“Seth,” I said, relieved I’d managed to remember.
“I get off at nine.” She straightened up until her shoulders arched backwards and her cleavage caught the light. There were freckles on her chest. Her spots were showing, and they were beautiful.
“I’ll be waiting,” I said.
I’d bought a pack of smokes before departing the bar and inhaled nicotine under the stars in the open air of the Promenade Deck. Mothers and their children had long since retired to their cabins. I stared out on the Atlantic with a sense of excitement. No better salve for a bruised male ego than a beautiful woman who agreed to meet up after work. Dilapidated, I was. Disheveled, for sure. But it hadn’t seemed to harm my chances with the fairer sex. Ingrid had spied my charming nature through the detritus and couldn’t help herself. If this was a fairy tale, I was prepared to cuddle up for the whole story.
While I waited for Ingrid, I heard a commotion in the Main Parlor off the deck. Light and smoke came from the darkened front entrance, and I could hear familiar, though hard-to-place, strains of melody coming from within. I doused my butt and headed over to the open archway.
I stayed in the shadows of the doorway and peered inside. There, on a large movie screen set up atop an elevated bandstand, a roomfull of passengers watched the glowing, gloriously huge face of Greta Garbo in the 1934 movie Queen Christina.
My heart skipped a beat. Garbo dressed as a young nobleman shimmered on the screen, augmented by the cigar and cigarette smoke that swirled and played in the horizontal column of light from the projector. Her majesty rode a white horse through the snow-covered Swedish countryside. In actuality, the landscape was a sound stage in Los Angeles covered in tons of dried potato flakes used to simulate snow under the hot lights. But Garbo always made make-believe convincing. The audience sat enraptured at her image. Men and women alike were mesmerized by her beauty.
I laughed. I had finally found Garbo. She’d been onboard the whole time, hiding in a film can waiting to be brought to life on a movie screen. I imagined what my editor, let alone Toes, would say if I told them. Then again, Garbo only meant money to them. To me as well, if I had any sense left.
I watched Garbo enter a Swedish inn and take off her potato-flake-covered overcoat and gloves. In the hands of any other actress, the concept of a beautiful woman masquerading as a young man would have been laughable. But this wasn’t just any actress, this was Garbo. Her androgynous beauty fueled the mystery of her persona. She was more than a woman or man. She was something else altogether.
Then I felt the presence of someone on deck behind me. I turned ever so slowly in the dark shadow of the doorway and saw the caped and hooded figure that had brained me in the bathroom. Made up of shadows, the shrouded figure stopped just behind the periphery of light spilling out from the room and remained still as a phantom hovering just above the deck.
I stared at the ghostly apparition and wondered what the hell to do. I’d been lucky enough to go unobserved. Why the heck would anyone expect me to be crouched in the dark? But with the figure facing my direction, I knew I wouldn’t be able to get a jump on it the way it had me. So, I resigned to remain still and observe. Glean whatever details I could of the character in the twilight.
There we remained, the phantom and I, until a small boy appeared in the doorway of the salon. Not a day over six, he peered into the darkness and must have seen enough to investigate further. My heartbeat accelerated as the boy passed me and made a beeline for the phantom.
I don’t know what I expected, but I was surprised to see the dark figure just stand there while the boy walked up to it. He came to a stop and stared up at the shroud without an ounce of fear. The boy’s curiosity had gotten the best of him. I watched slack-jawed.
Then the most amazing thing happened. The apparition spoke. “Why aren’t you watching the movie,” a lowcontralto voice said. Male or female I couldn’t tell.
“It’s boring,” the little boy replied.
“You don’t like Queen Christina?”
“That’s not her,” the boy said and brought both hands up to his hips. Arms akimbo, he cocked his head up at the phantom. “That’s just some actress pretending to be her.”
I stifled a laugh. Straight out of the mouths of babes. Couldn’t get anything passed this kid. But would the apparition feel the same way?
“Some actress?” It replied. “You don’t know her name?”
“No,” the boy said.
“Don’t you think she’s pretty?”
“No,” he said again. “She’s too skinny.”
“Everyone’s a critic,” the phantom said. “Tell me, do you know how to swim?”
A shiver ran through my bones. That was the same question Toes had asked me, before he let me join the Athenia. I judged the distance between me, the boy, and the apparition. If the ghoul decided to bend down and throw the little tyke over its shoulder, I’d never make it before the kid hit seawater. Before he’d be lost forever.
“Yes, I’m a good swimmer,” the boy said. “Why?”
“You think if I threw you overboard you could swim all the way to Sweden?”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because I don’t like children,” the phantom said. “Especially little boys.”
Another shiver ran through my timbers. From behind the boy, I braced myself against the outer wall of the salon. I wasn’t good at the whole rescuing thing, but I considered making a run for it and snatching the boy if I had to. You never knew what a phantom would do faced with a fresh young soul staring up at it. At least I didn’t.
“Why not?” the boy said. He’d missed his cue to turn and run back into the salon, back to safety. Instead, the little bugger stood his ground.
“They grow up to be little men,”
“I’m going to be a policeman when I grow up,” the boy said, “and everyone will have to do as I say.”
“Like I said.”
Then a shadow overtook the boy from behind. I turned in time to see a man standing in the threshold of the salon, peering out where the boy and phantom were having their conversation.
“Tyler?” the man said. “Who are you talking to?”
I turned back to see the boy facing toward his father.
“This man who doesn’t like little boys,” he said matter-of-factly.
“What man?” the father said.
I turned with the boy to see that the phantom behind him had vanished. The three of us took turns looking up and down the deserted Promenade Deck as I held my breath. The goddamn ghoul was gone again.
“Come back in, Tyler,” the father said. “Now.”
Tyler complied, and I breathed a sigh of relief. I straightened up in the shadow of the doorway and peered inside. Garbo was sitting on her throne, glaring while she addresses her packed court.
“There are other things to live for than wars,” she declared. “I’ve had enough of them. We have been fighting since I was in the cradle and many years before. It is enough. I shall ask the powers to meet for a speedy and honorable peace.” Then Garbo slammed her fist on her throne. “There must be an end!”
The audience—onscreen and off—sat in silent awe of the queen’s presence. I was one of them.
“You need a bath,” a young female voice behind me said.
Startled, I spun around and found Ingrid smiling back at me.
“How long have you been there?” I said, then sniffed myself. Ingrid had spoken the truth, though not exactly the first thing I wanted to hear from her lips.
“Not long,” she said.
“Did you see someone in a cape and hood walking around out here?”
“No. Why?”
“No reason,” I lied.
“Where’s your suite?” Excellent question. Where was my nonexistent cabin? While I contemplated lying through my teeth to the beautiful Ingrid, my mind was occupied by the strangely familiar voice that had emanated from the phantom’s shrouded face. A voice I could not place, yet
swore I’d heard before.
“My suite?” I said. “I seem to have temporarily misplaced it.”
Ingrid cocked her head and scrutinized me. Homeless and smelly, I became even more self-conscious. I smiled meekly at her. Then she took hold of my grimy hand and led the way down the darkened deck.
“Come with me,” she said, and I left Garbo to her adoring fans.
Ingrid’s quarters were located at the stern of the boat, where the ship’s engine was the loudest and had the most vibration. The entire crew was berthed there except for the Captain and his First Officers. She led me into her cabin, and I immediately got an idea of the quality of woman I was dealing with. I had already figured that she was single, given her occupation and bare ring finger. She was a bit of a free spirit, as evidenced by how she had appointed her private quarters. Ingrid had an amazing collection of picture postcards from every port of call she had ever made: Poland, Belgium, France, London, New York, to name a few. The images went on and on, and I marveled at how well traveled she was at such a tender age.
I also admired the fact she had a private bath adjoining her cabin, which she instructed me to enter. I’m not the retiring type, but I did hesitate when given this command from such an attractive woman. I was filthy, don’t get me wrong. Her room, on the other hand, was spotless with clean, pressed white linens and a bouquet of red roses. I was amazed the big blooms didn’t explode on contact with my stench.
Ingrid walked into the white-and-black-tiled bathroom, turned on the shiny faucet handles, and drew me a bath. Then she turned and looked up at me with a somewhat curious, somewhat annoyed expression.
“What are you waiting for?” she said. “Undress.”
I started to disrobe. I had expected Ingrid to leave the bathroom, but she merely rolled up her sleeves. With one hand, she checked the water temperature. With the other, she turned the hot water fixture adjacent to the faucet that fed the bath. I was down to my skivvies and feeling downright introverted when she turned again to assess my progress.
“Those too,” she said, and pointed to my underwear.
This was new. While I was sure I had taken a bath sometime in the last month, I was equally confident it wasn’t in the company of a beautiful young female. I wasn’t exactly sure how Swedish people bathed, but I knew I didn’t need to be babied. I stripped and stepped butt-naked into the tub. That was as far as I was going to let it go.
“Sit down,” she said.
“I’m pretty sure I can handle things from here,” I said, standing my ground.
“Looking at you,” Ingrid replied, “would indicate otherwise. Now sit down. I haven’t got all night.”
The last time I had been given a bath, my Irish grandmother had washed me in the same basin with her pug, Mimi. Alva would use a washcloth similar in consistency to sandpaper and scrub Mimi and me so hard it was a wonder there was anything left of us.
Ingrid’s bath elicited a much different response from me than Grandma Ratray’s ever had. In any normal scenario, I would have taken this as an invitation to get better acquainted. But as I watched Ingrid wash my legs, it struck me that this girl was on the up and up. She was giving me a bath because I needed one. I decided to put the kibosh on the tub proceedings before I debased myself in front of either the young woman or the memory of dear, departed Screaming, or rather barking, Mimi.
“I’ll take it from here, sister,” I said, and snapped my legs together.
“Suit yourself,” Ingrid said and handed me the washcloth and soap. “Save the bathwater when you’re done. I’ll use it to wash your undergarments in the morning.”
Her stare telegraphed that fresh water was a precious commodity on ocean liners and not to be wasted. I nodded like an obedient schoolboy and made busy with the soap and cloth. Then Ingrid turned and walked out of the bathroom.
She left the door separating the two-room suite ajar. I could see from my vantage point the pale-skinned, dark-haired beauty disrobe. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-two or twenty-three years old, with a short torso connecting athletic arms and legs that went on for days. Her eyes were a lapis blue, her height just enough below mine to make her tilt her chin up to look at me. But when she took off her top, my investigative reporter brain turned to mush. Robbed of my powers of detached observation, I lingered instead on her beautiful shapes and curves. The woman was no longer measurable by earthly dimensions. I sat in the water and drank her in.
Then something changed. At first, I didn’t understand the image that interrupted my reverie and projected itself fleetingly onto the black-and-white tile of Ingrid’s bathroom. Tile which was identical to that of the men’s room in which I had been accosted earlier that day. Then the image flickered to life again, and I knew.
“Seth,” she said from the other room. “Are you all right?”
I looked up. Ingrid stood in the threshold of the bathroom. I watched her pull the hairpin out of the black bun at the nape of her neck. Her dark, bosom-length tresses cascaded down around her beautifully shaped face, framing a concerned expression.
“Yeah,” I said.
Ingrid broke out in a million-watt smile and momentarily lit up the bathroom like a marquee sign. Her moon-crescent eyes gave me a shiver while I sat in a puddle of my own filth.
“Don’t forget to wash behind your ears,” she said, turned, and walked naked toward her bed.
“I won’t,” I murmured and watched her get under the covers.
I turned back to the black-and-white tile, scrutinized the mental image now frozen upon it. I imagined Mimi the pug sitting in the tub beside me wailing a high-pitched warning to guard my privates while I still had them. But I was mesmerized by the image of the velvet gloves of my assailant, which were the same as the phantom’s on the Promenade deck. And the very same ones worn by Garbo in Queen Christina. I double-checked my memory for telling details, but it was clear as day in front of me. The green piping was unmistakable, even in black and white on the screen. I was sure of it. Garbo was aboard in more than just smoke and light. And I failed to grab her when I had the chance, out of fear. I’d even been bested by a little boy.
But why would Garbo hide in the men’s room, and why clock me? Screaming Mimi evaporated into thin air. I didn’t need an imaginary, castrated dog to tell me when I was in hot water. I turned to the mysteriously accommodating young beauty who lay in wait in the next room. Ingrid dozed while I kept an eye peeled on her.
“Come soon,” she said sleepily.
“Be there in a New York minute,” I blurted and made splashing noises with bar soap and washcloth.
Something queer was going on aboard this tub we were sailing on. Lovely Ingrid had served herself up to me on a silver platter. She knew I needed help. Knew I was a fish out of water in the middle of the ocean. Ingrid knew a lot about me already, and I knew absolutely bupkis about her. I was a dumb sitting duck.
“Almost done,” I said. Good and cooked was more like it. I lifted the washcloth and dutifully scrubbed behind my ears. Ingrid the Swedish barmaid was made-to-order, all right. Made me feel all tingly inside and want to believe she was just a swell kid with a heart of gold. Believe she had a soft spot for strangers in need of a bath and a place to hide out. And that’s what scared me most.
6. THREE ON A MATCH SETH
I looked at Ingrid sleeping next to me. Somewhere between midnight and 6 a.m., I’d fallen hard for this dame. I watched the shadows recede in her room and realized there was no going back. I was basking in the afterglow of our night together and didn’t want the sun to rise over the ocean. First light brought the danger of ending what we had begun in the dark.
I had never equated love with sex before. I had never equated love with anything before, except maybe beer. But nestled next to Ingrid’s naked body, and when she was on top of me, her hips synchronized to my own, when we fell into a natural rhythm, I felt a strange yearning. From the start, our bodies fit together like two interlocking jigsaw puzzle pieces. This newfound se
nse of belonging ran contrary to how little I knew about the person lying in my arms. As was the completely alien desire to want to care for and protect her.
Ingrid awoke and smiled up at me. She summoned the sun to rise in my eyes, and I smiled apishly back at her. I was thinking and acting like an ignoramus. I hoped I wouldn’t have to say anything. The thought occurred to me she might not feel the same way about me as I did toward her. Blood turned cold in my veins with fear.
“Good morning, handsome,” she said. If Ingrid noticed the sudden change in my body temperature, she didn’t let on.
“Hi.”
“You stay here.” Ingrid kissed me, then slid out of bed. “I’ll get us breakfast.”
“Okay.” I watched her skip naked into the bathroom.
The weather on the North Atlantic in September can be freezing, and her room was chilly. I curled under the covers and contemplated how it could be I was still in a woman’s bed that I had had sex with the previous night. Usually, I couldn’t get away quick enough. This was nothing less than a revelation.
Why had it taken me twenty-nine years to unearth this crown jewel of discovery? Then I remembered. I was an asshole. The type who didn’t have time for relationships, let alone breakfast in bed. If I wasn’t careful, I might just get both in short order, served up on the same silver platter dear Ingrid had been. I watched her from the bed and admired her natural beauty. Lucky for me, I had plenty of experience when it came to ruining a good thing.
I was surprised to find Ingrid a monument to perfectly coiffed femininity. Before flappers, only prostitutes had shaved their armpits and legs. The jazz age ushered in a whole new world of depilation in New York City, and I was amazed we hadn’t all been swept away on the resulting sea of cut hair follicles. Ingrid’s sculpted muscles and smooth silken skin glowed in the morning light, the very epitome of the modern woman.
Ingrid ordered a smorgasbord from the ship’s commissary, and soon the smell of rich drinking chocolate and confectionaries permeated her suite, along with coffee, hard-boiled eggs, sausages, fresh-baked breads, salmon roe and herring. We laid low and spent the morning in her cabin, satiating the enormous appetite we’d worked up during the night. I could have stayed in that bed with her for the rest of the voyage, easy, and was eager to relive some of the previous night’s highlights.
Looking for Garbo Page 5