If the lifeboat didn't turn over while they launched it, if it didn't capsize at the first wave, they might drift for days, before they were seen and picked up.
And they might never be picked up.
Well, there was no use thinking of that. She got up quickly; merely to move, to stop thinking, to do something. There was nothing to do, of course; she went to the mirror and tied her thick, red scarf around her neck. The ship lurched and she steadied herself against the washbasin. It brought her very near her own reflection in the mirror and she looked at it for a moment, with a kind of objective interest. Her face, that she had lived with nearly twenty-five years. It was very strange to think that the curious and deep association of body and spirit could snap so suddenly.
She was frightened; well, why not? All of them were frightened. She reached for lipstick automatically, pretending she wasn't afraid, and was not in the least fooled by her own pretense. How many times had she lipsticked the mouth she saw now in the mirror!
It was a good mouth, warm and sweetly curved. It was a good face, as a matter of fact, very tanned, so her blue eyes with her black heavy lashes looked intensely blue—as blue as the Mediterranean whose sun had provided the tan. Her hair was black, smoothly drawn to a chignon at the back of her neck; she wore a snug, black beret. She didn't look frightened; she looked puzzled, the black slender arches of her eyebrows drawn together.
Daisy Belle was watching her, understanding. Marcia turned and caught her clear, hard gaze. Daisy Belle said: "Seems queer, doesn't it? In another hour this face, this hand . . ." She smoked and said with a little shrug: "My face isn't much to part with, but I've always been proud of my legs."
Gili gave a faint scream. Daisy Belle added practically: "All the same, you'd better get your coat on, Marcia. We're not dead yet."
Marcia lurched to the bunk and put on her fur coat. She caught a glimpse of the labeclass="underline" Revillon Freres, London, Paris, New York. How queer it was to see that label, proclaiming the incredible existence of another world, incredibly remote. She remembered when she'd bought that coat. It was a crisp fall day in Paris, and she had met Mickey later in the cocktail room of the George the Fifth. They'd gone for a walk in the Bois de Boulogne with the trees a hazy pinkish bronze, and he'd bought her violets. The Maginot Line was still standing, and outwardly Paris was unchanged. By the time the next fall came around the Germans were in Paris and Mickey was in a concentration camp and she was in the cold little villa near Marseilles.
Mickey suddenly opened the door and, as he did so, the ship plunged down, down into the trough of a wave again and nobody spoke, nobody moved until that terrible shuddering and groaning and straining ceased. Sluggishly, as if with a great effort, the ship began to climb another wave. Mickey said loudly and roughly above the tumult: "Are you ready?"
She felt a sudden surge of pity for him, he looked so white. It was so wrong, so very pitiable that all his enormous, stubborn struggle just for life should have come at last to this. He had looked like that the day, almost a month ago now, that he'd come to her in Marseilles, stumbling, white and hungry, wearing a hunted look as if the Nazis were still after him. They weren't, of course; he'd escaped and now the Americans were in Marseilles and the war was over, but Mickey couldn't comprehend it physically. He knew it in his mind, but his tortured, starved, sensitive body still cringed. Even in Lisbon he would not believe in his own safety; he still walked close to buildings, in their shadow, listening nervously behind him; he hated lighted places and people; he slunk along, his blond head bent and his shoulders slumped and his eyes darting quick, surreptitious glances this way and that. It had made her heart ache to contrast this present war-scarred Mickey with the Mickey she had once known—who walked so confidently, head up, shoulders back, smiling and easy upon a concert stage; who bent so effortlessly and yet so full of power over the keyboard. And his hands! She couldn't even now bear to think of his hands, those beautiful, strong, square-fingered musician's hands, now so scarred and mangled.
She went to him, staggering as the ship staggered. Gili slid down from the upper bunk and lurched toward Mickey and seized his lapels in her strong hands. "Mickey, Mickey," she cried. "This is horrible. I don't want to leave the ship. I'm afraid."
It was queer how alert, how receptive to small impressions your mind could be in a moment of danger. Marcia thought swiftly that Mickey had learned patience; he had been patient, even kind, with Gili, ever since she had joined their small party. Luther and Daisy Belle Cates, herself and Mickey, Gili—all trying to get away from Europe, joining forces in Lisbon because they drifted together, because they got passage together on this small, dirty cargo boat, which was now going down.
Mickey said, patiently, looking down at Gili: "We've got to leave the ship. The Captain says she's going down. Come on . . ."
Daisy Belle put out her cigar as carefully as if she intended to return. "Where is Luther?"
"He's on deck. Hurry."
"I hope he's wrapped himself up. He catches such frightful colds. He's had pneumonia twice. And with his heart ... I hope he's wrapped himself up."
That was fantastic too; as fantastic as the thought that she, Marcia Colfax, stood a very excellent chance of ceasing to exist in another hour or so.
"Hurry," said Mickey. "They're waiting. . . ."
"I won't go," screamed Gili suddenly. "I won't go. . . ."
There were sounds from the passageway beyond Mickey; somebody ran past, shouting something in Portuguese. Mickey dragged Gili's clutching hands away and shouted above the tumult: "Come on—I tell you they're waiting. . . ."
So this was what it was to abandon ship; something you never thought to find yourself doing. The passageways were no different; just as narrow and dark and smelling as strongly of stale cooking as they'd been all along. Presently this very linoleum her feet were treading upon would be at the bottom of the Atlantic, there to rot forever. These steps, this ladder—Marcia followed Mickey, and Gili followed her, and Daisy Belle, who must be feeling much the sense of unreality that Marcia felt, came last. They got on deck, and wind and spray and darkness flung themselves upon their faces so they leaned against the nearest bulkhead. Mickey shouted: "Keep together. ..."
There was no sign of the ship's Captain. There was tumult, voices shouting all around them, but Marcia could distinguish no words. The lights were thin, diffused, so running, moving figures were blurs of blackness. She felt Mickey's hand and reached backward vaguely for Daisy Belle, but Luther came out of the chaos, his thin, bony face vaguely white. "Where's Daisy Belle?" he shouted. Marcia tried to tell him she was near. There was a rattle and clatter as of chains and something bumped hard against the ship; there was a loud kind of shriek and scream of metal somewhere near. Daisy Belle's voice rose shrilly, telling Luther not to leave her. Then seamen were lifting Marcia through the furious darkness and chaos and clamor of storm and night and wind. She could feel their arms and swift motions and could barely see their faces. Suddenly she was in the lifeboat.
She moved over on the seat; Daisy Belle was beside her. Others, dim shapes, with blurred white faces were in the boat too. Two of them, seamen apparently, were shouting at each other in Portuguese; she could not understand a word and their voices were rough with terror and angry sounding; there was some difficulty in lowering the boat, for there were loud and peremptory shouts from above and from the boat. They were waiting, of course, for a good moment to lower. What could be a good moment in a storm like that!
Perhaps it wasn't such a bad storm; perhaps it was merely the unseaworthiness of the little ship. Daisy Belle said grimly yet breathlessly: "I keep thinking of the Titanic. Luther's father was on her, you know."