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Fiction by Mildred Pond
Mentally, words came for my notebook:
“Italian, I’d wager – Sicilian. But why the Slavic
cheekbones? A fetish for shoes, leftover
privation from the war?” In any case, the shoes
didn’t suit her; they accentuated her shortness,
and she was too old to fling back a foot against
her bottom as she suddenly leaned over a side
railing closer to me.
Her name was Ilona.I met her that first night by happenstance at the bar, along with her Egyptian husband, Gamal. A few others joined us and we became close, largely because of the stranger hiding in a lifeboat on an upper deck.
On deck that afternoon I was again struck, this time by the striking profile of a young woman I guessed to be in her early twenties. She stood at the railing, facing the receding coastline and ripped open a cablegram the deck steward had handed her. “She tears it up crossly -- surely a departing message from a lover,” I noted for my notebook. “Distinctly American -- self-confident, proud, used to having things go her way. Her shoulders straighten defiantly as she flings the bits of paper into the sea.”
I sympathized with the girl’s wounded defiance. I was still smarting over Hilda’s parting note, still nestled in my breast pocket. She’d tacked the note to my bungalow door the morning I left Dakar: “Roger, my love, I know you no better after two years than on our first stolen afternoon on your veranda.”
Hilda, the unhappy wife of my boss, would never have come with me to Japan, (nor would I have asked her). Yet at the moment of our ship’s sailing I nursed the same wounds as the American girl, who abruptly turned her head, caught me staring, and pointedly mimicked my gaping before sauntering off. Another impossible American, I thought, impertinent, imperious, but that didn’t make her any less beautiful.
Her name was Ilona.I met her that first night by happenstance at the bar, along with her Egyptian husband, Gamal. A few others joined us and we became close, largely because of the stranger hiding in a lifeboat on an upper deck.
On deck that afternoon I was again struck, this time by the striking profile of a young woman I guessed to be in her early twenties. She stood at the railing, facing the receding coastline and ripped open a cablegram the deck steward had handed her. “She tears it up crossly -- surely a departing message from a lover,” I noted for my notebook. “Distinctly American -- self-confident, proud, used to having things go her way. Her shoulders straighten defiantly as she flings the bits of paper into the sea.”
I sympathized with the girl’s wounded defiance. I was still smarting over Hilda’s parting note, still nestled in my breast pocket. She’d tacked the note to my bungalow door the morning I left Dakar: “Roger, my love, I know you no better after two years than on our first stolen afternoon on your veranda.”
Hilda, the unhappy wife of my boss, would never have come with me to Japan, (nor would I have asked her). Yet at the moment of our ship’s sailing I nursed the same wounds as the American girl, who abruptly turned her head, caught me staring, and pointedly mimicked my gaping before sauntering off. Another impossible American, I thought, impertinent, imperious, but that didn’t make her any less beautiful.
The crowd on the deck dispersed, the sky grew
darker, and I felt the wide sea’s sweeping
blackness, menacing, and powerful. Alone on
deck I permitted myself a glance toward the
lifeboats above, hoping for a sign – an opened
flap, a groping hand – but there was nothing,
only the surrounding water’s terrifying size,
enfolding us both.
“What do you scribble in your little notebook? What you don’t dare say, I bet.” She held out her hand. “My name’s Janet Thompson.” The girl I’d seen on deck, definitely American, as I’d guessed. She had followed me after dinner, when I wandered into the empty bar. A group of other passengers lingered outside on the promenade deck.
“I watched you writing, even while you were eating in the dining room.” She sat down next to me at a round side table. “You’re not a writer, I already asked the purser.”
“Don’t listen to pursers,” I said. “They’re paid to lie.”
“He says you’re a diplomat. Your name is Roger Barnes. Shall we have a drink?”
Hilda had been fond of saying, “There simply are no coincidences, Roger.” And I had let her ramble on, disbelieving. I think differently now; we never just meet one another by chance.
“A drink? By all means,” I said, calling toward the man at the bar.
I immediately saw that the bartender, with his back to us – was in his undershirt, unshaven. His starched white bartender’s jacket hung on a hook by the mirror.
“He’s choosing to ignore us,” I said.
His name was Jules, we soon learned, a dedicated communist, as were the rest of the crew, and he was busily wiping glasses, his bored, hunched-over manner making it clear he didn’t give a damn what I wanted.
“What do you scribble in your little notebook? What you don’t dare say, I bet.” She held out her hand. “My name’s Janet Thompson.” The girl I’d seen on deck, definitely American, as I’d guessed. She had followed me after dinner, when I wandered into the empty bar. A group of other passengers lingered outside on the promenade deck.
“I watched you writing, even while you were eating in the dining room.” She sat down next to me at a round side table. “You’re not a writer, I already asked the purser.”
“Don’t listen to pursers,” I said. “They’re paid to lie.”
“He says you’re a diplomat. Your name is Roger Barnes. Shall we have a drink?”
Hilda had been fond of saying, “There simply are no coincidences, Roger.” And I had let her ramble on, disbelieving. I think differently now; we never just meet one another by chance.
“A drink? By all means,” I said, calling toward the man at the bar.
I immediately saw that the bartender, with his back to us – was in his undershirt, unshaven. His starched white bartender’s jacket hung on a hook by the mirror.
“He’s choosing to ignore us,” I said.
His name was Jules, we soon learned, a dedicated communist, as were the rest of the crew, and he was busily wiping glasses, his bored, hunched-over manner making it clear he didn’t give a damn what I wanted.
The Stowaway (Con't)