‘Captain we got to shake those fucking parasites off’
‘Aye aye, sir, full ahead.’
The Catherine Ahoy diesels reverberating at a steady seventeen and a half knots, now nearly in the middle of the Mediterranean. In her wake fins of following sharks cutting through the water. Snapping down scraps thrown overboard from the galley. And Rabbi they told me there were no sharks in the Mediterranean. Catherine who is taking a sauna and swirl pool bath and sunning topless and bottomless aft on the bridge deck, could have got gobbled down. Instead of, as she now is, creating a sensation aboard the boat. The crew falling over themselves to be at her beck and call, just to get a glimpse of her, preferably unclothed. A star she is. No doubt about that. As now I go apoplectic with jealousy struggling to keep her in my own private orbit. Which was getting more elliptical by the day. As I started feeling seasick going through the Strait of Bonifacio. Meeting Jorricks in the companionway as I was heading for the bridge deck to privately vomit behind a lifeboat.
‘Well sir, I do believe we are having some plain sailing and it is rather nice isn’t it. But O dear. We seem sir, to be in some not entirely untroubled waters.’
‘We sure are Jorricks.’
‘O dear sir. Head up. Shoulders back. Breathe through the nose. Can I suggest tea in the saloon as usual might help. And to alert madam.’
‘Yeah, christ tea. Yeah alert madam. Do that Jorricks.’
‘I was just going sir to catch up on the weather news from the radio room to put in your study.’
Schultz spattering the contents of his stomach on the breeze and returning to the main deck down the circular stair. One hand on the polished mahogany banister and the other across his midsection. Heading along the companionway, entering his study. Lowering slowly into a soft leather chair. Reading the teleprinter news sheet from the radio room. Stocks on the New York exchange closing narrowly mixed in light trading. British share prices rocketing to their highest level in three years. Finland devalues by three percent. Soviet trade gap narrows. And just faintly do I hear the sound of laughter which I thought I heard behind me coming down the companionway. Keep remembering his Lordship once said you should never phone a woman, without realizing that she may have a guy next to her listening in bed. Jesus hearing laughter now could be a symptom of paranoia. And christ it’s getting louder. Or is it coming from the library. Jeez, even supposedly safe out here in the middle of the Mediterranean and distracted with being sick, it doesn’t take long to imagine things. Especially the worst.
Schultz stepping out of the study, walking past twin guest cabins. And a photograph of the Statue of Liberty on the wall. Hilarity inside the library. Shit. That couldn’t be Binky’s voice. The son of a bitch. Who has in my present emotional escapism, come back to haunt me again. And sending an electric current of about ten thousand jolts just slammed through me curing my seasickness on the spot.
Schultz pushing open the library door. Catherine her feet up, drinking a glass of orange juice. A TV screen secreted behind little doors adorned with the exotic leather bindings of the world’s great books without their pages. The sound of Binky’s voice giving a commentary. And O my god. There I am. On the television screen. That’s me. In extremis. My balls zapped in the zipper. And me supine getting loaded into the ambulance head first. And shaking my fist back at the camera. At the lowest most painful moment of my life.
‘O Sigmund. It is droll. So droll. Isn’t it. Not ordinarily droll. But extraordinarily droll. I do hope you don’t mind my watching.’
Jesus and how many times these past few months did I think I’d have to conserve my strength just so that I’d have enough left to commit suicide. All it would take right now is just a short climb back up a deck and then lean over the side and let gravity do the rest right into the Mediterranean. Just be a blood red spot left on the water by the sharks.
‘Hey honey I do fucking mind. What the hell is this all about. What is this sadism.’
‘But it’s your expression. Your expression is so wonderfully so exasperatedly pained.’
‘Hey listen to me honey, you may not know it but in the peace and serenity aboard this boat you’re presently dealing with an exasperatedly dangerous man. Who’s just accumulated about as much situation comedy as he can take in his life.’
‘O my darling. Darling. Don’t you see. You really are so funny. So funny. That I love you. Love you. But you’re not, are you, going to be uncharitable to me. Or mean. I am so happy, happy. I’m just a little waif. A waif. And wouldn’t you so hate for me to lose my sense of humour. But O dear, my sweet, my sweet, let me give you a kiss, a kiss. You are hurt, aren’t you.’
‘Look, all I ask is you don’t use me for some kind of emotional punching bag.’
‘O darling I do promise I won’t. But you see, I am a confirmed devotee of sumo. Those great massive wrestlers with their big bellies who go bump bump, bumping one against the other. And you remind me so much of how a sumo wrestler looks when he loses.’
Rabbi it is positively amazing how the fuck in two seconds when I should give somebody a kick up the ass, I get a hard on I could plunge in there instead. To say I am helplessly falling in love is the understatement of this century. The nervous shock of hearing Binky’s voice permanently curing my seasickness and giving me an appetite. And no shit I started to laugh. Then to laugh my head off. Till the two of us were holding our stomachs. Catherine throwing herself back on the blue velvet sofa, her black stockinged legs the calves of which made my mouth water, kicking up, sending a pair of grey high heeled shoes flying across the library. I locked the door and right on the mattress deep rug, her sweet skin tasting of salt, we knocked off the most gorgeously fast bumping piece of ass in the history of sumo or of fucking. Then she grabbed the phone. And rang the galley. Rabbi in all my life I never came across anyone who knew how to enjoy luxury so much. And whose sanity was so fucking sane. A crimson ribbon tying back her hair. Her so white smooth skin turning tan. Her hands so young and childlike.
‘Is that you chef. Good. Last night’s dinner was very good. But tonight. It must be superb. Tonight, Mr Schultz and I shall have. Let me see. I have it all written down here in front of me. OK. Now chef. Listen. Here we go. We’re trusting you. Get your pencil and pad poised. Everything has got to be absolutely perfect. And I mean absolutely deliciously perfect. You wouldn’t would you, want me to come down there and tweak your nose if our fillet steak is even the teeniest weeniest bit over or under done. It should be rare. Not blood rare. But rare. No not blue rare. Just exactly rare. And hot. It must come perfectly to our awaiting lips hot off the grill. And the mushrooms. Now you know don’t you, how exactly they should be in the sauce. Like little white firm tips of knees sticking up out of a pond where a little girl is pretending to drown. And the spinach. That must, absolutely must be really perfect. Just a hint of paprika. And just a shade darker than moss green. Not pea green you understand but moss moss green. And creamy but not too creamy. And since I am ordering for Mr Schultz as well, you realize, everything had better be double good. Now if you make a mistake I shall come to your galley and it won’t do you any good dodging behind the pots and pans for I shall bang one of them right over your head. And of course chef we want some fantastic burgundy and not any old Algerian piss the crew’s been drinking. Now if you get all that correct I won’t have to send Daniel after you, or for good measure, come down there later and shoot you.’
Rabbi I just sat there watching her. Transformed. And she was transformed. A wonderful laughing smile on her face. No hesitations in her voice. Just a few of those marvellously lilting repetitions. To the humming of generators, and twirling of the twin screws. And then I was wondering after what I had already been through how the fucking hell could I now be mad enough again to fall in love.
‘Honey you know I’d like to have some kind of understanding with you.’
‘O dear. Is this going to be the greatest truth ever told, you’re telling. Till doom do us part. Do you thi
nk that’s wise. When I’m so nuts. Of course you know, I’ll betray you. Betray you. As all women must. To keep you on your toes. But you can. You can. Have an understanding. Any you like. But you know don’t you, that I’m always on the edge of the whirlpool. That goes swirling, swirling down to death. And you’ll always have to snatch me back from there. You’ll have to say don’t sink with your limbs all akimbo. Don’t die. Just yet. Just yet. Just yet. But when life looks awfully good you can, you can hold me back. And then maybe we shall still be together. Even when our faithfulness and fidelity wane, wane, wane. Into our old age. Or are you trying to say. That when the time comes. Like the grey gauze of a ghostly morn. How then are we going to get rid of each other. You of me. Me of you. And tell me. I know you love my breasts. You seem so enraptured kissing nuzzling and fondling there. Did you have a mother who gave you milk. Her milk. Enough milk. So that you didn’t have to go waaa waaa crying for more. And what’s so funny, so funny.’
‘Honey I’m just thinking. And maybe I think I did have a mother. Who maybe didn’t have enough milk. And maybe that’s right. I cried for more. And if her tits were anything like yours, I’d go sobbing forever all over the universe.’
‘Well such flattery will get you another nipple. A nipple. But you know my mother hardly nursed me. She did not want to ruin her beautiful breasts which were so admired by men. And you see, that’s why I’ve ordered us both such a very good dinner. So that I won’t lack for energy. When I give you your lashes with your cat o’ nine tails tonight.’
And
Instead of
Softly
Waaa waaa
You can cry
Loudly
Ouch
Ouch
34
A balmy breeze. The temperature perfect. At twelve and a half knots the Catherine Ahoy making for the Isle of C% A Stromboli. Over the mile deep Tyrrhenian sea. The sun %3'X high and sparkling on the water. The twin screws turning at eight hundred and forty five revolutions per minute, boiling up a foamy wake. The bow wave spreading its wings of whiteness out across the blue.
Schultz skipping rope on the bridge deck. And punching a speed bag in the gym. Repairing to the sauna and lying back in the heat. The red glow of light tinting the wood panelling. Salt stinging sweat seeping into the eyes. And holy christ Rabbi. This is idyllic. This ship is like an empire where I am the emperor. Soon to die unless I blind my mind to what it is really costing. The stack of cheques in three cheque books has gone down like water flushing away in a toilet. Which could use the leak alarm invented by his Lordship’s wife’s boyfriend. The insurance of the superstructure. The insurance of the hull. The salaries. Never mind mooring fees and the burning of sixty five imperial gallons of fuel an hour and seventy five meals served a day. But at least till we hit an iceberg I am safe from the world. The way I thought really wealthy people were secluded in houses lighted up for Christmas back in America. Where once Uncle Werb went delivering a diamond ring one Christmas eve, and brought me along. All my ambition to be where I am now came from that moment. Standing in that room on the deep soft carpet. Seeing this rich man in his dark suit in this library with real books. The windows of the house glowing their light out through surrounding trees. The warmth inside. Emerald velvet sofas and a leopard skin rug with the animal’s canine teeth showing snarling in front of a real wood fire. The guy had cuffs and cufflinks and held the ring up to the lamp and then handed Uncle Werb five hundred brand new one hundred dollar bills two inches thick. While I stood in my short pants hiding my hands still dirty from handling marked down lingerie. And that night seeing my own poor hard working mother in a torn and worn apron and my father with his sleeves rolled up sitting over a bowl of noodle soup in the kitchen, and a cockroach sailing along the edge of the table, jesus I knew there were things and places better than that. And Rabbi needless to say the guy’s wife was in a mental institution and the ring was for his girlfriend. Well one thing’s for sure, money makes a difference, and on a ship leaves nothing to do except enjoy yourself. Back in Monaco moored in the next yacht along the pier, there were those grey haired couple of rich Americans. Husband and wife playing cards together. Catherine from our deck waved and they waved back. Carl the captain said the game had been going on all afternoon and every evening solidly for the last six months, and they never left port. The wife with blue rinsed hair in a flowered sun suit, and her husband in a baseball cap. Maybe that’s what the struggle is all about. You battle and bust your balls to make enough money to go sit on a boat costing a fortune just to play a game of cards. Like Catherine sits the afternoons away over backgammon with nurse. If masochism is not her cup of tea, boy, sadism sure is. Last night in her Queen suite I had to jump off the bed and run for my life. She nearly belted the shit out of me. Lashing the cat o’ nine tails down across my ass with all her might. And did it twice before I even had a chance to scream ouch and get out of the way to protect myself. I had to jump up into the fucking closet. Then as I closed the door she was convulsed rolling in a paroxysm of laughing on the floor. At least it was a revelation to her of something she really liked to do. Like waterskiing, sunbathing and taking a sauna. And Rabbi, I’ve found there’s nothing you can do to make women love you. But if you don’t do anything at all they’ll forget you. And Sigmund remember, you were for a long time supporting and paying for a woman to get sick of you. Which is worse scars than lashes.
Under the white awning on the aft deck Jorricks and the valet serving tea. The table set with a silver tray of fruit, cakes and pies. Crystal pots of strawberry, gooseberry and apricot jams. Jorricks perspiring in his black butler’s coat, ferrying the freshly baked scones in a hot napkin. The valet bowing his head to Catherine and smilingly retreating from the presence as he spooned out her favourite black cherry jam. Inside the saloon’s open gleaming mahogany doors the phone ringing. Jorricks returning to the table. Schultz chomping on a scone slathered in clotted cream and strawberry jam.
‘Sir there appears to be an urgent call from London which the radio operator is having difficulty with. And asks if you might perhaps take it up in the radio room.’
Schultz jumping up. Tripping headlong over the bulkhead and crashing face down on the saloon floor. Holy christ what’s wrong. Why can’t I the fuck stay calm. Instead of breaking the furniture over the first phone call in two days and thinking it’s going to be his Lordship telling me the theatre’s finally been bombed. And I’m running up this ladder as if my mother has just died. Or worse, my wife’s lawyers have found out which banks my money’s in and how I am now spending it like sand in the desert.
‘Hello.’
‘Hello.’
‘Hello for Christ’s sakes, will you speak up. I can’t hear you. Hello.’ ‘Sigmund, it’s Louella.’
‘Who.’
‘Louella. I had to talk to you.’
‘Hey Christ’s sake how’d you get this number and know where I am.’ ‘This evening’s Standard interviewed your wife and has a big picture of your yacht. It’s so beautiful. Sigmund I love you. In spite of all the vicious things your wife says.’
‘Hey gee that’s swell honey. But this is an awful connection.’
‘The carpenter ran off with a necklace and the Ferrari. Al’s getting married. To a seventeen year old hillbilly.’
‘Holy shit kiddo. Guess you sort of backed a couple of wrong horses. Honey for Christ’s sakes don’t cry.’
‘And Binky. He was starving to death. And now no one knows where he’s disappeared. Please. Can I come there.’
‘Honey I’m this second just a few miles from the Isle of Stromboli in the Mediterranean.’
‘Please, O please can I come there.’
‘Honey I’m sort of trying to get away from it all and want to be alone awhile. And I wish you didn’t connect my yacht and your declaration of love in the same breath. But believe me I’m sorry for your troubles. Hey honey this is a terrible connection. I’ll call you back when the static is less. Goodbye for now.’ r />
‘I beg of you Sigmund, don’t please, hang up on me. Please. Please. I’m at Al’s. I’m packing. Nobody wants me. And I’m going to do it.’
‘Do what honey I can hardly hear you.’
‘It doesn’t matter. I’m going to. Cross the room now.’
‘What are you talking about honey.’
‘I’m going to the window.’
‘Hey come on honey. Come on.’
‘And I’m opening the window. Now. And nothing, nothing is going to matter anymore. Nothing. Goodbye.’
‘Honey, hey honey. Jesus stop. Stop her somebody. Stop her. Holy shit.’
Rabbi
It’s a long way down
Into concrete
And Sigmund listen
She ain’t no
High diving
Champion
Like your wife
35
The air still. The pale moonlight like liquid gold rippling across the water. The salt sea into which the mouths of the Nile empty. The shadows of islands and the bobbing lights of fishing boats. A massive oil tanker slowly passing, silhouetted against the shore. Lighted decks and portholes. South over the horizon, the tip of the foot of Italy. That my geography teacher in high school said could kick you in the ass.
The radio operator left on the radio telephone trying to get back to London. Schultz sitting and waiting. And finally going below to dress for dinner. Under a musky pink dark sky. The coxswain reducing speed from full to half to dead slow, to stop. The clank and clatter of chain, as the anchor splashes into the water. The Catherine Ahoy sitting like a sleek white duck on the gentle swells of a glass smooth sea.
Rabbi when will the dust of disaster ever settle and leave it that I don’t have to run like wildfire and crouch in shame. All the hours, phone calls and spying I wasted on that girl. And all the months needlessly terrified I’d lose her, uselessly spent. And more than a thousand miles away, she still has me cliff hanging by the fingertips. I should have long ago given her a knife as a present so she could stab me in the heart. Women are like playing with a yo yo, they go up and down. And you go in and out on top of them if you can. And if they let you. So Sigmund maybe now at long last a nutty raven haired girl you found up on a mountain side in a fairy tale castle, is something you have to be grateful for. She could help let the dust settle. So long as you don’t let it settle on your life.