Pacifica

by Jill Zeller

  Mr. Farragut’s head poked through the opening. In a flash I was on my feet and struggling into my dressing gown.

  “Oh, so sorry to intrude, Miss Lynch. I should come back later.” He had withdrawn his head and spoke through the closed door.

  “No, no, please come in. Excuse me, but I was trying to stay cool.”

  The door opened, and he slipped in, a narrow, thin blade of a man, all angles and fragility, as if he might bend like wheat in the field.

  “If I disturbed your rest—”

  “Not a bit of it. I wish I could offer you something to drink.”

  He stood awkwardly.

  “Thank you, but no—” He stammered a little and wariness filled me. Not this. He’s not hoping for favors from me.

  “I wish you would talk my wife out of this séance idea.”

  Pulling the neck of my robe closer, I inhaled. Oh, this sort of favor. And besides that, it was supposed to be a secret. How had he found out?

  I said, “That seems, Mr. Farragut, a near impossible task.”

  Shaking his head, he smiled in a lopsided way. “I wouldn’t normally be so bold, but Harriet has taken to you. She long ago stopped listening to me.” His fingers fiddled with the buttons of his linen jacket.

  I nodded toward the opposite end of my bed. “Please sit down.”

  To my great relief, he sat, knees bent awkward and angled. “My wife—you see, is still—grieving for our son. It’s difficult, but when we were in Colon, in Panama, he disappeared. And, was found a week later, dead.”

  A heaviness grew under my ribs, closed my throat. “Oh, I am so sorry, Mr. Farragut.” Now I understood the look in her great blue eyes, shadowed, frightened almost; and his line of care, drawn horizontally over his eyebrows. The two things about them that never changed, even when they laughed.

  “She’s hoping to contact him, you see.” Mr. Farragut slid his fingers under his lapel, fingers that wouldn’t stop searching his clothes as if looking for something. “This trip, it’s, yes, to see the finished Canal, the place we lived for two years.”

  A dark look narrowed his eyes. “I don’t care to see any of it. It was a terrible place. Haunted, cursed. Paid for with many, many lives.”

  The entire nation knew about Yellow Fever. The Splash editorial column regularly expressed the opinion that the government had covered up the number of victims. And Silas always accused the mainstream press of underplaying the far greater number of West Indian lives lost to accident, disease and starvation.

  “But I let Harriet talk me into it. There would be no peace in our house until we went. She’s convinced herself that this voyage is for me, to see what I have helped to accomplish.” His voice took on a bitter taste. “The ‘Eighth Wonder of the World’.”

  “But’s not for me. It’s for her, and I gave in because I couldn’t think of anything else to do. Maybe if she sees the place where he died one last time, she’ll be able to accept it, let go. Put it behind her. Let our boy rest in peace.”

  He turned his head away and a silence fell between us. I wanted to take his hand, but I stopped myself.

  “I’ll try, Mr. Farragut. I will surely try to keep your wife away.”

  Nodding, he rose, keeping his face away from mine. And continued to nod as he left, wordless, his shoulders rounded, I thought, with his own quiet, eternal grieving for his child. I wondered if there were other children somewhere, alive and healthy, to give grandchildren, but I couldn’t bring myself to ask.

  As if he divined that I had a visitor, Philip didn’t appear until after Mr. Farragut had gone. In the intervening ten minutes I formulated a plan, sort of, to discourage Mrs. Farragut from attending the séance tonight. But I would need Philip’s help.

  Sitting down beside me, Philip drew his finger along my cheek, leaned in to kiss me. We had not, so far spoken a word. He smelled like the salt of the sea, and grass. His tongue was velvet against my skin. I liked to watch him, eyes and mouth, muscles pulling under skin. Again he pleasured me, and now three times the sweet explosion took possession of us both.

  And when he was done, with his own soft moan and straining neck, my fingers digging into his arms, he lay on top of me for a while, nuzzling my hair.

  “You’re early,” I said, tasting the sweat on his shoulder. The cabin was very hot, with the door closed. I wished for one of the electric fans Silas had bought for the papers’ offices. “In the daylight. Won’t the sun burn your vampire skin?”

  “Couldn’t sleep. The coffin is so uncomfortable,” he mumbled into my neck. Raising his head, he looked at me, frowning, sidelong. “My sister doesn’t know about you. I would like to keep it that way.”

  Indeed, no one should know what we are doing, I thought, getting up on one elbow. “Of course.”

  We were silent for a while, as Philip examined his fingernails. They were rather long, and very clean. Perhaps a magician needed long nails for some reason.

  When we spoke, it was at the same time. I wanted to tell him my plan, and he wanted to know what Mr. Farragut wanted.

  The question surprised me. Philip didn’t look at me as he asked, just kept staring at his fingers, splayed before him on the sheet.

  I replied, “He came to ask a favor of me.” Was there a hint of jealousy in Mr. Picou’s voice?

  “What kind of favor?”

  Pulling myself up, I slid past him and sat on the edge of the bed, pulled my dressing gown over my shoulder. There was a tone in Philip’s voice, a little like my brother’s: demanding, proprietary, as if he had the right to know everything. A needle-like irk stabbed under my ribs.

  “And why should that be something you need to know, Mr. Picou?”

  Twisting to face me, he took a strand of my hair in his hand. “I’m sorry. I had no right.”

  “Just so.” Sighing, I wished I could increase his discomfort somehow, but my heart melted a little. Besides, Mr. Farragut’s visit had directly to do with Philip Picou and his sister.

  So I told Philip what Mr. Farragut asked, leaving out what personal details I could, just telling him that Mr. Farragut was concerned for his wife’s health.

  “Could your sister just not have the séance? Could she cancel it, claim ill health or something?”

  Philip shook his head, gave me a half smile, “Darling, this is our bread and butter. This is how we live.” He turned his hands palm-up. “There is no other money. What we had from our last shows in Canada was spent on these tickets. We were lucky to get on a playbill in Port au Prince, and Havana.”

  “Couldn’t you just perform a magic show? The passengers would love it.”

  “I did enquire.” Sighing, Philip took my hand, turned it, folded my fingers. I felt something cold in my palm. When I opened it, a silver dollar was there. “There is always the cut for the captain and crew. But it wasn’t the size of our percentage that deterred us. It seems the captain is nervous about magicians, and seers.”

  “But why?”

  Picking up the silver dollar, Philip turned it between two fingers, and viola—it vanished. “His crew. Many are from the West Indies. Haiti. They are superstitious. There is a religion of sorts, Vudun. My act, my sister’s practice, would smack of witchcraft to them. The captain can’t risk his crew suddenly deciding to abandon ship.”

  Disappointed, I told myself that I had tried, at least, to help Mr. Farragut and his wife. I couldn’t ask Philip to give up his income. For all I knew, that silver dollar was his last. There still might be another way.

  “What does your sister charge for entry into her séance?” In truth I hadn’t realized it might cost money. I too was on a budget, although I had a bit more to spend than one silver dollar.

  “Fifty cents. Yes, so, only the swells on this voyage would bother.”

  That did seem extravagant enough to buy one a decent supper in New York, but Star Picou might be worth it. Here was my way out, however, and it might discourage Mrs. Farragut from attending.

  My plan backfired, of cour
se. When I told Mrs. Farragut I couldn’t afford Star Picou’s prices, she offered to pay for my entry. I knew Mr. Farragut could not possibly approve of this expenditure, but I also doubted he had much influence over his strong-willed wife. I would have to think of something else.

  We dined, but Philip didn’t join us, nor did he make an appearance in the Salon. The line of worry across his forehead deepening, Mr. Farragut said very little. Harriet, however, seemed unable to stay quiet.

  “There is this smell to the air, do you smell it? Only in the tropics, like layer after layer of rot and earth and new, strange things growing from it.” She took small bites, laying down her spoon, as if each new thought startled her.

  “Sailing over the ocean always delights me. Whitman described it best.

  “The wake of the ship after she passes, flashing and frolicsome under the sun,

  A motley procession with many a fleck of foam and many fragments,

  Following the stately and rapid ship, in the wake following.”

  Tears moistened her eyes, but she didn’t wipe them away.

  I stole a glance at Mr. Farragut, but his gaze stayed on his plate, where his barely-touched meal grew cold.

  “Your students must have adored you, Mrs. Farragut.” I tried, lamely, to bring her focus back to us.

  Now, for a moment, she looked at me, and seemed to see me for the first time. “Oh yes, my students. Most of them were indifferent, Miss Lynch. But some were special. That’s always the way. One of my students is now a Senator from Pennsylvania.” She told me the name and it was vaguely familiar. There were others, attorneys, wealthy business owners and one, she proudly told me, a female doctor.

  Mr. Farragut seemed to lift himself from his funk, and joined in as they related stories about Mrs. Farragut’s teaching days. But inevitably, things went sour fast.

  She said, the ominous brightness returning to her eyes, “I loved teaching. I would do it again, if I could. But, once I married and Daniel was born, I had to leave that all behind.”

  At that moment Armand the waiter brought us a message. Star Picou feels indisposed tonight, and with all apologies has canceled the séance. Mr. Farragut and I exchanged relieved glances while Mrs. Farragut read the note, dashed hopes pulling the skin of her face into gray folds.

  “That’s disappointing.” Folding my napkin, I wondered if this was the real reason. Had Philip decided to do as I asked?

  “Mediums are fickle, or perhaps that’s not the word.” Mrs. Farragut laid the note on the table. “They need special circumstances. Cooperative spirits.” Shivering, she laid her hand on her throat, fingered a gold chain and locket touching the pale lawn fabric of her shirtwaist. I wondered if it held strands of Daniel’s hair.

  A wave of pity tightened my throat. At least, for tonight, the Farraguts would be safe—from what, I wasn’t sure. Thinking about Philip, and the taste of his skin, I felt a pull of excitement and yes, perhaps love.

  Don’t do it, Nola Lynch. Don’t allow yourself to fall in love.

  After dinner sleep was impossible and I walked the deck with others also strolling through the silky night. From the crew quarters, deep in the ship, came the sound of drums and singing—one tuned tenor voice and a chorus replying. I pictured Armand as the soloist, dancing, and it sounded all joyful and true. Hearing it clearly from the promenade deck, I stood listening for a while.

  Above, stars arrayed themselves in chaotic splendor; in the west the moon was a silvered nail paring above the sea, yellowing as it set. It is an all-around magical night, I thought, hands on the cool rail. How could the spirits not be alert and ready? But perhaps they were on holiday, as were we all as we sailed toward the equator and the steamy climes of Panama.

  When I woke the next morning, sketches, fallen leaves of paper, littered my room. Staying up half the night, I’d sketched everything I could imagine and remember: my little cabin with rumpled bed, porthole, tiny sink and faucet. Myself, in dressing gown of laced cotton, hair draped across my shoulders. The night sea, in India ink and charcoal, stars empty paper-space uncolored.

  And Philip. Several images, profile, frontal, hair flying, and still. Frowning, smiling. Nude.

  Only it was not morning, it was afternoon. And full of sultry heat.

  The only place to catch a breeze was the forward promenade deck, but I was in no mood for company, not even the kindly Farraguts. So, dressed in loose, white linen—without a corset—I pinned my straw skimmer to my hair and aimed for the stern.

  Luckily the smoke from the stack blew westward, so the air stayed fresh. I wanted the voyage to last forever, somehow. In two days we would call in Nassau, then Port au Prince, then two days Colon at the mouth of the Canal.

  In a doorway stood one of the crew, smoking. Nodding at me as I passed, he gave me a long, appraising gaze. I stopped to talk.

  “And where is your home?” Miss Inquisitor, my father called me, when I was young. I had never outgrown the habit of talking to strangers.

  “Port au Prince, miss.” His English was good, but strongly flavored with the island French.

  “We’ll call there in a few days.” I looked him over. He seemed very young, maybe sixteen, his skin like milk chocolate, eyes a deep, strangely pale brown, almost hazel. Arresting. “Will you see your family?”

  Drawing on his cigarette, he shrugged. “No family there any more, miss.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad.” Perhaps I was prying, and rude. I didn’t understand the culture of these West Indians and he was merely humoring me. He wore the uniform of the kitchen, white with the collar unbuttoned, as he might do in going out for a smoke.

  I said, waving my hand toward the stern, “My family is back in New York City. Have you ever been there?”

  Now he smiled. “Yes, miss.”

  “Of course. Of course you have been there. Did you have time to see the sights, walk the streets—?” My words faded as he gazed at me. What sights would this young man take in, museums, parks? No, more likely he spent time in dockside saloons, or houses where a woman’s attention to certain details could be purchased. I felt my face grow warm.

  “There’s a big house there, in New York.” The boy’s voice was soft, and he smiled. “Lots of books. My auntie taught me to read.”

  “The New York City Library?” I knew my shock was clear on my face.

  He drew his shoulders up, gently scraped his cigarette on the wall and wiped the ash away with his fingers, glanced over my shoulder and touched his forehead.

  “Bon voyage, mademoiselle.” And he was gone.

  Turning I saw a woman approaching. Tall, veiled and swathed in ivory, the fabric somehow glinting with pearl-like lights.

  Sephira Picou. Coming straight for me as if she knew I would be here, this moment, talking to a young man whose face I would love to capture on paper, committing his cheekbones and mustard-colored eyes to memory.

  “Our tiny world, a ship. Are we like a family, or a small country of strangers?”

  Her voice was whispery, breathless. Deep vertical lines on either side of her lips deepened as she smiled. She gazed over the rail at the keenly blue sea.

  I said, “We are a country of strangers that become a family, perhaps. Ten days together in this tiny country should make it so.”

  Her gaze travelled across to me, one eyebrow raised. I knew the look. Something about her brought out my ‘frankness’; where a polite nod might be more suitable for a young lady, I couldn’t help but offer a challenge. It surprised most people.

  She said, “Families don’t always agree, or support one another. Quite the opposite, sometimes, I fear.”

  Gazing at me, she frowned. “You must come. Tonight.”

  “Where, for what?”

  “Someone is trying to reach you. From the other side.” Her long fingers dug into my upper arm, a grip of steel. “Tonight. I will let you know where.”

  She turned, was leaving, dropping her hand from my arm. The air swirled in a sudden gust of hot breeze an
d seemed to blur her movements. A moment later a ship’s steward emerged from the doorway, in blinding white, everything white.

  And the bright lights of Star Picou’s dress stabbed my eyes like little suns. Gripping the rail I steadied myself, watched her walk quickly away from me, saw the steward stare at me, back at Miss Picou, at me, as if he were caught between two goddesses and didn’t know which to follow.

  Making my way back to my cabin, I poured a teaspoon of cordial, swallowed it. I wanted another, but stoppered the bottle and stuffed it back inside my valise. The cabin was hot—gathering sun from the western side of the ship. I went out, and finding a deck chair near strangers with whom I wouldn’t have to talk, I reclined and closed my eyes.

  A boy found me an hour later as the sun brought deep shadows to our shady walk. I had fallen asleep as my father’s cordial trickled, a tiny stream, through my body and muscles, and created a pool of contentedness in my brain.

  Another telegram. From New York. It would be from Arthur, of course. I didn’t open it.

  It was not long after that Mrs. Farragut found me. Excited, face flushed, she urged me to come swim with her. My father, having tended to and lost patients to drowning, had forced my brother and me to the City Plunge to take swimming lessons. In spite of this I had never been a good swimmer.

  Leopardo’s pool was one of the reasons, however, I was happy to capture passage on her. It seemed to lend a certain glamour to the voyage. I had packed a swimming costume, knowing I would be passing through tropical climes and thinking, naively, perhaps, that I would find myself on a palm-lined beach wading in water the color of blue topaz.

  I agreed to accompany her, and decided not to bring up Miss Picou’s invitation to me to join her séance. Mrs. Farragut—Harriet, as she now insisted I call her—might not know about it, and I certainly wasn’t going to tell her. Guilt gnawed at me, and doubt. I wondered if it really would be so terrible for Harriet to attend, because if she believed she could talk to Daniel, perhaps that would bring her peace.