Now, he has another letter of introduction written by Hatton, this time for the American businessman Charles Sanford, who is running all sorts of deals in South America for Barings Bank.
“My boy,” said Hatton, “you need two things to escape this Emin Pasha scandal. You need distance and you need money.”
So, for a little distance and a little money, the United States and this tour of the lyceums with Major Pond will do. But for big distance there’s South America, and for big money there is, apparently, Argentina. Ward wonders about the mortality rate as he turns this second letter of introduction over in his hands.
The wind rifles through his hair and his monstrous wing-coat, absurd, flaps about him, bringing an unwanted element of drama to everything he does. He feels like an old-time villain. The letter goes back into the pocket and he leans against the railing. Glave, head down, has somehow miraculously managed to light his pipe and he is drawing in quick pants, letting the cherry-smelling smoke fly into the salty air.
“Just give her the letter,” Glave says.
“Well, it’s not really for her, is it?”
“Then give it to Sanford.”
“I don’t think he’s left his rooms since we got on board.” Ward will try his luck with the daughter. At times like this, Ward misses Casement, who knows how to talk to women, earns “Mayala Swami” in drawing rooms and garden parties, makes everything seem so natural.
“Is she really so terrifying?” Glave is amused. “I could drop her with one shot right between the eyes.”
“It would help if she didn’t look so miserable.”
“Is it misery?”
Sarita is wrapped in a blanket, as are all the women seated in the deck chairs. The chairs are arranged in a long row, angled for the warmth of the sun, but somehow the arrangement makes the ladies seem like vegetables—ripe for picking.
“Maybe she’s just cold.” Glave considers. “She’s probably bored.”
Although, just then, a look of woe rises in her features, as if some horror has been remembered. Ward brings out the letter. “All right,” he says. “I’m going in.”
Sarita has been eyeing the two young men. At times, it seems that they are looking at her but looking away. And there is something in their sunburned faces and restlessness that holds her attention. Why would they be looking at her? One is a bit older with a broad forehead, clean-shaven, and smoking a pipe. His friend is blond with mustaches, wearing a too-big coat. She wonders if these men have been playing the game where you pick a person and try to figure out their story. That’s what women do because women have nothing better to occupy them. Maybe the men are Australians, which would explain the restlessness. Or maybe they’ve been working in South America, only they’re going the wrong way.
Charles Brock-Innes exiting the linen closet. The scene plays through her mind—a theatrical retread.
Then the blond man is standing right in her line of vision. He’s holding a letter.
“Miss Sanford,” he says.
“Yes.” He’s blocking the sun, and the beams disperse around his head as if he is an icon or an Olympian.
“I have a letter of introduction to your father.” He extends the letter, which she takes. She looks at it.
“Who shall I say it’s from?”
“Herbert Ward.” He extends his hand hastily, and she shakes it.
“Wonderful. I’ll give it to him.”
Ward nods. He thinks maybe he should just walk away, but that seems rude. Although hovering over Miss Sanford doesn’t feel much better.
“Where are you from, Mister Ward?”
“Ah, the Congo.”
“You don’t seem sure.”
“I’m also from London. And some other places.” Ward looks hastily over his shoulder at Glave, who has been watching the exchange unfold as if he is at the theatre.
Glave rouses himself.
“And what is it you do, Mister Ward?”
Which throws Ward into more confusion, confusion that he tries to sort through as Glave introduces himself, exchanges—in his polite yet unadorned way—the details of their journey thus far, what they intend to do in America, what manner of business kept them in Congo.
“So you’ve written a book?” says Miss Sanford.
“I have a first draft. And a contract for publication.”
“What is your book called?”
“Five Years With the Congo Cannibals. It’s not out yet, won’t be for a few months.”
“You’re a writer?”
“I feel more confident with my drawing.”
“Ward is a great artist,” says Glave. “Very talented.”
“Do you have your drawings with you, Mister Ward?”
“I do.”
“Would you be willing to share them?”
“I wouldn’t want to take up your time.”
“Please, take up my time,” Sarita says, aware that the boldness of that statement is not correct, aware that she is ceasing to care. “We have five days before we land in New York and I have studied the line of horizon for long enough. I’m sick of my own thoughts.” She waves her hand dramatically and follows this with a smile that’s clearest in her eyes. “Show me something new.”
Just like that, Ward had been reinvented: He had shown something new. He tries to think if he’d ever mentioned to Glave just how important his art was to him, how his artistic inclinations had fed the animosity between his father and himself. Had he ever told Glave the real reason he left for New Zealand at the age of fifteen? The truth of it—when he thinks back to that time—is that his father’s complete dismissal of his admittedly ridiculous plan had made a reality of a fantasy, had packed his bags for him, had helped to scrape together the money and give a little steel to Ward’s young backbone until—as Ward rounded the Cape of Good Hope—he realized that posturing had morphed into execution. If it were all a joke, the punch line had been delivered without Ward’s noticing. He had both won and lost, now an adventurer who had to have an adventure whether or not he still felt so inclined. Until now, he hears his father’s laughter rattling around his brain, that laughter that stirs itself whenever he is unsure, like the ghost-scent of perfume in a disturbed scarf.
He is unsure now. His old friend, Alfred Harmsworth, had laid it out for him over lunch in London. Ward needed a long-range plan. Ward wasn’t getting any younger. Ward needed the real money that real men need as opposed to the coins and cups of soup that satisfied the appetites of youth. And Harmsworth pointed out that, although Ward was an adventurer, his time cavorting with monkeys and digging for Australian gold had left him naïve rather than worldly. Ward knew nothing of the manners and means of civilized society.
In those months between returning from Borneo and leaving for the Congo, Ward and Harmsworth had shared a ramshackle house in West Hampstead. Then, ambition had formed the bulk of their sustenance. Harmsworth had been writing for pennies but with complete conviction that all the scribbling would amount to something. Now he was editing, making deals, making real money. And Ward was starting over.
Harmsworth had flipped through Ward’s manuscript as it stood, given him a couple of pointers, bought him a steak at a good London establishment, shaken his hand warmly, and predicted—with a fierce twinkle in his eyes—that they would be in business together soon. That would be good but was hardly something to rely on. And what exactly would Ward do?
Ward sits on the lower bunk, his head at an uncomfortable angle. The porthole is barely cracked because of the cold and the cabin smells of mildew and sweat, of damp wool, and, luckily, of pine as well, a result of the crate. Glave is sitting up on top of the crate, holding his pipe but not lighting it, as if that final odor in the room might cause some manner of explosion. Ward has his drawings spread across the thin wool blanket—all these pictures that seemed works of great accomplishme
nt now appear to be the result of prolonged, committed dabbling. Ward hears Jameson’s voice echo in his head, Drawing is a gentleman’s pursuit. It’s just pictures, he tells himself.
“You can’t show her that,” says Glave.
“Why not?”
“He’s completely naked. And she’s completely naked. It’s not exactly polite. But this one’s good, just a head with some nice ornamental scarring. And here’s an Arab.”
“Everyone’s seen Arabs. The Congo natives are what’s interesting and all these illustrations are going into the book anyway.”
“All right then, Ward,” says Glave. “Your call. Go sit with your Miss Sanford and show her pictures of naked Africans.”
“I will,” says Ward. “And she’s not ‘my Miss Sanford.’”
He tells himself, Miss Sanford needs distraction and he needs distraction and that’s it. “My Miss Sanford.” With her American money, her power, her Barings Bank, England in her pocket, the quickness in her eye.
He has not a chance with her and is not looking for a wife.
A marriage for men like him happens late in one’s thirties, when one’s health cannot handle the ravages of harsh climates and the adventure has been burned to the butt so that a cheerful face, a pleasant household, and maybe a couple of children to teach to shoot and to send off to school are actually welcomed. But family is barbed for him. He is more traumatized by his childhood than by anything that Borneo or New Zealand or the Congo could throw his way.
No. She is not his Miss Sanford. He’s safe, fine with that. Still, he trims his mustaches, moves that stray hair into the rich bank of blond above his right brow, knocks his shoulders back: he’s not tall but cuts a good figure.
Glave, chewing on his unlit pipe, smiles at him.
“What?” says Ward.
“Nothing at all,” says Glave.
Miss Sanford is standing at the railing looking out at the waves. He feels odd approaching her with his satchel, as if this is a scene from another’s life, purloined from a novel. There, she turns and smiles. There, the light spills from her eyes. There, she approaches. Ward clears his throat. He has no time for this, no interest in the sheltered girl trussed into her dress that makes a vase of her torso, the poof of her hair no doubt harboring a battery of pins, that armful of gathered silk suspended at her rear, her legs cocooned in silk, her arms constricted by the stiff mutton sleeves of her dress. She has sharp eyebrows and her pale gray eyes scan over him, searching for something, weaving like the head of a cobra.
“Good morning, Mister Ward,” she says. “Are those your drawings?”
“Good morning,” he says. He looks to the satchel and nods.
“It’s so nice to be out on deck,” she says, “but not that conducive to looking at pictures. I’d be worried one would blow away.”
“We could duck into the saloon,” says Ward.
There’s a moment of silence.
“Well,” she says, recovering, “I could definitely use some tea. Would you mind coming to our rooms? I’m sure my mother would appreciate seeing your work.”
“Of course,” says Ward. He’s out of his mind. Miss Sanford can’t go to the saloon, not with him, not with anyone. He feels the heat rising in his face. What should he say? “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have suggested the saloon. It’s just that I’m out of touch. I’ve been in—”
“I know,” she says, as she widens her eyes for comic effect, “Africa.” She takes a step forward and Ward notices another woman, in a plain dress, stir from farther along the railing. This must be her maid.
Miss Sanford crosses the deck to the brass-handled, glass doors. Should he open the door for her? Should he wait for her to make a gesture, permitting entrance? The maid steps in front and swings the door out, permitting Ward to hold it open for Miss Sanford without presuming. The maid, chin raised, looks at Ward in the reflection of the door’s glass pane: She’s appraising him. Ward holds the door, allowing the women to enter first. His face is burning. Was he supposed to give the door back to the maid, to enter before her?
The room is a riot of red velvet and glinting crystal, thick rugs, damask ceilings—everything made into a soft cushion or a sharp, reflecting edge. Women are sunk into brocade conversationals, arranged across upholstered benches, and men inserted into the deep casings of wingchairs. A smattering of light conversation rises like the burble of pigeons. Newspapers shake open. Porcelain chimes. “The first-class lounge is a bit overdone,” she says. “Maybe you already—”
“Glave and I are in second class.” Ward announces this as if it’s a matter of some pride.
“Of course,” she says. “Roughing it.”
Her manner is relaxed, yet oddly tragic. And cheerful.
“Here we are.”
Another door and Ward steps into a world of painted landscapes and miniature Stubbs cattle, lacquered furniture, and weak light spattered about by a myriad of crystal. Crystal dangles from the lamps, loops through chandeliers, is arranged about reflecting salvers ready to be filled with bloodred wine or sparkling Champagne. But all the light is artificial, as if perfumed. Somewhere, is there music? No, but his imagination has supplied it. And there are several sinuous sculptures of naked Greeks—inflected with classicism, drained of blood, unsexed. But naked none-the-less. In one corner, a recent putica is draped in nothing but her modesty. Ward is pondering how this is accomplished when he realizes that his bald contemplation of the naked female has been noticed.
“Do you like sculpture, Mister Ward?”
“It is something I want to know more about,” he says. It could be worse. She could be shy, short of words, exhausting, but as it is, he feels that he is being made fun of. She knows she’s playing with the better hand and, although this might bother Ward, it is somehow a relief. “Do you always travel with this much art?” This is a good shot, he thinks, as if he’s playing tennis.
“No, actually,” she says. “My father just went on a bit of a binge in Paris—most of it is still in London. I think the shops of Les Invalides are now emptied of artwork.”
“Were you with him?”
“For part of it, yes.” Her face calms and then brightens. “Did you see the Paris Exposition?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Well, that’s a shame. It was quite the spectacle. They had African villages set up, so that you could see how the people live.”
Ward doesn’t know where to go with this. “I suppose I could have been a part of that, hung around the fire, asked if they had any malafu to spare.”
Miss Sanford laughs, waves him off to dispel embarrassment. “That would have lent an element of realism, I suppose. What’s malafu?”
“It’s a drink. Very alcoholic. You wouldn’t like it.”
“How can you be sure?”
Is she charming him? Ward thinks she is. Why would she charm him? He pauses before a small oil of an Italian countryside and reads Corot in the corner. He hasn’t spent much time in the museums since his Hampstead days when he would go to the Tate and the National and spend hours, slack-jawed, trying to determine how undeniable greatness existed on flat planes bordered in heavy gilt. “Are these your permanent rooms?”
“On this ship? No. I think we’ve had these rooms before, but we just book what we need and they stick us wherever. Normally, it isn’t quite so crowded. For some reason, there wasn’t sufficient room in the first-class storage—the secure area, anyway—and we had to keep a few crates in here. I had the maids unpack everything because I couldn’t think of what else to do. And it stops them from getting grouchy. Long voyages, nothing to keep one occupied, you know . . . it’s the not the way to run a household.”
Ward thinks of his three crates that have displaced the Sanford collection and almost feels like telling her about it. He thinks of Msa, who was always busy without Ward needing to come up with activities for
him.
“Mister Ward,” she says. “Would you like tea? We do have coffee and I’m partial to it. It’s part of my South American upbringing.”
“I like coffee,” says Ward. “Some coffee would be very nice.”
Miss Sanford rings a crystal bell and her maid appears so suddenly that Ward thinks she was sneakily hiding behind the door. Or is it polite for a maid to keep out of sight?
“Paz,” says Miss Sanford. “Unos cafecitos, por favor. Y donde esta mi madre?”
“Esta en la cama, señorita. Tiene un dolor de cabeza.”
There’s some other politeness that ensues, and then the maid retires.
“You speak Spanish,” says Ward.
Miss Sanford nods. “It’s not that difficult, and has been useful, but every time I encounter someone not speaking English, I find myself blabbering away in Spanish regardless of where I am. In Paris, I was speaking Spanish all the time and no one knew what I was saying.”
“I do the same thing,” says Ward. “Only it’s Kikongo.” There’s a moment of silence. “Your mother has a headache?”
“So you speak Spanish too?”
“Just a tiny bit. You run into more Portuguese in my neck of Africa. Knowing French helps, and if you spend as much time with Belgians as I do, one’s French needs to be at least conversational.”
Miss Sanford nods introspectively. She clasps her hands, her eyes searching the room. “All right, Mister Ward, as an artist, what is your favorite piece in this room?”
“Which one did you pick out?”
She laughs. “Clearly you’ve never met my father, or you wouldn’t bother asking that.”
Together, they look around at the paintings, the statuettes, the little medieval triptych, the Chinese landscape carved from a tusk, and then—as if by design—they are looking into an oval mirror and see themselves, in naked intimacy, reflected side by side, as if they are the only two people in existence.
She can’t decide if he’s a new problem or the answer to an old one. Sarita taps the envelope on the palm of her hand. That first night she had brought the letter to the dinner table with the simple plan of handing it to her father, but he hadn’t joined Sarita and her mother. He was eating in his study—which really ought to have been her mother’s dressing room—as there were sheaves of documents to go through before the morning. So she’d left the envelope propped on the dining-room table. “Mr. Sanford” was neatly inked in an assertive, masculine hand across the ivory stock; her father should have picked it up. The next night, as she dined alone (Father had work, Mother had a headache), she had sat in silent conversation with the letter as if it were Mr. Ward himself: She supplied his dialogue. What made you leave home? she asked. A life of adventure, the envelope replied. Really? she asked. No, not really. I was lonely and wanted to be in lonely places so as not to seem ridiculous, the envelope responded. Sarita recognized that she was doing what women did—seeking out a rugged man and then looking for the weak spot, the vulnerability. She taps the envelope on her hand. Women couldn’t possibly be that pathetic, looking to infect compromised men as disease infects compromised bodies. At breakfast this morning, the letter was still on the table, propped against a bud vase. And now she holds it as she contemplates knocking on her father’s door. Sarita has her hand raised into a loose fist, knuckles ready to tap, when her father’s footsteps start across the floor. She steps out of the way just in time to avoid being hit as the door swings open.
Valiant Gentlemen Page 9
