by Dana Gynther
A chill on her skin and an ache in her bones, she slowly eased herself out of bed, navigating the tilting floor. She grasped the picture with both hands, then swiftly returned to the warmth of the blankets.
Vera held the drawing in front of her, this portrait dating back to her prime. In it, her long hair was loosely gathered under a broad-brim hat, a hint of veil covering her face. A youthful thirty-seven, she playfully eyes the artist from the side, a cocky smile captured.
The glass was cracked on the face of her former likeness, giving it some of her current wrinkles. Could this bring bad luck, like breaking a mirror? But no, this image was so old, she had already lived through its seven years of misfortune: the war, her disease, a diversity of unpleasantness.
Vera was studying the drawing, the self-assured lines, the surprising color choices (she’d always relished that touch of sea green in her hair), when she realized that this was roughly what she’d looked like when she met Laszlo Richter. This was the face he had fallen in love with. What had he admired about her? It probably had more to do with her spirit than her looks. Again she thought back on their first dinner together; describing the most elemental details of his life in Budapest—his high-level post at an international bank, his old-fashioned house with a view of the Danube, his hounds and horses—his wife had not been included. Had this face bewitched him?
She reached for her journals and pen on the nightstand. She turned to an empty page in the back (with a weak smile for the soaring balloon) and tried to draw Laszlo’s face. The visit the day before with young Max—who boasted some of his grandfather’s features in miniature—had helped jog her memory. After making a moderately successful outline of his middle-aged face, she proceeded to age it. She let his jaw sag, she lined his brow, thinned out his hair. Would his ears have grown long and hairy? His eyebrows uncontrollably bushy? Would he have lost his teeth? She continued adding the pitfalls of old age to the drawing, until finally it resembled a ghoul. She chuckled sadly at the sketch, thinking that, indeed, they would have made a good match, here at the end.
Vera screwed the top back on her pen and laid it on the nightstand, next to the old bank. Last night, listening to Max’s bubbly laughter as he fed the dog coins, she had already decided to give it to him. She would send Emma Richter a note. Perhaps she wouldn’t mind bringing the boy round for tea?
Vera closed the book on the caricature and began to browse the alphabet memoirs, the first book she’d written. She flipped through the pages until she came to L, convinced that, although Laszlo had made an accidental, detached father, he would have doted on his charming grandson.
Love
I have been told that love, the most celebrated of sentiments, is generally experienced—first and foremost—within one’s Family: parents and siblings and, on rare occasions, one’s more far-fetched relations, such as grandparents, aunties, or cousins. These ties of childhood are then succeeded by the newfound family of one’s Maturity: a spouse and offspring. However, my rather singular and solitary case did not offer me many opportunities to learn about Domestic Love. Indeed, perhaps my knowledge in this matter is rather too scarce to compose these lines.
Despite the fact my parents were eminent members of the community and had a reputation for their sociability, I barely knew them. For my education and amusement, my grandmother, the matriarch of the family and my personal guardian, provided me with a series of governesses. For the most part, these young ladies merely inspired indifference in me. A rare few I condescended to despise. One, I loved.
Miss Daphne was a refined young lady from Savannah. Although Sherman’s March to the Sea had left her family impoverished, when the war ended, they sent their only daughter North, in search of a future. My grandmother engaged her and she became my companion during my seventh year. She was not sparing with affection and kindness like the other adults I had known, and I flourished under her attentions. Unfortunately, Daphne also taught me the frail and fleeting nature of love. After only ten months had passed, she left her position, leaving me brokenhearted and alone.
Vera’s first taste of love had come not from a family member but an outsider, a girl with a lolling stride and a peculiar accent. How stricken she was when, after an academic year, Daphne had abandoned her to marry. After her first experience with love (so long overdue), Vera already learned to be wary of it.
Skimming down the sequence of thwarted sentimental endeavors, she came to her husband. Odd to find him here, she sighed, in a chapter about love.
I first saw Warren Harris at a club social. Telling a tall tale, whiskey in hand, he had the undivided attention of at least a dozen people. A brawny man down from the wilds of Canada, he was in New York visiting relations. In that tired, staid drawing room, he radiated excitement. I observed him. His pleasing face displayed the lines of experience; I estimated his age at Thirty-five. His carriage was self-possessed, his expression wry. His amusing anecdote, too loudly narrated for polite society, concerned frozen rivers and beaver traps. His finger bore no ring. I was immediately attracted to him, recognizing him at once as an extremely promising vehicle to carry me away from the confines of my Grandmother’s house. I had just turned eighteen.
Marrying Warren Harris provided Vera with a legitimate means of escape. The marriage itself, which lasted a full five years, had many moments of reckless diversion, but none resembling the deep tenderness purported to be found in love. When it became clear that Vera could not have children, the festivities came to a complete stop. Not only did he crave a son, but for him, her flaw gave his infidelities just cause. Warren was the one who ultimately petitioned for divorce; when it was finalized, Vera, though tainted with the label of divorcée, was free at last.
If Laszlo had truly been devoted to her, she thought crossly, he too could have gone to the courts to dissolve his marriage. Feeling her overly warm brow, she wondered, for the first time, whether one of his unopened letters might have contained such a proposal. In that case, would she have agreed to . . . what? Love was not her strong suit. She thumbed through the rest of the journal entry dedicated to the subject. After her short-lived marriage, the remaining pages discussed not her lovers but her friends. Charles Wood figured prominently.
She closed her eyes for a moment to feel the swell of the sea. Though not unduly short, her life had been rather bereft in romantic love, despite her numerous affairs. Would she have been able to enjoy a long, devoted marriage? Or would she have soon panicked like a caged animal? She heard her pen roll off the nightstand; if anything, the storm was becoming more violent. Opening her eyes, she turned back to the unflattering illustration of a decrepit Laszlo Richter, wishing that old man were there at her side.
Constance awoke to confusing bumps and rolls. She turned on the lamp and located the sound: in the large fruit bowl, the three remaining apples were sliding from one side to the other. She stood up to investigate and felt the pitch of the ship. Stumbling over to the porthole, she looked outside and saw the dark skies and the turbulent sea. She fell into the chair to watch the unexpected spectacle: a tempest.
On the way over with Gladys Pelham and her talkative friends, it had all been “smooth sailing,” the idea of a perilous sea inconceivable. Now, staring out at the peaked waves, a shiver rippled down her back; the Lusitania, the luxury liner that went down in 1915, immediately came to mind. That ship, with four funnels, was even larger than the Paris. The fastest ship of its day, it was able to sink, to be underwater, in just eighteen minutes. Suddenly nervous, she felt the ocean liner’s smallness within the immensity of the Atlantic.
When she’d heard of the Lusitania tragedy—not caused by a storm, of course, but by a German submarine—she had been holding her newborn. Little Elizabeth was only a month old and Constance, still getting used to motherhood, was exceptionally sensitive and weepy. George had come in and casually told her the news:
“Did you hear about that steamer? The Lusitania? A U-boat sunk it off the coast of Ireland. There are over a t
housand dead—men, women, and children. The millionaire Alfred Vanderbilt was on board and he’s drowned as well. I bet President Wilson will declare war on Germany now!”
Constance looked down into the perfect face of her sleeping baby, clutched her tightly in her arms, and began to cry.
“What’s the matter?” George asked, his eyebrows arched in surprise. “Did you know someone traveling on the Lusitania?”
He hadn’t understood that she was crying for all children, and even more, for all mothers; they would never be able to fully protect their sons and daughters. A mother’s love could not solve their problems and, despite her finest efforts, they would still face danger: illness, accident, unhappiness. She had sobbed all morning, gazing at her child, wondering at the futile task at hand.
Some weeks later, a song had come out called “When the Lusitania Went Down!” It was a popular tune at dances, festivals, and fairs, and some of her friends bought the phonograph record. It seemed everyone was singing it that summer, the men removing their hats, showing respect for the victims. It had made her teary-eyed every time she heard it.
Looking out the porthole, Constance hummed the chorus, hearing the warbling tenor in her mind:
Some of us lost a true sweetheart
Some of us lost a dear dad
Some lost their mothers, sisters, and brothers
Some lost the best friends they had
It’s time they were stopping this warfare
If women and children must drown
Many brave hearts went to sleep in the deep
When the Lusitania went down!
Holding on to furniture, Constance lumbered over to the bureau, picked up her photographs, then quickly sat down on her bed. Elizabeth, now six, still had the round face she’d had as an infant. And Mary . . . Mary had just been born when war was finally declared, and there she stood, a delightful little girl. For several minutes she studied her daughters, their little bodies, faces, smiles, and then took a peek at her husband. The serious, card-stock face seemed to be expressing disapproval, judging her, as if the photograph itself suspected her attraction to the ship’s doctor. With a long sigh, Constance wagered that, without a doubt, Serge would have shown more sensitivity about the sinking of the Lusitania.
After storing the photographs away, she picked up an apple, thinking back on every detail of her evening with him, beginning at seven sharp: the orchids, the lavish dinner, the waltz, the near-kiss. She took a bite. Was it possible that Serge was married too? If he were a bachelor or a widower, it seems he would have made an allusion to it, either in jest or in sorrow. She had heard that Europeans had looser mores than Americans. Could a kiss, then, be just a sign of affection between friends? Faith’s friends, when coming and going, had certainly been very generous with their pecks on the cheek.
Finishing off the apple, she sat on her bed, trying to decide what to do next. It was still frightfully early; there was no point in getting dressed yet. Hopefully, in another few hours, Serge would pay her a visit and see how she was faring with the storm. She considered ordering some coffee, but felt rather queasy. She would lay flat on her bed and finally finish The Mysterious Affair at Styles. That way, tonight, she would be able to offer him a keepsake: a thriller by a woman, dedicated to him.
Imaginary hands, tongues, hairy bodies against her, Julie awoke in a sweat, her heart racing, but managed not to cry out. All the other women were still asleep. Although there was almost no light, she could make out the strings from Simone’s apron, hung on the bunk’s peg the night before. They were swinging back and forth, like a slow-moving pendulum. The sea had become even rougher; Julie could feel its pitch lying down. She closed her eyes and tried to breathe deeply, but she knew she was going to be sick again. Grabbing her robe and her shower bag, Julie hopped out of the bunk bed and ran barefoot to the bathroom down the corridor.
After a quarter hour hovering over a toilet, her stomach contracting despite its emptiness, she tottered into the shower room. The tile floor cool on her feet, she hung her clothes outside the stall and closed the curtain. Looking down at her delicate skin, past the gold medallion, she discovered oily splotches, soft bruises, blue finger marks; it was as if she too were tattooed, permanently marked by her evening with Nikolai. She quickly closed her eyes and stood under the lukewarm water. Exhaling deeply, she began scrubbing, determined to be spotless, to smell only of soap. She gently washed herself between her legs, the dried blood and the gluey secretions. Near tears, she examined the stained washcloth, shaking her head in wonder.
“Nikolai loves me,” she said out loud, then braced herself on the wall, fighting another wave of nausea. What would happen now? Would they get married? Would they be happy? She coughed up some spittle, wiped her mouth with her hand, then cleaned it in the trickling shower jet. Julie turned off the water and got out.
When she returned to the dormitory, all the women were up, silently getting dressed, their feet unsteady on a floor that was swelling and shrinking with the sea. Even the most veteran seafaring women on board were feeling the effects. After putting on her uniform, Julie lurched to the galley with the bag of ginger tea.
“Good morning, Pascal,” she said, grabbing on to the counter next to him, making no pretense to smile.
“Morning, mon petit chou,” he replied, looking at her with his usual paternal concern. “I don’t need to ask how you are.”
“None of us girls are feeling too well what with this weather. Would you mind using this tea for everyone’s breakfast? Perhaps it’ll help us all get through the morning.”
“Sure.” He smiled. “Let’s give the ginger another try, shall we?”
They exchanged a nod, then Julie staggered into the women’s dining room, intent on sitting down. She put her head against the cool metal table. Nikolai had certainly been right about her needing his special tea this morning, she thought, concentrating on the beginning of their evening, when he’d been warmhearted and pleasant. She liked the idea of sharing Nikolai’s tea with the other girls; dare she tell them that it was a gift from her boyfriend? For, surely now they were a formal couple? She glanced over at the doorway (would he be coming by first thing?) only to see Simone bustle in.
Surrounded by her entourage, Simone first smirked at Julie, then made a show of ignoring her. Julie could feel them whispering about her at the back table. If Simone only knew how tedious her evening in first class had been, she wouldn’t be jealous.
When Marie-Claire came in, Julie hoped they could have a laugh about hatcheck—the clients’ aloof “ehem”s, their affected hat-and-cane gestures, the ladies’ ridiculous cocoon cloaks—but she promptly sat down beside her pretty friends with the upper-deck jobs. Really, though, there was no buzz of conversation in the dining hall this morning, only lone voices expressing communal discomfort. All of the women were under the weather, and most sat silently, sipping at their tea, picking at their toast.
“I haven’t felt a sea like this in a long time,” said a green-faced woman who had made dozens of crossings, ironing clothes all day in a windowless metal room.
“Me neither,” agreed Louise. “Yesterday, I heard a passenger—a former sailor, he was—say that, of all the seas, the Atlantic is the trickiest. It’s the foggiest, iciest, stormiest ocean there is!”
“Is it so wild?” asked the girl from the flower shop. “You’d think, lying between Europe and America, it would be more civilized!”
Although the women groaned at the gullible notion of a tamable sea taking cues from the refined folk on its shores, they were uneasy with the idea of being atop an unpredictable, dangerous ocean. Usually on an ocean liner, this was conveniently forgotten.
Although the day had hardly begun, Julie was wishing it were over. Tomorrow, around midday, they would be reaching New York. She wondered whether the crew would be able to disembark and enjoy a few hours at port, in the city, on land. She imagined walking through the busy streets, arm in arm with Nikolai, looking in the shops nestled
at the foot of towering buildings. She thought back on what those Irish boys had said the first night: you can find whatever you want in New York. Maybe she and Nikolai should just stay there and settle down? Barely four days into her first cruise, Julie had already had enough of life at sea.
To go ashore! she thought longingly. No more endless stairs, no more wavy floors, no more seasickness. She had heard that some sailors, after an extended time on a ship, felt nauseated without the roll of the ocean under them, finding the earth’s surface too solid, uncomfortably still. She was thinking how terribly unfair land-sickness seemed when she heard someone at the door. She peeked over at the door with a nervous smile, sure this time it would be Nikolai, only to find a cross-looking Mme. Tremblay, gesturing her into the hallway.
“It has come to my attention that you returned to the dormitory at an indecent hour,” she said, her low voice articulating the words with cutting precision. “May I ask where you were?”
“Hatcheck duty ran very late, madame,” Julie answered nervously. Mme. Tremblay’s face had never looked so severe. “The last people reclaimed their things around two.”
“A girl with a bunk near yours maintains that you didn’t come back until past three,” she said.
“Well.” Julie swallowed. “I went to the bathroom, then I took a little walk. I’d never seen such beautiful rooms before!”
“You are not a tourist here, mademoiselle!” She paused to click her tongue at the outrage. “And you will not be working in first class again! Now, where is the uniform you wore yesterday?”
“I’ve already taken it to the laundry, ma’am,” Julie said with some relief. She was sure that Mme. Tremblay would have been able to smell her lie on the fabric.
“And the cap?” she asked.
“It must be in the dormitory,” Julie said. “I’ll go get it.”