Part 11 (2/2)
”The muse is a fickle lady. Sometimes she's not so cooperative. Right now, she's downright ornery, I'd say.”
”What is it you're trying to say, sir?”
I turned and looked at him. This had gone well beyond the idle banter between servant and (I hated to use the word) master. He seemed genuinely interested. So, I told him about what I had in mind: combining interviews with my own perspective. And I had to hand it to him, he listened, unlike most people. When I was finished, he handed me the plate and offered his opinion in a straightforward, no-nonsense manner.
”If I were you, sir, I would stay the course you're on. It's a sound idea. After the voyage is over, I'm sure the public will be clamoring to know more....” He replaced the covers on the platters of food. ”What are you calling the book, if I may be so bold?”
I hesitated a moment, unsure if I wanted to voice it at this point. Call me superst.i.tious, or whatever, but I liked to keep the t.i.tles of my books secret until the last possible moment. However, for some unfathomable reason, I decided to reveal it. Perhaps it was Henry's unflappable nature that prompted me, or maybe I just plain trusted him.
”t.i.tanic 2012,” I replied, a little self-conscious.
The older man nodded, rolling it around in his mind. ”Very good, sir. Quite commercial.”
”Thank you, Henry, I'm glad you think so. And you've been a great help, by the way.”
”You're quite welcome, sir,” he said.
All of a sudden, my stomach growled and I realized I was ravenous. I attacked the plate of food with gusto, relis.h.i.+ng every bite. By drawing me out, Henry had known I would be hungry and had gone about fixing up my plate all the while he was a.s.suaging my doubts. Julia could learn a thing or two from such a man.
And then another thought hit me. ”Henry? What about you? I'll bet you have a lot of interesting stories to tell.”
He'd been making my bed and straightened up when I proposed making him a part of the book.
”That would be quite impossible, sir. One never speaks of one's employers.”
”Oh, I didn't mean that. I meant your life in general.”
”Exactly, sir,” he said with a bow.
Chastened, I resumed eating, not knowing quite what to make of what he'd just said. To have immersed oneself so totally into one's profession that one became it was an astounding concept. And perhaps a little sad in Henry's case.
Then again, all I had to do was look in the mirror. What was I, if not a writer? It was not simply what I did; it was a vital part of me. As much as I might want to see further into this elegant, enigmatic man, he'd erected an impenetrable barrier, one I had to respect.
Henry tidied up the stateroom and left with the breakfast dishes twenty minutes later, at least I thought it was twenty minutes. His insightful advice had given me back my confidence, and I a.s.saulted the keyboard with abandon. An hour later, I had the first drafts of both the introduction and the first chapter completed.
Feeling a sense of satisfaction I hadn't felt since coming aboard t.i.tanic, I closed up my laptop, grabbed my iPod touch, camera gla.s.ses, and my windbreaker and left the suite. It was time to find another subject to interview.
The day was mild for the Irish Sea at that time of year, the warmth of the sun bringing out throngs of my fellow travelers, who strolled the deck or lounged on the wooden deck chairs, their noses buried in the latest best sellers. I even noticed one fellow reading a paperback edition of my last Conrad Holm novel.
Seeing them raised my spirits, even as I noticed yet one more odd thing about the voyage: there were no children aboard. Ages ranged from the elderly to those in their mid-teens. And the lack of couples I'd observed earlier still seemed to be the case. Oh, there were those who looked as if they were paired off, but they exuded none of the intense vibrations one got from those pa.s.sionately in love.
These thoughts compelled me to search for Maddy, but the crowds were too thick. On impulse, I tried the bow in the hopes she would again be there, spreading her arms to the sun; however, this time, my intuition failed me.
Instead, I spotted a teenaged girl and boy acting out that famous scene. I smiled, a deep longing filling me. Perhaps I was wrong about there being no couples on board, at least I hoped I was. Not only for them, but for me, as well.
I found my next subject standing on the Boat deck gazing out over the ocean, her expression serene. She appeared to be in her early forties, dressed in an expensive pant suit, with dark brown hair and a pleasant girl-next-door face. She looked exceedingly average, which is what attracted me to her.
”Excuse me, but do you mind if I ask you some questions?”
She turned to me, her brows furrowed in puzzlement. ”Oh, I'm sorry, what did you say? I was daydreaming. I do far too much of that these days.” She smiled, and I found myself liking her at once.
”I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bother you, but I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions for a book I'm doing about the voyage.”
”Really? I guess that would be okay. But you're going to be bored, I a.s.sure you, Mr....”
”Forgive me,” I said, pulling out my iPod touch. ”I'm Trevor Hughes.”
She stuck out her hand. ”Jenny Powell. Do you want to do it here, or do we need to go somewhere else?”
I pointed to one of the wood-and-cast-iron benches a few feet away. ”How about over there?”
”That's fine. I can still see the ocean that way. I never get tired of looking at it. Do you, Mr. Hughes?”
I took a seat on the bench and placed the recorder between us.
”Call me, Trevor,” I said. ”And, no, I never do....”
10.
Interview with Jenny Powell Location: Boat Deck ”What should I say?”
”Anything you want; mostly I'd like to know why you wanted to sail on the t.i.tanic.”
She nodded, looking down at her hands for a long moment then she raised her eyes to me. ”My name's Jenny, I'm forty-two years old, I was married once for five months, was truly in love only once, and I work in the main branch of a major bank in New York.
”I guess you could say my life was pretty boring- didn't I say that before? Anyway, I was raised in the Midwest, had four brothers and three sisters, who were always fighting with each other, and parents more concerned with being righteous than with loving us.
”They were Jehovah's Witnesses, and half our lives were spent on the road handing out tracts printed on cheap paper with ink that rubbed off on your hands. That's the thing I remember the most about my childhood. Hands with black fingers...and slamming doors.
”As soon as I was old enough, I moved away. I even changed my name, did it legal and proper, because I wanted nothing from them, not even their name. I wanted a fresh start.”
”How old were you?” I asked.
”Eighteen. And as wet behind the ears as one could be at that age. But I'd saved enough money over the years from summer jobs to rent a cheap studio apartment in San Francisco. I had aspirations. I wanted to be an artist. The problem was I had more romantic notions than talent, and ended up squandering what cash I had. And because I didn't finish school no one would hire me.”
”What did you do?”
She shook her head sadly. ”What a lot of girls do: I got married as fast as I could. Paulo was a young art student whose rich father subsidized him. He was dark and handsome, and somewhat charming when he wasn't drinking White Russians. He thought that was an artist's drink.
”We met in a little coffee house in the Haight where they hung his canva.s.ses and read bad poetry out loud. One thing I had to admit, though, he could really paint.”
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