But by the time the operator had transferred this information and the grill room elevator had returned to take Maurice on his quest, Piet Barol had passed through the smoking room and found a staircase to take him down two decks. He moved efficiently and calmly. He did not make a stir. On this fine night the reading room and the corridor that led to it were empty, but as he walked towards the green baize door a group of men appeared. He slowed until they had gone. When they had, he slipped into the service corridor and began to run.
As he reached the grille the narrowness and brilliance of his escape struck him forcefully. In a state of extreme self-congratulation he pulled the latch.
It was locked.
Piet threw his full force against it. The gate remained impervious. He rattled the barrier ferociously, but human ferocity was no use against cold steel. For the first time the consequences of his illegal escapade became quite real. He would be expelled from the ship on an island hundreds of miles from any other, with no reputation and hardly any money. At all costs he must avoid that.
Who would help him? He could not ask it of Didier. The idea of throwing himself on the mercy of Miss Stacey Meadows was more diverting and his confidence returned. She would be amused by his predicament and think more not less of him for his audacity. The idea that she might hide him in her cabin, perhaps in her bed, planted the seeds of triumph in this disaster.
But first he must find her.
Piet went back through the baize door. He had paid more attention to his fellow dressing room pilgrims than to the route they were following. He could only hope to remember it by returning to the starting point of the journey, which meant traversing the main foyer of the ship. He thought of Machiavelli’s advice to act boldly with Lady Fortune and walked down the corridor towards a sound like a waterfall.
At the foot of the grand staircase, as if at a cocktail party in Paris, two hundred people were being amused by one another. From high above them came a sultry waltz, performed only on nights when the sea was calm and the breezes warm. He slipped into the throng feeling safer.
By the time he reached the main elevator, he was master of himself again. He took it up three decks and tried the theater’s quadruple gilt doors. They were locked. He followed the corridor round, trying for access to the service labyrinth. There appeared to be no other way in. The only doors led to staterooms, their shell-shaped handles gleaming in the low light. He began to hurry. Everywhere he turned were rows of doors, barred to him. He went from one corridor to the next, the waves on the pale blue brocade walls repeating like the bars of a fanciful prison. He had begun to sweat and slowed down. It was essential to look untroubled. At last he found a door that gave onto the deck and went outside into the balmy night.
Of course. He should climb the barrier into tourist class. Where was it? He looked over the rail. Below him was the first-class promenade deck, full of strolling stargazers. It was darker where he was, a place for illicit couplings. He walked quickly aft, past the lifeboats. From beneath their covers came gruff panting sounds and the occasional gasp or laugh. He crossed the wet deck, looking for the portion of it assigned to his own class. He hesitated at the barrier. It had been designed specifically to deter such adventures and stretched sixteen feet towards the heavens, with no place for a foothold. Only by climbing right over the ship’s back rail and somehow clawing himself round its farther edge could an assault be attempted.
Piet Barol was not a coward. Equally, except when goaded by Louisa Vermeulen-Sickerts, he did not seek out situations of physical danger. He had always felt a gentle contempt for men who could think of no other way to prove themselves. He looked over the edge. The great propellers churned the water far below, sending a trail of froth a mile long behind them. He did not relish the thought of hanging by one hand above them. The spokes of the gate were wet and would be slippery. He looked over his shoulder. He was unobserved. If he were to act, he should act now. But his body had ceased equivocating and was shaking its answer: No.
St. Helena was better than death.
He went inside. He remembered being led down a flight of stairs on his way to the chorus girls’ dressing room. Perhaps from the deck below he would have a better chance of success. He found his way back to the elevator and took it down to the main landing, which was packed with revelers.
Ten feet away stood Maurice Moureaux.
Piet stepped sharply down the stairs away from him. Moureaux was with two other men. One of them descended the opposite branch of the staircase to cut him off on the next landing. Piet went more quickly, but without drawing attention to himself. It seemed that the stewards were also unwilling to make a scene. He reached the landing several steps ahead of his pursuers and extended his lead on the flight below. Now he was in a white panic. He thought of the rooms he had idled in with Didier. None would be empty now. None possessed the sort of furniture into which one might climb and quietly spend the night. He should have tried the lifeboats, but the way back was barred. Ahead of him were the doors to the salon. He went through them and flung himself behind a screen that sheltered a cluster of armchairs.
A well-built man with a neat beard and a hawk nose looked up from a copy of the Gentleman’s Journal. “Do join me,” he said. “I’m drinking alone.”
Jay Gruneberger believed in luck. It was impossible to thrive without it. Sometimes he saw his inconvenient desire for other men as the price he must pay for being so favored by the Fates in other respects. He felt extremely lucky to be married to Rose, who was wittier and kinder than anyone he had ever met. He was lucky on the Stock Exchange and on the golf course. Two years before, on the day of his fortieth birthday, he had hit a hole in one in front of three hundred people who knew him well. He had felt great exhilaration on that occasion. It was nothing by comparison with what he felt now.
Piet Barol sat down. In moments he would be hauled from the room and publicly disgraced. He thought of Percy Shabrill watching him being taken onshore in a tender. He and Miss Prince would talk of nothing else for the rest of the voyage.
“Is something wrong?” The man with the beard had a deep, kind voice and an American accent.
“I’m not feeling very well.”
“Seasick?”
It was at this moment that Maurice Moureaux put his hand on Piet Barol’s right shoulder, his long fingers digging deep into the muscle. Another steward took charge of his left one in a similar fashion and a third stood behind his chair. They were slightly out of breath. Moureaux kept his voice low, not wishing to alarm the female passengers. “This man is a dangerous stowaway, Mr. Gruneberger.”
Piet stood up. His bravado was spent.
Jay smiled. “On the contrary, he is my private secretary. I have known his family for thirty years.”
“I am under orders to escort him to the brig.”
“I’m afraid I can’t spare him. Would you bring us a menu?”
“His name is not on the passenger list, sir.”
“I needed someone at the last moment and there were no cabins. He’s making do with the sofa in my sitting room.”
Maurice Moureaux knew Mr. Gruneberger was lying, and he also knew why. That he could do nothing about it was frustrating in the extreme. The junior stewards were silent, watching for his lead. “Fetch Mr. Gruneberger a menu, Laurent,” he said at last. “I am so sorry to have disturbed you, sir. And you, Mr. van Sigelen. Forgive my error.”
“Think nothing of it,” said Piet.
The three stewards bowed and retreated. Laurent returned with a menu.
“Mr. van Sigelen will have the turtle soup. Bring it with a bottle of Sancerre.”
“At once, Mr. Gruneberger.”
Finally they were alone. Subsiding adrenaline and hunger and the gentle rocking of the ship made Piet half delirious. When he could speak he said: “I am greatly in your debt.”
“Then you’re an honorable fellow after all. Are you dangerous, as they say?”
It did not seem to Piet that there
was anything to be gained from lying to his unexpected benefactor. “I broke into first class to see a friend who’s a steward,” he confessed. “We used to work at the same house in Amsterdam.”
“You both left to come on the ship?”
“He lost his place because of me. Then I lost mine. We ran into each other on deck.”
Jay Gruneberger suspected that this encounter had not been wholly coincidental, but he did not propose to direct the talk towards a potential rival. “What did you do to lose your position?”
“I’m too ashamed to say.”
“Then you must keep your counsel, Mr. van Sigelen. Though in my experience confiding a burden can ease it. I promise you discretion.”
“My name is Barol, not van Sigelen.”
“Glad to hear it. The van Sigelens I know are vile.”
The waiter came with the wine.
“Drink it quickly. A glass will calm you.”
Piet did as he was told and they shook hands. “At least tell me how you were exposed, Barol.” Jay spoke as if requesting the day’s gossip at his club. “Often the denouement is more interesting than the details of what led to it.”
“I tried to eat in the grill room. I didn’t know you had to give a cabin number.”
“I don’t mean on the ship. I mean in Amsterdam.”
Piet hesitated. “Someone said something that was true. No one had thought of it before she said it.”
“About you?”
“About me and someone else. A lady.”
“A relative of the speaker.”
Jay said it as casually as if he had heard the story days before. His precision was disconcerting and Piet drank another glass of Sancerre. When it was finished, he said: “Her mother.”
“And I presume that you and this lady’s mother …”
“Only once.”
“You were caught at the first attempt? How very unresourceful.” Gruneberger smiled. He never minded if a fellow did not like other fellows. In some ways he preferred it, since recollection made infinite embroideries possible. It was often better than an unsatisfactory half hour concluded in mutual embarrassment.
Piet did not wish to seem wholly incompetent. “We met often. It was the last time that gave us away.”
“I thought it only happened once.”
“We only once did everything one might do.”
“I see.” Jay had a calm, authoritative way of asking questions that elicited answers. At shareholder meetings, men who had spent years honing the art of subtle evasion found themselves lulled by his calm, courteous pursuit of knowledge. Piet Barol had not had a candid conversation for so long that the lure of one was strong. Under the influence of a stranger’s gentle prompting he found that there was much he longed to share. He did not mention the Vermeulen-Sickertses by name or give any details that might establish their identity, but he told Jay all that had happened on the Herengracht.
The experience was immensely relieving. When the Sancerre was finished they had a cognac and by now the room was noticeably emptier. The most worldly person Piet had ever met was Maarten Vermeulen-Sickerts, who was as conservative as a medieval monk by comparison with his new confessor.
Like the rest of fashionable New York, Jay Gruneberger was never sincerely shocked. He took Piet carefully to the epicenter of his drama, guiding the narrative to the details of what exactly he had done with his employer’s wife. Being told this story by an engaged and passionate Piet Barol, leaning forward in his chair, the scent of sweat rising from him, a cognac balloon in his vast hands, was to Jay Gruneberger a form of pleasure so heightened, so rare and refined, that it far excelled the merely erotic. He had a mind capable of considering many perspectives, so while he absorbed every detail of Piet’s story he was also able to float into a vaguer place, where all he heard were the low notes of his voice and all he saw were his face, glowing and happy again, and his thick neck and his dark blue eyes.
At length a regretful steward told them that the salon had closed.
“You’d better take the sofa in my sitting room.” Jay made the suggestion in the tone he used when offering a colleague a ride home from the office. “There’s no way of getting you back before morning.”
“I don’t know how I’ll ever get back.”
“My cabin steward will be on duty at breakfast. I’ve known him fifteen years. He’ll take you to your own part of the ship and no one will be any the wiser.”
“They’ll do an inspection and find me.”
“That won’t happen now I’ve vouched for you. That’s the Loire Lines’ great thing. They never embarrass one.”
“Then I accept with gratitude.”
They left the room and went down a wide corridor. “I take this suite because it’s quiet. The disadvantage is it’s a damned slog when you’ve had a few and there’s no private deck.”
Jay had waited in his secluded corner of the salon as long as he could, hoping that his friends would have gone to bed by the time Piet Barol accepted his hospitality. He was relieved to encounter no one he knew—though he was ready to introduce his new assistant with aplomb, should he be required to. In the end he was not. They stopped outside a pair of double doors flanked by four pillars. Above them, beneath the line’s shell and crossed Ls, were the words CARDINAL RICHELIEU.
The decorative centerpiece of the Richelieu Suite was a copy of the famous portrait by Philippe de Champaigne, from which the room’s predominant colors were also borrowed. Champaigne’s Richelieu was ruthless. The Eugénie’s copyist had caught his robes of rose and gray but softened his expression, the better to complement the atmosphere of the ship. He surveyed the room like a discreet and approving voyeur. It was wonderfully quiet, with dark mahogany paneling to chest height. Piet and Jay sat down on a sofa upholstered in pale blue velvet and their talk ran on. Having relieved himself of his story, Piet had developed a sincere interest in his rescuer.
Jay Gruneberger was not used to self-revelation, having had cause to master the habits of discretion. But their unusual introduction and the frank cordiality it led to allowed a spontaneous trust to arise between them. Piet’s questions were as perceptive as his own had been. He found himself describing his childhood in Cincinnati, his meeting with his wife when she was six and he eight. He had often told the story of how he and Rose had climbed trees together long before falling in love. What he did not often say was that his father and mother had despised each other and used their only child as a foot soldier in their strife. He confided this in Piet Barol and learned a great deal about Herman and Nina in return.
“You should have chosen New York!” he said with feeling, when their talk reached Piet’s plans for his new life.
“That was my first thought. I decided on Cape Town when I knew the boat was coming here. I wanted to sail on her.”
“If you’d seen New York once, you’d not have changed your mind. It’s worth a thousand times this tacky little ship.”
As he listened to Jay’s descriptions of a city he would never know, Piet Barol found himself thinking about Stacey Meadows and the challenges and advantages of being loved by her. “Where’s your wife?” he asked.
“Rose has been on St. Helena this past fortnight. She’s the chairwoman of the ball committee and doesn’t hold with delegation.”
“You must miss her.”
“Immensely. She’s coming on board tomorrow afternoon. I’ve had to bring her gown from New York.”
“What’s the theme?”
“La gloire. Choice of a man named Verignan.”
“Who are you going as?”
“I’ll show you.” Jay stood up and opened the door to the bedroom. After half a bottle of Sancerre and a cognac he was no longer as content as he had been merely to look at his new friend. Neither was he so moved by the alcohol, the lateness of the hour, the fullness of the moon, as to abandon all caution. If the boy doesn’t come in, he thought, I’ll leave it at that.
But Piet did come in.
&nbs
p; Jay took his costume from a mahogany cupboard. Rose had had it made for him and every detail showed the attention and care he so valued in her. She had chosen the uniform of a union colonel in the Civil War and personally supervised six fittings. Jay had a sudden urge to show Piet Barol how good he looked in it. Very matter-of-factly, he took off his tailcoat and his collar and began unbuttoning his shirt. “One always eats too much on a ship. I’d better make sure it still fits.”
Piet did not know whether he should return to the sitting room or honor the sudden intimacy of the evening by staying where he was, as he would have done with a friend. He compromised by sitting on a chair at the foot of the bed, from which they could continue their conversation without facing one another directly. The first-class suites on the Eugénie had windows, not portholes, and the glass reflected the room. Piet tried not to watch as his savior took off his shirt. He had often been naked with fellows his own age but had never seen a much older man with his clothes off except his father; and Jay Gruneberger looked nothing like Herman Barol.
Jay boxed and ran and played tennis and every morning lifted forty-pound dumbbells until his arms ached. He was broad shouldered with a densely hairy chest. Though thickening in his midsection he looked superb in a room lit by soft lamps and an orange moon.
Jay knew that there are moments in life when risks must be taken or failure accepted. He was not ready to accept failure. He looked at Piet, wondering how to touch the boy without alarming him. Then he went to his chair, gripped his shoulders, and pressed his thumbs gently but firmly into the knots beneath them.
The effect on Piet Barol was paralyzing. Not three hours before he had contemplated hanging by one hand above the engines, and the tension of this untaken decision remained deep in his muscles.
“I see a wonderful Russian three times a week in New York. I’d happily share his expertise with you, Barol. Or I’ll call a steward and have the sofa made up next door. Absolutely as you wish.”
History of a Pleasure Seeker Page 24
