“My dear sovereign Dinnlay, you’ve heard the expression ‘to go slumming.’ I dare say we are witnessing an unseemly example of such aboard this ship. Of people who think it might be greener in our cheaper pasture. Ah, but one does tend to want now to live and let live. Indeed, happy-go-lucky is how one might describe one’s present mood. And I have been occasionally happy and I have equally more than occasionally been unlucky. But here and now aboard this vessel, and for the first time I can ever recall, I am both happy and lucky at the same time.”
But as Gainor was embarking upon his life of bliss, my life in the meantime aboard ship became one of a total shambles and partial nightmare. I was already feeling that bit queasy but in the shared cabin with a deep-sea diver traveling between assignments and a young kid being banished by his parents to a more disciplined life in Europe, one had one’s first night’s sleep shattered. The fifteen-year-old boy getting drunk and returning to the cabin, where, in the middle of the night from his top bunk across the aisle, he chose to kneel and in the darkness pee into the center of the stateroom. Both the smell and sound of splashing woke one up. And the light switched on, I left it to the deep-sea diver, a petty officer in the Royal Navy, to take remedial action. As in my case, short of hitting him, I would have only been able to hand the kid a note stating,
STOP
But the kid did not stop. The deep-sea diver, a most understanding gentleman, having mildly remonstrated, found himself undergoing a drenching. And pronto, the master of arms aboard the Franconia was summoned. Who on behalf of the Cunard line, with its long tradition of cosseting and calming passengers, very diplomatically attempted to reason with this unruly young gent. But the kid had obviously reserved even further urine for this very moment, and he unleashed a new stream of piss upon his newly arrived adversaries. This did strain the master of arms’s practiced cordiality, and the kid, still in his underwear, was full of fight as the master of arms and two assistants struggled to drag him down from his bunk and away out of the cabin to be restrained and calmed elsewhere aboard.
“Don’t you touch me, you bastards.”
A water jug and glass smashed against the bulkhead, leaving blood from cut feet on the stateroom rug. The battle and shouts proceeding out into and along the companionway. The boy, as he struggled and screamed, was also pounding cabin doors with his feet as he was dragged by. Several passengers having already donned their life belts were in their pajamas and bundled up in coats were peeking out their doors ready to go to their muster stations to board a lifeboat and abandon ship. Only to then encounter in the companionway the ship’s company attempting to subdue a now totally naked passenger, whose legs were flailing as he was pulled along shouting at the top of his lungs.
“Let go of me, you fucking limey cunts.”
It seemed now as if our roles were entirely reversed, as I sought to join Gainor for peace and quiet in his cabin for what Gainor called a Chianti cocktail. But with the unruly passenger held elsewhere, I was now imposed upon to vacate the shared cabin to the deep-sea diver for two hours every afternoon so that he might do, as he intimated, some deep-sea fucking with an accommodating lady passenger he had met, whom he described as having dark and mysterious sexual wants. Meanwhile, as we approached Halifax, and the Florida storm hurried north after us, the sea swells were becoming bigger, with the roll and pitch of the ship increasing. With more than a passenger or two absenting themselves from the dining room. Where the already friendly waiter did not mind putting such missing passenger’s appetizer, entree or dessert in front of Mr. Crist, to whom he would bowingly and smilingly announce as he deposited same on the table,
“Bon appétit, my good sir.”
And Crist in turn, with alacrity, would polish off everything placed before him. But with his shipboard activities, Gainor, along with having to replenish his strength weakened in America, was now burning up immense energy. Much of which was expended in our chess games in the ship’s lounge which were attracting considerable attention in our first two days at sea, being that we were eminently conspicuous in our play. I would unsportingly, graphically demonstrate with waving hands and arms over the board as to what I was about to do to Gainor’s uncastled or unprotected king. And as my pincer movement of bishops and knights would close the trap for checkmate, I would draw my hand across my throat or simulate a man who had just been hanged. The fact that it was known that I did not speak seemed to add to the drama of these gestures. At such awful moments, Gainor, in plotting his next defensive move, would jump up from his seat, rush out onto the open deck and furiously pace back and forth, inhaling deeply to renew the air in his lungs. And then, grim-lipped and resolute, he would return to the board. To be slaughtered. Such moments being the only time aboard the Franconia that Gainor was to be seen with even the merest flicker of discontent on his face.
With the sky overcast and snow flurries blowing along the decks, we had now passed Cape Sable at 65 degrees longitude and 43 degrees latitude on the southern tip of Nova Scotia and were, with Chedabucto Head abeam, soon entering the peaceful waters of the Halifax harbor and docking at Pier 21. It was some welcome relief for me to be able to come ashore, as the Atlantic swells had now become so mountainous that there was a rumor that we might have to delay sailing and remain in port, a prospect neither Gainor nor I had reason to complain about. Meanwhile, getting our passports stamped with leave to go ashore, Gainor seemed, as we disembarked, to be beside himself with delight. Indulging his usual paroxysm of twiddling his fingers, hunching forward his head and shoulders and emitting pleased grunts as we walked out into the cold, snowbound Sunday-deserted streets of what seemed this Old World town. The sun suddenly coming out to shine as we strolled through Grafton, Barrington, and Argyle streets, redolent of the Europe we’d left. Climbing Citadel Hill along Bedford Row and up George Street we came to a church overlooking a square. And Gainor beckoned me.
“Dinnlay, follow me. We go to enter within this door.”
A brochure Gainor had with him described this building we were about to enter as the Westminster Abbey of the New World. I of course, temporarily relieved of the desperation to find a future for the manuscript of The Ginger Man, was now reaching the point where I might start talking again. And I croaked out a few words, saying I would wait outside while he reconnoitered within the church. At the sound of my voice, Gainor immediately put his finger up to his lips for silence. And as I asked why, a cloud of concern came over Gainor’s face.
“Dinnlay, on this nice stroll we are having on terra firma, I have just spotted two other travelers off the Franconia who might notice you speaking and therefore I am imploring you continue to keep further silent. It is not that I do not like hearing your voice again. Far from it. You have in fact a most perfect speaking voice when you speak. But, you see, the fact of the matter is I have already informed everyone aboard ship that you would not speak again until our tiny principality, the identity of which had to remain secret, was liberated from Soviet domination. It so happens too that the dear young lady, who so willingly visits my cabin and who has already bought me a few drinks plus shaving cream and my favorite toothpaste and who is about to give me some very much future-needed financial assistance, believes implicitly in the incredible tales I have, in my trance of unbridled euphoria, already divulged. The size of your castle. The nature of your labyrinthine wine cellars. Your stable of performing horses. The lot. I should now hate to think that she might suddenly feel duped and taken advantage of to find out that you are not the reigning monarch and prince we claim you to be, nor have you a vestige of horseflesh to your name, nor anciently stacked bottles of Château d’Yquem waiting to be drunk by thirsty lips. Nor that I, which I suppose is equally important, am your loyal secretary of state and chief of protocol who also has the keys to your wine cellars. Therefore, please, for both our sakes, mum must be the word.”
GOOD GOD GAINOR
TO HELL
WITH MY
HORSEFLESH AND WINE
CELLARS
IT IS LITTLE ENOUGH
I ASK
BUT TO BE ABLE TO
SPEAK AGAIN
“Dinnlay, be patient. You must. At least for this very temporary time being remain silent. For both our happy contented sakes. All shall be divulged in good time. And then you may shout your head off. But meanwhile, you must admit the trip has been entirely agreeable and comfortable so far. Only nine days now, or ten, depending on the weather, to go. And we may look forward to its continuing idyllic as it has been for these first two days.”
BLOODY HELL, IT MAY BE THAT WAY
FOR YOU
BUT I’VE ALREADY HAD TO ENDURE
ONE NIGHT OF
NIGHTMARE
AND I’M NOW
VERGING
ON BEING SEASICK
“Ah, Dinnlay, I am indeed sorry to hear of such disagreeableness befalling you. But do please continue your silence. You will thank me years hence when you are able to take out all these scribbles of yours you make and practically reconstruct your very life, hour by hour out of what is memorably happening to us now. Come, be of good cheer, follow me in here to look about in this nice temple of prayer from which we hear such nice singing. Come, we must go in. And please, I beg of you keep shut up.”
GAINOR
BELIEVE ME WHEN I HEREBY STATE
THAT THIS WILL BE AMONG
THE VERY LAST
OF FAVORS
I SHALL DO FOR YOU
The church was a warm and welcome revelation, quite full of worshippers. There was room at the rear in the last few pews. Crist entering one and I the pew just behind him. I could suddenly see that this Amish, agnostic, atheistic, Protestant Christian, or whatever he was, was visibly touched and immediately behaving as if he were a lifelong member of this congregation. His voice in one of those vaguely familiar songs could be heard raised among the voices of the church members. Words sung to proclaim belief and trust in Jesus. And that this man so sadly crucified those many centuries ago was the true light and guide in life. Then as a voice from the altar pulpit spoke, I could see Gainor’s shoulders straighten and his head bow forward in genuflection as he listened to what must have been the most appropriate words he ever could have heard.
“O almighty God, we yield Thee praise and thanksgiving for our deliverance from the evils of those great and apparent dangers where-with we were recently compassed. We acknowledge it Thy goodness that we were not delivered over as a prey unto them. And beseeching Thee still to continue such Thy mercies toward us, that all the world may know that Thou art our savior Who hath redeemed our souls from the jaws of death.”
The organ music trumpeted out once more, and Gainor, along with these other dedicatedly devout, was heard singing again. Not always in tune, nor indeed using, from what I could hear, the same words. But he did manage to get through a couple of songs when a collection basket appeared which was being passed approaching down the aisle. I knew that Gainor must be short of money but did not know that he simply at the moment had not a red cent. He now plaintively half turned around to me to discreetly display his empty palm to indicate that he needed a coin for the tray. I shook my head in mild and what I thought would be amusing refusal in order to demonstrate that I was not your usual contributor to church funds, and also to show that I had limits in being taken advantage of, especially when told to shut up and wait to be given permission to speak again. Then Gainor, withdrawing his hand, proffered it a moment later, his palm outstretched again to show me the only thing in his possession and which he was now holding in reserve to contribute to the collection. This was a shirt button, white in color. But there was on his face no laughter that nearly came to mine. And I was suddenly stunned by the seriousness with which he now confronted this situation of having to drop a shirt button into the collection basket. For tears were falling down Gainor’s cheeks.
The clink of coin was now getting closer with the basket only two pews away. And I was stricken. That I should have been so carelessly unfeeling as not to recognize another’s heartfelt sanctity. And although it was deeply against my principles to contribute to the support of the religious, other than in matters of architecture and music, I reached into my pocket and as I took from Gainor the shirt button I gave him in exchange an American nickel. At which Gainor ever so slightly frowned. And then additionally I gave him a dime. In turn as the collection basket passed my way I was surprised to find myself taking a whole quarter to pop into this woven wicker receptacle. For somehow, although still on the North American continent, and in this marvelous church and among these wonderfully devout upright Protestant people, the music of their voices filling our ears, we clearly were both of us, overwhelmed with this unexpected opportunity to express thanksgiving for our escape. Being lofted as it were by magic carpet away into the nether reaches of where one’s future lay far beyond the pitfalls of the past. And where our spirits were melded in hope once more.
As the service came to an end and as these thoughts were passing through one’s mind, the organ trumpeted and the chorus of voices swelled in a last song as if to extoll a God to whom one day the whole world might pray. When just then, a beam of light came like a bolt in one of the windows. A halo glowing and blazing in yellow gold. And the cone of this eloquent illumination shone alone and only upon Gainor. And something without doubt was proclaimed. That as I stood there. It was finally explained. That I truly was.
In
The presence
Of a saint
To whom one could pray
To solve
The impossible
And beg deliverance
From evil
30
OUTSIDE returning down the hill, leaving this church where one had this apparition of Gainor’s sainthood, I must have wanted to reassure myself that Gainor was only human after all and as he walked in front of me a few yards away, I dug my hands into the snow and made a snowball. Then, shouting a warning, I unleashed it and hit him on the shoulder. And there in the street began a brief snowball fight which I distinctly lost. Gainor, an outstanding baseball pitcher, promptly managed to land a snowball exploding smack in my face. Which although it did not knock me on my back, did leave me dizzily dismayed and my eyes glowing red.
“My dear Mike, I am most awfully sorry. I actually did think you would duck.”
AH, BUT I LEARNED A LESSON
NEVER UNDERESTIMATE YOUR ADVERSARY
NOT EVEN IN A SNOWBALL FIGHT
As great swells from the storm rolled into Halifax harbor, the good ship Franconia delayed to set sail and it was marvelously pleasant to continue to enjoy an unyielding deck underfoot. In Gainor’s utter transformation and in just a little more than two days, it was now almost as if he had taken over command of the vessel. And in his smiling, bowing manner, without portfolio, he did the job of any good purser, as he, quite light-footed, made his speedy way about. The older ladies as well as the young being given his courteous attentions. He had already twice won the ship’s general knowledge test, getting the answers to all twenty-one questions correct, and as far as I could ascertain had organized credit with one of the barmen in the small topside smoke room. I was meanwhile holding my tongue but frequently threatened that I was going to break my silence, and then his finger would immediately go to his lips, and he’d whisper. “Dinnlay, trust me. And one day you will thank me.”
CHRIST, CRIST, YOU ARE SOMETIMES A
BASTARD
YOU’RE ALREADY POLISHING OFF EVERYTHING
FROM THE FIRST-CLASS MENU, INCLUDING
THE WOMEN
AND YOU CONTINUE TO INSIST
I SHUT UP
SO THAT I AM
UNABLE TO EQUALLY ACQUAINT MYSELF WITH
THE OPPOSITE SEX
“Dinnlay, I assure you all the ladies are already in awe of you, and everyone already loves you aboard this ship. Courteous, flattering whispers follow you where’er you go. It’s all for the best. Besides, you are a most happily married man to one of the
world’s most beautiful and charming women. You will and shall want for nothing. You have a little baba whose looks are so attractive, it makes people stop in the street in order to vent their admiration. You go to join your little family in splendor on an island whose parliament is the world’s most ancient and where they flog evildoing ruffians with the birch and no foreign harm comes to the inhabitants. You, must for the sake of all these things, Dinnlay, continue to keep your mouth shut and continue to assist in my not disillusioning the ladies.”
THANKS A BLOODY BUNCH
Gainor sometimes, when noticing that I had become more frustratedly disgruntled than usual, would reach to take the sheet of paper upon which I wrote, which was in this case Cunard’s blue engraved stationery of a gray-colored variety, a supply of which I took from the ship’s library. And upon this occasion, he wrote his own note in large capitals to hand back to me.
DINNLAY
DON’T MENTION IT
AND BE NO LONGER REPUDIATORY AND GLOOMY
AND DO LET ME GET YOU ANOTHER
SHERRY BEFORE DINNER
Gainor, not only with credit aboard ship, now seemed also in funds. And it were as if the ship’s company could not do enough for him. Jealousy of course rearing its ugly head at nearby dining tables as Gainor might be served a whopping plate of grilled mignon of tenderloin attended by a side dish of boned breast of guinea hen with ham Lucullus. But throughout, it had to be said he did always distribute tiny portions to the nearby deserving. However, there was nearly a mutiny when he was seen to lean over and shovel up cornets of smoked salmon and beluga caviar, with people recognizing that bubbles were arise in his continuously replenished glass of white wine. Even I began to think that it was entirely possible that with his new seemingly improved financial status Gainor was in fact paying a supplement for first-class cuisine. Indeed this seemed confirmed by our accommodating waiter, who now being goaded by jealous passengers was outdoing himself.
The History of the Ginger Man Page 40
