by Arthur Slade
The library wasn’t the largest she had visited, but it seemed popular. Some gentlemen and ladies sat at tables, while others perused the shelves. Octavia led Modo to the top floor, to discover that no patrons were there.
“That’s the meeting room,” she said, motioning to a door.
“It’s the only room up here,” Modo said. “Scotland Yard, watch out!”
“Oh, still stinging from that one, are you? Well, if you’re not too upset, please pick the lock. I’ll keep an eye out.” Modo pulled a set of pins from his belt, and he and Octavia were soon in the room. It was sparse: a table, curtains on a window, and only a few books on the shelves.
“Well, this was a waste of time,” Octavia said. She paused to wonder if she was crossing the place where the Frenchman had fallen.
Then she heard a slight cough and a scuffling sound. She turned. “Are you sick?” she asked.
“It was you who coughed,” Modo said without looking up from a book.
“I don’t cough,” she said. “I expel air daintily.”
“Lucky you, then.” He threw up his hands. “I don’t believe we’ll find anything here. It was all cleaned up weeks ago.”
His forehead glistened in the light coming through the window, and his skin was pink.
“You’re looking a little flushed, Modo. Is it the seasickness?”
Modo put his hand to his cheek and with a small gasp turned his back to her. He dug in his jacket pocket, then brought his hands to his face again. When he turned around he was wearing the net mask. He seemed slightly smaller and hunched over.
“What’s happening to you, Modo?”
“You know I can’t answer that.”
“Yes, but I like to ask, husband dear. I’m an odd fish that way.”
He was especially hard to read when he was wearing a mask. She’d stared at the net thing for over a week and was sick of it.
They returned to their hotel room, ordered a roast chicken to be sent up, and ate quickly. Octavia remained at the table, tapping her fingers on a map of the world that had been intricately carved into the mahogany. She traced a line from London to New York. “The waiting will drive me off at the head,” she said. “Would you like to play a hand of snap?”
“I don’t play cards. Mr. Socrates didn’t feel that those games were necessary to my upbringing.”
“Oh, that old parsimonious codger! No one’s to have any fun in his Permanent Association. I sometimes believe that their real objective is to bore the world to tears.”
She was pleased to see Modo laugh. “Well, husband, what am I to do with you? I’ll have to revert to children’s games. Let us give ‘I’m Thinking of Something’ a go.”
“How does that work?”
“We used to play it while we pounded laundry at the orphanage. We ask one another questions and try to guess what the other’s thinking. I’ll start. Ready?”
“Ah, sure.”
She decided that he was so staid, it was time to stagger him. “So, Modo, do you understand love?”
She nearly laughed at how he goggled. Even the net mask couldn’t hide his shock.
“Do I what?”
“Do you understand why we mortal vessels feel love? Or, more important, how does one such as yourself dupe others into believing you are the romantic prince of their dreams?”
He scratched at his shoulder. “What brought this on?”
“Mr. Socrates had me read Shakespeare and Dickens, especially Great Expectations. He wanted me to understand how humans want love.” She began to imitate Mr. Socrates, feeling pleased with her tone and accent. “The key to being a good agent is manipulating your targets into giving you information. Use flirting. Use words that imply love. All their emotions are tools that can be used against them.”
“That’s a horrible thing to do. Did Mr. Socrates really say that?”
“Oh, he said some such similar thing. Perhaps we female agents get different lessons. We are so much weaker than you men, so we have to rely on trickery. I’m curious, though—has anyone ever … loved you?”
“Of course.”
She tapped her finger on the table. “Who?”
“Uh. M-Mrs. Finchley.”
“The governess? She was paid by Mr. Socrates to raise you. So how can you be sure that she loved you?”
“You’re wrong about her!” he snapped.
I’m being cruel, she thought. Why? And yet, she couldn’t stop. He could be so innocent at times. He had to wake up to the reality of the world around him. “I’m only suggesting that one must examine one’s beliefs. Does Mr. Socrates love you?”
“No. Of course not. I’m an agent.”
His eyes were glimmering, as if filled with tears. Shame made her swallow her next words. Why was she lashing out this way? Because he wouldn’t show her his real face? Because he didn’t trust her completely?
“I’m certain someone has loved you, Modo,” she said finally. “I mean, does love you. Mr. Socrates hides much more of his feelings than he shows. And that—that governess, too.”
“Her name is Mrs. Finchley,” Modo said after a long pause. “If we follow your logic, one should never trust one’s own assumptions about other people’s feelings. Thank you. Lesson learned. Good night, Octavia.” He unfolded the privacy screen between the sofa and the bed, hiding from her eyes.
After several minutes she whispered, “Modo? Modo?”
Silence.
“Modo.”
“Yes.” He sounded groggy.
“I’m sorry. I was just having a lark. I did not mean to upset you.”
“You’re forgiven,” he said.
“Thank you,” she answered, with all sincerity. “Modo, you called me Octavia just a moment ago.”
“Yes.”
“Remember, you can call me Tavia. It’s what my friends call me.”
He sighed. “Good night, Tavia.” That was the last she heard from him that evening.
10
Commandeering a Ride
Modo awakened several times in the night, sweating and trembling from nightmares. At one point he unintentionally slipped off his mask and tossed it to the floor. He heard Octavia moving about on the other side of the privacy screen. In a panic he felt around until he found the mask and pulled it over his face, then slept fitfully until morning.
In the bathroom he changed his twisted face and body back to the shape of Mr. Warkin, gritting his teeth and smothering his groans of pain. He dressed and, looking in the mirror, decided it was time to surprise Octavia. He oiled his hair, parting it in the center instead of at the side. He grinned. It suited the aquiline features of this face.
“Tavia, are you awake?” he asked.
“Yes, Modo, you can fold up the screen.”
She was already in a dark gray dress, and was tying back her hair with a ribbon. These were the sorts of things a husband was privy to, his wife fixing her hair.
“Good morning to you,” she said. Her eyes looked heavy, suggesting she’d also had a restless sleep. “Your hair is extremely fashionable. I shall be proud to take your arm as we promenade about New York.”
Modo smiled. “I spent an extra ten seconds on it.” Something moving under the door caught his eye. An envelope. “It looks like work has found us.”
He opened it and removed a telegram that read: erwaiv sfzmsyw STOP Pex&prsk STOP Qsria xs QRF STOP Lmvi wlmt rs p&p ex srgi STOP Xeoi tlsvs iuymt STOP Fi tvsjiwwmsrep STOP
“What is it?” Octavia asked.
Modo took a moment to decipher the message, using a simple code system Mr. Socrates had taught him years ago. “The note says, Answer obvious STOP Lat&long STOP Money wired to MNB STOP Hire ship to l&l at once STOP Take photo equip STOP Be professional STOP.’ ”
“Even in telegrams Mr. Socrates has to lecture us,” she said. “I can almost see him wagging his finger.”
“I should have guessed the numbers were latitude and longitude!” he said.
“Oh, Modo, don’t beat you
rself up. Sometimes the simplest answers are the hardest to find. Now, where exactly are we supposed to go?” She sat at the mahogany table, and looked down at the carved map.
“Assuming this is accurately carved, it’s right here!” He tapped on a point about an inch below Iceland.
“Sounds dreary and cold; good thing we get paid such riches to do this job.”
“You get paid?”
“Mr. Socrates said he is setting aside a fund for my retirement. I assume he has done the same for you.”
“I didn’t know we could retire.”
“That’s the whole lark of it all, Modo. Most of us won’t get to live long enough to retire. Ah, well, it’s better than pickpocketing, I guarantee that!”
After breakfast they went to Merchant’s National Bank, where Modo withdrew seven thousand American dollars, filling his wallet and stuffing the rest in his portmanteau. They gathered up their luggage, took a cab to shop on Broadway, bought photographic equipment, then returned to the port. They were deposited near Castle Garden.
The landing was noisy, with draymen and deckhands shouting and fruit vendors, their baskets on carts, bellowing out their prices. Travelers streamed into the city. Occasionally a steam whistle cut through the din, loud enough to shake the very docks.
“Passenger liners won’t alter their course for us,” Octavia said, “so we must hire a smaller ship.”
Modo nodded. “It would be best to have a steamship. Anything sailing under canvas would be far too slow.”
“Then let’s find our ship, Modo. Look for the ones with smoking funnels. That means their boilers are being stoked and they’ll soon leave port.”
“I know that,” Modo snapped, which was true, for he’d read enough sailing novels. He was growing tired of how she always tried to teach him things.
Partway down the docks they found a ship called the Hugo. Smoke puffed out of its smokestack. It had a rusted iron hull and was so shabby it looked as if removing one rivet would make the entire ship collapse and sink straight to the bottom.
“Almost seaworthy,” Octavia said.
“Maybe there’s something better.” Modo lifted their luggage and continued down the pier, but they returned a half hour later to the Hugo. “There’s really no other choice,” he said, “and Mr. Socrates did say we should go at once.”
They approached several seamen and dockworkers. “I would like to meet the captain of the Hugo,” Modo said, and the men stared at him without moving. Octavia coughed and pointed at her palm. Modo reached into his wallet and brought out a dollar bill. “For your troubles.”
A few minutes later they were being rowed in a boat by a husky sailor who reeked of whisky. His red-rimmed eyes were glued to Octavia. Modo wanted to poke the man’s peepers out, even though Octavia ignored the sailor, gazing out across the water, umbrella in hand. They pulled up to the huge side of the Hugo, and the seaman seemed to shake the boat as much as possible as Modo and Octavia stood up to grab the gangway ladder.
When they’d climbed to the top, Modo looked down to see the drunkard teetering and waving his arms as though bothered by insects, before falling into the water to the laughter of the seamen remaining on the dock. That’ll teach you! Modo thought.
The wooden deck of the Hugo was scarred by weather and littered by a mess of rope, boxes, and nets. A crate of black, rotted bananas had broken open amidships. “We’d like to speak to the captain,” Octavia said to the first deckhand they met.
“Yes, we would,” Modo added quickly, to show he was in charge.
They were taken up a set of stairs to the upper deck. The sailor knocked on the door and shouted, “Captain, guests here to see you!” Then he left them standing alone.
Nothing happened for several moments. “Do you think he’s there?” Octavia asked.
Modo shrugged and knocked again. “Captain! We’re here about passage on your ship!”
The door swung open to reveal a short man in trousers and a shirt with the sleeves torn off. His arms were tattooed with coiled snakes. He was thin as a ferret, his eyes two black coals, and his matted, oily hair was parted in the middle. Modo guessed he was another deckhand.
“Is the captain here?” Modo asked.
“I am the captain, you fool! What are you doing on my ship?”
“We—we—What is your destination?”
“Hamburg.”
“Ah, that’s perfect,” Octavia said.
“Perfect?”
“Ah, yes, we have—” Octavia began, but Modo cut in.
“A wedding to attend,” he finished. He shot Octavia a look. As the husband, he was supposed to make such arrangements man to man.
“I don’t take passengers. They talk. They eat. They get in the way. Not even if you offered me two hundred dollars.”
“What about two thousand dollars?” Octavia said. Again, Modo scowled at her.
The captain’s eyes widened. He pursed his thin lips and ran a hand over his greasy scalp, then stepped back and bowed. “You are so very welcome on my ship. Captain Goss at your service! You’ll find the Hugo may not look like much on the outside, but she’ll do twelve knots with the boilers fully stoked and the sails set.”
“Twelve knots? That is fast!” Modo exclaimed, knowing they’d be lucky to hit ten knots. “We are Mr. and Mrs. Warkin. I’m a photographer and my wife is my assistant. I wonder … on our way to Hamburg there is a particular ocean vista we would very much like to photograph. A place where the slant of light reflects in an amazingly perfect way on the capturing lens of the camera. It’s simply stunning, I am told.”
“Where is this ‘vista’?”
Modo told him the latitude and longitude.
“That will be another thousand dollars,” Captain Goss said without hesitation. “It’s a day out of our way. I have to pay my crew a bonus, and there are coal supplies to consider. I myself make nothing.”
“Agreed,” Octavia said.
“Agreed!” Modo repeated, giving her the eye. She would never be able to play the wife correctly!
“My men will bring your bags aboard and my first mate will show you to your cabin.” Goss whistled, so loudly that Modo’s ears rang.
Forty minutes later the ship was moving out to sea. They had been given the first mate’s cabin, after paying him a hundred dollars so that he would sleep on a bunk in the seamen’s quarters. The cabin was tiny, with a small cot that Octavia claimed, saying, “It’s your turn to sleep on the floor, husband dearest.”
“I’d have it no other way,” Modo replied with false sweetness. A smoke- and coal-smudged porthole looked out on the ocean. Modo’s stomach churned, but not nearly the way it had on their first crossing of the Atlantic. Soon his face began to burn and ache and he was forced to put on his mask. He drew a thick cloak out of the portmanteau and threw it over himself to hide all his bumps and humps from Octavia’s eyes. How he hated the way his back twisted! The cabin was so small, he was certain Octavia would eventually see every iota of his ugliness. Whenever her eyes flitted over him, he wanted to retreat like a rat into a hole. He set up a sheet in one corner for both of them to change behind when they needed to.
The Hugo splashed and fought its way northward. The farther they traveled, the shorter the daylight hours became. Modo spent most of his time in their wretched room. He would change his shape to go for an infrequent walk, then return to the cabin, feigning illness. Meals were brought right to their door, but were never hot and never good and mostly seemed to be made of an unidentifiable overcooked meat. “It must be buffalo,” Octavia declared after several meals. “I’ve heard it’s quite stringy.”
Occasionally the captain invited them to “sup” at his private dining table, which was little more than a slab of wood in his cabin. The metal plates were nailed down, and it looked as though a decade had passed since they were last wiped. “I did have a lovely basket of apples,” he told them when the salted pork was done, “but they disappeared down someone’s gullet. The lash will get
to the bottom of it. So drink lots of lemonade instead; that’ll keep the scurvy away.” He smiled wryly.
The next day, while Modo walked around the deck, he tried to picture a life at sea and decided it wasn’t for him. No place to climb if there was danger. Well, that wasn’t true—there was the crow’s nest, at least. Without a second thought he scrambled to the top, joining the bald seaman who sat on his perch staring out into the vast distance. “You climb well, for a fancy gentleman,” the man said.
“Thank you,” Modo answered. “I just wanted to get a good look at this watery world.”
“Go ahead. Feast your peepers! There’s nothin’ and everythin’ to see.”
Modo could feel the sway of the ship much more up here, but it didn’t bother his stomach. He enjoyed the familiar wonderful feeling of being above the world. And his “peepers” could see much farther than they could from the rooftops of London. The water seemed endless. The sun was setting, even though it was only six o’clock in the evening.
Down on the deck he saw two men toiling away at the daily swabbing. Then he counted the lifeboats. Six. All together they might hold thirty men. There were at least a hundred people on the Hugo.
“There are only six lifeboats,” Modo said. “What happens if we sink?”
“Well, gent”—the man smiled broadly, exposing a missing tooth—“on a civilized boat it’d be women and children first. I can’t vouch for this bein’ a civilized boat, if it were to come to that. Best to just make your peace with Jesus, Joe, and the Good Lord.” He chuckled. Modo’s stomach suddenly didn’t feel very good. The ship had made many journeys without sinking, he told himself. It would be fine. Just fine.
On the morning of the seventh day of the voyage, the Hugo gave a great shudder, the engines slowed, and the anchor was let down with a thunderous rattle of chains. Someone pounded on Modo and Olivia’s door. “We’ve arrived, Mr. and Mrs. Warkin!” They recognized Goss’s voice.
“We’ll be right out,” Modo shouted. He was still in his nightclothes, the net mask, and a nightcap.
“You’re quite the picture,” Octavia kidded. “Now avert your eyes.”
