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Show 171 In the dining saloon I sit across from a middle-aged couple who must tell me how good it was to visit their son in Marseilles. He is doing so well, an importer of sporting goods. He is about my age, they note, then want to know where I am going. I ask instead if they have seen the woman who today was wearing a yellow slicker. No. We haven't. Waiters fill our glasses with water and set bread on the table. I look around again. Perhaps she does not feel well, I think. She was gripping the deck rail so tightly. Or is it possible I do not recognize her? I pour myself some wine and offer to do the same for the couple. Please. Thank you. It is nothing. Now the soup, ladled from a steaming tureen into my bowl. I fear that I am becoming accustomed to this luxury. It is a thick pasta soup, rich with vegetables. I consider its temperature and watch it shift slowly in the bowl. Excuse me, young man, but is that the woman you mean? I follow the nod, look toward the double doors. Yes, that is her. Except she is not wearing brown at all, but a pair of faded dungarees and a heavy sweater. Her black hair just reaches her shoulders. She sees me looking at her. She smiles. I know she will take the place beside me so I concentrate on my soup. It is still too hot to eat. When she sits down, I allow the middle-aged couple to greet her first. They launch into talk of |
