Job: A Comedy Read online

  I kept right on going aft and outside, onto the weather deck, past the open bar and the tables, clear to the swimming pool.

  It was, as I expected, unoccupied, the ship being in port. There was the usual sign up, CLOSED WHILE SHIP IS IN PORT, and a nominal barrier around it of a single strand of rope, but the pool was still filled. I stepped over the rope and stood with my back to the pool. He followed me; I held up a hand. "Stop right there." He stopped. "Now we can talk," I said. "Explain yourself, and you'd better make it good! What do you mean, calling attention to yourself by bringing that muscle aboard? And a Danish ship at that! Mr. B. is going to be very, very angry with you. What's your name?"

  "Never mind my name. Where's the package?"

  "What package?"

  He started to sputter; I interrupted. "Cut the nonsense; I'm not impressed. This ship is getting ready to sail; you have only minutes to tell me exactly what you want and to convince me that you should get it. Keep throwing your weight around and you'll find yourself going back to your boss and telling him you failed. So speak up! What do you want?"

  "The package!"

  I sighed. "My old and stupid, you are stuck in a rut. We've been over that. What sort of a package? What's in it?"

  He hesitated. "Money."

  "Interesting. How much money?"

  This time he hesitated twice as long, so again I interrupted. "If you don't know how much money, I'll give you a couple of francs for beer and send you on your way. Is that what you want? Two francs?"

  A man that skinny shouldn't have such high blood pressure. He managed to say, "American dollars. One million."

  I laughed in his face. "What makes you think I've got that much? And if I had, why should I give it to you? How do I know you are supposed to get it?"

  "You crazy, man? You know who am I."

  "Prove it. Your eyes are funny and your voice sounds different. I think you're a ringer."

  "'Ringer'?"

  "A fake, a phony! An impostor."

  He answered angrily—French, I suppose. I am sure it was not complimentary. I dug into my memory, repeated carefully and with feeling the remark that a lady had made last night which had caused her husband to say that she worried too much. It was not appropriate but I intended simply to anger him.

  Apparently I succeeded. He raised a hand, I grabbed his wrist, tripped myself, fell backwards into the pool, pulling him with me. As we fell I shouted, "Help!"

  We splashed. I got a firm grip on him, pulled myself up as I shoved him under again. "Help! He's drowning me!"

  Down we went again, struggling with each other. I yelled for help each time my head was above water. Just as help came I went limp and let go.

  ****

  I stayed limp until they started to give me mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. At that point I snorted and opened my eyes. "Where am I?"

  Someone said, "He's coming around. He's okay."

  I looked around. I was flat on my back alongside the pool. Someone had done a professional job of pulling me out with a dip-and-jerk; my left arm felt almost dislocated. Aside from that I was okay. "Where is he? The man who pushed me in."

  "He got away."

  I recognized the voice, turned my head. My friend Mr. Henderson, the purser.

  "He did?"

  That ended it. My rat-faced caller had scrambled out as I was being fished out and had streaked off the ship. By the time they had finished reviving me, Nasty and his bodyguards were long gone.

  Mr. Henderson had me lie still until the ship's doctor arrived. He put a stethoscope on me and announced that I was okay. I told a couple of small fibs, some near truths, and an evasion. By then the gangway had been removed and shortly a loud blast announced that we had left the dock.

  I did not find it necessary to tell anyone that I had played water polo in school.

  ****

  The next many days were very sweet, in the fashion that grapes grow sweetest on the slopes of a live volcano.

  I managed to get acquainted (reacquainted?) with my table mates without, apparently, anyone noticing that I was a stranger. I picked up names just by waiting until someone else spoke to someone by name—remembered the name and used it later. Everyone was pleasant to me—I not only was not "below the salt," since the record showed that I had been aboard the full trip, but also I was at least a celebrity if not a hero for having walked through the fire.

  I did not use the swimming pool. I was not sure what swimming Graham had done, if any, and, having been "rescued," I did not want to exhibit a degree of skill inconsistent with that "rescue." Besides, while I grew accustomed to (and even appreciative of) a degree of nudity shocking in my former life, I did not feel that I could manage with aplomb being naked in company.

  Since there was nothing I could do about it, I put the mystery of Nastyface and his bodyguard out of my mind.

  The same was true of the all-embracing mystery of j who I am and how I got here—nothing I could do about it, so don't worry about it. On reflection I realized that I was in exactly the same predicament as every other human being alive: We don't know who we are, or where we came from, or why we are here. My dilemma was merely fresher, not different.

  One thing (possibly the only thing) I learned in seminary was to face calmly the ancient mystery of life, untroubled by my inability to solve it. Honest priests and preachers are denied the comforts of religion; instead they must live with the austere rewards of philosophy. I never became much of a metaphysician but I did learn not to worry about that which I could not solve.

  I spent much time in the library or reading in deck chairs, and each day I learned more about and felt more at home in this world. Happy, golden days slipped past like a dream of childhood.

  And every day there was Margrethe.

  I felt like a boy undergoing his first attack of puppy love.

  It was a strange romance. We could not speak of love. Or I could not, and she did not. Every day she was my servant (shared with her other passenger guests) . . . and my "mother" (shared with others? I did not think so . . . but I did not know). The relationship was close but not intimate. Then each day, for a few moments while I "paid" her for tying my bow tie, she was my wonderfully sweet and utterly passionate darling.

  But only then.

  At other times I was "Mr. Graham" to her and she called me "sir"—warmly friendly but not intimate. She was willing to chat, standing up and with the door open; she often had ship's gossip to share with me. But her manner was always that of the perfect servant. Correction: the perfect crew member assigned to personal service. Each day I learned a little more about her. I found no fault in her.

  For me the day started with my first sight of her— usually on my way to breakfast when I would meet her in the passageway or spot her through an open door of a room she was making up . . . just "Good morning, Margrethe" and "Good morning, Mr. Graham," but the sun did not rise until that moment.

  I would see her from time to time during the day, peaking each day with that golden ritual after she tied my tie.

  Then I would see her briefly after dinner. Immediately after dinner each evening I would return to my room for a few minutes to refresh myself before the evening's activities—lounge show, concert, games, or perhaps just a return to the library. At that hour Margrethe would be somewhere in the starboard forward passageway of C deck, opening beds, tidying baths, and so forth—making her guests' staterooms inviting for the night. Again I would say hello, then wait in my room (whether she had yet reached it or not) because she would come in shortly, either to open my bed or simply to inquire, "Will you need anything more this evening, sir?"

  And I would always smile and answer, "I don't need a thing, Margrethe. Thank you." Whereupon she would bid me good night and wish me sound sleep. That ended my day no matter what else I did before retiring.

  Of course I was tempted—daily!—to answer, "You know what I need!" I could not. Imprimis: I was a married man. True, my wife was lost somewhere in another world (
or I was). But from holy matrimony there is no release this side of the grave. Item; Her love affair (if such it was) was with Graham, whom I was impersonating. I could not refuse that evening kiss (I'm not that angelically perfect!) but in fairness to my beloved I could not go beyond it. Item: An honorable man must not offer less than matrimony to the object of his love . . . and that I was both legally and morally unable to offer.

  So those golden days were bittersweet. Each day brought one day nearer the inescapable time when I must leave Margrethe, almost certainly never to see her again.

  I was not free even to tell her what that loss would mean to me.

  Nor was my love for her so selfless that I hoped the separation would not grieve her. Meanly, self-centered as an adolescent, I hoped that she would miss me as dreadfully as I was going to miss her. Childish puppy love—certainly! I offer ih extenuation the feet that I had known only the "love" of a woman who loved Jesus so much that she had no real affection for any flesh-and-blood creature.

  Never marry a woman who prays too much.

  ****

  We were ten days out from Papeete with Mexico almost over the skyline when this precarious idyll ended. For several days Margrethe had seemed more withdrawn each day. I could not tax her with it as there was nothing I could put my finger on and certainly nothing of which I could complain. But it reached crisis that evening when she tied my tie.

  As usual I smiled and thanked her and kissed her.

  Then I stopped with her still in my arms and said, "What's wrong? I know you can kiss better than that. Is my breath bad?"

  She answered levelly, "Mr. Graham, I think we had better stop this."

  "So it's 'Mr. Graham,' is it? Margrethe, what have I done?"

  "You've done nothing!"

  "Then— My dear, you're crying!"

  "I'm sorry. I didn't intend to."

  I took my handkerchief, blotted her tears, and said gently, "I have never intended to hurt you. You must tell me what's wrong so that I can change it."

  "If you don't know, sir, I don't see how I can explain it."

  "Won't you try? Please!" (Could it be one of those cyclic emotional disturbances women are heir to?)

  "Uh . . . Mr. Graham, I knew it could not last beyond the end of the voyage—and, believe me, I did not count on any more. I suppose it means more to me than it did to you. But I never thought that you would simply end it, with no explanation, sooner than we must."

  "Margrethe ... I do not understand."

  "But you do know!"

  "But I don't know."

  "You must know. It's been eleven days. Each night I've asked you and each night you've turned me down. Mr. Graham, aren't you ever again going to ask me to come back later?"

  "Oh. So that's what you meant! Margrethe—"

  "Yes, sir?"

  "I'm not 'Mr. Graham.'"

  "Sir?"

  "My name is 'Hergensheimer.' It has been exactly eleven days since I saw you for the first time in my life. I'm sorry. I'm terribly sorry. But that is the truth."

  VII

  Now therefore be content, look upon me; for it is evident unto you if I lie.

  Job 6:28

  ****

  MARGRETHE IS BOTH a warm comfort and a civilized adult. Never once did she gasp, or expostulate, or say, "Oh, no!" or "I can't believe it!" At my first statement she held very still, waited, then said quietly, "I do not understand."

  "I don't understand it either," I told her. "Something happened when I walked through that fire pit. The world changed. This ship—" I pounded the bulkhead beside us. "—is not the ship I was in before. And people call me 'Graham' . . . when I know that my name is Alexander Hergensheimer. But it's not just me and this ship; it's the whole world. Different history. Different countries. No airships here."

  "Alec, what is an airship?"

  "Uh, up in the air, like a balloon. It is a balloon, in a way. But it goes very fast, over a hundred knots."

  She considered it soberly. "I think that I would find that frightening."

  "Not at all; it's the best way to travel. I flew down here in one, the Count von Zeppelin of North American Airlines. But this world doesn't have airships. That was the point that finally convinced me that-this really is a different world—and not just some complicated hoax that someone had played on me. Air travel is so major a part of the economy of the world I knew that it changes everything else not to have it. Take— Look, do you believe me?"

  She answered slowly and carefully, "I believe that you are telling the truth as you see it. But the truth I see is very different."

  "I know and that's what makes it so hard. I— See here, if you don't hurry, you're going to miss dinner, right?"

  "It does not matter."

  "Yes, it does; you must not miss meals just because I made a stupid mistake and hurt your feelings. And if I don't show up, Inga will send somebody up to find out whether I'm ill or asleep or whatever; I've seen her do it with others at my table. Margrethe—my very dear!— I've wanted to tell you. I've waited to tell you. I've needed to tell you. And now I can and I must. But I can't do it in five minutes standing up. After you turn down beds tonight can you take time to listen to me?"

  "Alec, I will always take all the time for you that you need."

  "All right. You go down and eat, and I'll go down and touch base at least—get Inga off my neck—and I'll meet you here after you turn down beds. All right?"

  She looked thoughtful. "All right. Alec— Will you kiss me again?"

  That's how I knew she believed me. Or wanted to believe me. I quit worrying. I even ate a good dinner, although I hurried.

  ****

  She was waiting for me when I returned, and stood up as I came in. I took her in my arms, pecked her on the nose, picked her up by her elbows and sat her on my bunk; then I sat down in the only chair. "Dear one, do you think I'm crazy?"

  "Alec, I don't know what to tink." (Yes, she said "tink." Once in a long while, under stress of emotion, Margrethe would lose the use of the theta sound. Otherwise her English accent was far better than my tall-corn accent, harsh as a rusty saw.)

  "I know," I agreed. "I had the same problem. Only two ways to look at it. Either something incredible did happen when I walked through the fire, something that changed my whole world. Or I'm as crazy as a pet 'coon. I've spent days checking the facts . . . and the world has changed. Not just airships. Kaiser Wilhelm the Fourth is missing and some silly president named 'Schmidt' is in his place. Things like that."

  "I would not call Herr Schmidt 'silly.' He is quite a good president as German presidents go."

  "That's my point, dear. To me, any German president looks silly, as Germany is—in my world—one of the last western monarchies effectively unlimited. Even the Tsar is not as powerful."

  "And that has to be my point, too, Alec. There is no Kaiser and there is no Tsar. The Grand Duke of Muscovy is a constitutional monarch and no longer claims to be suzerain over other Slavic states."

  "Margrethe, we're both saying the same thing. The world I grew up in is gone. I'm having to learn about a different world. Not a totally different world. Geography does not seem to have changed, and not all of history. The two worlds seem to be the same almost up to the beginning of the twentieth century. Call it eighteen-ninety. About a hundred years back something strange happened and the two worlds split apart . . . and about twelve days ago something equally strange happened to me and I got bounced into this world." I smiled at her. "But I'm not sorry. Do you know why? Because you are in this world."

  "Thank you. It is important to me that you are in it, too."

  "Then you do believe me. Just as I have been forced to believe it. So much so that I've quit worrying about it. Just one thing really bothers me— What became of Alec Graham? Is he filling my place in my world? Or what?"

  She did not answer at once, and when she did, her answer did not seem responsive. "Alec, will you please take down your trousers?"

  "What did you say, Ma
rgrethe?"

  "Please. I am not making a joke and I am not trying to entice you. I must see something. Please lower your trousers."

  "I don't see— All right." I shut up and did as she asked—not easy in evening dress. I had to take off my mess jacket, then my cummerbund, before I was peeled enough to let me slide the braces off my shoulders.

  Then, reluctantly, I started unbuttoning my fly. (Another shortcoming of this retarded world—no zippers. I did not appreciate zippers until I no longer had them.)

  I took a deep breath, then lowered my trousers a few inches. "Is that enough?"

  "A little more, please—and will you please turn your back to me?"

  I did as she asked. Then I felt her hands, gentle and not invasive, at my right rear. She lifted a shirttail and pulled down the top of my underwear pants on the right.

  A moment later she restored both garments. "That's enough. Thank you."

  I tucked in my shirttails and buttoned up my fly, reshouldered the braces and reached for the cummerbund. She said, "Just a moment, Alec."

  "Eh? I thought you were through."

  "I am. But there is no need to get back into those formal clothes; let me get out casual trousers for you. And shirt. Unless you are going back to the lounge?"

  "No. Not if you will stay."

  "I will stay; we must talk." Quickly she took out casual trousers and a sports shirt for me, laid them on the bed. "Excuse me, please." She went into the bath.

  I don't know whether she needed to use it or not, but she knew that I could change more comfortably in the stateroom than in that cramped shipboard bathroom.

  I changed and felt better. A cummerbund and a boiled shirt are better than a strait jacket but not much. She came out, at once hung up the clothes I had taken off, all but the shirt and collar. She removed studs and collar buttons from these, put them away, and put shirt and collar into my laundry bag. I wondered what Abigail would think if she could see these wifely attentions. Abigail did not believe in spoiling me—and did not.