David Oldman - Dusk at Dawn

Korbelov dismissed the idea with a flick of the hand.

‘False accusations based on forged documents. More of Kerensky’s bourgeois propaganda.’

The ship chose that moment to slide alarmingly into a trough, propelling the dishes on the table towards Paul’s side. He grabbed as many as he could to stop them falling into his lap. The rest crashed to the floor. The faces around the table visibly whitened. Even Valentine adopted an attitude of grim immobility. Mrs Hogarth gripped the edge of the table as if she expected to find it on top of her at any moment. Ragna Andresen, by contrast, had taken the sudden lurch from the perpendicular in her stride and was looking through the window of the dining room at the mountain of water climbing on the starboard side of the ship with an expression of studied nonchalance. For a second or two all motion ceased. The steamer held her list as if caught in two minds: whether to right herself or continue to roll over. Then she slowly began the long roll back towards equilibrium. They began to breath again. Paul glanced at the first officer who looked unperturbed, having firmly gathered his dish in his left hand and was using his right to finish his pudding.

‘Maybe we will have a gale,’ Captain Nordvik observed phlegmatically. He nodded at the first officer who stood and made his excuses in halting English before leaving.

‘Care must be taken on deck,’ Nordvik told them. ‘Even in summer the water is cold and a man overboard will not survive long. Even if he is fortunate enough to be found.’

It seemed to Paul that there was not a lot of fortune in being found if that was the case. He felt compelled to offer a remark to that effect until he had a sudden vision of his father floating in the waters of Tsushima.

In the excitement of the moment the dispute concerning the German government allowing Lenin to cross their country to reach Russia seemed to have been forgotten. Turner having disposed of the broken crockery served coffee. Conversation began again, fragmented like the broken dishes. Pinker once again began pressing Mrs Hogarth about the geography of Schleswig-Holstein and Valentine asked the captain if they were still likely to reach Copenhagen on schedule. Nordvik shrugged economically in the Scandinavian way and told him it would depend upon how bad the weather might be. Pater attempted to engage Ragna Andresen in conversation over religious observance but she seemed as impervious to any form of observance as she had been to the Latin grace and answered him, where a shake of the head would not suffice, in monosyllables that Paul could hardly catch.

Paul observed her surreptitiously. Her countenance had not altered in the face of danger — real or perceived. She was either remarkably cool, he decided, or remarkably unimaginative. Even the captain’s observation that a man overboard would not last long in these waters had made no impression. It made him wonder if, despite the intelligent light in her eyes, she was not very bright at all and had taken Nordvik’s statement to apply only to men. Perhaps she thought that survival in cold water didn’t signify in the case of women; that while a man would sink a female might sit daintily on the surface waiting for the circling boat to pick her up again.

Caught up in the picture this engendered, Paul forgot he was looking at her and when she glanced his way she noticed that he was staring at her. Flustered, he smiled. To his surprise, she smiled back. Then she turned towards the Reverend Pater as if to make sure he had noticed the fact.

A few moments later Mrs Hogarth said, ‘Come Ragna,’ and rose from the table. The Captain, too, stood and excused himself, leaving Pinker apparently engaged in trying to sell Korbelov and Solokov a pair of boots each. Paul followed the Captain, threw a meaningful look at Valentine and announced that he might take a stroll around the deck. As he passed Pater, hunched in his chair, Paul heard the reverend in muttered communication with his God once again. Having already thanked Him for what they were about to receive, Paul — working with his tongue at a somewhat durable sliver of beef lodged between his teeth — hoped that the reverend, whilst in touch, might find the time to request an improvement in the menu.

On deck Paul took up a station by the rail where he could see the saloon door through which Valentine would have to emerge. Ten minutes later, though, he was still waiting. When the door finally did open it was Pater who stepped out. Looking rejuvenated from his tête-à-tête with his maker, the parson spotted Paul lurking amid the superstructure and started towards him with the air of a man with something to say.

Paul assuming that whatever it might be, it would bear a religious aspect, wasn’t interested. The Red Room in Petersburg had early cured him of any attachment to faith, holding connotations for him of corporal punishment rather than spiritual grace. The few vestiges of belief that had remained, clinging to his intellect more in the manner of a stubborn stain than unconscious certainty, had vanished in the shell-hole. Paradoxically, he had thought later lying in hospital and counter to the old saying that there were no atheists in foxholes, that is precisely what there had been. Jacobs — atheist, Marxist and all-round sceptic — had been in the hole alongside Paul, and had died. Paul had not and supposed the godly would have seen this as some sort of divine intervention. Although to Paul’s way of thinking, and obviously to Jacobs’, praying wouldn’t have made any difference. Paul hadn’t prayed and had lived. The whole episodes had nuances which, at another time, he might have liked to talk over with Pater. But not now. It was straight answers from Valentine he wanted now, not some oracular mumbo-jumbo courtesy of a Delphic intermediary like Pater.

Nodding curtly at the reverend, he walked off smartly in the opposite direction.

Rounding the stern of the steamer to avoid Pater, Paul walked along the starboard side toward the bow. As he neared the front of the ship he saw a figure at the rail, swathed in a dark coat and staring into the sea. It was Ragna Andresen and something about the way she stood at the rail alone made him stop rather than approach her.

The sea had risen, the swell running from the north-east with heavy grey cloud thickening before a stiff wind. Ragna Andresen was staring straight ahead, motionless. As it began to rain she turned her face to the sky, holding it briefly to the worsening weather before turning away towards the bow and the port side of the vessel.

Paul waited for few moments and was about to follow when a hand shot out from between the lifeboats and grabbed his arm. He yelped in surprise.

‘Quiet,’ Valentine hissed. ‘Get in here where we can’t be seen.’

Rough canvas sheeting scraped against Paul’s face as he was yanked into a gap between the boats.

‘I’ve been waiting for you.’ Valentine said.

‘That’s a coincidence,’ Paul replied, touching his fingers to his grazed cheek, ‘I was waiting for you back in my room after you disappeared with my money.’

‘Keep your voice down,’ Valentine warned. ‘The others might be around.’

‘What others?’

‘The Andresen girl was standing at the rail.’

‘She’s gone,’ Paul said.

‘We have to be careful. What was she doing? Was she behaving suspiciously?’

‘Miss Andresen? Are you mad? She was looking at the sea. As far as I’m concerned, you’re the only suspicious person on board this ship, Valentine. Or Darling, if that’s your name. Or should I call you Hart?’

Valentine peeked out between the lifeboats.

‘I didn’t want to alert you before you got on board, so I kept my distance.’