Passage. Part 51

31.

"Well, it can't be helped."

-Last words of George C. Atcheson, aide to General MacArthur, when he saw that the plane carrying himself and twelve others was going to crash into the pacific.

The entire time they were prepping Joanna, Tish chattered about how sick she'd been. "I thought I was going to die," she said, sounding not at all unhappy about it. "I ached all over, and I was so dizzy." She attached the electrodes to Joanna's chest. "I practically pa.s.sed out on the way down to my car," she said, fitting the sleep mask over Joanna's eyes, "and this doctor who was in the elevator with me had to drive me home. His name's Ted."

Well, no wonder she's so chipper, Joanna thought, wis.h.i.+ng Tish would hurry up and put the headphones on. She wanted to focus on what she was going to do and where she was going to go when she got on board.If she got on board. Richard had announced he was decreasing the dosage, "which will decrease the amount of temporal-lobe stimulation. That should lessen the intensity of the sense of significance, which should allow a different unifying image."

No, it won't, Joanna thought, because that's not what it is. There's a connection, and I'm going to find out what. But first I have to make sure it's not an amalgam.

"Ted insisted on going inside with me and getting me settled before he left," Tish was saying, holding the headphones, ready to put them on. "He's new here. He's an obstetrician, and," she bent over Joanna and whispered, "he's really cute, his hair's a little darker blond than Dr. Wright's, and he has gray-"

"Tish, is Joanna ready?" Richard called from the console.

"Just about." She dropped her voice again, "Gray eyes and no scans," and blessedly, put on the headphones.

All right, Joanna thought, I'm going to try to find the Grand Staircase, and if that fails, the First-Cla.s.s Dining Saloon. The green velvet fleur-de-lis'd chairs would prove it was the t.i.tanic, and there might also be menus or a bill-of-fare with RMS t.i.tanic on it. But the A La Carte Restaurant was locked, she thought. What if the dining saloon is, too? And she was in the pa.s.sage.

It was dry, and level, and there were only a few people outside the door. It must be earlier, Joanna thought, but when she stepped over the threshold, the young woman had changed out of her nightgown and into a red coat and a fur stole made of red-fox heads with sharp noses and s.h.i.+ny black gla.s.s eyes. The woman with the piled-up hair was wearing a coat, too, and a lifejacket.

"It's so cold," the young woman said, s.h.i.+vering. "Shouldn't we go up to the Boat Deck?"

Joanna hoped they would. Then she would know where the door to the Grand Staircase was.

But the bearded man shook his head and said, "I have sent the steward to find out what is happening.

Until then, I think it best that we remain here."

"Yes, Edith," the other woman said, putting a white-gloved hand on the young woman's arm, "we'll ask the steward to light a fire," and they turned to go back into the pa.s.sage.

Joanna stepped out of their way and out into the middle of the deck. The Grand Staircase should be in the middle of the s.h.i.+p or slightly forward, which meant she needed to go toward the bow.

She wondered if she could, or whether any movement in that direction would take her back to the lab.

I'll have to risk it, she thought, looking toward the bow. There was another deck light that way, s.h.i.+ning with a blinding brilliance she couldn't see past. She s.h.i.+elded her eyes and walked into it.

And into a wall. It extended all the way to the windows with no doors in it. Now what? she thought. I'll have to access the Grand Staircase from one of the other decks, and remembered there was an entrance to it from the Boat Deck. The band had stood just inside the doors to it while they played.She ran down the deck to the aft staircase. It was locked, but the door to the second-cla.s.s stairway wasn't. She ran up the three flights to the Boat Deck. Her red tennis shoe was still in the door, wedging it open. She left it there and walked toward the bow, trying every door. They were all locked, even the one to the wireless shack. She went around to the gymnasium.

Greg Menotti was just coming out, dressed in a white Nike sweats.h.i.+rt and dark blue sweatpants, a water bottle strapped to his leg. "Greg," she said. "Do you know where the Grand Staircase is?"

"Grand Staircase?" he said. "You mean the main staircase? It's over here." He jogged over to the aft stairway, Joanna in his wake.

"No, not that one," she said breathlessly. "The Grand Staircase. It has marble steps and a bronze cherub."

He was shaking his head. "You're really out of shape, you know that?" he said. "How often do you jog?"

"You haven't seen any other stairways? What about on the other decks? Did you see any other stairways there?"

"On the other floors, you mean? No. 'Bye. I've got six more laps to do." He jogged off toward the stern, his white sweats.h.i.+rt bobbing in and out of shadow.

What now? She was sure there was an entrance to the Grand Staircase from the Boat Deck.

Heidi had said Kate Winslet's mother and the creepy boyfriend had stood at the foot of its stairs waiting for their boat to be called, so all she had to do was find it. But the only doors left to try were those to the officers' quarters.

She tried them anyway. They were all locked, too, except for the last one. It was a closet, with piles of blankets. Maybe they have the t.i.tanic's name on them, she thought, and shook one out, but it was a featureless gray, and when she put it back, she saw, high up on a shelf, the Morse lantern the sailor had propped on the bow.

The name would be on the bow, Joanna thought, and ran out onto the forecastle and over to the railing. She grasped the rail with both hands and leaned far out, trying to see the side of the s.h.i.+p below her, but it was too dark to see it. She looked out at the horizon, searching for the Californian's light and then down at the blackness below. There's nothing down there, she thought, nothing out there.

Not just no light. Nothing. And if it goes down- She began to run, past the bridge, past the officers' quarters, past the lifeboats, thinking, Please let my shoe still be there, please let the door to the pa.s.sage be open, and was all the way down the stairs past the A La Carte Restaurant before she was able to stop herself, grabbing on to the polished railing as if it were a lifeline, forcing herself to stand still, to think.

"You can't go back yet," she said aloud, her hands gripping the stair rail. "You have to find out for sure if it's the t.i.tanic." And the deck's not listing yet, the stairs are still dry. There's plenty of time.

And there has to be an entrance to the Grand Staircase from the Promenade Deck.She forced herself to walk back up the stairs to the restaurant and along the pa.s.sage. It ended in a door, and she opened it and went out on the Promenade Deck. It was dark, but there was light coming from windows farther along. Stained-gla.s.s windows. They shone in patterns of red and yellow, blue and green, on the wooden deck. She walked down to them and looked in the windows.

It was a bar of some sort. It was dimly lit and smoky, and over against one wall, she could see a mirrored mahogany bar with ranks of liquor bottles and glittering gla.s.ses. At one of the tables a man in evening dress with a dark mustache sat, dealing out a hand of cards. He dealt them one at a time, facedown, and then picked them up, stared at them, arranged his hand, stared at them again. After a while he shuffled his hand into the deck, and dealt another hand.

I could go ask him what the name of the s.h.i.+p is, Joanna thought. Unlike Greg Menotti, he looked like he had no illusions about where he was and what he was doing here, but something in his face made her drop her hand from the door and leave him there, dealing, shuffling, dealing again.

There was no one in the next room, which was even more elegant than the bar. The walls and the white pillars were decorated with gold filigree, and the chairs and sofas were upholstered in gold brocade. Yellow-silk-shaded lamps stood next to the chairs and on small tables, casting a golden light over the whole room. Books lay on the tables and stood in gla.s.sed-in bookcases lining both end walls.

The s.h.i.+p's library, Joanna thought, or some sort of writing room. On the far wall, next to the deck windows, was a row of desks. They had lamps, too, and neatly arranged pens and envelopes and cream-colored writing paper. The name of the s.h.i.+p will be on the stationery, Joanna thought.

She pushed open the beveled-gla.s.s door and walked in and across to the nearest desk. Too late, she saw the room wasn't deserted after all. A man sat at the last writing desk, bent earnestly over a letter. She could see his graying hair and the white sleeve of his s.h.i.+rt as he dipped his pen in the ink bottle, wrote, dipped it again.

She hesitated, but he hadn't looked up as she came across the room. He dipped his pen in the ink again, poised it above the paper again. Joanna tiptoed to the nearest desk. The envelopes and writing paper lay in cubbyholes. She reached to pull out a sheet of the paper.

"Do you have a hall pa.s.s, Ms. Lander?" the man said sternly, and Joanna wheeled.

"Mr. Briarley!" she gasped.

"Joanna Lander," Mr. Briarley said, smiling broadly. "I had no idea you were here!" He stood up and started toward her, knocking against the desk as he did. The ink bottle wobbled, and the pen rolled off onto the gold carpet. He steadied the ink bottle and then clasped her hand in both of his.

"How delightful! Sit down, sit down," he said, pulling a chair over from one of the other desks. "I had no idea you were on board."

"You remember me?" Joanna said.

"I remember all my students," he said, "even though there were hordes of them, gleaming in purple and gold. You were in second period. You were fond of 'The Rime of the Ancient Mariner,' as I recall. 'Alone, alone, all, all alone, alone on a wide, wide sea.' And you never asked, 'Will this be onthe final?' "

"That was because I knew what you'd say," Joanna smiled. "You always said, 'It will all be on the final.' "

"And so it will," Mr. Briarley said. "Knowing that did not stop Ricky Inman from asking, however. Tell me, does he still rock back in his chair and overbalance?"

"I don't know," Joanna said, laughing. "He's a stockbroker these days."

"And you?" Mr. Briarley asked. "Let me see, as I recall, you intended to major in psychology."

"I did," Joanna said, thinking joyfully, He remembers. This is the old Mr. Briarley, the way he ought to be, funny and acerbic and smart, and this is the conversation we ought to have had that day at the house. "I'm at Mercy General now. I'm working on a research project involving near-death experiences."

"Which would explain why you were not on the pa.s.senger list," he said. "I was certain I hadn't seen your name. Near-death experiences. Accounts of those who have returned to tell the tale. 'The times have been that, when the brains were out, the man would die, and there an end, but now they rise again.' And what have you learned from these voyages to 'the country from whose bourn no traveler returns'?"

"I-" Joanna said, and, across the library, the door opened, and the steward came in.

He walked quickly up to them. "I beg your pardon, miss," he said to Joanna and turned to Mr.

Briarley. "If I might speak to you a moment, sir."

"Of course," Mr. Briarley said. The two men went over by the bookcases, and the steward began speaking in a low, urgent voice. Joanna caught the words "requested me to ask you" and "know what happened."

"Tell them..." Mr. Briarley said, and Joanna stepped forward, trying to hear. As she did, her hand brushed against the desk and knocked the ink bottle over. Ink splashed onto the floor, soaking darkly into the carpet. Joanna bent to right the bottle, reaching in her pocket for a Kleenex.

"Yes, sir, thank you, sir," the steward said. "I'll tell them. They will be much relieved."

The steward went out, and Mr. Briarley came back over to the desk where Joanna knelt, blotting up the spilled ink.

"Never mind," he said, taking her arm to raise her gently to standing. "It doesn't matter. Come, sit down, and in a moment we'll go have tea," he said, sitting down at the desk again. "I must just finish writing a note first." He picked up the pen and began to write.

Joanna had forgotten that she'd come in here to look for the t.i.tanic's name on the stationery.

She looked down at the note he was writing, hoping the letter would be faceup so she could see the letterhead, but it wasn't a letter. It was a postcard."I was writing a message to my niece," Mr. Briarley said. There was no printed letterhead on the postcard, only three lines for the address and the words "Dear Kit."

"Have you met my niece?" he asked and, before she could answer, said, "You'd like her. She was named after Kit Marlowe. 'Is this the face that launched a thousand s.h.i.+ps?' Though I doubt he meant this one. And, 'Honour is purchased by the deeds we do. It is not won until some honourable deed is done.' Did he manage to win it? I wonder. There is always less time than we imagine. Time that in his case ended abruptly in an inn in Deptford."

"I know," Joanna said.

Mr. Briarley looked pleased. "You remember that from cla.s.s?"

"No, I saw the movie. Shakespeare in Love," she said. "With Gwyneth Paltrow." I can't believe we're having this conversation, she thought. "Vielle and I rented it."

"Stabbed to death," Mr. Briarley said. "A quick way to die, though not as quick perhaps as he imagined. Or as serene, though he may have had some idea. 'Pray for me!' Faust says, 'and what noise soever ye hear, come not unto me, for nothing can rescue me.' Though that's not always true.

And, at any rate, there is still time for tea, though it is a pity I didn't know of your being on board sooner. We would have had time to talk of many things, 'of shoes and s.h.i.+ps-' " He stood up and took his coat off the back of the chair and put it on. "And time to solve the mysteries of the universe.

Well, it can't be helped, and there should still be time for tea, at least."

He picked up the postcard and slid it inside his jacket, too quickly for Joanna to get more than a glimpse of a hand-colored photo of a s.h.i.+p and pale blue ocean, pale blue sky, on the other side. "I have an errand to run first," he said, "and then we'll go to the A La Carte Restaurant. No, perhaps it had better be the Palm Court. It's farther aft." He looked at his watch. "Yes, definitely the Palm Court, but I must take this to the post office first."

"The post office?" Joanna said, thinking of the mail clerk, dragging the wet canvas bag up the stairs. "No, wait, Mr. Briarley," but he was already out the door of the library.

She ran after him out onto the deck. "Mr. Briarley!" she called, but he was disappearing through another door. "You can't go down to the mail room," she shouted, opening it and running down the curving marble steps to the bronze statue at its foot. "It's already underwater," she said, and stopped, staring at the statue.

It was a cherub, with wings and curly hair, holding aloft a golden torch. I knew there was an entrance on the Promenade Deck, Joanna thought. Because there was no mistaking this was the Grand Staircase. And no mistaking what s.h.i.+p she was on.

She turned and looked back up at the head of the stairs, and there was the bronze clock flanked by two angels with long robes and wings. Honour and Glory Crowning Time. Joanna craned her neck to look up at the skylight. The curved gla.s.s was the same milky-gold color as in the one above the aft staircase, but this one was much larger, and in the center hung a crystal chandelier, light radiating from it like glittering diamond prisms. "It is the t.i.tanic," Joanna said, and turned back to Mr. Briarley.

He wasn't there. While she'd been looking at the skylight, he'd vanished. Which way had hegone? She ran down to the bottom of the stairs to look over the railing at the decks below. "Mr.

Briarley!" she shouted, but he wasn't on the stairs, and as she leaned forward, trying to see into the darkness, she heard a door off to the left slam. She ran in the direction of the sound, down a long, brightly lit corridor carpeted in red toward the door that was just closing.

"Mr. Briarley!" she called, opening the door. Beyond it, the corridor widened and made a turn, and there was another stairway, and on the deck below, the sound of another door closing. Joanna pattered down the stairs. Next to the stairway was a small room with a red-and-white-striped pole.

The barber shop, and next to it, on the corner, a teller's window with a gold-lettered sign above it: "Purser's Office." The post office must be somewhere nearby.

Between the barber shop and the purser's was a door. There was no sign on it, but when Joanna put her hand on it, it opened easily. Inside, red-and-black cloth-covered wires crossed and recrossed on a large wooden board, and coming from somewhere-the headphones, lying in front of the board-was an insistent ringing.

The s.h.i.+p's switchboard, Joanna thought, hurrying past the purser's and around the corner. This pa.s.sage wasn't lit, and after the bright lights of the stairway, she couldn't see anything. She took a few tentative steps in. "Why, this is my pa.s.sage," she said.

"What did she say?" Richard asked sharply.

" 'Pa.s.sed away,' " Tish said. "I think she's awake."

"She can't be," Richard said, and Joanna felt her sleep mask being removed.

She opened her eyes. "I am," she said, "but I didn't say 'pa.s.sed away.' I said 'pa.s.sageway.' I went in by mistake. I didn't realize it was my pa.s.sage." She tried to sit up. "It was the other end of it. I was-"

"Lie still," Tish said, wrapping a blood pressure cuff around Joanna's arm. "I haven't even taken your vitals yet."

"I wouldn't have gone in it if I'd realized-"

"Lie still," Tish said. Joanna obeyed, waiting for Tish to finish monitoring her and begin unhooking the electrodes and the IV.

"Do you think it was because of the lowered dosage?" Tish asked, untaping the IV needle and sliding it out.

"I don't know," Richard said. "It was well above the threshold level."

"What happened?" Joanna asked, twisting her head around to see Richard.

"You kicked out," Tish said. "Just like Mrs. Troudtheim."

"Kicked out?" Joanna said, bewildered. "But I couldn't have. I was all over the-" She looked at Tish. "I was all over. I was there a long time."Richard helped her to a sitting position. "How long?"

"I don't know," Joanna said, trying to think. She'd gone up to the Boat Deck and talked to Greg Menotti and then had the conversation with Mr. Briarley. How long had that taken? And then they'd walked down to the Grand Staircase- "Oh, I have something to tell you," she said. "About what I' saw. It's definitely the... what we discussed before."

"How long?" he repeated as if he hadn't heard her.

"An hour at least."

"An hour?" Tish blurted.

"You have a continuous memory of events?" Richard asked. "Not fragmented flashes?"

"No. It was just like the other times. Everything happened in sequence."