Titanic Embers

Different

Ruth lowered her head, a few loose strands of chestnut curls brushing lightly across the canvas. Jack rested one hand upon the railing, the corner of his lips faintly upturned.

Carl’s gaze drifted from Ruth’s slender waist to the vivid bloom of her cheeks, and at last to Jack’s lips—full in the lower, delicate in the upper, with a faint, downy shadow above, soft as brushed velvet.

Just a callow boy, Carl thought.

“Look—quick, look!” The words were soft, yet breathed directly against his ear.

The sudden nearness carried with it the mingled scent of tobacco and fresh grass, like an unseen hand—warm, tingling, intimate.

Carl lowered himself slightly toward Jack’s shoulder, then, with imperceptible stealth, shifted away by a step before lifting his head in studied composure.

Jack’s face was scarcely an arm’s breadth away.

Neither the sun of the European continent nor that of California had bronzed this youthful visage, and the flowing tide of time itself seemed reluctant to carve its traces upon such fine features.

Perhaps so as not to disturb Ruth’s concentration upon the painting, Jack spoke in a voice low as a whisper—like the bow’s tender draw across the strings of a violin.

His eyes, as blue as an autumn sky swept clean of clouds, shone with a keen light.

“Look!” Jack leaned far over the railing, in a posture that seemed as though he might tumble into the depths, one hand pointing to the waters below, the other tugging at Carl’s sleeve, holding him suspended above the sea.

The deck loomed several dozen feet above the sea, where foaming white waves churned and rolled away, making one’s head swim.

“Look! Do you see it?” Jack’s voice was low, yet his excitement refused to be contained. He pointed urgently downward. “Dolphins! Hurry—look!”

Carl had been about to scoff and mock Jack’s fuss, when he suddenly froze.

Sleek, glistening, silver-bright creatures were rising through the ice-blue water; their backs and dorsal fins split the surface. Then, with a leap, one traced a dazzling arc of silver before plunging back into the depths, its graceful motion like that of a ballerina…

Perhaps the one to be mocked was himself.

One, two, an entire pod…

Such beauty, such spirit—just like the unknown species beside him, dangling precariously in midair…

Was he competing with the Titanic itself?

Soon, a dolphin surged past the great ship, then another. The leader executed a flawless backflip, landing belly-up in the water, as if flaunting its victory. Its twin fins spread wide, as though offering them an embrace…

“See how high he jumped!”

“He?”

“This one must be a gentleman!”

“And what makes you so certain he’s a gentleman?” Rose leaned in with a bright smile, imitating Jack’s posture, leaning far out over the rail. “Magnificent!”

Carl yanked her back sharply. “My dear, are you hoping to fall in and have Jack rescue you again?”

Rose’s expression cooled at once, returning to the composure Carl knew too well. Jack, however, sent her a comforting, sly, conspiratorial smile, and her good humor returned.

“We’ve been on deck half the day, Jack. How about visiting my stateroom? I can’t draw nearly as well as you—truth be told, not even close—but I’ve collected many treasures you’ll enjoy. Shall we go and astonish you?” Without waiting for an answer, she seized Jack’s hand and dashed toward first class.

Carl was left rooted to the spot in disbelief.

An unknown youth, invited into an unmarried lady’s private chambers?

Was there no decency left in the world? Good God!

Reluctantly, he quickened his pace—nearly enough to breach the bounds of gentlemanly decorum.

Rose danced inside, flinging open the door with a flourish and gesturing extravagantly.

“You upper-class folk! Even at sea you live in such splendor—it’s no different from your grand estates ashore.” Jack’s mouth nearly refused to close. “The light is perfect—ideal for viewing art—yet gentle enough to spare the works any harm.”

From the doorway, Carl balanced a crystal goblet in one hand and a bottle wrapped at the neck in a napkin in the other. “A glass? Genuine Bordeaux.”

“To me, Bordeaux or Sahara, wine or currant cider, it’s all the same.” Jack laughed, snatching the glass from his hand and tossing it back in one unabashed gulp.

So this is how fine wine is desecrated… Carl thought, half amused, forgetting even to be offended at the theft.

Give him vinegar and he’d swallow it without a blink.

Carl poured himself another.

Jack licked his lips, the tip of his tongue flashing briefly, leaving a faint sheen behind. “A fine vintage indeed.”

Carl nearly choked on laughter—such obliviousness was an art form in itself.

With practiced elegance, he swirled the rosy liquid in the crystal, lifting it now and then toward the light, squinting to watch the play of color and shadow.

The taste was exquisite—better than any he’d known: the gentle sweetness of grape, the richness of wine, the pure scent of oak barrels, like standing in a sunlit valley after a passing rain.

He would certainly buy several cases upon disembarkation—1900 vintage.

Wait…?

Two lip marks on the rim—after a single sip?

He turned, puzzled, to see Jack, a trace of rose lingering on his lips, blooming softly…

My God…

It was the second time today Carl had troubled the Almighty.

Such density was a marvel of the human condition—a crime against heaven itself.

Jack’s sudden exclamation yanked him from the abyss of contemplation.

Les Demoiselles d’Avignon! He pointed at the painting Carl privately considered nothing but a jumble of ugly faces.

“You know Picasso?” Rose was clearly delighted.

“Carl must think Picasso a waste of space and money—and worse, of wall space,” she teased.

“And eyesight,” Carl agreed. “We will never see eye to eye in matters of art.”

“I met Picasso last year—though I called him Pablo,” Jack recalled with a grin. “A man quick to fall in love… in truth, all artists are.”

“But always in love with beauty,” Carl interjected at last.

Jack cast him a subtle, almost imperceptible nod.

For once, under Rose’s dominance, Carl felt the faintest validation of his taste, enough to move him almost to tears.

“Has he painted anything else worth seeing?” Rose pressed.

“His first work… what was it… The Bullfighter. It reminds me of Chinese ink painting. But my favorite is another—” Jack paused, opening his folio, spreading paper. “Boy with a Pipe.”

As his pencil danced—sketching, shading—he continued: “Pablo’s finest work so far. Though Les Demoiselles d’Avignon is equally great.” A slender figure emerged on the page, seated inelegantly, legs crossed. A beautiful youth took shape with swift precision.

“Are you sure it’s not Girl with a Pipe?” Carl leaned in, only to be pushed back by Rose.

“Dressed in blue, crowned with pink roses, framed by two vivid bouquets. If only I painted in oils…”

“No—perfect! It leaves more to the imagination.”

Carl edged forward again, words dying in his throat.

Half the boy’s delicate face lay in shadow, his porcelain skin steeped in melancholy almost tangible. Though in black and white, the roses on his head seemed vivid, the bouquets behind him fragrant—two blossoms forming a heart, or perhaps a pair of wings poised for flight…

“It’s almost as if you can smell the flowers,” Rose breathed.

Rose! You stole my line!

“Those blossoms look ready to lift him into the air.”

Carl held his tongue this time.

His gaze dropped, caught entirely by the hand resting upon the paper—

A small, fair hand, uncalloused from labor, yet with a faint ridge on the middle finger, and a subtle flush on the little finger, left by long hours of caressing sketch paper.