The Last Bookaneer by Matthew Pearl Page A

her poise, her alluring boredom, her selfish resolve, her secrets, all of it came out in every movement and every word she spoke. She handed me a piece of paper, gesturing for me to look at it. It was blank. I knew it was written in invisible ink. It was not a very elaborate method of hiding something, but Davenport would know he was the first to read it.
    More than you could ever know —those were the words that teased me; in later years, as things began to go downhill in the Samoan mission, you could say they haunted me. It was Kitten, so there was more than one meaning possible. Did she mean that I would never be able to know how well she understood Davenport, or that I could never understand him the way she did? Either way, my heart was sinking with their weight. That night, after sprinkling a little lemon juice on the note in order to reveal the message, Davenport left me at the hotel and was not back until the next morning. I supposed he retrieved the information he needed from Kitten to complete the mission and then remained with her for the night. Davenport was insistent that his relationship with Kitten was kept separate from professional dealings, and that, with few necessary exceptions, the best bookaneers never worked together. I would not question him, of course, because to question him about anything was fruitless, but it mystified me how he could pretend their labors and emotions were not already mixed. I knew many bookaneers believed that would be the bookaneer’s downfall (his, not hers).
    There were a few more conversations I had with the famous female bookaneer when we happened upon each other over the course of day-to-day routines, and these were sometimes cordial but never very friendly. She would always say at least one thing that made me uncomfortable. One time there was a comment she made about liking to imagine what people thought about when they saw her with a younger man such as Davenport. “They must ask themselves,” she said, “what it is about me that he cannot resist.” When something more significant finally passed between us it would once again be on the Continent, this time in darkness.
    Now, in the vision that appeared to me onboard the Colossus , her face was stern but not without a hint of the grand humor for which she was loved and hated. Those eyes. You and I have talked much of reading. Well, these eyes are the eyes of a reader, eyes that do not just take words in, but confront and challenge their worthiness—the eyes of a queen or empress who has known nothing but control over other people. Her black hair was curly and loose, made to seem darker because her complexion was light. Her mouth was little and curved, giving a reminder of what it withheld (kind words, kisses, smiles) from all—all but one.
    Time was rushing and time was crawling—again like being on a speeding train. The next thing I can remember after the eeriness of a dead woman’s (living) face was the moment my eyes began to unlock themselves, the lids heavy and unkind. Human eyes, even my poor examples, are remarkable instruments. In utter darkness they moved back and forth valiantly as though something could be gleaned; the blind man’s eyes do the same tired dance. I was in a small, dark, close place that smelled of wood. My thoughts at once turned to a coffin. There was the sound of crashing waves. I tried to scream, but I could call up no sound, and in my head I could only hear the clanging words of Poe writing of being buried alive: Fearful indeed the suspicion—but more fearful the doom!
    Though I still could see nothing, it felt as though the wooden compartment I was inside was settling into the water. I pounded my fists against a wood plank and shouted. Then the horrible guilt settled on me: swim lessons. I had hated the water as a child, and instead of using the lessons in the lake to develop my skills, as my brother did, I would stay where it was shallow enough to