The Star of Istanbul Read Online Free Page B

struck up a waltz. The group sounded like about six pieces, with a violin and a piano leading the way. They were playing Archibald Joyce’s “Songe d’Automne,” a lovely, wistful thing made rather sad by its tune being in a minor key. After the first few bars, Brauer’s face lifted and turned—ever so slightly—in the direction of the sound, his eyes moving very briefly in that direction and then returning at once to the dining room before him. But his face remained slightly lifted to the tune.
    He seemed utterly oblivious of me, so I watched him closely, waiting for him to show his response to the music he was clearly aware of, seeing if, by his nostalgia, perhaps Trask was wrong to be vitally suspicious of our Arabic-speaking spy’s American visit, seeing if maybe it was about love or family. But nothing changed in him, not a wrinkle in the brow, not a minute dip of his whiskey hand, not the slightest pause of his eyes in their ongoing desultory tracking of the passing swells.
    But then he turned his face to me, slowly, his eyes going straight to mine. At some point he’d begun watching me in his periphery, as I was watching him.
    â€œSad little waltz,” I said, lifting my chin toward the upper dining room.
    He did not answer for a moment but kept his eyes fixed on me. They were as black and inanimate as any lump of coal flying at that moment into the ship’s boilers. I did not flinch. I kept my own eyes unwaveringly on his, so as to suggest that my staring at him was simply to wait for—even to prompt—his attention.
    After a long moment of this, he finally responded, picking up on the waltz of it, not the sadness: “I don’t dance,” he said.
    â€œI wasn’t asking you to,” I said, not sarcastically, just drily, figuring he was evidently going to resist any conversation anyway and perhaps my showing a pipe-smoke wisp of aggressive irritation would suggest I’d been just a guy wanting to chat.
    He surprised me. He laughed softly at this. As if he appreciated that I’d expressed my irritation with him. “Good,” he said.
    He looked back to the other diners. But not to dismiss me. Almost at once he said, “They all seemed to know the waltz meant to sit.”
    So he was indeed new to first class.
    â€œToo bad,” I said. “I didn’t get my whiskey.”
    He took the card from his pocket that assigned him a table. He looked off to the left, beyond the nearest Corinthian column. “You nearby?” I asked.
    He nodded toward the forward portside corner of the dining room.
    Since he seemed determined to say as little as possible, we had an awkward moment as he clearly wanted to move off in that direction and I had him feeling buttonholed. I saw the impulse of his body and he was about to excuse himself in a way that would make it hard for me to stick with him, so I smoothed the way for both of us before he could speak.
    â€œTime to be seated,” I said and I took a step forward. We moved off together into the portside main aisle through the dining room.
    Brauer said, “And where’s your place for dinner?” Was he accepting my acquaintance? Or was this a low-key challenge of my walking along with him? He was hard to read.
    â€œI’m at the captain’s table tonight.” I said this without hesitation—no feigned humility about it—but I did say it offhandedly. As if I considered it a trifle.
    Still, I found myself suddenly a step ahead of Brauer. I stopped and turned back to him.
    The announcement had made him pull up, and now he’d fully stopped. “So you are a man of acclaim?” he said.
    I offered my hand. “My name is Christopher Cobb.”
    There was no flicker of recognition in his face. But he did take my hand and shake it. He surprised me with a very solid grip.
    â€œI’m Dr. Walter Brauer,” he said.
    â€œI write for a newspaper,” I