Flight of Dreams

by Ariel Lawhon

  Heinrich Kubis. Ludwig Knorr. The chief steward. The chief rigger. He has just been lied to—either by Captain Lehmann or by Gertrud Adelt, but he can’t be sure which. Perhaps both. That would be worse. That would make him angry. And when the American gets angry, people tend to suffer as a result.

  THE JOURNALIST

  Leonhard shuts the door to their cabin and tosses his suit coat on the bed. “Gout? Of all the diseases at your disposal you went with gout? If it had been up to me I would have given him herpes.” He clenches his jaw. Growls a bit at the back of his throat. “He is a herpes. Big. Festering. Pustule of a man.”

  Her voice is high and tight when she answers. “It was the first thing that came to mind.”

  His eyes narrow. He can hear the frantic note at the edge of each clipped syllable. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You’re a terrible liar.”

  “People keep saying that. It’s not true. I happen to be an excellent liar.”

  “No. You’re just really good at diversion. Tell me what’s wrong.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Your hands are trembling.”

  Shit, she thinks, that’s the second time today. Gertrud raises her hands to eye level and dispassionately studies the tremor running through her fingers. She is good at holding things together. She doesn’t let circumstances get to her, damn it. Gertrud has, through force of will, taught herself to stand in a maelstrom and function at a high level. But this is too much. She’s beginning to crack. “How long have we been on this ship?”

  “A little less than forty-eight hours.”

  “It feels like it’s getting smaller. Like it’s closing in on us.” She presses two fingers into the hollow of her clavicle. “Scheiße! I want off this damned thing. I want to go home.”

  “There’s nowhere to go but down at the moment, I’m afraid.”

  “That’s not funny.”

  “I wasn’t going for humor, Liebchen.” He crosses the room and points out the observation windows. “We are six hundred feet in the air at some godforsaken point over the North Atlantic. Nothing out there but icebergs.” He leans over the window. Looks down. “And a few whales.”

  Gertrud joins him at the window. There are more than a few whales below. An entire pod—fifteen or twenty maybe, she can’t tell from this height—is swimming west, right below them. They have the slow, loping movements of great animals moving at leisure. She has seen elephants travel that way in Africa. A quiet, dignified assurance that they rule their territory. That they face no threat. Gertrud is no expert on marine life, but if she had to wager she would guess the whales are humpbacks. But only because she catches the occasional glimpse of their broad, silver bellies when they breach. They look like children in a wading pool, splashing and jumping, and she can’t help but wonder if whales laugh. And if they do, what must that colossal joy sound like beneath the waves? And then Gertrud is weeping, because the very thought of laughter reminds her of Egon and her heart cannot shut out the memory of his laughter. She is afraid she will never hear it again.

  Leonhard pulls her to his chest and lets her wring herself out. He might have more than twenty years of life experience on her, but he is no different from any other man in that the thing he fears most is a woman’s grief. She knows this about her husband and does her best to spare him, but the dam is broken and she cannot hold back the flood. Gertrud heaves and sobs into the crook of his shoulder. He pulls off her hat and tosses it onto the bed. He runs his fingers through the tangled mass of her hair. He shushes her. Wraps his arms tighter.

  Leonhard’s shirt is soaked by the time she pulls away, but Gertrud feels a great deal better. Once she is composed he places the hat gently back on her head.

  She twists her face into a pout. “That bad?”

  “You are beautiful, Liebchen, but today your hair is opinionated.”

  Gertrud looks in the mirror and adjusts the brim so that it’s slanted across her forehead. She tucks a frizzy curl behind one ear. “The stewardess made me wear it.”

  “I fear I’ve lived to see the end of days if my wife has become a woman who cries spontaneously and takes orders from other women.”

  “At least hell hasn’t frozen over.”

  “Never going to happen,” he says, lifting one eyebrow. “Unless you decide to become the spokesman for wifely submission.”

  Even Gertrud has to laugh at this. “Don’t get your hopes up.”

  “Since when do you need help dressing in the morning? I can see that heiress summoning Fräulein Imhof, but you? No. What are you up to?”

  “Believe it or not, I am not the most conniving person on this airship.”

  “Truly, the end of days.”

  “Emilie came to me. She has gotten herself in some sort of trouble and wanted to exchange information.”

  Leonhard groans and sits down hard on the bed. “And what did this exchange cost us?”

  “That American’s name. Edward Douglas.”

  “For?”

  She lifts the dog tag from her jewelry box and tosses it to him. “Ludwig Knorr.”

  “So you told the American his real name? I did wonder if you’d made it up.” Leonhard inspects the tag as though searching for clues. “Is that it? She gave you nothing more than a name?”

  “Oh, do give me a bit more credit than that. Ludwig Knorr is the chief rigger aboard this airship. He’s a war hero. Aaaand”—Gertrud draws this out until she’s certain she has Leonhard’s full attention—“he plays poker with a few other men in the crew’s mess every night.”

  God, I love my husband, she thinks. Gertrud does not even have to explain her plan. Leonhard can sniff it from five feet away. He turns the dog tag over in his palm and then looks at her, his smile devious and unnerving. “The American wants to find this man.”

  “He does.”

  “I do wonder,” Leonhard says, holding up the tag by its chain so that it hangs at eye level, “what would happen if they were in the same room together? What might we learn at such a moment?”

  “I have been wondering the same thing myself.”

  Leonhard unbuttons his wet, wrinkled shirt and replaces it with a clean one from the narrow closet. “Liebchen, I think it’s time we went to lunch.”

  “You’re quite sexy when you get that calculating look in your eye.”

  Leonhard kisses her beneath the ear. “I learned from the best.”

  “Darling, that’s a skill you perfected long before I was even born.”

  He laughs. “Who says I was talking about you?”

  “Do not,” she holds up one finger, “tell me her name if you value the few, short years you have left.”

  Gertrud takes his arm and they arrive for lunch, only to find that the stewards have rearranged everything to form one long table down the center of the dining room. No more congregating in small groups. The passengers will now be forced to eat together.

  “This is new.”

  “We thought it would be more festive,” Wilhelm Balla says as he pulls out a chair for Gertrud at the end of the table. “This is usually the point in the trip when everyone begins to get restless, so we thought we’d change things around a bit. Make it feel more like a banquet. A celebration.”

  Leonhard sits down beside his wife. Places a warm, rough hand on her knee. She leans into him and waits to see how this new arrangement will change the atmosphere.

  It has been only two days, but the passengers have easily fallen into the rhythm of the ship. The others begin arriving within moments. They are delighted with the adjustment and take their places at the table, chattering happily as their glasses are filled with wine—a nice, sparkling Lambrusco.

  Gertrud is not surprised when the American sits down directly across from her. She would have been surprised had he chosen not to antagonize her. No matter. She will enjoy her lunch and she will get the upper hand. Let the bastard flail around for all she cares.

  “You know,” Gertr
ud says, looking straight at him, “I don’t believe you’ve said what it is exactly that you do in Frankfurt, Herr Douglas.”

  He doesn’t miss a beat, doesn’t try to be evasive. “I am the director of European operations for the McCann Erickson company.”

  “I see. Other than having a fancy title and dubious office space, what does that entail? In layman’s terms.”

  The American breaks a breadstick in half, spreads a piece of soft La Tur cheese across its warm center, then dips it in a ramekin of dark, syrupy balsamic reduction. He takes a moment to enjoy this bite before answering.

  “If I must simplify, I’d say that I am an advertising executive. I use a wide range of international contacts to get wealthy Europeans to invest in marketing campaigns.”

  His answer sounds rote, like something memorized from a marketing pamphlet. Gertrud lifts the goblet in her hand and takes a sip of the Lambrusco. She thinks for a moment, resting her bottom lip against the cut-glass rim. The bubbles tickle her nose and the glass is cool against her fingers. “My father always said that advertising is the job in which otherwise noble men learn to lie for a living.”

  “I would of course beg to differ,” he says. “And I’d also argue that advertising is what pays for those newspapers you write for. As a matter of fact, you could even make the case that people like me ensure that people like you have a job.”

  Leonhard’s hand has remained on her knee since they sat down, but instead of tracing lazy, seductive circles on her bare skin, his fingers tighten now in warning.

  Gertrud laughs. But it’s forced, and she can hear the false note in her voice. “That is where you’re mistaken, Herr Douglas. No one would pay a single mark for a paper filled with advertisements. They pay for the news. It’s the clutter they tolerate.”

  The breadsticks are hot and flaky, and the American dusts off his tie after taking another bite. He considers. “I am loathe to think that, despite our biased positions, we might actually need one another. Without me there is no outlet to print the news. And without you there is no forum to shill for my clients.”

  “We’re not bedfellows.”

  Leonhard takes of bite of his breadstick, so she can’t hear his muted response, but it sounds like a cheerful profanity followed by, Over my dead body.

  The food, as always, is a marvel. Once the bread plates are cleared, watercress salad with peeled grapes, marcona almonds, and verjus vinaigrette is set before them. This is followed in short order by fried oysters smothered in a sauce gribiche—a concoction of wine, shallots, and fresh herbs. Gertrud tries not to moan as she plucks them delicately from the tines of her fork. Judging by the look of those seated around her, everyone is in a similar state of bliss. Amazing how a good meal can lift the spirits of so many people at once. Even the Doehner children, seated beside them, are happy, their little backs straight, napkins laid smooth on their laps. This isn’t the sort of food she would think to feed children, but they are eating it without complaint. Egon has not yet progressed to the sorts of food that don’t need to be mashed with a fork first. Gertrud is overcome by a quiet moment of guilt and terror when she realizes that Egon could get his first tooth while they are gone. That he might chew something in her absence. How many milestones will she miss because of this accursed trip? All of them, if she cannot get to the heart of this threat.

  Irene Doehner is seated immediately at Gertrud’s left and she notices that the girl mimics her movements. Tries to hold her fork the same way. Lifts her glass—Gertrud assumes it is filled with sparkling grape juice—with the same three fingers. Pats the corners of her mouth instead of wiping it with her napkin.

  After several moments Gertrud can no longer resist commenting. “I’m a terrible influence, young lady. You should find a better role model.” She points at Margaret Mather, seated at the far end of the table. The heiress is dignified even in the simple act of eating. “Like her. She’s quite elegant.”

  Irene’s back stiffens. “I think you are pretty. And smart. Papa says you’re a journalist. Is that like a novelist? That’s what I want to be when I grow up.”

  “Very different, in fact. I’m not allowed to make things up. I’m only allowed to write the facts.”

  “I think making stuff up would be more fun.”

  “So do I.”

  “So why not do that instead?”

  It’s a good question, one Leonhard has asked often enough. “I suppose, when it comes down to it, I’m quite good at finding the truth. And my mother always taught me to find the thing I’m good at and stick with it.”

  “If I followed that advice I’d be a nursemaid for the rest of my life. The only thing I’m really good at right now is making sure my brothers don’t kill themselves out of pure stupidity.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with being a nursemaid.”

  “Do you have one?”

  “What makes you think I have children?”

  “You look sad. Only someone who has left a child at home could be sad on an adventure like this.”

  It is a knife in the heart. Gertrud gives Irene an appraising look. Reassesses the girl. Perhaps not so silly after all. Observant. “No,” she says. “I don’t have a nursemaid.”

  Irene gives a stiff nod as though this makes her point exactly, thank you very much.

  “Don’t worry. You’re still young. You have plenty of time to figure out what you’re good at.”

  “I hate when people say that.”

  “Hating something doesn’t make it less true.”

  Irene rolls her eyes at this, in the way that only an adolescent girl can. It takes every bit of Gertrud’s self-control not to laugh at her. Such a pity, the arrogance of youth. And wasted too. She’d love to have a bit more of her own former bravado back. Gertrud has an unsettling suspicion that she’ll need every ounce she can muster in the coming hours.

  Gertrud turns back to her lunch and lets the current of conversation drift on without her. But after a few moments, Leonhard tugs on the white sleeve of Wilhelm Balla’s steward’s jacket. The tone of his voice suggests a desire for discretion, and Gertrud sees the American turn toward Moritz Feibusch so that his shoulder, and therefore his ear, is angled toward Leonhard. The bastard is listening. As always.

  “Might I have a word with you?” her husband asks the steward.

  Balla bends at the waist and tilts his ear toward Leonhard.

  “I’ve heard that there is a poker game that takes place in the evenings on board this ship.”

  “I don’t go in for games of chance myself, Herr Adelt.”

  It’s a nonanswer if ever Gertrud heard one.

  “But there is a game?”

  “I believe,” the steward says, cautiously, “that a few of the crew members gather for such a game after their shift. In the crew’s mess. But passengers are not allowed in areas reserved for the crew.”

  Leonhard purses his mouth. Thinks for a moment. “Do you suppose these gentlemen could be persuaded to move their game to an area where passengers are allowed? Say, the promenade? Or the smoking room?”

  “A good solution, no doubt, but I’m afraid that the crew is prohibited from gambling with the passengers. Poor taste, we’re told.”

  “I see.” Leonhard tucks a bill into Wilhelm Balla’s hand. “If the rules should happen to change, do let me know.”

  “Of course, mein Herr. Danke schön.” The steward clears their plates and ambles off.

  “What was that about?” she hisses.

  Leonhard squeezes her knee and nods, just a fraction of an inch, toward the American. He doesn’t bother to lower his voice. “We’ll discuss it later, Liebchen.”

  Lunch is wrapped up with linzer cookies sprinkled with powdered sugar and filled with a spiced raspberry jam. The chef has added a touch of black pepper to the jam—Gertrud can taste it amidst the nutmeg and cloves—and the result is stunning. She eats hers slowly, savoring each bite, sad when the plate is empty.

  The passengers are full and happy
and quite content to push their chairs back and swap stories as long as the stewards are willing to keep their goblets filled. All of them except for the American. He is stiff and tense and excuses himself from the table at the first opportunity.

  “Where do you think he’s off to?” Gertrud asks.

  “If I had to put money on it, I’d say he’s got poker on his mind.”

  THE CABIN BOY

  Werner cracks the door open an inch and peers into the small antechamber outside Heinrich Kubis’s cabin to make sure it’s empty. Once he’s certain that the coast is clear he steps out of the room, shuts the door behind him, then wiggles the doorknob to make sure it’s locked. Kubis is the only steward who gets a cabin to himself. Not that anyone would want to bunk with him, Werner thinks; the man has neither a pulse nor a sense of humor. But he does have privacy and access to the ship’s manifest, and that is something Werner very much wants to see. The results of his little investigation have left Werner bewildered, however.

  The chief steward has the first stateroom on B-deck. The location enables him to better serve the wealthiest passengers. The room is accessed by a door that leads into a small antechamber off the keel corridor. Lunch is almost over and Kubis could come through the door at any moment, so Werner wants to put as much distance as he can between himself and the cabin before anyone discovers what he has done.

  The antechamber is little more than the size of a closet and is lined entirely on one wall with shelves holding wicker baskets, brushes, and shoe polish. It smells of perfectionism. Werner opens the door to the corridor and walks directly into the broad chest of Max Zabel.

  “What are you doing in there?” the navigator asks.

  “Shoes!” The word comes out higher and squeakier than he’d like. But at least the lie was prepared in advance. He clears his throat. “I came to check on the shoes. It’s my break, and I thought I’d get a head start polishing them so I wouldn’t have to do it tonight. Kubis keeps shunting the job off on me.”