There were a few more conversations I had with the famous female bookaneer when we happened upon each other over the course of day-to-day routines, and these were sometimes cordial but never very friendly. She would always say at least one thing that made me uncomfortable. One time there was a comment she made about liking to imagine what people thought about when they saw her with a younger man such as Davenport. “They must ask themselves,” she said, “what it is about me that he cannot resist.” When something more significant finally passed between us it would once again be on the Continent, this time in darkness.
Now, in the vision that appeared to me onboard the Colossus, her face was stern but not without a hint of the grand humor for which she was loved and hated. Those eyes. You and I have talked much of reading. Well, these eyes are the eyes of a reader, eyes that do not just take words in, but confront and challenge their worthiness—the eyes of a queen or empress who has known nothing but control over other people. Her black hair was curly and loose, made to seem darker because her complexion was light. Her mouth was little and curved, giving a reminder of what it withheld (kind words, kisses, smiles) from all—all but one.
Time was rushing and time was crawling—again like being on a speeding train. The next thing I can remember after the eeriness of a dead woman’s (living) face was the moment my eyes began to unlock themselves, the lids heavy and unkind. Human eyes, even my poor examples, are remarkable instruments. In utter darkness they moved back and forth valiantly as though something could be gleaned; the blind man’s eyes do the same tired dance. I was in a small, dark, close place that smelled of wood. My thoughts at once turned to a coffin. There was the sound of crashing waves. I tried to scream, but I could call up no sound, and in my head I could only hear the clanging words of Poe writing of being buried alive: Fearful indeed the suspicion—but more fearful the doom!
Though I still could see nothing, it felt as though the wooden compartment I was inside was settling into the water. I pounded my fists against a wood plank and shouted. Then the horrible guilt settled on me: swim lessons. I had hated the water as a child, and instead of using the lessons in the lake to develop my skills, as my brother did, I would stay where it was shallow enough to stand and pretend to swim. Now the sins of my youth, like the young chicken, came home to roost. I tried to put myself in the best position to imitate swimming.
Light suddenly poured in from above.
“Fergins!”
I looked up to see Davenport. The bookaneer, standing over me, looked confused, as though I had just woken him up. He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger as he glanced around.
“Davenport!” I exclaimed, my voice sounding raspy, with a note of horror stuck in it. I had been rolling around madly on the floor.
“Do you know—” He interrupted himself with a soft chuckle. “Do you know what you look like? Fergins”—more low laughter directed at me—“what are you doing?”
“Swimming. Well, preparing to,” I said with as much dignity as possible.
“Now you look like you’ve seen a ghost—or, no, that you are a ghost yourself. You know, those books you’ve given me suggest the Samoan people believe in a wide variety of ghosts and demons living around them at all times. It’s a fascinating way to view the world. That with each death, the world grows more populous.”
He opened the shutter on the window and a little more light crept into the berth. The same chamber, I realized with a jolt, where I had poured champagne.
“Wait a minute,” he went on, taking my spectacles from their case, which was on the table.
“That is very kind, thank you, but . . .” I shook my head, dizzy and lost for words. “What happened?”
“I found you on the edge of the stairs—facedown, Fergins. Quite worrisome.”
“Davenport, we must act quickly. You are in danger. I believe I was poisoned!”
He did not seem moved one way or the other. “Sedated.”
“Do you mean . . . ? Please know I mean no offense by this question, Davenport, but do I understand correctly that you did this to me? You brought me to your berth and mixed some kind of drugs into the champagne?” He hadn’t even a sip from his own glass, I remembered.
He appeared, if not offended, irritated by my statement. “This is your berth. I had arranged for it in advance with Ormond, the very fine old English skipper of this Colossus. Mine is just across the corridor. Smaller and less well appointed, but adequate.”
“Why would you do it, Davenport?”
“Let us take some fresh air to talk about it.”
We went above and took some chairs up on the deck. Sailors occasionally passed on some errand in their uniforms, which were far less starchy than I remembered upon boarding. We were out at sea and the winds were strong and the snow-white sails full and magnificent. Davenport crossed his legs and looked over at me, as though he were back in the Garrick Club in ’71 waiting for my part of our first conversation.
“Davenport!” I repeated. “Aren’t you even going to explain?”
“I needed you to come with me to Samoa,” he said with his usual absence of emphasis, his hands crossed over his lap. “Think of the position I was in. You increasingly dislike long ocean voyages as you’ve gotten older. You grow nauseated and turn green. Even ten years ago your sea legs were wobbling. Remember the time you had to retrieve me from southern Italy and the schooner nearly capsized?”
“I recall something about it.”
“And I am not blind, my dear Fergins. I could see that your concerns about my mission flowed deeper than the treacherous passage, as you admitted. Would you have come with me halfway across the world this time?”
“You never asked me.”
“Oh, you would have readily agreed to it. Then, at the last moment, you would have confessed that you could not keep your resolve and would have apologized profusely before quickly disembarking and trying to take me with you.”