The Doctor and the Diva (33 page)

More passengers appeared, drawn to the furious music. Caught in stairwells, afraid to remain in their staterooms, they made their way toward the sound of Vivaldi. Mrs. Bickford’s daughter Prudence entered and dived against a bank of velvet pillows. Others held fast to whatever they could.

In her stateroom, after finishing her letter of complaint to the Company about the gambling on board, Mrs. Bickford found it impossible to nap. Fear roused her from her bed. Her daughter had gone to the music room, and Mrs. Bickford decided that she did not want to die alone. She put on her best emerald necklace and tucked two pickles, for which she had a great fondness, into her pocket. Just before she closed the door to her stateroom, she heard an explosion of glass and water behind her; she turned to see that a tremendous wave had punched through both port-holes, and the sea poured in as if through a fire hose.

Mrs. Bickford headed for the stairwell, feeling she ought to report this. She gripped every rail, making her way upward. Overhead, she heard havoc in the saloon—the smashing of what must have been stacks of white dinner plates.

On the bridge the Captain said, “We are now out of communication, I’m afraid.”

“How do you mean?” Peter asked.

“About an hour ago,” the Captain admitted, “the gale smashed our wireless apparatus to bits.”

It was as though a giant had lifted the ship in his arms and kept shaking it, so that they would all rattle and break.

Singing was a form of prayer, her voice teacher Magdalena always said.

Erika sang “Agitata da due venti” four times, five. At the Conservatory it was the aria she most feared because of its rapid
passaggi
. Now she sang it as if it were the only aria ever composed, the only piece of music she could remember.

Would it be the last song any of them would ever hear?

At this moment Ravell was probably riding a horse along the beach at the Cocal, never imagining that she was here, pounding at a piano, arching her throat heavenward, hoping not to drop like a stone to the Atlantic floor.

The linen napkin between her legs was still dry—the only dry thing on this ship, it seemed. Suppose, in the hold of her womb, a baby as small as a pearl was now rolling inside her? Another baby’s life over, just as it was beginning . . .

If she abandoned this piano and headed upstairs to search for Peter, the storm might hurl her against a wall and shake the baby loose from her. But maybe there was no baby, only her in a room full of people, all wondering how much worse it might become.

She sang:

As the gale whistled through the boat, she felt the ghost of Vivaldi pass through her. In the music room one man fell completely over another, and the two of them somersaulted toward Prudence, who hugged a velvet pillow and let out a scream.

On the bridge the windows blurred, awash. Peter could barely discern a figure in black on the deck below. It was a stout woman he saw—Mrs. Bickford in fact, a miserable spectacle of drenched hair and skirts. Mrs. Bickford was making her way haltingly toward the bridge, no doubt to issue a complaint.

“
All passengers must stay below,”
the Captain bellowed to one of his men.

As Peter descended into the violence of the weather, holding on as best he could, he decided that he must turn Mrs. Bickford around and lead her below. Afterward he must find Erika. He hoped his wife had stayed in the stateroom as he had advised.

On the deck between him and the dark, soaked figure of Mrs. Bickford, Peter saw a bizarre sight: the ship’s pig had gotten loose—the sweet, crazed pig ran, its split feet useless for balance on the slippery, tilting deck. The pig was being saved for a feast on their last night at sea. It was entirely possible that
this
might be their last night, Peter thought ironically.

The pig had slid from the arms of a Negro crewman who was trying to capture it without getting himself drowned. As the little beast twisted and turned, its curly pink tail jiggled. The animal skittered to a ledge and hung there.

Given the choice, Peter thought wickedly, he would prefer that Mrs. Bickford be washed overboard rather than the sweet, helpless pig.

“Come,” he shouted into the wind, grasping the widow by her upper arm. “None of us passengers are permitted to be enjoying the scenery just now.”

“I cannot believe I am hearing such a gorgeous voice, in such a storm!” an old man cried out from a corner of the music room.

Nobody dared to leave the room once they entered, not even when a table that had been screwed to the floor got loose and flew.

The melody of “Agitata da due venti” was the only lifeline God had tossed them, it seemed. The priests and Prudence were still splayed across velvet benches and pillows, the Germans no longer wore their bibs, and the purser cradled his bashed mandolin. They all hung there listening to Vivaldi’s music, as if it contained the only passage that could lead them out of this.

“We all might very well have drowned last night,” Peter said during lunch the next day. “The engineer tells me that we rolled to the absolute limit.”

By dawn the weather had turned serene. Repairs were already under way. Hammers flailed and mallets pounded; new screws were being driven into the teakwood ladder that had been battered. A starboard rail had been ripped away by the rush of high waters, and crew members were tying ropes around the replacement beams.

“We’re lucky to have survived,” Mrs. Bickford said. She helped herself to more chicken croquettes and an extra pickle.

Erika turned to the purser. “Are you going to eat your beef?” “Actually, I’m not,” the purser said. “It’s a bit tough. Too much exercise for the jaws, if you ask me.”

Erika eyed his plate. “Would you mind if I ate it?”

“Certainly not,” the purser said.

To everyone’s astonishment, she lifted her fork high and aimed the prongs straight into his filet, and took his portion for herself. She tore a large piece of bread with her teeth. Soon everyone at the table except Erika had finished, their silverware resting on their plates.

“Would you like to have the rest of my hash?” the Captain offered, extending his plate toward Erika.

She gave him a quick smile, and a nod. Erika’s fork and knife were soon at work on his potatoes, too.