Dance on a Sinking Ship

by Kilian, Michael;

  “But where are the Mountbattens?”

  He smiled. “I’m sure he thinks he’s as well known as His Royal Highness, and so must hide. If her dossier is correct, Lady Mountbatten will likely be belowdecks, entertaining herself with one of the crew.”

  Dagne studied the group again. “I wonder which of them was invited in our place. Who ranks as high as we? Lady Cunard and the dark-haired man? Perhaps one of the Dutch couples? The archbishop there? In the New Germany, this would not be.”

  “God outranks everyone, Dagne. Even National Socialists.”

  At the other end of the captain’s table were what sounded like two young Americans—an attractive dark-haired and dark-eyed girl with a wide, wonderful smile and a foolish, eager boy. “There are the ones taking our place,” Martin said. “Die Jungen.”

  “Vielleicht. They look rich, and she is very pretty. An obvious choice.”

  The soup arrived, and Dagne put out her cigarette. The count was staring at her, but not warmly.

  “You still haven’t answered my question of this afternoon, liebe schwester. Why is it we are in one stateroom, the two of us? Who made our booking, Reichscommissioner Goering?”

  “Someone in his ministry. I was consulted.”

  “Yes? This is a very large ship. There aren’t many passengers aboard. Don’t you think we could have managed two cabins?”

  She patted his hand. “It’s all right, Martin. I’ll be your nurse.”

  “I am not an invalid, Dagne. I am a serving Prussian officer.”

  “A serving German officer. But you still need help dressing and undressing.”

  “There are servants available.”

  “None that knows your every little need as do I.” Her look was far too intense, far too affectionate.

  “I do not think this is a very good idea, Dagne.”

  “All will be well, Martin. Or were you planning on entertaining lady guests?”

  “Certainly not. I mean to accomplish what has been asked of us. I will not jeopardize that.”

  “Brave words, Martin,” she said, looking past his shoulder. “But now they are going to be put to the test.”

  A woman had entered, hesitating nervously at the maître d’s stand. She was easily the most attractive woman in the room, perhaps on the entire ship, with hair the color of late sunset and a gown the black of midnight. Von Kresse recognized her from the train, remembering Dagne’s sharp comments concerning his overlong gaze at her in the station. The conversation in the long room had fallen. Everyone was watching her, causing her some distress.

  The maître d’ hurried toward her, but Dagne abruptly halted him as he came by their table.

  “Ober, neemt u me niet kwalijk,” she said to him, in perfect Dutch. “De junge vrouw, the lady alone. If she does not wish to sit by herself, my brother and I would be most pleased if she would join us. We’ve only just started. The others seem to be finishing.”

  “Certainly, Countess. I will tell her.”

  He rushed away. Whatever difficulties it might face, this maiden voyage was at least assured to be a glamorous one. The maître d’ had been expecting Nora Gwynne all evening, and had prepared a special table for her. She properly belonged at the captain’s table, but van der Heyden had been reluctant to invite her. He had three company officials from New Amsterdam there, one of them a noted imbiber and philanderer, who was traveling with his wife. As he sought to avoid any mechanical calamities on this all-important crossing, he did not want to cause any social ones, either, especially involving anyone as famous as this American actress.

  Now these German aristocrats had intruded. The maître d’ had no choice but to attend to their whim, but he would find another opportunity to perform some grand service for Nora Gwynne. She was an American motion picture star and this was a North Atlantic liner in the American trade. She was more special than they.

  She looked quite pale. Her hand rested on his wooden stand as if she were in need of it for support.

  “Good evening, Miss Gwynne. Welcome to the Wilhelmina.”

  It seemed to her that she had been welcomed to this ship about five hundred times since stepping aboard. She wondered if they would bid farewell to her as many times upon reaching New York.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” she said. “Is there still time for dinner?”

  “Of course, of course. For you the kitchens will always open.”

  She smiled weakly. She had worked in restaurant kitchens, briefly—in Ohio and in California. The thought of food and steamy, greasy pots and pans was far from pleasing. She’d been feeling quite queasy since the ship had left the dock. A long rest had helped, encouraging her to the prospect of dinner, but now she wasn’t sure. Just standing made her feel dizzy.

  The maître d’ offered his arm. “You may sit wherever you wish, of course. I have a very nice table set aside for you at a window. But if you would like company, the gentleman and lady opposite have extended an invitation to join them.”

  She blinked. “I don’t know them.”

  “To be sure, but on board ship, acquaintances are always made, n’est ce pas? They are German, from Prussia. They speak English very well, for Germans.”

  Lying on her bed on the gloom of her bedroom, she had found the loneliness and fear of her first days in Paris returning. She needed friends, acquaintances, someone, anyone. She did not want to dine alone. Nora had always hated that, and in California often dined with her maid.

  “I—I’ll eat with them. Yes. Thank you.”

  The maître d’ took her arm, gliding her across the carpeted floor to the von Kresses. Painfully, but with no clumsiness, the count got to his feet.

  “The Count and Countess von Bourke and Kresse,” the maître d’ said, sonorously. Then, beaming, he presented Nora with a sweep of his arm. “Mademoiselle Nora Gwynne.”

  She blushed. Still slightly dizzy, she almost tipped over her chair lowering herself into it, blushing all the more. In Hollywood, she was allowed to behave more or less as she wished without fear of censure. Here it seemed that her every movement was being watched and judged.

  “Another count,” she blurted out, as von Kresse seated himself.

  “Bitte?” said Dagne.

  “I’m sorry,” said Nora. “I met a count yesterday, in Paris. A French count. We became friends. And now, here are you.”

  “Yes,” said Dagne, with a glance to her brother. “I’m sure we will get along famously.”

  “You are very kind to join us,” said von Kresse, his smile very charming. “It was looking to be a very dreary voyage. Your company brings us good cheer.”

  “Thank you.” She looked from one to the other. They were a handsome couple—especially the count. He spoke English very well, and with an accent more American than British. He seemed ill, or injured in some way. A long scar cut across all of his left cheek, but it was not disfiguring. He had haunted—and haunting—eyes, and long, beautiful hands. Her image of Prussian aristocrats was the bald, monocled stereotype given Americans by Hollywood’s Erich von Stroheim. Von Kresse was something entirely new to her.

  The countess’s English was precise, but heavily accented. She looked very much the aristocrat. Nora wondered if they had any idea where she had come from, if they even knew of Toledo, Ohio.

  Her soup was served, a bisque. She eyed it squeamishly—little bits of shellfish floating in a thick pink sauce.

  “I’m sorry,” Nora said. “I think I’ve lost my appetite. I’m not used to ships. This is only my first trip abroad. I hardly ever got out of my cabin on the way over. All the rocking up and down.”

  “But the sea is calm,” said the countess.

  “Not calm enough, I guess.”

  “A little secret,” said the count, more friendly now. “Potatoes and bread. Eat like a peasant your first day out and you can handle the rest of the voyage with ease.”

  “Thank you. I’ll remember that. ‘Eat like a peasant.’ Normally I don’t eat much at all.” She
looked back at the countess, not sure which of them she should be addressing. “Do you and your husband travel much? You sound like veteran sailors.”

  He seemed amused, but she did not.

  “We are not married,” he said. “The countess is my sister. We had the same father but different mothers, which is why I am not so beautiful as she. Yes? My mother was American, like you. She was from Virginia.”

  “I’m from Ohio. It was part of Virginia once, long ago.”

  “Ohio,” repeated the countess, as if she had just heard the name of some new colony in Africa.

  “To answer your question,” said the count. “We travel very little now. It is very difficult for Germans to travel outside of their country these days. It is also very difficult for them to travel inside their country.”

  “My brother exaggerates,” said the countess. “You must understand that the New Germany is undergoing tremendous change, recovering from all it was made to suffer because of the war. Some loss of personal freedom is necessary.”

  “Especially if one is Jewish,” said the count.

  Nora began to wonder if she should have stayed in her suite. “I’ve never been to Germany,” she said.

  “You must come,” said Dagne. “It is the most impressive place now in all Europe. And next year the Olympic games will be played in Berlin.”

  “If the athletes are not all arrested.”

  “Please, Martin. Stop this.”

  “I’m sure it will be very exciting,” said Nora. “But I’ll be making a film next year.”

  “Film?”

  “Yes. I’m an actress.” Hadn’t they heard of her? If the manager of the Ritz Hotel in Paris had known instantly who she was, shouldn’t two sophisticated European aristocrats, especially one who was half American? What kind of country was Germany?

  Perhaps she was being egotistical. What would it matter to these two aristocrats what she was, even if they knew?

  “An actress!” said the countess, leaning forward. “Do you know Leni Riefenstahl?”

  “Yes. I mean, I never met her. But I know of her work.”

  Nora had in fact seen only one film by the German actress-director. It had not been one released for the public cinema but a print of some footage of Riefenstahl and some other Nordic-looking women—most of them blond, like her—exercising in a clearing in the woods, in the nude. A producer at her studio, a small, bald, ugly man, had shown it at one of his parties, had shown it several times, over and over. The film had fascinated him.

  “I have met her twice,” said Dagne. “She is wonderful. She is Germany’s greatest artist.”

  “Though not so great as the postcard sketcher who runs the country,” the count said.

  Nora wanted no part of this sibling quarrel, which seemed on the verge of becoming much worse. At a loss for what else to do, she decided to eat some of her soup, hesitating only when she realized she had picked up a teaspoon and not the soup spoon sitting now so obviously before her. Blushing again, she studied the teaspoon, as if appreciating its beauty, then set it down and picked up the proper utensil. Someone had told her a simple way to remember: with each course, take the fork or spoon farthest from the plate. But the waiter had not put the soup spoon farthest from the plate. It was unfair. She meant no harm. She tried hard.

  Spencer was in no mood for dinner, or even to move from his bed. He lay on his back, his eyes still mostly on his photograph of Whitney, or the ceiling. Ostensibly he was planning his next move, but his thoughts drifted. There was a painful irony. Whitney, who loved most security and serenity, was there in a Paris torn by riots and political hatreds, while he who had made such a career of accompanying death and violence was now steaming peacefully to the isolated haven that was the United States.

  He thought of Whitney’s wondrous belly, the softest imaginable flesh rising in a graceful curve from fine blond pubic hair to the first hard line of rib. He had kissed every square inch of that marvelous work of God.

  The isolation of his cabin was becoming oppressive. He decided he would visit the second-class bar. Someone there might at least be talking of Lindbergh. As things stood, Spencer had no more tangible evidence of the man’s having booked passage than Carlson’s word. Spencer had once traveled all the way from Hong Kong to Siam to report on a supposed coup and massacre that proved to have taken place largely in an editor’s hyperactive imagination.

  Leaving his cabin without consulting his ship’s directory, Spencer had to ask directions to the bar, which was a deck below. As he descended the stairs, the door leading to the next passageway opened almost in his face. He stepped back against the wall as a ship’s officer, a young woman, and a porter entered and started down the stairs to the next deck. The woman had a wild look about her, her hair too long and unkempt, her clothes old, too heavy for the season, and probably cheap. She followed the officer as if being led away, the little porter trudging behind with her old-fashioned luggage. As she made a turn in the stairs, she caught sight of Spencer in the shadows. Her startled look made him feel like a lurking footpad or cutpurse.

  He found the lounge following the sound of piano music, a thin, effeminate man playing the new Cole Porter song, “Easy to Love.” A few couples were seated near him, listening raptly or talking softly among themselves. Spencer went to the bar at the other end of the room, taking the end stool. The only others there were a man and a woman, seated a stool apart, but together, talking. Hearing her cool, strange British voice, he realized they were the two who had stopped by him out on the deck at sailing time—the quiet black man and the insane woman whose arms were covered with African bracelets.

  She noticed him and stopped talking. Spencer wished she hadn’t. He wanted only passive involvement with others this night, to observe and listen and be ignored. But this was seldom possible aboard a ship. Those with the best chance of being ignored were those who strove hard not to be.

  “The gentleman of Paris,” she said.

  The low light made her more attractive, but no less mad. He decided she had been a beauty once, with hard, hard years coming after. She must have disliked what she had been very much—and what she was now. There was a lot of gin in her voice, but also aristocracy. Yet she was drinking with a black man, although her glass was empty, and he had none.

  “May I buy you both a drink?” Spencer asked, after ordering a stinger for himself.

  “The man of Paris is a gentleman, but incautious. We are a dangerous couple, Henry and I. Quite, quite. We are being made to play Alice and the White Rabbit to the bartender’s tyrannical Queen of Hearts. He won’t serve us together, so we are sitting separately, but he won’t serve us separately, for fear we will then sit together.”

  The bartender coughed and looked away. One forgot the way the real world was, living so long in Paris.

  “Give them what they want,” Spencer said in vaguely remembered military manner. “Do it or I’ll complain to the captain. I’m an American newspaperman. He’ll be angry with you.”

  “Would we be served down in third cabin?” said the woman, pushing her bracelets up from her wrists. “Yes, yes. Quite, quite. Third cabin is for the proletariat, and the proletariat can mix and swarm and miscegenate with whomever it wishes, as long as it stays in its class. Would we be served up in first class? But of course. The upper classes are to be indulged. But here in second class, the suffocating middle class, the bloody bourgeoisie, here we are to be restricted. Denied.”

  “Sir, I—” the bartender began.

  “Just give them what they want,” said Spencer. “Don’t make unnecessary trouble. They’ve paid their passage. Don’t harass them.”

  “Straight gin,” said the woman. “Henry would like a whiskey. Any kind of whiskey.”

  “A double straight gin and a double scotch whiskey for the gentleman,” said Spencer.

  The black man said nothing. After they were served and Spencer had signed the bill, he turned to look over at the pianist, who was playing “Night and Day.�
�� Two of the couples from the tables were dancing.

  “What can I do to thank you?” said the British woman, sounding perfectly sane.

  “Have you seen Charles Lindbergh?”

  “Have I seen Charles Lindbergh?” she repeated. “No, but I’ve seen God.”

  “That won’t do. I need Charles Lindbergh.”

  “Do you prefer Lindbergh to God?”

  “Do you think that if God were to descend to the Earth He’d be treated any more magnificently than Lindbergh has been?”

  “Probably not so magnificently. He might not get served in this bar. I think God must be black. Part of Him must be black, for the Negro people to love him so.”

  Ignoring her companion, she took her glass and moved down to the stool next to Spencer’s.

  “Do you have any cocaine?” she asked.

  “Is that how you meet God?”

  “Sometimes. How do you meet Charles Lindbergh?”

  “Perhaps God will introduce us. But I’m sorry. I have no cocaine.”

  “Then let’s dance. A jolly little razzle tazzle.”

  “The music is slow and quiet.”

  “All right. A quiet little razzle tazzle.”

  She was amazingly light, almost frail. It seemed to him he could lift her effortlessly by the wrists, toss her high into the air, break her arms with a snap of his fingers. She pulled very close to him, her face turned against his shoulder. Her dark-blond hair, to his surprise, smelled quite clean. She was wearing a very pleasant perfume. Residual manifestations of her past life, he supposed. She was an older woman, his age, a few years, perhaps, from hag. Yet he was attracted to her. It was like drinking the last of a fine but fading wine.

  Whitney was so far away. He found himself directing his anger over the distance at her.

  “Are you really a newspaperman?” she asked. Her Negro friend was watching them, as he sipped from his drink.

  Spencer had done it again. He ought to simply wear a press card, perhaps taped to his forehead.

  “Not really. My father was the publisher of a newspaper. That’s my newspaper connection.”

  “I thought so. You seem much too well bred to be a reporter.”