Installment 24

Water color by Caroline Hoyt

Working Title: Slow Boat, Bitter End

A Rony Boston Mystery

((This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, businesses, 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 incidental. Artificial intelligence platforms are used occasionally for research but not for writing assistance.)

WHEN MORNING FINALLY came, the gulet was under weigh. I had not heard the anchor being raised, nor the capstan nor the bumps of each link popping through the hawse and around the wildcat.

Instead of jumping out of bed, I lay drifting back and forth between sleep and wake. After escaping the deadline pressures of the newspaper business, I had come to cherish this time of day. Gradually I lost the impulse to shoot from sleep and into the shower, racing against a clock to arrive at the office on time. Instead, I made it a practice to wake up slowly. I discovered I could embrace that foggy time between sleep and wakefulness, and in this state my brain was an idea factory, informing me of sometimes weird possibilities. With practice, I learned to bring wakeful awareness to the fantastic images my dreamy mind had been producing as I lay there in a kind of semi-conscious limbo. As surprising as these images sometimes were, I came to realize they were teeming with insight. I read somewhere that theoretical physicists use these odd brain connections to structure thought experiments from which they sometimes gain breakthroughs. I think Einstein experienced this, but whether he did or not, I like the idea that he did. If he could discover new ideas in physics using the process, maybe I could figure out how that trinket or whatever it was got onto the anchor chain. So, I lay there a while longer.

I recall that morning’s dream vividly. A large bird like nothing I’d ever seen swooped from the heavens. It seemed to have dipped from a perch on a star or maybe it was a tree that was full of stars. As it entered my presence, I felt a whoosh of its silent wings. I saw its sharp talons colored as chrome. I covered my head and ducked low, afraid it meant to take me. I smelled its breath, and it was sweet. It seemed to smile, then it spread its wings so wide the light was blocked and the sky was dark. It rose again to its perch, and when it landed, its talons fell from its feet and dropped onto my hands as if I were a supplicant. I examined each carefully. They were covered in blood, but I wasn’t alarmed. I smelled the blood to be sure, and it was the familiar odor of iron, unlike the sweet fragrance of the creature’s breath.

It was a sweet smell that actually awakened me. It kept intruding. I slowed my breathing, took long and deep breaths and exhaled slowly. The fragrance was strong, and in my room. It was not the dream. It was real. What was it? Another mystery, but Foggy-brain really wasn’t up to it. The breath of the bird was sweet, and with this thought I drifted back to sleep. The dream resumed, but this time the bird had a human face, the face of the deceased young woman, Aylin.

The sweet smell grew stronger and stronger, and when I opened my eyes I scanned my berth for daylight. Bits of light pierced from the portal. The smell was there once more. What was it? Suddenly I knew.

Shalini Amorem Rose!

Had it lingered on my clothes from our conversation on the deck?

Or … Impossible! How could I not remember that? But when I turned, lying next to me was the most beautiful face I had ever seen. Griselda did not stir; she lay still and noiselessly breathing. I studied her closed eyes, her mouth, her hair fluffed around her ears, her chest slightly rising and then falling with each quiet breath. Her bare shoulders and clavicles seemed ivory fair as if painted by Gentileschi. I pinched myself, because for certain I was dreaming, but no; I was awake, very aware, and very ready for romance.

I stirred slightly, hoping not to disturb her, and went to my bathroom to freshen up. As I stood at the mirror brushing away my stale alcohol breath, I realized this whole development was puzzling. I did not notice Griselda when I got up in the night for my investigative work. Nor did I notice her when I returned. So, had she sneaked into my room sometime after I fell asleep? Was I so tired that I didn’t notice the presence of a beautiful woman in my berth? Had something other than wine must and grain alcohol been added to the ouzo? Am I even sure she is there now? I wrestled with these questions as if I were a philosophy professor. For heaven’s sake, Rony Boston; go look!

I opened the door and peeked into the berth. No one there, not in my bed, not in the room. But that sweet aroma, the Shalini Amorem Rose! I decided Turkish coffee was my only hope for consciousness, so I dressed and went topside.

Despite the chaos of the previous day, this morning spread over the gulet En Hızlı Yaratık like the Jinsheng You abstract art work I bought for my Ex- in a failed attempt to reconcile (she kept it). Guests lounged here and there while Captain Yusef manned the helm. Young Ataturk evidently had been assigned the duties of host; he fumbled with a white linen tablecloth and then tried to set the table. Gungor was visiting with the Wyoming couple, Tad and Geoffrey were forward, and Henry and Ruth were seated at the stern. I didn’t see Vasil, but Griselda was near the forecastle. I eased myself along the gunwale and waved. I sat beside her with hopes we could pick up wherever it was that we left off the previous evening. We laughed with Tad and Geoffrey about the extraordinary chaotic mishap at dinner. When they drifted away, Griselda spoke:

What do you think?

Why did you leave?

Some things aren’t adding up.

You left because things didn’t add up?

No, I mean regarding the dead woman.

Oh, that. Why did you leave my berth?

You weren’t there when I woke, so I dressed and came up here. It’s a nice morning.

Beautiful.

Do you think the girl was accidentally killed?

No, I don’t, but I’ll be darned if I can figure out how else it might have happened. Maybe Henry has it figured out. Someone aboard this enchanted vessel summoned a Greek god to turn Aylin into a rat. And she was so pretty and nice. Sad.

Preposterous! Who would do such a thing? Even if it were possible, which it isn’t.

Henry would do it for the benefit of mythology.

Must be a better explanation.

I’ve run through the possibility of an accident. The only theory I’ve come up with is that she was out front, slipped, reached for the railing and careened into the anchor.

And then the anchor went down? By itself?

Not possible. Someone lowered it.

Did you hear anything that night?

A few bumps and clanks but all the boat sounds are new to my ear so what’s a person to think?

I slept like a baby in the back of this amazing ship!

You should have; you’ve got the luxury berth all to yourself.

You want to come over sometime?

You’re teasing a distressed man who barely has his wits about him.

And last night?

Yes, good question. My berth smelled wonderful this morning.

You seemed to be so sound asleep.

Ouzo.

I like you.

Me, too. I mean I like you. We should have a date when we return to civilization.

Or if.

Do you know where we’re headed or when we will stop to resupply?

The itinerary shows we’re to cross the Black Sea for Bulgaria.

Maybe Vasil can show us around. I have a question. May I call you by something shorter? Griselda is a very lovely name, but I seem to want to shorten it to a single syllable.

Such as?

Maybe just Zee?

Sure. My grandfather called me Z. You try it out and if I don’t like it, I’ll impale you on the anchor.

Very funny, Zee.

What was Gungor doing there?

And how did he know the girl was lanced on the anchor?

I thought you would have that figured out by now.

I’m the reporter; you’re the intellect.

Thank you, but let’s not do the who’s-smarter thing.

Yes, got me into trouble before.

In your marriage?

Well, yes. But it wasn’t my fault.

It never is.

She (Zee!) had me. It was a conversation like conversations are supposed to go. One person says something interesting, the other adds a retort, preferably witty, and like brick on top of brick, the repartee builds, maybe not productive conversation but engaging. And fun. Yes! Don’t forget fun.

I had hoped for a benefit or two from this trip but certainly nothing quite so enticing or romantic. I thought I would read a couple of books, maybe write a newsletter home, slink into a state of inurement, and return to New York with emotional detachment and hardened skin. But now I could not have been happier. I had to turn away momentarily as if a reality check. And when I did, there was the wake of the gulet and in my imagination the haunting image of the girl’s sandwiched body bobbing in the sea.