Bess withdraws her hand, knocking over a crystal cruet of salt. Harry mutters about bad luck and tries to whisk up the salt with his napkin.
‘You mock me, Houdini. But I tell you, I have now heard this music several times.’ Pale pink strawberries have bloomed on her cheeks.
Harry knows the warning signs, so he tries to defuse the situation with a performance. Even as she reaches for her handbag (crocodile skin, the trader in Port Said had assured her), Harry stands and bows so deeply his oiled hair brushes the tablecloth.
‘Forgive me, my darling. I am over-tired and under-sensitive. Any offence I have caused was not intended. I do not doubt what you have told me.’
He pauses, still with his head down, like a supplicant.
‘So … am I forgiven?’
‘Please sit. You’ll have everyone looking at us if you keep this up.’
Harry remains standing.
‘Imagine: people staring at me!’ He glances around – at the other diners and silver-covered trays on wooden serving trolleys and ornate stencilled decorations on the walls – as if reassuring himself he has an audience. But his voice is softer when he resumes his seat.
‘It is a tantalising puzzle. Italian opera in an Australian hotel. The kind of thing Sherlock Holmes would relish … The Case of the Corridor Chorus. Let’s start with the time. When did you first hear this music?’
‘The other evening. Then again yesterday afternoon.’
It occurs to her that he has said very little about his river leap that took place at much the same time. He had accepted her apology for not coming with a dismissive shake of his head, leaving her to assume it had been uneventful, like so many before it.
‘And for how long was the music playing?’
‘I cannot say. It was quite faint. And when I left the room to see if I could determine its source it seemed to disappear. I didn’t hear it again.’
‘A different kind of vanishing act!’
She suspects he is being flippant again. No. Harry has his hands on his chin and his eyes have narrowed, as if searching for the one missing piece in a jigsaw puzzle. But his reverie and their conversation are interrupted by the arrival at their table of the Metropole’s head waiter, tall and bow-legged, bearing plates and bottles on a circular silver tray.
‘Your lunch, sir and madam,’ the waiter says, balancing the tray on his left hand while clearing space on the table between them with his right.
‘Swell!’ says Harry, tucking the napkin into the stiff collar of his shirt. His attention has turned to his meal. ‘Your timing is perfect, Roger. I am famished. I seem always to be hungry here … It is Roger, isn’t it?’
‘Gerald, sir. Roger is the doorman. Now. The mixed grill is for you, sir? Careful, the plate is hot. And, madam, the herb omelette for you. With shredded parsley from the window-box in the courtyard.’
‘That’s not enough,’ Harry tells her. ‘Let me give you a few kidneys.’
Bess shakes her head and holds a hand over her plate.
‘The Bordeaux is for you both?’ Gerald draws the cork from a bottle.
‘Just for me. My husband does not take wine.’
‘No wine, nor spirits of any sort,’ says Harry while chewing on a piece of steak. ‘Nor have I ever ingested tobacco. I think of myself as an athlete, Gerard, striving always to be in peak condition. Ginger-ale will suffice.’
The waiter, whose black jacket is flecked with dandruff, takes the last remaining items off his tray. After pouring Harry’s drink he catches Bess’s eye, then picks up the wine-bottle to fill her glass again. Harry frowns but says nothing. Gerald wishes them well and withdraws, though the fruity scent of his cologne lingers. For close to a minute they do not talk. Harry attacks his food as if fearful it might disappear. Bess takes dainty mouthfuls of her omelette and savours her wine.
‘It is wonderful to have an appetite again,’ Harry says. ‘There were times aboard the Malwa when I thought I would never eat again.’
‘You suffered greatly.’
‘Suffer is too mild. It was wretched. Do you know, I lost twenty-eight pounds during the voyage. Twenty-eight!’
‘You have mentioned that.’
‘And I cannot account for it. I have gone aloft in a flying machine in Hamburg, immersed myself in the depths around the globe, been suspended upside-down from window ledges of tall buildings in half a dozen major cities. All without serious mishap or distress. But put me on a boat and my stomach heaves before we have left port.’
Bess watches as he uses bread to mop up a pool of red-brown gravy. He chews noisily and with enthusiasm, swallows, takes a draught of his ginger-ale and starts sawing at a crumbed chop as if conducting a post-mortem.
‘Was it your certainty of seasickness that made you reluctant to make the long journey here?’
‘Not only that,’ he replies. ‘You know there are only two women in the world to me: yourself, and my blessed Mama. Never has there been such a distance between my mother and me. If anything should happen to her in New York while we are here, well, it would take such a time to get back …’
He has put down his cutlery and is twisting the napkin with both hands. Bess has witnessed this kind of display many times before, so stays silent. After another sip of wine she looks directly at him.
‘So remind me, please, for I also feel stranded far from everything – why, exactly, are we here?’
‘Because Harry Rickards offered me a handsome salary not only for my performances in Melbourne and Sydney but also for all our time at sea. Better than two thousand dollars per week! More than he has ever paid to anyone, he assures me. Think on it: I was being fully paid while doing nothing during the voyage.’
‘Lying on your bed with a bucket nearby …’
‘But worth it, I have no doubt of that now. Audiences here have seen nothing like me before. You have seen how they respond. I tell you’ – he looks around, as if fearful of being overheard – ‘I am certain I got the better of the deal with Rickards. I wager he must pay over the odds to get artists of note to come here. And surely I am the biggest attraction he has had.’
Bess has pushed her half-eaten omelette to one side.
‘I can accept that. There was money to be made. But your plan regarding your flying machine – I find that difficult to understand. You told me Brassac has almost finished unpacking the thing, which doubtless means you will want to see it soon. But with your commitments to Rickards, all those shows, when, precisely, do you plan to do that?’
