“But,” Madeleine continued, “I would never hope for anyone else to undergo the ordeal we did to reach this place of happiness, this place where we are now. Especially anyone of a tender disposition. Society can be . . . extremely unforgiving.”
For a long moment, no one at the table said anything. There was only the low buzz of conversation from the other diners across the saloon, the stewards hurrying by, the music from the orchestra.
Charles tapped his fork against the china plate. “Speaking of stories. Alice has one, a real lulu, and it only just happened back in Cairo a few weeks ago. Tell them what happened, Alice.”
Alice Fortune, young and remarkably pretty, looked flustered for a second, then flashed a smile.
“Oh, it was the silliest thing. We were at Shepheard’s, sitting and having drinks one afternoon on the terrace. Do you all know it? No? Well, it’s really quite something, very inviting and open, and you can see all the people outside, walking and selling things and trying to get your attention, because they’d like you to buy a mummy or some papyrus or something. Anyway, this one little man in a maroon fez simply would not stop pestering me—”
“Thought I’d have to slug him,” Charles offered, concentrating on his mousse.
“He was waving his hands at me and practically hopping in place, so eventually I gave in. We had him brought to our table—I was very much afraid he was going to produce a severed mummy hand from his coat, or one of those pitiful dead cats—but it turns out he was a soothsayer. So he claimed.”
“The best one in North Africa, I wager,” Ethel said.
“Naturally! And he read my palm for me.”
“The right or the left?” asked Margaret, looking serious.
“The left. He was terribly intense about it, scowling and mumbling. Then he looked up at me and told me that I would be in danger every time I traveled on the sea—”
Charles snorted.
“—because he saw me adrift in an open boat on the ocean. He said I was going to lose everything but my life, and that I would be saved but that others would be lost.”
She laughed a little, but no one else joined in. A new silence descended over them all, heavy and strained.
“Then what happened?” Madeleine asked.
“Then,” said Charles, “I gave the bugger—excuse me!—the man the baksheesh he demanded, and that was the end of it. He went off to fleece someone else.”
“An unsettling story, though,” said Eleanor Widener, a line of worry creasing her brow. “I swear, you’ve given me a chill.”
And me, Madeleine thought.
Ethel rested an elbow brazenly upon the table, lifting up her wine. “I fancy we’re safe enough on this voyage. After all, Charles was right there with you, and the fellow never said a word to him about being stranded on a boat or dying.”
“That’s right,” Charles said. “Rather rude of him not to tell me if I’m going to die. I was the one who paid him.”
The stewards arrived in a spate of snowy jackets to clear their plates, bringing out the next course. The orchestra began a German waltz.
Margaret said lightly, “Has anyone else heard a rooster crowing from time to time? I swear I’m not crazy. I realize Titanic is thoroughly modern, but they don’t keep live poultry aboard for our meals now, I hope?”
Mark Fortune smiled, obviously relieved at the turn of conversation. “No, Mrs. Brown, you’re not crazy, and no, they don’t. There’s a foursome of prized breeders, roosters and hens, crated and housed by the galley. One of the passengers picked them up in France. Worth a pretty penny, from what I understand, and the lady means to take them back to her estate . . .”
Madeleine gazed down at the coq au vin that had been placed before her, fragrant and steaming. Her stomach rumbled.
But she could not stop thinking about what Alice had said, the open boat, the sea. In her mind’s eye, she remembered the lifeboat from the Noma struggling to reach the stranded men of the Zingara, that small shell of wood pitching against the blackened waves.
She looked up and out the windows lining the walls, at the belt of stars caught behind the leaded glass: cold and remote, white as ice.
CHAPTER 23
It was an uncanny dreamworld aboard that ship nearly from the beginning, growing stronger as the days went on. Time seemed suspended; the hours uncounted. There was everything to do and, at the same time, absolutely nothing. You could pace along the decks, compose letters in the reading and writing room, splash around in the swimming bath, or steam yourself like a lobster in the Turkish baths. You could play squash, or chess, or dominoes, or draughts, and there were nearly always card games going on wherever I looked, usually bridge or whist. Charlotte Cardeza’s son hosted poker games on the private promenade deck of their suite, raucous affairs that included （from what I understand） a great deal of drinking and smoking, even by the ladies.