From Time to Time (36 page)

CHAPTER 24

DOWN SEVENTH AVENUE THEN, in our cab, chain-driven at maybe twenty miles an hour. West on Fourteenth Street toward the Hudson River; then the three of us sat frozen in midsentence, mid- laugh, by the most thrilling, evocative, literally hair-raising sound felt on the arms and back of the neck-that I know, the oh, so deep growl of a ship's horn. It went on, jumbling the very molecules of the air, and on, and on, and was never ever going to stop, so low, so deep, pervading your bones. Then it did stop but not in my brain and nerves, and we turned onto West Street, moving along directly beside the smooth flat river and its docks. And in that moment, very suddenly, up there ahead just a few docks further on we saw them rising above everything else, lighted by searchlights below-the four tremendous stacks of the Mauretania, painted Cunard Line red, black-banded around their tops, the glorious shining white superstructure below them. Now the deep ship's horn again, then finally stopping, to leave nothing in mind or emotion but its own mental echo and the thrilling actuality of those four astonishing stacks against the night. The great growling horn sounded again almost immediately, and I wanted nothing more of the world than to sail out on this waiting ship.

We rolled to a slow coasting stop at the curb, behind a dozen other unloading cabs and cars, and stepped out into an oasis of light, noise, chatter, laughter, and shouts; an oasis surrounded by an apparently dark and deserted lower Manhattan. All but the prow of the ship-astoundingly almost touching the sidewalk, and lettered with the magic name Mauretania-all but that and the four great stacks rising above everything else was hidden now by the huge, ugly, shedlike wooden dock, its shingled roof a story above our heads. Beyond it, at the other empty side, lay the Hudson, the moon tipping the ripples with yellow glints. A magic moment for me, and maybe for the Jotta Girl, because as we stood waiting, Archie leaning into the cab to pay the driver, she slipped her arm under mine.

From the curbside cabs and cars, people were stepping out: some confidently, others cautiously, looking around worriedly, afraid the ship might suddenly leave. But most were almost boisterous, one party, six of them in a single cab, all in evening dress, shouting drunk.

Some had luggage strapped to racks unfolded behind their cars or cabs, or roped onto the flat railed roofs. Others had none, visitors or experienced travelers who'd sent theirs aboard during the day.

A cop at the curb stood gesturing cabs away as soon as they'd unloaded, and as ours turned out into West Street again, a large gray limousine, one inch shorter than a freight car, came rolling silently in behind it. The cop's hand went respectfully to his cap visor, and a pair of derby-hatted reporters-I was sure they were reporters-came running, and a third trotted along beside the car.

Archie, Jotta Girl, and I stood watching as the limousine stopped glitteringly under a curbside streetlamp. In the open front seat, a chauffeur in a peaked cap and a footman in silk topper, both in dark green uniform. The footman was down, out on the walk before the car had fully stopped, walking along beside the rear door, reaching for its big nickeled handle. He opened the door as the chauffeur set his brake, a long ratcheting sound, then jumped down and walked back past the limousine to an open-bodied snub- nosed truck labeled Ludlock's Express Company, which had pulled in behind. Now the footman had the car door open, one of the reporters leaning down to smile and nod at the people inside.

They got out daintily, two women helped at the elbows by the footman, the younger one first, silk ankle reaching for the wide running hoard, hardly needing to duck, the car roof was so high. An older woman stepping carefully out behind, given token help by the chauffeur. The younger woman stood glancing around, looking marvelous, and the Jotta Girl very softly said, "Wow.

Her coat was long and dark-blue or black, I couldn't tell-with an ermine collar. She held an ermine muff, and wore a dark hat, a kind of turban, on each side of which lay a scarlet wing, an actual bird's wing; spectacular. The reporter beside her said something, she half turned to reply, and the light of the curbside street- lamp moved across a winking, diamond-studded strand around her neck and touched a big oval lavaliere suspended from it, which burst into light like a tiny fireworks display. "Real, said the Jotta Girl beside me. "Really real . . ." The woman's profile had come into the light and I saw she was-well, while you wouldn't say beautiful, you certainly wouldn't say merely pretty. Distinctive, maybe; like absolutely no one else. You saw that she knew exactly who she was, and that it was someone important who always had been. The older woman, dressed plainly but not in uniform, though you saw she was a servant, had walked back to the express truck, up on the bed of which the driver stood dragging trunks to the open tailgate, chauffeur and footman heaving them down to the walk by their strap handles.

The cop had sauntered over, an iron filing to a magnet, and the lady gave him a pleasant but not-too-large smile. "They won't be too long, she said, and the cop quickly touched the peak of his cap again, and lay down on the walk to lick her shoes-well, he didn't but he wanted to.

I'd drifted closer to the curb, very curious, the Jotta Girl right along with me, Archie hanging back, unwilling to eavesdrop. Pretending to look out into the street, watching for someone who hadn't yet arrived, we heard the reporter-he had pad and pencil out now-say, "And may I tell our readers that you enjoyed your stay here?

"Of course! As always. I do love America. She turned to check the unloading; the trunks, eight of them so far, were stacking up on the walk.

"And do you still feel the suffragettes will win the vote?

"Of course they will win. Here and in England. As of course

"And you are . . . a socialist still?

"Yes, certainly I am a socialist. And expect to remain one.

"And you stayed at-was it the Ritz-Carlton Hotel?

"Yes indeed, as why should I not? She looked back to the truck. "John? Rudy? Alice? They are all here? You'll see them safely aboard.

"Yes, ma'am, said the maid, and the lady walked on toward the steps leading down to the Mauretania's side. To the reporter who stood staring after her, I said, "Who is it?

"The Countess of Warwick.

"And a socialist?

"So she always says. So I guess she is.

The trunks were all down on the walk now, the footman beckoning to a band of blue-smocked porters, and I counted. There were eighteen great big black trunks, brass-cornered, brass locks, heavy black straps, and around the center of each had been painted a broad yellow stripe, for quick easy identification, I suppose. Painted in black on each stripe, a number. Painted on the lid of each trunk a coronet, the letters FEW. underneath it. On the end of each trunk, a single new label reading, Cunard Steamship Line. But at the side of the stacked trunks sat a large suitcase, and it was nearly covered by labels for Cunard, White Star Line, Hamburg-American, and for hotels in every important city of Europe, and I knew that this was the maid's.

More cabs, cars, and luggage-loaded trucks, filling curb space as fast as emptied, the countess's car pulling away. Archie, Jotta Girl, and I looking at each other to nod and grin, then turning to the stairway down to the dock. I felt wondrously happy; just to be here, to have seen the countess, and to be walking down these wooden stairs. And was willing right now-eager-to sell my soul without asking for change, to be sailing out on this great lighted thing.

She lay there miles long, three never-ending rows of shining portholes, hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of them, dwindling off to dots. I've read that an ocean liner is the largest thing that moves, and this-walking down the wooden stairs, I stared- was hard to understand. How could it be so long, so large, how could it have been made, how could this monster float?

Down, then, across the scruffy wood floor of the dock, then up the gangplank, and it was exactly that, a wide plank, railed and slatted. And crowded, busy with laughing excited people. I glanced off, now strangely a little higher than the city down at my right, and then I stepped out of the world I'd known.

Into a world I'd never seen the likes of, its looks, warmth, its strangeness and even its smell told me so. Welcoming us stood a row of smiling men and boys in uniform, the bellboys or whatever they were called in brass-buttoned blue suits. All happy to see us, skillfully moving us on. On into a great room jostling with passengers, visitors, and sweating stewards. Booby-trapped with golf bags leaning against the walls, with tall flaring wicker flower baskets to be delivered to cabins. With brown paper packages on the floor against the walls, and, on little tables, enormous boxes of candy and stacks of telegrams, cablegrams. And with two-wheeled hand- carts for luggage and baskets of fruit. And potted palms, and people, people, and the sound of people, and always more people stepping curiously in.

We moved on, the three of us, had to move with the flow, down a narrow passageway, then out into a great and beautiful room. Arching above us, a magnificent canopy of patterned colored glass, the walls of-what? I don't know-glowing dark wood. And a long, long, white-cloth table, behind it smiling men in starched chefs hats and knotted kerchiefs waiting behind food, food, food. Including pâté de foie gras. Including black caviar. Including roasts. Cold cuts. Tiny steaks. Stews. Fruit, cakes, ice cream, anything, anything. Sliced salmon. And we ate, plates in hand, and grinned at each other, walking around the big room looking at wall paintings. People moved in and moved out, and we lost the Jotta Girl, she vanished. And I set down my plate and wandered, curious. Out into the corridors again, squirming with people, most of them laughing and happy, not all. Not the uniformed stewards battling along with buckets of ice.

On past staterooms crammed with fun-lovers yelling at me to come on in and have a drink. Past a room, door slightly ajar, a woman sitting alone on the edge of a bed, crying. Past worried people talking about luggage. Past others urging wild, insane children to bed and sleep.

In and out of the great public rooms, I hardly knew where. What to say about them? I don't know, except that every one was different and all were the same. Each had a tremendous glass canopy almost covering the ceiling-to admit daylight from the open deck above. Each canopy different, yet all the same. One was cream and gold, the dining room with magnificent deep red carpets, upholstery a deep pink. Swivel chairs around the tables bolted to the floors; which said something to me about the ocean crossing ahead. Crystal chandeliers, carpets matching the drapes. Carpets in rose, carpets in green. Out of one crowded jabbering room into another, sometimes almost deserted. The lounge. The smoking room, which had an enormous working fireplace. The music room. The library. Dark polished wood everywhere. Paintings, luxury, a luxury liner; it was that all right. And everywhere, more potted plants.

I peeked into empty cabins, and one that wasn't, yanking my head out before they saw me. In the bedrooms, dresser tops with rails to keep things from sliding off; glasses set in wells; a ship ready for rough water.

In the library, nearly empty, I stood looking around: another glass canopy, more dark paneling, shelves of books, a lot of upholstered chairs, all looking new. I'd heard a voice in a corridor say the Mauretania was just out of dry dock, refurbished. I sneaked a look around: nobody. And took a twenty-five-cent piece from my pocket, stood on tiptoe, and dropped it behind a row of books: even though I could not, something of mine was going to sail tonight. The Jotta Girl came in, glass in hand, and we went out and up to the promenade deck. Funnels, looking like enormous white saxophones, stood everywhere, the deck crowded with them. They scooped up air from the ship's forward motion, no air-conditioning. We strolled past lifeboats, reaching a hand up to touch the bottoms. Found Archie leaning on a rail talking to his friend, to whom he introduced us: the painter Francis Millet.

From somewhere a boy s voice: "All ashore that's going ashore! and I must have looked excited, because Arch smiled. "No hurry, he said. "They'll say that half a dozen times yet, and no one will pay a bit of attention. But when you hear the ship's horn, they mean it. Let's meet up on the sidewalk near the top of the stairs; the dock will be pretty crowded. And first one up hold a cab; they'll be scarce for a while.

But after that-the Jotta Girl and I wandering, getting a little bored, finally-the all-ashore calls came more frequently. Then they came with chimes, boys moving through the ship tapping out chime notes, calling their warning. And finally~ the ~)ThiC-indHCing repeated blasts of the ship's terrible horn, and for an instant I was back hurrying up the aisle of The Greyhound matinee. Blast! Blast! Blast! Blast!-hurrv off now or be carried out to sea!

At one of the open hatchwavs in the side of the ship, the Jotta Girl and I edged into the crowd moving toward a gangplank. Then, holding hands not to get separated, we walked down the steep slant to the solid safety of the dock, back into reality. But didn't vet climb the stairs to the street; we stood watching, gaping up at the great ship. Passengers gathered along her railings now, calling down to friends, while stewards walked among them handing out something or other. Handing out thin rolls of colored paper, which the passengers tossed out now, holding on to one end, to unroll down toward friends here on the dock who caught the other end. So that suddenly hundreds of these many-colored paper ribbons hung between ship and shore, gangplanks down and being wheeled away fast, black hatchway openings slamming shut and dogged down to become parts of the long sides of the ship. Behind the great Mauretania the slow, sluggish beat of the tug engines, black smoke popping from their stacks. Gulls crying now, lifting, gliding; a strip of gray water appearing along the side of the ship. Then her huge growl, the great lonely departing cry again. And again, and again.

The Mauretania came sliding past us, backing out into the Hudson, the hundreds of paper ribbons going taut, breaking, the voyage begun. And we stood staring up at her mesmerized. The backward-sliding prow came toward us, then slipped on past, and we stood gazing up at her lighted decks, and the waving passengers, and Archie-Archie up there at the rail-his palm facing us, giving us a final small embarrassed and, I think, apologetic farewell.