by Frank Conroy
“Have you ever crossed before?” I asked Paula.
“No.”
“Me neither. I almost went to sea once as a cabin boy. My uncle is in the merchant marine.”
The steward brought our drinks and I attempted to pay for all three.
“No,” Paula said very firmly. “This is Dutch.” She held out some money to the steward. “For the whisky sours.”
I sipped my drink while the girls talked. Then I got up and went to the piano and began to play very softy. “Tenderly,” my best ballad, “Honeysuckle Rose,” and a reduced version of “The Man I Love.” A boy about ten years old came and stood at my elbow, watching. I slipped in some extra flourishes while he was there.
“Boy, that’s neat,” he said.
I looked back at the girls but they were still talking. After a few minutes of boogiewoogie I stood up. The boy ran to join the other children. I went back and got my drink. Paula looked up. “That was nice. Why don’t you play some more?”
“Oh, I just fool around,” I said.
Judy sat forward suddenly. “I’d better go below, as they say. I ought to lie down.”
“I’ll come with you,” Paula said, getting up. “It’s been a long day.”
I finished my drink. “Goodnight,” I said as they started away. “See you tomorrow.” Disappointed, I watched them leave. I’d expected them to stay for an hour or so and now, without warning, they were going. They pushed through the door and I cursed myself for being so young. I went to the bar, took a stool, and ordered another drink.
“Mix it?” the bartender asked.
“What?”
“Shall I mix it?”
“Oh yes. Sure.”
He made the drink and moved away. At the other end of the bar a few couples were laughing and drinking. The room was beginning to empty out as people went off to bed. I watched a blind man in a red beret cross the lounge unassisted, his white cane moving delicately in the air ahead of him. The ship rolled gently and the ice cubes in my drink clinked softly against the glass.
The nature of time had changed. Sitting at the bar I slipped effortlessly from one moment to the next, each perception dying gradually like a slow movie fade-out while the next built up underneath it. I got up from the stool and crossed the empty room, surprised to find myself in motion. Outside, on deck in the darkness, a cool wind made my jacket billow around my body. I went to the rail and stared down at the water. I imagined jumping. The ship would keep going, eventually disappear, and there would be only the sea, me, and the sky—nothing else. For a moment the purity of it overwhelmed me. I felt I had to jump, not just to die, but to experience the moments of total solitude as I waited. From another deck I could hear the music of a small orchestra. Someone passed behind me. I turned and walked along the deck, my fingers trailing along the surface of the rail.
The next day I made arrangements with the steward and got a deck chair. All morning I lay wrapped in a plaid blanket, dozing and reading. The sea was calm but the sky was overcast, with only brief moments of sunshine warming the chilly air. I watched the sea and hardly noticed the people going by on deck. When the steward bent over me he brought me out of a trance.
“Bouillon, sir?”
“Yes. Thank you.” It was still a shock to be addressed as sir. The stewards were almost all German, studiously formal. I pulled myself up in the chair as he reached back for a cup from a rolling cart. “Do you know what time it is?”
“Eleven o’clock,” he said, handing me the soup.
“Thank you.” I took a sip and decided I’d make it a point to be in my chair every morning at eleven o’clock for the luxury of the experience. Two chairs away a young man sitting on the edge of the footrest had just accepted a cup of broth. Our eyes met.
“This is the life, eh?” he said.
“You bet.”
“First trip?” He was about twenty-five, dressed in a rather loud sport jacket, black trousers, argyle socks, and brown loafers.
I nodded. “You too?”
“No. I work on the ship. This is my fifth trip.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m the pianist up in first class. In the orchestra.”
“Really?” I leaned forward. “I play too. Blues and boogie and stuff.”
“You ought to come up and hear us, then.”
“I’m cabin class, though.”
“Shit, man,” he said scornfully, “just step over the chain and keep going. Nobody’s going to stop you.”
“Can I do that?”
“Sure. Follow the signs to the ballroom.”
“Then I’ll come tonight. What time do you start?”
“Nine.” His head turned as he watched two girls walk by, arm in arm. “No good,” he said when they’d passed. “Slim pickings this trip.”
I laughed. “I’ve got five girls sitting at my table.”
“You’re kidding,” he said. “Bring a couple along. A kid like you doesn’t need all that for himself.”
“They’re all married, unfortunately.”
He gave me a long look. “This is a ship, man,” he said finally. “You heard about ships.” A girl glanced at us as she went by and he stood up immediately. “That’s the whole reason I took this gig, baby. Even with my delicate stomach and all.” He gave me a nod and moved off after the girl. I rewrapped myself in the plaid blanket, read the day’s issue of the ship’s newspaper, and went to sleep.
At dinner I told the girls of my plan to crash first class.
“Have you got a dark suit?” Paula asked. “It’s dressy up there.”
“If you get caught just keep talking,” Didi said. “You could get out of anything the way you talk.”
I laughed. “Yes. I’ll tell them I’m an impoverished artist on his way to study in Paris with special permission to practice on the Steinway in the first-class lounge.”
“That’s just what I mean,” Didi said. “That kind of thing.”
“Or that I’m the captain of the cabin-class volleyball team on his way to arrange a play-off match.”
“Hey, that’s good!” Judy said. “That’d really work, I bet.”
“Well you better eat something,” Betsy said. “Look at that. You haven’t even touched your roast beef.”
Embarrassed, I bent over my plate and moved the food around with knife and fork, making the motions of eating.
“I don’t know what keeps you going.”
“Oh, come on,” Paula said. “Stop mothering him.”
“Yeah, stop mothering me,” I said. “Why do you think I left home?”
They all laughed.
At nine o’clock I climbed the stairs to B deck and walked toward the front of the ship. Eventually I reached a gate with the words First Class Only Beyond This Point lettered across the narrow, saloon-type doors. I checked my tie, made sure my fly was zipped, rubbed the toes of my shoes against the backs of my legs and, after making sure there was no one on either side to see me, pushed through quickly, breaking the message in half.
There was a different color scheme. Blues and purples in the fabrics, with gleaming white woodwork and walnut handrails. The corridors were wider than those in cabin class and there were fewer doors along the walls. I rounded a corner into an open space where an old man in a wheelchair sat staring at his knees, his white head bent forward. Behind him a huge Negro held the rubber grips of the chair, absolutely motionless as they waited for the elevator. I walked past them and started up the curved staircase, glancing back as the elevator doors rolled open. The Negro pushed the chair, the old man’s head jerked back a fraction of an inch, and they disappeared. I climbed to the main deck and followed the signs to the ballroom.
People moved unhurriedly through the wide halls toward the center of the ship, smoking and chatting as they walked. Most of the men were in dinner jackets, although a few wore dark suits like my own. Jewelry flashed on the necks and wrists of the women. As I walked through the crowd I seemed to grow older and more c
onfident, as if I’d gained a year or two by simply pushing through the gate. I paused at the entrance to the ballroom, looking down at the placard beside the door. Ernest Millborn and His Orchestra in the Grand Ballroom. There was no mention of my friend, but as I stepped inside I could see him at the piano, slightly hunched over the keyboard as the band played “Once in Love with Amy.”
It was an immense high-ceilinged room with a vast black marble dance floor. The spaciousness was almost dizzying. Recovering from my surprise, I moved forward. Row after row of white tables stretched away from the edge of the dance floor, each table with a lighted candle in glass at its center. The polished floor picked up the constant flickering, and as the few dancing couples moved smoothly back and forth over the wide expanse they seemed to be gliding on a sea of lights. I went to a corner near the band and sat down at an empty table. The other passengers in the room were sitting on the other side of the dance floor, gathered around fifteen or twenty tables as if for warmth. I supposed it was too early for a crowd. After a while a waiter spotted me and came over to take my order.
“A rum and Coke,” I said. “And mix it, please.”
“Yes sir.” He moved away.
I turned in my chair and watched the band—three saxes, three brass, four strings, and rhythm. The leader was on his feet at center stage, dipping his violin over a standing microphone, his wrist pumping a slow vibrato, his pink brow gleaming with sweat. As my drink arrived the trumpets broke into an up-tempo version of “Sweet Georgia Brown.” I tapped my foot and sang the words in my mind.
At the end of the set the pianist, my friend, came down from the stand wiping his face with a folded handkerchief. I stood up and caught his attention. He stuffed the handkerchief into his pocket and joined me. “I see you made it,” he said.
Nodding, I offered him a chair.
“Naw, man,” he said. “Let’s go get some air.”
“Okay. I have to pay for my drink, though.”
“That’s all right. Come on.”
I followed him down the aisle between the tables. As we passed a group of waiters he said, “He’s coming back. Leave his drink,” and then pushed through a door. We stepped out onto the deck. There was a fresh breeze blowing. “Ahh, yes,” he said, taking a deep breath.
I walked along beside him. He kept up a good pace, his thin head held high. “The music was fine,” I said.
“It’s all right. That kraut is a pain in the ass, though. His time is terrible. Did you hear the way he dragged ‘Spell-bound’?”
“Millborn? Is he German?”
“His real name is Grubel. It’s a bitch. He can’t hear anything.”
I laughed. “Well, the horns sounded good.”
“Yeah. They’re okay.” He leaned his head toward me. “You see those people over there by the rail? That guy is a vice-president of General Motors.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I wish I was the telegrapher around here. Think what he sends to his broker every day. You could make a fortune.”
“They probably use a code,” I said.
He turned, surprised. “I bet they do. I never thought of that.”
“They always do in books.”
“You read a lot, huh?”
“I guess so. Yes.”
“I used to when I was a kid. Not so much any more, though.” He paused and pulled open a door. “Come on, there’s a piano in here.”
We entered a small empty lounge—a sun room during the day—with a miniature piano set against the wall.
“Go on,” he said. “Let’s hear what you can do.”
I sat down and played “Blue Moon.” When I was through he shook his head. “Naw, man. You’re just playing shells. You have to fill in those chords.” He reached down over my shoulder and played a chorus very quickly, his hands and fingers close together in a series of black chords. “You have to get those ninths and thirteenths in there. Get the harmony going.” Fascinated, I watched his hands and tried to pick up one or two of the chords. “Get a book,” he said. “Learn harmony.”
“I can’t read music,” I said.
“Well, you have to read, man. You can’t work if you can’t read.”
“Yes, I know.” When he lifted his hands from the keyboard I started to play some boogie. He laughed.
After I’d finished he nodded his head. “Not bad at all. But don’t play too much of that stuff. You’ll ruin your left hand. The muscles get all tight.”
“Play with me once,” I said, and moved over on the bench.
He laughed again, but sat down, and we played till it was time for him to go back on the stand.
Back at the corner table in the ballroom, my fingers around a fresh drink, I watched the dancers. A woman in an orange dress emerged from the crowd, alone, crossing the wide floor like a nervous animal over an open field. She flashed a quick smile and shied away as a foxtrotting couple almost ran into her. Through at last, she straightened up, throwing back her shoulders like an actress in the wings getting into character. To my amazement she came directly to my table. “Hello, young man.” I started to rise, but she sat before I could get out of my chair. “You must excuse my barging over here like this, but we saw you sitting all by yourself and we didn’t think you’d mind.”
“Not at all,” I said. She was forty-five or fifty, plump, and nervously cheerful.
“We are on a ship after all.” She touched her throat with her fingertips. “My niece and I saw you. We’re sitting over there.” She nodded across the floor. Turning my head, I caught a brief glimpse of a girl in white leaning forward to sip from a champagne glass. “Since you seem to be alone and there aren’t too many young people I thought I’d ask you to join us.”
I stared at her blankly. For a moment I seemed to be totally paralyzed.
“My niece just loves to dance,” she said, standing up. “Shall we go?”
“I can’t,” I said suddenly.
“What?”
“I can’t. I’m not really first class. I just snuck up to hear the piano player.”
She stood motionless over me, her mouth slightly open. Then we spoke simultaneously. “But that doesn’t ...” she started.
“I’m sorry,” I said at the same moment. Flushing, I looked down at the table. “It was nice of you to ask. I’m sorry.”
She didn’t seem to know what to do. For several moments she seemed to be about to speak, but then she smiled —an odd, polite smile, absolutely automatic—and moved away.
I opened the door to the cabin and tiptoed inside. Drevitch was in bed, turned to the wall, his white wispy hair catching the light from behind me. A small pile of orange peelings overflowed the ashtray on his dresser. I closed the door and moved to my bunk. Undressing in the dark, I became aware of Drevitch snoring softly. I got into my pajamas and, slightly drunk, climbed the ladder into bed. As I pulled back the covers I saw something lying on the pillow. An envelope. I picked it up and switched on the small reading light. It was a telegram, addressed to me. I turned it over, unable to think who could have sent it, and as an afterthought pulled out the small curtain so Drevitch wouldn’t be bothered by the light. Tearing open the envelope, I took out the message, which said Thinking of You, and was signed Mom. I stared at it for several moments, disappointed that it wasn’t something more exciting, and surprised that my mother had allowed herself such sentimentality. The signature was particularly out of character. All my life I’d called her Mother, never Mom, and yet Mom was how she signed it. It seemed spurious somehow, and I crumpled it up, threw it away, and thought no more about it.
In the morning I awoke to a new world. Lying in my bunk, staring at the ceiling, I felt the ship plunge forward, lean to the right, pause, and then rear backward, lean to the left, pause, and begin the cycle again. Nothing moved in the cabin except the curtain over the door to the bathroom. It went back and forth slowly, its movements corresponding to the forces tugging gently at my flesh. A creaking sound filled the cabin, as if the room i
tself were twisting imperceptibly out of shape with each dip of the ship. I climbed down from my bunk and stood in front of the large mirror over the dresser. Drevitch had made his bed and gone. I glanced at the porthole and saw a circle of light gray, the sky, a brief glimpse of the horizon rushing upwards, and then the black sea. The black remained behind the porthole for what seemed like much too long a time. I felt a flash of fear as I realized how far the ship was heeling. Automatically, I tried to relate what was happening inside the cabin to what I saw through the round glass, and immediately felt a wave of nausea rising in my stomach. I sat down in a chair, waiting to see what would happen. Moments later I rushed to the bathroom and threw up in the sink. I drank some water and returned, trembling, to bed. I pulled the curtain shut, put the pillow over my head, and tried to go to sleep, my knees coming up to my chest of their own accord.
I remained in bed all day, only getting up every few hours to retch bile. In the evening I rang for the steward and asked for some soup. He brought a cup of bouillon and a few small, crustless sandwiches, saying that if I didn’t eat I’d be sick all the way to Germany. His advice was only half heard. He seemed to be talking to me across tremendous distances, but I managed to keep the food down.
After two days the sea calmed a bit. I emerged from the cabin and made my laborious way to the open deck and the chair I’d reserved in a previous lifetime. I lay comatose until nightfall, weak, sweating, wrapped in a plaid blanket, my stomach shrunk to the size of a crabapple. Back in the cabin the steward, unasked, brought an entire dinner on a tray. I ate most of it and fell asleep reassured that the next day we would make a landfall.
On deck, in the bright sunshine, I looked over the water to the green hump of land they said was Ireland. Miles away, it shone in the faint haze like a fresh brush stroke between sea and sky. I regretted that we would go no closer. My great-grandfather (whose name I didn’t know) must have stood at the rail of another ship, going the other way, watching what I was watching. I stayed on deck and looked at Ireland until it disappeared.
