by John Horst
“You rest.” She kissed her forehead. “We’re casting off in another hour. I’m going for a walk.” She was gone.
Marta watched New York go by as the ship moved through the East River and up through the Long Island Sound. She smoked all her cigarettes by the time they passed Block Island to her left. She wandered over to the starboard side and watched Montauk steadily glide past them. Now through Block Sound and finally out to sea, well actually the Atlantic but she thought in her mind that it sounded so much more romantic to think they were at sea. No one ever said I’m going out to ocean, they always said going out to sea, or to sea or Seafaring. No one ever said ocean faring. Maybe ocean bound, but that didn’t sound right. So, she felt comfortable considering herself at sea. Finally out to sea. Maybe they’d touch the edge of the Sargasso, then they’d be at sea. Maybe they’d strike a hidden rock out there, like in Hodgson’s book. Maybe they’d see monsters. She looked at her watch and was hungry.
She made her way through the service areas of the ship, the parts that the ship’s personnel would not want or expect a lady. She always did that, no matter where she went, on a ship, in a restaurant, at a hotel, she always wandered where she shouldn’t. It was something about rule breaking that Marta liked so well. She soon walked up on several young men lounging on boxes, smoking and shooting the breeze. They were not on guard. She should not have been there to see them doing nothing.
They were startled by her presence and jumped to attention. She nodded and encouraged them to relax and sit down. She asked for cigarettes and three men jumped to attention, packs out in extended hands. She took one and let them light it for her, sat back on a box and smoked as she rested a foot on the middle rung of the rail, her skirt, not necessarily by accident, rode up and revealed her leg to the knee. She wore no stockings. She spoke to them in Spanish as they were all Mexicans. They began to relax and exchange pleasantries with the pretty young lady.
“Any of you boys know where I can get some mollejas?” One of the fellows, a cook in the galley nodded energetically and excused himself. In short order he had a beautiful plate of gizzards to present to her. The others laid a table for her right out on the deck, replete with white table cloth, silver, and a glass of Fronsac.
The young cook bowed proudly as he presented her the meal, “Mollejas En Chile Verde, Señorita.”
She ate with great gusto. They were lovely and she hadn’t had such excellent peasant food in more than a year. “Gracias, Señor, muchas gracias.”
They were enjoying her company until the chef appeared. He was astonishingly agile for such a big man. They jumped to attention and waited for his reaction to the unorthodox treatment of their unusual guest.
He stiffly looked at each of them and then on at Marta. His entire body went rigid, as if he were perhaps preparing to have some sort of fit. He then clicked his heels, bowing at the neck. “Madam!”
“Sir!” She reached up with her free hand and gave a little salute.
The German became interested in the food on her plate. He looked down into it, stared at it as if some secret message had been mixed among the gizzards and peppers. He looked the young woman in the eye, then, with a flourish and great pomp, produced a fork from inside his coat. “With your permission.” Marta nodded.
He took a solitary gizzard up with the fork, stared at it, examined it, smelled it, then popped it into his mouth. He rolled it around as if testing a mouthful of vintage port. He tasted, looked up at the sky, closed his eyes. Said nothing. Chewed some more and finally swallowed.
“Is good, madam?”
“Quite.”
“You are from the land, madam?”
“I am.”
“This is good, madam?”
“Quite.”
He looked around at the Mexicans. They were all waiting, waiting stiffly as if preparing for the gallows. This was their first cruise with the new German chef.
“Who made this?”
He waited. “Come, come, boys, who made this for the lady?”
The cook finally stepped forward.
“You?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And the wine pairing?”
“Yes, yes, sir.”
He stepped back and looked on at the fine table laid next to boxes of cabbages. He looked on again at Marta who’d now resumed eating.
“And this is good, madam?”
“Very good, chef. You are a lucky chef.” She stood up to shake his hand. “Marta del Toro.”
He took her hand and shook it gently. He bowed again and clicked his heels.
“Max Von Mayerling, madam. I am the chef on this vessel. At your service, madam.”
“Well, Max. Why don’t you join me?” She looked on at the cook. “Señor, would you have enough for the chef?” He did and ran away, back to the galley. He returned in short order and put the plate in front of the old man and they dined together as the sun set. He was a nice man despite his severe and military bearing. The Mexicans all wandered off, except for the cook who stood by to pour wine as required.
The German looked on at Marta, into her eyes and asked, “Madam…”
“Marta.”
“Marta, the boys are afraid of me. Why is this?”
“Are you serious? Come now, Max. Look at yourself. You look like you swallowed two of them for lunch. You’re so, so big. And your name is Max. You’re bald. You look like a holy terror.”
He grinned. “But I am not.”
“These muchachos, they’re poor, Max. This is likely the best job they’ve ever had, could ever get. It is a job of a lifetime. They don’t want to lose it.”
He smiled at Marta. “Miss Marta, you are not afraid of me.”
She harrumphed. “Hah! Course not. I’m a paying customer on this ship; you have to be nice to me.”
He looked a little dejected.
“But that’s not why I’m not afraid of you.” She reached over and grabbed his arm. “You’re sweet, Max. I could see it in your eyes, the moment you came in, ya big Teutonic teddy bear.”
He glowed. Sat back and finished his wine. “You are an interesting young lady.”
“And you are a nice big chef.” She stood up, removed the napkin from her lap and reached out her hand for him to shake. “And you have far too many more important things to do than eat gizzards and peppers with me.” She opened her purse and prepared to hand Max Von Mayerling a bill, but before giving it over thought better of it. She folded it in half, creased it, and tore it in two. She called to the Mexican cook and handed each of them a half. “Max. You and your Mexican boys take care of my sister and me on this little trip and I’ll give you a lot more of this when we get into port.” She held up a cautionary finger. “But you share the wealth, right Max?”
The chef looked down on the half of a note. He got Clark and the bull’s rump. The Mexican cook got Lewis, staring off pensively to the east. The German grinned. He liked her little joke and proposition.
“Of course, Madam, eh, Marta. Of course.”
He stood at attention and bowed again. She held up a hand then pointed her index finger at his feet. “No more heel clicking, Max. This isn’t the goddamned Kaiserliche Marine.”
Rebecca awoke at eight to the scent of her lovely flowers. She felt the queer twinge in the pit of her stomach again. It wasn’t the turtles or Abuelita or the moving of the ship. She dressed quickly as Marta breezed in. She smiled at her sister. “Feeling better I see.”
They were ready to dine by nine. Curtin was there, waiting for them. He jumped to his feet as they entered the dining room. Rebecca was radiant in her best dress and Marta enjoyed watching her sister fall in love.
She realized now that she was a third wheel, and in her fashion determined to remedy the situation forthwith. She looked on at a corner table. A marine captain was dining alone and she’d eyed him earlier in the day. She caught his attention and snapped her fingers a few times, beckoning him over to their table.
He looked around, beh
ind him, to his left and right, making certain she meant him. She did and he casually walked to the party. He was not used to or in the habit of responding to snapping fingers, no matter how beautiful the one doing the snapping, yet he complied.
“Yes?”
“Purser, We’ve a little problem with our room. We’d like you to speak to the captain about it.” He stiffened as she expected he would, straightened his back and looked down at her dismissively.
“Young lady. I’m a captain of United States Marines, not an employee of this vessel.”
“Oh, I know you’re not, captain. Settle down, I was having a little tease. Come dine with us. I’m Marta, this is my sister Rebecca and this is Curtin, Robert Curtin. We’re traveling together.”
The captain settled in. He did not like Marta’s joke as he was not a man who joked. He was not a man who liked to pursue or have fun. He was Puerto Rican and lived most of his life in Maryland, not more than ten miles from the girls, but they’d never met. He attended the US Naval Academy in Annapolis and had been a marine for six years.
“What’s your name, Mister Captain of marines?”
He stood up and announced his name as if certain it would have a terrific impact on them all. “Pedro del Calle, madam.”
“You are mighty dark for a US military officer. Sure you’re not a Puerto Rican marine?”
“Marta!” Rebecca was embarrassed. She gave her a warning glare.
“Oh, he knows it, Rebecca.” She gave him a devilish grin. “My goodness, you’re as dark as me. You’re not Mexican, though. I’m guessing an Islander of some kind, Cubano?”
He stiffened again. “Puerto Rico!”
“Ah, Sí. I can hear it in your accent.” She looked on at Curtin who had no idea what she was referencing. “What do you say, Mr. Curtin?”
“Oh, I have to defer to you on that, Marta. I’m no expert on the various dialects of the Latin peoples. I’m just glad that I can get by with my rudimentary Spanish.” He smiled on at the captain who was beginning to relax a little. He was from a prominent family in Puerto Rico and was not used to such informality. “Where are you going, Captain?”
“Vera Cruz.” The man grabbed for his cigarette case and opened it, preparing to put one in his mouth as Marta reached over and plucked it from his hand.” He stood, jaw agape at the young woman preparing to smoke in front of him. She was scandalous.
“Oh, settle down, captain. I’m not stripping naked…yet…just having a cigarette. Nellie Taft does it all the time, in the White House no less.”
They ordered dinner and soon found themselves surrounded by little Mexican men. Everywhere they looked a man hovered; each member of their little party had at least two attendants. It bordered on the absurd as no other guests or tables were staffed in such a way.
Curtin and Del Calle looked about, confused. They did not understand why they were receiving such royal treatment. Before they could ask, the chef arrived in his enormous white hat giving him a height approaching eight feet. He bowed to the ladies and could be seen, almost painfully, suppressing an urge to click his heels. He nodded to Curtin and Del Calle. Marta introduced them. He was just as quickly gone, back to the galley to continue his duties.
The men looked on at Marta, a little surprised, Rebecca not. Everywhere she went, it seems, she charmed and had people, especially men, doing their best to make her happy. She scrunched up her shoulders a little and looked on at the fine meal prepared for her special guests. Marta was a force of her own.
She looked on at Del Calle. “Captain, it is not much of a trick. Just spread a little money around. Everyone likes you, wants to be your friend, when you have money.”
The captain looked down at his food and then up at Marta. “That’s a cynical view for a person so young.”
“Hah!” She grinned. “It might be cynical, but it’s the truth.”
After dinner the girls went back to their room to freshen up for an evening of dancing. Curtin and the marine sat and smoked. They were met by the ship’s captain who greeted them warmly and with significant formality. He sat down next to them and took a cigarette from Curtin.
“Gentlemen, I need your help. We’ve seemed to pick up a masher. He’s seduced a woman in third class. Nothing I want to necessarily share with the ladies on board, but I’d ask you to keep a weathered eye out. Do either of you gentlemen have firearms?” Curtin had, Del Calle had not. The captain asked the marine to report to his cabin and he’d be given the loan of one.
They sat and smoked a little while, chatted about the cruise, the ship, the weather. As the women approached, the captain excused himself and tipped his hat to the ladies. They sat down and Marta grinned at them. “You look like the Cheshire cat, you two.”
Curtin grinned. He loved her nerve, loved the way she could read people and anticipate what they would say and do. He began to explain when the marine spoke up. “Oh, we were just discussing the situation in Mexico, nothing you ladies would find of any interest.”
“Oh, really?” Marta looked coy. “I see.” She looked at Rebecca who knew that it was not a good idea to intellectually dismiss Marta. “And what would a Puerto Rican who’s spent most of his life in Maryland know about Mexico and the revolution?”
“Ah, well.” The marine was becoming embarrassed. “I just never thought it was a discussion for ladies.”
“Oh, I see. We have to worry over our clothing and hair, how to decorate our homes. We needn’t concern ourselves with such trifling affairs as world events or politics. Or is it perhaps that we lack the intellect?”
She had the marine’s dander up a bit. “No, not at all. My mother has discussed world events many times. It’s just the issue in Mexico, it’s particularly difficult to reason out.”
“Yes, again, you are saying it is beyond the comprehension of a woman.” She put up a hand, “It’s okay, captain, it’s okay, Rebecca and I won’t worry our pretty little heads over it. We won’t ponder the socialist and anarchist threat. That’s your greatest fear I’m guessing. You crazy soldiers, looking to find socialists and anarchists under your beds. You think Zapata’s one, don’t you?”
“Well, yes, of course. No doubt.” He looked on her as if she were questioning the turning of the earth.
“Ah, next you’ll tell me your source is the Imparcial or any of the worthless Hearst rags.” She was showing off a little now. “Tell me, Mister Captain of marines, how would an anarchist suggest that the current hacendados retain a percentage of their lands? A true anarchist or socialist would dispossess all the moneyed people of all property and turn it over to the state.”
“Ah, but you cannot discount the influence of Kropotkin or the school teacher, Sánchez.” He countered, was a little pleased with himself.
“And you studied Greek philosophy at Annapolis. Does that mean you want to overthrow the United States democratic process and turn our country into a collection of city-states?” She reached into his jacket and pulled out his cigarette case, lit one for each of them and smoked heavily. “Look at his plan of Ayala. He is more a Jeffersonian agrarian than he is any anarchist. Give Mexico a chance, captain. Stay out of it. America can help with silent support and not by meddling in the country’s affairs.”
She stood up, as if the conversation was beginning to bore her. She won and now she was finished. “Take me out on the dance floor, captain, you learned to dance at some point in your life, I presume.”
And he had, and he was a good dancer. Marta was spending so much time teasing him that she did not until now realize just how handsome he was. Too serious and too self-absorbed, but handsome and reasonably intelligent for a soldier. She pulled him too closely for decorum, but he didn’t mind very much. She wanted to try out the new dance on him. She’d learned it in Washington.
“Do you know the Cubanola Glide?” He did. She began humming the tune the band was playing. “That sounds familiar, an old tune, let’s see how does it go,” she began singing, a sultry whisper in his ear.
“Pump away Joseph, do;
Pump away Joseph, do.
Be ready and willing, the kettle be filling,
While I make tea for two.
Get there Joseph, do.
Someday I’ll pump for you.
Don’t stay there and dandle,
But collar the handle,
And pump away, Joseph, do.”
He turned red in the face, quite a feat for a man with such a dark complexion and Marta was again, very pleased. She thought that she might be going too far, but then went ahead a little further. “Or how about this one,
Ta-Ra-Ra-Boom-De-Ay
Have you had yours today?
He laid me on the couch,
and baby’s on his way.
My mommy was surprised
To see my tummy rise,
Now baby’s on his way.
Ta-Ra-Ra-Boom-De-Ay…”
Del Calle pushed her away. He jerked his head back. She’d indeed gone too far. “Miss del Toro, really!”
She grinned. “Oh come on, you big marine. You’ve heard bawdier marching tunes.” She grabbed his hand and pulled the other around her waist. “I’m not going to hurt you…much. Don’t worry. But I do want you to give me a good kiss.”
“What?” He was genuinely flabbergasted.
“A kiss, you know what a kiss is, don’t you?”
“Here?” He looked around self-consciously.
“Sure, come on.” She took the lead and moved them to a poorly lit place in the room away from the tables and other revelers. “Come on, a good real, passionate kiss. Not what you’d give your mother.”
He did and enjoyed it and did it well. She liked it and she liked him. “You’re good.”
“So now what?” He was becoming interested in this wild creature now. She’d given him some ideas.
“Now nothing. Look marine, I’m not even certain I like men. Let’s try it again.”
Curtin stood up and looked on at Rebecca. He wanted to kiss her now, but would not in such a public place. He looked on at their companions and smiled. Del Calle had his hands full. He excused himself.