Pier 95 #3
“No,” Cornelius said, and after a pregnant pause he added, “Go on without me, I’m not ready yet.”
Watt said something, but Cornelius didn't catch it and didn’t ask the man to repeat himself.
A moment later Watt’s footsteps retreated, trailing through the space for a few minutes before leaving the suite entirely.
Cornelius exhaled a sigh of relief. He braced himself on the dresser, seriously debating staying behind.
Except he was hungry, and he didn’t want to seem like the coward he was.
And it was the first of many meals they would be sharing together. Would he avoid all those too?
Cornelius passed Maggie on the way out, she lay on the chair Watt had claimed and watched him with a shrewd look as he collected his cane. After leaving the room, Cornelius shook off the judgmental energy she had been radiating.
The Eastern Prince was ritzy as hell, perhaps one of the finest ships Cornelius had been aboard.
One of four, Cornelius couldn’t help but wonder if she was identical to her sister ships, or different in ways that were obvious or perhaps more subtle.
The last time he visited Colombia, it was in steerage on a similar ship, a fact he didn’t mind.
The company was far less snottier than those in first class, and ten-fold more entertaining.
He wasn’t used to all the valets flitting around, with their curated British accents and eagerness to please.
The craftsmanship of the upper decks themselves were undeniable as well.
Most of the furniture was finely crafted and warm, giving the ship a wholesome but rich feel.
It wasn’t all that different from the places back home that were designed for the tourists, not the people who actually lived there.
While he walked, Cornelius corresponded what he saw with what the brochure in his hand promised.
He was keenly interested in the dark room, but it eluded him.
He wasn’t the last one to enter the societal hall, but there weren’t many other stragglers either.
The space currently played host to dining amenities, but could be swiftly transformed into a ballroom by sweeping all the neatly placed tables off to the side of the grand room.
The thought of dancing upon the waves made Cornelius slightly seasick, a new discovery.
Sea travel had never bothered him before.
He quickly found himself overwhelmed, unsure where to sit.
He’d gotten used to playing the part of someone more socially apt than he actually was, able to play the right games, wear the correct mask and say the right things.
Engaging with the upper class was simply a performance, but did the spectacle change when at sea?
He felt like a dancer thrown onto stage without having practiced the choreography.
Mr. Jones appeared at his side in that bizarre way good wait staff did, appearing when needed most and without a word. “Right this way, Mr. Sawyer.”
“Thank you,” Cornelius said, bowing his chin.
He followed the man to one of the tables at the head of the room, near the stage area where Cornelius assumed the captain would soon be.
Watt was already seated beside an older couple, hands waving through the air and an animated story tumbling off his lips.
The woman laughed, a hand to her chest. Her companion seemed more delighted by her joy than Watt’s story, but he paid the storyteller respectful attention nonetheless.
The steward bravely led Cornelius through the crowd, not quite all hundred or some odd first class passengers.
Cornelius was no stranger to stiff crowds like this, but at least he usually knew the lot.
Aristocrats who loved to invest in the latest trend; philanthropy.
Assign some moral value to the act in order to make themselves feel better about flaunting their wealth, and it was a pissing contest for the ages.
Also a necessary evil for people like Cornelius, having to prance beneath chandelier lights like a damned show pony in order to secure funding for the University.
But this was different. These people were complete strangers, with motives that could not so easily be assumed.
Cornelius couldn’t help but feel seen, like everyone could see beneath his clothes, peel away his skin and see the truth of his heart.
His clothes itched, and the layers were all wrong.
How long had it been since he felt so exposed?
Cornelius wanted to turn back, to hide in the suite for the rest of the trip, away from all of these people.
This wasn’t home. These weren’t his people.
He could feel every finger ready to raise and point, to declare, ‘He is Other.’ Cornelius swallowed against the ever tightening knot at his throat, fighting the urge to loosen his tie.
He opened his mouth to tell the steward he’d changed his mind, but it was too late. They were already there.
Watt stood to greet them, looking reliably rough.
Wind swept bronze hair, the same nice gray suit he wore to the museum, and freshly shaven cheeks.
He’d abandoned the bow tie, and his trademark nervous stare.
They traded civil greetings, then took their seats and promptly offered their selections to the wait staff.
Mr. Jones offered to take Cornelius' cane, but he politely declined and propped it between his feet, allowing the pommel to rest against his thigh.
Afterwards, Watt introduced Cornelius to those seated at the table.
The elderly couple’s names went right out the window, but Cornelius latched onto the why of their trip.
A honeymoon in Rio de Janeiro, for they never had one after eloping to America.
They were mirrored by a young and freshly married couple who did not elope, and were celebrating their nuptials.
A widow sat between the couples, pleased as a peach as she spoke of returning to Brazil in order to visit her son attending university in S?o Paulo.
Conversation moved around Cornelius, and he took a long drink of ginger soda.
It didn’t parch the thirst building in his gut, and he did his best to ignore the urge.
He'd just begun to drift into darker thoughts when the widow asked him a question, the first to do so.
“So tell me, Dr. Sawyer. Are you an anthropologist as well?”
Cornelius set his glass down and glanced at Watt, then back towards the woman. “Ah, no, ma’am. Archaeologist.”
“Oh, dear. Is there much difference?”
“Yes,” Watt and Cornelius said at the same time, then blinked at each other. The table erupted into lighthearted amusement.
“Well, then,” the elderly man said, gesturing to Cornelius. “Please, enlighten us.”
In his finest lecture tone, Cornelius did just that.
“It is true that both fields study the past. However, archaeology focuses more on physical facts, like what is left behind by older cultures or where they lived, whereas anthropology focuses more on biology and the social aspects of those peoples. It is a common misconception.”
The newlywed husband leaned forward, an eager gleam to his eyes. “Do you work together often, then? Archaeologists and anthropologists, I mean.”
“Yes, and no,” Cornelius said, tilting his hand back and forth.
“Not as often as we should,” Watt said, and Cornelius looked over at him.
Watt slowly added, “Ego tends to be an obstacle to such things, but there is some change in the community. We all share a common goal, furthering our knowledge of the past. While our methods are different, we’re all putting together the same picture.
My teacher, Dr. Boas, is making great strides in this area, and I intend to follow in his footsteps. ”
Cornelius blinked at Watt, surprised by not only the amount of words unfurled at once, but their meaning as well. Cornelius cleared his throat, dipping his head in assent. “You’re not wrong.”
“Oh,” the newlywed wife said, looking between Cornelius and Watt with an excitement sure to come from reading far too many adventure novels. “Oh, are you off to secure some mysterious artifacts?”
Watt chuckled softly. “I’m afraid not.”
The wife looked hopefully at Cornelius, who merely smiled.
The chattering of the dining hall was brought to a soft murmur when the captain arrived, coming to stand not far from where Cornelius and the others sat.
He addressed the room at large, warm and welcoming, thanking everyone for choosing the Furness Prince Line for their voyage.
His speech was followed with polite applause which Cornelius participated in.
Despair and panic threatened to poison Cornelius once again.
Cornelius told himself over and over that he had the strength to stand before the weight of ten days spent in polite society.
Then it’d be two more weeks of traveling via train and steamer, meeting all sorts of people.
And then it would be just Watt to deal with, for an indeterminable amount of time. Weeks, or months. A year, even.
It didn’t matter. He could do it.
He could.