The Cat's Table - Michael Ondaatje [70]
It was, she said, as if I had grown up believing that everything was perilous. A deceit must have done that. “So you give your friendship, your intimacy, only to those distant from you.” Then she asked me, Did I still believe that my cousin had been involved in a murder? That if I opened myself up and spoke the truth about what I knew, she would continue to be in danger? “Your goddamn cautious heart. Who did you love that did this to you?”
“I loved you.”
“What?”
“I said I loved you.”
“I don’t think so. Someone damaged you. Tell me what happened when you came to England.”
“I went to school.”
“No, when you came. Because something must have happened. I thought you were okay, when I saw you again, after Ramadhin died. But I don’t think so. What?”
“I said I loved you.”
“Yeah, loved. You’re leaving my life, aren’t you.”
In this way, valid or not, we burned the few good things remaining between us.
EVERY AFTERNOON, from the time we left Port Said, the orchestra, in their usual plum-coloured clothes, played waltzes on the Promenade Deck, and everyone came out to take in the milder sun of the Mediterranean. Mr. Giggs walked among us, shaking hands. And there was Mr. Gunesekera, with his red scarf around his neck, bowing as he passed. Miss Lasqueti wore her pigeon jacket with the ten cushioned pockets, each housing a tumbler or a jacobin, their heads staring out while she strode the decks to give them sea air. But there was no Mr. Mazappa. His wild, raucous humour was gone. There were only a few excitements, the most important being that the O’Neal Weimaraner was believed to have jumped overboard and swum ashore around the time we left the harbour at Port Said. But we were sure that if the dog had gone overboard, Mr. Invernio would have leapt after it into the sea. Still, we were pleased that with the disappearance of this two-time Crufts Dog Show winner, our Captain had yet another problem on his hands. So far it had not proven to be his most successful voyage. One more crisis, Miss Lasqueti said, and this might be his last. In the privacy of our cabin Mr. Hastie hinted that the Weimaraner had been stashed away somewhere by Invernio, since it was clear he was besotted with the creature and did not seem too upset at its disappearance. Mr. Hastie said he would not be surprised if Mrs. Invernio—if there was a Mrs. Invernio—was seen in a few weeks walking the pedigreed creature in Battersea Park.
An outdoor concert was given one night on the Promenade Deck, with the sound of the sea filling our ears. It was classical music, something Cassius, Ramadhin, and I had never heard about, and because the three of us had grabbed seats in the front row, we were not able to get up and leave, unless we pretended to be overcome by illness. I was not really listening, trying instead to invent a dramatic walk away from my seat while clutching my stomach. But I was hearing now and then something familiar. The sounds were coming from a redheaded woman on the stage, who tossed her hair this way and that, playing her violin by herself while the other musicians were quiet. Something was very familiar about her. Perhaps I had seen her in the pool. A hand from behind me squeezed my shoulder, and I turned around.
“I think she could be your violinist,” Miss Lasqueti whispered into my ear.
I had complained to her about the noises next to my cabin during the afternoons. I looked at the programme that had been left on my seat. Then I looked at the woman pushing her wild hair back whenever she could find a pause in the music. So it was not her face that was familiar, but the notes and squawks that were now beginning to link with the music coming from the others. It was as if they were accidentally joining in on a similar melody. It must have felt to her like a wonderful thing, this, after all those wretched hours in the high temperatures of her cabin.
EXAMINATION BOOKLET ENTRY #30:
Crimes Committed