment’s stumble or clumsiness, they swept out into the slow carnival on the dance floor. Neither of them said anything more, or wanted to. They would take their fill of this rich and gratifying and illusory evening. They would tumble on into a night of sex and love and warmth and sleep and safety. And they would accept the promise of the day to come, no matter how much they’d been cheated by such promise in the past. They
would both be fools.
Nora was humming the dance number, softly and beautifully. He closed his eyes, his senses full of her touch, her scent, her warmth, the soft, fragrant blessing of her hair. But in a moment he opened them again, curious about all his shipboard friends.
They, too, had succumbed to this magic mindlessness. Chips and Emerald circled past, their unheard exchange of brilliant banter revealed in the easy cheer of their faces. Diana Cooper, at that distance, a vision of grace and beauty, swung by, her arms about a chattering and, for all his injuries, agile Lord Mountbatten, revived by the simple ministration of a glamorous woman’s attentions. Duff Cooper, his arms enfolding the newly recaptured Mrs. Parker, had been transformed from rogue to swain. She had succumbed, with apparent gratitude. His hand was gripping her bottom.
And, wonder of wonders, the crippled Prussian count was dancing, with stiffness but not stagger, supported by an enraptured Edwina, whose athletic powers provided them with a grace that belied her burden. The German countess had vanished. Her grating presence would have been an intrusion upon all this sentimental bliss. Spencer could not see the prince, but then he did—the man inexplicably but unconcernedly dancing with the young Mr. Parker.
Mrs. Simpson, grim and dark and disapproving as a medieval Spanish dueña, sat at her table, huge hands folded, staring after the dancers. Major Metcalfe, still in his tweeds, had joined her, but she was paying no attention to him.
Nora murmured and pulled him closer still. Two Apaches danced by, and then a Nubian slave clutched by the sun god Ra. Two Greek Orthodox priests, one with enormous breasts, followed, dancing in heavy but lusty movement. Beyond were a gypsy, two Arabs, a pirate and a colonial maid, an Elizabethan lady, a convict, a cave man, a bathing beauty, a gladiator, a gorilla, Ming the Merciless, and Mata Hari. It was a madhouse loosed, but all of them seemed just the same, just as blitheful, as Nora and Spencer.
Of a sudden he felt transported, elevated, rushed a thousand miles into the night sky, looking down upon the daft, revolving circle of dancers till it shrunk into nothingness, and the ship itself, the earth itself, was but a tiny pinprick of light in a vast blackness that was all there was to anything.
In the long run, they would be dead. But for now they could be happy.
Van Groot rang up from the engine room. His voice was full of relief and triumph and a measure of contempt, as if he had just rectified some calamitous error made by the captain.
“The fire,” van Groot said, “is out.”
“Are you sure, van Groot?” said van der Heyden. “The alarm light is still glowing.”
“Captain, reset the board.”
Of course, of course. That’s how the mechanism worked. That was procedure. Van der Heyden’s mind was not working. He needed sleep, or more coffee. Or Bols gin.
“Reset the board,” the captain repeated to Second Officer Lodewijk. “Van Groot says the fire is out.” There were cheers. The young man did as he was bidden and the dot of red light vanished.
“You are certain it’s out, completely out?” van der Heyden asked. “Or should I come down?”
“No, Captain. You’re not needed. It is completely out. But four of these switchboard units are out of commission, damaged beyond repair, I’m afraid. And it may take several hours to rewire the feeder circuits. There’ll be a voltage loss. Substantial, I fear. But we’ll be able to get under way again. Certainly by morning.”
Van der Heyden took in a deep breath. Everyone on the bridge was looking at him, waiting.
“Very well,” he said. “Get to work. Get every man you need. Report every half hour.”
He hung up the receiver. Van Hoorn was at his elbow.
“It goes well,” the captain said. “No injuries. No serious damage. The fire’s out. We’ll soon be under way.” He risked a smile. “But you are going to have to have a serious talk with those shipyards.”
“I think I’ll stay on the bridge awhile,” the company director said.
“Please do, mijnheer. I am going out onto the wing.”
He stepped out into the cool, moist air, going to the end of the platform and leaning on the railing. High clouds, the vanguard of the passing hurricane ahead, had been drawn across the sky like a curtain, masking the stars and moon and the western horizon. The breeze was stiffening noticeably, the ship behaving clumsily in it without the stability provided by forward motion.
He really did need a drink. It wasn’t a matter of want. He did not want another gin, another glass of champagne, anything. But his body screamed for it. He gripped his hands together tightly to stop their trembling. He looked down the long line of the ship’s starboard side, at the bright lights of the portholes and windows. He could hear the band music. Sometimes he took pleasure in the blasé contentment of his passengers, so far out in the midst of this dark ocean. Other times he hated them for it. They had no idea what their contentment cost him.
He heard the sliding door open and close behind him. It was Kees Witte. He came to the rail but said nothing. The captain felt the young man’s eyes on him, but when he turned to meet them Kees was gazing out into the blackness.
“Well, Kees. As I told you, no voyage is ever the same.”
“I wouldn’t want another like this one.”
“I’ve had much worse. In my freighter days, off Zanzibar, I was on a ship that burned to the waterline. We were two days in lifeboats, we who survived.”
Kees paused. “Are you all right, sir?”
“Yes, I’m fine. The fire is out. All is well. I am good.”
“Captain. You know what I mean.”
Van der Heyden sighed, rubbed his chin, clenched his hands, and watched the sea. “Yes,” he said finally. “I know what you mean. Kees, I do not drink when there is trouble. My problem, if I have a problem, is when all is well.”
“Sir, you do have a problem. Mr. van Groot was complaining about your drinking. Mr. van Hoorn is aware of it. The men talk about it all the time now. They call you Captain Fles. Captain Bottle.”
“Well, there is nothing I can do about the talk of others.”
“Yes, there is, sir. I hope you don’t think I’m being insubordinate, Captain. I speak only out of concern for you. But I don’t think you should drink anything more on this crossing. Van Groot is ready to shoot you down. He feels it is time for him to become master of a vessel.”
“Should I say that he is welcome to this one?”
“He would take it, sir. In a minute. Fires or not.”
“Well, not yet. She’s a beautiful ship, the Wilhelmina, the best I ever commanded. If only they could get her to work.”
“She worries me.”
“I am always thinking about retirement these days. Juliana wants to go on a driving tour of the United States. And you know, the thought of all that mass of land entices me. It would be such a good feeling. I think of my home at Noordwijk and its view of the sea. It troubles me. Often I turn away from the windows now when I am in that house.”
“I will help you all I can, Captain. Anything you ask. But please, sir, not another drop.”
“Don’t worry, Kees.”
The sliding door was wrenched open with a squeal and bang.
“Captain, Captain!” Lodewijk exclaimed urgently. “More fire alarms! Come quick!”
The display board showed two clusters of flickering red lights, one in the forward-Turbo generator room around No. 3 turbo generator, the other beneath the aft stairs of the engine room, apparently in the gear case behind one of the turbines—and above a huge oil drain tank.
“Ring up van Groot!” the captain said. “Tell him I’m coming down!”
Dagne was certain Himmler’s young blond giant was very stupid. She had gone to the bar in the pose of seeking a drink and engaged the man in conversation, remarking on the heavy accent with which he spoke English and asking hopefully if he were German. When he acknowledged he was, she all but embraced him, treating him as gladly as she might someone rescuing her from hostile sav
ages.
“Ach, these foreigners,” she said, looking back at those on the dance floor. “And I think half of them must be Jews. But what can you expect of a Dutch ship?”
He seemed confused, this physically perfect Reichsführer’s male model and clumsy assassin. As she talked, Dagne studied him, wondering if he was a homosexual, as she already had convinced herself that Himmler was.
“We took this ship only because it was the next one leaving,” she said. “It was a whim. My brother and I were in Paris and just decided of a sudden to sail across the Atlantic and back. Very self-indulgent, nicht wahr?”
“An ocean voyage is very healthful,” he said awkwardly.
“And why are you on this ship?” she said. “You, so German a gentleman?”
“I have business,” he said. “In Holland, and in New York. I am in business.”
“Yes? You seem very young to be so concerned with business. What business are you in.”
“Why, export-import.”
“Of course.” She leaned close to him, studying his face with extreme care. “You’re not Jewish, are you? There are so many Jews in export-import.”
He reddened in anger and perplexity.
“I am not a Jew,” he said. There was threat and worry in his voice.
Dagne stepped closer to the blond youth as two men approached the bar.
“Actually, my brother is an importer,” she said. “He imports many art works. But he is a collector. Not a man in business.”
“Oh.” The young man looked uncomfortable to be so near and intimately engaged with his prey.
“You should meet my brother,” she said.
“I would like to.”
“Ach. Look, he is dancing. All but crippled in the war, a great German hero who feels pain with every step, but now dancing. The German resolve, nicht wahr?”
“Sicher, Gnädiges Fraulein.”
“How did you know I am not married?”
“I, uh, you have no ring. Pardon me please if I have caused offense.”
“No, none at all. Come. I want to get some air. I would appreciate company. Will you come walking with me on the deck?”
Dance on a Sinking Ship Page 32
