And Benedict’s curiosity was piqued.
Before the voyage had even begun, the crew had studied the ship’s manifest and passenger list, memorizing every face and name. Now Benedict did the same. When he was satisfied with his ability to greet the guests, he joined the convivial table that nightly gathered after dinner at the aft main deck bar, a table that included five retired southern high school teachers making their annual pilgrimage to Europe, two university professors on sabbatical, a group of Spanish and Portuguese wine merchants, a skinny eighty-year-old corporate lawyer—and Nauplius Brassard and his wife, Helen.
Benedict turned a chair from another table and dragged it over. “May I join you?”
For a mere second, conversation faltered.
One of the middle-aged females scooted over. “We’re all friends. Sit next to me.” She placed her hand on her husband’s arm. “We’re Juan Carlos and Carmen Mendoza from Barcelona … and you are Benedict Howard.”
Apparently he wasn’t the only one who had studied the roster. “That’s right, from Baltimore, Maryland, USA. I buy and sell things.”
“On a grand scale,” Juan Carlos said drily. “The Howard family is known for its business … acumen.”
A nice way to say ruthlessness. “Yes.” Benedict looked toward the opposite end of the long table. “But I interrupted the conversation. Please, continue while I sit and absorb the bonhomie.” In fact, he had interrupted Helen Brassard, who had been animated and flushed as she recounted some story by signing while Nauplius Brassard translated in his faintly accented voice.
Cool and calm, she sipped her champagne and looked him in the eyes. She nodded. She put down her champagne, lifted her hands and signed, “Of course. I was telling this illustrious company about the surprise party my husband threw for me for my twenty-seventh birthday.”
“Fascinating,” he murmured.
With a turn of the head, she dismissed Benedict and signed to the assemblage, “On the banks of the Loire in the month of June … he scheduled the Osiris String Quartet to play chamber music and had a catered picnic flown in from Vienna and laid on blankets on the grass. He hired a film crew to record each precious moment and he surprised me with a custom-made gift of polished amber stones set in a magnificent gold setting.”
Benedict had trouble knowing who to look at—Helen, who was speaking, or Nauplius, who was interpreting. He glanced around and saw the others at the table seemed similarly stricken by uncertainty, and he wondered if they also found it odd to hear Nauplius Brassard praise himself so effusively … in her words. Certainly Brassard looked smug as he spoke.
Helen gazed at her husband as if she adored him, placed one palm flat on her chest, and with the other she spelled, “The memory is engraved on my heart.”
The wide-bellied, rumpled academic nodded and in an accomplishment Benedict admired, at the same time sneered. Dawkins Cipre didn’t want to offend Nauplius Brassard, a generous donor to European universities. Yet as a professor of literature he could hardly approve such a romantic gesture; it might reflect badly on his pretentiousness.
Elsa Cipre, the academic’s thin, nervous, carefully unmade-up wife and a professor in her own right, said, “Nauplius has studied the inner workings of a woman’s emotions.”
One of the schoolteachers rolled her eyes. Another said, “Bless his heart.” Apparently neither Nauplius nor the self-important academics had impressed anyone.
Unfazed, Elsa continued, “Dawkins is an expert on classic medieval French romance literature. Perhaps, Helen, for your twenty-eighth birthday he could consult with Nauplius and bring the full weight of French literature to bear.”
Faintly Benedict heard Carmen Mendoza moan under her breath.
Dawkins took the opportunity to launch into a college-level literature lecture in which he cited his years at Oxford and the Sorbonne. His pontificating encouraged low buzzing conversations to start and swell, and Nauplius Brassard flushed with irritation—he did not enjoy losing his place in the spotlight or being told what to do—and tried to interrupt.
Oblivious, Dawkins rambled on.
Without asking, the bar staff delivered another round of stiff drinks.
The band came in; the musicians played guitar and keyboard; the singer was thin, young, attractive and handled the microphone with an expertise that spoke of long familiarity. They began the first set.
Dawkins held forth until his wife touched his hand and they left to find the dessert buffet.
With a pretty smile, Helen pushed Brassard’s drink toward him.
Brassard folded his arms over his chest, transferring his irritation to her.
She tried to sign to her husband, to cajole him into a better mood.
He turned his head away.
When she persisted, he whipped around to face her, caught her wrists and effectively rendered her mute.
At once she stopped her attempt, and when he released her, she contemplated the champagne in her flute and drank.
An interesting scene, Benedict thought. Helen was Brassard’s whipping boy. What kind of background created a woman so greedy she would put up with that kind of abuse?
Of course, when Nauplius Brassard died, she would be wealthy beyond imagining. Legend had it that Nauplius had grown up on the streets of Marseilles, a scrawny vindictive thief; by the time he was twenty he had made his first million. Now he was still scrawny, still vindictive, but worth billions.
Carmen Mendoza began to hum and then to sing in a warm contralto, and within five minutes she had kicked off her shoes and stood before the band dancing. Before another minute had passed Juan Carlos had taken the female high school teachers onto the floor and the male high school teachers had joined them on the fringes, gyrating sheepishly.
Reginald Bardzecki, the eighty-year-old corporate lawyer, stood and offered his hand to Helen. She glanced at the still-fuming Brassard, smiled defiantly, removed her heels and joined Reginald. Unlike anyone else on the floor, they danced like experts. He led, she followed, the two of them staging a series of ballroom moves that only two people who reveled in the music could perform.
The musicians played. The staff and dancers stopped and watched.
Benedict leaned back in his chair and appreciated the sight. Then instinct led him to glance toward the other end of the table.
Nauplius Brassard sat glaring at the elderly man who spun his youthful smiling wife across the floor.
And Benedict remembered what Abigail had said about Nauplius Brassard: He is dangerous. We take care never to displease him … Benedict thought Helen would suffer for her insubordination.
The song ended. The dancers came back to the table, flushed and laughing. They ordered drinks and complimented Reginald and Helen on their skill.