The Diplomat's Wife(36)
Outside, I stop. Twenty meters in front of me sits a row of six ships, each larger than the last. As I catch sight of the green-gray water behind the ships, I gasp. Growing up in southern Poland, hundreds of miles from the coast, I had only played by lakes and streams. I almost saw the ocean once during the war, when I had traveled to Gdansk with Jacob to obtain ammunition from a Danish contact. But it was nighttime, and though we met by the docks, I could not see the ocean, only hear the faint echo of the waves against the shore. Now sunlight sparkles on the water, which flows endlessly to the horizon.
Forcing my eyes from the ocean, I follow the other travelers down the dock to the third ship. I hesitate. Dava and Jacob had both mentioned taking a ferry across the Channel. But this looks like an ocean liner, its base stretching several hundred meters into the sea. There are three decks, each slightly smaller than the last, stacked like a wedding cake.
A horn sounds loud and low. I walk forward with the others toward the ramp that leads onto the ship. Then, at the base of the ramp, I stop again, losing my nerve. Crowds of passengers push past me, eager to board. I shiver. Why am I doing this? It would be so much easier to turn around, go back to Paris and wait with Paul until he is discharged. Stubbornness rises up in me. I have to go to London. For Rose. Suddenly it is as if she is standing beside me. “Come on,” I can hear her say, as she slips her delicate hand into mine. I take a deep breath and start up the ramp.
At the top, I give my ticket to the purser, who stamps it and hands it back to me. I take a step forward, pausing to get my bearings. Straight ahead, the deck is crowded, mostly with rough-looking men, laborers. Spotting the family that had been in front of me in line standing by the far railing, I start toward them. “Ma’am,” the purser calls in English. I turn back, wondering if I have done something wrong. He points left to a staircase that winds upward. “Your ticket is for first class. Two decks up.”
“But…” I look down at the ticket. Dava could only have afforded a basic fare and she is too practical to have spent Rose’s money on anything more. Paul, I think. He must have bought me a more expensive ticket when he changed the reservation. A warm feeling floods through me. “Th-thank you.”
I climb one staircase, then another, finally reaching the top deck. It is a different world from the crowded galley below. The light wood promenade is open and spacious. A building with large glass windows occupies the center of the deck; inside, I can make out several tables and chairs. Passengers in fine linen dresses and suits sit in the chaise longues or stand in small groups around the perimeter of the deck, sipping cocktails and talking, shielded by parasols from the bright sun. I feel eyes upon me, taking in my coarse dress and thick, secondhand shoes. My face reddens. I don’t belong here. I walk quickly away from the other passengers toward the front of the deck.
Underneath my feet, I feel the ship begin to move. My stomach jumps. I am going to England. A few days ago, that would have meant everything to me. And I am still glad to be able to fulfill my promise to Dava and take the sad news to Rose’s aunt. But now the trip means leaving Paul, too. It is only for a few weeks, I remind myself. But an uneasy sadness overcomes me as I look back over my shoulder at the shore.
Look forward, I think, remembering Dava’s words. I force myself to turn away and keep walking toward the front of the ship. I am relieved to find that the deck is deserted here, perhaps owing to the lack of chairs or the strong breeze that blows off the bow. I stare out at the ocean, captivated. The water has grown choppier now, the green surface broken by hundreds of whitecaps. Seagulls dive to the water, trying to feed, then soar toward the sky once more.
The ship rolls suddenly, then dips to the right. Caught off guard, I stumble. My hands slam against the deck, breaking my fall. “Easy there,” a male voice above me says in English. A hand grasps my elbow, helping me to my feet. “Are you all right?”
I straighten, my palms smarting from the blow. Standing in front of me is the light-haired man I noticed in the other ticket line. The orange drink he is holding has splashed across his hand and a single spot stains the fine seersucker fabric of his jacket. But he does not seem to notice. His thin lips are puckered with concern. “I’m fine,” I reply, brushing off the front of my skirt.
“Didn’t want to see you go pitching over the edge,” he adds, his hand on my elbow.
“Thank you.” I pull back slowly, not wanting to appear rude. Up close, I can see that he is not more than about thirty, though his thin, side-combed hair and trim mustache give him an older look. He is nearly as tall as Paul, but slender, with a delicate frame matching his fine, almost feminine features.
“My pleasure.” He extends his hand. “Simon Gold.”
“Marta Nedermann.” Should I have introduced myself as Rose? I wonder, too late, as I shake his hand.
The small, even teeth appear once more as he smiles. “Charmed.” He holds my hand for several seconds, his fingers cool and moist. The boat lurches again and I pull back to grab the deck rail. Simon shifts his weight easily with the boat’s movement. “The Channel is a bit rough today. You just need to get your sea legs.”
I tilt my head. “Sea legs?”
He nods, holding his arms out perpendicular to his sides and leaning from one side to the other. “You know, balance.”
“Balance,” I repeat slowly. “I’m sorry, I’ve only recently learned English.”