Tom Bradby - The Master Of Rain

Field walked to the bow and looked dead ahead as the Martínez left the river and began to pitch heavily as they struck out for the open sea.

The wind had strengthened, whipping the spray into his face.

He closed his eyes. He held on to the rail and tasted the salt in his mouth. He could hear his father’s voice. “Whatever happens, Richard, don’t be fortune’s fool.”

He suddenly felt terribly tired.

It was another of the perfect days Field had already grown accustomed to. He sat on the cobbled edge of the quay, the sinking sun still sparkling across the still waters of the lagoon.

He kicked his heels against the wall and watched the sea lapping beneath his feet. He looked at his watch for perhaps the hundredth time.

He examined the telegram. The Aurora, it said. September 1.

The lagoon seemed to Field to be surprisingly deserted. In the distance, two or three gondolas plied their trade off St. Mark’s Square, and, beyond them, there was only the steamer that he’d spotted a few minutes ago.

He stood and walked across to the man who still leaned against the door of his office, his blue cap pushed back off his forehead and his tie and collar loose. “The Aurora ?” Field asked, pointing toward the ship in the distance.

The man shrugged and Field smiled. He offered him a cigarette. “Perhaps,” he said encouragingly, as Field lit it for him.

“A girl?” the man asked.

“Perhaps,” Field replied.

Field wandered back to the water’s edge. The liner was approaching fast, her white hull catching the sunlight as she steamed toward them.

He took his hat off, wanting to make sure that he was conspicuous, and tapped it against the side of his leg.

He did not move. He ran his fingers through his short hair, trying not to let his mind run ahead of events once again. During the long nights here, hope had been his enemy, his imagination turning over a thousand times what her reaction would be to this city, to a life of freedom.

He could see her laughing-that was how her face always appeared to him now-her hand cool in his as they walked together.

Sometimes he even thought about what he was going to do with the boy. He’d need to be educated, of course. Field wondered what his mother and Edith would make of what he’d done, and how they would take to Natasha.

They would love her, of course.

If she came.

He put his hands in his pockets.

“The Aurora, si,” the man said behind him.

“Shit,” Field whispered.

She was slowing, turning, and Field could see now that some of the passengers were gathered on deck.

He scanned their faces, trying to hold his nerves in check, but unable to see Natasha or the boy.

The Aurora came closer and closer. He found himself replacing his hat and staring down at the waters below as the ship edged toward the quay.

Field took a few paces back and waited.

He watched as the ropes were thrown down and secured, and a gangplank raised.

The passengers began to disembark, his eyes fixed upon each face. He saw no sign of her.

The last vestiges of hope drained slowly away, until there were no more faces. The passengers who had disembarked were now talking to the relatives who had greeted them, leaving the liner empty, save for the crew.

She had not come.

Field bent his head. He had known it was impossible.

He took another step back and looked up once more.

A Chinese in a dark suit and fedora stood at the top of the gangplank, his eyes upon him. He stared at Field for a long moment, then moved back.

And then Natasha was coming down toward him, Alexei behind her, holding up a small brown suitcase and waving.

The Chinese disappeared.

For a moment Field stood motionless.

A gust of wind caught his hat and sent it spinning toward the water, and he was running toward her outstretched arms.