Don’t ever ask me what it is I’m doing, sometimes I even amaze
myself. I’m constantly surprised. Why it was just yesterday when I
got myself into another one of those peculiar scrapes and muddles
that time and time again I get caught up in. I was sitting
there, in my lovely new black velvet dress with the tiny white lace
collar and cuffs, at a table by a pavement café and I’ll be very
honest and say that I was well and truly caught up in an innocent if
slightly erotic daydream. A passing cloud of uncontrolled thought
that for just a few seconds happened to alight upon my temple and get
somehow into my brow and the cavity that‘s set aside for those
secret little things. Well of course it was about the marvellous
young Ronnie (I’m sure you’ve heard me speak of him from time to
time). So there we were and there was I, utterly captivated in the
imaginary moment, a moment that did seem very real to such was the
stirring inside that it created. He has a wondrous touch, Ronnie.
Anyway I was violently rocked from the calm sea of this idyll by the
abrupt and quite unwelcome presence of Mr Frank Delaney. A sometimes
rough and stupidly unpleasant (but very rich) businessman who I
regularly discourage but who none the less seems to have very much of
a soft spot for me. I often see him a parties and functions and he
hovers, like a single balding, greying hot air balloon on the fringes
of our company. He’s bearable in small doses I suppose and I can be
pleasant if I want to.
“Sophie?” He began with his stupid question, as if I could
ever be anybody else other than myself. I did not bother to answer
his ridiculous question, I simple mouthed a “Hello Mr Delaney“. I
allowed my tongue to roll a little on the ell of Delaney. I did this
as a simple tease, for fun I suppose. He replied with a winning but
for me annoying smile then promptly apologising for disturbing me but
also asking if he might join me. I was still tasting lipstick from
the tongue roll and still warming up from the imaginary presence of
young Ronnie but I managed an automatic if stiff nod of approval with
the minimum of head movement, I was eager to stay serene and graceful
today. Mr Delaney sat down, groaned a little and allowed his legs to
spring and splay a little as his posterior moulded into and with the
shape of the metal café chair. He could lose a little weight, ten
Pounds at least. It looked as if he had something serious to say to
me.
At that moment a waiter came out and Mr Delaney nodded politely
in my direction. “Champagne!” I trilled without hesitation
and wiggled a pinkie. Mr Delaney said nothing but glanced down
at his pocket watch. “Indeed!” he said to the waiter and trolled
of the name of some famous French brand or other, “and a black
coffee for me, thank you.” He was watching me across the menu and I
began to play with my hair, curling a strand around my finger, round
and round, back and forth as if he bored me. I lit a cigarette
purposely not offering him one, which was very much the current
fashion. I liked these new selfish and assertive fashions, the kind
that it seemed only women of a certain type could get away with
in any company.
“Sophie, it is very fortunate (for me) that I’ve happened to
meet you today. I was rather thinking about you, in may I say the
best of ways and the most favourable of settings and circumstances.
You see Sophie I have something of a problem that I believe you may
be able to help me with.” I tried to look politely uninterested and
blew some smoke as a silent response and possible piece of useful
vapid punctuation. “Sophie” (I could see he liked to say my name
and obviously thought that the more he said it the more I’d somehow
listen to him and possibly even agree or assent to whatever his
proposal was), “I am not getting any younger, I’m comfortably
well off and I was thinking about the future. They say that there may
be war, they say that Europe is unstable, threats here and there, hot
spots, disease and Bolsheviks and the markets are very unstable, I’m
sure you read the newspapers or hear this from your father .” (Of
course I do on both counts, stupid lump!). I was therefore
considering taking some action that might as it were, bolster us (?)
up in these times, consolidate our (?) positions and protect
our (?) assets and those things that we (?) hold near and dear. I’m
sure, Sophie, that you understand that, being the modern and
experienced woman that you are.”
“As you know I have wide and varied business interests, I’ve
always believed in spreading risk and I’m unafraid of change and
new and innovative ways of working.” I tried not to yawn, it was an
effort. Fortunately the Champagne arrived and I was delivered of a
full and bubbling glass of the sweetest, pinkest variety. “Your
health”, I offered as I sipped the first delicious mouthful. I
caught Delaney’s eyes on my chest, on the gold heart shaped locket
that was sitting there, moving and rising on my breathing flesh as my
head tilted back slightly to finish the glass. It was a very pleasant
drink after all and that one glass had both reminded me of and
removed the stains that were my earlier thoughts of Ronnie. Ronnie
with the golden Rolls Royce. The sun was in my eyes now, Delaney was
talking but I was, in the moment marvellously light headed and
vacant. Like a guilty Buddhist stealing nectar from the temple or so
I thought, I allowed myself an inner giggle. He was looking at my
legs now. The waiter poured another delightful glass and I felt
myself smiling a little too broadly. Mother had always said a girl
should never show her teeth in such circumstances and with an
unattached man, I did miss her influence and advice, just now and
then.
Mr Delaney was still talking… “So I have taken delivery of a
large airship built by the highly reputable Graf Zeppelin company and
I intend to use it to survey this unexplored region. I am therefore
putting together a small team of specialists who will accompany me on
this venture and I was wondering if you would care to join me acting
as a co-host and translator. The team is multi national, to encourage
sponsorship and your language skills as well as your bright and
brilliant personality will be invaluable.” Having missed the first
part of Delaney’s proposal I was, momentarily taken aback. My
mother’s words came to me from somewhere inside, as a timely
lifeline. “When in doubt, pout.” I pouted. The effect was
immediate and instantaneous, like a distress flare or firework had
gone off in Delaney‘s trousers. “My dear Sophie,” began
Delaney, he was leaning into my personal space now. “ What I meant
to say of course was that you would not simply be an employee or
associate on this glorious and life changing expedition, you would
also be...” He grabbed at my hand across the table and held it too
tightly for comfort. I worried that he might crush the white lace
cuff with all it’s fine detail but my hand was suddenly warm from
being squeezed so painfully and it was all strangely pleasant. “You
would, if you would agree, accompany me as my wife!” Immediately I
just felt the strongest desire to rip off his white cotton shirt and
whip his bare back with my best riding crop until it bled and
he cried out for mercy or for more.
Well that was yesterday’s little muddle, now it’s today and
I’ve just partaken of fresh marriage vows, more Champagne
and signed the register as Mrs Sophie Alice Delaney newly of
West Winds, New Hampton, Connecticut. I’m with my Frank right
now dutifully standing beside him as the flight arrangements are
finalised. It has been such a busy twenty four hours and I’ve
hardly had a wink of sleep. The licence was of course rushed through
but we had little choice in matters though Frank has quite a lot of
influence in this town. Marriage and a long foreign trip with a bunch
of delicious and strange people, it might not be such a bad
thing. The airship is fully loaded and is now ready to leave at 9PM
tonight. We pick up the rest of the team and crew in Zanzibar
apparently. What else was a girl supposed to do? Of course it’s not
quite the way that I imagined my wedding day but I have been married
twice before. You could say that a little of the shine has gone from
the ceremonials for me but I do still like to dress up and enjoy a
glittering party or a Celtic wake. A good wedding and a good party,
it’s all life or it’s all death. I float like a bright butterfly,
somewhere in between and across that void. So what if I’ve also
partied after funerals, I suppose you knew that? I certainly enjoyed
the two that followed both of my late husbands’ funerals. Neither
marriage lasted quite long enough but I hate to look back. You have
to do something with the money don’t you? You can suppress the
memories, bury them with the feelings, I’ve found that anyway, then
the cash runs out. Life goes on and I do think it’s so unfair the
way they label me and libel me in those gutter-press articles. Black
Widow indeed.
Perhaps I should tell you a little more about the wedding. Well
I’ll not bother to say much about the ceremony, there hardly was
one and I was happy with that. We avoided religious or wormy and
flowery words, we touched as little as possible and I managed to pick
up a rather adorable solid gold pen that’s now at the bottom of my
handbag. Frank actually looked rather smart, clearly he’d done some
preparation and I did like his sharp grey suit, gold stick pins,
black and white spats the red and white ribbon and the parrot
feathers on his top hat. He looked distinguished and for me in that
moment it was all almost appropriate. I took that as a compliment and
for a few seconds felt warm. We did exchange rings and I lost that
feeling, they were slightly disappointing, being forged from
some priceless unworldly alloy that had been found in deposits on a
Chinese meteorite. The same alloy had been incorporated into elements
of the Zeppelin’s engines apparently. I think it tickled Frank, I’m
a little harder to please.
The guests were all Frank’s choice, business people and those
associated with the expedition. I was pleasant but ignored most of
them and of course my family was conveniently out of town. The
business people would go back to their atrocious bean counting and
those on the expedition would no doubt end up stabbing and eating
themselves. I chose my friends very carefully.
My outfit was, what can I say? Conservative and restrained. I knew
I’d be in those papers and I knew they’d be some whiff of scandal
or historical mish mash. So I dressed as if I was Anne Boleyn
headed for the scaffold but in a modern way. I used greys and blues
against all the colour chart’s advice and counsel. There were a few
flashbulbs but no outbursts. I think Frank was relived when it was
all over. We took a long black car to the airport and closed the
doors in the airship hanger and enjoyed brightly coloured cocktails
and canapés whilst a band played modern jazz (not to my taste) to
our guests. It was almost pleasant. Once I’d secured my quarters
and pissed all over my newly acquired space I was fine. Not
long after that we were relatively silently launched into the night
sky. All ballast adjusting waterworks and long issues of gas and
vapour. Thankfully there were no fireworks or ostentatious
celebrations.
On the ship
Yesterday had passed by too quickly and now I’m lying in bed in
the owner’s suite on board the Zeppelin. A rather lavish little
nest I’d decided to make my own, well for the duration of the trip
anyhow. So of course I’m alone, there was no way that the boorish,
pawing Frank was ever going to spend the whole night with me even
after all the wining, dining and trip planning and exploration. No,
no, just because we’re married I didn’t want him to think he
owned me, neither in body or soul plus I was tired and deception,
even in it’s simplest forms takes quite a bit of energy. I don’t
know where he slept last night but it wasn’t going to be here. Of
course he’d tried to get in but I slipped away, a speciality. I’d
already had his baggage moved and as if he already fully understood
my rules of engagement, he didn’t complain.
Reclining on a feather bed and flying at ten thousand feet is a new
experience even for me. There’s a weird sensation of moving, the
engines throb and hum of course and outside only dark clouds roll by.
On the wall there are three German clocks, I’m unsure which one to
believe, New York, Berlin or Tokyo? I decide to ignore them and to
live and move in my own time and have a bath, just then the phone
chirps. Frank’s at the other end, “Darling, I’m on the bridge,
care to join me for morning coffee with the Captain?” I feel a
sudden and intense rush of aloofness. “Darling, I look a
fright, I’m just not used to this kind of travel. I need a little
time to adjust. You do your business and I’ll join you and your
good Captain for lunch, maybe.”
I’m sure there’s a maid somewhere I could call upon but I
decide to run a bath myself. I deserve some peace and luxury. I’m
pleasantly surprised by the bath, the water is piping hot,
almost aromatic and even when filled up the bath water remains
steady. Perhaps there are elaborate brass springs and mechanisms
underneath that keep it stable, all tethered up to the steering gear.
Maybe the Captain just happens to know what he’s doing and has a
mature and steady hand. Maybe the weather up here is suddenly
agreeable. I’ll wait and see. I’m already enjoying what I imagine
to be an ocean crossing, I pour a brandy and lie back and think
of…jewels. From the odd angle of the bath I regard the room. It’s
opulent and overblown, all that’s missing is a monkey in a golden
cage whose special talent is catch thrown grapes in his little fists.
I’m glad that the designer omitted that piece of detail, perhaps
the bath brought it all firmly up to the weight limit.
I imagine that lunch will be a tiresome affair, all introductions
and manners. I decide that I’ll float today, I’ll dress to float
and float politely through lunch and whatever happens next. I recall
the chapter and footnote in my black book that refers to such social
encounters. “New People in Confined Spaces”. Floating along and
never quite landing is the best strategy and I do like to have a
strategy and plan, even if my strategy and plan is to be spontaneous
and impulsive (which may have been yesterdays’ taken to the limit).
The airship though large because of gas capacity is quite
compact at a human level, all the accommodation gondolas neatly
connected by shiny corrugated corridors and walkways. It doesn’t
really take much time to get from A to B or from my state room to the
dining room or the bridge. I’ve already decided I don’t like the
bridge. The crewmen there are all German and though officers they
have an aviation fuel smell, thin eyes, straight backs and
armoured trousers. Their short hair seems coated in a hydrogen grime,
a feature of too much time spent up in the air.
Frank welcomes me as I enter the dining room, “Darling!” The
waiter adjusts my seat and I sit between Frank and the Captain. The
Captain introduces himself properly (I saw him briefly last night
before he disappeared back to the bridge), his name is Johan. Around
the table there are a number of nodding and grinning heads, a rough
mix of the crew and the exploration team. I make eye contact with
each one, deliberately, holding their stare as long as I can, nodding
if I approve, staying stock still if I don’t. Apart from two other
ladies the party is male. The female combatants being xxxx the Irish
governess type, she is in charge of education and development (as the
project matures). Thin and severe looking but attractive. There’s
not a scrap of slap on her, she’s in a huge brown dress that makes
her look like a chestnut mare and she’s sporting a tightly
buttoned up collar. Her hair is fancy, too fancy, it must
have taken her half an hour this morning, I‘d like to pick each
Kirby grip out with my teeth and spit them onto the floor in disdain
and then make her pick them all up. Then there’s Ruth the duty
Chemist or Pharmacist or something. She’s younger, clever looking
and bubbly. Her complexion is fresh, natural but tired a little.
Somebody’s been working her too hard. I can imagine myself taking
great pleasure in strangling her at some point, she irritates.
Luckily she dodges my eye contact quickly so I decide to spare her
life for the time being. She may be useful if I need drugs I suppose.
She’s close to the Doctor, I see that, he’s an older man with
sprouting silver hair and a bad moustache. That ugly hair pours from
every other part of his head and shoulders as if his hormones are out
of control or his medication has been tampered with. She’s the
prime suspect.
The others bore me already, they are just hungry mercenaries
eating up our supplies and money. I decide to sit still and keep my
thoughts to myself. I sip a little more fine Brandy and act delicate.
I eat a little boiled white fish as if I was a mouse and listen to
the Captain drone about his faithful engines and the vagaries of the
weather at this height. Frank is all ears too, I’m not sure he
knows much about anything here other than the basics. This just a
Mississippi paddle steamer in the sky, a stereotypical gathering of
odd souls and gamblers headed for adventure or disaster or in my case
probably both and a little more.
Through the silk on my shoulder I feel a heavy hand, I hear a
familiar voice. “Now then, I’m sure a little of that brave
lasagna portion won’t hurt you will it?” I quiver a hidden quiver
and stare straight ahead, right through the bright young pharmacist,
she starts to look uneasy and drops her head noticeably into the
doctor‘s lap. I recover my composure, “Ronnie, darling, I had no
idea you’d joined our little expedition. Frank hardly said a word
to me!” My elbow meets Frank’s ribs in a forceful manner that
produces a cough and a spasm. I mouth, “Bastard!” He smiles and
winks, his thumb rubbing the intricate silver carved top of his cane
as he waves a napkin at nobody. Ronnie circles the room like a
buzzard and chooses an empty seat beside the brown mass of the
governess. He almost disappears behind the great Houses of Parliament
dress. He then grins across at me and clicks his fingers to the
waiter who approaches. Meanwhile I turn to my new husband, “Frank?”
I lean in and give Frank my best and most manipulative smile. “Ronnie
suggests the lasagna, will you try some?” Franks nods and asks the
waiter to bring him a portion. “Of course,” I continue as Frank
tucks in, “I’ve always considered eating lasagna to be a bit
like sucking the spunk from the carpet tiles in an Italian
whorehouse.” There will be times when I’ll ask myself where
is it that I’m at and why is it that I am this way or that way. I
ask honestly and diligently but I never ever give myself a straight
answer.
I’ve had a comfortable if peculiar sexual relationship with
Ronnie for some time. He knows everything about me. That’s rather
awkward, particularly in these rather close and intimate
circumstances where much could be gained or lost. Ronnie’s favour
and money have of course been very welcome and extremely useful and I
do like his strength and sense of criminal mischief. I did decide a
while ago however that I could live completely well without him. I
could make myself do that if I had to and that I would not require to
use a great deal of language to describe that. I find that holding
onto that feeling to be very important to me in a motive
focusing way. I like to know what I need and what I can use and what,
if necessary I could let go of. It was therefore no surprise to
me later in the afternoon when after the Captain had called for a
siesta time there was a knock upon my bedroom door. “Sophie!”
Whispered an agitated Ronnie through the keyhole. “It’s me. Are
you decent?”
Of course I’ve no intention whatsoever of being decent now or at
anytime but despite that we sat on the bed like two children, our
hands in our laps and he confided in me (so he said). His tale was a
long one of impending financial ruin, the pressure to get away from
heavy friends and the effect of some of my apparent if imagined
magnetism. “Delaney has agreed to cut me in on the profits and I
know that it may take time but I can wait, so I’m here. I’ve been
pulled into your orbit, married lady that you are.” He seemed to
find this hysterically funny, so much so I had to slap his face. He
slapped me back and this time we both laughed. “Go on and have your
siesta Mr Ronnie, I’ve got to fix my face, look at the red mark
you’ve left me with! Old habits die hard.”
Pearls without swine
So now that Ronnie has scuttled away I'm free to explore this
compact but Bijou stateroom that I find myself married and trapped
in, though I admit that his departure and the slap has left me a
little flushed and breathless. Sometimes I can be weak. I compose
myself and see that nothing was unpacked last night, it's all there,
my precious possessions, all erect and hanging like some stupid and
faithful dog bound up by the leather and brass fastenings. I can't
really be bothered to open in. Looking around I spot an innocuous
closet door, a strange mix of aluminium aircraft work, rivets and
wood finishes. It opens as if on rails to reveal a deep wardrobe
occupied only by a single dark fur coat topped with a fur hat. Nice
surprise, a present maybe? I recognise the pelts, Siberian Mink. The
labels are faded and unreadable but the coat is fresh and pristine,
brown, black and beautiful. Naturally I have to try it on but in this
place and at this time it can only be in the St Petersburg style,
naked from head to foot.
The coat is a warm dream and I'm enraptured by it's weight, it's
feel and it's fit. Here's an outfit worthy of any parade on the deck
of any fine ocean liner or coasting airship. I feel my promenade
moment coming on. Of course it's a high risk strategy venturing out
anywhere without the benefit of underclothes or foundation garments
but I feel like living a little more dangerously today that
err...even yesterday. Not to would be irritating and cowardly.
Inspired I open up my belted belongings and rummage in the jewellery
casket of my trunk and choose a pearl necklace and pearl drop
earrings, that's the underwear sorted. Then it's the faithful black
lace up boots and the fur hat to top off the ensemble. Now I'm ready
to meet the world at however many thousand feet or inches we are
currently sitting at. In seconds I'm out tottering on the metal
walkway, the heels are proving awkward, the waves far below signal
back through the weld-mesh. It turns out to be about five thousand
feet below, I discover this as I enter the bridge and quiz the
Captain. He seems grumpy but manages a smile and gives me the
information. Then I swish away and it's out into the sharply cold
evening across the walkway to the Saloon Gondola. All the main
airship areas are connected by open or covered walkways. In this
outfit I choose to navigate by the open areas and so prepare to enjoy
the rare air and the reduction in temperature.
The fur coat acts as a marvellous insulation device leaving me
only feeling a slight and sensuously delicious chill in a very few
nether regions and extremities, I enjoy the warmth of the fur and the
bitter and twisted touch of the evening cold as my sharp and illicit
contrasts. Like the warmth of alcohol and the chill of opium, like a
the touch of a hot hand and the rubbing of a cold foot, like a warm
Siamese massage or a dip into an icy lake in Finland. Contrasting
sensations and the conflicted feelings they generate are like a
charge of white bright electricity to my soul. Out here, leaning on
the frozen rail, allowing the coat to open and close slightly,
sharing only with myself the sudden exposure to the cold and then the
shelter from it is a dream of rare pleasure. At times like this I
only need me, myself and no one or nothing else. I look across the
grey horizon, I try to mask the drone of the engines, I see seabirds
circle below, I watch my breath cloud up and disappear behind me, I
pull my hat down a little tighter to cover my ears, I feel the stored
up cold of the pearls against my skin and I sense my own eyes to be
on fire with something deep and critical fuelling them from within. I
feel beautiful.
I'm lost in these moments, looking down at myself and out across
the Ocean Atlantico, the deepest and most treacherous of oceans,
storms and islands, sandbanks and seaweed choked seas, all clamour
below for attention in the greying day as the sun disappears far away
across some vague western location. Perhaps this is the peace that
passes all understanding. The foul and incendiary mix of the sensuous
and the spiritual that would inflame and enrage any priest or man of
god and principle were I to share it and he'd provide that unspoken
accusation that would have him call me a witch or a whore and want to
cast me and my kind out. He would, he could, then I'd unbutton this
fine dark coat so slowly, finger by button by finger, flicking it
open like the slow curtain of a theatre stage show and then his ideas
would change and solidify. So like a serpent I shed my skin, layer by
layer and then consume my shallow prey.
So I'm in promenade mode but standing quite still, like a Parisian
statue, a figurehead of a great fighting ship from the past, crossing
and ocean with my heart of ice and my great soul of burning, stolen
gold. I can't help but giggle sometimes, crazy ideas. Here comes a
crewman, I meet his eyes. “Ma'am, good evening!” He tips his cap
and I watch his eyes drop as for a split second I allow my coat to
open and close, as if by some remote control or mind trick. My face
stays expressionless like a china doll's in a shop window. He marches
past and I sense his discomfort, unease, humiliation and of course
his rough arousal. Well that's enough of that. I breathe out and head
for the Saloon.
A waiter opens the door before I have the chance to touch the
finely crafted knob. My hand brushes his, he's a gay flirt I think.
One for later. Frank is there at the teak and ebony bar like some
seagoing and overage cowboy. He lights up as he sees me enter and
takes a sip of his whisky, raising his glass in my direction. “My
darling new wife, what is your pleasure?” Naturally I give him my
best smile. “Ma'am, may I take your coat ?” Says the sycophantic
waiter. “My good man, I would like nothing better but I'm afraid
that in the short time I've worn it I have become very attached to
this garment and I am choosing to keep it on as I'm finding it a
little chilly in here tonight but thank you for your kind offer.” I
sit down at a table, very slowly and carefully. I feel a roomful of
eyes on me (not unusual) and Frank crosses and joins me, curiously
he doesn't mention the fur coat but as ever his eyes descend to the
pearls and beyond. The waiter brings me a whisky in a crystal glass,
golden and as warm as the urine of a prize mare. Frank is smiling and
I can see by the glint behind his monocle is bursting to tell me
something. With a flourish I pull out my right index finger as if it
was a fine Italian Stiletto Dagger ready to murder, the sharp red
nail tip glinting in the chandelier light and I push it to his lips
just as they are about to form a word. “Frank, don't say a thing,
don't dare, don't spoil this wonderful moment.” I down the whisky
with an inelegant and masculine gulp and place the glass in front of
him, a smear of lipstick across the edge. Then I rise, allow a grin
to flash across my face and without a further word return to the
stillness of the walkway and my own far more important thoughts.
Landyfish
Next morning: I'm woken up at 07:30 sharp by the ship's messaging
intercom. There is a speaker set up in each cabin's ceiling. The
Captain is barking, “Ladies and Gentlemen, today we will make
temporary landfall in order to collect some fresh provisions. We
shall alight upon a Sargasso sandbank for approximately two hours and
you are very welcome to join us in the experience. We anticipate our
arrival there at 10:00.” I'd heard of the sandbanks, how they came
and went, appeared and disappeared and hosted peculiar wildlife, fish
and birds found nowhere else. Some also said that wild and
uncivilised itinerant tribes wandered the sandbanks, hunting and
living there, trapped but sustained halfway between land and sea,
always moving, hiding and scavenging on the very edge of the world.
I can't be bothered with breakfast and I can't get back to sleep
so I laze around and try to collect my thoughts. This expedition
isn't something I've taken very seriously so far, I thought it was
all a show, a publicity stunt, a way for Frank to increase his
profile and way for the airships to promote themselves as safer
thanks to the various improvements they've made to them so
encouraging tourists and travellers to explore. Perhaps all the
experts and scientists aboard are actually here for a real reason,
perhaps their mission is to discover new land and riches...maybe even
starting here on these sandbanks.
My head is swimming a little with the possibilities and I'm
conflicted but I eventually get up and dress. I'm styling myself very
practically considering the descent to the sandbanks and whatever
unknowns that may follow. An over attentive steward or waiter or
whatever you call them on a Zeppelin brings me coffee and I add a tot
of whisky as an early morning warmer. He also places a dish of
croissants filled with mile-feuille cream on the table. This has the
makings of a good start to the day. I also consider the possibility
that some mind reading is being carried out from the galley. Then at
09:59 I'm up and out on the gondola walkway looking down at our
location, a few hundred feet and descending onto a large patch of
brown and yellow stripped sand in the middle of a dark blue body of
water. I expect the Captain to provide some kind of running
commentary over the speaker system but he remains silent, I guess the
manoeuvre over the sandbank may well be quite tricky and his full
concentration is required.
Airship design has come on a long way, mainly thanks to wartime
development. Now made buoyant by a combination of synthetic hydrogen
and extra light helium the gas is a little more safe and less
flammable. We are also able to generate gas on board whilst in the
air due some secret process that only Zeppelin have. I suspect Frank
may have made some investment in this innovation. (Our first safety
brief did of course remind all passengers to respect the possibility
of these still volatile gases causing unplanned events, we were also
assured that the gas compartments were sealed from one another and
that fire and safety systems were the best in the business. The
airship also carried a six seater aeroplane that could be used as a
lifeboat or refuge should a mid-air disaster occur). Of course I
prefer not to dwell on these things, I simply want enjoy the view and
any pleasant pieces of over indulgence or opportunity that may come
my way. Oh, I just remembered I'm married to Frank.
Below on one of the working gondolas the crew are busy with ropes
and rope ladders and anchors. I'm surprised by the speed of the
descent but it all seems to be controlled even though there is a lot
of shouting going on and I hear animated conversations in German
taking place across their own radio systems. I estimate we are at
about one hundred feet when along comes Frank to join me in leaning
out over the rail. “Still keeping yourself to yourself or are you
allowing the occasional little piece of penetration to occur?” I
laugh at Frank's opener and tease him a little about his drinking and
his socialising with his German friends and team members. He laughs
also. “Are you going to explore the sandbank?” I'm putting on a
glazed and vacant look and dropping my lower lip. “Strange and
unique little places, I'll be taking a stroll. You should join me.
Make sure you wear sensible footwear.” I'm already well ahead and
despite my playful demeanour quite keen to take a walk on these
shifting, floating sands. I find them intriguing and even romantic,
coming and going amongst the waves, uncharted and lost to the outside
world.
The ship settles about twenty feet above the sand. Four anchors
are pinned diagonally out from the hull tethering us against the west
winds. Now that we are stationary the winds are much more apparent. I
see the crew men fighting with their motorised winches to keep the
anchor ropes taught. Sometimes just staying still requires and
enormous effort. Then the speakers crackle. “We have arrived ladies
and gentlemen. The crew will now disembark and collect fresh
provisions. Any passengers who wish to alight and walk across the
sands should now go to the administration gondola.” Frank and I are
walking down the steps and across the aluminium decks. He takes a
hold of my hand and I don't resist. We can play whatever game needs
to be played.
About ten passengers take up the offer and one by one, quite
gingerly, we climb down the rope ladders and stand below the bulk of
the airship on the damp sands. Looking up and around is a strange
experience. In the blue sky only the great grey hulk complete with
it's black Iron Cross on the hull and the tailplane above us. All
around a wispy horizon surrounds our sandy island. I can't quite
figure the size, it moves and disappears in all directions until it
meets the sea at some indistinct point. Soon small pockets of curious
people and workers are scattered across the alien surface.
I notice that some crew men are carrying rifles, others carry
spades and sacks. “Frank, what are these fresh provisions we're
taking on?” Frank laughs and enjoys having the upper hand. “They'll
be digging for Landyfish, a rare delicacy. The rifles are there just
incase the natives get restless. Don't you wander too far away.” I
feel a bit uneasy but stoop to pick up a handful of sand. Below the
compacted top crust it's saturated and muddy. “Ugh!” “Perfect
for the fish, the Landyfish,” snorts Frank.
Two crewman are digging in the sand, there's a sudden flurry of
activity, they shout in excited German, they've caught something.
Quite a lot of something. They are shovelling the silver creatures
into the sack, all wriggles and flashes. I move closer but I already
feel uncomfortable at this spectacle. Then I see one of the Ukrainian
crewman grab a fish, put it to his mouth and bite into it's fleshy
middle, his face a mess of blood and fish scales. The fish is still
alive and pulsating, silver and bright. He laughs a primitive laugh
and spits something out , his colleague does the same thing. “For
God's sake!” I scream. Frank grabs me. “Don't be surprised, these
are Landyfish they are catching and err...consuming. A fish that
survives both in the water and on the land, well buried in the wet
sand anyway. It's a peculiar and useful animal in many ways. They say
it has special properties, particularly if eaten alive. It's rich in
unique oils and other mysterious substances. Many believe it can
prolong life and prevent or cure illness, cancer even. It is just
that fresh provision the Captain mentioned. We'll be dining in a
highly healthy if unconventional manner tonight.” I make a face and
he just smirks.
I'm not liking the proposition that eating these fish alive and
still squirming can somehow be a such good thing and the secret of a
healthy life. Then I think of all the no pain no gain propaganda I've
suffered. It may take a substantial amount of alcohol to get me to
participate in this feast. Over my shoulder I become aware of more of
the crew digging up and catching the fish, they are also consuming
them on the spot. The boson snaps a few more orders across their bows
and they get back to digging. I'm forgetting the tidal nature of our
location and that soon this area will again be covered in salt water.
Next thing I hear is the crack of a rifle, the cry goes up,
“Pirat! Pirat!” from the crew. I see a small sail boat about five
hundred yards away beaching, puffs of gun smoke and flashes are
visible. We all rush back to the ship, we quickly pass the crew men
carrying the precious fish as they form a circle and fire back at our
unwelcome hosts. I climb the ladder clumsily, in panic, it's some
time since I had to react under fire and I feel a weakness in my
knees. I also have a sense of the airship moving upwards as the
Captain takes action to climb. Below the men are starting climb now,
the fish bags are hooked onto a winch rope and in a few blurry second
we are all back on board.
Then I hear the crisp hammering of a machine gun. I'm surprised to
see that the ship has a forward gun turret and it's now spraying the
sands and the skiff with hot bullets. Little fountains and explosions
of sand spring up across the surface arcing towards the wooden sail
boat. The fire is returned for a few seconds and then it all goes
quiet. By now we are climbing out of range, the sandbar people seem
unhurt and are waving rifles at us. They may well be primitive sea
gypsies but somehow they have been armed and obviously hostile
towards visitors.
On deck the Captain is grinning broadly, he's happy with the catch
and he's happy he's had the opportunity to operate his gun turret
even if only in some kind of angry colonial gesture. A tray of
brandies arrive for the passengers, I sit still on a wooden bench,
knees tight together and in an uncharacteristic manner sip on the
calming drink and try to steady my own nerves. Nobody is saying very
much except the Captain who is explaining his rate of fire to one of
the scientists. Perhaps I'm not as tough as I thought. The shock of
those fishing images and the experience of being fired upon have
shaken me and I don't like acknowledging that. I begin to wonder what
else may be ahead for us.
Below the sandbank now slowly shrinks under passing wisps of
cotton cloud as we ascend once more, the pirates appear to be
unscathed by our random gunfire and are back on the water. I hear the
Captain say we're headed for five thousand feet, at that height it's
either the full fur coat experience or the warmth of inside a
gondola.
As it's lunchtime the team have gathered in the main saloon for a
brief and for a buffet. I've decided to join them for once, if only
to check them all out again and to reassure myself that there are a
few steady types there that I might befriend and perhaps even have to
rely upon should things take an unexpected twist. They are clearly
all professional types, scientists, doctors and engineers. The two
ladies form the tip of the arrowhead of excellence, they both ignore
me as they remain in their apparently animated and over processed
conversations. This morning's fishing trip has caught a few
imaginations and the fish themselves are the main topic of
conversation. I can overhear a lot of evolutionary theory and an
obvious desire for some kind of rapid bloody dissection and
investigation. It's as if the poor fish had committed some awful
crime and now must pay for it with mutilation, dead preservation and
minute photographic humiliation pinned to a board or displayed under
glass. I think about it a little more, the process could be made to
sound attractive, I just can't quite make my mind up as to whether I'd
prefer to be the victim or the faceless but worthy professor wielding
the surgical instruments. It's odd when science and sexuality come
together in this kind of setting, strange bedfellows they are indeed.
Perhaps I'd settle for being the professor's wide eyed and adoring
muse, that is until I'd murdered him and stolen his patents. Anyway,
as I'm not one of the elite on board nobody seems too anxious to make
my acquaintance or discuss anything other than the buffet. Bah!
Let me tell you what I'm thinking. I'm the official translator on
the team but clearly there's no work for me. My time will come once
we're East of Zanzibar and surrounded by the fuzzy wuzzies or Dutch
explorers, Christian missionaries or pygmy hippo people. The brief
covers this phase in a little more detail. I have time to share the
odd tipple, explore the ship a little more plunder some cargo perhaps
and lay man traps here and there. We have at least five more days and
nights in the air and weather and atmospheric conditions permitting
some interesting stops. Certainly one in the Portuguese Azores, then
Marrakesh, then across the great plains of Africa and then onwards to
Zanzibar. There we'll enhance the team, some new members will join or
be refreshed, the it's out across the Indian Ocean and onto our
ultimate destination, a place that so far remains a secret known only
to Frank, the Doctor and the Captain. I feel this kind of secrecy is
a bit like some kind of small boys, boys club trick. They are
revelling in their little big plan and their plots and pipe dreams.
None of us can be fully trusted with locations or details but we will
willingly chase along in support of this dream. Frank still uses the
“jewel” word on me from time to time, I let it light my eyes up
for him when he mentions it, it's important he knows I'm carrying on
with the motivation.
The brief talks a lot about scientific opportunities, unique
research, anthropology and ground breaking bits of err...ground
breaking. There is a surprising amount of contribution from the
floor. Slowly I built up a picture of the players and the
protagonists. Let me pick them off for you.
The Doctor is German, Hans Schimmer, he's a medical doctor, maybe
in his late fifties with a lot of tropical disease experience, he has
a broad remit, he's looking for cures, he's looking for drugs, he's
intrigued with all those Landyfish that are currently sloshing in
wooden barrels of salt water in the galley. His past is as grey as
his mouser and nobody tries to question him. He sports an awful grey
and white moustache that I find repulsive, his eyebrows are equally
wild, I try not to check his accompanying nasal hair, ugh! He has big
stupid hands and a silver pocket watch and chain to match his silver
hip flask. He takes occasional sips. I imagine steel syringes in his
pockets, phials and specimens in his waste-coat, bitten pencils and
dog eared notebooks in his jacket insides. I wonder about his war
record and rusty Iron Crosses.
Ruth is British, the chemist, younger and on the cusp of being
attractive with a possible glamour puss option – she needs a little
help there. She watches Doctor Hans, taking cues, supporting,
listening and nodding in the right places, clearing her throat as if
about to add to the debate but not quite making it. I like that, I
like her eager, slightly witless compliance, I see it more, she's a
willing mare and natural assistant, presumably for the right amount
of money. I'll milk her pure and sweet urine one of these days, when
she least expects. I try to imagine the pitch of her scream, a high
soprano or something lower, mixed with sighs and moans. I'll put her
to one side for the moment.
Then there's the American engineer, a middle aged tweedy coloured
man called John Fordson from Minnesota . He has an engineer's black
and oily beard, heavy spectacles and traces of grime in his
fingernails and skin. He finds it hard to concentrate on the brief,
he's taking the airship in, all of the time, constantly twitching,
to the point of exhaustion. His brain has opened up as if a part of
the ship's systems, he's tuned in and monitoring sounds, temperatures
and vibrations. He's tethered to the whole thing by some invisible
umbilical cord; that makes thinking awkward for him. The flying
experience is now akin to some huge sensory overload. I see the beads
of perspiration form on his forehead, it's as if his willpower is
keeping us in the air as by assumed proxy he carries this load of
hydrogen, helium and mixed alloys across the sea, his brain is
fighting the elements. I think his problem his that he doesn't trust
the Germans and he's read a little too much of airship mythology's
bad news, he's crunching numbers at far too fast a pace. He needs a
proper breakdown to free his talents up and for somebody in an
position of authority to tell him that masturbation is actually all
right. Maybe that’s my job, just to illustrate some basic things
with the use of valves and hot wet engines and the constructive
release of steam and pent up energy. He's in a bad way and he will
founder sooner or later. I'll put him on my list, for his own good.
John Fordson also has an assistant, Jack Rodgers, a tall red
haired hick of a straw haired student who looks to have come from
some badly inbred Mid-Western origin, at least by his dental and chin
constructions. He stays quiet, he is serious, he is learning, he may
come good in a crisis. Anyway he's far too young, clumsy and academic
to bother me. I will however befriend him at some point and will lend
him some of my life experience. If we're ever stuck in a corner his
physical strength will be useful. In the right pair of deep blue and
starched dungarees he'd be...interesting.
(to be continued...as are most things in life).
