AMAZON JOURNEY
[With Apologies to Bogie and Bacall]
Thomas stood on the forward deck of the Seabourn Pride and watched the last passengers file on. The Fort Lauderdale quay was teeming with wellwishers. Soon the Pride would leave for the upper Amazon by way of Mayreau and Devil's Island. The crew was already pulling the gangway. He knew he couldn't go back to Club Westbrook. Twenty five years of women in and out of his life, and now he had to meet the one woman whose single word of rejection could turn him into a ghost for the rest of his days. And for the first time in his life, he couldn't chance it. He had been trying to bring himself to for months. She probably had no idea whatsoever how he felt. If he didn't get out, he would die, pure and simple. Not right away -- he wasn't suicidal or anything. Maybe he would just wake up dead in some stinking alleyway in some anonymous city. Tangiers, Istanbul, Bogota. Or he'd fall through an ice crevasse down a thousand feet on Denali that he would've never missed otherwise. No telling.
He stood at the rail and looked down at the crowd on the quay. What a fool. Looking for a face he knew wouldn't, couldn't be there. He grabbed the rails with both hands and held on tight. If he let go he knew he would pace the deck, moaning to himself like a caged lion, looking out at an audience that seemed to laugh at him. Just another coward, taking the slinking coward's way out. He knew what he would do -- from Anavilhanas, the source of the Amazon, he'd just stay onboard and round South America, Rio, Buenos Aires, round the Horn, to Valparaiso, Chile. And from Valparaiso, he'd take the next route, up the coast, Acapulco, San Diego. From there, he'd take the next one, up the coast to Alaska, and the next one, to eastern Siberia and from there through Southeast Asia to the South Pacific. From the South Pacific to the Indian Ocean, round Africa's Cape of Good Hope and up the west coast of Africa to the Med and the Black Sea via Istanbul. And from the Med, via the Azores, back to Fort Lauderdale. He'd be gone six months. And if he felt like it, he'd just do it again. Every week would cost him fifteen grand on this boat. No big deal. The best ship afloat, small and appointed with every conceivable luxury. And a great place to be miserable. Every two weeks, new passengers. Nobody would know who he was. Except the crew and that didn't matter. He'd talk to the burser tomorrow about bookings. He finally let go of the rail with his right hand, put his hand in his pocket, pulled out his lucky silver quarter. No wishes left on this thing. He flipped it over the side, watched it arc gracefully and hit the water with a little splash and disappear.
The First Officer, Solberg, stopped by to chat. All the senior crew were Norwegian. Thomas knew him well from two other times out. "Ahh, Mr. White. Good to see you again!! Solo this time I see? " Solberg smiled in a bemused sort of way. " I assume you'll be available for dinner with the Captain tomorrow night? Just the two of you. Andressen. You've met before. Good!! Formal of course." Thank God it wasn't tonight. Tonight he wanted to get drunk. Stinking drunk, by himself in his cabin, bottle of Glenlivet by his side until morning. A great start for at least a six month flight from his past.
The ship's throaty foghorn sounded, and she began to pull slowly away. Enough of this, he thought, and walked slowly back towards his suite, hands in pockets. Time to break open the Glenlivet. He was glad he could get the Owner's Suite, six hundred square feet of luxury appointments, with its own private sundeck, facing forward so you could look out and see where you were going. Good, he thought, he sure as hell did not want to see where he'd been. Only two suites like it on the whole ship.
He unlocked his door and walked in. The suite spread out from the door, living room and dining nook with table for six, and the bedroom behind. To the right the sundeck, curtained and glass doored, with doors open so the curtains swayed slightly with the light breeze. He looked toward his unpacked luggage to get the small bag that held the scotch. Something way wrong. There, next to his two big suitcases, was a steamer trunk that was most definitely not his. He walked up to it. Five feet long, hand tooled leather, Louis Vuitton. The real McCoy and probably worth fifteen grand, never mind what was probably inside. Well, somebody had to be missing it. Porters must have gotten confused. He'd never seen that happen before on Seabourn.
[TO BE CONTINUED] |
