Part One: Chapter One: De Initio ad Finem
Two men made their way across a dirt road as the sun set over the windy English countryside. They were in their twenties or so. The first was American- tall with dirty blond hair, blue eyes, and tan skin. The second man was a few inches shorter than his friend, and Italian; his hair and eyes were dark. Their attire was rather plain, and it was apparent to the cars and carriages that passed by, that walking was their only means of transportation, and that the bags they carried held their only possessions. But none of this mattered to the two, even if they had been walking for almost four days. They were young, the journey was not a hard one, and they had no families to slow them. They didn't have many material possessions, but the fewer the better when you were walking. They did not have much money, but they had their whole lives ahead, and the freedom to do whatever they wished with them. The road went on forever, and they could take whatever path they chose. And their current path was leading them to America. The Italian man, Fabrizio, was going for the dream of most every immigrant- pursuit of happiness. He wanted to be a millionaire, or that's what he said, he might've been more practical in his own mind. Or perhaps he didn't want to bring up another reason he'd gone, and that was that Italy was currently at war with Turkey, and he did not want to participate. But he had always wanted to leave. . . The other man, Jack Dawson, had left America when he was sixteen years old. Walking from place to place was nothing new to him. . . seven years without a place to call home had left him a seasoned traveler. But he loved the lifestyle, loved the adventure, loved the unpredictability. . . The two of them had met in France and had become friends instantly upon learning of their common goal, whatever different reasons they shared it. And Jack, who was often at a want for company, appreciated having a travel companion. The air was getting colder as the sun sank lower and lower, and Jack could make out the street lights of Southampton from where they stood.
"Do you smell that, Fabrizio?" He asked, stopping as he looked into the violet horizon, smiling.
"Huh?" Fabrizio replied.
"The ocean. We're getting closer." Jack explained. "Tomorrow we can go to town and find see about finding a ship."
"We would have been in town yesterday if you didn't stop and look at everything." Fabrizio muttered.
Jack didn't have anything to say about this, and the two of them continued through the dusk until they reached a cobblestone bridge, barely visible in the dark, stretched over a wide ditch.
"Well, there's camp." Jack said cheerfully, climbing into the ditch.
"Why can't we stay in town?" Fabrizio asked as he followed.
"Because that's expensive, and we need our money for when we find a ship."
"Do you think we can afford one?" Fabrizio asked him.
"Probably not." Jack replied honestly. "We might need to save a little more."
"How long do you think that take?" Jack shrugged as he grabbed a blanket from his sack and laid it out on the ground under the bridge. "Maybe we'll get lucky and find something this week."
Fabrizio groaned. "Cosi vicino eppure cosi lontano." He lamented.
"Don't be so negative. We can either stay here and find work so we can afford a ship, get a job on a ship, or wait until we find an affordable one. Worse that could happen is that we'll have to camp out in this ditch every night." Jack told him.
"Non ho intenzione di accamparmi in un fosso con te ogni notte!" Fabrizio exclaimed indignantly.
"Suit yourself." Jack said, lying down on the blanket. The ground was rocky and uncomfortable. "But I'm the one who knows what they're doing."
"Bene." Fabrizio sighed. "But I blame you if we get stuck in Europe."
The stars in London could never be seen at night due to the smoke of many factories working there. The only light was from the streetlamps, and from the windows of houses. The air was chilly, and there was a fog about the city, which was so noisy in the morning, but so quiet now. On the corner of Winslow Road, a nicer part of the city, far from the slums, stood a beautiful Victorian mansion. The front door was surrounded by roses that were yet to bloom, and the yard was well manicured. The paint on the outside of it was white, and the house was three stories high. It had large bay windows, and two stone balconies overlooking the road. A young, red-haired woman stood on one of these balconies, watching the cars and carriages drive through the street. She wore a long black dress and white silk gloves. Her hair was arrayed in an elegant bun, and her earrings and necklace were silver. Her skin was almost unnaturally white, and she had a slender build, along with a pretty mouth, and large blue eyes. The balcony on which she stood was not her balcony, and this mansion was not her house. This was the house of her future mother and father-in-law: Nathan and Hester Hockley. She, Rose Dewitt Bukater, was from America. Tonight was her last night in Europe. They, her mother, fiance, and Rose, had spent the majority of the winter there. It was her fiance, Caledon Hockley, who had suggested the trip after she had accepted his proposal of marriage in December. They had come from New York on the luxury liner Mauretania, and had docked in Southampton. Then they went to London to see Cal's parents and sister. From London it was France, from France, Spain; from Spain, Italy, Rome and Greece, and then it was back to London. They were going to Southampton again tomorrow, where they would be going to New York on Titanic, supposedly the largest and grandest luxury liner in all existence, and this was her maiden voyage. But despite all this, Rose was overwhelmed and frustrated. Only seventeen years old, and her whole life already set in stone. She did not have to wonder what she was going to do, or where she was going to go, she knew exactly what; she knew exactly where. It was as though she had no choice in the matter, because she didn't. She would be married on May 23, 1912. That was that. There was no changing it, no stopping it. So she had resolved herself to her fate, and tried to embrace it, but the more she did, the more bitter she became, and the bitterness was consuming her. Needless to say, she had become very distant and disagreeable. But everyone was too wrapped up in her wedding plans to even acknowledge this, so she was lonely as well. There was a hard knock on the door to her bedroom.
"Rose." Marianne (Cal's younger sister) said, in her high, lofty voice. "I was told to inform you that dinner is almost ready."
"I'm coming!" Rose called in a forcibly polite tone- she and Marianne were the same age, but had never gotten along, as Marianne had disliked Rose profusely throughout the course of finishing school. But Marianne Hockley was a snobby brat who was naturally demeaning and petty, so Rose only returned the feelings of dislike. She stalked across the room, shutting the French door to the balcony behind her, and opening the one to her bedroom. Marianne was waiting in the hallway, dressed in an olive-green dress that she must've thought accented her dark brown hair. She smiled horribly when she saw Rose.
"I love your dress, dear, where did you get it?" She simpered, eyes widening in malice.
"Oh, I can't remember." Rose laughed sardonically. "But you must tell me where you got yours. . . it makes you look just like the frog I saw in the garden this morning."
Marianne turned a shade of deepest red, and whispered, "I haven't the slightest idea why my brother wants to marry you, but have my assurance that I have done everything in my power to dissuade him."
"Pity he's never listened to you." Rose replied coolly, walking down the staircase into the parlor.
It was a very well decorated room. The red drapes covered the large bay window, blocking any light from outside, but there was a small chandelier hanging from the ceiling, and there were lamps everywhere. There were two chintz arm chairs next to the roaring brick fireplace, and a sofa and love-seat stood across from each other on top of a blue oriental rug. Mr. Hockley was standing by the fireplace, smoking a pipe. He was a tall man, slightly hunched, and he leaned against a wooden cane. His hair was graying, and he had a silver mustache. His wife sat on the sofa. Her hair was light brown, and she would've had a pretty face, except her expression was always sour. Her build was frail, and she looked quite small in her long, salmon-colored gown.
Next to her was Rose's own mother, who was dressed in beige, and had her curly red hair pinned to the top of her head, which was, like always, held in the perfect posture. She always presented herself with elegance. She always knew which fork to use, and when to laugh politely. She kept up with the times, and could carry conversation fluently with others of her status. Ruth Dewitt Bukater was a treasured member of high society- stately, elite, and poised. But she was also a cold-blooded aristocrat, who in reality was as miserly as Ebenezer Scrooge, and she cared for nothing but her own comforts and pleasures. Her features were sharp, and she looked very similar to her daughter, but Rose shuddered to think that they were alike.
Cal was talking business with his father by the fireplace. He was dressed in a black suit, and his shoes were so shined you could practically see your refection in them. His brown hair was combed to perfection, and his narrow eyes were never without a trace of cunning. His demeanor was proud and lordly, even in his own home, and he thought it had every right to be so. The world was at his feet, and he ran it how he saw fit. And that was like a well-oiled machine, in which all the gears did as required of him. Everyone, like a gear, did their part how he wanted. No one ever didn't, and he didn't expect them to. He got his way more often than not, for life had been handed to him on silver platter. And the fact that it had been gave him a rather arrogant disposition, and like a spoiled toddler, he labored under the delusion that he was the most important person in the universe.
Mother and Mrs. Hockley were already going on about the wedding, and who they were going to invite.
"Marianne and I were thinking about staying longer in America this summer." Mrs. Hockley said. "I know that Nathan has the English steel mills to attend, so he'd have to come back straight after the wedding but. . . "
"That would be lovely." Mother chimed in. "And of course, Marianne will be the maid of honor." Rose frowned, wasn't she supposed to decide who the maid of honor was and not her mother?
Marianne shot her a triumphant look, and Rose glared at her.
"I was thinking I would like an outdoor wedding." Rose told the two, sitting on the far end of the couch.
They laughed, and Mother said, "That's lovely in theory dear, but we want the guests to be comfortable. Indoors is the best option. And besides, we already have the invitations."
"But, there was a misprint-" Rose began.
"Rose, I fixed that. The invitations went out weeks ago."
"I suppose the trick was finding a church large enough to hold all those people." Mrs. Hockley said gaily. "It was dreadful." Mother agreed, and then she began to drone of all the trouble she'd had, so Rose stopped listening.
"Be careful that it's not stolen." Mr. Hockley said to Cal, and then Rose realized curiously that they weren't talking on about the stock market like she thought they were.
"I'll keep it in the safe during the entire voyage." Cal reassured him.
Mr. Hockley nodded curtly. "I'm happy for you, son." He said in an undertone, unaware that anyone was listening to the conversation. "But she seems a bit. . ."
"Rose is unpredictable." Cal interrupted quietly. "She's just in a mood."
"I've known Rose for years now. As you know, her father and I were friends. . . I've never seen her so reserved before." Mr. Hockley argued.
"She hasn't ever been the same since he died. . ." Cal replied dismissively.
His father hesitated.
"Trust me." Cal said, patting Mr. Hockley's shoulder. "I know her."
No you don't. Rose couldn't help but think. You don't know me at all.
A few minutes later, they all went to dinner, and Rose could not talk throughout it. . . there was too much to think about to talk, and she was mentally exhausted by the time she went to bed.
Jack and Fabrizio were up fairly early that morning, neither had slept very well, and now that it was light Jack could see the area they'd been sleeping on really wasn't the best choice, being dirty and rocky without much grass. . . no grass actually. Fabrizio had been uncharacteristically quiet that morning, due to this- Jack couldn't tell if the silence was good or bad, but it was nice that he could hear himself think for once during their journey.
"It wasn't that bad." He said, as they walked into town.
"Stai zitto." Fabrizio snapped.
Southampton was a large port, but it was a lot more crowded than the last time Jack had been. The dirt roads were packed with people of all sorts, and he even spotted a few cars. And the shops were filled as well.
"I didn't think it'd be this crowded on a Wednesday morning." Jack commented, as they navigated past a group of Chinese men carrying luggage.
Fabrizio looked around. "If all these people are getting on ships, than I don't think we have a chance at this port. . . when were you last here, anyway?"
Jack shrugged. "I don't know, couple years ago, maybe. . . and I'm sure that not everyone here's a passenger. It's a town too."
He noticed an old newspaper lying in the dirt and picked it up. "Southampton Labor Dispute Finally Settled. . ." He read, frowning. "More than seventeen thousand have been out of work. . ."
"Che chosa?" Fabrizio cried, trying to grab the newspaper, but Jack dodged him, and continued reading it.
"No one's been hiring any crews or dockworkers until last week because of a six month coal strike. . ."
"Which means?"
"That everyone here is going to be cramming for jobs." Jack said dully.
"You mean we came out here for nothing?!"
"We can still see if there's anything affordable."
"Do you not see how crowded it is here? We'll never find anything." Fabrizio said incredulously. "Even if we could afford it. . ."
"Well, we can still ask around."
"Or you could apologize."
"For what?" Jack asked. "It's not my fault there was a labor dispute."
"It's your fault we came here."
"It was my idea, and you agreed- that makes it just as much your fault." Jack reminded him.
They glared at each other for a long time.
"Well, pointing fingers isn't going to get us anywhere, I say we come up with another plan." Jack said finally, walking to the edge of town.
"I think of the plan this time." Fabrizio told him.
"Okay, fine, but if I don't-" He stopped short.
Out in the port, illuminated by the sun, stood the biggest steam ship Jack had ever seen. Its black-painted keel was larger than most of the buildings in Southampton, and its four gigantic steam funnels were the size of towers. People were already starting to crowd around it, and they looked like ants out in front of it. . . but all the while, there was a sense of majesty about it, and Jack could just make out the word, Titanic, painted in white letters on the side. There was something about it. . . something monumental, something that filled him with a sort of awe that he couldn't describe. The sort of awe he had when they'd first come out with cars, the kind of awe that could only be felt when staring a technological marvel in the face. And the awe left them standing there, speechless, gaping.
"Santo cielo." Fabrizio muttered finally in a tone that was almost reverent.
"I think that's why it's so crowded here today." Jack said, unable to take his eyes off of it.
"Det ar det, det ar Titanskt!" Someone exclaimed in Swedish behind them.
Jack turned around to see two men who looked like they'd been traveling for about as long as he and Fabrizio had. One of them was short and burly, while his companion, who was no doubt his brother, was wiry with a goatee. Both were smiling ear-to-ear when they saw the ship, no doubt knowing what it was.
"Excuse me," Jack said, walking over to them while being watched by a befuddled Fabrizio. "Do you speak English?"
"Vad sa du?" The taller one asked.
"Do you speak English?"
They looked at him like he was crazy, and then looked at each other, confused.
"English?" Jack repeated more loudly. The shorter smiled in comprehension.
"Ah, engelska!" He exclaimed, and said in very broken English, "I speak some. What you want?"
"Do you know anything about that ship?" Jack asked, pointing at Titanic.
"Ja, we sail on it to Amerika." He replied proudly.
"Where did you get tickets?" He inquired- these two Swedes were not what you'd call rich, and if they could afford it than maybe. . .
"We got them long time ago."
"Is there any chance-"
"Nej." Said his companion, who looked about ten years older. "It leave today."
"Is there any chance that you'd think of selling your tickets?" Jack implored, seeing a golden opportunity rising.
The elder shook his head, but the younger asked, "Hur mycket har du?"
"Fifteen pounds." Jack replied promptly, though he didn't understand Swedish, the words had little need for translation.
"Nej, Sven." The elder said.
"Det ar man an vad vi fick for dem!" Sven protested.
"Nej."
"Maybe we could settle this in a game of poker." Jack suggested.
"Che cosa?!" Fabrizio exclaimed.
"We have fifteen pounds, you have the tickets, winner takes all."
The two exchanged looks.
"Jack. . ." Fabrizio started.
"Deal." Sven smiled, sticking out his hand.
"Jack!"
"Deal." He agreed, shaking it.
"I'm Jack, this is Fabrizio."
"I'm Sven, that's Olaf." Sven said.
Fabrizio grabbed Jack by the shoulder and pulled him aside.
"Did you sul serio bet all of our money?" He asked in an undertone.
"If we lose, I'll pay you back." Jack said. "It's a fair bet. . . we can't lose this chance."
"I'd rather lose the chance than the soldi." Fabrizio told him.
"If we don't try, we'll spend the rest of our lives wondering if we'd succeeded." Jack answered.
"Stop trying to spout wisdom all over the place, you sound like my nonna!"
"We have half a shot a winning. . . come on. If we lose, I promise. . ."
"No, I promise. If we lose I am going to kill you."
"So you'll do it?"
"Si." Fabrizio consented grudgingly. "But if we lose. . ."
"Then I will pay you back everything and a little more."
Rose sat in the car, staring expressionlessly either at the passing scenery, or her the loose seam in her glove, or really, anywhere but Cal, who sat next to her.
"You're getting to be very quiet, sweet pea." He told her jokingly.
"I'm more of a thinker." Rose answered.
"You haven't always been."
"There's more to think about now." She said tiredly, still not looking at him.
He chuckled like she was playing some sort of game with him, and they didn't talk until they reached Southampton.
The port was overflowing with people. From elderly aristocrats to third-class children, Southampton seemed to have it all.
There were a few other cars, and among the people were crates of luggage that would be hauled on the ship. It was a beautiful day for the launch, the sky was blue, and the sun was shining. Everyone was smiling and laughing. . . waving to their family and friends on board the ship. Reporters were everywhere- observing the ship in awe.
But Rose was indifferent. She did not care that Titanic had two cafe's, a swimming pool, Turkish baths, a gymnasium, a barber shop, and orchestra.
She didn't care that it had sixteen water-tight compartments and a wireless room. She wouldn't care if it could fly.
The car stopped, and one of the servants opened the door to the car, holding his hand out to Rose. She stepped out of the car, the smell of steam and salt filling her nose, and the sun nearly blinding her as she looked at it for the first time- her expression never changed, though it was really quite magnificent. But Cal smiled like a child on Christmas morning when he saw Titanic.
"I don't see what all the fuss is about." Rose told him. "It doesn't look any bigger than the Mauretania."
Cal chuckled dryly. "You can be blase about some things, Rose. But not about Titanic! Besides, she's over a hundred feet longer than the Mauretania, and far more luxurious."
Rose's mother appeared behind them, looking at Titanic more pride than she ever bestowed on Rose.
"Your daughter is most difficult to please, Ruth." Cal told her, as though 'difficult to please' was a thing to be desired in a person.
She nodded curtly with a trace of approval. "So this is the ship they say is unsinkable."
"It is." Cal answered proudly. "God himself could not sink this ship-"
His voice trailed off as the two women strolled to the front of the car, waiting for Cal to finish organizing where their things would go. They did not speak in his short absence, as a mother and daughter might, but stood there, observing the ship.
Rose's indifference vanished, she hated it.
Absolutely hated it.
She hated it for pleasing Cal.
She hated it for adorning her mother's face with such disgusting smugness.
She hated it for bringing her anywhere with them . . . she did not belong here.
And though she qualified as nobility in their domain, a princess in their kingdom, and a highly esteemed passenger on the famed Ship of Dreams; she entered Titanic in chains. And the luxury liner was nothing more than a slave ship.
The Southampton pub reeked strongly of beer and cigarettes, and the small room was packed mostly with immigrants- overly packed for this time of day, and Titanic was to thank, for most of these people had come to see her off.
The four of them had been playing poker at their little table for almost three hours, the game was wrapping up. Jack could see the leviathan ship from the window, and with any luck, he and Fabrizio would leave with it.
"Jack, you are pazzo." Fabrizio whispered angrily over the top of his cards, brown eyes flashing. "You bet everything we have."
Jack took the cigarette out of his mouth. "If you've got nothing, you've got nothing to lose." He reminded him.
Fabrizio wasn't convinced, and glared at Jack every time he wasn't nervously peering at his cards.
Someone doesn't have a good hand. Jack thought.
But end of game tension got to everyone.
Not him of course.
Fifteen pounds was not everything they had; moneywise, yes, but loss of more important things left him fearless when it came to gambling.
Jack drew a card from the pile- it was the queen of spades. Besides her, he had the queen of hearts, the queen of diamonds, the king of diamonds, the ace of clubs and the two of diamonds. He discarded the last, and studied his cards as the round progressed. This was the last turn for everyone, and the round ended with him. This was his last shot.
"All right." He said, snuffing his cigarette out in the ashtray after discarding. "Moment of truth. . . someone's life's about to change. Fabrizio?"
Fabrizio tossed his cards down moodily.
"Niente?" Jack questioned.
"Niente." Fabrizio sulked.
"Olaf?"
"Nothing." Olaf answered shortly.
"Sven?" Sven slid his cards across the table, looking pleased. Jack turned them over, revealing two jacks, two tens, and the nine of clubs.
"Uh-oh." Jack muttered. "Two pair. . . I'm sorry, Fabrizio."
The Italian man was outraged.
"Che sorry? Sarai quando ho finito con te! You bet all the money!"
Jack bit back a smile. "I'm sorry. . ." He continued quickly. "You're not going to see your mom again for a very long time. . . because we're going to America!"
He stood up and tossed his cards on the table. "Full house, boys!"
Fabrizio jumped up, and yelled "Panino el manzo!"
Sven looked murderous, and Olaf sat back in his chair, glowering at him.
Jack grabbed the sack he carried his possessions in, and started scraping money off the table into its open mouth. Someone grabbed the front of his shirt, and yanked him upwards. Jack looked up to see Olaf- or Olaf's fist. The Swede had apparently decided to pacify his anger at losing by dislocating Jack's nose. Muttering foreign curses under his breath, he drew back his fist. . . and punched Sven.
Jack, who had shut his eyes half-way when Olaf drew a fist, opened them and laughed in relief. Sven was on the floor, and Olaf was in the process of beating him up. He looked for the tickets on the table, but Fabrizio already had them, he was now, on top of shouting, kissing them passionately.
"La forza e con noi!" He told Jack ecstatically, handing the tickets to him.
"I'm going home." Jack muttered, stunned by the good fortune of it all. "I'm going home!"
"I go to America!" Fabrizio announced to the spectators (there were quite a few at this point- they had created such a racket, that most everyone was looking at them).
"No mate." The elderly bartender said from across the room, his eyes twinkling as he set down the glass he'd been washing. "Titanic go to America- in five minutes."
"Cuss." Jack said, throwing the remainder of the money in the bag. The next thing they knew, they were flying through the crowded port towards Titanic, ducking and dodging all manner of persons, animals, and objects. Jack didn't know if he'd ever run so fast in his life, but he was so happy, he wasn't even winded.
"We're riding in high style now!" He called back to Fabrizio, who was lagging slightly behind. "We're a couple of regular swells! We're practically dad-gum royalty, ragazzo mio!" He ducked under a gangplank.
"You see, it's my destino!" Fabrizio shouted. "Like I told you, I go to America to be millionario!" They ran past a carriage, almost spooking the horse and causing the driver to yell something at them. . . but Fabrizio was quick to insult him back.
"You're pazzo!" He yelled to Jack.
"Maybe, but I've got the tickets!" Jack answered. "Come on, I thought you were fast!"
"Aspetta!" Fabrizio cried. They sped right past the inspection, and pushed their way through security, onto the gangplank.
"We're passengers!" Jack told them, holding up their tickets, as they strode quickly up it. "Passengers!"
The blue-clad security guard eyed them suspiciously.
"Have you been through the inspection que?" He asked in a British accent.
"Of course." Jack lied- it was technically true, they had gone through it. . . just not long enough to get inspected. "Anyway, we don't have any lice. We're Americans- both of us."
"Right." The security guard answered, gesturing for them to walk through the doorway onto Titanic. "Come on in then."
The inside of the ship felt small, with its narrow, white paneled hallways, packed with people. There were no windows, and Jack supposed it would be pretty easy to get lost in the maze of these corridors- hence the written directions on just about every corner.
"Let's go onto the deck." Jack told his friend. "I want to watch it launch."
"Okay." Fabrizio agreed. So Jack checked the map, and it was back to running. He and Fabrizio skillfully maneuvered through the masses to the main stair-well, apologizing briefly to those they pushed past.
"We're the two luckiest guys in the whole world, you know that?" Jack said triumphantly, as they mounted the stairs, and rushed up towards the deck.
It was just as crowded there, but it was so spacious that it didn't feel like it was- everyone was clinging to the rails, waving and calling out to those below them in the harbor.
Jack took no time in joining them. "Goodbye!" He yelled to the multitude. "Goodbye, I'll miss you!"
"You know somebody?" Fabrizio asked curiously. "Of course not, that's not the point." Jack said.
Fabrizio smiled widely, and also started to wave. "Goodbye!" He cried. "I will never forget you!"
"Goodbye!"
"We'll come back someday!" Fabrizio yelled.
"Good luck, Sven, Olaf!"
Fabrizio laughed so hard at this he was almost crying.
"They'll need it!" He said.
Rose looked around the cabin, and decided that was only a cabin in name.
Really it could've passed as the Palace of Versailles. The "cabin" was not even one room. It had a sitting room, two bedrooms, two wardrobe rooms, and a private bath and lavatory- there was even a fifty-foot private promenade deck. There were no portholes, just windows- curtained windows. The wall paneling in every room was beautiful, and ornately carved; the fixtures were detailed. The chairs and couches were comfortable, and the carpet was soft. The table had a lace cloth, and the carved chairs matched the table. The rococo mantle-piece was a sight to behold- like the chairs and paneling, it was carved. There was gold in the carving, and a gold plate with a seashell on it was the center. The whole place smelled new, and the furniture was firm and unused.
It was truly perfect. There was nothing out of place and it was beautiful. But the opulence did nothing to improve her mood.
Especially since, even with all the room's splendor, Mother was adding all sorts of other fine things in it- well, not herself, she was telling the maids to.
They put roses and doilies on every ledge, while Cal told the stewards where to put things- never lifting a finger except to pick up the glass of champagne he'd been drinking.
The mansions in heaven won't look like this. Rose thought irritably. Honestly, we're only going to be here for a few days. I don't see why we have to move in, most people would just put their bags in the closet.
But if they were going to personalize the room, she could too.
"Trudy." She said to her maid, who was about ten years her senior. She had dark hair, and dimples that deepened when she smiled. Trudy had been with them for almost three years, and Rose often felt as though she was the closest she'd ever have to a friend.
But Mother didn't approve of befriending servants, so Rose talked to her only rarely, and Trudy always addressed her as "miss" or "ma'am."
"If you aren't busy, would you like to help me set up the paintings I got in Spain- I've been meaning to show them to you."
"Yes, miss." Trudy answered, smiling sweetly.
"I think they're over here." Rose muttered, walking over to a large wooden box, reading the label, and prying the lid open. "Yes, this is it.".
"They're lovely, miss." Trudy said, as they began pulling the paintings from their cases.
They were rather unconventional paintings. The colors were bizarre, and every picture was made up of shapes. The landscapes were strange, the people were odd- even laughable- and the objects were positively crazy. But Rose loved them for their disconformities, and thought the eccentricity of the artist brilliant. Rose dug through the box, trying to find her favorite.
"There's one that I wanted to show you." She told Trudy, who was getting out easels to set the artwork on.
"Is this the one?" Trudy asked, holding up a painting.
"No, it's the one with all the faces on it. . . This is the one."
It was composed of people with faces made of triangles, all painted a yellowish-copper, on a midnight-blue background.
"Would you like them all out, miss?"
"Yes." Rose said, setting the painting down on the couch. "We could use a little color in this room."
Color in the creative sense, because the lavish parlor suit was really in no need of it literally.
"No, not those finger-paintings again." Cal moaned as he walked into the room. "They certainly were a waste of money."
"The difference between Cal's taste and in art and mine is that I have some." Rose told Trudy loftily. "I think they're fascinating. Like being inside a dream or something- there's truth but no logic."
"What was the artist's name, miss?" Trudy inquired politely.
"Something Picasso." Rose answered, trying to decide where the painting would look best.
"Something Picasso." Cal scoffed. "He'll never amount to anything- trust me, he won't. . . at least they were cheap."
For someone who doesn't care for art, you certainly are an expert, aren't you? Rose asked him mentally, feeling angry. Because the two of them couldn't agree on anything. From art to politics and everything in between, they couldn't see eye to eye. They had nothing in common, anyone could see that. And if she didn't keep quiet half the time, they would argue non-stop.
Suddenly overwhelmed by a bout of depression at the doom of a relationship she didn't want to be in, she said, after probably a ten minute pause in conversation in which Cal had finished organizing,
"I'll be in my room if you need anything."
"I've just finished up in here. . . Don't you want to see the ship?" Cal asked.
"Not really." She answered shortly.
"Well, I'm sorry to have angered you." Cal said sarcastically. "I meant no insult to your finger paintings."
"And I mean no insult by going to my room." She told him coolly. "I'll see you at dinner."
Cal looked a mixture of hurt and annoyed. "You'll spend the first day on the largest luxury ship in the world in your bedroom?"
"I want to finish my book." Rose said. "You can finish it any time you want to, but we'll only be here for a few days."
"Cal, I said I wanted to read, and I meant it. Please, don't let me hold you up." She said, walking to her bedroom.
Cal followed her. "Is something wrong?" He asked, shutting the door. "You can talk to me if you'd like."
"No." She lied. "Nothing's wrong."
"Are you sure? You don't seem like yourself."
"I'm just a bit overwhelmed." She said stiffly.
Comprehension dawned on his face and he looked relieved.
"It's all these wedding plans, isn't it, sweet pea?"
"Yes." Rose lied. "That's it."
"This is supposed to be an enjoyable voyage, Rose." He said. "Don't worry about it, everything will be taken care of. Now come on, I'll show you the ship."
Rose wished she could show him the door. "All right." She agreed.
So he showed her the ship, and she pretended to be happy.
"You are so lucky, Jack." Fabrizio said for what felt like the thousandth time. "I can't believe you won the tickets-"
"Yes, I know." Jack cut across.
"I am in your debt." He said.
"It was your money too." Jack reminded him. "Yes, but you won the game!"
"Like you said, luck." Jack told him.
"Or providence!"
"And you say that I'm crazy."
"I was kidding!" Fabrizio protested. "And you are crazy."
Jack shook his head disbelievingly. "I'm not the one who dodged out of a war."
"I've always wanted to go to America."
"You were drafted and took off."
"I wanted to go to America." He said haughtily.
"Really?"
"I told you a lot, the Guerra di Libya is ridiculous! And if I don't want to go to America- then why am I so good at English, eh?"
"Okay, okay." Jack said. "It was a complete coincidence."
"I can't believe we're on Titanic." Fabrizio continued, changing the subject.
"I know." Said Jack, who was not usually phlegmatic. "That man in our room- Kristoff- he was so surprised when we showed up instead of Sven and Olaf. I thought he was probably going to hit you when you told him they weren't coming."
"I was more concerned about the ship that almost hit us when we left." Jack told him, recounting how when they had left port, another ship had almost come barreling into Titanic.
"I wasn't." Fabrizio said. "Questa nave e inaffondabile."
Jack laughed."What makes you say that?"
"I read a newspaper I saw here. And they say it can't sink."
Jack had never heard of ship that couldn't sink, but he didn't feel like arguing the point. They had dinner down in the third class dining hall, a large, plain, room lined with long wooden tables with chairs around them. It was more of a mess hall than a dining room, and was very crowded, but it had a pleasant sort of atmosphere.
"I'm going to go sit over there." Jack told Fabrizio over the noise. "I'll see you later."
He walked over to an empty chair between a little girl and a Russian man.
"Is this taken?" He asked. The Russian man either didn't understand or didn't hear, but the little girl said quietly that it wasn't. She was about six, and had long, curly brown hair. In her hands was a doll, and she was attempting to keep it balanced on her lap while eating.
"Nice doll you've got there." He said, sitting down. "Does she have a name?"
"Elizabeth." She replied shyly- she had a British accent.
"I used to have a doll named Elizabeth." Jack told her. She giggled.
"You're a boy. Boys don't have dolls."
"I guess you're right." He said, smiling at her quick reaction to his joke.
"And who're you?" Said a portly bald man sitting next to her.
"I'm Jack Dawson." Jack replied cordially, reaching behind the girl's chair and shaking his hand.
"Noah Cartmel." He said. "This is my daughter, Cora. And this is my wife Maggie." He gestured to the woman sitting beside him.
"Pleasure." She said.
"And what brings you here, Jack?" Mr. Cartmel asked.
"Well, I was fortunate enough to win tickets here in a poker game this morning. I plan on going to Wisconsin when we dock."
"Poker game, eh?" He asked. "Are you a gambler then?"
"Sometimes." Jack replied, grinning.
"I see."
"And what about your family, where are you going?"
"Well, we lived in London, and the population's going up. Lost my job a month ago, and it's impossible to find a new one unless you want to work in a factory." Mr. Cartmel said. "So we decided to go to America for a fresh start."
"I wish you luck." Jack said. "Factories are nothing but trouble."
"Worked in one then, have you?"
"Once when I was younger." Jack told him. "Wasn't worth it though, not for what they pay. "
"I agree, and I don't want her to grow up in that city." He said, motioning to Cora. "No place for a little girl. Once we save up enough, we'll get some land in the country."
"Sounds nice." Jack said.
"That's what we think." Mr. Cartmel replied.
There was a party in the third class general room that night. There was a small band of Irishmen playing instruments in the center of the room, and people who weren't smoking and drinking, danced to the lively folk songs. The room was crowded and hot, and brightly lit. It was noisy with the sound of heels on the already scuffed floor, and with the music, and with the rough-housing. Fabrizio had taken no time in finding a dance partner. She was a pretty Norwegian girl with blonde hair that was tied up in a bun. She was a quiet sort, but she seemed friendly. She smiled when she danced, and could keep up easily with the energetic Fabrizio.
Just the type he needs to even him out. Jack couldn't help but think as he watched the couple from the table he was sitting at. The song ended, and Fabrizio walked over to him.
"No one wants to dance with you, huh?" He asked in false sympathy.
"Guess not." Jack said, pretending to be upset by this (he hadn't asked anyone though).
"I don't blame them!" Fabrizio laughed. "If I was a girl, I wouldn't dance with you either!"
Jack punched him in the arm as the Italian rushed off to find his partner.
Cora Cartmel had been sitting patiently on a bench while her parents had conversed with other people, and looked very bored when she was not gazing wistfully at the dancers.
"Do you dance much, Cora?" Jack asked her. She shook her head.
"Well, would you like too?" She nodded enthusiastically, hopping down from the bench.
It did not take much to please Cora, mostly she liked it when he spun her around. But Jack had a good time, and danced with her for nearly an hour.
"Cora, time for bed." Her mother said finally, smiling at Jack.
"Say thank you to Mr. Dawson."
"Thank you, Mr. Dawson." She told him, taking her mother's hand.
It was only nine when she left, and Fabrizio was still at it; so deciding he would never be missed, Jack walked up the stairs to the deck.
The air was cold and crisp, and he could see his breath. The chill reminded him almost forcibly of the winters in Wisconsin. He wondered how much had changed since he'd left. . .
Part of him had hoped that it was the same as when he'd gone, but the other part hoped it had changed. That way his parent's absence wouldn't be the only thing amiss. . . after all, that was why he'd left in the first place.
When they died he couldn't stand to live there anymore- the familiarity just seemed like a painful reminder that they were gone. So he'd thrown the past behind him, and left it there. For seven years, he'd looked forward only; he'd faced life one day at a time. Because he could get through one day, he could even enjoy it. . . And that was how he faced the fact he was all alone.
No relatives, siblings, parents, or lasting friends, because he traveled so much. And as pleased as he was that going back to America, it meant that he and Fabrizio would go their separate ways in less than a week.
Needless to say, this upset him a bit; Fabrizio was a brother to him, and Jack would miss his constant talking. He wanted to go home, very much, but he dreaded going back as much as he looked forward to it. . .
Especially since the only thing there was an unquenchable feeling of loneliness and painful memories. He honestly didn't know why he was doing it to himself, when things were going so well in life, other than feeling that he should.
It was a funny thing though, the closer he got to home, the further away he felt.
The three of them tramped back to the cabin after a long night of conversing with the other millionaires over champagne and hors d' oevres.
They had been introduced to so many new people, and she was expected, of course, to remember all of them. But there were only two that Rose had actually enjoyed meeting.
The first was Molly Brown, and the second Mr. Andrews. Molly Brown was a portly millionairess, whose husband had struck gold somewhere out west. She was blunt and to the point, but her loud laugh and personality gave her the air of a likeably eccentric aunt. They had encountered her first on the way to dinner, where a steward was trying to help her with her luggage (Molly had got on at Cherbourg, where they were currently docked.)
"Well, I wasn't about to wait all day for you, sonny." She told him, handing him the smallest of her bags. "Here, you think you can manage?" She asked.
"New money." Mother said to Rose in an undertone. But Rose liked her- even if Mother did not.
Mr. Andrews was the kindly-faced designer of Titanic. He wasn't boastful, or proud, but rather soft-spoken and pensive. Best of all she liked his smile, mostly because it was so genuine, unlike so many others she'd seen. He seemed to be a favorite of many passengers, but it was humbly unknown to him.
Rose was worn out by everyone else though, and dreaded the fact that she'd have to talk to them all again tomorrow.
"Goodnight." She told Cal and Mother. "I'll see you tomorrow."
The minute she got to her room, she collapsed on to her bed, sobbing. She was so tired of it all. Tired of them. Tired of people. Tired of her life. She felt like a caged animal, poked and prodded at. And every time she'd bite back, they'd prod and poke more. There was no comfort for her. Angrily, she beat her one of her pillows- it didn't make her feel any better though. In fact, she felt worse. She lay staring up at the ceiling for hours after the tears had cooled on her face, too upset to sleep.