much grace that you would find it hard to take offence or feel the paralysing embarrassment you thought only adolescents felt. No, thank you. I don’t dance. You might want to sit and talk instead, but the smile would turn down your offer just as politely. No, thank you. Might you simply sit beside her and watch the dance? It is so kind of you, but no, thank you. And you would go away feeling neither frustrated nor disappointed but somehow happier.
They had left open the curtains at the far end of the ballroom, where an expanse of picture window showed the Hope ’ssuperstructure, her funnels, her blackened spires like angular stalagmites, her ziggurats of deck piled high. At the bows, the setting sun was hovering above the sea, a billowing circle of fading orange cut out of the drab sky. The sun edged the towers and canyons of the ship, the homes and lives of a million souls, with gold. On clear days the Hope had a baroque beauty which was as deceptive as it was attractive.
The woman of smiles took in the view through the sweeps and swirls of the dancers and the view pleased her.
The dance came to an end and the dancers applauded politely before dispersing to the sides. Signor Bellini, the important conductor, took a bow and modestly requested the orchestra to stand and take theirs. Everyone allowed themselves a five-minute rest. Restrained chatter filled the ballroom.
These displays of civility pleased the woman.
Angel flew and sank. One moment she was riding a pillar of fire over a desert, her body singing with the achievement; the next she was watching herself plunging backward into an emerald sea, beams of sunlight darting down towards her in the depths.
Angel laughed and cried. One moment she was starring in the funniest play ever written and the audience was hanging upon her every word, her every gesture, waiting for her to release the joy for themselves; the next she was at a funeral, banners black as ravens’ wings flapping from hats and sleeves.
Angel lived and died. One moment she was a creature of light – time, the universe and eternity lived together in the nail of her little finger; the next she had wallowed in night, bottomless, colourless, lightless.
She swam up into a room of brightness and fantastic figures brushed past her and around her, weaving hypnotic shapes.
Each time the figures passed her by, they left fluorescent afterimages. She knew this place. She might know it if she saw it.
The dreams switched off abruptly.
It was morning. Dawn seeped sickly grey through the porthole. Push had gone without leaving any indication of where he might be found. Angel was sprawled over sheet and blanket, her body pale. The clock beside the bunk ticked with excruciating slowness as if moving its second hand was the greatest of efforts. Angel was cold with sweat. The shakes were starting and she dreaded the next few hours, hours made of minutes made of seconds that passed like hours.
From last night’s cocktail of reality and hallucination Angel remembered little except Push making her do something revolting to him and doing something painful to her body in return. She wanted badly for these to be hallucinations. But hadn’t he also called her Perfection and My Only Angel? Hadn’t he?
The cabin was distant, the walls and ceiling holding themselves out of her reach, as if in disgust. Angel pulled the sheet clumsily over her and curled up in a clammy warmth. She began to shudder.
The tune of the evening’s last dance was still humming in her head as she made her way out of the ballroom surrounded by a crowd of the dancers whose foreheads were shiny and required constant mopping with clean handkerchiefs. One of the younger men, in his forties with a touch of grey at the temples, held the door open for her (someone always did) and she rewarded him with a smile. His eyes never left her as she walked along the deck and there was nothing but admiration in them. She sensed him watching and perhaps
They had left open the curtains at the far end of the ballroom, where an expanse of picture window showed the Hope ’ssuperstructure, her funnels, her blackened spires like angular stalagmites, her ziggurats of deck piled high. At the bows, the setting sun was hovering above the sea, a billowing circle of fading orange cut out of the drab sky. The sun edged the towers and canyons of the ship, the homes and lives of a million souls, with gold. On clear days the Hope had a baroque beauty which was as deceptive as it was attractive.
The woman of smiles took in the view through the sweeps and swirls of the dancers and the view pleased her.
The dance came to an end and the dancers applauded politely before dispersing to the sides. Signor Bellini, the important conductor, took a bow and modestly requested the orchestra to stand and take theirs. Everyone allowed themselves a five-minute rest. Restrained chatter filled the ballroom.
These displays of civility pleased the woman.
Angel flew and sank. One moment she was riding a pillar of fire over a desert, her body singing with the achievement; the next she was watching herself plunging backward into an emerald sea, beams of sunlight darting down towards her in the depths.
Angel laughed and cried. One moment she was starring in the funniest play ever written and the audience was hanging upon her every word, her every gesture, waiting for her to release the joy for themselves; the next she was at a funeral, banners black as ravens’ wings flapping from hats and sleeves.
Angel lived and died. One moment she was a creature of light – time, the universe and eternity lived together in the nail of her little finger; the next she had wallowed in night, bottomless, colourless, lightless.
She swam up into a room of brightness and fantastic figures brushed past her and around her, weaving hypnotic shapes.
Each time the figures passed her by, they left fluorescent afterimages. She knew this place. She might know it if she saw it.
The dreams switched off abruptly.
It was morning. Dawn seeped sickly grey through the porthole. Push had gone without leaving any indication of where he might be found. Angel was sprawled over sheet and blanket, her body pale. The clock beside the bunk ticked with excruciating slowness as if moving its second hand was the greatest of efforts. Angel was cold with sweat. The shakes were starting and she dreaded the next few hours, hours made of minutes made of seconds that passed like hours.
From last night’s cocktail of reality and hallucination Angel remembered little except Push making her do something revolting to him and doing something painful to her body in return. She wanted badly for these to be hallucinations. But hadn’t he also called her Perfection and My Only Angel? Hadn’t he?
The cabin was distant, the walls and ceiling holding themselves out of her reach, as if in disgust. Angel pulled the sheet clumsily over her and curled up in a clammy warmth. She began to shudder.
The tune of the evening’s last dance was still humming in her head as she made her way out of the ballroom surrounded by a crowd of the dancers whose foreheads were shiny and required constant mopping with clean handkerchiefs. One of the younger men, in his forties with a touch of grey at the temples, held the door open for her (someone always did) and she rewarded him with a smile. His eyes never left her as she walked along the deck and there was nothing but admiration in them. She sensed him watching and perhaps
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