Part 8 (1/2)
”Oh, G.o.d, I just had this image of a long line and someone selling tickets, hah!”
I laughed, too, the image even sillier than the one I'd conjured.
”Well, you really made a beautiful picture up there. You looked just like her-like Kate Winslet.”
She studied me a moment, as if trying to determine whether I was really serious, or simply being flirtatious. Then she grinned.
”Wasn't she lovely at the christening?”
”You were there?” I said, surprised.
She nodded. ”I felt like her, just now. For a brief moment I felt as light as the air, as if I could actually take off and soar....” She spun in place, her dress billowing out, laughing again. ”It was so wonderfully...transcendent. Do you believe in transcendence?”
My expression must have been comical, for she laughed again. ”I guess you're one of those cynical old stick-in-the-muds, hmmm?”
”I don't know about being a stick-in-the-mud, but cynical is just about right.”
”That's too bad, cynics miss out on so much.”
”I disagree, I don't think we've missed anything. The problem is we've seen too much. Besides, don't you know all cynics are failed romantics?”
”Is that what you are, a failed romantic? No one waiting at home?”
”No, afraid not,” I said, a wave of sadness stealing over me. ”She and I-We didn't see things the same way.”
She covered her mouth in embarra.s.sment. ”Oh, G.o.d, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to stir anything up for you.”
”You didn't. I'm fine; I'm dealing with it.”
”That may be, but I shouldn't be so blunt. It seems I'm always just saying whatever comes into my silly head. And here I am asking these personal questions, and I don't even know your name.” She giggled.
I smiled.
”Believe me, I'm enjoying every moment. It's refres.h.i.+ng. I'm Trevor Hughes, by the way.”
”Madeleine Regehr, but please...call me, Maddy.”
She stuck out her hand, and I took it, surprised by the firmness of her grip. With most women shaking hands felt as if one were grasping a limp rag. It was that firm grip and the frank intelligence behind her eyes that caused me to be more forward than I normally would have been.
”I know this is going to sound a little strange, but would you mind if I interviewed you? I'm writing a book.”
Her eyes widened. ”Now, I know who you are! You seemed so familiar, and your name, too. I just couldn't put it together until now. You're the mystery writer Mr. Astor told us about. I'm really honored to meet you.”
I felt my face flush. ”Now, you're embarra.s.sing me.”
Her expression became sly. ”Something I'm very good at, I'm afraid.”
”About the interview....”
She shook her head, emphatic. ”I'm sorry, but I don't want to be a part of your experiment.”
”I really wouldn't call it that. I just want to know why you wanted to come on this voyage. It's something I'm asking everyone.”
”I would think the answer was obvious,” she said, nodding toward her perch on the bow.
”Sure, but I think, for most people, it goes a lot deeper than the film. At least it has for the Captain.”
”So, you've already talked to him?” she asked, curiosity evident in the gentle arch of her brow.
”And it was fairly painless.”
”For him, or for you?”
I held up my hands. ”If you don't want to talk to me, that's fine. I have no problem with that.”
”I absolutely do want to talk to you. I just would rather we do it as friends...not as something so...remote.”
”All right, ” I said, suddenly s.h.i.+vering from the chill wind that had sprung up. ”But how about we go inside. It's getting cold and I'd like to take a walk through the s.h.i.+p. I've been so busy, I haven't had a moment, until now.”
That sly look was back on her face. ”I've been through it twice already. How about I give you the ten-cent tour?”
”Deal.”
Grabbing me by the hand, she led me up the stairs to the boat deck, where we took a quick peek into the gymnasium. The quaint-looking rowing machines and stationary bikes were a far cry from the modern machines I was used to seeing. They looked dangerous. From there we descended to the p.o.o.p deck, the aftermost part of the s.h.i.+p, pa.s.sing several large groups of other pa.s.sengers who looked equally enthralled with exploring the vessel.
At the stern, we spent a few minutes staring over the railing at the wake created by the s.h.i.+p's triple screws, then made our way forward. She must have read my mind, for we headed next to the First Cla.s.s Dining Saloon. Stewards puttered about, busily setting the tables for the evening meal with fresh starched linen, hand-painted china and the sterling flatware stamped with the White Star emblem. From there, we made our way through the reception room to the Grand Staircase. I ran my hand down the polished oak handrail, marveling at its silky gloss, the wrought-iron bal.u.s.ters with their gold accents taking my breath away. In my mind's eye, I watched Kate Winslet descending, resplendent in her gown, her eyes locked with Leonardo DiCaprio's, who waited at the bottom like a young Adonis.
Maddy and I took the stairs down to E-deck and then down into the bowels of the s.h.i.+p, stopping to explore the hold. Holding hands, we threaded our way through tons of crates piled to the ceiling.
”It's all fake, you know,” Maddy said. ”Engine rooms are this way.”
She nodded toward a door at the far end.
”Why?”
”Don't you want to see the engines?”
”No, no,” I said, shaking my head. ”Why is the cargo fake?”
Maddy gave me a strange look, then shrugged. ”I guess your friend didn't want an empty room. Come on, slowpoke, let's go.”
She took off ahead, and I had to speed up to a trot to keep up. She chattered on about the marvels of the s.h.i.+p's engines, but my mind still turned on her comment about the cargo. It bothered me. And while I could appreciate Harlan's single-minded desire for authenticity, I found this last detail stretched what bounds were left of credibility. Fake cargo? It didn't fit. So, I made a mental note to ask Harlan about it later.
The reciprocating engine room, one of the largest open areas on the s.h.i.+p, was a marvel of cyclopean engineering. Monstrous pistons shot up and down, turning on camshafts the diameter of sewer pipes.
Crewmen known as ”greasers” and ”oilers”, tended the colossal machinery, making sure everything remained well-lubricated and ran smoothly, all under the watchful eyes of the Engine Room Officers standing stiffly by the bra.s.s commutators.
As for the boiler rooms, they took me completely by surprise. Instead of the anterooms to h.e.l.l I'd expected, they were almost antiseptic. And eerily deserted. No sweat-drenched men shoveling coal into fiery maws, only silent pipes leading directly into the burners.
”Isn't it marvelous?” Maddy shouted. ”It's all oil-fueled.”