Pacifica

by Jill Zeller

  Roland Levesque. “But, how?”

  “He works with us. Assists in the act. When we travel, like this, we pretend not to know each other.”

  Then I understood, with a snap of my dream that perhaps the saints of my grandmother, or Armand’s demons, or Harriet’s spirits, were charging every move and thought, every glance and kiss, every life and death.

  As I stood frozen, seeing only black night through my porthole, Philip told me how easy it was to open and reseal a letter, or a telegram, and how much he learned about the Farraguts just through brief dialog. How keen he and his sister were to people’s private actions telegraphed through their faces and movements.

  “But the storm.” Turning I looked at him, and his eyes and mouth betrayed no emotion, not even regret. “The crew thinks your sister sent it.”

  Philip shrugged. “A coincidence. We’re performers. The best performers use and adapt to whatever is handed to them, like weather, or grief.”

  “But don’t you care for poor Harriet? Does your sister really know that her son is still alive or was it only for effect?”

  His eyebrows rose at the force of my words, my throat closed in anger, making my voice edged and bitter.

  “That I don’t know. She scares me, sometimes, the things she knows.”

  Was this admission too an act, a bit of doubt for appeasement? I sank into my chair, and we looked at one another across the room.

  Getting up Philip crossed to me, knelt and ran his finger along my cheek.

  “I think I’ve fallen in love with you,” he said, not smiling. Instead, he looked frightened. “It can’t be. It just can’t be.”

  I will not fall in love today. I reeled those words through my mind, making them blaze like a Splash headline. I must make him leave.

  Philip stayed. We made love on the wooden boards, heady thick breeze of tropics flowing over us.

  Philip left long before light to make it back to his cabin before any of the crew—or his sister—discovered he had broken his promise of staying in his cabin. I fell asleep in spite of myself, with the help of my cordial, and woke in the afternoon to a hot breeze and the gentle roar of the ship.

  No promises, no offers. Just Philip quiet as he left me. I sat in my linen, trying to stay cool, drinking water. My world had exploded, and been put back together in a different pattern. I felt different anyway, and stayed inside drawing, reading, picking at fruit and bread from a tray.

  Two more days to Haiti, and Philip and Star Picou would disembark. Could I linger a while in Port au Prince, see the sights, and see Philip? Change my plan, alter my course? I had made a promise to my family, and friends, and Silas to blaze a trail.

  But the thought of his jealous sister wavered through my mind. Although ! now knew her predictive powers to be fakery, she still had power to intimidate, entrance, unsettle.

  The days passed quietly. In my walks I saw the Farraguts. Harriet appeared to have lost weight; her ivory suit hung loosely on her and her skin seemed to sag from her cheeks in pale folds. Twice Roland Levesque and the Cavendish twins joined me for meals. The mood of the ship seemed to lighten, and people laughed and chatted, happy, I thought, for this leg of our voyage to be nearly over. I, at least, had mixed thoughts about it.

  Philip did not come to see me again, although he sent a note explaining he was worried he might be caught breaking his “parole”. Signed, “In Port au Prince, then.”

  What does that mean? Was I to meet him there, somewhere? Was I meant to linger in the city? Is that what he is asking?

  After a walk on the deck in moonlight, alone, under a night sky heavily salted with stars, I sat in my cabin. It was near midnight, and tomorrow we could call at Port au Prince. Sleep was impossible, tonight; thick, floral air blanketed the Caribbean water. I looked through my porthole at the velvet veil of darkness, seeking black lumps of islands and finding none.

  A knock sounded at my cabin door. I started, dropped my book. Philip had come anyway, risked punishment. But then I realized what did it matter? What could they do to him now, since he and his sister would be leaving Leopardo tomorrow?

  Getting up I went to the door, heart pounding. What should I say to him? What will I do tomorrow when he leaves me for good?

  Harriet Farragut stood in the passageway. Red blotches spread across her cheeks when she saw me—I was certain I looked shocked to see her.

  “Nola, please. I have to see you. I have to talk to someone.” Her voice was quaked and broken; her chin quivered. Quickly I drew her in, shut the door. Her gaze darted around the room.

  “Peter doesn’t know I’ve left. He’s asleep.” She paced away from me, picked up one of my sketch books. “Have you been drawing?”

  She put the book down without looking at it. I followed as she moved to the porthole and a warmness grew under my ribs, that she had come to me, that perhaps she really didn’t blame me.

  “I’ve missed you, Harriet.” Gently touching her shoulder, I smelled her fragrance, heavily floral, as if she had spilled the cologne on her dress. “Have you been unwell?”

  “Nola. I have to see her. Talk to her. You know where her cabin is. Peter won’t let me, I’ve begged and begged—” The sharp, frank Harriet I had come to know was replaced by a haggard, anxious woman. Worry edged out my happiness at seeing her.

  “Who? Harriet dear, who do you have to see?” I asked, but I feared I already knew the answer.

  Gripping my arm, Harriet faced me. “Her, the seer. The woman who knows where Daniel is. She has to tell me before she leaves, so I can find him.”

  A sickened feeling pulled heavily at my ribs. Poor, dear Harriet didn’t know she had been fooled for entertainment’s sake, taken for her money in a cruel ruse. Should I tell her? If I did, I wasn’t sure she would believe me.

  “Do you really think this is a good idea?” My mind spun, looking for answers, some way to assuage her. “She may not know.”

  “Oh, she knows. She knows.” Harriet’s voice was sharp and low. “I’ll pay her, if what she wants is more money. I’ll pay her double what she wants.”

  Taking Harriet’s hand I sat her down on my bed, sat beside her. “I think you should stay away from her. I don’t think she’s trustworthy—”

  Harriet pulled her hand from mine. “There’s only one way to find out if that Star Picou is lying to me. I have questions for her, things about Daniel only I know. If she can answer, then I will pay her anything to find out where he is.”

  She got to her feet. Her hair hung in wisps and I noticed her skirt was wrinkled as if she had been sleeping in it. She stood at the door.

  “Now. Take me to her now.”

  “Not now, Harriet.” Getting up, I went to her, tried to take her hand again, but she snatched hers away. “It’s after midnight. She’ll be asleep.”

  “Should I care about that? She’s not asleep anyway. She’s a creature of the night, and darkness.” Harriet sighed; and I saw a look darken her eyes: anger, yes, and also hatred. She stared at me.

  “Nola, if you don’t come with me now, I’ll search the entire ship, banging on all the Second Class doors until I find her. I swear I will.”

  I believed her utterly. In this way the old Harriet came back into my mind, determined, stubborn. A bulldog on a bone.

  Sighing, I opened the door, closed it behind us. The passageway was silent and dim; we followed it to the main stairway, circling down past the First Class Saloon, to the deck. Across to the Second Class stairway and into the passage leading to Philip and Sephira Picou’s adjoining cabins. I prayed Philip would not be there, but I knew I could not be so lucky. I also prayed that Star Picou would take pity on Mrs. Farragut and tell her the brutal truth. Better that than Harriet’s terrible desperation to follow an unreal bitter desire to see her dead son again.

  Without a sound she followed me along the passage, until I stood before Star’s door. Harriet reached up to knock but I stopped her, listening for the sound of voices, anything to indicate if Miss
Picou was awake or not.

  Everything was silent. A silence formal and thick. Then I realized the ship’s engines had stopped.

  “Wait, Harriet—”

  Giving me a sharp, angry look, Harriet acted. Her knuckles hit the door, she called Miss Picou’s name, and before I could stop her, she opened the door.

  It was unlocked, and Harriet walked into the dimly lit cabin.

  I heard a startled voice, but it was not Miss Picou.

  Philip!

  My heart ticked up, pushing heat into my face. Why had I come? Harriet stood blocking me. I halted just outside the door.

  “What? What is this?” Harriet’s voice resounded as a teacher’s might when catching students doing something awful.

  Something awful.

  Miss Picou responded, “How dare you come in here! Philip, make her leave.”

  Then Philip, voice quiet, spoke. I couldn’t make out what he said. A crack opened up inside me, and I felt I was falling, falling, into a cold, thick sucking muck.

  Harriet said, “You’re disgusting. Disgusting!”

  I pushed her out of my way; she stumbled but I didn’t care.

  A gas lamp on the wall, turned low, dimly lit Miss Picou’s cabin. Miss Picou stood before us, shifting her arms into a robe. She was completely nude.

  Behind her, lying on the bed, her bed, was Philip. I could see his fine, long arm lying on the coverlet as he sat up on one elbow. He gazed at me, unmoving, and I was still falling, falling, into the black sea where killing beasts roamed.

  “Disgusting.” Harriet’s voice was distant, a murmur. The smell of sweat and lust and cologne. An unusual cologne, rich and sharp; I had smelled it before and I stood looking at Philip trying to remember.

  He was saying, “Nola, Nola. I tried to tell you.”

  In a shop, bottles of the stuff. A whiff from a woman on the street. Inside a rich building, church-like and ritualized.

  “Miss Lynch. Would you please take your friend away?” Star Picou’s voice was calm; she came near me, pulling the lapels of her robe close over her breasts, soft mounds under. Her hair lapped her shoulder in waves, silky strands catching the lamp-light.

  “I can see why he was attracted to you.” She reached out, took a lock of my hair, turned it, the same way Philip did. “You look like me.”

  She smiled. Sickness rushed up inside me, filling my raw, black gut. Turning, I pushed her hand away, took Harriet’s arm, and made for the door.

  A crew member stood there, a young man whose eyes widened as he took us in.

  Oh my god, now we will all be put ashore tomorrow.

  “Please, everyone,” He swallowed, and I saw a flush crawl up his cheeks. “The Captain requests you put on your life jackets and assemble on deck.”

  Harriet’s hand went to her mouth. Heat flowed through me, pushing back the blackness. The engines had stopped. Something was wrong.

  We had all lived through the tragedy of the Titanic’s sinking. I could see the same thought on Harriet’s face, but fortunately she said nothing.

  The crewman was speaking. “Nothing to worry about. Just a precaution. Please now, everyone.”

  Then he was gone to the next cabin; I heard him knocking at the door, and murmurs of the passengers in the corridor.

  “Harriet, we have to go.” I found myself moving, dragging her from Sephira’s cabin, leaving her and Philip behind. I took Harriet along the corridor, pushing past passengers in bulky life-vests, eyes flashing with worry.

  “Mr. Farragut will be in a panic. Hurry.”

  I took her up the stairs and through the saloon already filled with milling passengers. Was there a whiff of smoke in the air, a faint tinge of burning? A fire on board?

  Inhaling I pulled Harriet along. She stayed with me, silent and walking strongly. We climbed the stairs, pushing past passengers coming down, and as we emerged into the First Class passages I saw Mr. Farragut’s tall lanky frame coming toward us, his wife’s life-jacket in his hand.

  Seeing me, his eyes widened, and the moment he saw Harriet with me, he pushed his way toward us.

  They might have greeted each other. Mr. Farragut might even have said something to me, thank you, a wish for my safety, but I didn’t wait.

  In my stateroom I gathered up my sketch book and pencils, found a coat, although the sultry heat should have told me I wouldn’t need it. Found my life-vest in the closet.

  The smell of smoke was indeed strong up here. As I emerged onto the promenade deck I looked forward, and saw crewmen scurrying in the semi-dark, blocking lanterns with their shadows. Smoke billowed from the crew quarters gangways and portholes.

  Instantly I thought of Etienne and Armand, prayed they were safely out of there. As I stood watching, someone touched my arm and I turned to see Philip Picou standing behind me.

  He was bareheaded, his hair framing his face, giving it an ivory-white shade. Except for his cheeks, blushed pink, eyes gleaming in lantern light.

  “Nola, I tried to tell you.”

  Run away. Leave him. He’s abominable.

  But I stood still, bile burning in my throat. “Best would have been to just tell me, not hint around and whine about how close you are.” I felt a laugh curdle in my chest. “That is close, Philip. I had no idea.”

  His eyebrows rose and fell. A crewman ran past; over Philip’s shoulder I saw the Cavendish twins standing near us, staring as we did at the crew quarters aflame.

  “I have no excuse. I can make none. We are what we are.”

  What we are. Not who, but what. A thing.

  Staring at him, I saw what I had not seen before, or if I had, I misinterpreted. His face was a mark of loneliness, or imprisonment. An animal caged and trapped with no hope of escape, long after anger and fear had drained away.

  “You don’t have to be that thing, what you say you are,” I heard myself say. How many times had Silas, and Mother, said those same words to me, both motivated by something deep and different?

  My eyes stung with smoke; its sharp, acrid smell was of dark nights and secrets. I would always think of this night when smelling a certain type of burning.

  Philip’s voice came softly into my ears, under the shouts and splashes of water. “Until I met you, I thought I had everything I wanted.”

  You had nothing but lies. I stared at the smoke, lights shifting through it in shadows that became men running.

  It is difficult to draw smoke; no line, only shape.

  “You are like this smoke.” The words were out before I realized. “No boundaries except air.”

  Philip’s arm brushed my shoulder. “Is it any different with you?”

  I certainly would not sleep with my brother. But I kept that to myself. “I was falling in love with you. That’s the only rule I broke.”

  “Your rule. Harsher than society’s rules.” Philip sighed; I could hear it even under the crew’s shouts and the murmuring crowd around us, all of us watching disaster unfold.

  It was then I saw, through the lit mists of smoke and black night, a string of lights along the horizon, far, remote. Haiti. The lights of Port au Prince.

  Around us was a shifting, voices raised. A laugh. Two crewmen had come onto the promenade, announcing the fire was out and everyone could go back to bed, back to their cabins.

  I heard one of the Cavendish twins shout something about opening the saloon. Everyone needed a drink! People cheered, pushed past us, laughing and tearing off their vests.

  Philip didn’t move, remained beside me. My heart felt heavy, lead-like, pulling me down. Port au Prince lay across the black water and Philip would stay behind.

  Now my happy journey, stretching ahead into a golden horizon, seemed to have detoured into a gray, scorched land.

  “Excuse me, miss, would you come with me?” The young radioman stood beside me, offering me his arm. As I turned back to look at Philip, I saw two other men, one of them the captain, standing close to Philip.

  “You’ll come quietly, sir, I am
certain, so as not to embarrass yourself?

  I let the radioman lead me away a few steps. But I watched as the Captain nodded at his officer, who took Philip by the arm.

  Philip Picou did not protest. He nodded, and I saw written on his face that this had not been the first time he had been lead away by police, or the officers of a passenger steamer. But he did give me a sad glance, a good-by glance, and I knew this would be the last time I would see him, and I was right.

  Rumors flew. The Picous were escorted off the ship as soon as Leopardo docked in the morning. Mrs. Pantone told me about it as she joined me in the saloon, where I stayed with a cold cup of tea after the rest of the passengers disembarked to spend the day in the town.

  I had no wish to go into Port au Prince.

  Mrs. Pantone’s nut-brown hair was piled on her head. A small woman, she was much shorter than me, petite and pretty, with chocolate-colored eyes and an upturned nose.

  “Can you believe it? What they were caught doing?” She fanned herself with her napkin; the air was sultry and liquid. I felt sweat under my arms. “Unbelievable. I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  Shaking my head, I pretended to sympathize.

  “That poor Mrs. Farragut. She found them. She was driven half-crazy by that gypsy’s telling that her son was still alive.” Mrs. Pantone shook her head; a sadness came into her eyes. “Do you think she really knew that? Perhaps Mrs. Farragut’s son is really alive?”

  “No, I don’t think she knew anything of the sort.” Maybe my voice was too dark, and sharp, as Mrs. Pantone gave me a startled glance. “I mean, these show people, they’re just actors, you see. They don’t have any magic powers, any more than you or me.”

  “That is so cruel—a terrible thing to do to anyone. Lie like that. And then, the way they lived, like man and wife—” Mrs. Pantone’s pretty forehead wrinkled. “I never thought a relaxing sea voyage would turn into anything like this.”

  Neither had I.

  The steward approached, and I was amazed and gratified to see that it was Armand.