Titanic 2012 Part 7

I paid the driver and gave him a generous tip, at least he thought it was, streaking away with a wave and a wide grin plastered on his ebony face.

The inside of my condo felt cold and damp, like an ancient tomb. It was an apt comparison. Until I'd met Madeleine I was entombed, and now I felt more isolated than ever. I fought the urge to go down to that friendly little blue-collar dive around the corner, realizing that giving into it was the first step down a long and torturous road-a road dotted with lonely drunken nights punctuated by ceaseless bouts of self-pity.

The thought of that, and of Captain Pierce's poignant story, took away all desire for alcohol.

s.h.i.+vering from more than just the cold, I turned up the heat, shambled over to the couch, and dropped into it, suddenly aware I wasn't a bit sleepy and that the night's endless hours stretched before me. I glanced at my computer, remembering that I'd been incommunicado for a number of days.

"Any messages, Millie?"

"Representatives from the five major networks called-three times. Your agent, Marty, also called twice, as well as an attorney for the estate of Harlan Astor."

I sat up when I heard that last one. "Play Marty's last message first."

"Engaging surround sound," Millie said.

The screen snapped on a moment later, revealing Marty looking uncharacteristically agitated.

"Trevor, are you there?" Marty appeared to be searching the screen for me. "Trevor, if you're there, I want you to call me back right away. Mannheim Books is going nuts! Nuts, you hear me? They want the book p.r.o.nto, said they would b.u.mp their current print schedule for you. Trevor? G.o.dd.a.m.n it, you call me back! They want the book on the shelves in three weeks! I got them to triple the advance, and I've already got these suits from La-La land sniffing around the movie rights. You hit the jackpot, kid. Call me."

Marty rang off and the screen turned black. I should have been ecstatic, delirious-but I felt only a great empty hole in my gut, as if everything had been scooped out. The original advance Marty negotiated was a solid six figures. If what he'd said was true, and I had no reason to doubt him, it would now be over 1.5 million. A little more than one quarter of one percent of what my late friend had spent on his Quixotic vision. Normally, I would have been doing cartwheels. Now, I couldn't care less. And writing the book was about the last thing I wanted to do.

"Do you wish to hear the other messages?" Millie said with infinite patience.

I shoved Marty from my mind; I would deal with him later.

"Play back the lawyer's message, Millie."

"Executing."

The black screen was replaced by the image of an attractive middle-aged woman wearing a navy power suit, paisley tie, horn-rimmed gla.s.ses, and a sober expression. "This is a message for..." she bent her head down, as if consulting notes. "...Mr. Trevor Hughes. Mr. Hughes, my name is Jane Hurdigger, and it is quite imperative that you call me immediately. I can be reached at 212-555-5150. If I'm not there, my computer will page me. Good day."

"Shall I dial the number, Trevor?"

"Sure, and while you're at it, why don't you talk to her."

Millie was silent. I don't know if it was confusion on her part or disapproval. Either way, it was up to me. "Dial it, Millie," I said. "But turn off my camera."

"Executing."

The eleven digits rattled off in a flurry of musical tones and a moment later, I heard it ring. At the fifth ring, I was about to tell Millie to hang up when the screen faded up on the woman seated on an expensive sofa, the area next to her piled with legal pads and law books. It looked as if she took her work home, as well.

Behind her, I could see the New York skyline. She had to be on the fiftieth floor, judging from the view. And from what little I could see of her apartment's decor: an expensive mixture of Laura Ashley and Chippendale, the woman knew her way around the legal profession.

She frowned at the screen. "h.e.l.lo, is anyone there?"

"Ms. Hurdigger, this is Trevor Hughes."

"Is something wrong with your camera, Mr. Hughes?"

"No, I'm just out of the shower."

I saw her flush at my lie, and that brought a smile to my lips. "What can I do for you, Ms. Hurdigger?"

She became all business. "Yes, I wanted to get in touch with you about Mr. Astor's will."

"What about it?"

"You're in it, Mr. Hughes."

This surprised the h.e.l.l out of me, and I was still churning that around in my brain when the attorney spoke again.

"Mr. Hughes, it really would be easier if we could see each other."

"Millie, turn on the camera."

The monitor snapped on and her expression relaxed. "Ahh, that's better. Now, let me see...."

If she'd noticed I was fully dressed, she kept her reaction to herself.

"...Yes, here it is. Mr. Astor placed a new codicil to his will prior to his untimely demise. Simply put, Mr. Hughes, Mr. Astor has bequeathed you several of his New York properties, worth by our recent appraisals at about $400 million dollars."

My expression must have baffled her, as did my silence, for she removed her gla.s.ses and frowned with concern. "Are you all right, Mr. Hughes?"

"What are the properties?

"A block of town houses in Gramercy Park, I-"

"Sell them."

The attorney looked startled. "I'm sorry, Mr. Hughes, did you say-"

"Sell them, yes."

"Mr. Hughes, those properties are in one of the most exclusive areas in Manhattan."

"I know exactly where they are. Is there a problem with my selling them?"

"No, there shouldn't be. But they are income property. Mr. Astor realized at least $20 million a year from them. Are you sure you still wish to sell them?"

"Yes."

"Very well, I will contact Mr. Astor's agent, though the sale may take a little time. The market is sluggish these days."

"I'm not in a hurry. You'll stay in touch?"

"Of course, Mr. Hughes."

"Good-bye, then."

She started to say something else, and I cut her off with the push of a b.u.t.ton on the manual remote. I shook my head, squeezing my eyes shut. It seemed everyone wanted to give me money today. Too bad it wouldn't cure what ailed me.

Leaning back on the sofa, my gaze fell upon my shoulder case containing my MacBook and the DVDs. Without thinking, I reached for it.

There was only one disk I wanted to review. I held Madeleine's DVD in my hand. It weighed barely an ounce and was the only tangible part of her that remained. I didn't even have a picture of her. My vision blurred with tears and a part of me wanted to fling it against the wall-do anything to end the pain I felt. Instead, I opened the jewel box, pulled out the disk and slid it into the MacBook's DVD slot.

A moment later, it began....

7.

I left the wheelhouse a few minutes after Captain Pierce and walked the few steps to the radio room. Aside from the luxuries Harlan's money had purchased, he'd spared no expense in recreating bygone technology. The radio room, or rather, the Marconi Room, was in every sense a museum piece. Every component of the Marconi Wireless System was reconstructed to perfection, from the copper sheen of the induction coil to the burnished steel of the spark-gap generator, all mounted to dark wooden cabinetry stained and varnished to a l.u.s.trous glow.

I found the wireless operator sitting at his station, monitoring the radio traffic, heavy Bakelite headphones clamped to his head. He saw me and smiled, lifting them off.

"Yes, sir, can I help you?"

The man's thick British accent sounded as if he'd originally come from somewhere up north, I guessed Manchester, or thereabouts.

"Can you really send anything on that?" I asked, pointing to the Marconi.

"Right you are. The range is nowhere near what a digital model can do, but it works."

Since the Marconi company no longer existed, I'd arranged with a web designer friend, who dabbled in ham radio and knew Morse code, to receive my dispatches. He would be responsible for formatting my messages to look like hundred-year-old wireless messages and uploading them onto the t.i.tanic 2012 website. It was Marty's idea to call it that. I just hoped the novelty wouldn't wear off too fast.

"Do you wish to send a message, sir?" the Marconi operator asked.

"Uhh, yes," I said, pulling out notes I'd made prior to boarding. I looked them over. "Would it be better if I wrote it down, or dictated it?"

"Either way is fine, but I can key faster if I'm hearing it."

I nodded.

"Okay, then, let's give it a try."

"The name's Richards, by the way, Sammy Richards," he said, indicating the chair next to him.

I shook his hand and sat down. "Well, Sammy, this is likely to take a little while."

"All right by me. Seems I'm not as popular as I'd hoped."

He gave a sheepish shrug and turned to the wireless, adjusting the frequency with a slight twist of a large black k.n.o.b. I felt sorry for him. On the voyage of the original t.i.tanic, wireless communications were in their infancy, a novelty the pa.s.sengers exploited to the fullest, sending frivolous messages to loved ones. A century later, in the Digital Age, it was little more than a curiosity, a museum piece. And yet, if anything were to go wrong, it might be our only lifeline.

I nodded to him that I was ready and began: "They say history repeats itself and all things that go around, come around. Well, today that is certainly the case. I am writing to you from the Marconi room just behind the bridge on the R.M.S. t.i.tanic...."

Twenty minutes later we were done, a total of a thousand words, far more than a real Marconigram. And I'd done a fair job of dictating, something I'd never liked doing. Millie, my computer, was easily capable of taking dictation as fast as I could speak, and of telling the difference between words like "there" and "their." But I liked to have my hands on the keys. Besides the fact that I think better doing it manually, it also felt more like writing. I suppose I'm old fas.h.i.+oned in some ways.

Perhaps that was why Harlan's dream had seduced me.

Tucking my notes away, I thanked Sammy and left the Marconi Room. My next stop was Harlan's stateroom. I'd wanted to have him take me on a tour of the s.h.i.+p, and to interview him. No matter who else I might talk to about their reasons for coming aboard t.i.tanic, the book would not be complete without an interview with the man behind it all.

But it was not to be, at least not then.

I read something once, I forget where, that fate will always step in when you least expect it, and this was just such a time. When I left the Marconi Room, something made me turn toward the bow. Maybe it was the way the sun, now much lower in the water and turning a fiery orange, was glinting off the water. Or maybe it was simply that I wanted another look at the t.i.tanic's magnificent prow as it sliced the waves, heading toward Cherbourg. Whatever it was ceased to matter the moment I saw her.

From two-hundred feet away, she appeared childlike, fragile. She stood at the tip of the bow, feet firmly planted in the railings, arms outstretched at her sides. The wind billowed her dress and the shawl intertwined in her arms, making her appear as if she were about to take wing. I smiled then, both entranced and amused.

The woman was re-creating the famous "flying" scene from the movie, the only missing element being a Leonardo DiCaprio stand-in embracing her from behind. What struck me as ironic was her actions seemed spontaneous and natural, the only surprising aspect being the absence of a long line of women waiting their turns.

With my previous intentions forgotten, I took the stairs down to the Well Deck, the area just aft of the forecastle, pa.s.sing between the two electric cranes.

The wind seemed stronger near the bow, and I bent into it, careful to avoid tripping over the auxiliary anchor, a solid piece of cast iron weighing in at fifteen tons.

The closer I drew to her, the more self-conscious I became, not knowing what I would say, if anything. She still hadn't moved from her position: arms out from her body, her head thrown back, eyes closed, her expression serene. She had a cla.s.sic beauty, a profile like that of an old cameo broach: A sharp, well-shaped nose sat above full lips curved in an enigmatic smile. And though her eyes were closed, I imagined them to be a deep emerald green contrasting perfectly with her thick mane of auburn hair. The wind whipped the hair about her face, but she seemed oblivious, almost in a trance.

I was about to go, not wanting to disturb her, when she spoke.

"Don't say it," she said.

Her voice startled me, a sweet contralto, like music carried on a summer breeze.

"Excuse me?"

"I know what you're thinking. Don't say it."

Her smile widened and she opened her eyes and turned to me. My breath caught in my throat. They were green, so green they almost glowed.

"You were thinking that, weren't you?"

"I-I don't know what I was thinking." I blurted, feeling like a tongue-tied schoolboy.

"Oh, surely you've got something going on in that handsome head of yours?"

She turned and started to climb down, and I moved to help her, grasping her hands in mine. Her skin felt cool, and slightly dry, no doubt from the prolonged exposure to the wind and sun. She wobbled a moment before steadying herself.

"Careful," I said, "it's a long way down."

"Thank you, my Galahad," she said, leaping to the deck.

Now that we were on the same level, I saw she was about six inches shorter than me, forcing her to look up to make eye contact. At this proximity those emerald eyes caught me in their vibrant splendor.

"To tell you the truth, I was wondering why you were the only one doing that."

She laughed, a great burst of sound that brought a smile to my lips in spite of my nervousness.