The Angels Will Not Care

by John Straley

  The old man snatched the cigar out of his mouth be­tween his index and middle fingers. The log of tobacco stretched his fingers wide apart. He shoved his other hand out and took my hand in a crushing grip.

  “Isaac Brenner. How are ya? You’re damn right this is a cigar. You know what I mean? Now this . . .” He held the cigar before him as if he were weighing it with the full force of his arm . . . “Now this is a cigar. Cuban. Get them in Canada, you know. I’m going to smoke it before we get to American waters. This and all of his brothers and sisters.” Isaac Brenner elbowed me so that we would both get the im­plication and he let the locomotive of his conversational style roll on.

  “Stupid. This mess between the United States and Cuba. I mean, really, who does it help? Who does it hurt? I ask you. I was there, you know.” He nodded to me. “Cuba back in the forties. Under Batista. Pigsty, I mean really. Tijuana? Nothing. Havana had the donkey shows, the drugs. Poor people everywhere. Now they ask why there is a revolution? Why the heck do they think there is a revolution? I mean, look around.”

  I looked around. There was nothing but the sign board and an Indonesian-looking man in a white jacket carrying an armload of towels.

  My new companion pushed ahead. “So anyway, Canada has some sense. They stay open and they get these cigars. These stay lit. I mean it.” Mr. Brenner saw me laughing and reached quickly into the breast pocket of his camel hair jacket and pulled out an aluminum tube the size of a model rocket.

  “Here . . . Take . . . Smoke, you’ll see. A perfect, long ash.”

  I took the cigar tube and sniffed it, which I instantly realized was a stupid thing to do, but Isaac Brenner accepted the gesture. “So. I’ll see you upstairs at nine o’clock?”

  He seemed to almost radiate good health as he stood before me bouncing on the balls of his feet. A massive thatch of white hair showed through the shirt he had casually left unbuttoned. I looked at him with something less than under­standing. “Oh, God, no . . .” He smiled and slapped me soundly on the back. “My God, no. You look too good.” And he laughed and moved past me. “Let me know what you think of the cigar. I’ll be seeing you, young fella.”

  He lumbered off down the hallway waving the Cuban cigar over his shoulder like a torch lighting his way.

  I walked to the last stairwell and went up four flights. At each landing the color scheme of the carpets and walls seemed to lighten. At the Dolphin Deck I was standing on a cerulean-blue pattern of waves. I turned and walked to the heavy door I assumed would lead me to the stern, pushed against it, and walked out into the wind.

  I was standing on an outside deck of the bow. We were on the port side and I was looking out over the front of the Westward’s bow lunging through the water.

  The ship had built up speed and was coursing down a channel. There were low bluffs on the port side and pleasure boats like bathtub toys making “V” wakes behind them heading into the shelter of their port. Gulls wheeled overhead. The wind cut full against my body and there was the slight spattering of rain from a few thin clouds. The ship rose and fell into the waves. Each falling was ac­companied by a rush of the white wave sliding from the hull.

  There was a rope hung across the deck just before me, and on the other side were stairs down to the main deck where the docking winches sat. Four black men worked, coiling the thick hawser line used in docking.

  I turned my back to the wind and pulled the collar of my jacket up. On the outer deck above me, Enterprise Deck, I saw the thin girl with the white arms standing out in the wind. Her arms were spread and I could see the IV needle still taped on the inside of her elbow. She spun in the wind and the white dress rolled and billowed around the bones of her legs, her angular torso. She held a champagne bottle in one hand and it seemed to weigh one side of her slender body down. She put her other hand to her face. Her hair was flying, in her eyes, in her mouth. She stripped the hair from her mouth with her fingers, then she patted her sunken cheeks. She wrestled the bottle over her elbow to lift it awk­wardly to her mouth, drinking as if the bottle were a keg of corn liquor. The champagne spilled down the front of her white linen shift and I could see the outline of the ribs high up on her chest. A large white man with a beard came out behind her and cradled her in his arms and took her back inside.

  I turned back and saw the crewmen below me looking up. They were laughing, all except one of them who looked to be saying something scolding as he went back to his work.

  I hiked back to the stern and up one floor to the Enterprise Deck.

  Couples were standing in small groups holding drinks in plastic cups. Most of the men were dressed in slacks and blazers. The women wore colorful slightly ethnic-looking dresses—rust, gold and burgundy. There was laughing and the rolling surf break of conversation up and down the stair­wells and out into the halls. This was the holding area for the first seating of dinner. There was a table set up to distribute complimentary drinks but only if you were assigned to the first seating.

  I continued on up the stairs until I found myself on an­other back deck. Here was the Whipping Post Bar. Feeling proud of myself for my first successful circumnavigation of the ship, I settled back on a corner stool and ordered a cham­pagne cocktail. This was after all a departure, and who was I to cut across the grain of all of this festivity?

  Here were the true drinkers of the voyage. Men in leather vests drinking beer all day long and women who drank vodka slowly and continually. Perfume, cigarette smoke, the clatter of glasses on polished wood, and the tinkle of ice. This was the atmosphere of endless vacation that had lured all of us on board.

  A woman with silver-white hair and a low-cut blue blouse that was the upper half of what I could only describe as some kind of formal golf wear snubbed out her cigarette and asked the man next to her if he were traveling alone. The man brushed back what hair he had left and sat up as straight as he could. “Not for long, I hope.” And we all cackled and raised our glasses to toast our wit.

  I drank the champagne and the bubbling feeling of optimism rose up into the forepart of my brain. Someone asked me what I did for a living, and for some inexplicable reason I told him I was an investment analyst. The silver-haired woman slid over and curled her shoulder into my chest and cooed theatrically, “Oooo, now this is the man for me. I need all the stock tips I can get.” Again we all laughed.

  “Save your money,” I said with as much disdain for those distant markets of the world as I could muster, “and never listen to anybody with less money than you have.”

  The woman leaned back and batted her black whisk-broom lashes. “Now you’re talking . . .” and she tipped her glass as her eyes took a walk over my body.

  “This is my eleventh cruise,” she blurted out to all of us. “I love cruising, you know. I hardly even go home any­more. I can afford it. Why not see the world and be waited on a little? We earned it, didn’t we?” she asked and draped her powdery white arm across my shoulder.

  Of course she knew I was lying about being an invest­ment banker. One look at my ratty clothes probably told her that. But this was flirting, and flirting, after all, expects a cer­tain amount of tolerance for deception. In fact, at these early stages of flirting, lying is preferred. These lies, like the fake yawn, or the over-close examination of someone’s jewelry, are just the groundwork for boozy seduction that may or may not subsequently happen.

  Somehow I missed the first dinner seating. That was okay because I was supposed to. But then I missed the second one, which my new friends and I at the Whipping Post took rather philosophically. We ordered some strange-looking deep-fried finger food while my friends told of their earlier ports of call. I heard about strange taxi rides in Hamburg and dishonest restaurateurs in Papeete. We laughed and smoked and drank like old college chums.

  The evening came down like a curtain and the boat rolled through the sweetening sea. We were leaving sight of land. Somewhere distantly off our
stern were the lights of an unknown Canadian city. I imagined all those ardent working-class poets and the friendly policemen sitting down to their dinners of boiled beef or whatever the indigenous food of Canada was, then I ate another morsel of the unknown fried food.

  There were lights just off the stern illuminating the pure white foam of the wake. Gulls dove in and out of the glare and their shadows streaked across the lower deck. I watched the gulls as I listened to my companion, whose name was Elaine from St. Petersburg, Florida, enumerate her extraordinarily bad luck with husbands. But when I looked back to finish my cocktail and dip one more niblet into the spicy tomato sauce, I realized I was alone at the bar and Elaine had apparently finished talking and was gone.

  I tried to walk into the Great Circle Lounge but the door was barred and a very pleasant Filipino man in a white jacket told me the captain’s cocktail party was hap­pening and that I had to enter the lounge from the bow side. The pleasant man made a strange gesture with his hand over his shoulders. He made the gesture several times and when I tried to decode it he explained, “Jacket, sir. Jacket.”

  “No, that’s all right. I have one,” I told him as I fingered the dirty collar of my second-hand coat and started to weave toward the outside deck.

  My fellow passengers were lined up in the passageway outside of the Great Circle Lounge. They were all in their finery, tuxedos and black dresses. They were all waiting to enter and be presented to the captain. The end of the line curved down the stairs and out of sight. I leaned against the bulkhead to steady myself although the motion of the ship was slight. Just as I was about to launch back in the direction of the Whipping Post I saw Todd and Jane Marie.

  Todd was in a black suit with a white shirt and tie. He stood straight. Somewhere he had taken on a new pair of fashionable wire-rimmed glasses. He was looking down and smiling attentively as a young woman spoke to him in an animated fashion. Todd looked wonderful. He seemed more dignified than I had ever imagined him. He still had his cam­era around his neck and the pockets of his suit coat bulged with extra rolls of film, but still, I was amazed because he looked so dignified and at ease. For some reason, now I was irritated with him.

  Jane Marie had her arm casually draped through Todd’s arm and I watched her for a moment and was overwhelmed by my drunkard’s sense of wonder which is always slightly tinged with self-pity. Her black dress hung just off the crest of her shoulders and clung down her torso, stopping mid­way down her thighs. The fabric sparkled slightly and had a soft texture that invited touch. She wore just a little lipstick and maybe something on her eyes but perhaps her eyes had always been that intense.

  It has been my experience that to love a beautiful woman is to live in fear. I walked down the stairs toward them.

  She saw me and did not smile.

  “You missed Sonny,” she said flatly.

  “Damn the bad luck,” I said.

  “He wants to see you.” She would not look at me.

  “He’s probably not far off.”

  Jane Marie took my hand. Although she wasn’t looking at me, her voice eased into a soft intimacy. “Cecil, I know we’ve been kind of . . . out of touch these last few weeks. But this trip . . . maybe we can do something about that.

  A black steward walked down the stairs balancing a tray of champagne glasses. Jane Marie was struggling to continue her sentence. I took two flutes of champagne and offered her one. She took the glass but still would not look at me.

  “One toast,” I said and held the glass up to her. “To whatever it is we have to do . . .”

  Jane Marie shook her head sadly and gave the glass to the young woman who was talking to Todd.

  “You’ve got to snap out of this, Cecil. This summer . . . this thing with Grant . . . Don’t try to tough it out. Don’t go Bogart on me.” And she rubbed the back of her hand against my cheek.

  “Don’t worry, doll. I’ve never toughed out anything in my life.” I tried to smile, but she turned away suddenly.

  A woman in a blue silk dress charged up to her and started asking questions about the bridge tournament. I walked along as the line inched toward the captain of the ship. Another steward took our glasses before we walked through the cut glass and brass doors of the Great Cir­cle Lounge. The door opened and I saw the liquid blue-green light of the interior of the lounge. I saw a gray-haired man in a short white military-style jacket. He was being photographed with a Japanese couple. The band was playing “Three O’Clock in the Morning.” Jane Marie went in before me and I took one step behind her when someone grabbed my arm and jerked me out of line.

  Sonny Walters was standing with his handsome face reddening rapidly. He was wearing a perfectly tailored pale blue tuxedo jacket with padded shoulders. He jutted his face in front of mine.

  “This is a formal reception, Mr. Younger. It is absolutely not acceptable for you to be here dressed like this.”

  “Lend me your coat then, Sonny,” I slurred and leaned into him to avoid a steward rushing by with an armload of empty glasses. Sonny moved me into a small dark area behind the bandstand.

  “This is just not working. We’ve been to sea a few hours and already you are screwing up—excuse my French—the program.”

  Sonny ducked his head away and steadied his perfect hair with a shaking hand. “I’m going to put you ashore at the next port, Mr. Younger. I need your friend Ms. De Angelo, but you and whatever he is . . . Todd . . . will be put off on the dock and you can very well fly back to Sitka.” Sonny was trying not to sound peevish. The thick baritone voice was slipping up an octave.

  He turned and disappeared behind a black curtain. I peeked around it. In the room behind the curtain a mirrored ball was spinning. Darts of light cut across the parquet floor, shattering on the glasses stacked near the bar. Todd was tak­ing a picture of the spinning ball. The pretty dark-haired girl who’d been talking to him earlier came over and asked him to dance. He looked at her as if she were offering to set him on fire. The band was playing “Tuxedo Junction” and the girl took Todd’s hand to lead him out on the dance floor.

  In the corner near the bar an elegant black man in a white tuxedo and red cummerbund was leaning close in to Jane Marie, admiring the string of pearls around her throat. She turned her head and her long throat made a lovely arch as she smiled up at the spinning ball. She smiled as if she were warming herself on the man’s breath.

  It was nine-fifteen as I walked away from the Great Circle Lounge. I climbed the stairs. The Gallery Deck was a lighter blue and the Horizon Deck was a spangle of sand-shaded fabric. Chrome encased the light fixtures and large windows looked out over the dark water where the lights of the ship reflected off the waves. I turned toward the bow and stopped at the signboard on the easel at the entrance to the Compass Room. It read:

  welcome, members of

  l’inconnue de la seine travel club!

  reception 9:00 pm till whenever!!!

  MEMBERS ONLY, PLEASE.

  Under the printing was a drawing of a young woman’s face. Her eyes were closed and she had a slight smile. Her hair was pulled back from her forehead and the muscles of her face were relaxed. The drawing was eerie: a few lines of ink on white paper, but her face had an almost hypnotic quality of repose. I don’t know how long I stared at it because I became lost in some vague dream: thinking about Todd downstairs in his black suit. And Jane Marie’s entreaty to me to get back in touch. Then about Sonny’s threat to bump Todd and me off the ship in Ketchikan. I stared at the drawing of the girl and felt that nothing I could do would change anything.

  I looked up and through the door I saw the white girl with the skinny arms. She still had a champagne bottle and she was dancing with her eyes closed. She opened her eyes and looked at me standing there outside the door as if I had fallen out of the sky.

  “Hello,” she said in her hazy voice and she walked out into the hall. “You look sad. Did
you find the doctor?” Her eyes darted under her drooping lids. Her gaze wandered over my face. Then I realized that part of what gave her face such a pale expression was she had no eyebrows at all.

  “I wasn’t really looking,” I told her and pointed into the Compass Room. “Are you having a party?”

  “No.” She shook her head slowly and then came for­ward, putting both of her arms around my neck. She held me as if we were dancing, pressing her head against my chest and swaying from side to side. She smelled of lemon soap and when I put my hand on her back I could feel the sharp ridges of her shoulder blades.

  “There is nothing to be afraid of.” She said it softly. “Do you know that?” She lifted her head back and looked at me. For an instant her expression cleared and her eyes were steady on mine. She looked quizzical and at the same time deeply concerned. “There is nothing to be afraid of.”

  She leaned forward and kissed me. Her frail body trem­bled; her lips were so thin and dry that it hardly seemed like a kiss at all. She licked my tongue, then my lips. Her mouth, but for the slight hint of champagne, tasted like ash.

  Someone tapped me on the shoulder. It was a large black man wearing a white jumpsuit. He smiled broadly.

  “Mr. Walters asked me to find you, sir. He wondered if you would like to watch the film being shown on the television.”

  Mr. Brenner came from the Compass Room with the huge cigar still in his mouth. He gestured back into the room and the large white man I had seen on deck with the spin­ning girl came and wrapped his arms around her and they disappeared back into the Compass Room and closed the door. The pale arms of the girl hung loosely at her sides and her eyes were closed. I felt a massive hand on my upper arm.

  “Please, sir.” The crewman said. He had a thick French Caribbean accent. He turned me around and we started to­ward an elevator that was held open by another crew person. We stepped in and the crewman pushed the A button all the way at the bottom.

  “What does that mean?” I asked, nodding toward the door. “L’Inconnue de la Seine?” The door shut quietly in front of my nose. The hydraulics of the elevator squealed slightly.