‘The anniversary of Alfred Nobel’s death,’ Emily answered.
‘I am glad somebody in this family reads history.’ He shivered. ‘Brr. Cold. Will you join me in a drink?’
‘We-ll-’ She considered, and then decided that she could have another if Mark came. ‘Yes Schnapps.’
‘Schnapps? I see you are really going the Swedish way. Do you know what it is made of?’
‘Yes, alcohol and alcohol-flavoured with caraway. Two schnapps and they bury you at sea.’
‘If my niece can have it, I can, too.’ He waved until he caught the eye of the deck steward, and then he called out his order.
When the drinks were served, Emily drank hers not in a gulp, but gradually, to nurse it. Stratman studied his own glass with a feeling of misconduct. He had seen Dr. Fred Ilman several times before the trip, and Dr. Ilman had been flatly against it. Too much commotion, he had warned, too many people, too much exertion and food and drink. Stratman had explained that a condition for receiving the Nobel money was that you picked it up in person. Dr. Ilman had pointed out that several persons, notably John Galsworthy and André Gide, had got their prize money without travelling to Stockholm, because they were ill. Nevertheless, Stratman had been insistent. For several reasons, he had not wished his heart condition thus made public. News of it would disturb Emily, in a way that might be dangerous. She had suffered enough insecurity without this. Furthermore, the Society for Basic Research might become alarmed, and severely curtail his allotments and assignments. He did not want to be restricted when there was so much to be done. And so, on his honour, he had promised Dr. Ilman that he would behave-no agitations, no galloping about, no drinks.
He lifted his glass. ‘Skål,’ he said.
‘Half skål,’ Emily replied indicating that her own glass was now only partially filled.
They drank, then sat quietly, as they so often did, lulled by the gentle roll and pitch of the ship. Watching Emily in repose, he was pleased with the accomplishments of the sea change. A recluse, she had desired it and feared it, he knew. But somewhere, and at some time, between their arrival at Pier 97 on the North River in New York on the morning of November 24 and their entrance into their adjacent bedrooms on B Deck, Emily had seemed to make some sort of resolution about herself.
Cupping the schnapps in his hand, he wondered how she had worded the resolution to herself. He had never tried to find out, never sought to intrude upon her private world, but in nine days at sea, he had observed how she had implemented her decision. Ever since he had rescued her, his brother’s only child, from Buchenwald at the end of the war, she had remained distant from healthy, normal men. He could not recollect a single exception. By his side, she would attempt to be civil with a man, or more often, men in groups, but never once had he known her to be alone with a member of the opposite sex. Knowing the source of her abnormality, Stratman had never tried to correct it. If this defect was to be overcome, Emily would have to overcome it herself. On this Swedish ship, apparently, she had tried to do just that.
From the first night, she had, with effort, refused to confine herself to her cabin. She had been determined to be as social as any of the other 950 passengers. Every morning, she had participated in the ship’s sweepstakes. Every afternoon, she had answered the bugle call to horse-racing on the deck, and six times had held winning numbers. Every dinner, she had sat at the Captain’s right, to his enchantment, and had the white wine and the red wine and shared the wonders of the portable smorgåsbord. Every evening, she had played bingo in the music room or attended the movie in the dining-room. Every night, she had joined others in after-dinner coffee on the deck and again, later, at eleven o’clock, for the inevitable smorgåsbord.
With enforced gaiety, no less enjoyed, she had celebrated with ship’s companions the passing of Cape Sable Island on the third day, the sight of Cape Race, Newfoundland, on the fourth morning, the view of the Orkney Islands and Scotland on the eighth day, and this morning she had enjoyed the outlines of Norway with friends.
For the most, Stratman had observed, his pride and relief mingled with worry, the friends she had made were young men near her own age, early thirties, or somewhat older, early forties. She was nervous with them. She was reserved with them. Yet, bravely, unaccustomed as she was to this stimulation, she stood her ground with them. Not unexpectedly, the males on board pressed her hard for privacy. Her lovely face, with its Far Eastern cast, her fleshy, abundant, tapering breasts beneath tight sweaters, her curved hips, wrought fantasies among the eligible males. Her virginity, although she could not know this, had been widely discussed. Her retiring and shy manner, the being in the crowd but not a part of it, influenced the male consensus strongly. The consensus had been almost unanimous: virgin. And so, her appeal had been greater than ever.
Stratman was proud of his niece’s achievement. It might rightly be called, he thought, her coming-out party. He was the ship’s celebrity, but she was the ship’s success. Perhaps, he thought, from this time on, it will be different.
Now, across the table from her, he sipped his drink, and enjoyed her sweet profile, and decided that Walther and Rebecca would have been gladdened. She was staring out to sea, at the whitecaps and the mist, and he wondered what she was thinking.
Emily’s thoughts, this second, were not far removed from her uncle’s musings. She too, had been reviewing her nine days aboard the ship. She was not displeased with the results of her effort to attain some degree of normality. At the same time, she was not entirely satisfied, either.
Her resolution had been to prove to herself, and to anyone, that she was a woman like any other woman alive, a paid-up member of her sex, as normal and as female as her contemporaries. She had succeeded partially, but not wholly, and this was her only source of dissatisfaction. This was why she had come on the deck at this hour, when most of the others were resting or dressing. She wanted to be alone with a man who wanted to be alone with her. To what exact purpose, she did not know. But somehow, the accomplishment would be a mighty one. And again, her mind turned to Mark Claborn.
She had met him, or rather been aware of him, for the first time on the first afternoon at lifeboat drill. Tardy, she had arrived after the opening few minutes of instructions. As she squeezed into line, she tried to adjust her cork jacket properly but became impossibly entangled. The dark young man beside her had laughingly lent a hand, and soon she was prepared against disaster. Only when the drill had ended, and she had seen him walk off, had she realized that he was handsome.
Thereafter, she was frequently aware of him, sometimes playing table tennis or shuffleboard with other young men, sometimes strolling with Swedish and Danish girls, and twice he had nodded to her with courteous indifference. Of the lot aboard, she had decided, he was easily the most attractive. He was of medium height, wavy hair as black as her own, straight features on a square face, with prominent jaw and muscular neck. His shoulders and chest were athletic, narrowing to flat hips. He was given to wearing expensive casual sport shirts and sweaters, with his denim trousers.
She wondered if they would meet, and on the fifth day, they did. She was seated on the deck beside the green horse-racing mat, clutching her tickets, watching the two women passengers shake the dice, one for the number of the wooden horse, the other for the number of moves. Someone gripped the empty chair beside her, and then pulled it into line and sat down.
‘Do you mind?’ It was he.
She automatically tensed, as she always did, and was less cordial than she had intended. ‘Public grandstand,’ she said, indicating the other passengers.
‘I’m Mark Claborn,’ he said. ‘Attorney-at-law. Chicago.’
‘How nice.’