Chapter Text
You can say it's all right, but I know that you're breaking up inside...
Daniel walks in the small room that smells faintly of lavender. Allegedly it helps against clothes moths, but Daniel’s clothes are in such state that moths couldn’t do any huge damage to them. He puts a small brown bottle of medicine on the table. “Feel better?” he asks.
Simon smiles at him weakly and sits up in the bed. “Did you sell them?”
“Yes. It was easier than I thought, even though the ship was going in a few hours. They almost ripped my hands off,” Daniel smiles somewhat forcibly.
“You could have still gone,” Simon says quietly. “I’d come later, when I’d get rid of this bloody sickness.”
America was their dream, and they’ve been waiting in Southampton for too long. The third class tickets for Titanic’s voyage to America cost them practically all they had. They even contemplated going anyway, but Daniel suspected that on a ship full of the society’s elite, they wouldn’t let anyone with fever and terrible cough on board. They wouldn’t even let anyone with louses on.
“Hell, no!” Daniel shakes his head. “I want to see the Statue of Liberty for the first time with you by my side.”
Simon smiles again. “Fine.”
“Who cares? America is not going anywhere!” Daniel laughs. “They paid us well for the tickets anyway. We will have no problems getting on another ship. When the coal strike is over.”
“That ship won’t be the Titanic, though,” Simon sighs and then starts coughing again.
“To hell with the Titanic!” Daniel says resolutely and grabs the bottle with medicine. “And take this so we get to America at least this year.”
*
The a la carte restaurant of the first class is full of voices, laughter, clinking of the dishes and reflections of the ladies’ sequined robes. David Villa and his wife are sitting at a long table together with Fernando Llorente, a young heir to an immense fortune traveling to America to oversee his father’s prospering business.
Marquis Vicente del Bosque, a member of the Spanish aristocracy, is another passenger in the first class. As the Spanish elite keeps together, he has a reservation at their table as well. He appears with two young women. One of them is tall and slender, with long dark hair and enticing face. She is wearing an exquisite white robe completed with a massive necklace and a fur boa. The other one is rather short and blonde, wearing a red sequined robe and long white satin gloves.
“Let me introduce you, ladies,” Del Bosque says. “This is Mr. Villa and his wife Patricia, and Mr. Llorente. Madam, gentlemen, Miss Irina Shayklislamova, and this is Miss Shakira Mebarak.” Both Llorente and Villa get up and kiss the ladies’ hands. They remain standing until Shakira and Irina sit down, the waiters pushing the chairs back carefully.
Despite never meeting them in person, everyone knows the two women. Their fathers are oil tycoons in Russia and Lebanon. That they are traveling together could mean many things that are too serious to be discussed at dinner.
“We missed you during the luncheon here in the Ritz, David,” Llorente says while spreading caviar on his toast. “But you did board in Southampton, didn’t you? Where were you hiding?” A few of their company at the table laugh and Del Bosque pats Llorente on the shoulder like he’s just said the joke of the century.
“We had lunch in the dining room,” Villa explains.
Llorente looks almost offended. “The food there has nothing on the a la carte,” he says. “No offense to the White Star Line, but...”
“We wanted to have lunch with the children,” Patricia says almost like she’s apologizing. “Children are allowed in the dining room if it’s not full.”
“How many children do you have, Patricia?” Shakira asks, putting her out of her misery.
“Three,” Patricia smiles. “But only two are traveling with us. The youngest is still too little, so we left him in Spain. It’s only going to be a short trip after all.”
There is mostly small talk done at the table. The men keep their business affairs for the smoking room. Llorente refuses the second glass of champagne the waiter is about to pour him. “Thank you, Claudio, I’m not so much into champagne,” he says. “I’ll wait for the brandy.” The waiter smiles politely and retires.
When the food is gone, the older ladies at the table get up to leave. Shakira and Irina seem to be having a good time talking about fashion, so they actually ask the waiter for another glass. “Will you stay with us, Patricia?” Shakira asks when the men start retreating to the smoking room.
“No, thank you,” Patricia smiles. “I left the children with the governess, but I’m sure they won’t go to sleep until I come back.”
“See you tomorrow, then,” Shakira says. “Good night.” Irina greets her much more coldly, but still politely.
“She is nice,” Shakira notes when Patricia is gone.
“A bit dull,” Irina frowns. “But to each their own.”
Shakira sighs exasperatedly.
“Oh my God!” Irina whispers then. “I can’t believe it!”
“What?” Shakira asks.
“The Beckhams!” Irina whispers. “Over there!”
“Did you really think they wouldn’t be here?” Shakira smiles, looking at the couple leaving the restaurant. “Victoria just couldn’t miss an opportunity to show off.”
“She is the depiction of poor taste,” Irina shakes her head. “Do you know she wore trousers in public once? The indecency!”
“Her husband has allegedly made quite some money recently,” Shakira says and sips on the champagne. “He bought a share in the railways.”
“Look at those shoes,” Irina says, not even listening to her. “I hope she breaks her ankle in those heels.”
Shakira just rolls her eyes.
*
Sergi and Marc are watching a group of children running around the third class deck, chasing a rat. “I hope they catch it soon, I wouldn’t want it in my bed,” Marc notes and Sergi laughs.
Suddenly two boys sit on the bench opposite to them. “See? I have a nose for Spaniards!” one of them says contentedly.
“You only have good ears, Jesé,” the other one grins and reaches out to shake Marc’s and Sergi’s hands. “I’m Asier. This crazy person is Jesé.”
“I’m so glad to find some kindred Spanish souls,” Jesé says. “This ship is full of Irishmen.”
“No, not this ship, just this class,” Sergi corrects him. “I’m sure in the first class you’d find mostly Englishmen. Or Americans. I can’t really tell them from each other.”
The rat runs in their direction, having escaped the children’s hats and hands. Asier makes a quick grab for it and manages to trap it in his hat and lift it up. “You, rat, are a fare dodger, you know? I had to pay insane money for my ticket and you paid nothing. There’s no place for you here!” he says and throws the rat over the rail.
“Getting used to the comfort quickly, Asier, eh?” Jesé pokes him in the ribs. “You’d never waste food like this before.”
It takes them all a good moment to get the joke. Then Asier jumps on Jesé, determined to beat the crap out of him, and Marc and Sergi almost fall off the bench with laughter.
“Excuse him, he’s Basque,” Jesé says when they stop fighting. That earns him another elbow in the ribs.
“What are you going to do in America, then?” Sergi laughs.
“Well, Jesé says he wants to settle,” Asier makes a face. “He says that about five times a year and changes his mind after two months. The worst idea he’s ever had was probably when he wanted to settle in Norway. Then his ass almost froze off and he said America would be better.”
The gong announcing that dinner will be served soon sounds from the inside of the ship. “Well, see you later,” Jesé says. “Are you at least sharing a cabin with people you understand? We have a French and a Hungarian. No chatting there, I’m afraid.”
“We have two Bulgarians,” Sergi grins. “Wanna switch?”
“Uh, no, thank you!” Jesé makes a face.
Sergi and Marc stay on the deck while Jesé and Asier head inside. “Think they’re chasing the American dream as well?” Jesé asks.
“Honestly? These two look like they’re on their honeymoon,” Asier states with a serious face. “But I swear that I know this Marc from somewhere. If only I could remember.”
*
The second class dining room is only half-full when Miro and Thomas arrive. They find a place in the corner, for it seems to be the quietest they can get. Thomas knows that Miro sometimes works on his book even during meals.
He works on his book all the time, and Thomas highly suspects that he will never be done with it. But it’s one of the reasons why he loves Miro, after all. The commitment to things that nobody else seems to appreciate.
“The ship is really awesome,” Thomas says, admiring the interior. He’s always been the one to admire architecture, furniture, material things. Miro just hums and scribbles something in his notebook, above the mundane things as usual. “Please don’t tell me that you’ll spend the whole sail in your cabin, just writing,” Thomas sighs.
“I’d like to, actually,” Miro says. “I need to have everything ready when we get to America. The publishers there will want to see...”
“Miro!” Thomas says patiently. “The publishers there don’t even know that you exist. Surely they can wait a week or two until you show them your magnus opus.”
“Magnum opus,” Miro corrects him. “And I want to go the the first publishing house as soon as I get off the ship, actually.”
“I’m still going to make sure you get some fresh air,” Thomas shakes his head and reaches for a piece of bread. “Otherwise you won’t even know that you crossed the Atlantic.”
*
“Have you found the key to the binoculars?” Officer Steven Gerrard asks the passing crewman on his way to his cabin.
“No, sir,” the crewman shakes his head. “It’s nowhere to be found, sir.”
“Bloody Rooney!” Gerrard swears. “He must have taken the key with him when he was excluded from the voyage.”
“I’d break that lock if it was for me,” Officer Henderson says.
“And the White Star Line would make you pay for the whole ship,” Gerrard makes a face. “They’ll have to cope without the binoculars in the crow’s nest until we get to New York.”
“Let’s hope they see the ships coming before we cut them in half,” Henderson laughs. “Night, Steven.”
“Night, Jordan.” Gerrard closes the door of his cabin. He discards his jacket and breathes in the smell of fresh paint and new linen. He has until the morning before he has to relieve Terry, and he’s determined to profit from the sleep time to the fullest.
*
Villa looks at the steward who brings him brandy and offers him a box of expensive cigars. “Thank you, I don’t smoke,” he says. “My wife would kill me.” The steward smiles and heads to the other side of the room.
“Gentlemen, can I introduce you to Mr. David Moyes, the shipbuilder?” Del Bosque’s jovial voice sounds from the door.
“So you’re the creator of this monster?” Villa chuckles and shakes the man’s hand.
“Well, I didn’t put it together with my bare hands, but let’s say it’s my child,” Moyes smiles. “The idea, though, belongs to Mr. Abramovich.”
“Are you aiming for the Blue Riband, Mr. Abramovich?” Llorente asks, looking at the director of the White Star Line.
“You’d have to ask Captain Hodgson,” Abramovich says. “The ship is at his command.”
“But she is capable of breaking the record, isn’t she?” a young German aristocrat, Manuel Neuer, asks.
“I believe that she is. Am I right, Mr. Moyes?”
“You should ask the captain to show you,” Moyes smiles.
“I certainly will,” Abramovich nods. He searches the room with his eyes until he finds the steward. “Silva! Where are my cigars, son?”
The steward brings the box with cigars and lights one up for Abramovich. Abramovich blows out a cloud of smoke and smiles. “This voyage will make the headlines. Titanic is going to be a big part of the history,” he says. “Mark my words, gentlemen.”