30 Pieces of a Novel

by Stephen Dixon

  They walk around the deck the next night; she takes his hand and says, “I like you, you’re a nice boy again, so if you’re willing I want to show you a very special box in my cabin.” “What’s in it?” and she says, “Mysteries, beauties, tantalizing priceless objects, nothing shabby or cheap, or perhaps these things only to me and to connoisseurs who know their worth. I don’t open it to anyone but my husband, whenever he’s in a very dark mood and wants to be released, and to exceptionally special and generous friends, and then for them only rare times.” “What time’s that?” and she says, “Maybe you’ll see, and it could also be you won’t. From now to then it’s all up to you and what you do and say. But at the last moment, if it strikes me and even if it’s from nothing you have done, I can keep it locked or only open it a peek and then, without your seeing anything but dark inside, snap it shut for good. Do you know what I’m saying now?” and he says, “Sure, and I’ll do what you say.”

  She shares the cabin with a Danish woman who’s out gambling with the ship’s officers, she says, and won’t return till late if at all; “I think she’s a hired slut.” They sit on her bunk, she says, “Turn around and shut your eyes closed and never open them till I command,” and he does, thinking she’s going to strip for him, since she gets up and he hears clothes rustling; then, after saying several times, “Keep your eyes closed, they must keep closed or I won’t open what I have for you,” she sits beside him and says, “All right, now!” and she’s still dressed and holding a box in her lap. It looks old, is made of carved painted wood, and is shaped like a steamer trunk the size of a shoebox. She leans over and opens it with a miniature trunk key on a chain around her neck, and it’s filled with what seems like a lot of cheap costume jewelry. She searches inside and pulls out a yellow and blue translucent necklace that looks like glass and sparkles when she holds it up. “This one King Farouk presented to me by hand after I danced for him. And I want you to know it was only for my dancing, not for my making love. Bellydancers in the Middle East are different from those kind of girls, like the Danish slut in the bed I sleep beside. You know who Farouk is?” and he says, “A great man, of course, maybe three hundred blubbery pounds of greatness,” and she says, “You’re too sarcastic and, I think, confusing him with the Aga Khan. Farouk was cultured and loved the art of belly dancing—and it is an art; only an imbecile could say it isn’t without knowing more—and he didn’t sit on scales and weigh himself in jewels. That one I never danced for, since it perhaps wasn’t anything he was interested in.” “Farouk was a fat hideous monster who was also a self-serving pawn of the English till his people dumped him, though for something better I’m not sure,” and she says, “This shows you know nothing, a hundred percent proof. He had rare paintings, loved music, and would pay my plane fare back and forth from Austria and reside me in the top Cairo hotel, just to have me dance one evening for him and his court. He said I was the best—to me, to my face, the very best—and ancient men in his court agreed with him, ones who had seen the art of belly dancing before I was born,” and he says, “Sure they agreed; how could they not?” and she says, “What does that mean? More sarcasm?” and he says, “No, I’m saying they were very old, so they knew.” “I also danced for the great sheikhs and leaders of Arabia and many of the smaller sheikhdoms there. That was when I lived in Alexandria and Greece and learned to perfect my dancing and received most of this”—dropping the necklace into the box and sifting through the jewelry again. “It’s all very beautiful and no doubt valuable; you should keep it with the purser,” and she says, “They all steal. Here, only you and I know I have it, so if it’s stolen we know who did it.” “Me? Never. But show me a step or two, if it’s possible in this cramped space. I want to learn more about it,” and she says, “Maybe I will, but only if you prove you’re not just an ignorant immature boy.” “How do I prove it?” and she says, “For one, by not asking me how.” “That seems like something you picked up in your dancing: clever sayings that put something off,” and she says, “You’re clever yourself at times and bordering on handsome, a combination I could easily adore,” and she kisses her middle finger and puts it to his lips. “This for now,” she says, and he moves his face nearer to hers; if she kissed him hard once she’ll do it again, he thinks, and it seems he’ll have to push the seduction a little and she’s making him so goddamn hot, and he puts an arm around her and she says, “What gives now? Watch out, my funny man, and more for the jewels. They are precious, even the box is precious, and some can break,” and pushes him off the bunk to the floor. “Haven’t you heard? Good things come to those who wait, and even then they may not arrive,” and he says, “I’ve heard that, except the ending, but okay, I won’t push—not your way, at least,” and she says, “Now you talk in riddles. And come, get off the floor, you look like a dog,” and he sits beside her and says, “I meant pushing with the hands. Nor the other way, urging myself on you romantically, though it’s certainly what I’d want, the romance—you wouldn’t?” and she says, “That kind of talk should only be between lovers, and we aren’t that yet and may never be. Time will tell, time will tell,” and he says, “You’re right. If you’re interested you’ll tell me, agreed?” and she says, “Now at this point I can see where Europe has sharpened and civilized you, as you told me yesterday, but only in spurts. You need to travel there more. And now that you’re in a soft mood, it means I can go past mere love and sex and friends’ playfulness and tell your fortune. Would you like me for that?” and he says, “I don’t know if I could believe in it,” and she says sulkily, “Then I won’t; without your faith, I’d only rummage over your palm,” and he says, “No, please, do, I’m very interested, and you’re probably an expert at it.” She closes the box—“I am, but you’re a liar, though I like it”—takes his hand, and traces it with her finger, tells him he’ll marry early, have a good wife, fine children, then a second good wife, young and beautiful and wealthy like the first. “The first won’t die but she will disappear and everyone will wonder why and even accuse you but no one will find out, and the mystery will never be solved. The law will permit you to remarry after two years to let the new wife help you with your babies.” He’ll do well in his profession. He has a romantic and artistic turn to his nature but also one that will make barrels of money, so much so he won’t need his wives’. He’ll be well educated, travel around the world twice, marry a third time—“Did I mention that before?”—and he says, “No, just two,” and she says, “Perhaps because the first two are real marriages, the second wife running off with someone like your brother—do you have one?” and he says, “Yes, in a way, older,” and she says, “Then you have to watch out for him, but it could also be a best friend. And then, soon after, while you’re broken down in sorrow—and this is why I must have said you only marry twice—you settle down with a young woman so young she is not even legal for you and you must live elsewhere and out of wedlock. I think it says here,” jabbing the center of his palm, “she is first someone you teach like your student and then pretend to take in as an adopted daughter, and have two more children.” “How many altogether with the three women?” and she counts on his hand: “Four … five … six, which is a lot for today,” and he says, “And their sex? How are they divided up male and female?” and she says, “It’s difficult to distinguish those markings here. But soon after your final child, and while all never leave home from you, it says—” and suddenly she looks alarmed, drops his hand, and says, “No more, I don’t want to go on,” and he asks why and she says, “Please don’t ask,” and he says, “What, my lifeline?” and she says, “I won’t go into it further … please, it’s much better you leave the cabin now, I’m sleepy,” and he says, “What, did it say something about making love to bellydancers? Is that what scared you?” and she says, “Don’t be an idiot. What I saw was very serious. I don’t want you to know, and no matter how often you ask I won’t tell you. It would only tear at you, and what I saw can’t be prevented, so it would be of no use
for me to say,” and he says, “Is it about someone other than myself? For with two wives and a young lover and six kids and a good profession and art and wealth and lots of travel in my life and, I hope, some wisdom—is there any wisdom?” and she rubs his wrist and examines it and says, “Yes, there’s some of that here and another place,” and he says, “Then no matter how early I’m cut off—thirty, thirty-five—at least I’ve lived,” and she says, “Then do so without the knowledge I found here. I know from experience that this is what has to be. I shouldn’t have played around with your fortune. I should never read palms with people I know and like, for if I find something that’s terrible I can’t hide it with my face,” and shoves him to the door. “Tomorrow, at breakfast, if I’m awake,” and kisses his lips—“That’s for putting up with me.” He tries kissing her some more and touching her breast, and she slaps his hand away and opens the door and laughs—“See, I’m already feeling better”—and with her head motions him to leave.

  They take walks together around the ship, kiss on the deck if it’s warm enough out there, play Chinese checkers in the saloon; in her cabin, where she takes him to see her wardrobe and jewelry box again, she says, “You once said I was fat; well, see that I’m not,” though he doesn’t remember ever saying anything about it, and she stands straight and places his hands on her breasts through the blouse and says, “Hard, yes, not fat; no part of me is except what all in my family were born with, my derriere,” and when he tries unbuttoning her blouse she grabs his hand and bites it and laughs and says, “You’d get much worse if you had gone farther without my noticing it,” and he thinks, What’s she going to do, bite me again, slap my face? and says, “Sorry,” and takes her hand and kisses it and moves it to his crotch, and she says, “No, not now, and perhaps not later. I’m sure you’ll want me to say it’s hard like my chest, and I’m not saying the day will never come for this, but only maybe.” “When?” and she says, “I’ll write down your address in New York and if I go there I’m sure I’ll see you. It’s not that I don’t want to myself sometimes. You’re a nice boy. But then I’d have to tell my husband and I don’t want to hurt him. You can understand that. But if I do feel a thrashing craving with you the next two days, then we’ll do something at the most convenient place feasible, if there is one, okay?” and he thinks she’s warming up to him; he really feels there’s a good chance she’ll do it; she was earnest then and her kisses have become more frequent and passionate and longer, not just mashing her mouth into his and pulling his hair back till it hurts but going “Whew!” after, “That was nice, I was overcome,” and she did let him touch her breasts, big full ones, soft; he doesn’t know what she’s talking about “hard.” He’d like to just pounce on her on her bunk and try to force her, pull all her bottom clothes off quickly and start rubbing and kissing, but she’d scream bloody murder and probably punch him and do serious biting and then order him out and avoid him the rest of the trip, though he doesn’t think she’d report him. No, go slow, be a little puppy, that’s the way she wants it done, at her own pace, and the last night probably—a goodbye gift, she might call it. And then she won’t exchange addresses. She’ll say something like “We did what overcame us but shouldn’t have, but I won’t apologize. If we meet again, then we meet—it’s all written before as to what happens—and perhaps we can continue then, but only perhaps.”

  At the captain’s dinner the last night everyone can sit where he wants, and he sits beside her at her table and out of desperation whispers into her ear, “Really, I’m in love with you, deep down to the deepest part of me, it’s not just sex, but it’s about that too. You look beautiful tonight, but you’re always beautiful. Please let’s make love later, the stars say so,” and she says, “Oh, do they? You are tapped into them today? I’ve had my influence; I feel good about that. Well, we’ll see, my young friend, we’ll see, because I too think you look handsome tonight,” and he whispers, “You mean there’s hope? I’m only asking. I won’t pout or anything and I’ll be totally understanding if you end up by saying no,” and she takes his hand out from under the table, brings it to her mouth, and kisses it and says, “Yes, I would be encouraged,” and someone at the table says, “Oh, my goodness,” and she says, “We are only special shipmate friends, nothing more to us.”

  There’s a passenger variety show after dinner, drinks still compliments of the captain, and people say to her, “Belly dance, please belly dance for us,” and she says no and they start chanting, “Belly dance, belly dance, please, please,” and she says, “All right, but I’m out of practice, and the air temperature isn’t right for it, so perhaps only for a short while,” and goes below and returns in costume and makeup and belly dances to a record she also brought up. Her breasts are larger than he thought or remembers feeling that night, legs longer and slim, while he thought they’d be pudgy; she shows a slightly bloated belly, though—it moves, he supposes, the way it’s supposed to in such a dance and maybe it’s supposed to be that shape, and her buttocks and hips wiggle in what he thinks would be the right ways too, but what does he know? It all looks authentic, but sometimes it seems she’s about to fall. Maybe she drank too much, but at dinner she said she’ll only have one glass of wine: “Don’t let me have a second. Scold me if I even try to; on evenings like this where the sentiment runs so much, one can see oneself getting carried away.” Maybe she has a bottle in her cabin. She’s less attractive to him dancing. In fact she looks ridiculous, her face sort of stupid and at times grotesque, and too many of her steps are just plain clumsy, and her belly’s ugly. She’s no bellydancer, she’s a fake. She’s Austrian, that he can tell by her accent, and maybe married to a Canadian soldier, but that’s all. If she belly dances in Canada, it’s in cheap bars or at costume parties when everyone’s loaded, or something like that. The passengers applaud her loudly, surround her after, want to inspect the jewelry she’s wearing, feel the material of her clothes. “This anklet came from a very rich Lebanese I can’t tell you how many years ago,” she says. “King Farouk, who many people look down upon, and perhaps there’s some truth to it, but he would have given me this brooch after I danced, he said, if I didn’t already own an exact one. Who would have thought such valuable things could be mass-produced.” She looks at him through the crowd and smiles demurely and then closes her eyes and her smile widens and he thinks, So, it’s going to happen, whether he wants to or not. Good, he’s going to take complete advantage of her after all these dry days and give it to her like she’s never got it in her life, and if she thinks he’s too rough or just a flop, who cares?—tomorrow they’ll be so rushed and busy with packing and customs and getting off the ship, he doubts he’ll ever see her. Anyway, it’s been weeks and he suddenly can’t wait, his last a bad-tempered whore in Hamburg who wouldn’t even take her stockings and blouse off.

  He put his name on the variety show list as “singer,” and when his name’s called he gets up on the little stage and says he’s going to sing the “never-walk-alone song from Carousel, the only one I know the words to.” The pianist, who’s also a steward, doesn’t know the music to it, so he says, “I won’t be at my best then, which is never that good, but I’ll try to do a semidecent job as an unaccompanied solo. Well, violins and cellos do it—think of Bach—so why not voices? But please, anybody who wants to join in and even drown me out, do.” A couple of people laugh. He thought he was a tenor but he can’t get above certain notes. So he stops partway through and says, “Excuse me, mind if I start again but as a baritone? I think this song was originally for a contralto—deep—so maybe it’s better sung at that range. Anyway, my voice must have changed while I was in Europe—you didn’t know I was so young,” and the same two or three people laugh. The pianist says, “Sure, if you feel you have to go on, but we do have a big lineup still to follow and it’s getting kind of late,” and he says, “So, I actually won’t. I’m making myself into a first-class ass. Better, if you can’t sing, to be voiceless without portholes, right?” and several pe
ople say, “Huh?” and nobody laughs, and he says, “Sorry, but I’m not much of a comedian either,” and steps down.

  They walk on the deck after. He says, “I was really stupid tonight, wasn’t I, and you were so great,” and she says, “You were quite charming and hilarious; I laughed a great deal. But you liked my dancing? I looked at you once while I was in the middle of a difficult step and you didn’t seem pleased. I broke a serious rule of mine tonight and danced for people who aren’t special or paying me at expensive celebrations, except for you, my dear,” and clutches his hand and nuzzles into his upper arm, and he says, “Thank you, and I can see what you mean about its being an art form.” She’s still in costume, they kiss and then kiss hard, and she lets him keep his hand on her breast when he puts it there, and he says, “Tonight, right? We’ll do something, at least,” and she says, “Truly, and without exaggeration, I want to—what better time and setting, and the night’s mild for once—but I don’t think we should when too many people could be watching. You’ve a cabin mate, I have one, we should plan for it in a simple but sweet hotel room,” and he says, “Where, Quebec? Won’t it be expensive and isn’t your husband meeting you?” and she says, “I’ll pay, if you don’t mind, and he’ll only meet me at the train terminal in Montreal. But I’m to call him to say the ship got into Quebec, and for that I can be a half day late.”