All of this he discovered when he entered the dining room ten minutes ago. He took a quick glance inside the pantry and then muttered an apology. Wilhelm Balla was inside folding napkins, and it was easy enough to convince the steward he was lost. More than anything Balla appeared relieved that he didn’t have to come collect the drunkard. The American decided to let the sour-faced steward’s opinion of him remain exactly as it stands. He wants to be dismissed. To be underestimated. At least for now.
Slowly the American is getting his bearings inside the airship. There isn’t much territory to cover in the public areas—he will get to the off-limits sections later—but there are a number of players within those areas, and he has yet to put them into the appropriate slots. Ally. Threat. Hindrance. Unnecessary. There are so many options. This evening’s dinner should help quite a bit with that. Or it will help with sorting out the passengers, at least. Nothing reveals a man’s true character like the way he behaves when being served a meal. And the vantage point he has chosen will make this task easy enough. His seat, in the back corner, faces outward, and he can see not only every other table but the passing skyscape as well. At the moment there is nothing but the inky darkness of a spring evening outside the windows. The occasional star or wispy passing cloud. The moon is out, but it’s hidden on the starboard side. Below them, the Hindenburg’s searchlight slides over small towns and villages, pastures, and here and there the glassy surface of a lake, briefly illuminating the microcosm of rural life.
The ambiance inside the dining room is, he has to admit, quite impressive. He flew aboard the Graf Zeppelin several years earlier, but it cannot compete with the opulence in which he finds himself. Hand-painted murals by Otto Arpke line all three walls, showing scenes of the landscape captured on one of the Graf Zeppelin’s flights between Friedrichshafen and Rio de Janeiro. Brightly winged birds in midflight. Green-tipped mountains. The graceful arc of a white-sand beach. A rushing waterfall. The tables are draped in pressed white napery and set with the Deutsche Zeppelin-Reederei silver and the china custom-made for the Hindenburg. In the center of each table is a thin stem of Austrian crystal with a single fresh flower. Tonight the flowers are lilies, bright and pink and fragrant. Tomorrow they will be something else. He reaches out one blunt fingertip and touches the thick, silky petal and can’t help but wonder where the flowers are stored. The American looks at his place setting, the ridiculous array of silverware, and lifts the salad fork from its place. The fork is real silver, its metal soft, and he bends one tine back with the tip of his finger. He slips the fork into his pocket.
The American is perusing the wine list for the third time—its bold print smugly reads WEINKARTE and boasts an array of tasteful French Burgundies and expensive German Models—when the first of his dinner companions arrives. A small man, little more than five feet tall, with the buoyant walk of someone who is used to being watched. No, the American thinks, someone who likes being watched. Expects it, actually. Yes, an entertainer, he decides before the man has even reached the table.
“Joseph Sp?h”—he sticks his hand out, right in the American’s face so he has no choice but to take it. “Acrobat. Filmmaker. Comedian. International personality. And you are?”
“American. Belligerent. Hungover.”
Sp?h laughs and takes his seat. He pulls the wine list from the American’s grasp. “I’d best catch up with you then.”
“Competitive?”
“Thirsty.”
He’s muttering about whether to start with red or white when a lilting voice interrupts them. “Oh. I’m early. How gauche of me.”
A single glance at the wealthy woman makes it clear that she is used to being noticed when she enters a room. She has the look of a woman whose beauty has long been enhanced by wealth and doesn’t show any signs of deteriorating soon. Early to midfifties, he guesses. He and Joseph Sp?h rise to greet her. Sp?h pulls out her chair and settles her in. Then he introduces himself in the same absurdly confident way he had with the American just a few moments earlier.
“Margaret Mather. Heiress. Spinster. Inappropriate.”
“I think we will be fast friends, Miss Mather,” Sp?h says.
“And you?”
She’s looking at the American, but Sp?h interjects, “Ah, this is a man of mystery. We know nothing of him other than that he drinks too much.” He lifts a dark eyebrow in question. “Or is it that you can’t hold your liquor?”
Margaret claps her hands. “Oh! I do like this. Let’s make a game of it, shall we? We will try and guess who he is.”