“Konstantin Devos, at your service.” He gave a little nod, like a seated bow, first in my direction and then in Maggie’s. There followed another flurry of introductions, and then the entire table fell silent as the first course was set before us. Given the choice of making labored conversation with our ill-assorted tablemates or devoting our attention to the most succulent oysters I’d ever tasted (not that they had come my way that often), we all chose the latter. So it was all the more surprising that, as I pushed back my chair after the chocolate mousse and rose to my feet, Mr. Devos laid a hand on my arm.
“I understand there is to be dancing on the Lido Deck in half an hour, Miss Fletcher,” he said. “I hope you will do me the honor of saving a dance for me.”
Suddenly I felt like the heroine of a Jane Austen novel, having no desire to dance with the gentleman who offered, but knowing I must accept if I hoped for an opportunity to dance with more desirable partners later. After all, it was still bad form to spurn one potential partner only to take to the floor with another. Some things, alas, had not changed in a century and a half.
“I would be happy to dance with you, Mr. Devos—provided I’m able to move, after the meal I just ate.”
He bared his teeth again in that feral smile. “All the more reason for a little after-dinner exercise. I shall look for you in half an hour, then.” He clicked his heels together and made a stiff little bow, then took himself off.
“Why, Robin, aren’t you the femme fatale!” exclaimed Aunt Maggie as we repaired to the ladies’ room to powder our noses before setting off in search of the Lido Deck. “I believe you’ve made another conquest!”
“Heavens, I hope not!”
“Nonsense! Every girl deserves a whirlwind romance with a tall Latin lover before she marries and settles down.”
“First of all, he’s not Latin with a name like that, but Greek. Second, he’s forty if he’s a day. Third, he gives me the creeps.”
Her carefully plucked eyebrows rose. “For heaven’s sake, why?”
Too late, I remembered that I’d never confided to Aunt Maggie the midnight encounter on the deck. “It seems silly now,” I confessed, “but late last night I saw him behaving— well, oddly.” I summarized briefly my midnight wandering, and the strange behavior of Mr. Devos. Her reaction was hardly what I had hoped for.
“Robin, you really shouldn’t go wandering about like that alone, and at such an hour,” she said, sounding more like my mother than my worldly aunt.
“I know you’re right, and I won’t do it again,” I promised. “Still, I hadn’t thought anyone would be about at such an hour, except perhaps the crew. But I can’t for the life of me imagine why he would spend good money on a caga tió, and then throw it overboard. It seems, I don’t know, sinister somehow.”
“Only because that thing had a face painted on the end of it,” was Maggie’s practical observation. “It’s amazing how painting human features on an object makes us think of it as somehow human. If it had been a plain, ordinary log, you wouldn’t have thought twice about it.”
“You may be right,” I conceded. “I’ll admit, if someone did such a thing to Pedro, I would consider him the next thing to a murderer.”
“If it troubles you so much, why don’t you just ask Mr. Devos? After all, he can hardly throw you overboard.”
She made the whole thing sound so simple that I felt foolish for giving it a second thought. “I suppose he could try, but it might be a bit awkward with several hundred witnesses. If he does, promise me you’ll sound the ‘man overboard.’ ”
“I promise.” Having swiped a lipstick across her mouth, she dropped the tube into her beaded evening bag and snapped it shut. “Now, if you’re ready, we’ll see if we can find the Lido Deck. Is it up or down, do you think?”
I hadn’t the slightest idea, so it was with considerable relief that we found a cutaway diagram of the ship’s layout mounted on the wall just outside the ladies’ room.
“It looks like we’re here, amidships on the Fiesta Deck,” I said, pointing to the red arrow on the diagram. “We’ll need to go up one level to the Lido Deck, then aft until we reach the club where the dancing will be.”
“Useful Robin! I knew I’d brought you along for a good reason.”
The club proved not to be an actual club at all, but an open space on the deck with a bar at one end and a raised dais at the other, where a combo comprising piano, string bass, and drums played popular standards from decades earlier. In between, a few couples were already dancing, while other passengers, either singly or in pairs, sat at tiny round tables set up along the perimeter, where they could either watch the dancing or gaze out over the dark water. I wasn’t surprised to find Paul waiting to claim Maggie as soon as we came through the door.
“There you are!” he exclaimed, as if he’d been waiting for weeks instead of minutes. “Shall we?”
“Well, I—” Maggie glanced uncertainly at me.
“Go ahead,” I said quickly, earning a grateful smile from Paul. “I’ll just find us a table while you two enjoy yourselves.”
He led Maggie onto the dance floor as the dance band struck up the opening bars of “You Make Me Feel So Young”—an appropriate choice, I thought—and I located an empty table near the railing. In truth, I felt vaguely like the wallflowers at my junior-senior prom must have, sitting alone while those of us with boyfriends danced the night away. By the time Mr. Devos found me, I was all too ready to oblige him, if only to get away from the wall—er, rail. When he put his arm about my waist and pulled me close enough to crush the front of my full skirt, however, it was only with an effort that I was able to relax in his embrace, resisting the instinct to flinch away from his touch.
“So tell me about yourself, Miss Robin Fletcher,” he said, as we swayed to the rhythm of “Embraceable You.”
“There’s really not much to tell,” I said, shaking my head dismissively. “I’m an American, I live in North Carolina—it’s on the eastern seaboard, although I don’t actually live near the coast—and I teach English to junior high school students. Thirteen-year-olds,” I explained, in case he was unfamiliar with the intricacies of American education.
His answering expression was puzzled. “I would have thought they would know English very well by the time they were thirteen years old.”
“You’d be surprised,” I said with a laugh, thinking of some of the essays I’d graded over the course of my brief career. “But I don’t teach them to speak English; I teach grammar, composition, and literature.”
“I see.” He nodded solemnly. “An accomplished young woman, in fact.”
I mumbled something, I don’t know what. I’d never thought of myself as particularly accomplished; after all, I hadn’t yet accomplished the feat of getting Gene to say “I do.”
“And yet,” Devos continued, baring his teeth at me, “I have a feeling you are uncomfortable with me. Why is that, Miss Fletcher?”
I glanced rather wildly about for Aunt Maggie, but found her sitting at the little table with Paul, both of them laughing over cocktails. Just ask him, she’d said. Very well, I thought, and took a deep breath. “Not uncomfortable, Mr. Devos, just curious. You see, when you walked into my photograph at the Leaning Tower, I realized I’d seen you before.”
“Here onboard ship, no doubt,” he nodded, swinging me in a wide circle to avoid a buxom woman and her stout partner.
“Well, yes, but under rather strange circumstances. Last night I awoke sometime after midnight, and when I saw the moonlight shining so brightly on the water, I knew I had to get a photo. But the flash reflected off the glass in the porthole, so I had to come up on deck.”
“Yes?” he prompted, smiling that wolfish smile. I realized he knew exactly what I’d seen, and what I was going to ask, but he didn’t intend to make it easy for me. Annoyed, I continued. “As you know, I wasn’t the only one on deck. You were there, throwing something off the back of the ship. I’ll admit I was curious to know wha
t it was, and so after you’d gone back inside, I went to look.”
“And was your curiosity satisfied?”
“Only in part. It was a caga tió, a Christmas log just like the one I’d bought in Barcelona.”
“Yes, it was. But there is an old English proverb about curiosity and the cat, is there not, Miss Fletcher?
“If that is a threat, Mr. Devos, there’s no need for it. What you do with your own souvenirs is your business—although I’ll admit I wondered why you would buy such a thing, only to throw it overboard just a few hours later. I bought one myself, so I know how much they cost.”
“Buyer’s remorse, Miss Fletcher, along with a, what would you say, a belated recollection of airline luggage limits. In fact, I realized it would be too large to take back home in my suitcase. I have many family members, you see—no, not children, for I am a bachelor. But many nieces and nephews to whom I bring back gifts when I travel. I thought my little niece Theodora would like the caga tió, but then I realized that if I put it in my suitcase, I would have no room left to bring gifts for her brothers and sisters. So I had to throw poor little Theodora’s present overboard. Never fear, though, for she will not be forgotten. I shall buy her something else, something smaller and not so heavy.”
“I see,” I said, feeling a bit foolish for making a mystery where none existed. And yet it seemed a bit too convenient an explanation. If he had decided against taking the log home, why not offer it to a fellow passenger or, if he was determined to throw it away, why wait until the middle of the night to do so? He made it clear that he considered the matter closed, however, and I knew better than to question him further. And yet I couldn’t quite let the matter drop. “It’s a pity you didn’t buy little—Theodora, didn’t you say?—one of those Pinocchio marionettes in Florence. That would have been just the thing for a child and, unlike the caga tió, it could be played with all year long.”
“I believe you are right,” he said, apparently much struck. “What a pity you were not there in Florence to advise me. Would you perhaps accompany me the next time we dock?”
And that, I supposed, served me right for meddling in something that was none of my business. “I—er—I don’t know what my aunt’s plans are,” I stammered.
“I understand,” he assured me, and I had a feeling he understood a lot more than I wanted him to.
To my relief, the song wound to a close, and I stepped back out of his arms with perhaps a bit more haste than courtesy. “Thank you for asking me to dance, Mr. Devos, as well as satisfying my curiosity. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d better see what Aunt Maggie is up to.”
He didn’t offer to escort me back to my table—or maybe I didn’t linger long enough to give him the opportunity—so I threaded my way through the milling couples back to my table. I’d hardly sat down and fortified my shaken nerves with a sip of my piña colada when I was solicited once more for a dance.
“Miss Fletcher, will you do me the honor?”
I looked up and saw Markos, strikingly handsome in a white dinner jacket, black tie, and knife-creased black pants. “Off duty again?” I asked, forcing a smile I didn’t quite feel. “Don’t you ever work?”
As a joke, it went over like a lead balloon. “In fact, I am working. Since women always outnumber men onboard ship, all nonessential crewmembers—nonessential male crew-members, that is—are expected to make themselves available as dance partners for the single female passengers.”
“So you saw me sitting here and decided I was a wallflower in need of rescue.” I don’t know why I found the idea so galling, but I did.
“No, but it looks like your previous partner has deserted you, so ...”
He shrugged, giving me to understand that he didn’t care whether I danced with him or not. I stood up out of pure contrariness.
“All right, then, let’s dance.”
If dancing with Mr. Devos had felt awkward, dancing with Markos was uncomfortable in an entirely different way. I felt no urge to flinch when he drew me close (in fact, I was conscious of a little thrill I hadn’t felt with Gene in quite some time) but I was still painfully aware of having made a fool of myself with my interrogation of Mr. Devos, while Markos—well, I didn’t know what his problem was. Maybe he resented having to spend the evening dancing with wallflowers when there was so much work to be done; after all, I’d seen the line of passengers turning in film.
“I thought you’d be busy developing about seven hundred photos of the Leaning Tower and Michelangelo’s David,” I said, making an attempt at polite conversation.
“Some of them are drying, and the rest will have to wait their turn,” he said, answering in kind. “I’ve seen your negatives, although I haven’t yet printed them. It looks like you had a good time in Pisa.”
“It’s always interesting to see things in real life that you’ve only seen in pictures or read about in books,” I said.
“Only wait until you see Rome,” he predicted confidently. “Pisa will pale in comparison with the Eternal City.”
I wondered if he would be sightseeing in Rome as well, but wouldn’t let myself ask, for fear he might mistake idle curiosity for romantic interest. “What do you suggest I see?” I asked, although Maggie and I had already planned our itinerary with the aid of the guidebook.
Before he could answer, the song drew to a close, and we were obliged to join in the smattering of applause. Then the ship’s activities director leaped up onto the dais with a microphone in his hand.
“All right, ladies and gentlemen, it’s the moment you’ve all been waiting for: the dance-off! Grab your partners, and let’s dance!”
Markos held out his hand to me. “Shall we?”
“Are you allowed?” I asked. “I mean, doesn’t being part of the crew disqualify you?”
“Not at all. Oh, I’m not eligible to win a prize,” he added hastily. “But when the women outnumber the men onboard nearly two to one, it would be a shame to exclude almost half the women on the ship.”
“Well—” I hedged, then had a sudden and vivid recollection of college, when all the other girls were going to sorority dances while I spent the evening alone in the dorm, waiting for a fiancé who was away at sea. “Why not?” I declared recklessly, and we took our places among the dozen or so couples remaining on the floor for the competition. The newlywed Hollises, I noticed, were another. I looked around for Maggie and Paul, but they were nowhere in sight.
“In a minute, I’ll tell you how the contest works,” the activities director continued. “But first, let’s have a big Oceanus welcome for our professional dancers, Marlene Williams and Roberto Ramón. Later in the cruise, they’ll present a program you won’t want to miss, as they demonstrate popular dances through history from the minuet to the twist. For tonight, though, they’ll be watching you! As you dance to the sounds of our ship’s band, Marlene or Roberto may tap you on the shoulder. If you or your partner are tapped, you are both out of the competition, although of course we hope you’ll stick around to watch and cheer for the remaining couples. The last three couples standing will win valuable prizes! Are there any questions? No? Then all right everybody—let’s dance!”
The band struck up the opening bars of “Night and Day,” and the competition began. The Hollises, I noticed, were eliminated first, due in large part to Mr. Hollis’s inability to keep up with the music, but they took their dismissal with a good grace and a cheerful demeanor that won them an enthusiastic round of applause from the people watching from the edges of the dance floor. An elderly couple who could barely shuffle their feet in time to the music was probably allowed to remain longer than they deserved out of respect for their age, followed by a crew member in dress whites partnering a sixty-something woman with improbably yellow hair. Eventually, I realized to my shock that there were only three couples remaining—and that Markos and I were one of them. It was hardly surprising that very shortly afterwards, I felt a light tap on my shoulder and turned to see Marlene smiling apologet
ically at me. We were out of the competition, but we—at least, I—had won third prize.
“We were at a disadvantage, really,” Markos noted as we made our way back to my little table. “Some of these couples have been dancing together for years, and we’ve only just met.”
I colored a bit at the unspoken suggestion that, given a little more time, we would be dancing as well together as the surprisingly spry white-haired gentleman spinning his partner under his arm and into a dip, to the loud applause of the spectators. No one was surprised when this couple was eventually crowned the champions, and when the winning couples were introduced and given their prizes, I realized I was now the proud owner of a tiny plastic trophy and five dollars’ worth of credit at the ship’s gift shop.
“Of course, it’s good at the camera shop, too,” Markos pointed out as I tucked my prize into my little silver bag.
“I’ll bear it in mind in case I run low on film,” I promised. “But now I think I’d better turn in for the night. It’s getting late and, well, Rome beckons.”
“So it does,” he agreed, offering his hand. I took it, and was thoroughly rattled when he bowed with exaggerated gallantry and kissed my fingers. “Until tomorrow, then.”
I stammered something and made my escape, unsure whether to be annoyed with him for the gesture, or with myself for reacting to it just as the gauchest of my thirteen-year-old pupils might have done. Either way, I had no doubt I’d played right into his hands, so I held him entirely to blame for the fact that I failed to see Konstantin Devos lying in wait for me until it was too late to avoid him.
“Turning in early, Miss Fletcher?” he asked as he fell into step beside me, although in fact it was almost midnight. “A wise move. Tomorrow promises to be a full day.”
“Yes,” I said, determined not to give him anything that might be interpreted as encouragement. “Good night, Mr. Devos.”
“Let me escort you back to your cabin,” he urged. “It is not safe for a young woman to wander about alone so late at night.”
Something about the gleam in his cold blue eyes made me wonder if he was thinking of the trek to my stateroom that lay ahead of me, or of the late-night ramble that had brought me above deck just as he’d disposed of Pedro’s unfortunate cousin. The thought made me even less inclined to accept his offer of an escort.
Moon over the Mediterranean Page 5
