see,' Elizabeth said, her eyebrows arching. 'Gone off and left you, has he? Perhaps he's a spy. Is he a spy, Miss O'Shea? The country is awash with them, you know. Spies and touts. Everybody looking for someone or something.'
I stood so suddenly, pushing back my chair in one swift movement, that it caught the passing waiter in the hip. He uttered a small, surprised yelp, but kept going.
'No. No. He's not a spy. Nor a . . .'
'A tout, darling. You know, the endless pedlars who won't leave you alone. The Tangerines are quite forceful. Everyone wants something from you,' she repeated. 'We must be quite firm.'
'Yes,' I said. 'Well. Thank you. For the drink,' I added, and then left the lounge, feeling that all eyes were on my limp, surely more pronounced by the unfamiliar sensation of the alcohol swirling in my empty stomach.
I lay on my bed in the shadowed coolness, my head still pounding from the whisky, annoyed by the idiotic way I must have come across to Elizabeth Pandy and her friends. I didn't know how to share the easy camaraderie they possessed, nor how to make small talk so openly.
I remembered standing on the deck of the ship that had taken me from New York to Marseilles such a short while ago, and the similar feeling that had come over me.
It had required all my mental and physical strength to remain composed as I waited for the ship to pull away from the dock. I watched the crowd below, mostly waving, smiling, calling out bon voyage and safe journey to those, like me, sailing abroad. I noticed a few more sombre people in the crowd: a woman with a handkerchief against her mouth, another young man and woman supporting each other as they watched with furrowed brows, a few crying children. But in general the ambience surrounding the dock, and the ship, was one of joy, of holidaying and exciting adventures.
My own sensation, standing on that planked deck, watching the receding faces of the well-wishers, was sheer panic. I had never dreamed that I would step foot on a ship. I had never thought of leaving America. I had never been outside of the state of New York. I was thirty years old, and as anxious as if I were a child on my first day at school.
Panic had given way to sudden fear. The distance between the ship and the dock gaped like an abyss. It was loss I was feeling, loss of all I knew, all that was familiar. But I knew I had to go.
As the ship slowly moved further from the dock, I could still see waving arms and open mouths, but the sound faded. My heartbeat slowed. I grew aware of someone beside me; an elderly woman, her hands, in yellowed, crocheted gloves, gripping the railing.
'Is this your first time at sea?' she asked me, in halting English, and I wondered if all I was feeling was so clearly written on my face.
'Oui,' I told her, recognising her accent. ' La première fois.'
She smiled, showing large, badly fitting dentures. 'Ah, you speak French, although of course not my French. Paris is my home,' she said. 'Do you go on to Paris from Marseilles?'
I shook my head, but didn't say where I was going. I saw her looking at my ungloved hands, resting on the railing.
'You have family in France?'
Again I shook my head.
'You travel to meet a lover, then?' she asked, with a smile that verged on slyness.
At that I blinked, and my mouth opened, but I was at a loss for words.
She nodded, looking pleased with herself. 'I see it. Yes, you are meeting a lover.'
I stared at her for another moment, and then, surprising myself, said, 'Well, yes. I am travelling to . . . to find someone.'
The woman nodded, studying me. Her eyes lingered on my cheek, then dropped down my body. That morning while brushing my hair with trembling hands in front of the mirror, I saw that my face had an unfamiliar hollowness.
'Ah. La grande passion. Of course, my dear. A woman always must follow the undeniable. I myself have experienced a number of grand passions.’
Now her smile was roguish — her head tilted and her chin tucked down. In spite
I stood so suddenly, pushing back my chair in one swift movement, that it caught the passing waiter in the hip. He uttered a small, surprised yelp, but kept going.
'No. No. He's not a spy. Nor a . . .'
'A tout, darling. You know, the endless pedlars who won't leave you alone. The Tangerines are quite forceful. Everyone wants something from you,' she repeated. 'We must be quite firm.'
'Yes,' I said. 'Well. Thank you. For the drink,' I added, and then left the lounge, feeling that all eyes were on my limp, surely more pronounced by the unfamiliar sensation of the alcohol swirling in my empty stomach.
I lay on my bed in the shadowed coolness, my head still pounding from the whisky, annoyed by the idiotic way I must have come across to Elizabeth Pandy and her friends. I didn't know how to share the easy camaraderie they possessed, nor how to make small talk so openly.
I remembered standing on the deck of the ship that had taken me from New York to Marseilles such a short while ago, and the similar feeling that had come over me.
It had required all my mental and physical strength to remain composed as I waited for the ship to pull away from the dock. I watched the crowd below, mostly waving, smiling, calling out bon voyage and safe journey to those, like me, sailing abroad. I noticed a few more sombre people in the crowd: a woman with a handkerchief against her mouth, another young man and woman supporting each other as they watched with furrowed brows, a few crying children. But in general the ambience surrounding the dock, and the ship, was one of joy, of holidaying and exciting adventures.
My own sensation, standing on that planked deck, watching the receding faces of the well-wishers, was sheer panic. I had never dreamed that I would step foot on a ship. I had never thought of leaving America. I had never been outside of the state of New York. I was thirty years old, and as anxious as if I were a child on my first day at school.
Panic had given way to sudden fear. The distance between the ship and the dock gaped like an abyss. It was loss I was feeling, loss of all I knew, all that was familiar. But I knew I had to go.
As the ship slowly moved further from the dock, I could still see waving arms and open mouths, but the sound faded. My heartbeat slowed. I grew aware of someone beside me; an elderly woman, her hands, in yellowed, crocheted gloves, gripping the railing.
'Is this your first time at sea?' she asked me, in halting English, and I wondered if all I was feeling was so clearly written on my face.
'Oui,' I told her, recognising her accent. ' La première fois.'
She smiled, showing large, badly fitting dentures. 'Ah, you speak French, although of course not my French. Paris is my home,' she said. 'Do you go on to Paris from Marseilles?'
I shook my head, but didn't say where I was going. I saw her looking at my ungloved hands, resting on the railing.
'You have family in France?'
Again I shook my head.
'You travel to meet a lover, then?' she asked, with a smile that verged on slyness.
At that I blinked, and my mouth opened, but I was at a loss for words.
She nodded, looking pleased with herself. 'I see it. Yes, you are meeting a lover.'
I stared at her for another moment, and then, surprising myself, said, 'Well, yes. I am travelling to . . . to find someone.'
The woman nodded, studying me. Her eyes lingered on my cheek, then dropped down my body. That morning while brushing my hair with trembling hands in front of the mirror, I saw that my face had an unfamiliar hollowness.
'Ah. La grande passion. Of course, my dear. A woman always must follow the undeniable. I myself have experienced a number of grand passions.’
Now her smile was roguish — her head tilted and her chin tucked down. In spite
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