“I never believed in God,” said Miriam. “But yes, I believed in our right to win that war.”
Jakov coughed wetly. “You don’t anymore?”
“Of course I do,” said Miriam. “But it’s all so much more complicated now, isn’t it? All tangled up in violence for its own sake, not enough will from the leadership on both sides to resolve their differences and coexist. It’s all bullying and lies.”
“It was simple back then,” said Sasha. He cocked his head at Miriam. “Wasn’t it? Even killing, dropping bombs, I didn’t question it. We were defending our right to exist. They wanted to exterminate us, but we were strong and smart and we fought for our right to live in our own country.”
“Survival,” said Jakov. “That was it. That’s what we were fighting for.”
“The will to survive is eternally strong,” said Miriam. “But it’s how you do it that matters. And I’m not thinking only of Israel. Yes, you stay alive, but at what cost? What have we become, in Israel?”
“We’ve done things we should never have done,” said Jakov. “Nothing makes that right.”
They fell into a tense silence, thinking their separate thoughts. Sasha lifted his violin to his chin and plucked his strings, fiddled with a tuning peg, plucked again. As he played the opening bars of “Papirosen,” Jakov lifted his bow and joined in with a rhythmic bass line and sang in his rich, clotted voice that always reminded Miriam of a mournful, passionate walrus: “A kalte nacht, a nebldike finster umetum, shteyt a yingele fartoiert, un kukt zikh arum.”
Miriam joined in with her clear soprano, two octaves higher, a little wobbly now, “Fun regn shteyt im nor a vant, a koshiki trogt e rim hant…”
It was an old wartime song about an orphaned boy standing on a corner in the ghetto selling cigarettes in the cold rain, trying not to starve and die like his sister, who had been his only hope and companion in the world. Miriam’s voice was that of the ghostly sister, chiming in with the boy’s plaint from beyond death, to bolster him. “Zol der toyt shoyn zumen oykh tzu mir”: Let death come already for me, too.
Isaac roused himself and picked up his viola while Miriam lifted her violin to her chin again, and they all stopped talking and gave themselves over to their history, their shared knowledge, a musical conversation in four parts they’d held for so many years together. They played “Ale Brider,” not a classical piece they’d performed together but a folk song, the music of their parents and grandparents, the music from the shtetls and ghettoes.
During “Flatbush Waltz,” Kimmi entered the room with her accordion and joined in. Then two musicians from the jazz band, the clarinet and trombone players, arrived in time to play “A Yiddishe Mama” and “Raisins and Almonds.” Miriam was impressed that these goyishe kids were familiar with these old klezmer songs, or maybe they were picking them up by ear. They played with such openness and verve, all of them.
More people arrived, doors and windows were opened, furniture moved to the corners of the room, and people danced. Old people in pajamas chimed in on the songs while younger people watched, listened, clapped and cheered. Allison, the virtuoso teenager, came in and played a Joplin rag on the upright piano by the balcony doors. Miriam’s heart beat fast with joy, watching her play, and with such chutzpah!
As the music spooled out into the night, people came from all over the ship, thronged the living room, spilled out onto the balconies, looked in the open windows and doors from the catwalk. There were crew and passengers, young and old, all colors and races, dirty, drunk, sweaty, smiling, draped against railings, raucously singing on the balconies, passing bottles around while the members of this impromptu band shouted out songs and keys, launched into them as if they’d all rehearsed together for years, flying into solos, segueing from klezmer to old jazz standards, the whole room alight with candles.
Cigarette smoke curled, made a haze. Miriam caught a glimpse of Rivka on the couch by an open window with her feet tucked under her like a girl. Here they all were in the owner’s suite, Miriam mused, the owner himself gone, and the whole ship joined in music.
Kimmi struck a chord on the accordion. Her singing voice was trained and commanding: “Sing to the Lord, for he is highly exalted. Both horse and driver he has hurled into the sea.”
“It’s Miriam’s Song,” said Miriam in Sasha’s ear. She remembered the quartet’s first rehearsal in the chapel, when Kimmi had come rushing in looking for a Bible. Back then, Sasha had been a grieving old man, and Miriam had been Isaac’s roommate.
“The Song of the Sea,” said Sasha, his eyes gleaming at her, remembering too.
* * *
*
Christine resurfaced in her bed in the cabin after being submerged for hours in a profound, dream-filled sleep. She wasn’t even sure where she was at first. Lying there, returning to herself, she felt the deep silence around her as a pressure in her head.
“Valerie,” she said into the darkness. Her mouth was dry. Her voice sounded like a weak little chirp.
She reached over for her flashlight and splashed the small cabin with cold light, dim now, because her battery was dying. Valerie’s bed was empty. The air coming through the open balcony doors was humid and warm and thick as someone’s breath. Faint music wafted from somewhere high above.
She threw her blankets off and sat up. Finding that she was still dressed, she got out of bed, slipped on her sandals, and went out into the hallway, spooked by its emptiness, sickened by the stench of raw sewage. Her flashlight lit a murky path to the stairwell, and up several flights. When she emerged onto the aft outside deck, into fresh air and moonlight, she turned it off and saw a warm light coming from one of the high suites above her. She heard people singing, laughter, a violin playing high, fast notes, horns joining in.
She made her way slowly up to the bridge deck and along the catwalk, running her hand along the railing. Candlelight poured from the windows and doorway of the owner’s suite; a crowd thronged the living room, spilling out onto the catwalk. She heard laughter and cheers and looked in as Sidney, the maître d’, launched into what sounded like an old sea shanty in a loud, rough, but surprisingly tuneful voice, “Where it’s wave over wave, sea over bow, I’m as happy a man as the sea will allow, there’s no other life for a sailor like me, than to sail the salt sea, boys, sail the sea…”
Standing at the edge of the crowd, Christine felt invisible, or as if she’d emerged from a coma into a surreal circus, or as if she were still asleep and dreaming. Everyone around her was caught up in the music, drunk and laughing and jubilant.
Theodore appeared next to her on the catwalk, nudged her. “What’s up, farm girl?”
“Hey,” said Christine. “Have you seen Valerie?”
“Hours ago. Up on the solarium deck hanging out with that crowd.”
He handed her a bottle of something. She took a swig and handed it back, feeling whiskey warm her gullet.
* * *
*
“Stay here,” Valerie said. Feeling antsy, but not wanting to be rude, Mick did as he was told while she went down the short staircase to the bar to get another bottle of wine. The almost-full moon hung low in the sky, splashing the surface of the sea with cold brilliance, turning it into a shimmering, shifting rug. The music coming from one of the suites below shifted to a slow jazz song with a simple but tricky melody. A woman’s smoky, rich voice, a cascade of trombone notes, a strong satiny ribbon of violin, twined together and clustered in his solar plexus, forming a knot of feeling that all at once melted into longing. “Since you went away, the days seem long, and soon I’ll hear old winter’s song…”
Valerie reappeared, handing him a fresh bottle of wine. She sat down next to him and slipped a cigarette from his pack, handed him another, lit them both. He was well on his way to being truly drunk, and it felt good. Every time he thought about getting up and going down to the party to look for
Christine, Valerie seemed to read his mind, and pull him back toward her with the tug of expert redirection. She made him tell her about what had happened between Consuelo and Laurens. Then he found himself talking about his foiled desire to go and work for Laurens in his new restaurant, his failed romance with Suzanne, and his past in Budapest, the Eszterházy, his sister. While he talked, Valerie kept maneuvering her body to keep contact with his, applying pressure with her hand on his thigh, making sure to brush his shoulder with her cheek, taking slow drags of her cigarette so he’d notice her mouth, imagine it elsewhere. He knew this dance. He’d done it before. It always ended exactly where the woman wanted it to end. He didn’t know how to bring about any other scenario. Rejecting women who wanted him, walking away from their need, wasn’t something he was good at. He wasn’t sure he wanted to, anyway. And he knew that Valerie could read this. She had done this dance as many times as he had, she was an expert at spinning the web, and he was caught in it now. The music went on, shifted, got louder and more raucous, then quieter, then the quartet played alone, a moody, sweetly melodic piece Mick didn’t recognize because he knew fuck-all about music really, but it was beautiful.
Well into the early hours of morning, as they drank the third bottle of wine, or maybe it was the fourth, they stopped talking. Their shoulders were pressed together. They’d let their knees fall inward so they were touching, too. He felt as if their two bodies had formed a self-contained little cave where they’d taken shelter together for the night, and their conversation had been a stream of words and breath, keeping them warm. He was aware that they were alone now. Christine had never come. The other stargazers, vaping and drinking and laughing on the deck with them, had all left, gone down to bed, or to join the party down below. Mick imagined Christine was down at the party too. He wanted to go and find her. He felt very drunk. On a surge of determination, he pulled himself to his feet, resting his hand against the wall of the solarium, and staggered a little over to the railing.
Valerie got up too, stayed with him.
“Wait,” she said. “Can we just take a minute? I feel kind of dizzy.”
She leaned into him, looking out with him at the pinkening predawn sky. She slumped, her head lolling on his shoulder. She started to tip over. His arms went around her to keep her from falling down. She exhaled hard, as if with relief, and pivoted to face him, sliding her arms around his neck. The muscles of their thighs pressed against each other. Her body felt insubstantial, droopy, so that he had to hold her up. Her expression was flickering, turned inward. In a flash of intense longing, he thought of Christine, her steadiness and strength, the light in her eyes when she’d promised to teach him to swim. But Valerie was the kind of woman he had always known he deserved, dark and chaotic and bitter. Her mouth tasted like peaty smoke and warm metal. He gave himself over to her with the nihilistic half-sober awareness that the gods were smacking him down yet again.
“Okay,” she said with drunken fervor. “We really need to fuck right now.”
She put her hand on his crotch and rubbed it slowly, felt his cock harden, slid her hand down his waistband. He was filled with lustful dread, mindless, animal. In a fluid practiced series of motions, she turned toward the railing and lifted her dress and reached behind her and undid his pants and moved her underwear to the side and slid his cock inside her. She let out a low, guttural shriek, not entirely of pleasure, moved her hips backward to enfold his cock as he thrust into her. His mind shut down, floated off like a balloon while he thrust at her and she groaned and mewled and arched her back like a cat.
“Don’t come in me,” she gasped, finally.
“Okay,” he said into her ear, holding her hips still, pulling out of her. He didn’t even care if he came, it didn’t matter. As he did up his pants, she whisked her skirt down and ran her fingers through her hair. They looked blankly at each other. Valerie’s face looked frozen and tired. Mick turned away and oh God, there was Christine, lit by a glimmer of dawn light.
chapter twenty-three
As Christine emerged from the stairwell, she saw Valerie first and then Mick, standing together against the railing by the solarium. Right away she knew they’d been fucking. She felt her stomach clench.
“There you are,” she said to Valerie as Mick pushed by her into the stairwell, avoiding her eyes. “I was looking for you downstairs.”
“I was up here all night,” said Valerie, talking fast, slurring her words a little. “I thought you were going to come join me. Then Mick showed up. We talked. We drank a gallon of wine. I smoked all his cigarettes.” She paused and took a breath. Her face looked wayward, challenging. “And then we totally fucked.”
“I figured,” said Christine. She felt a sting of betrayal but immediately quelled it. What right did she have to feel betrayed?
“Yeah,” said Valerie. “It just kind of happened.”
Valerie staggered over to one of the stationary bicycles on the deck in front of the solarium. Christine followed her and sat on the other one. She began to pedal hard, leaning forward on the handlebars, as if she could drive the boat with her own nervous energy. She wasn’t sure yet how she felt about Valerie and Mick, but her body was tense, and her heart was pounding, so she knew she was upset even though she had no right to be.
“What’s going on with you?” Valerie’s voice had an edge. She was sitting very still, turned toward Christine. “Why do I feel like I stole him from you or something?”
Christine stopped pedaling and forced herself to calm down. She took a deep breath. “Of course you didn’t steal him, Val. He’s not mine to steal. Nothing is going on.”
“It wasn’t personal, you know. He was there. We’re both single.”
“I know.”
“It’s not fair of you to be mad.”
“I’m not mad,” said Christine. She knew she was lying. “Don’t make this into a fight. It’s not a fight.”
“Mick was looking for you,” said Valerie. She watched Christine’s face closely for her reaction. “And he found me instead. But he kept looking for you, waiting for you, all night.”
“Stop,” said Christine. She was agitated, on the verge of tears. “Why are you telling me this?”
“It’s the truth. Does it upset you?” Valerie looked curious now, detached, as if the journalist in her had taken over at the whiff of a good story. “Are you in love with him?”
“Maybe,” said Christine without thinking. She was shocked to hear herself say it. She added in a rush before she could retract or suppress it, “I might be. I probably am.”
“Then go and tell him!” said Valerie. “That was just a stupid drunken hookup, it didn’t mean anything. He wanted you.”
“It doesn’t matter, he’s not the point,” said Christine. She paused as it hit her, the answer. “I can’t go back to Ed. I can’t give him kids. I can’t be a farm wife for the rest of my life. I can’t do it.”
“Oh my God,” said Valerie. “Are you serious?”
Christine looked back at her, feeling calm and at peace. “I’m serious.”
“But your life is so perfect.”
“You can have it,” said Christine. She felt so relieved, so light and buoyant, she was almost laughing. “I’ll make you a deal. You go live with Ed on the farm, and I’ll run off with Mick, okay?”
“Um. Have you met me? I would make the worst farm wife ever.”
They both laughed. A wind had picked up and was blowing off the sea, bringing clouds with it. The light from the rising sun was slowly being blotted out by the thickening vapor on the horizon. The air was cool.
“Are you really serious about not going back?” Valerie said at last.
“Yes,” said Christine. “I think I am.”
She got off her bike and wandered over to the end of the deck. Far down below, in the heaving, foamy water, she saw two tires near a clot of sun-bleached
plastic caught in tangled buoys, as though it were some kind of new life form. The water was darkening, concentrating into a denser, colder mass. Waves ran in powerful ripples like muscles under skin while a weird greasy sunlight, diffused and refracted through clouds, slid along the ocean’s surface. Out of nowhere, Christine thought of Ariel’s song from The Tempest, which she had loved once, back when she was young and read books and lived in a world of words. “Full fathom five, thy father lies,” it started, and then, “these are pearls that were his eyes,” and something about a sea change. She’d forgotten the rest. “Sea change,” she thought. That was what this gathering cloud mass on the horizon was, the quickening of the waves, and then she remembered the line that went “something rich and strange.”
When she turned to look back at the bikes, Valerie was gone.
* * *
*
When the party was over and the suite had emptied and people went off to sleep or to look for food, Miriam left Jakov dozing on his daybed, and crept with Sasha into the bedroom and closed the door. For an hour or so, she lay with her eyes closed, naked in bed next to him, too revved up to sleep, her head filled with music, her left fingertips buzzing, her right arm aching a little, phrases of Bach mixing with the staccato of the Weiss and the melodies of the old jazz standards, the lilt of klezmer and folk songs, her inner ear still buzzing with the sound of the clarinet. The windows were open and a cool breeze rushed over her skin. She could hear the sounds of the sea far below, heaving, lapping at the ship, and Jakov, out in the living room, making gasping noises as he snored. He had kept the party going all night long, calling out songs whenever there was a lull, playing with such brio, such gusto, that Miriam had almost forgotten he was ill.
She opened her eyes to find Sasha looking back at her.
“So nice,” she said. “It’s cooler. Feel the air, it’s cooling off. The ocean is waking up.”
The Last Cruise Page 27