Her response is cautious. “I have a job.”
“Not one you like, if you don’t mind me saying. We can give you a better life. Something stable. A little luxury—that never hurt anyone. Hermann has already promised he will pay you twice what you’re making here. And”—she holds up one palm to stop whatever rebuttal Emilie is preparing—“we can help you with the trouble you’re in.”
“How could you possibly know about that?”
She shrugs, as though it’s obvious. “There are no secrets on board an airship like this. You of all people should know that.”
Emilie wants to reach out and grab the lifeline that has been offered to her. She wants Matilde to tell her everything, to help her believe that this could be possible. But she is afraid of having one more precious thing ripped away. She knows firsthand that hope deferred makes the heart sick.
Emilie adds this offer to her list of possible scenarios. She weighs it against Max’s proposal and what little she knows of the American’s shadowy machinations. Gertrud has told her very little of the latter, but what Emilie does know leaves her feeling uneasy. She is startled by how very tempted she is to accept the Doehners’ offer. Emilie considers the possibility, but no matter how she tries to imagine a new start in Mexico, she cannot reconcile it with the reality of her situation. Lehmann and Pruss will never let her off this ship.
Matilde could have been a diplomat. She could have been anything really, so great is her skill with people. She doesn’t rush Emilie, or try to persuade her. She simply offers the patient, indulgent smile so often graced on her children, the one that encourages them to make the right decision. “Think about it,” she says.
THE AMERICAN
The American has a theory about small men. They are exhibitionists. He has never known a small man to be quiet. Or humble. They are never farmers or dentists. They need to be seen. Every small man he has ever known is loud and gregarious. They become entertainers or jockeys or soldiers. Musicians. Actors. Take up reckless jobs or ones that draw attention to themselves. Occasionally you’ll find one who becomes a surgeon, but only because this heroism causes him to be adored by others. Small men are tense and wiry. They spring when they walk. They notice everything around them. They have opinions and make them known. The American has heard the arguments about such men feeling inferior and overcompensating with theatrics. He thinks this is bullshit. It is, he believes, a simple matter of having more heart than body to contain it. Given the choice he’d go into a foxhole with a small man over a giant any day. He has found them to be indestructible. And, if honest, he would admit that such men are small targets. That’s always a plus in his profession.
“Twenty dollars says you can’t do it.” The American stops and tilts his head back to stare at the cruciform bracing directly above them.
“I was in jail once,” Joseph Sp?h says. “Some nameless town on the Austrian border. Spent three days in the cell for public intoxication. I didn’t much enjoy it, and if you don’t mind I’d rather not repeat the process. The food’s terrible in jail. So is the company.”
The acrobat barely comes to his shoulder, so it’s impossible not to look down at him. The American drifts back a few steps so it’s not as obvious. Small men don’t tend to appreciate the reminder. “Who’s going to see you?” The American spreads his arms, spins on the empty walkway to illustrate the point.
The keel catwalk is empty in both directions. Passengers and crew are at dinner. It’s the last night of the flight. Everyone is otherwise occupied. They are killing time. Waiting for bed. Because tomorrow they will be flying over New York City, and then things will finally get interesting. Everyone on board this ship is thinking about what they are going to do when they land. The American is thinking about what must happen in the next few precious hours.
“Do you know what would happen if they caught me climbing that? Do you know what they would think?”
“That the infamous Joseph Sp?h is worth the ticket price.”
This is too much for the acrobat’s ego. Few men can withstand such blatant stroking. “I will tell them that you dared me,” he says. He points a finger but already it’s halfhearted. The idea is planted. “That you paid me.”
“You’d have to be caught first, and that isn’t going to happen. Let me tell you a secret.” The American lowers his voice, makes it conspiratorial. “People don’t look up. Not at the clouds or the cobwebs in the corners of the ceiling. They don’t look at tree branches or gutters. Want to stay hidden? Start climbing.”