Pictures of the Past by Deby Eisenberg Read Free Book Online Page B

that would well service his needs. Thanking the purser for his help, Taylor left the desk while reviewing a simplified blueprint that he had been handed. He was anxious to explore the vessel, but lingered to overhear the conversations of the other passengers now waiting in the growing line.
    “How y’all doing? Told my friends I was booked on the largest ship afloat,” one man said with a thick, colorful Texas accent. “And in my first hour I have not been disappointed.” He continued speaking to no one in particular, perhaps waiting to catch a response from a fellow passenger. “Did you see the dining room? I mean they say it is more beautiful than the Palace of Versailles.” His mispronunciation of that venue was so egregious an assault on their language, that the group of returning Frenchmen passing by exchanged incredulous glances and grimaces with each other.
    Behind the man, an elegantly dressed middle-aged woman in a sleek royal blue skirt suit, unaware of the unattractive run snaking up one leg of her textured nylon hose, bent down to the child behind her. “Oh, just wait, young man, until you see the pool. There is even a shallow beach end for you, honey.” Rising back up while cautiously trying to maintain her balance on her thick high heels, she addressed his mother next. “And I know that I am ready to use that hydrotherapeutic steam bath for myself.”
    “Tell her about the animals,” the little boy said, looking up at his mother and pulling on her sleeve. “Tell her not to be scared—they are not real.” The young mother then explained how they had seen only a small portion of the ship and that her son had been mesmerized in the children’s café, where enormous images seemed to have leapt from the pages of a Babar the Elephant book onto the walls.
    Taylor had studied his ship documents on the train from Chicago and had seen the reviews of the Normandie, promoting it as the pride of France, a floating wonder featuring the best in French design and craftsmanship, and offering the finest French cuisine. Now, with the ship’s schematic in hand, Taylor stopped first for a peek at the dining room. Twelve soaring columns of Lalique’s signature frosted crystal were the focal masterpieces along the ornate glass sculptured walls. A waiter who was putting finishing touches on a table setting told him that each evening the room would accommodate over seven hundred passengers. As if he captained the ship himself, he proudly explained that despite the summer temperatures, the guests would be content in their formal attire, enjoying the presentation of courses in the comfort of air-conditioning.
    Passing next through the grand salon, Taylor found red, black, and white floral upholstered chairs, settees, and chaises, and a brilliantly polished ebony piano. He was once again impressed by the ship’s interiors, and understood why its moniker was “Ship of Light.” Following this theme in the salon, four oversized torchieres illuminated the room where rich wood pillars alternated with the art deco murals.
    He spent another hour just walking the outer perimeter—around the impeccably maintained decks of the ship. He began on the lower levels and worked his way to the top, where against the backdrop of the city skyline, the men below, busily hauling passengers’ suitcases and trunks, looked like worker ants. As an experienced sailor himself, he was intrigued with any seagoing vessel, but the boats that had crossed the Atlantic from Europe and had navigated the channels of the Great Lakes to reach Chicago were more often old, rusted cargo carriers. Standing now in the bustling harbor of New York, he was instinctively turning to his father to share this experience. It was the first time on his trip that he absorbed the impact of being alone, that he understood just how much he needed to be an adult now.
    Inside once again and in search of his cabin, he tipped his hat as he passed clusters of lovely young ladies