Conrad Aiken: Blue Voyage

Demarest felt himself blushing. Malvolio, still leaning his long wrists on the table, turned slow, greedy eyes toward Peggy Davis, who returned the look haughtily.

“Those two young ladies, eh!” pursued the pianist. “Seems to be a lot of young ladies on this ship!”

The bar steward smiled, gave one formal wipe at the table, and withdrew lightly.

“Why all the mystery?” inquired Peggy.

“No mystery. They sit opposite me at meals. Amusing kids — nothing but kids.”

“Oh, yes — these kids! Traveling alone, I’ll bet — under the chief steward’s protection! Ha ha!” Peggy hooted unctuously — dabbed her mouth — gleamed lasciviously.

“You seem to know all about it,” said the pianist.

“Ho! That’ll do for you. You don’t have to do it yourself to know about it.”

“No?”

“No … Say, aren’t you impertinent!..”

Looking at his opened book, Demarest wondered about the old man and the two girls. What was up? Smith had been frank about his interest in them — franker than he himself had been. He found the thought vaguely exciting. Had Smith made advances, taking advantage of the proximity of his cabin to theirs? He hoped Pauline — no … How perfectly ridiculous … Here he was, setting out three thousand miles to see Cynthia, and almost immediately allowing himself to be attracted by the small, impudent, brazen baggage of a vaudeville queen — good God, how disgusting! He flushed, thinking of it. “Off to my love with a boxing glove ten thousand miles away.” Disgusting? No. A pluralistic universe — as plural of morals as of worlds. The magnificent “thickness” of things … A bugle blew just outside the porthole. “Church!” cried Peggy, jumping up. “Don’t go!” the pianist replied holding her hand. She slapped him playfully and departed … Men began coming into the smoking room, evidently from a desire not to be seen on deck during the services. He rose, intending to go out and taste the Sabbath stillness and desertion which he knew would possess the ship at this hour, but as he rose a voice shouted, “Who plays bridge?” and he found himself automatically replying, “I do!” “What’s your name, Mr. — ?” “Demarest.” “Mr. Demarest”—the Jew waved a thick hand which hooked a cigar—“Meet Major Kendall, Mr. Hay-Lawrence and myself — Solomon Moses David Menelik Silberstein.” There was a laugh, slightly uneasy, while Silberstein placidly and heavily but with dexterous hands shuffled the cards. “I’m not one of those Jews,” he went on, “who thinks it’s a disgrace to be a Jew. And I always think it a good plan to be explicit on that point — if you’ll forgive my little idiosyncrasy, gentlemen — at the beginning of an acquaintance. It helps to avoid mistakes.”

“Hear, hear,” said Hay-Lawrence faintly, unfrowning his monocle, which fell on its black cord.

“I’ve got time for one rubber — or two fast ones … I’m glad I found this nice corner with you gentlemen,”—Silberstein pursued—“cut, please Major — because anything more like a mausoleum than the first cabin is, on this trip, I’ve never even considered possible. Thirteen passengers altogether, of whom half are octogenarians. One old man in a wheel chair sitting in the smoking room being uproariously rowdy all by himself, and half a dozen female century plants sitting as far from each other as they can in the drawing room. They look to me like Boston’s best … I perceived that if I was to live for another twenty-four hours I would have to seek life down here with you fellows … My God, the meals up there! It’s like a funeral … Your bid, Mr. Demarest … You come from New York?”

“Yes … One spade.”

“One spade he says. My partner’s going to say something — I can see it in his eye. It’s all right so long as I don’t see it in his hand … Sometimes the eye is quicker than the hand, on these boats. No reflections, gentlemen.”

“Double one spade,” said Hay-Lawrence, frowning his monocle into place.

“Now that’s a new one on me,” said the bald-headed Major, flushing. It was explained by Silberstein, and the game proceeded. The Major polished his pince-nez, endeavoring to look firm.

“Observe,” murmured Silberstein placidly, “the game in the opposite corner. Particularly observe the gent sitting with his face toward us. You notice that his left eye is glass — a little too far to starboard — the man, I mean, who strikes you as skull-faced. He was on the same ship with me two months ago. A professional card player, addicted to poker. Notice also the rabbit-faced timid little gent who sits two places to his left. Partners, though they pretend not to know each other. They never meet on deck, you’ll find, and they probably don’t eat at the same table.”

“Poker, what?” said Hay-Lawrence, grimacing as he peered over his shoulder. “I’d like to have a go at him. I’ve got a score to wipe out against poker. I had a little experience in my hotel the night before we sailed.”

Silberstein lifted a slow finger, diamonded, thickly reprehensive.

“Never play poker with strangers … Or bridge either. Not for high stakes.”

“Of course. I’m not a fool, man! In this case, I was bored and I took him on for pure love of adventure. I knew quite well he was some kind of sharper, but wanted to see how he would do it.”

“Well, how did he do it?”

“That’s the joke! I don’t know. For the life of me I couldn’t see anything wrong with it. He sauntered up to me while I was reading in the lounge, and asked if I’d like to play. I bought a pack of cards, and we went up to my room. Then we sat down and drew cold hands for a dollar a hand. In an hour and a half I’d lost a hundred dollars. Then I quit. He thanked me politely, put on his hat and departed … I watched him like a hawk — mind — and I couldn’t see a damned thing that looked wrong.”

“No. You never do. Those men are artists. They wouldn’t do it if they weren’t.”

“Three men asked me to play bridge with them on the train from Buffalo,” said the Major, blushing. “I refused at first, but then as they said they’d been unable to get a fourth anywhere, I joined them, stipulating that there should be no money in it. After three hands, they said there was no fun in it without a small stake — say fifty cents a hundred. ‘Good-by, gentlemen!’ I said and cleared out.” The Major giggled, blushing; then frowned severly, looking at his cards. Silberstein, with green eyes far apart, glanced at him casually and massively. The Frog Prince.

“The Major takes no chances,” he said. “Even in the Army, discretion is the better part of valor … How do you know, Major, that Mr. Demarest and I aren’t conspiring together to defraud you?… Consider the circumstances. We three meet, and look for a fourth … I sing out here in this crowded smoking room in my unabashed Jewish way, and out of all those present, and endowed with bridge talent, Mr. Demarest, total stranger, steps forward … Think it over! Looks sort of bad, doesn’t it?”

“You alarm me,” breathed the Major.

“And me too,” said Demarest. “What am I up against?”

“And as for the Duke of Clarence, my partner,” Silberstein placidly pursued, while he arranged his cards and Buddhalike serenely surveyed them with slow slant eyes from end to end of the firmly held fan, “just take a good look at him, gentlemen. I ask you, was there ever a more perfect specimen of the gentleman villain? One look is enough. Monocle and all. Raffles isn’t in it, nor Dracula, nor Heliogabalus. That bored Oxford manner, the hauteur —you know, those English go in for a hauteur— correct me, partner, if my French pronunciation isn’t all it should be — and the skillfully introduced little story of the hundred dollars lost to a New York con man — Well, I say no more.”