The Dust of 100 Dogs - A. S. King [36]
She squirmed at the thought of it and followed the servant dutifully to the awaiting carriage. There, she was ushered to an ornate inner seat between two windows. On the right, she could see only the dock and several ships. She searched the ship for her presumed fiancé and found him talking to the captain very seriously. Probably making sure the men on board didn’t steal his precious virgin, she thought. She wanted to vomit. When she looked to the left, she saw a more promising escape. Before her, a city larger than she had ever seen before sprawled from horizon to horizon.
The servant, William, sat patiently and watched her. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he asked.
“Very big,” she answered.
“I suppose, from what you’re used to.”
She nodded.
“If you don’t mind me asking,” he started, “why do you look so disappointed? I know what Connacht is like myself, and wouldn’t fancy going back.”
“I’m just tired,” she answered, still watching the city. There was a crowd of people only a hundred yards away. Perhaps they were waiting for other passengers by the dock, or were there to board a ship. (Her mother spoke—That way, Emer. That way.)
“You’ll be in a fine soft bed within the hour. You can rest then. We have an exceptional bath—I’m sure you’ll feel right at home.”
“I could use a bath.”
“Did you find the voyage exciting?”
“I was bound and locked in a room with one meal a day, looking forward only to being the slave of a stranger. I’m sorry to sound so rude, but does that sound exciting to you?”
“I see. I see. Well, you’ll need not worry about that sort of treatment here. Master is civilized, at least, and a jolly good man. I can promise you that. Ah!” he said, pointing. “Here he comes now.”
She turned her head to the right and saw him approaching, two sailors behind him carrying the large case she brought as luggage. Dear God, he is horrible, she thought. So fat that he might crush me, and so old! What sort of a joke is this? She looked back at the crowd of people, and Paris. As William stepped down, to ready the carriage for his employer and open the door on the right, Emer pressed the door handle on the left and made her escape.
She ran, as fast as she could, toward the throng of people, not looking back for fear it would slow her down. A short chase ensued—she could hear the fat man yelling, and swearing in English at his servant.
“Run faster, you idiot! You’ll lose her! That’s my fucking property!”
Soon she heard nothing but the sounds of the crowd, the foreign giggles of women and children as they waited at the dock. She blended in, the same way she had in the church the day that Cromwell came, and then she hid herself in a pile of planks.
An hour later, she stepped out of the crowd—facing Paris as a free woman.
A year later, she had still found no happiness in France. That afternoon, though, she had finally done something about her situation. For weeks there had been signs posted, proving that what the Gaelic-speaking nun had said was true—each sign claimed that women like Emer would find happiness and husbands in a Caribbean republic called Tortuga. She had heard rumors from other women that it was a trick, promising only years of slavery in the hot sun. But after living for so long in the dark grotto in Paris, Emer figured she could do no worse.
The next morning she made the visit to town, brisk and careful, still afraid that the fat man and his servant might be looking for her. Emer signed a slip of paper and sighed. The man behind the desk smiled at her dumbly and thanked her in French.
She decided to block out anything her mother had to say until the voyage was preparing at dockside. No need to listen to Mairead now, she figured; no possible way to believe in an ideal world where the legendary Emer could actually do something about her desperate situation. When the day came to board the huge ship, she washed in the river and dressed in the only garments she owned. She braided her long, fair hair and let it hang down her back