by Herman Wouk
Slote said, “Are you really sure everything’s there? I’ve never seen regulations as tough as these. Suppose I check that stuff over for you.”
“Oh, please, Leslie? Would you?” Natalie said, making room on the sofa and handing him the documents and the sheet Thurston had given her. Red ink check marks ran down the side of the page.
“How’d you assemble all this?” Slote said, starting to examine the papers.
Byron explained that as soon as he had learned of the scheduled cruise to Lisbon, he had obtained an emergency four-day pass, and had flown to Washington to find out at the Portuguese embassy what the marriage regulations were. The naval attaché there, Captain D’Esaguy, had turned out to be a friend of his from Berlin; the captain had been his tennis doubles partner for a while, playing against his father and the Swedish attaché. D’Esaguy had gone right to work. “It’s surprising what those fellows can accomplish in a few days when they want to,” Byron said. “I rounded up some of the papers, but the Portuguese consuls themselves did the hardest ones.”
“That’s the Foreign Service everywhere,” said Slote, methodically turning over one paper after another and glancing at the check list. “The wheels either turn glacially, or so fast you can’t see them whiz—well, Byron, I honestly think you, or this Portuguese navy captain, or both of you, did it. Everything seems to be here.”
“What now?” Natalie said.
“Will you marry me?” Byron said, very solemnly.
Natalie said, “I sure will, by God.”
They burst out laughing. With a melancholy chuckle, Slote slipped the papers into the folder which Byron had labelled in neat red block letters: MARRIAGE. “Suppose I telephone Thurston and ask him what you do next? Thurston’s my friend here in the legation, Byron.”
Byron Henry slowly, gratefully smiled, and Slote could not but see how appealing the smile was. “Thanks a lot. Will you? I’m not thinking too clearly at the moment.”
“No? On the whole, I’d say you’re doing all right.”
Returning a few minutes later, he saw them holding hands on the sofa, looking adoringly at each other and both talking at once. He hesitated, then approached them. “Sorry. Problems.”
Natalie looked up at him, startled and frowning. “What now?”
“Well, Bunky’s bowled over by what you’ve done, Byron, just impressed as hell. He’s at your service and wants to help. But he doesn’t know what he can do about that twelve-day requirement for posting banns. Then there’s the Foreign Office’s authentication of the consuls’ signatures. He says that usually takes a week. So—” Slote shrugged, and dropped the folder on the table.
“Right, D’Esaguy mentioned both those points,” Byron said. “He thought they could be gotten around. I stopped off at the navy ministry on the way here this morning and gave his uncle a letter. His uncle’s a commodore, or something. He was awfully nice to me, but he only speaks Portuguese. I think he’s working on those snags. I’m supposed to go back to the ministry at one o’clock. Could Mr. Thurston meet us there? That might be a real help.”
Slote looked from Byron to Natalie, whose mouth was twitching with amusement. She still held Byron’s hand in her lap. “I’ll call back and ask him. You’ve certainly been forehanded.”
“Well, I sort of wanted this to come off.”
With some stupefaction, Bunker Thurston agreed over the telephone to meet them at the navy building at one. “Say, Leslie, I thought you called this ensign of hers a sluggard and a featherhead. He’s organized this thing like a blitzkrieg.”
“Surprised me.”
“You have my sympathies.”
“Oh, shut up, Bunky. I’ll see you at one.”
“You’re coming too?”
“Yes, oh yes.”
“You’re a glutton for punishment.”
A tall man in Navy dress blues leaned on the fender of an automobile outside the hotel, smoking a very black, very fat cigar. “Hey, Briny! Is the exercise on?”
“It’s on.” Byron introduced him to Natalie and Slote as Lieutenant Aster, his executive officer. Aster took in the girl with a keen, rather greedy glance of pale small blue eyes. He was broader and heavier than Byron, with thick wavy blond hair growing to a peak on his forehead, and a long face that looked genial because the corners of his mouth turned up. But it was a tight tough mouth. “Say, Natalie, that picture of you that Briny keeps mooning over doesn’t do you justice. Hop in, everybody. I phoned the skipper, Briny, and told him you’d made contact. You’re off the watch list while we’re here.”
“Great, Lady. Thanks.”
Not sure she had heard this right, Natalie said, “Lady?”
The executive officer’s smile was a bit weary. “That happened to me in my plebe year at the Academy. With a name like Aster, I guess it had to. My name’s Carter, Natalie, and by all means use it.”
Driving into the city, the two submariners described how the S-45, a hundred fifty miles out of Lisbon, had in fact been ordered to Gibraltar. The captain, who knew about Byron’s plans, had expressed his regrets but altered course to the south. Within an hour reports came in to the captain that the number two main engine was down, the forward battery was throwing off excessive hydrogen, an evaporator had salted up, and a general plague of malfunctions was breaking out in the old boat, necessitating an emergency call in Lisbon for two or three days of alongside repairs. Aster, who brought in the reports, gave his opinion, which was backed by the Chief of the Boat, that it might be hazardous to proceed to Gibraltar. All this was done with a straight face, and with a straight face the captain accepted the executive officer’s recommendation and turned back to Lisbon.
“How can you possibly get away with that?” said Slote. “Won’t you all be court-martialled?”
“Nobody was lying,” Aster said with an innocent smile. “We have the engine records to prove it. These old S-boats just gasp and flounder along, and at practically any moment you could justify an order to abandon ship. Coming into Lisbon was highly commendable prudence.”
Natalie said to Byron, “And you submerge in an old wreck like that?”
“Well, the S-45 has made four thousand, seven hundred and twenty-three dives, Natalie. It should be good for a few more.”
“Diving is nothing,” said Lady Aster. “You pull the plug and she goes down; you blow air and she pops up. It’s going from one place to another that’s kind of a strain on the old hulk. But we manage. By the way, everybody’s invited aboard after the ceremony.”
“Me? On a submarine?” Natalie tucked her skirt close around her thighs.
“The captain wants to congratulate you. He was pretty nice about coming in to Lisbon, you know.”
“We’ll see,” Natalie said. “Slote! Are you trying to maim us all?”
“Sorry, that truck came out of nowhere,” said Slote, pulling the car back on the bumpy road. He was driving too fast.
Shaking hands in the sunshine outside the navy ministry, Bunker Thurston gave Ensign Henry a prolonged curious scrutiny. “I’m glad to meet a fellow with such a knack for getting things done.”
“This thing’s not done yet, by, a long shot, sir. Thanks for offering to help out.”
“Well, come along, and let’s see what happens. You’ve got some strong pull on your side. D’Esaguy seems to be something like a deputy chief of naval operations.”
Judging by the number of anterooms and armed guards outside his office, the size of the room, the magnificence of the furniture, and the effulgence of his gold braid and combat ribbons, D’Esaguy certainly held some exalted post. He was a short dark man, with an elongated stern Latin face, and heavy hair graying at the sides. He held himself, and shook hands, and gestured as he welcomed them, with noble grace; and to Natalie he made a deep bow, his black eyes showing a spark of admiration. He turned businesslike and rattled rapidly to Thurston in Portuguese.
“He says these things take time,” Thurston reported. “He would like to invite us all to lun
ch.”
Byron glanced at Natalie, and said, “That’s very cordial of him. Does he know we only have three days?”
“I’m not sure you ought to press him,” Thurston muttered.
“Please tell him what I said.”
“Okay.”
The Portuguese officer listened gravely to Thurston. His eyes were on Byron. A wrinkle of his mouth, a flash of fun in the sombre face, acknowledged the impatience of a young lover. He turned and rapped an order to an assistant only slightly less crusted with gold braid than himself, who sat at a small desk. The assistant jumped up and went out. After a minute of heavy silence he returned with a bouquet of red roses. He gave these to D’Esaguy, who handed them to Natalie Jastrow with a bow and a few charmingly spoken words.
Thurston translated, “The dew will not dry on these roses before you are married.”
“Good God. How beautiful. Thank you!” Natalie’s voice trembled. She stood holding the roses, looking around at the men, blushing. “You know, I’m beginning to believe it! For the very first time.”
“The exercise is on, lady,” said Lieutenant Aster. “Cancel now, if you’re ever going to.”
“Cancel?” She took Byron’s arm. “Nonsense. Commence firing!”
“Hey, a Navy wife,” said Lieutenant Aster.
D’Esaguy, trying alertly to follow this chatter, asked Thurston to translate. He burst out laughing, took Natalie’s hand, and kissed it.
“Come,” he said in English. “A leetle luncheon.”
The lunch was long and excellent, in a restaurant with a lordly view, much like a San Francisco panorama, of the Lisbon hills and the broad sparkling river. The commodore seemed in no hurry at all. Thurston kept checking his watch, knowing that most government offices would shut by four-thirty or five. At three D’Esaguy said casually that perhaps they might see now how the little business was coming along. In an enormous black Mercedes limousine they commenced a whirling tour of office buildings. Thurston tried to explain what was happening, but after a while he gave up, because he wasn’t sure. Sometimes the commodore descended for a few minutes by himself, sometimes he took the couple along to sign a ledger or a document, with Thurston accompanying them. An official invariably waited at the door to greet them and to lead them past crowded anterooms into dusty old inner offices, where fat pallid old department heads got awkwardly out of their chairs to bow to D’Esaguy.
About two hours later they arrived at an office familiar to Thurston, where civil marriages were registered. It was closed for the day and the blinds were drawn. As the black limousine came to a stop, one blind went up and the door opened. A huge old woman in a brown smock, with visible chin whiskers, led them through dark empty rooms to an inner office where a chandelier blazed. At an ancient desk, fussing with papers, sat a dark frog-faced man with gold-rimmed glasses, several gold teeth, and three thick gold rings. He smiled at them and spoke to Thurston in Portuguese. Thurston translated his questions; the man scratched with a blotchy pen on many of Byron’s documents and kept stamping them. Natalie, Byron, and the two witnesses—Aster and Slote—signed and signed. After a while the man stood, and with a lewd gold-flecked smile held out his hand to Natalie and then to Byron, saying brokenly, “Good luck for you.”
“What’s this now?” Natalie said.
“Why, you’re married,” Thurston said. “Congratulations.”
“We are? Already? When did we get married? I missed it.”
“At one point there, where you both signed the green book. That was it.”
“I haven’t the faintest recollection.”
Byron said, “Nor have I. However, I’ll take your word for it. Let’s have that ring, Lady.”
Aster put it in his hand. He slipped the yellow band on Natalie’s finger, swept her into his arms, and kissed her. Meantime Thurston told D’Esaguy how the couple had missed the moment of marriage, and the Portuguese officer laughed. He laughed again when Thurston explained the American custom of kissing the bride. Natalie said that D’Esaguy must kiss her first. With marked pleasure, the old aristocrat executed the privilege on her lips. Then he left, after courtly handshakes all around, as Byron gathered up his sheaf of documents and paid the fees.
Slote was the last to kiss her. Natalie hesitated, looking into his eyes, and said, “Well, old Slote, I seem to have done it, don’t I? Wish me well.”
“Oh, I do, I do, Jastrow. You know that.”
She gave him a cool brief kiss on the mouth, putting her free hand on his neck.
When they emerged into the late golden sunshine, the black limousine was gone. The office door closed behind them and Slote felt something loose and grainy thrust in his hand. It was rice. Lieutenant Aster grinned a strange cold thin-lipped grin at him and winked a sharp blue eye. At a signal from Aster, the three men pelted the couple.
Natalie, brushing rice from her dress, wiped her eyes with a knuckle. “Well, that certainly makes it official! Now what happens?”
“If you don’t know,” said Lady Aster, “Byron’s got a lot of fast explaining to do.”
Natalie choked and turned brick red. “My God, Briny, who is this character?”
“Lady’s spent too much time submerged,” said Byron. “He has trouble raising his mind to sea level.”
“Marriage is holy and beautiful,” said Lady Aster. “But before you hop to it, how about visiting the old S-45 for a minute? The skipper’s sort of expecting us.”
“Of course, of course,” Natalie said hurriedly. “I want to see the S-45. I’m dying to. By all means.”
“Have you any idea where you’ll go after that?” Leslie Slote dryly put in.
Byron said, “Well, I figured there’d be a place—a hotel, something.”
“Lisbon’s jammed to bursting,” said Slote.
“My God, so it is. I never gave it a thought,” Natalie said.
“Why not take my place?” said Leslie Slote. “That’s a honeymoon suite, if ever I saw one.”
Natalie looked very surprised and glanced at Byron. “That’s sweet of you, Slote, but I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“We’ll find something,” Byron said, shaking his head.
“Oh, but his place is out of the Arabian Nights,” said Natalie, adding very casually, “I had a drink there last night. Would you do such a thing for us, old Slote?”
“Leslie can stay with me,” Thurston said. “No problem at all. Pick me up at the legation, Les. I have to rush there now.”
“It’s all set,” said Slote. “While you two visit the submarine, I’ll go to the hotel and clear out.”
“Bless you. Thank you. My bags,” said Natalie distractedly, “they’re in Mrs. Rosen’s room. Maybe I should get them! No, I have things to throw in. I’ll get ’em later. Thanks, Slote. And you too, Bunky. Thanks for everything.”
Slote signalled at a passing taxicab. “Good luck.”
Natalie was astonished at the small size of the submarine, at its ugliness, and at its rustiness. “Good heavens!” she shouted over the clanks and squeals of the crane moving overhead, as they got out of the cab. “Is that the S-45? Briny, honestly, don’t you get claustrophobia when you dive in that thing?”
“He’s never stayed awake long enough to find out,” said Aster. They were walking toward a gangway that was only a couple of planks nailed together. Sailors lounged on the low flat black forecastle, staring at the girl in white with an armful of roses. “One day when we’re submerged he’ll open his eyes and begin screaming.”
“I don’t mind anything but the low company,” said Byron, “and the body odors. It’s especially marked among the senior officers. When I sleep I don’t notice it.”
A young tousle-headed sailor at the gangway, wearing a gun slung low on his hip, saluted Aster, gave Natalie a yearning respectful glance, and said, “Cap’n wants you-all to wait for him on the dock, sir.”
“Very well.”
Soon a figure in a blue uniform, with the gold stripes of a lieutenant, emer
ged from the rust-streaked black sail—the housing that rose amidships over the conning tower—and crossed the gangplank to the dock. The captain was shaped rather like his submarine, clumsily thick in the middle and tapering abruptly to either end. He had big brown eyes, a broad nose, and a surprisingly boyish face.
“Captain Caruso, this is my wife,” said Byron, jolting Natalie with the word.
Caruso took her hand in a white fat paw. “Well, congratulations! Byron’s a good lad, in his short conscious intervals.”
“Do you really sleep that much?” Natalie laughed at Byron.
“It’s pure slander. I seldom close my eyes on this boat,” said Byron, “except to meditate on my folly in going to sub school. That I admit I do very frequently.”
“Eighteen hours at a stretch, he can meditate,” said Aster. “That’s solid gold meditating.”
Two sailors in dungarees came up out of an open hatch on the forecastle and crossed the gangway, one carrying a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket, the other a tray of water glasses.
“Ah, here we go. Navy Regs don’t allow us to consume spirituous liquors on board, Mrs. Henry,” said the captain, and again she felt the little joyous jolt. He popped the cork and ceremoniously poured as the sailor held out one glass after another.
“To your happiness,” he shouted, as the crane went by overhead with a wild clanging.
“To you, God bless you,” yelled Natalie, “for bringing him here.”
“To number two engine,” bellowed Lady Aster, “to the evaporators, the exhaust system, and the forward battery. Never has there been such a massive breakdown on a naval vessel.”
Byron silently lifted his glass to his captain and executive officer.
They drank. The crane rumbled away.
“Captain,” said Lady Aster, as Caruso refilled the glasses, “do you think that picture in Byron’s room does Natalie justice?”
“Not in the least,” said the captain, looking at her with liquid woman-loving Italian eyes. “It doesn’t begin to.”