Pier 95 #2
Their valet arrived, and Watt gratefully accepted the young man’s offer to show them to their room.
He wore a suit, one much more formal than Watt’s.
Cornelius appeared to belong in second class, or third if either was an option on this particular ship.
Perhaps that’s what made Cornelius look so roguish, his lack of regard for society and its expectations.
They descended into the belly of the ship, passing down long alleys and brushing past other guests. The stairways were broad, the walls alternating between painted or paneled. There was a cross breeze, even in the closed hallways, no doubt from the highly boasted ventilation system.
In a British accent, the valet said, “If there is anything you gentlemen require, please don’t hesitate to ask. And I’m more than happy to assist with …?” He glanced at Maggie, who was still close by Watt’s side. Cornelius watched the exchange, bringing up the rear of the group.
Watt said, “Maggie, and I will take care of her myself. I understand there’s an area below decks?”
The valet nodded, leading them down yet another corridor flanked by doors. “Yes, sir. I can take you there, if you like.”
“I’d appreciate that. After we’re settled though, if it’s not too much trouble. Mr …?”
“Not at all,” the man said, smiling a little. “And it’s Jones, if you please.”
In short order they were shown to their quarters, and Mr. Jones left with promises to return in an hour’s time.
Their sponsors had found one ordinary stateroom sufficient enough for their needs, and while the quarters were large it was clearly intended for a pair of people at most. The room was warm and homey, with wooden furniture and large square windows that provided an excellent view of the harbor.
It was a cozy setting with upholstered easy chairs and a bookshelf to pass the time, and ceiling fans kept the room free of stuffiness.
In addition to the enormous bedstead, there was a bow fronted bureau and fitted wardrobe along with a dressing mirror.
A bedside cabinet beheld a shaded reading lamp, and Watt suddenly had the urge to crawl beneath the bedclothes and read a book.
Cornelius and Watt stood awkwardly in the sitting area, then Cornelius wordlessly took off to inspect his luggage placed on the floor at the foot of the bed.
Watt did the same, doing his best to ignore Cornelius as the man was so obviously doing to him.
He opened his suitcase, surveying for any potential damage. None that he could see.
Maggie stretched, back arching as she yawned. Watt raised a brow, then reached down and stroked a hand down her back. He breathed as he did so, doing his best to shed his nervousness.
When Watt stood again, he found Cornelius watching him. Cornelius turned away, focusing on his own luggage. Always watching but never talking, it would seem. Watt said, “She won’t be a hindrance.”
Cornelius stiffened, half turning his head. He opened his mouth, shut it, then tried again. “And if she doesn’t make it?”
It wasn’t an impractical question, but the bluntness of it had Watt stiffening beneath the pressure. There weren't many things he was firm on, but Maggie was one of them. “I don’t go anywhere without her, and she doesn’t go anywhere without me.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Watt said nothing, opting to close his luggage case.
“The is no place for feelings, Dr. Johnson. If something—”
“With all due respect, Dr. Sawyer, she is my responsibility. Dogs are an asset in the jungle, Fawcett himself used them. I am well aware of the dangers, and what I must do in the worst case scenario.”
If Watt had been looking, he would’ve seen the flash of surprise that overtook Cornelius before he bowed his head. “Very well.”
Case in hand, Watt said, “You can have the bed, I’ll sleep out here.” He nodded to the sitting area. Cornelius opened his mouth to protest, but Watt continued on, turning away. “I’ll be back shortly.”
He left before Cornelius could get a word in, Maggie hot on his heels.
Cornelius had spent the entire train ride to New York, and nearly every day before that, anticipating how his next reunion with Watt would go.
All of that time had been for nothing, because none of the scenarios he dreaded came to fruition.
He expected the man to be emboldened by their time apart, ready to push Cornelius’ boundaries and ask questions. Try and get personal.
But the man had performed exactly the way Cornelius told him to. Civil, professional. Distant. He hadn’t even been outright rude in response to Cornelius’ intrusive questions, simply matter of fact. So why was Cornelius so damn frustrated?
Cornelius sighed, snapping his journal shut.
He pressed it to his forehead and stopped pacing, shoes protesting against the polished floors.
He glanced at the door to their suite, wondering if Watt would return soon.
Their valet had come to collect Watt ages ago, and was only mildly surprised that he'd taken off without guidance. It was nearly dinner time now, and Watt still hadn’t returned from presumably taking his dog below decks for relief.
At least with Watt around, Cornelius was able to distract himself from his other worries.
He hadn’t heard back from Dimitri or Gabriel before leaving, unable to confirm they made it home safely or that Lili’s surgery went well.
He’d thought that Dimitri and Gabriel would stay in Berlin and work at the Institute for the rest of their lives, but how quickly things changed.
And the surgery. Cornelius rested a hand over his heart.
Of course Lili’s surgery was different from the radical mastectomies he’d researched and shied away from, but all surgeries beheld risks.
Especially novel ones. It would be the first of many to change Lili’s body from man to woman, and Cornelius hoped that she got the results she wanted.
That she came out on the other side, happy.
He’d only met Lili and Gerda a few times at Dimitri and Gabriel’s parties filled with artistic folk, before the boys had made the move to Berlin.
But that was enough for Cornelius to like her, to find kinship in her like he did with nearly everyone else he met in Dimitri’s artistic circles, and at the Institute.
Longing struck his heart like a match, demanding the air from his lungs.
Cornelius palmed the flask tucked into his jacket, heart pounding.
He’d poured a glass shortly after Watt had left, and that first drink felt dangerously like another, and another.
They were decidedly at sea now, and the reality of his situation was sinking in further now that Cornelius was alone with himself.
Cornelius wasn’t a drunk. He didn’t need to drink every day, during all hours of the day. He could wait until appropriate night hours, when in the privacy of a speakeasy or at home. He could last from weekend to weekend, and pull himself together the next day without a problem.
The problem lay in stopping, in dragging himself out of the sweet, obliterating relief before he became too lost in it.
And he couldn’t lose himself here, no matter how much he wanted to.
He made a vow to himself that he wouldn’t overindulge on this trip.
Cornelius spent the remnants of his free time in the same fashion.
Pacing, worrying. Taking his flask out, and putting it away.
At one point he dug out a worn paper bulletin from his suitcase titled, ‘The Pennsylvania Museum Bulletin. Number 70. February, 1922.’
He ran his fingers over the words. ‘Mrs. Cornelius Stevenson. In memoriam.’ The ink was starting to fade from rough handling and overuse.
He brought the bulletin with him on every trip since she passed, and soon he’d have to leave it behind, or face a blank page.
He read the passage he loved most several times, eyes flicking back and forth, back and forth.
‘To us there will always rise, at the mention of Mrs. Stevenson's name, the dignified little figure with the black bag out of which she brought, like the unexpected mother in the Swiss Family Robinson, precisely the thing needed at the moment. For wise counsel, for tolerance, for understanding sympathy, we all of us came to her and never were refused. Her counsel was based on an experience of the world which included half a century of real intimacy with brilliant and wise people who sought her as a companion; it was poignant with interludes of the Mexican capital, Parisian days and Egyptian excavations. It was invariably moral and direct, but tempered with a worldliness that was never the counsel of the fear of consequences.’
Eventually he put himself together again, piece by piece.
He put away the bulletin. Smoked a cigarette, then hid in the bedroom and changed into the suit Giovanni had gifted him.
He did his best to focus on the fabric as it passed through his fingers.
Stiff yet soft, well made and quality materials.
He loved the winged collar of the draping black jacket, and the roominess of the trousers.
Using his fingers and a comb, he did his best to rearrange his hair into the style he’d fixed this morning.
Worry and the wind had tousled it into a sorry state, but there was no time to wash it now.
He stared at himself in the mirror, feeling at once large and small. His suit, despite its impeccable fit, felt like his father’s. Too big and impossible to grow into.
The door to the suite opened, and Watt’s following footsteps were so quiet that if he hadn’t been straining to hear, Cornelius would’ve missed them. His breath caught in his throat, despite being fully dressed. He hadn’t mentally rearranged himself yet. Not fully.
Watt stood on the other side of the door separating the bedroom from the rest of the suite and cleared his throat. “I was wondering if you’d like to accompany me to dinner.”