Looking for Garbo

by Jon James Miller

  A knock at her door delivered my suit cleaned and pressed. Even my tie was straight as an arrow. I marveled at the brown threads like they were a new garment. If this wasn’t enough, Ingrid produced a men’s shaving kit, complete with lather stone, brush, and blade. My five o’clock shadow had run around the clock for days—maybe weeks—since the last time I’d scraped it off. This morning, however, I found pleasure in shaving. Stood before the mirror in Ingrid’s well-lit bathroom, a white beard of warm lather on my face, and shaved around a shit-eating grin. I felt and looked better than I had a right to, all because of a woman. Amazing.

  Ingrid had let me into her life so openly and without hesitation that I couldn’t help but admire her for it. Did she inherently trust me that much? Should she? Seth the Letch, the sob sisters, the women tabloid reporters, had called me. I gobbled up women’s virtue nearly as fast as the bar nuts that had, up until recently, passed for a regular meal. What I felt for Ingrid was, for want of a better term, special. Could a mug like me change overnight in the blink of one woman’s eye?

  After a morning full of playing house in her cabin, Ingrid and I spent the afternoon exploring the ship, the floating metropolis known as the Athenia. The noonday sun was high overhead before I realized I hadn’t had a drink all morning. I hadn’t needed one. With Ingrid on my arm, I felt higher than I ever had before. The buzz from distilled spirits had nothing on what I felt in her presence. She was a much stronger intoxicant and came without the nagging hangover. At least not yet.

  We took in the sunset on the Promenade Deck after another round of strenuous lovemaking in her cabin. We held hands while the sun hung above the horizon, suspended just above the water when a corona of rainbow appeared around it.

  “What is that?” she said.

  “Sun dogs,” I said.

  “It’s beautiful,” she said. “I’ve never seen it before.”

  “Sunlight is being refracted through ice particles in the atmosphere,” I explained. “Makes a halo.”

  “How do you know so much?”

  “I met a guy named Lindbergh once,” I said. “He taught me how to fly and a whole bunch of other things about the sky.”

  I stared at the sun dogs and saw a flash of the Lindbergh Estate in the dead of night. I’d been young and fearless, driving the dark bumpy rural road that snaked through the Sourland Mountains north of Hopewell, New Jersey. I was on a collision course with a story that had changed the world. Changed my life forever.

  The memory evaporated. I looked down and saw a massive shadow in the water, approximately four hundred yards off the Athenia’s port bow.

  “What’s that?”

  “What?”

  I let go of Ingrid’s hand and pointed to the spot. A mass of dark water hung just below the surface, in sharp contrast to the sun-dappled surface of the slack tide.

  She squinted at the water. “I don’t see anything.”

  “Well, I do.”

  My eyes may have been blown out from sexual ecstasy, but they could still focus when they needed to, still see what was in front of them. Especially if what I saw didn’t jibe with what little I knew of the natural world.

  “Maybe it’s a whale,” Ingrid offered.

  It wasn’t a whale. Not that I had ever seen a fucking whale in my life. No, by my estimate the whale in question would have to have been half as long as the Athenia herself to make that shadow. Moby Dick himself wasn’t that big.

  I knew the only reasonable explanation for what I saw. Any dope who’d read the papers or listened to the radio would have drawn the same conclusion. The North Atlantic was infested with U-boats, especially the shipping lanes. If this one was checking us out, then why hadn’t it surfaced? Why hadn’t a periscope or conning tower breached the surface to take a better look? Ingrid turned and gave me a look of concern.

  “Maybe the sun is playing tricks.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “Maybe I should have stayed in bed.” I looked back out at the ocean. The shadow was gone. I tried not to look alarmed, for Ingrid’s sake.

  “Seth,” she said, “I have to get ready for work.

  She took my arm, and we headed into the ship. I turned and took one last look back at the sea. The sun had set and took all its shadows with it. I’d have to let sleeping sun dogs lie, for now.

  Something hadn’t felt right since we’d gotten back to Ingrid’s suite. The shadow I’d seen in the water seemed to hang over us. How could Ingrid not have seen it? Or did she simply not want to? I knew people who refused to see things for what they really were. They were either too stupid or too scared to face reality. Ingrid didn’t strike me as either, and that piqued my curiosity even more.

  After she changed and left for the salon, I went through her things. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust her. Just that I felt a compulsion to come up with a solid reason not to. I prided myself on my ability to divorce my emotions from my intellect when needed. Still, I was willing to give Ingrid the benefit of the doubt, instead of my usual doubt of the benefit of trusting anyone. I kept this in mind as I searched for something that would incriminate her.

  Ingrid’s belongings were compact and utilitarian in design, yet had a style and beauty indicative of their owner. A small cherry jewelry box with gold inlay, silver rings and a wristband from Indonesia hidden inside. A silver hand mirror and comb set with a single strand of long black hair upon it. A black enameled lipstick applicator with green jade egret appliqués. Silk stockings, Ingrid’s scent still on them. A Buddhist prayer wheel.

  I opened a decorative cedar-wood box from her closet and found family photos and fistfuls of letters addressed to her, care of General Delivery in every major port of call. Apparently, her parents wrote religiously. I imagined they would also most assuredly contain a popular refrain: Pa worried about her traveling the world alone, Ma wondered when she was coming back home to marry and settle down. They all missed her. Ingrid wanted to live life on her own terms. She had champagne taste and a beer pocketbook, Mother Moseley would have said. Good for her, I said.

  I walked into the salon, sullied from my dirty work back in Ingrid’s suite. The reception I got was nothing like the night before. People who had given me a double take previously now barely glanced at me. I was happy for the cloak of anonymity a clean shave and a pressed suit provided.

  I sat down and popped a cigarette into my mouth while I waited for Ingrid to notice me. I hoped I had enough of a poker face left for her not to tell of my trespassing on her personal property. This woman had thrown me a life line when I desperately needed one, and I felt a twinge of guilt when she spotted me from across the salon.

  The feeling gave way to excitement when a wink and a smile later, Ingrid stood before my table.

  “Something I can get you, sir?”

  “A beer and your cabin number.”

  “You’ve already got one of them.”

  “How about a beer in your cabin then,” I said. “Away from prying eyes.”

  “I’m sure that can be arranged.” She smiled seductively. “But there’s someone I want you to meet first.”

  “Someone to meet?” I said. “That’s a bit of an occupational hazard for me right now.”

  “Nick is okay,” she said. “I’ll be right back, and we’ll go.”

  Nick? Who the fuck was Nick, an old family friend? Old Saint Nick? Why hadn’t I just said no, like I had with every other dame who had wanted to introduce me to a friend, family member, or dog? It was a terrible thing, feeling myself go soft in the head. Ingrid came back, coat in hand, and I sprung to my feet. At her beck and call.

  “I don’t even get my suds first?” I said.

  “They’ll have them there,” she said, extending me her hand.

  “Where?”

  I heard the music before we even entered the Great Hall. The previous night it had been canned melody, blown out of speakers synchronized to Garbo in Queen Christina. But tonight, live music from a piano on the stage captivated everyone’s attention. Whi
te table-clothed rounds illuminated by candles gave the scene an intimate nightclub atmosphere. Ingrid made her way toward the front of the room like she owned the place. I felt like the schmuck who swept up after it closed.

  “Isn’t he marvelous?” she said, smiling at the gent seated at the piano up on stage.

  “Who?” I said, genuinely confused.

  I looked up and saw Nick. Somewhere in his mid-thirties, he was a lean, slick, immaculately-coiffed crooner dressed in tails. Dark and handsome, Nick tickled the ivories to some familiar tune while all the women in the audience swooned. I wanted to punch his streetlights out on sight. But why? What in the Sam Hill had gotten into me? I looked over at Ingrid, swooning along with the best of them. There was my answer and my problem, seated right beside me.

  Nick finished his little ditty, bowed, and made a hasty retreat while the dinner crowd clapped enthusiastically. The Piano Man made his way over to us. I braced myself for impact.

  “Ingrid,” he said and gave her a peck on the left cheek. “It’s been too long.”

  I bet.

  “Nick,” Ingrid said, “this is Seth.”

  “Hello, old boy. How’s business?”

  Nick had an American accent. This was unexpected. Made me hate him even more. Now he was more than just a musician on the make. He was an American musician on the make.

  “Booming,” I cracked.

  “I wish I could stay and chat,” he said, then waved both hands at the crowd. “But can’t let the natives get restless.”

  “Don’t let us keep you.” I contemplated shoving his baby grand up his ass. I’m sure the natives hadn’t seen that before.

  “Grab a table, and I’ll show you how it’s done.” He winked at Ingrid. “Drinks are on me.”

  Ordinarily, the phrase “drinks are on me” would set my saliva glands to watering. This guy, however, gave me a bad case of cotton mouth. I couldn’t wait to get back to Ingrid’s suite.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  Hatred can make a guy awful thirsty. Over the next hour, I must have downed five pints. Nick played his set and never broke a sweat. I secreted enough for the both of us. My suit was wet with perspiration by the time he hung his act up and slithered off stage toward us. Ingrid had held my hand during the whole show and only sipped at her Champagne cocktail. She tried to engage me in small talk. But all I could think about was Nicky Baby.

  A waiter came out of nowhere and placed an extra chair at our table just in time for Nick to sit down. Had they rehearsed this number?

  “Well,” he said, “what do you think of my day job?”

  “Marvelous,” Ingrid gushed. “Perfectly marvelous.”

  The same waiter arrived out of my peripheral and deposited a Champagne cocktail in front of Nick. He stayed on long enough to produce a light for Nick’s cigarette. The waiter’s departure gave me an entrance.

  I leaned back in my chair. “Does he wipe your ass for you, too?”

  “Seth!” Ingrid chided, obviously embarrassed.

  Nick looked at me, then Ingrid, then laughed.

  “You obviously haven’t seen the bathroom in my berth.” He waved his cigarette. “Barely big enough for one person.”

  It was a nice save. But he wasn’t done. He was only getting started.

  “Not at all like dear Ingrid’s.” He gave her a wink.

  The arrow had hit home. Nick had turned my rapier wit back on itself and drawn blood. He placed himself inside Ingrid’s suite, in her bathroom no less. In a masterful economy of words, he had verbally depantsed me and smacked my skinny, white ass. I had to watch my back with this one.

  Ingrid laughed.” I knew you two would like each other.”

  “So, Seth,” Nick said. “What brings you aboard our happy home?”

  I had a choice here. I could let the liquor speak for me, or I could regroup for Ingrid’s sake. She was obviously enjoying our sparring match. And since I had literally nowhere to go, I had all the motivation in the world to dispatch my fellow American, post haste.

  “I’m a reporter. On assignment.”

  “How interesting,” he said. “What assignment?”

  “I’d tell you. But then I’d have to kill you.” I didn’t tell him I already wanted to.

  “A secret! I love secrets. May I try and guess?”

  “As long as you’re buying.”

  Nick snapped his fingers. The ass-wipe waiter brought us all another round.

  “I’m guessing you embarked back in New York,” he said. I nodded. Pleased with himself, Nick put two fingers to his forehead in mock contemplation. After a moment of silence, he smiled and snapped his fingers. “I’ve got it!” Nick stared at me as he laid down his cards. “Garbo.”

  I folded like a cheap tent in the wind. Ingrid looked at me for verification. She could tell by the look on my face he’d hit the jackpot.

  “That’s amazing,” Ingrid said.

  “Not really,” he said. “It’s a small ship. There were a lot of reporters. I just hadn’t realized any of them stayed on. You must really think she’s aboard.”

  I was thankful for the rhetorical statement. It gave me more time to drink my beer.

  “Care to make a wager?” he said.

  “What kind of wager?” I said.

  “Whether you can find her,” he said, “in the time it takes us to get to Stockholm.”

  Nick became visibly excited and animated by the prospect. A pitchman putting on an act to exact a sale. I let him have the floor, curious to see where it would lead.

  “Life can get so exceedingly boring on these voyages,” he said. “As I’m sure Ingrid here has told you.”

  In fact, she hadn’t. But I began to think maybe what we shared last night had been simply a diversion for Ingrid. An amusement, like tonight’s male display of colors for her probably was. Nick apparently sensed my dismay and skillfully turned it into an enticement.

  “A bet is just the thing to liven this trip up,” he said. “Ingrid here will even help you. Won’t you, darling?”

  “Maybe Seth isn’t the gambling type, Nick,” she said.

  Nick and Ingrid turned to me. I stared at him through the bottom of an empty pint glass.

  “What say you, Seth?” he said. “Are you a gambling man?”

  For a scam artist to be successful, he has to know his target. It was a bad bet that had gotten me onto this tub, and I was fresh out of collateral to buy my way back into the game. But Nick had no way of knowing that. Just like he had no way of knowing that I was flat broke, flat on my back and most likely headed for the brig once the crew became aware of my ticketless ass. Unless Ingrid was his shill.

  “What kind of stakes are we talking about?”

  “That’s the spirit.” Nick rubbed his hands together. The Piano Man wore a gold pinky ring on one hand and an emerald on the other. “Let’s call it at a thousand kronor.”

  “What’s that in real money?” I said.

  “About $200 US,” he said. “But you have to prove Garbo is on board.”

  “I doubt she’d be up for a duet,” I said. “If that’s what you’re asking.”

  “That would be grand, but not necessary.” Nick laughed a little too hard. “Physical proof will do just fine. Say, an article of clothing? Or maybe a letter with her autograph on it?”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll come up with something.”

  “Wonderfully exciting,” Nick said. “Let’s have another round to celebrate.”

  The drinks might as well have materialized by themselves for as fast as they came. Nick raised a glass in a toast.

  “To adventure on the high seas,” he said by way of a cherry smile.

  I hoped a rogue wave would come out of nowhere and knock him on his ass. Not likely. I eyeballed Ingrid beside me and downed my pint in one motion. Over the course of the evening it had become impossible for me to read her. To know where her allegiances lay.

  Part of me warned I’d fallen for the oldest routine in the
book. Attractive young woman provides the bait, then her male counterpart reels me in like the sucker fish I am. Introducing me to Nick had raised me up on my hind legs and had me itching for a fight. But while Nick fit the bill of a con man, I’d be damned if there wasn’t something different about Ingrid.

  We all produced cigarettes at the same time. Nick lit a match to light his own cigarette, then mine and then motioned to ignite Ingrid’s. I instinctively put a hand out to stop him. Ingrid looked on, curious.

  “Three on a match,” I warned.

  “Of course,” he said. Nick extinguished the match. “Sorry, my dear.”

  “For what?” she said.

  Nick struck the end of a new match with the tip of his thumbnail and ignited the phosphorous. He extended the flame toward Ingrid. She lit her cigarette, a look of incomprehension illuminated on her face.

  Nick nodded toward me. “Your man Seth here is a bit superstitious.”

  “Not inordinately,” I protested.

  Ingrid glanced at Nick and then settled on me. “Superstitious about what?”

  “During the Great War, soldiers on the front lines were taught to conserve their rations, including matches and cigarettes,” I explained. “They would light three cigarettes to a single match. Until the enemy figured out what they were doing.”

  I turned to Nick and caught his stare. Ingrid turned to him, though he addressed only me like she had ceased to exist.

  “The enemy would use the light to target the first soldier,” he said. “Verify it was the enemy with the second. Then shoot to kill the third.”

  “Ever since,” I said, “legend has it the third person to light a cigarette off one match is cursed to die a violent death.”

  Ingrid took my hand under the table and held onto it. I felt a tidal wave of warmth run through my body. She was like a riptide pulling me back out into a sea of love. To drown me?