Job: A Comedy of Justice (6 page)

“You were right about the sauna-type shower,” I told her. “It was just what the doctor ordered. Or the nurse, I should say.”

“I know, it’s what my grandmother used to do for my grandfather.”

“A smart woman. My, this smells good!” (Scrambled eggs, bacon, lavish amounts of Danish pastry, milk, coffee—a side dish of cheeses,
fladbrød
, and thin curls of ham, some tropic fruit I can’t name.) “What was that your grandmother used to say when your grandfather argued?”

“Oh, she was sometimes impatient.”

“And you never are. Tell me.”

“Well—She used to say that God created men to test the souls of women.”

“She may have a point. Do you agree with her?”

Her smile produced dimples. “I think they have other uses as well.”

Margrethe tidied my room and cleaned my bath (okay, okay,
Graham’s
room,
Graham’s
bath—satisfied?) while I ate. She laid out a pair of slacks, a sport shirt in an island print, and sandals for me, then removed the tray and dishes while leaving coffee and the remaining fruit. I thanked her as she left, wondered if I should offer “payment” and wondered, too, if she performed such valet services for other passengers. It seemed unlikely. I found I could not ask.

I bolted the door after her and proceeded to search Graham’s room.

I was wearing his clothes, sleeping in his bed, answering to his name—and now I must decide whether or not I would go whole hawg and
be
“A. L. Graham”…or should I go to some authority (American consul? If not, whom?), admit the impersonation, and ask for help?

Events were crowding me. Today’s
King Skald
showed that S.S.
Konge Knut
was scheduled to dock at Papeete at 3 p.m. and sail for Mazatlán, Mexico, at 6 p.m. The purser notified all passengers wishing to change francs into dollars that a representative of the Bank of Papeete would be in the ship’s square facing the purser’s office from docking until fifteen minutes before sailing. The purser again wished to notify passengers that shipboard indebtedness such as bar and shop bills could be settled only in dollars, Danish crowns, or by means of validated letters of credit.

All very reasonable. And troubling. I had expected the ship to stop at Papeete for twenty-four hours at the very least. Docking for only three hours seemed preposterous—why, they would hardly finish tying up before it would be time to start singling up for sailing! Didn’t they have to pay rent for twenty-four hours if they docked at all?

Then I reminded myself that managing the ship was not my business. Perhaps the Captain was taking advantage of a few hours between departure of one ship and arrival of another. Or there might be six other reasons. The only thing I should worry about was what I could accomplish between three and six, and what I
must
accomplish between now and three.

Forty minutes of intense searching turned up the following:

Clothes, all sorts—no problem other than about five pounds at my waistline.

Money—the francs in his billfold (must change them) and the eighty-five dollars there; three thousand dollars loose in the desk drawer that held the little case for Graham’s watch, ring, shirt studs, etc. Since the watch and jewelry had been returned to this case, I assumed conclusively that Margrethe had conserved for me the proceeds of that bet that I (or Graham) had won from Forsyth and Jeeves and Henshaw. It is said that the Lord looks out for fools and drunkards; if so, in my case He operated through Margrethe.

Various impedimenta of no significance to my immediate problem—books, souvenirs, toothpaste, etc.

No passport.

When a first search failed to turn up Graham’s passport, I went back and searched again, this time checking the pockets of all clothes hanging in his wardrobe as well as rechecking with care all the usual places and some unusual places that might hide a booklet the size of a passport.

No passport.

Some tourists are meticulous about keeping their passports on their persons whenever leaving a ship. I prefer not to carry my passport when I can avoid it because losing a passport is a sticky mess. I had not carried mine the day before…so now mine was gone where the woodbine twineth, gone to Fiddler’s Green, gone where Motor Vessel
Konge Knut
had gone. And where was that? I had not had time to think about that yet; I was too busy coping with a strange new world.

If Graham had carried his passport yesterday, then it too was gone to Fiddler’s Green through a crack in the fourth, dimension. It was beginning to look that way.

While I fumed, someone slipped an envelope under the stateroom door.

I picked it up and opened it. Inside was the purser’s billing for “my” (Graham’s) bills aboard ship. Was Graham scheduled to leave the ship at Papeete? Oh, no! If he was, I might be marooned in the islands indefinitely.

No, maybe not. This appeared to be a routine end-of-a-month billing.

The size of Graham’s bar bill shocked me…until I noticed some individual items. Then I was still more shocked but for another reason. When a Coca-Cola costs two dollars it does not mean that a Coke is bigger; it means that the dollar is smaller.

I now knew why a three-hundred-dollar bet on, uh, the
other
side turned out to be three thousand dollars on this side.

If I was going to have to live in this world, I was going to have to readjust my thinking about all prices. Treat dollars as I would a foreign currency and convert all prices in my head until I got used to them. For example, if these shipboard prices were representative, then a first-class dinner, steak or prime rib, in a first-class restaurant, let’s say the main dining room of a hotel such as the Brown Palace or the Mark Hopkins—such a dinner could easily cost ten dollars. Whew!

With cocktails before dinner and wine with it, the tab might reach fifteen dollars! A week’s wages. Thank heaven I don’t drink!

You don’t what?

Look—last night was a very special occasion.

So? So it was, because you lose your virginity only once. Once gone, it’s gone forever. What was that you were drinking just before the lights went out? A Danish zombie? Wouldn’t you like one of those about now? Just to readjust your stability?

I’ll never touch one again!

See you later, chum.

Just one more chance but a good one—I hoped. The small case that Graham used for jewelry and such had in~ it a key, plain save for the number eighty-two stamped on its side. If fate was smiling, that was a key to a lockbox in the purser’s office.

(And if fate was sneering at me today, it was a key to a lockbox in a bank somewhere in the forty-six states, a bank I would never see. But let’s not borrow trouble; I have all I need.)

I went down one deck and aft. “Good morning, Purser.”

“Ah, Mr. Graham! A fine party, was it not?”

“It certainly was. One more like that and I’m a corpse.”

“Oh, come now. That from a man who walks through fire. You seemed to enjoy it—and I know I did. What can we do for you, sir?”

I brought out the key I had found. “Do I have the right key? Or does this one belong to my bank? I can never remember.”

The purser took it. “That’s one of ours. Poul! Take this and get Mr. Graham’s box. Mr. Graham, do you want to come around behind and sit at a table?”

“Yes, thank you. Uh, do you have a sack or something that would hold the contents of a box that size? I would take it back to my desk for paper work.”

“‘A sack’—Mmm… I could get one from the gift shop. But—How long do you think this desk work will take you? Can you finish it by noon?”

“Oh, certainly.”

“Then take the box itself back to your stateroom. There is a rule against it but I made the rule so we can risk breaking it. But try to be back by noon. We close from noon to thirteen—union rules—and if I have to sit here by myself with all my clerks gone to lunch, you’ll have to buy me a drink.”

“I’ll buy you one anyhow.”

“We’ll roll for it. Here you are. Don’t take it through any fires.”

Right on top was Graham’s passport. A tight lump in my chest eased. I know of no more lost feeling than being outside the Union without a passport…even though it’s not truly the Union. I opened it, looked at the picture embossed inside. Do I look like that? I went into the bathroom, compared the face in the mirror with the face in the passport.

Near enough, I guess. No one expects much of a passport picture. I tried holding the photograph up to the mirror. Suddenly it was a good resemblance. Chum, your face is lopsided…and so is yours, Mr. Graham.

Brother,
if
I’m going to have to assume your identity permanently—and it looks more and more as if I had no choice—it’s a relief to know that we look so much alike. Fingerprints? We’ll cope with that when we have to. Seems the U.S. of N.A. doesn’t use fingerprints on passports; that’s some help. Occupation: Executive. Executive of
what?
A funeral parlor? Or a worldwide chain of hotels? Maybe this is not going to be difficult but merely impossible.

Address: Care of O’Hara, Rigsbee, Crumpacker, and Rigsbee, Attys at Law, Suite 7000, Smith Building, Dallas. Oh, just dandy. Merely a mail drop. No business address, no home address, no business. Why, you phony, I’d love to poke you in the snoot!

(He can’t be too repulsive; Margrethe thinks well of him. Well, yes—but he should keep his hands off Margrethe; he’s taking advantage of her. Unfair.
Who
is taking advantage of her? Watch it, boy, you’ll get a split personality.)

An envelope under the passport contained the passenger’s file copy of his ticket—and it was indeed round trip, Portland to Portland. Twin, unless you show up before 6 p.m., I’ve got a trip home. Maybe you can use my ticker in the
Admiral Moffett.
I wish you luck.

There were some minor items but the bulk of the metal box was occupied by ten sealed fat envelopes, business size. I opened one.

It contained thousand-dollar bills, one hundred of them.

I made a fast check with the other nine. All alike. One million dollars in cash.

Barely breathing, I used gummed tape I found in Graham’s desk to seal the envelopes. I put everything back but the passport, placed it with that three thousand that I thought of as “mine” in the little drawer of the desk, then took the box back to the purser’s office, carrying it carefully.

Someone else was at the front desk but the purser was in sight in his inner office; I caught his eye.

“Hi,” he called out. “Back so soon?” He came out.

“Yes,” I agreed. “For once, everything tallied.” I passed the box to him.

“I’d like to hire you for this office. Here, nothing ever tallies. At least not earlier than midnight. Let’s go find that drink. I need one.”

“So do I! Let’s.”

The purser led me aft to an outdoor bar I had not noticed on the ship’s plan. The deck above us ended and the deck we were on, D deck, continued on out as a weather deck, bright teak planks pleasant to walk on. The break on C deck formed an overhang; under it was this outdoor spread canvas. At right angles to the bar were long tables offering a lavish buffet lunch; passengers were queued up for it. Farther aft was the ship’s swimming pool; I could hear splashing, squeals, and yells.

He led me on aft to a small table occupied by two junior officers. We stopped there. “You two. Jump overboard.”

“Right away, Purser.” They stood up, picked up their beer glasses, and moved farther aft. One of them grinned at me and nodded, as if we knew each other, so I nodded and said, “Hi.”

This table was partly shaded by awning. The purser said to me, “Do you want to sit in the sun and watch the girls, or sit in the shade and relax?”

“Either way. Sit where you wish; I’ll take the other chair.”

“Um. Let’s move this table a little and both sit in the shade. There, that does it.” He sat down facing forward; perforce I sat facing the swimming pool—and confirmed something I thought I had seen at first glance: This swimming pool did not require anything as redundant as swim suits.

I should have inferred it by logic had I thought about it—but I had not. The last time I had seen it—swimming without suits—I had been about twelve and it had been strictly a male privilege for boys that age or younger.

“I said, ‘What will you drink, Mr. Graham?’”

“Oh! Sorry, I wasn’t listening.”

“I know. You were looking. What will it be?”

“Uh…a Danish zombie.”

He blinked at me. “You don’t want that at this time of day; that’s a skull splitter. Mmm—” He waggled his fingers at someone behind me. “Sweetheart, come here.”

I looked up as the summoned waitress approached. I looked and then looked twice. I had seen her last through an alcoholic haze the night before, one of two redheads in the hula chorus line.

“Tell Hans I want two silver fizzes. What’s your name, dear?”

“Mr. Henderson, you pretend just one more time that you don’t know my name and I’ll pour your drink right on your bald spot.”

“Yes, dear. Now hurry up. Get those fat legs moving.”

She snorted and glided away on limbs that were slender and graceful. The purser added, “A fine girl, that. Her parents live just across from me in Odense; I’ve known her since she was a baby. A smart girl, too. Bodel is studying to be a veterinary surgeon, one more year to go.”

“Really? How does she do this and go to school, too?”

“Most of our girls are at university. Some take a summer off, some take a term off—go to sea, have some fun, save up money for next term. In hiring I give preference to girls who are working their way through university; they are more dependable—and they know more languages. Take your room stewardess. Astrid?”

“No. Margrethe.”

“Oh, yes, you are in one-oh-nine; Astrid has portside forward on your deck, Margrethe is on your side. Margrethe Svensdatter Gunderson. Schoolteacher. English language and history. But knows four more languages—not counting Scandinavian languages—and has certificates for two of them. On one-year leave from H. C. Andersen Middle School. I’m betting she won’t go back.”