"Is that your family you're sitting with?"
He looked away, conscious of delicate ground. The band wound up their rendering of "Arrivaderci Roma" with a Latin flourish and an entirely inappropriate shout of"Ole!"; the dance-floor shifted gently but decisively under their feet; then they stood together with the half-dozen other couples, waiting to see if the band would continue. He said:
"We're a family party, sure. Mr. Wenstrom is my uncle. The girls are cousins."
"They're both very pretty," said Mrs. Stewart-Bates, watching him with close attention.
Louis gestured carelessly. "Oh, they're just kids. . . . Not my type."
The band put down their instruments, to mark the end of the current session. Louis and Mrs. Stewart-Bates remained where they were, smiling at each other. His hand was still loosely on her arm.
"Just what is your type, Mr. Scapelli?" she inquired archly.
Louis looked at her, making a conscious effort to keep out of his eyes the derisive contempt which now flooded in. Imagine making a pass like that, at her age. . . . Under the enamelled make-up and the elaborate pyramid of hair, a disgusting oldness peeped through: "falling to bits" was how Louis phrased it to himself; she must be nuts to think that any man of any age would make a bid for it. And yet that was just what he was going to do. In cards and spades.
He said: "You ought to know," and gently, very gently, squeezed her arm.
They were still sitting on the sofa an hour later, sipping their drinks, talking companionably. "You just don't know how careful I have to be," Mrs. Stewart-Bates was saying, her eyes swimming. "A woman travelling alone. . . ."
There were not more than a dozen people left in the Tapestry Bar, and Carl Wenstrom was the only one sitting up at the counter. It was eleven o'clock; according to invariable custom he was drinking brandy and soda, and smoking his last cigar before going to bed. He felt tired, but pleasantly so; the first day seemed to have gone very well, and he was sure that Diane, off to a romping start with a man he had identified as Mr. Bancroft from Chicago, would not become too heavily involved before getting the signal to go ahead. That was the understanding, and the understanding was law. . . . Now, in this leisurely hour, he would have liked to have talked to Kathy; but Kathy, when he had glanced into her cabin, had been asleep already. Instead, Carl talked, or rather listened, to Edgar the head-barman.
He had said: "A very quiet evening." It was enough to precipitate one of Edgar's celebrated monologues.
"Usual thing, sir—first night out. There's four classes of customer tonight, if you care to work it out." Edgar was polishing an ashtray, slowly and deliberately; the glass of whisky which he felt entitled to accept at this time of night was discreetly masked by an ice-bucket. "People who don't like any kind of motion—they've turned in already. People who don't mind the sea, but who've been at it since lunch-time, if you'll excuse the expression. They're mostly asleep, by now. People who don't like to drink anyway—you'd be amazed how many that is, even on a cruise like this. Even—" he coughed, having decided to size Carl up as a man of the world, "—even among Americans. That leaves people like yourself, who always have a drink at this time of the evening; you haven't got anything better to do, since there's no entertainment, and you don't have to worry about a bit of seaway. But that's not so many." He glanced round the room, figuring with an expert eye. "In fact it's eleven people exactly, which is a fair average. Of course, later on—"
The gossipy, rather self-satisfied voice continued, bridging all gaps, bruising no egos, breaking no bones. Carl recognized Edgar for what he was—a competent operator, smooth, expert, accustomed to his own way. It was a type, a useful type, a type to be enlisted, if possible, on one's own side. He decided that it would be wise to over-tip Edgar (twenty dollars? even fifty?) rather early in the voyage. People like Edgar were inquisitive, and often privately vindictive, but they had a blind spot. They could be bought; by flattery, or by money, or by both. Money was quicker and, in this particular case, more certain. It would be a worth-while expense, a small shading of the odds, to be in Edgar's good books.
During a pause, he said: "I see you've made quite a philosophical study of us. How long have you been in the Alcestis?"
"Since she was first commissioned, sir." Edgar put down the polished ashtray, picked up his glass, sipped it without seeming to move either his hands or his lips, put it back behind the ice-bucket. The series of movements were at once apologetic and determined, like a conjurer before royalty, like a hangman. This won't hurt, he seemed to be saying. And if it does, it goes with my job, doesn't it? Standing behind a bar for twelve hours on end. Of course I can have a drink. ... "I remember it like yesterday, that maiden voyage. Liverpool to Montreal, sixteenth of July, nineteen-forty-eight. If you think back to those days, sir, just after the war—"
It was a long story, posing no problems either for the listener or the non-listener; it had a beginning, a middle, and a neat ending (something to do with immigrants to Canada sleeping four in a cabin, women on one deck, men on another); it lasted over ten minutes. When it was done, and Carl had laughed appropriately, Edgar returned to duty with a graceful air of transition. Motioning towards Carl's empty glass, he asked: "Something similar, sir?"
"Thank you," answered Carl. "Just one more. Then I must really go to bed. And have one yourself, if you care to." He turned on his stool, surveying the room negligently. "I wonder," he threw over his shoulder, "if we have any card-players on board."
"Sure to, sir," answered Edgar. He poured the drinks with the minimum of movement, swabbed down the section of the counter in front of Carl, pushed forward a fresh bowl of salted almonds and olives. "In fact, sometimes you'd think that cards is all people want to know about, even on a cruise. I've had people come aboard who played bridge for three months on end, rain or shine, and never even looked out of the window, from one end of the trip to the other. Balmy, I call it. At least—" he hedged promptly and expertly, "—it seems a funny way of passing the time, with all that expensive scenery going by. But there's no accounting for tastes. Is bridge your game, sir? There'll be a notice posted about it tomorrow. You sign your name on a list on the notice-board."
"Not bridge," answered Carl. "I'm not really good enough. I prefer poker, actually."
Edgar nodded, reacting to the sophisticated word. "Wonderful game, they say, sir. I don't play myself. But I'm sure you could find some people who'd be interested."
"It's really a question," said Carl, with great deliberation, "of finding the right people." He looked straight at Edgar, man to man, frankness to frankness. "I'm sure you know what I mean. I just want a nice easy game. No—" he waved his hand, emphasizing the important point, "—no professionals."
Edgar nodded again. "Know what you mean, sir."
"If you get a chance, you might mention it."
"I'll do that, sir."
"Good." Carl looked towards the swing doors, attracted by a movement. "Ah," he said, on a new and cheerful note. "Here's some of my family."
Diane made her way towards him between the tables. She was alone and (he noted with relief) entirely well-groomed and un-dishevelled. He said as she approached: "It's long past your bed-time, my dear girl," and motioned towards the stool beside him. When she had ordered a drink, and Edgar had supplied it, Carl went on: "Where have you been all evening? If an uncle may ask?"
Diane looked at him, cynically self-possessed. Then she glanced at Edgar who, with thirty years of training behind him, had already withdrawn out of earshot to the other end of the bar. Then she said, in a voice discreetly low:
"I've been working."