indifference. Of the lot aboard, she had decided, he was easily the most attractive. He was of medium height, wavy hair as black as her own, straight features on a square face, with prominent jaw and muscular neck. His shoulders and chest were athletic, narrowing to flat hips. He was given to wearing expensive casual sport shirts and sweaters, with his denim trousers.
She wondered if they would meet, and on the fifth day, they did. She was seated on the deck beside the green horse-racing mat, clutching her tickets, watching the two women passengers shake the dice, one for the number of the wooden horse, the other for the number of moves. Someone gripped the empty chair beside her, and then pulled it into line and sat down.
‘Do you mind?’ It was he.
She automatically tensed, as she always did, and was less cordial than she had intended. ‘Public grandstand,’ she said, indicating the other passengers.
‘I’m Mark Claborn,’ he said. ‘Attorney-at-law. Chicago.’
‘How nice.’
She considered introducing herself, but before she could, he had solved that problem. ‘You are Miss Emily Stratman. Atlanta. En route to Stockholm to help your uncle cart off the loot.’
‘Well, I would hardly put it that way-’
‘No, no. I’m kidding. I’m very impressed with your uncle. He’s the only authentic genius I’ve ever seen close up, though once, when I was a boy, someone pointed out Clarence Darrow driving past. But your uncle-I always try to stand near him, when he’s surrounded, just to glean a few words of wisdom.’
‘How did you know my name?’
‘I asked the purser. It’s a long trip-my first time on a ship, to tell the truth, not counting the Great Lakes cruise I took two years ago. Is this your maiden voyage, too?’
She considered her reply. ‘In a way, I suppose so. Actually, I was born in Germany -’
‘Really? I would never have guessed it.’
‘Because I was brought to the United States when I was very young.’ She smiled. ‘Oh, I’m true-blue American by now. I’ve been through the Age of Truman, of Tennessee Williams, of Stan Musial-Rodgers and Hammerstein, Dr. Jonas Salk, Rocky Marciano, Joseph McCarthy-you see?’
‘You’ve just passed with an A-plus.’ He paused. ‘Where are you going after Stockholm?’
‘Home.’
His face reflected disappointment. ‘Too bad. I won’t be in Stockholm, but I’ll be in Copenhagen, Paris, Rome. Vacation. I was hoping we’d run into each other again.’
‘I’m afraid not.’
He nodded off. ‘You’ve lost this race. May I buy you a ticket on the next? What number will it be?’
After that they saw each other regularly, always in the proximity of others, but regularly. They had drinks in the bar. They attended a movie. They toured the ship. They played bingo. They shared the late night
Across the table, her uncle suddenly gulped the last of his drink, and pushed himself to his feet. ‘I must fill out papers,’ he said vaguely.
Intuitively, she sensed the reason for his leaving, and turned to see Mark Claborn approaching.
‘You don’t have to go, Uncle Max.’
‘I was only warming the seat for the young man, anyway. See you at dinner.’ He waved to Mark, and waddled off.
Mark Claborn came around the table and took Stratman’s chair. ‘Hello, Emily. I wondered where you were. What’ve you been doing?’
‘Staring at the ocean, hating to think I must leave the ship. I like it the way it is out there, the way I like rainy days and night time.’
‘You’re not exactly a bundle of cheer.’
‘But I am. I also like winter. Have you ever read Cowper?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘He liked winter.’ She hesitated, then recited, ‘ “I crown thee king of intimate delights, Fireside enjoyments, home-born happiness” and so forth.’
‘I’m not with your man. To me winter means nose-drops.’ He looked off. ‘I took the liberty of ordering drinks for us. What are you drinking?’
‘Schnapps.’
‘That’s what I ordered.’
‘Telepathy.’
‘No. Empathy-despite winter.’ Then, he added, ‘Because we’re getting in so late, they’re having a full-course dinner. There are some extra tables. Think you can join me at one?’
‘Why, I don’t know. Wouldn’t it be rude?’
‘The Captain never comes down the last night. You’ve been eight dinners at that table. Surely you can spend one with me?’
‘All right. I’d be delighted.’
The deck steward brought the Schnapps.
Mark Claborn took his glass. ‘Let’s do it the way the Swedes do it. Remember?’ She remembered. The bartender had taught them. They solemnly held their glasses rigid before their chests. Mark toasted their next meeting. They looked into each other’s eyes, and then swallowed their drinks all at once. They brought their empty glasses down to their chests again, eyes still meeting, and then set the glasses on the table.
‘Great custom,’ he said. ‘One toast is worth one thousand words.’
‘Only because it leaves you speechless,’ said Emily. ‘Must be a plot of the Schnapps cartel.’ She felt the heat of the drink in her temples, and now expanding through her chest and breasts.
In the next hour, they each had two more drinks, and then Emily called a halt.
‘I’m not drunk,’ she said, ‘but I didn’t know you brought along a friend. We’d better call it quits. I don’t want you to carry me in to dinner.’
‘I’d like nothing more.’
‘I prefer to stand on my own feet.’
‘I’m sure you do. The question is-can you?’ he said teasingly.
‘Always,’ she replied, squinting to see him better. ‘Watch.’ She rose, and stood at attention.
‘I bow to your sobriety,’ said Mark, ‘but not to your independence.’ He grinned. ‘Damn the Nineteenth Amendment.’
He left several notes on the table, then took her arm. He walked her to her cabin on B Deck. Neither spoke, until they reached the door of the cabin.
‘I’ll pick you up here at seven,’ he said.
She leaned against the door, lightheaded. ‘I suppose I should treat you to something before dinner. Southern hospitality.’
‘You should indeed.’
‘I have a bottle of bourbon in the room. Somebody sent it to the boat. Will it mix with Schnapps?’
‘This is the Swedish-American Line.’
‘Come at six. Will that give you time to change?’
‘Too much time.’
After Emily had gone into her cabin, she remained uncertainly in the centre of the room, feeling the rhythmical heave of the ship beneath her and listening to the creak of the wood. She was not drunk at all, she decided, but then she was not sober. She tried to evaluate her feeling. The feeling was one of well-being and irresponsibility. The feeling was weightlessness, mind and body both. She kicked off her sandals, and threw herself on the bed. Sprawled on the blanket, she tried to tie her mind to a thought. There was not one to grip. She let go and slept.
When she awakened, it was with surprise that she had been asleep at all. She sought the wall clock. Seven minutes to six. In seven minutes, she would not be alone. The logical act was to change quickly into her dinner
