The Cat's Table - Michael Ondaatje [59]
“I was so fond of his Sicilian manners,” she went on, “even the way he lit my cigarette, the long reach of his arm, as if igniting a fuse. Some thought he was a predator, but he was a delicate man. The panache was in his choice of words, and in the rhythm of them. I know masks and personas. I am a specialist in them. He was gentler than he seemed.” Hearing such speeches by her we assumed again a passion between the two. Surely they were soul mates, the way she spoke of him, in spite of, or even because of, the line about his “simultaneous widows.” Perhaps they would continue to communicate via the ship’s telegraph service, and I made a note to ask Mr. Tolroy about that. Besides, from Port Said to London was really not that far.
Then there was no more talk of Mr. Mazappa. Even from her. She kept to herself. Most afternoons I caught a glimpse of her in the shadows of B Deck, in a deck chair. She always had in her possession a copy of The Magic Mountain, but no one ever saw her reading it. Miss Lasqueti consumed mostly crime thrillers, which constantly seemed to disappoint her. I suspect that for her the world was more accidental than any book’s plot. Twice I saw her so irritated by a mystery that she half rose from the shadow of her chair and flung the paperback over the railing into the sea.
SUNIL, THE HYDERABAD MIND, who was part of the Jankla Troupe, was by now often to be seen with Emily. I suppose it was his more adult self that fascinated and then tempted my cousin. I could always recognize Sunil from a distance—his thinness, his acrobatic walk. Watching them I’d see his hand move up her arm and disappear into her sleeve, holding her in a controlling way, all the time speaking about the intricacies of a world she must have desired.
But about the time our ship slid alongside Port Said, they did not seem at ease in each other’s company. He’d be talking to her as they walked, that lean, strong arm of his gesturing to convince her of something, and then, falsely, he’d try to make her laugh when he saw her lack of interest. A boy of eleven, like any experienced dog, can read the gestures of those around him, can see the power in a relationship drift back and forth. The only power Emily had was her beauty, her youth, I suppose, and perhaps something she was not even aware of having in her possession. And he was trying to capture these with arguments or, if that failed, a quick juggling of nearby objects or a one-armed handstand.
Even if Emily had not been with him I would have been curious about him.
I POSITIONED MYSELF AT an equal distance from three tables in the dining room. There was the very tall couple with a small child at one; at the other were women whispering, and somewhere else were two stern men. My head was down, I was pretending to read. I listened. I imagined my ears pointing towards the couple with the child. The woman was telling the man about the pains in her chest. Then she asked him how he had slept. And he answered, “I have no idea.” At the second table one of the whispering women said, “So I asked him, ‘How can it be an aphrodisiac and a laxative?’ And he said, ‘Well, it’s all in the timing.’ ” At the third table, nothing was going on. I listened again to the tall couple with the baby, a doctor and his wife. He was listing some powders she could take.
Wherever I was I did this, since Miss Lasqueti had said, “You must keep your ears and eyes open. It’s an education out there.” And I continued filling my old St.