Mortimer

Chapter 4

Rotting fish and chocolate permeated his nostrils with a pleasantly foul odor and Mortimer inhaled deeply as he scratched his face with the sharpened piece of graphite between his pudgy fingers. He narrowed his eyes at the majestic ship that rested beyond the green lawn where he reclined, bobbing ever so gently in the Winyah Bay.

“Ah, you marvelous minx! I see what you are doing.” His yelp caused one of the large park’s pigeons to jump in surprise. Mortimer went back to work on the parchment placed on the easel before him.

He was scribbling away, paying no notice to the port, as it grew busier. Men wearing bowler hats and women, carrying their morning parasols, were dressed in their finest Sunday clothes and wandering amongst street vendors. They sampled ice cream cones for a nickel; purchased brightly colored tapestries and enjoyed fresh cold vegetable salads, artisan breads, and other delicious locally produced food items. Others enjoyed their Sunday afternoons by sneaking into the grove of trees to misbehave.

The Georgetown port was particularly busy, as it was most weekends. Though Mortimer preferred to venture outdoors when his chances of being seen were reduced, he could not justify losing any more time with the majestic craft. It was nearing the end of the season and soon it would pull away from the harbor and make its voyage across the sea to Cuba for trade of goods.

seen

He was adding some exquisitely detailed shading to the bow when an old man wearing a soot-gray trench coat, carrying a gold-etched ivory cane appeared before him.

“Are you a captain?” He asked, noticing Mortimer’s captain’s hat.

Mortimer looked up, irritated to be interrupted. Now he would have to start over, for any errant line in his shaving would disgrace the integrity of the entire piece of art. “I would hardly call myself a captain!” He barked out, but then his eyes grew thoughtful. “admiral suits me more agreeably.”

admiral

The old man’s observation was correct, however, for according to the status on the listing of the Boat Bottle Club of Chicago, Mortimer was merely a captain. That was only temporary, Mortimer reminded himself, trying to ignore the prying vagrant beside him.

In exactly one hundred and forty-seven days, he would be promoted to admiral status. This would lead to him being bestowed with the regalia of the royal seas. Mortimer’s mustache twitched in pleasure at the thought. Once he was admiral he would be done with this ostentatious city port of miscreant vagabonds. No longer would he be forced to be victim to the whimsy of his meddling nursemaid or the nonsensical ramblings of his cognitively decrepit mother.

“If you’re not a captain, then why do you wear that captain’s hat?”

Ignoring the question, Mortimer grunted in derision at the unsatisfactory nature of the state of his garment. He flicked a flake of graphite from his pressed navy lapel.

Mortimer was meticulous about three things in life: His ships, the food he ate, and his lapel. During his childhood, Mortimer had often been dragged by his father to the Centennial office in the city. This was where Mortimer had been forced to endure the presence of Herberger Wolfenstein, a man with a disgusting condition that left his lapel covered in flakes of white snow that fluttered in the air with each movement of his head. Mortimer’s father had rebuked Mortimer once after a particularly offensive display of flaking had forced Mortimer to interject with a battery of treatment recommendations.

Herberger Wolfenstein

Since then, Mortimer had determined that he would never be caught with a single flake on his lapel. Mortimer believed one could never be too careful about the condition of one’s lapel.

neversinglehis

His mustache twitched again and he resumed shading. But sensing something amiss, he shifted his eyes to the old man who was still standing in front of him, staring through beady eyes that were nearly covered by thick white eyebrows. The man leaned down in an attempt to steal a glance at Mortimer’s work, but seeing a potential intrusion, Mortimer’s leg shot out in one swift motion and landed square against the elder’s cane. The man toppled to his side, accomplishing two of Mortimer’s goals at once: silencing him and removing him from his previous position. He had been blocking Mortimer’s view of The Lady Herself.

“Oh! Mistress Esquirer, such a sultry duchess you are!” Mortimer clapped his hands together in renewed appreciation of the ship’s beauty.

Enraptured as he was, he did not even notice the figure crawling at his feet toward the sidewalk, nor did he hear the cry of the women and hurried assistance of the young men that rushed to the older fellow’s side. Mortimer licked the tip of his pencil and with a smile on his lips; he went back to work vigorously sketching.

***

As the hours passed, the sun made its way across the southern sky. Lanterns along the sidewalks were lit and a growl deep in Mortimer’s bowels indicated that it was time to go home. With satisfaction he slipped his graphite back into its proper pouch, folded the parchment carefully and tucked it into his bag. The easel folded easily, and with loaded arms, Mortimer hailed a hack to take him home.

The Ascariot Mansion was one of the grandest in Georgetown. It sat atop a pretty hill and was surrounded by a protective boulder wall. Guards stood placidly at the grand iron gated entrance and pulled the gates open as Mortimer arrived home. He paid them no mind but scurried up the flower lined walkway and bursting through the double paned mansion doors he went straight through the marble foyer towards a grand staircase that led to the second story. “I shall dine in my quarters this evening!” Mortimer’s voice boomed out in a deep baritone typical of the Ascariot men. Without awaiting a response, he disappeared up the stairs.