by John Brunner
But he was obliged to wait on table for his living, when he would rather be a full-time musician. Moreover there was none of the loyalty he had been used to among his family and friends. For the duration of a voyage, the crew of a steamer became a mutually supporting unit. It didn’t last. At trip’s end the group split up. And there was no solidarity between one boat’s crew and another’s. Today was an example. The master of the Dolores Day had thrice broken his pledged word to give his men better wages, but even those who customarily blackguarded Grigg for a thief and a cheat had driven the protesters away. Further struggle was obviously useless.
And he was not alone in so believing. At this latest rebuff the band lowered their instruments. More attracted by the music than the principle involved, the “second line” made that an excuse to drift away.
Realizing that now he must seek another job, Manuel sighed philosophically and replaced his hat on his head prior to making toward the elegant Frenchman. As he walked he drew from his pocket a pair of hand-rolled panatelas, preparing to offer one and request the share of a match flame.
But at that moment a number of excursion boats announced their impending departure by a variety of voices, loudest among them the steam calliope of the Isaiah Plott. Galvanized, Gaston headed in that direction with rangy strides.
Not to be balked, Manuel stepped into his path, uncovering, set to deliver a flattering little speech in his best English.
Gaston tossed a coin into his hat and marched on, leaving Manuel shaking with bewilderment that little by little grew into rage.
True to his word, as soon as he set foot aboard the Plott Gordon insisted on being taken to her engineroom, which reeked even worse than the kitchen of the hotel where he had recruited Matthew.
Who had hoped his employer might be treated to a cursory tour of inspection and then ushered away with some colorable excuse. The advertised departure time had long been upon them; the bellowing pipes of the calliope had reached the fourth or fifth inexpert rendition of “Rosin the Beau.” But Gordon began to display such expert knowledge, and ask such keen questions, that the engineers were at once disarmed. To compound the problem, one of them turned out to be Scottish, and much extra time was wasted in commiserating about their homeland, now being pillaged to benefit English landlords.
It struck Matthew that this was the first time he had seen his employer excited. Angry, yes: he could fly into a temper over the most trivial failing on the part of a servant or a clerk in a store. But here was a subject dear to his heart, and he waxed eloquent.
Some minutes after eleven he was at last persuaded to quit the engineroom. Matthew was almost faint with relief.
Gordon too, he judged, was not unhappy to lean on the rail and breathe purer air while watching the stages being raised, particularly since the calliope had progressed from wrong notes to squawks and then to blessed silence.
But as usual the financier grew restive after a while. Matthew tensed. Any minute he was apt to receive some unpredictable order, which Gordon would later justify as a test of his fitness to continue in his post, but which in fact amounted to no more than a discharge of accumulated mental energy. This was a man who could not, seemingly, enjoy the privileges his skill and industry had reaped; it was typical that his first concern should not be with the bar and amusements of this boat, but with her mechanism and her hull.
However, Matthew was doing his best not to feel resentful. Thanks to a rare access of confidentiality on the train to Cincinnati, he had learned that it was his own efforts, not an inheritance, which had made Gordon’s fortune. All his life Matthew had been raised to admire the self-made man, and his uncle had often admonished him that the foibles such people exhibited must be speedily forgiven; they were a price paid for achievement on a plane the ordinary person might not aspire to. His uncle was an admirer of Andrew Jackson Davis of Poughkeepsie, and frequently larded his conversation with technical spiritualist terms like “plane.”
Thankful that whatever eruption was brewing had not yet reached culmination, he suddenly recalled that on the way here they had passed a lively band. Optimistic for even a few seconds’ diversion, he scanned the levee, and was disappointed. He could see men wandering about with brass instruments, but it was clear that while the calliope was playing the band must have given up. Would the day come when no human instrumentalist could match machinery? Already the toughest-lunged trumpeter could be outblasted; would unemployment follow for fiddlers, be their fingers never so nimble? There were stories of a machine that could play chess…
Abruptly he was distracted. Down on the quayside a young man had caught sight of Gordon and reacted explosively. He rushed for the stage—and just made it.
Arthur Gattry had resigned himself to getting married. He hated the idea. Being an only son, he knew that sooner or later he must yield for duty’s sake, but he had been enjoying single blessedness too long to abandon his style of living altogether. What he wanted was a modern marriage.
But until recently he would not have backed his chances of achieving one.
Meeting Louisette Moyne had changed all that.
A chance introduction led to him recognizing the girl who long ago at the Grand Philharmonic Hall had impressed him by her elegance and beauty. He had never dreamed that she would prove to be the well-educated daughter of a respected businessman. Girls like that simply were not supposed to visit such raffish places!
It followed that she was a sport. He investigated; he learned that she was as progressive as she was lovely, accustomed to pour scorn on the staid ways of the past. That suited Arthur to perfection. He resolved to lay siege to her.
Clearly she was having—like him—too much fun at present to think of accepting his or anyone’s proposal, but he was in no great hurry. He was thirty-two; if necessary, he was prepared to wait until thirty-five before taking a bride. In the meantime he was cultivating her acquaintance: calling once or twice a week, making an occasional gift, arranging outings for her and her mother…
Today marked a breakthrough. It was the first time Louisette had consented to make an excursion with him on her own. When he suggested the idea, he had been unaware that her favorite brother was due back from Europe. On being told, he had expected to have to change the date. On the contrary: Louisette was thrilled by the prospect of a river trip and demonstrated the fact by arriving ahead of time despite having gone to welcome Auberon.
It was chiefly habit which had led Arthur to extend the invitation. He had often found that the romantic views afforded by the river had a gratifyingly aphrodisiac impact…
But now he was asking himself what in the world had led him to imagine that what amused and seduced a girl chance-met in a run-down ward of the city would have a similar effect on his intended wife. The moment she set foot on deck a cloud had crossed her brow, due to the seediness of this all-too-popular vessel. No doubt pressure of work accounted for the conspicuously full cuspidors and the used mugs and glasses on every ledge, but they made a poor initial impression. So too did the boat’s late departure and the breakdown of its calliope, which in any case was deafeningly loud and alarmingly off-key.
All these setbacks were doubly infuriating because in other respects the outing had begun extremely well. Conspiratorial whispers had passed between Louisette and Hugo’s wife Stella, who had thereafter swept her husband away with the plain intention of abandoning her task of chaperonage. That should have been the signal for Arthur to unmask all his batteries: to be charming, to be fascinating, to be altogether delightful, and to be rewarded with a lingering delicious kiss, at least. It would be far from Louisette’s first, so Stella had confided, and despite his range of worldly experience he looked forward to finding out how well she had been taught.
So he should definitely not have been leaning on the rail, as tongue-tied as any fourteen-year-old at a party.
Glancing around in search of some diversion to offer, he muttered a low exclamation.
“What is it?” Louise
tte inquired. And, following his gaze, saw a heavily built man with a full dark beard, doffing his hat. Politeness obliged Arthur to acknowledge the gesture, though he would rather have ignored it.
“Who’s that?” Louisette persisted. “Someone you know?”
Arthur reluctantly gave ground.
“That’s Mr. Hamish Gordon.”
“Really? The financier? How did you meet him? Have you met him?”
Arthur hesitated, but no doubt Louisette already knew about his favorite pastimes.
“We were playing cards together last night.”
“Oh! Where was that?”
“At the—uh—the Hotel Limousin.”
“Oh, you go there, do you?” Excitedly Louisette clasped her hands. “I’ve heard of it! Won’t you take me sometime?”
Taken aback, Arthur prevaricated. “Well, my dear, I’m not sure it’s the sort of place where—”
“Oh, stuff and nonsense!” she cut in with a stamp of one small foot. “People are always telling me that, and then when I finally manage to get to this sink of iniquity, this den of vice, it turns out to be tamer than a children’s nursery! Anyway, I insist on being introduced to Mr. Gordon. I would adore the chance to meet him—and so would Father! As soon as he heard Mr. Gordon was from Scotland, he started wondering whether he has any information about the match-stick swindle, which I’m sure you remember— I say! What’s going on down there?”
Birdwise, her attention had been distracted back to the wharf. A young man had rushed on to the landing stage just before it was withdrawn, and was now engaged in furious argument with one of the boat’s officers.
“But that’s Joel!” Louisette exclaimed.
“Who?”
“My cousin Joel Siskin! Oh—you wouldn’t have met him, I guess. He doesn’t come to our house any more. And he behaved awfully oddly when he came to welcome Auberon… I do hope he’s all right! Will you go and see, please?”
Glad of the chance to make a good impression, but much put out on learning of this cousin, Arthur was on the point of complying when the disagreement was resolved. Money changed hands; the officer let Joel by; and to the relief of her impatient passengers the Isaiah Plott finally began her voyage.
Owing to the chill welcome he invariably received, Fernand had few qualms about being late in posting his report at the Guild parlor. Today an excellent breakfast and a chance encounter with a friend had used up most of the morning. He was in an optimistic mood when he did eventually make his way thither, and could almost have convinced himself that today was the day when one of his colleagues might offer civil greetings and accept a drink at his expense.
No such luck. Captain Parbury was ensconced already in his high-backed chair—not strictly his, but it had been donated by a pilot killed in the war, and other members were shamed to dispute possession of it.
Little by little, Parbury was taking over the affairs of the Guild, using his handicap as leverage. Whatever factions might form, it was doom to their success if they made so bold as to defy his rigid views… expressed, moreover, in impressive terms these days. More than once, while making his half-secretive entry and exit, Fernand had heard Parbury holding forth about how loss of sight had transformed him from a doer to a thinker; he claimed that when he could see he suffered from a stutter, whereas now he could unfold long oratorical passages with the best of them. Certainly nothing hampered his tongue when he described the unrealized glories of the third Nonpareil, a model of which resided on a shelf behind the bar, glass-cased like a collection of wax fruit or a record catfish.
And yet… and yet… that model did represent an ideal! Her lines were so pure and elegant that most members of the Guild had been tempted to contribute suggestions for her fitting-out, and someone who was not a member—Cato Woodley—had been so taken with the notion that he had given half a won bet on Parbury’s skill at billiards to purchase dolls’ furniture and equip the miniature cabin. An alternative version of the story had it that Woodley did no more than offer to share his luck, and it was Parbury who decided how to spend the money. Either way, some such event had created an improbable pair of cronies out of those two: at least as unbelievable as the association between Hosea Drew and Langston Barber… but for one key factor. There was an age difference between Parbury and Woodley which made people suggest that the blind captain had found a substitute for his dead son.
That, Fernand well understood. Occasionally during his schooling aboard the Atchafalaya, when Drew was finding fault apparently for the sake of being able to complain, he had had the impression that the grudge the older man was venting was unconnected with his pupil—that it had more to do with the ill luck that led to him standing in loco parentis to Jacob’s children, so ultimately to his inability to find a wife and start a family of his own.
Inability? It was Drew’s own word. In what sense must it be taken?
On separating from the Atchafalaya Fernand had devised a whole series of resentful explanations. More mature reflection had led him to a different conclusion. Drew had expended, on paying his half-brother’s debts, all the emotional capital he had to spare. So he felt cut off from normal society. Having bought a home in St. Louis for Susannah and her children, and lived there because he was trapped by the war, he now preferred to spend his time in the Louisville trade, avoiding his relatives. Similarly the duty of circulating among his passengers often represented such a strain that he had to take refuge in the office, or even the engineroom, for a few minutes before continuing. So far as Fernand was concerned, this reaction was incomprehensible. After long hours at the wheel, he was hungry for the trivial commerce of his fellow human beings.
At least, of those prepared to converse with a person of color…
Still, he had by now met not a few people caught up in the routine of the river, resigned to finding work only when the level of the water permitted long trips with profitable cargoes, or eking out a miserable existence when flood or storm or ice made departure impossible, and all had demanded why he had quit a safe and well-paid occupation in favor of a chancy job where even when he was asleep he risked being drowned, or stranded, or blown halfway to the moon.
And because he respected Drew regardless of his dislike, he had tried to answer. Tried like blazes! Yet never quite conveyed the special lure of this career.
And likewise because Parbury spared no pains to make it clear that he loathed Drew and had no time for any of his associates…
Well, it was a fact that had to be endured, and the detestation never reached bedrock. At Griswold’s Parbury had once, after a coup at the billiard table, permitted Fernand to guide him back to his seat.
Perhaps he had not realized who was offering help.
Thus reminded of Whitworth, Fernand was struck unhappy by a shaft of memory. Quitting the Guild, he found himself at a loss. Did he really want to go on to Griswold’s, as usual?
Not much. But he did want to postpone calling on his mother. Eulalie seemed unable to accept that he was a man, in control of his own destiny. On the contrary, she imagined him to be menaced by every conceivable kind of disaster. At various times he had gathered that, according to her prescience, he was at risk from flood, storm, lightning, thieves, some crewman with a grudge, and a total stranger determined to find the excuse to fight a duel. Visiting her had become an ordeal of card readings, ink-pool scrying, and sometimes disgusting processes involving the decapitation of a chicken and inspection of its guts.
All this was owing to her cousin Athalie, who was tubercular and dying before her time. For years, since the decline of Marie Laveau, she had been a power in the psychic underworld of the city. Just as she began to weaken and spit blood, a newcomer—an upstart—made her presence known, and shortly even her most faithful clients were referring with awe to the skills of Mam’zelle Josephine, who lived somewhere in a rich district of the city and never dealt with anybody except through trusted intermediaries and at the highest price.
Appealing to family lo
yalties, Athalie turned to her cousin, who had somewhat commenced her studies, and set out to impart the whole corpus of her knowledge before death claimed her. Traditionally a widow was best fitted to become a wise woman; Athalie had buried three husbands, which her customers regarded as endowing her with peculiar potency. But she held the view that what counted was to have made sacrifice. Eulalie’s man was dead; two of her children had failed to survive infancy; she was an ideal candidate.
Accordingly she was taught divination by the fall of wax from a candle, and how to read ashes mixed with urine and cast on a sand-strewn floor, and other things. Many more. Now she could no longer take tea without swirling the dregs around her cup and making some dire prediction from their pattern.
At first Fernand had been impressed against his will. He had taken the charms she forced on him, intending to throw them away, then found himself as incapable of doing so as of spitting on a crucifix; then, when threat after promised threat failed to eventuate, mere politeness prevented him from refusing them point-blank. Now he was at the stage of delaying, as long as possible, his dutiful visits to her.
Maybe one day he would achieve his ambition of inviting her aboard a boat he was piloting. Maybe, faced with incontrovertible facts, she would accept his new status in life.
Until that day dawned, however, he was happy to take the long way round to his former home. There were so many places in the city where he was assured of a livelier welcome. And since Griswold’s was handy, and since it was there that he had enjoyed his only pleasant encounter with Parbury…
The weather was hot and humid. His clothing clutched at his skin. There were ceiling fans at Griswold’s that could cope with the exudations of a hundred players and spectators. Also there was an excellent ice machine. Very well: that was where he’d go. As usual.