Poly pointed to the prow. “Captain van Leyden, is it all right if we go up there and sit sometimes? We’ll be very careful, and we won’t be in anybody’s hair, and of course we’ll stay out of the way when we’re in port.”
Simon added shyly, “And we can pretend we’re setting out to help Bolivar free South America.”
“It is all right,” Captain van Leyden replied in his precise, guttural English, “as long as you disturb nothing. Do not climb into the cars, or try to open the crates.”
“Oh, we won’t, we promise, we’ll be very careful.”
The captain smiled down at them. “We do not often have children aboard.”
“Why is that?” Charles asked.
“To be free to take a freighter trip means leisure, and for most people this leisure does not come until after the time of retirement. We usually have no one under sixty-five.”
“Our father isn’t anywhere nearly sixty-five,” Charles said. “He isn’t even fifty.”
“No. We have a very young ship this time. There is not much for young peoples to do. I hope you will amuse yourselves.”
“Of course we will,” Poly assured him. “Everything’s marvelous, Captain.”
“It is cold, now,” the captain said, “and you and Master Simon were chilled this afternoon. You had best go in where it is warmer.”
“We’re just on our way. Thank you, Captain.”
They stepped over the high sill and made their way along the passage and up the steps. Dr. O’Keefe, Dr. Eisenstein, Dr. Wordsworth, Mr. Theo, and the Smiths were in the salon, with Geraldo passing drinks and nuts. Simon did not see Cousin Forsyth.
“Let’s go out on the aft deck,” Poly suggested, “at least for a few minutes.”
They walked down the port passage, past the professors’ cabin, past Simon’s and Cousin Forsyth’s. At cabin 5, Simon paused. “This is where the Bolivar portrait is.”
“Is it really famous, Simon?”
Simon pushed the fisherman’s cap back on his head. “I never thought about it being famous before Cousin Forsyth came along.”
“We have a portrait of our grandmother when she was young and beautiful, but it isn’t famous. It’s—” She stopped as a voice sounded loudly from cabin 5.
“I will not tolerate carelessness or curiosity.” It was Cousin Forsyth’s voice, followed by a low, indistinguishable murmur, then, “But you were trying to look at the portrait, don’t deny that.” The murmur came again, and then Cousin Forsyth’s voice was lowered, as it had been while he was talking with Dr. Wordsworth.
“Is there any reason people shouldn’t look at the portrait?” Poly asked.
Simon shook his head. “Not that I know of. But it’s all crated, so you can’t see it.”
“He certainly sounded mad at someone. Who do you s’pose?”
“I don’t know.”
“And wouldn’t anyone have to pry open the crate to see the portrait?”
Simon shook his head again. “Beyond me.”
“It’s made me curious, at any rate,” Poly said, but she moved on and rested her hand lightly on the handle of the fourth door. “For those like me who don’t like showers, there’s a bathtub in here. Geraldo says he’ll unlock it for me tomorrow.”
Simon asked, “Why is it kept locked?”
“Oh, things are always kept locked in ports, and he’s been so busy this afternoon, what with us falling in the drink and all, that he hasn’t had time to do anything else.” She started to open the door to the back deck, which was reserved for the passengers; there were lights strung up under the canvas awning, and it looked cheerful, if cold.
But just at that moment Dr. O’Keefe called from the head of the corridor, “Dinner’s ready, kids. Come along.”
The passengers sat at two tables: Cousin Forsyth, Simon, Mr. Theo, and the Smiths at one; the O’Keefes, Dr. Wordsworth, and Dr. Eisenstein at the other. At a third table sat Captain van Leyden, his first officer, Lyolf Boon, second officer Berend Ruimtje, and chief engineer Olaf Koster. The essential second language for these Dutchmen was Spanish, and their English tired easily, so it was simpler for the officers to sit apart from the passengers.
The captain’s table was waited on by Jan ten Zwick, the chief steward; Geraldo tended the passengers. Poly was right: the food was plenteous and well prepared.
“I believe,” Cousin Forsyth said in his lightly ponderous way—very unlike the way in which Simon had heard him speaking to Dr. Wordsworth—“that the chief reason freighters carry passengers is to afford a good chef for the officers. This is as good a rijstafel as I’ve ever tasted.”
Whatever it was, thought Simon, it was delicious, and very unlike the nearly meatless diet he was accustomed to. He ate with appetite. He would have been happier at the table with Poly and Charles, where conversation was lively, with little bursts of laughter. Poly looked over and winked at him, and he winked back.
“What was that, Simon?” Cousin Forsyth asked.
Simon rubbed his eye. “Nothing, sir.” He looked down at his empty plate, then across to the table where the officers were eating. Mynheer Lyolf Boon, the first officer, folded his napkin, said something in Dutch to the captain, and left.
Simon’s table had finished dessert, a delectable mixture of apples and flaky pastry, well before the second table, and everyone had moved out of the dining room into the salon for coffee. Simon sat at the far end, on a long sofa under the fore windows. Mr. Theo settled himself in a chair not far off, with his volume of Shakespeare. Cousin Forsyth was talking to the Smiths, and pointing to a card table in the corner of the room near the door to the foyer. Simon closed his eyes, suddenly overwhelmed with sleep.
“Simon …” It was a whisper.
He jumped. Poly and Charles stood in front of him. “Oh. Hi. I was just sleepy for a minute.”
Geraldo came up with a small tray of half-filled demitasses and a pitcher of hot milk, put it down on the table, and then bustled back to the other passengers.
Poly sat down beside Simon. “I’ll pour. Have some, Simon?”
He nodded. “I’ve never had coffee before. Aunt Leonis and I drink tea.”
“You may not like it, then. Put lots of sugar and milk in; then it tastes sort of like hot coffee ice cream.”
Simon followed her instructions, tasted, and smiled.
“Oh, Simon,” Poly said, her long legs in green tights stretching out under her plaid skirt, “I’m so glad you’re you. Suppose you’d been some awful creep? Whatever would we have done, all cooped together like this?”
Simon nodded in solemn agreement. “I’m glad yawl are you, too.” Now that he was relaxed, his voice was warm and rhythmic.
Poly flashed her brightest smile. “I like the way you talk, Simon. It isn’t all nasal and whiny like some of the Southerners we’ve met.”
“I was born in Charleston.” It was a simple statement of fact.
Poly giggled. “Snob.”
Simon blushed slightly. “I like the way you talk, too. It isn’t British—”
“Of course not! We’re American!”
“—It’s just clean and clear. Aunt Leonis loves music more than anything in the world, so voices are very important to her. Her voice is beautiful, not a bit cracked and aged. Somebody compared her voice to Ethel Barrymore’s —I guess she was some kind of famous actress in the olden days.”
Poly poured Simon some more coffee and hot milk. “Hey, look at all the grownups over there, nosing each other out. And we knew about each other right away.”
“Well, they didn’t almost get drowned together,” Simon said. “You saved my life, so that means—”
“It means we belong together forevermore,” Poly said solemnly.
Charles was looking across the salon at the adults. “They’ve forgotten how to play Make Believe. That’s a sure way to tell about somebody—the way they play, or don’t play, Make Believe. Poly, you won’t ever grow too old for it, will you?”
“I ho
pe not.” But she sounded dubious.
Simon pushed back a lock of fair hair from his face. “My Aunt Leonis is very good at it. Actually, she’s my great-grandaunt, or something. When people get ancient they seem to remember how to play again—although I don’t think Aunt Leonis ever forgot. She says you can tell about people—whether they’re friend or foe—by your sense of smell, and that most people lose it.”
“Fe fi fo fum,” Charles intoned, “I smell the blood of an Englishman.”
“It’s probably our pheromones,” Poly said.
“Our what?” Simon asked.
“Pheromones. They’re really quite simple molecules, eight or ten carbon atoms in a chain, and what they do is send out—well, sort of a smell, but it’s nothing we smell on a conscious level, we just react to it. For instance, a female moth sends out pheromones at mating time, and a male moth comes flying, but he doesn’t know why, he just responds to the pheromones, and we’re not any more conscious of it than moths. At least most of us aren’t. Charles is, sometimes.” She stopped, then said, “It’s obvious that we’re children of scientists. Maybe Aunt Leonis’s sense of smell is simpler and just as good.” She sniffed delicately, and looked with quick affection at Simon. “You smell superb, Simon.”
He sniffed in his turn. “You smell right lovely yourself. Maybe it’s your red hair.”
But Poly sighed. “I haven’t worn a hat in years because I keep hoping that if I keep my hair uncovered and let the salt air and wind and sun work on it, maybe I’ll bleach out and turn into a blonde. It hasn’t shown any signs of happening yet, but I keep on hoping.”
“You look right nice exactly the way you are,” Simon said firmly.
He might be a year younger than she was, but Poly felt a warm glow. “Look, your Cousin Forsyth is playing bridge with the Smiths and Dr. Eisenstein. That’s a funny combination.”
Simon looked at the card table. Bridge was another unexpected facet in Cousin Forsyth, who was shuffling with great expertise.
“At any rate,” Poly said, “we’re certain about Mr. Theo.”
“Certain?” Simon asked.
“That he’s all right. He’s a friend of Uncle Father’s and that means he’s okay.”
“Uncle Father?” Simon asked.
“My godfather. Canon Tom Tallis. You remember, we were talking about him at tea.”
“Why do you call him Uncle Father?”
Poly gave her infectious giggle. “Rosy, our baby sister, started it when she was just beginning to talk, and we all took it up. We see more of Uncle Father than we do of our own grandparents, because we live so many thousands of miles apart, but Uncle Father was in and out of Portugal for a while, so he’s a sort of extra grandparent for us. And I guess I trust him more than I trust anybody in the world.”
Charles said, “But he warns you about that, Pol. He says that no human being is a hundred percent trustworthy, and that he’s no exception.”
Poly shrugged. “I know, but I trust him anyhow. Trust isn’t a matter of reason. It’s a matter of pheromones. I trust Simon.”
Simon beamed with pleasure. “My Aunt Leonis says that it isn’t proper to ask personal questions. But yawl can ask me anything you like.”
Poly asked immediately, “How does it happen that you have a portrait of Simon Bolivar in your family, and why’re you taking it to Venezuela with Cousin Forsyth?”
Simon’s eyes took on the pale grey stare which meant that he was moving back into memory. Aunt Leonis lived as much in the past as in the present, and the games of Make Believe she played with Simon were usually forays into time remembered. Simon, his voice low and rhythmic, said, “My favorite ancestor is Quentin Phair. He was the youngest son in a large family in Kent. In England. In the olden days the eldest son got the title, then there was the army or the navy or the law or the church, and after that the younger sons had to fend for themselves. So when Quentin Phair was nineteen and announced that he was going to South America to help free the continent, his family didn’t even try to stop him. He fought with Bolivar, and became his good friend, and the portrait is one painted at the time of the freeing of Ecuador, when Bolivar was at the height of his greatness. Aunt Leonis said that in going to Venezuela the way he did, Quentin really gave up his youth for others.”
“But how did you get the portrait?”
“Not me, and it won’t ever be mine, now. It came to Aunt Leonis when her brother died, because he didn’t have children.”
“Yes, but Quentin was English, wasn’t he?” Poly asked. “How did the portrait get to South Carolina?”
“Well, when Quentin finally went home to England, his mother had just inherited a sizable hunk of property in the South of the United States, so he offered to come over and see about it for her, expecting to stay only a few weeks.”
“But he took over his mother’s property and stayed forever,” Charles said, as though he were ending a fairy tale.
Simon smiled. “He met a young girl, Niniane St. Clair, and they fell in love and were married.”
“What a pretty name,” Poly said. “Niniane. She was beautiful, of course?”
“We have a miniature of her. It’s very faded, but yes, she was beautiful. And when Aunt Leonis was young she looked just like her. Quentin built Pharaoh for Niniane, and all their children were born there. The landscape must have reminded him of Venezuela, especially in the spring and summer, with all the same kinds of flowers, bougainvillaea, oleander, cape jessamine, and the great, lush, jungly trees. It wasn’t tamed and cultivated the way it is now.”
“Pharaoh,” Poly mused. “It’s sort of a pun, isn’t it?”
“I like it.” Simon was slightly defensive.
“Well, so do I. And the portrait?”
“It’s been handed down from generation to generation. It’s a very special treasure. Since Aunt Leonis never married, it was to come to my mother as next of kin, and then to me. Only we had to sell it.”
“But why on earth would you sell it?” Poly asked.
“We needed the money.”
“Oh.” Poly flushed slowly, as she had that afternoon when speaking Spanish to Geraldo over Simon’s head.
“It was the last of the portraits. Aunt Leonis sold most of them when she had to sell Pharaoh—the big house and most of the furnishings and the silver and the grounds. Her father tried very hard to keep Pharaoh going, but he got into terrible debt, and when he died Aunt Leonis had to sell everything, even the portrait of Quentin Phair. But at least it stayed in the house, over the mantelpiece in the library where it’s always hung. I look like him, my ancestor Quentin. I hope that when I grow up I’ll be like him.”
“If you had to sell Pharaoh, where do you live?” Poly asked.
“Aunt Leonis kept an acre and a bit, and we live in an old cottage. If there’s a heavy rain from the northeast, the roof leaks in exactly eight places, which is a powerful lot for a small house. Aunt Leonis has various buckets and pots and pans which she puts out to catch the leaks, and she’s managed to work it out so that as the rain hits each pot it plays a different note of the scale, and we have a mighty fine time listening to the different tunes the rain makes.”
“Your Aunt Leonis,” Charles said, “sounds like the kind of aunt everybody would like to have. Who else would have thought of making something magic about eight leaks in a roof?”
“I sometimes think Aunt Leonis doesn’t enjoy it nearly as much as I do, but she never lets on that she’d really rather have the roof repaired. We have a purty little garden patch behind the house, and we have live oaks and water oaks all around to give us privacy—not that we need it; the Yankees who bought Pharaoh are only there a couple of months a year. Sometimes Aunt Leonis and I pretend that we’re visiting our cottage, bringing turkey broth and custard to a sick child, and that we really live in Pharaoh, the way Aunt Leonis did when she was young. We have a right fine old time together.”
Charles said slowly, “I think I love your Aunt Leonis.”
/> “She’s a great believer that all things work together for good. It’s Cousin Forsyth who’s come to the rescue now. And maybe that’s good, but I didn’t want her to sell the portrait.”
Charles spoke quietly. “I’d guess that she sold it because she loves you more than she loves the portrait.”
Simon nodded, and looked across the salon to where Cousin Forsyth was spreading out his cards with a flourish.
Poly’s regard followed his. “How does your Cousin Forsyth come into it?”
“Out of the blue, you might say,” Simon replied, and told them.
“So you really don’t know him very well.”
Simon looked across the salon, and thought of the conversation he had heard between Cousin Forsyth and Dr. Wordsworth. “I don’t think I know him at all.”
2
THE FIRST NIGHT AT SEA
Charles and Dr. O’Keefe shared the second double cabin on the starboard corridor, and Poly had the first single cabin, next to theirs. She was in bed, reading, happy with her compact little nest, barely big enough for bunk, chest of drawers, washbasin. On the chest she had propped her favorite travel companion, an ancient icon of St. George battling the dragon, which she had taken from a calendar and mounted on a thin piece of wood. Wherever she had St. George she felt at home, and protected from all dragons, real or imaginary.
A brisk, rhythmic knock came on her door, the family knock, and Charles entered, wearing pajamas and bathrobe. “Hi. What are you reading?”
“Wuthering Heights.”
“Would I like it?”
“Not yet.”
“I’m not that much younger than you are.”
“You’re a boy, and you wouldn’t like it yet,” she stated dogmatically.
Charles let it drop, looked around for a place to sit, and then climbed up onto the foot of her bunk and sat cross-legged, lotus position.
“I like it when you sit that way,” Poly said.
“It’s comfortable.”
“And you didn’t even know it was a special position, used by Eastern holy men when they meditate?”
“How would I know? It’s a good position for thinking in.”
Dragons in the Waters Page 4
