Cabaret by Lily Prior Page B

was heading back to Civitavecchia. We were on the home run, and there was an air of anticipation that affected the first- and second-class passengers and the crew. In third class, it was very different. An air of failure, of melancholy, hung over the lowest deck like a cloud. The whole purpose of the trip had been denied us, and there was talk of a conspiracy among the more suspicious-minded. People became depressed; their spirits were crushed.
    And what made matters worse was when Rula Argenti developed dysentery, and in the unsanitary conditions be-lowdecks, it spread like a forest fire. The resigned queue that waited without hope outside the single lavatory that soon became horribly blocked discussed the cause of the epidemic: cabaret
    “It was that lemon-flavored water we drank in the parking lot,” said Fantasia Spiga, struggling to control the eruption she could feel brewing within her.
    “No, it was the chicken stew they cooked up on the bus,” said Nero Pupa. “We never should have tried it.”
    “It was the buffalo milk,” countered Nicoletta Bellini.
    “That evil-looking creature was responsible for it all.” So far, I had avoided the contagion, and tried to spend most of the day on the sundeck, where I hoped the sea breezes would keep the germs at bay.
    At my side, constantly, was the ventriloquist, for the first time without the suitcase.The dummy was, apparently, suffering from heat exhaustion after the day spent in the luggage rack of the bus, and was having to lie down in their cabin with a damp washcloth on his head.
    I’m not quite sure how it happened, but already we had assumed the diaphanous mantle of a couple. Unintentionally we walked in step along the decks. Instinctively we moved in unison toward an empty bench for a rest, an enticing patch of shade, or an interesting sight out at sea. The ventriloquist drew rogue strands of hair out of my eyes. I plucked fluff from the collar of his sailor suit, or snatched for his hairpiece when it took flight.
    When we encountered the captain near the bridge, the ventriloquist introduced me as Freda Castro, his fiancée. I wasn’t surprised.
    Neither of us felt the need to say very much. We had the practiced ease of people who have been together for a long, long time. Who know the other’s stories, and smile generously at their well-worn anecdotes. Who can anticipate what the other will say before they open their lips. And who can feel their presence without looking by virtue of their scent in the air, the sound of their footsteps, and the invisible strings that bind us together. Yet in this we were mistaken, for we were absolute strangers to each other.
    Looking back on it, I certainly wasn’t attracted to the ventriloquist. Alberto, as I shall call him now. But I didn’t really know what attraction was. I hadn’t felt it before. I certainly had felt no attraction to Ernesto Porcino, just curiosity about his body. Yet, like Alberto, I was convinced of the in-evitability of it all. I put my faith in Mamma. She saw my future with a ventriloquist. In all probability, it was this one.
    The final night at sea there was to be a gala. The captain’s original intention had been to include even the third-class passengers to compensate them in some small way for missing the cruise’s highlight. He was considering ways of limiting them to soft drinks, because he didn’t want them getting tipsy, and was creating a two-tiered system with respect to other refreshments, but the calculations and diagrams he produced on a sheaf of papers proved unnecessary.
    When the attack of dysentery worsened, he knew the lower deck couldn’t be involved in the festivities for fear of contaminating the superior classes. Soon he was forced to put the whole of third class into quarantine.
    I returned to my deck to find it sealed off with tape, and notices saying “Infected area. Danger of death. Do not enter.” From inside the controlled zone came the sound of distant