“I can’t stay long,” he said. “I’ve been working double watches. I’ve got to sleep.”
She pulled him closer, tight against the great softness of her chest. “Sleep here, kochany.”
“No, I can’t. I’m on call. I just wanted to see you.”
Before this voyage, love for Kees had meant kisses and feels and pats snatched from blushing girls he took for evening strolls and kaas broodjes on the quay of his hometown of Schoonhoven. On one call at Le Havre, he had gone with two fellow officers to a famous brothel, from which he’d emerged sick with drink and considerably poorer.
What he had experienced with this mysterious and voluptuous dark-haired woman of the East was to him more exotic and more enrapturing than anything he’d ever heard in the fantastic tales of his shipmates. He’d become instantly addicted to her. He wondered if there was some way he might move her to his own cabin.
She kissed him, then stepped back, pulling away from him. With her haunting eyes fixed on his, she drew loose the ties of her robe. It fell open, exposing both large and wonderful breasts, the soft curve of her belly, and the tempting darkness beneath.
“I can’t,” he said. “I really can’t. I must be where they can find me. I have only a minute or two.”
Her eyes fell. She turned away, thinking, then took hold of his arms and moved him to a chair, gently pushing him down into it.
“Just a minute or two,” she repeated, and reached for his belt.
“You don’t need to …”
“I want to. I want to.”
He protested no further. He closed his eyes as he felt her lips come over him. The soft, moist heat of her mouth was electrifying. The sudden touch and skillful work of her tongue dashed all thought and feeling from his mind and body but the explosive and consuming passion it so quickly produced.
Fancy dress was one thing in the South of France at carnival time, in the free-spirited company of a suntanned young girl like Whitney. On a trans-Atlantic liner, among the class-conscious and very mannered rich, it was quite something else. Spencer chose his costume with care, avoiding the outrageous and settling finally on something that suited his mood—and, he supposed, his circumstances. It was a French Legionnaire’s uniform, complete with khaki kepi, gold epaulettes, blue sash, and the Legion’s seven-flamed grenade insignia on the collar. The tunic bore sergeant’s stripes. Perhaps tonight they would stop calling him “lieutenant.”
He felt awkward going like this to Nora Gwynne’s suite, until he passed someone dressed as an Arab in the passageway. He had seen a drunken Legionnaire shoot down an Arab once, a random act in a late-night street in Algiers. The civilizing presence of the French again.
The body had been ignored by the other passing Arabs. Bodies were collected in the morning. The Legionnaire might just as easily have himself been the victim, gutted by another such Arab. Perhaps, on another night, he was. Spencer had reported the incident but had been treated rudely. He’d never heard any more about it.
Nora had chosen the costume of a Renaissance princess, and was breathtakingly lovely in it, a fairy-tale confection. Her gown was cut more to Empire tastes than medieval ones, revealing much of her bosom. Duff Cooper would have to be beaten off with a stick.
“Do you know, I’ve never been to a costume ball before,” she said.
“I thought every day in Hollywood was a costume ball.”
“There are a lot of producers and studio heads who look like ogres, but those aren’t costumes. Will we have a wonderful time tonight? I’m having such a good time now.”
“How could we not? As my friend Chips Channon keeps telling me, these are the best people in all the world.”
“Including Duff Cooper?”
“He’s not so bad, when he’s not pawing you. It’s my hope he’ll discover someone else tonight, perhaps even his wife.”
She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek.
“Thank you again,” she said. “You’re so amazingly sweet.”
Then she led him quickly out the door.
The others were all gathered at tables in the far corner of the first-class ballroom when Nora and Spencer arrived. Lord Mountbatten was the most prominent figure, costumed as an Indian rajah, his bandaged head swathed in a bejeweled and feathered turban. Edwina was dressed—or more precisely, undressed—as a harem dancer, all bare legs and belly beneath the diaphanous cloth. Emerald was a bizarre, buckskinned cowgirl; Chips a Cherokee chief. Diana, as might be expected from an actress in tableaux, was perfect as a Greek goddess. Her husband had managed to transform himself into a reasonable facsimile of Charlie Chaplin.
Spencer could not find the rest of the party, but after he and Nora seated themselves and ordered drinks, he saw the prince and Mrs. Simpson out on the dance floor, dancing close and much more slowly than the tempo of the music. The prince was nearly naked, disguised as a Roman soldier, his battle garb a minimal ensemble of sandals, greaves, armored skirt, and horsehair headdress with side pieces that masked his face. Mrs. Simpson was costumed as some sort of royal personage, perhaps Marie Antoinette, but she’d overwhelmed herself with powdered wig, elaborate gown, and showers of jewelry. For a woman so meticulously careful about maximizing her appearance, she was excessively and unattractively overdressed. Perhaps His Royal Highness had insisted upon the outfit. She would be his queen, if only for that night.
But the most regal-looking woman of the evening was Nora.
“The band certainly is fond of Cole Porter,” she said, holding Spencer’s hand. “This is the third Porter tune in a row.”
“They may well despise Cole Porter, ruffians that they are,” said Chips, who had joined them. “It’s Edwina who has the passion for Cole. She paid them an extravagant sum to play nothing else tonight.”
The next song was Porter’s “Easy to Love.”
“Come on,” said Nora, rising. “The song speaks for me.”
Spencer came into her arms and they moved circling onto the floor. He was actually an excellent dancer, schooled in it as a child and perfected by Whitney, who had demanded it of him. They glided among the other couples effortlessly. Nora slipped closer, pressing her cheek against his. The feel of her skin was cool at first; then became enticingly warm.
“I feel very beautiful tonight,” she said.
“As well you should. I don’t know why the prince doesn’t drop Mrs. Simpson this instant and propose to you. You’re the princess on this ship.”
“On this ship, you can be whatever you want. It’s like the masked ball. Everything is make-believe. I’m very good at make-believe. You can be, too.”
“No. I’m very good at the opposite, at grim reality.”
“We’re still a long way from New York.”
The song concluded, the orchestra paused, then picked up with “You’d Be So Nice to Come Home to.” Spencer and Nora never stopped dancing.
Duff, cane in hand, hurried out onto the dance floor in mimicry of Chaplin’s splay-footed quick step. He nodded to them, then moved on to where the Parkers were dancing, the two badly costumed as Punch and Judy. Grinning roguishly, Duff hooked young Parker away from his wife with the cane and, with a tip of his hat, cut in, whirling her off toward the other side of the room.
“Tonight’s victim,” said Spencer.
“Actually,” Nora said, leaning back to watch the other couple with great amusement, “I’m kind of glad for her.”
“Je ne comprendrai jamais les femmes de la monde,” he said. “Pas quelqu’une.”
“What?”
“I said I didn’t understand women.”
She laughed. “But you’re not supposed to.” She pulled close again, her breasts and lower body pressed as close to him as her cheek had been. For a third time virtually in as many days he would be unfaithful to his darling Whitney. There was no stopping it now. There was no wanting to stop it.
The von Kresses arrived at the ball late and, for the moment, took chairs near the entrance of the ballroom. The
count had declined the frivolous outfits offered by the ship’s costumers. As his “fancy dress,” he chose simply his military uniform, the feldgrau tunic and breeches of a Wehrmacht oberst with the elite red stripe of the general staff and highly polished black parade boots. With his two medals, the plain Iron Cross and the imperial Pour le Mérite, topping it all off, he struck just the right note of absurdity for this assemblage.
Dagne had greatly disapproved, accusing him of disgracing his military office. He had replied that the new regime had already accomplished that for him. She had herself broken the bounds of good taste by choosing a valkyrie’s robe, round brass breastplates, and horned helmet for herself. He had begged her not to wallow in the Wagnerian in this silly way, but she had insisted. Ever since, he had been addressing her as “Brunhilde.” She was quite agitated and nervous.
“Es tut mir leid,” he said, “that I cause you offense, Dagne. And that you provoke me so to do it. Why don’t you just put on one of those damned swastika armbands of yours and demand that Lady Mountbatten wear a yellow star?”
“Just shut up.”
“We should join the others. Then we can ignore each other.”
“I want to sit here for a few minutes. To make what you would call a reconnaissance. I am sure he will be here. Yes. Yes, there he is. Over by the bar.”
“He?”
“Himmler’s man.”
“That blond young giant?”
“Rechts. I’m sure that’s him. Only the chicken farmer would choose a spy on the basis of his Nordic looks.”
“The fellow betrays himself by his lack of costume. He is the only one here in black tie.”
“He would look the same dressed as a courtesan, brother. All barrel chest and biceps and jutting jaw. He must be six inches over six feet tall. You see, his tuxedo barely fits him. Only the Death’s Head uniform suits him. Everything else is—yes—costume.”
“Perhaps you are wrong, Dagne. He is much too obvious, even for Himmler.”
“No. I’ve been following him about the ship today. He is in the passenger manifest as Herr Braun. He has sent a number of wireless messages to Hamburg since we left Le Havre—I gather all to the same person.”
“How do you know this?”
“I became friendly with one of the wireless clerks. It was one of the first things I did.”
Captain van der Heyden, reeking of eau de cologne and with tie askew and jacket unbuttoned, stumbled onto the bridge. The second officer, Willem Lodewijk, was temporarily in command. It was crowded, as two watches were on duty at the same time.
“Fire?” said the captain. “Another fire?”
“Yes, Captain. In the after-turbo generator room. Mr. van Groot and Chief Engineer Brinker are down there.”
Van der Heyden rubbed his eyes, blinking afterward. “Get me coffee, a large hot strong cup of coffee. What’s our speed and course?”
“Full stop, sir. We had to shut down the turbines.”
“Full stop? We’re no longer under way?”
“No sir. We’re stopped. Dead in the water.”
“Turn on an emergency generator and get one of those propellors turning, just to make enough headway for steering.”
“Yes, sir!”
“Has anyone sounded the main fire alarm?”
One of the junior officers started toward the control panel.
“Nee, nee!” shouted van der Heyden. “Not yet!” The young man halted, confused.
“No one’s sounded the main alarm, sir,” said Lodewijk. “We’ve just had the one on the panel there.”
“Well, wait. We won’t panic everyone yet. Get me van Groot on the intercom.”
The first officer took several minutes to respond. Van der Heyden took this as impertinence.
“Mr. van Groot, this is the captain.”
There was a long pause. “Yes, sir. Have you been apprised of the situation?”
“Yes. Why didn’t you have me awakened earlier?”
Another pause. “Captain. I wasn’t sure I should wake you at all.”
“Damn it, van Groot, there are regulations!”
“There certainly are, sir. Too often broken.”
This time the captain hesitated. “How bad is the fire?” he said finally. “Is it under control?”
“It’s spread to two other of these motor switchboard units, but it appears containable. The trouble is we’re having to hack through the equipment to get at the source of the fire. We’ve broken one fire axe already.”
“Keep at it. Ring me back in five minutes with a report.”
He hung up the receiver, then stood a moment, holding onto a stanchion for support. The deck felt to him as if they were in the pitch of heavy seas, though everyone else was standing easily.
“Where is van Hoorn?” he asked. No one spoke, but then a voice behind him said,
“Here I am, van der Heyden.”
“We have a fire, sir. Another fire again.”
“Yes. I know. Do you think it is very serious? Shouldn’t we be getting passengers into lifeboats?”
The captain rubbed his eyes once more, then stared ahead at the darkening skies and waters out the forward windows. “Do you want to do that, sir?”
“It’s the very last thing I want to do, Captain. But I don’t want a catastrophe either.”
“Well, I don’t think it’s too serious. Not yet.”
Nora and Spencer returned to their table and drinks. He felt sixteen again, a year of his life full of happy exuberance. It was the next year that he had gone to war.
The band was playing one of Porter’s faster numbers. Mrs. Simpson was sitting it out, leaving the prince to whirl a somewhat startled and faltering Emerald Cunard about the floor. Chips and Lady Diana were dancing, and looking marvelous. Duff had still not released Mrs. Parker. His face seemed so flushed Spencer feared he might at any moment collapse with a stroke or heart attack.
Edwina was suddenly before them, leaning forward with both hands on the table as Nancy Cunard had in the second-class cocktail bar. But she was not there to harangue them. Smiling perfectly, she was performing the role of hostess.
“Dear Lieutenant Spencer. Darling Miss Gwynne,” she said, glancing from one to the other of them. “Isn’t it a divine party?”
“Divine,” said Spencer. He pointed to the sergeant’s stripes on his Legionnaire’s tunic. “Incidentally, I’ve been demoted. In fact, as a commander’s wife, I’m not sure you should even be talking to me.”
“Your humor is always so self-deprecating, Lieutenant. How very American of you.”
“We’re having a swell time, Lady Mountbatten,” said Nora.
“Do call me Edwina. And may I call you Nora? I hope that doesn’t seem too forward. You’re such a famous and accomplished person.”
“Why don’t you call her ‘Lieutenant Gwynne?’” Spencer said.
“Ah, more wit,” said Edwina. “Such an amusing lieutenant. But now, can you tell me please if you’ve seen our German friends, the count and countess? I don’t know what’s keeping them.”
“They’re over there by the entrance,” said Nora. “They arrived a few minutes ago. I don’t know why they haven’t come over.”
“I think he needs to rest awhile,” Spencer said, “before he can complete the arduous journey to this side of the room.”
“That’s cruel and boorish, Lieutenant,” said Edwina.
“A perfect description of my wartime foe,” Spencer said. Edwina walked away angrily. She waited for the orchestra to finish the number, then crossed the dance floor, heading for the von Kresses as purposefully as a cheetah cutting through a herd of wildebeest for the one creature it had chosen for its prey.
“Fancy Edwina developing such a passion for the Hun,” said Duff, breathing heavily as he seated himself. Mrs. Parker had gone back to her husband. “There was a German woman killed at our hotel back in Paris, and Edwina found the incident vastly amusing.”
“Mildly amusing,” said Lady Dian
a, who had also joined them. “I found it ghastly. It happened right on the balcony, during the riot. It could have been any of us, really. When she heard about it, Edwina thought it marvelously ironic that the filthy Germans who had encouraged the rioting should have one of their own fall victim to it.”
“In fairness, Diana,” said Duff, “most of that rampage was spontaneous. Good French fun.”
“What hotel was this?” asked Spencer. Nora felt his fingers clench.
“L’Hotel Crillon,” said Diana.
“She was a blond woman? In a blue evening gown?”
“Yes. You must have been there,” said Diana. “It was such an awful mess. They carried her right past us. We were going upstairs, to play bezique.”
“And you say she was German?”
“Excruciatingly German,” said Duff. “She was the wife of the Reich’s military attaché in Paris. Of course, all the Reich’s diplomats are military attachés these days.”
“How do you know this?” Spencer asked.
“Why, we had cocktails with them a bit earlier,” Diana said. “There was a reception. The Boche agents provocateur assembling to watch the results of their handiwork.”
“She was very lovely, that woman,” said Spencer.
“But I think a horrid person, really,” said Diana. “Very cold and forbidding. As if she loathed everyone and everything. How queer that, of all those on that crowded balcony, the bullet should find her.”
“Yes,” said Duff, nodding toward the von Kresses. “But one goes down and up pops another.”
“I say,” said Lord Mountbatten, from the next table. “Have you noticed? I think the ship has stopped.”
“It’s the wine, darling,” said Diana. “Have another glass of champagne and she’ll start right up again.”
“I’m jolly well serious,” said Mountbatten. He reached down and put his hand flat against the floor. “And I’m quite right. There’s no vibration. They’ve stopped the engines. We’re adrift.”
“Utterly my favorite way to be,” said Diana. “Come, Duffie. Let us dance.”
Nora looked to Spencer, but he was staring at the tabletop, seeing only a dead woman’s face. He looked much like he had when she had first encountered him drunk in the Ritz bar.
Dance on a Sinking Ship Page 31