“Can we talk?” she asks.
He pushes off the floor and rises, somewhat unsteadily, to his feet. “Not here. Come with me.”
Emilie follows him down the corridor toward the officers’ quarters. She has never been in his cabin before but hesitates for only a moment when he holds the door open and nods for her to enter. It’s a disaster. The bed is in disarray. An empty liquor bottle is on the floor. Toiletries are strewn across the small dressing table. The closet door hangs open and there is, inexplicably, a bucket filled with wet clothing in the middle of the floor.
Emilie pours him a glass of water and hands it to him.
Max drinks it slowly at first, then tips the tumbler back and drains it. “More. Please.”
They repeat this process until he can speak without cotton mouth.
She holds up the bottle. “Aspirin?”
“Yes.”
He takes four, then offers her a feeble shrug. “I’m so sorry, Emilie.”
It takes her a moment to realize he’s talking about her papers and not the near accident. “Why did you do it? I trusted you.”
“I didn’t.” He wipes a bead of sweat from his temple with the back of his hand. “Or at least I didn’t mean to. I was angry. And desperate. So I told Wilhelm Balla you were leaving, because I needed to talk to someone, and you sure as hell weren’t in the mood. And then he blabbed. I never thought he would. Honestly. I’d have never said a word otherwise. But we’ll figure a way out of this mess. You can trust me. I promise.”
Emilie drops her head. Closes her eyes. “There is no way out of this mess.”
“Yes there is. I’ve been thinking—”
“Stop—”
“You could marry me.”
The pronouncement drops between them like a thud. It makes her even sadder, that he would do this for her. That he doesn’t know the truth.
“You don’t want to marry—”
“Stop telling me what I want!”
“A Jewish woman,” she continues, her voice a slow, calm whisper.
Emilie lifts her chin, waiting for him to recoil. Or curse. Or yell. She waits for the accusations and the anger.
Max appears dumbfounded. “You’re Jewish?”
“Half Jewish.”
“Why the bloody hell do you think that would even matter to me?”
She laughs at this. Hard and mirthless. “Don’t you dare tell me that being Jewish doesn’t matter right now.”
“Not to me.”
“Then you’re a fool.”
Max places one steady hand on each of her shoulders. He leans in a bit closer. “I need you to listen very carefully. Are you listening?”
She nods.
“You could tell me that you are half ostrich and I would still want to marry you. Is that clear? Do you understand that, Emilie Imhof?”
“No,” she says. “I don’t.”
Max slides a hand beneath her collar and lifts the silver chain until the key rests in his palm. “Is it so hard to believe that a German man could want to marry a Jewish woman?”
“That was a long time ago.”
“It was yesterday to hear you speak of him.”
“Max…”
He drops the key back into her blouse and steps away. “You don’t have to answer now. God knows I’ve gotten good at waiting. Just know that this thing you’re so worried about does not change my feelings for you.”
This conversation—the damn confounding nature of it—has distracted her from why she came to find him in the first place. She takes a deep breath and changes the subject. “What happened a few minutes ago? With the ship?”
Max groans and presses his fingers against his temples. He rubs as though trying to assuage a headache. Emilie guesses this isn’t far from the truth.
“It was my fault,” he says. “I brought us too close to the coast.”
No, it was my fault, Emilie thinks. I did this to you. She has brought him to the edge and left him there, teetering. Emilie has never known Max to be careless before. Never known him to miscalculate or lose control or indulge in excess of any kind.
Where Max was all softness and rounded edges a moment ago, he is changing before her eyes. She sees his anger return, accompanied by shame and disappointment. Violent emotions flood his face.
He picks the empty bottle off the floor. “I let myself do this. And damn it if I didn’t nearly kill us all as a result.”
There are a dozen questions she could ask, but Emilie settles on one that covers many subjects at once.
“Do they know?”
It’s clear what she means. Do they know you have a hangover? Do they know where you are? Do they know it’s your fault? Do they know about what happened last night?
He chooses the safest topic. “No. I don’t think so. Anyone could have made that mistake in the fog.”
“Except you. You don’t make mistakes. Do you, Max?”
“Apparently I do.” His grip tightens on the bottle, and Emilie is afraid it will shatter in his palm. Max gently places it in the wastebasket beneath the sink. He turns back to Emilie and his gray eyes are storm clouds. “But I won’t let it happen again.”
THE NAVIGATOR