Working Title: “Slow Boat, Bitter End”

A Rony Boston mystery by RJ Stewart

(NOTE: It is necessary to state that this is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.)

AT THE BOW of the gulet was a semi-circular bench made of mahogany and teak and nicely upholstered in rolled and tucked marine Naugahyde the color of Hpnotiq.  Warm and comfortable, it is a perfect place to relax, feet resting upon a compartment where the crew stows the anchor and its long, heavy chain. Ahead, the bowsprit juts into the horizon like a lance in the hands of a Turkish warrior. At the end of the bowsprit is securely fastened a stay for the forward mast. For the safety of unschooled travelers, the bowsprit is ringed with a low, stainless-steel railing. The captain doesn’t seem to mind when his voyagers move as far forward on the bowsprit as possible then let loose of the railing, their arms spread in imitation of Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet on the bow of the Titanic. It makes a nice scrapbook photo.

That wonderful scene of the two young seafarers and their touching romance aboard a ship wrongly reputed to be unsinkable was on my mind as I sipped my second whisky. I hadn’t acknowledged the metaphor when I first saw the movie, how the not-so-invincible ship symbolizes a romantic relationship in its early stages. Those handsome young lovers saw nothing in their future the least bit penetrable, and yet we movie goers knew how ill-fated they were. This is a perfect story, its arc rising with hope and love. And then, unexpected disaster interferes, and the young couple faces an unforgiving fate. The handsome young hero is lost, the couple’s bright future dashed, and their love cast mercilessly into a frigid sea. Movie goers sit in their comfortable seats, munch their popcorn, squeeze the hand of their wife, their husband, or their lover, and turn their heads slightly to wipe away a tear that somehow feels both appropriate and childish. My mind was at that low point of the story, the part which had me thinking of my own failed relationship, my poor self who had lost the days of romance and hope, of promise, of amazing sex – it was at that moment that Griselda sat down almost silently. I barely noticed her, so deeply was I daydreaming. I caught the intoxicating smell of her Persian perfume, a sweet scent I certainly could not have identified then but now know so well, the Shalini Amorem Rose. It was then that I noticed the sliver of a golden moon rising in the eastern sky, as if my self-absorption had detached me from the amazing beauty right before me. It is something one must guard against: The past can overshadow the present. One would do well to seize the moment, carpe diem, as Horace wrote, pluck the now and release the then. I had been sitting there in nostalgia, thinking yet again of the past I was hoping to sort, and looping through my head was Etta James or Billy Holiday or one of those old-timey lounge crooners singing I’ll be looking at the moon, but I’ll be seeing you. It was my Ex-wife, hounding me again like a Baskerville cur.

It’s lovely, isn’t it?

She nodded toward the horizon when I looked at her, revealing her stunning profile. Yes, I had noticed it before -- chin, nose, eyebrows, full lips, slender neck, thick brown hair – but against the twilight it seemed a gem had been turned to reveal another alluring facet. I pretended to look at the moon, but in periphery I held my focus on her. Her lips parted slightly, then she spoke almost in a whisper, and the words drifted away as if borne on winds of gods.

Oh dear, I thought. How can I allow myself to be such an incorrigible romantic? She’s just another person, and I’m just another lonely divorcee. I quoted Cher from Moonstruck: Snap out of it! I tried this:

It was something exactly like this that I imagined when I booked this voyage.

I said it with hopes that my voice wouldn’t quaver. Where was that confidence of only a few hours ago?

You know, I lost my husband.

Yes, I surmised.

(What a stupid word. Surmise! Good grief, Rony Boston.)

I’ve come here to fulfill his wish. He wanted his ashes to be dropped into the Aegean. My sister offered to come with me, but I decided to be alone. It’s a long flight from L.A., but then the Hagia Sofia and the Blue Mosque – so worth it. It’s such a lovely evening!

I let it be. She must have been aware of the romance of the setting. A breeze was barely discernible across the bow. A crew member suddenly appeared and fumbled with the anchor compartment where our feet had rested. He excused himself in accented English. We moved out of his way, settling close to one another, and watched him work. He lifted the hatch, hopped in and we could hear a chain clanking as he fed it onto the deck. He jumped out, went to the bow and released the anchor into the water. The chain clanked out as the anchor fell into the depths. After a few seconds, he locked the winch. He replaced the hatch and then disappeared.

Was your husband ill?

Call it the journalist in me. I knew the question might not be asked by a more sensitive person, but it seemed natural enough to me. She regarded me, then turned to the sea and was quiet. I recalled the cavalier way she carried the urn onto the vessel and wondered if she had grown apart from him and now was only dutifully respecting his final wishes. Probably it was my imagination playing with possibility, but I recall hoping that her attachment to him wasn’t too deep.