Hello there! You must be the Reader. Good, good, you're here on time. Just in time actually, see there? See that lady, just getting out of that fashionable new car? That's the one we're going to be following. Yes, her name is Marianne. Come now, we don't want to lose her!
In Marianne's opinion, this whole exercise was pointless. That being the whole thing, from the very beginning of it—coming to England in the first place and now this ridiculous trip to America. But perhaps she was just bitter about having been yanked from her precious Paris—at least that's what her fiancé Arthur said. But then, Arthur and Marianne disagreed on most things and their engagement was just another occurrence in a series of dreary and horrid occurrences that Marianne would have liked to avoid altogether. She wanted to go to the Sorbonne. She wanted to study art and become a painter or something of the sort and live on the Left Bank and not have to be married to the most boring, stiff, reputation-obsessed cliché of a Brit that had ever existed. But then, the world did not seem to be on the side of Marianne Bonnefoy.
So here she stood, on a bustling, crowded dock in Belfast, having just dismounted the shining white car her mother was having hauled onto the ship with the rest of their things. Hanging from her gloved hand was a bag with some of her things in it; by her feet were three trunks containing her clothes. At least the dock was interesting, if the noise pressed a bit against her strained nerves. In the months before they'd left France and Marianne had become bogged down and full of ennui by the endless tedium of London, she would have found the dock infinitely interesting: all around there were people to watch, scenes playing out, little snippets of the lives of others. It was the kind of thing she drank in, looking everywhere for something to paint, something to write, some inspiration amongst the everyday goings-on.
But not today. Today she simply looked listlessly around, turning an unimpressed eye on the massive ship created to bear them to America. What their plan was there, she wasn't entirely sure. She'd asked her mother, but in her impatience had begun complaining before Madame Bonnefoy had even had the chance to explain, so she still didn't know.
A small ragamuffin bumped into her, sprinting off through the crowd after some errand or another and Marianne stepped aside long after he'd vanished amongst the press of bodies.
No, no, stay here. His story is for another time. The Bonnefoys are moving; we must follow!
Her mother caught her elbow now, urging her towards the gangplank and Marianne moved slowly, her eyes lingering on the dock, but she did follow her mother's direction, leaving her many trunks to the care of the seamen scuttling around the colossal ship.
She was dressed in a splendid white dress that hugged her waist but was certainly loose enough above and below to mark her a lady. A broad hat topped her honey- blonde tresses, shielding her pale face from the sunlight. There was no denying that Marianne was quite the beauty, if she abused it a bit here and there. Much less so, though, since her engagement. Arthur did not stand for her constant flirtation with anything that crossed her path. Which wasn't to say she didn't do it anymore, it just meant she was more subtle and only did it when Arthur wasn't around.
As she mounted the gangplank, she looked around at the glittering sea lapping at the edges of the wharf and wondered when she'd be back in Europe. Apparently she'd gotten too involved in the view though, because someone bumped into her from behind and she heard her mother's irritated falsetto.
"Really, Marianne! Pay more attention!" With an inward sigh, Marianne tore her eyes from the scintillating sea and entered the ship, pausing just inside to wait for her mother, who knew which rooms they were staying in.
Taking a brief leave of absence from our elegant and unhappy Frenchwoman, we must now head down to a working man's bar near the edge of the wharf. Here, it is essential to draw our attention to what seems to be a perfectly average poker game, if not a bit high in stakes.
There are four men involved in the game: two Irishmen on one side and an Italian and an American on the other. What they are doing in Ireland, exactly, isn't clear, but here they are, so let's pay attention.
The first Irishman lays down his cards. A small straight. The Italian, who has bet all his money, begins to sweat.
The second Irishman lays down his cards. Flush. Reach out a bit now, Reader. Don't worry, they can't see you. Feel the tension. Isn't it very thick?
The Italian, who goes by the name Feliciano, casts a panicked look at his companion. He throws his cards down.
"I got nothing, Alfredo!" he wails. "Alfredo" is his personal nickname for his American companion, who goes by the birth name Alfred. "You crazy, you bet all our money and I got nothing! I hope you got something good!" Alfred lets out a long breath and lowers his head.
Reader I would advise you to take that tension out of your pocket and put it back. It won't do you any good carrying it around with you like that.
"I'm sorry Feliciano," he says. Immediately the two Irishmen's eyes shine with the light of victory and Feliciano begins to bluster in Italian. "I'm sorry," Alfred says loud enough to counter Feliciano's babbling. He puts a hand on his friend's shoulder. "But you're not gonna see your mom again for a long time, okay?" He lays down his cards. "'Cause we're going to America! Full house baby!"
"I can't believe you bet our tickets!" one of the Irishmen roars, right before slugging his companion in the face.
Alfred and Feliciano scoop the money into their pockets and grab the tickets, slinging their bags over their shoulders as they sprint out of the restaurant. They can hear the blowing of Titanic's great horn and know it is not long before the ship will take off.
Step lively, Reader, we must keep up with them! They're running through the crowds now, shoving others aside as carefully as possible before they each take a running leap from the dock onto the receding gangplank and jog through the ship's entrance just as things are closing up. The porter gives them a displeased and perhaps suspicious glance, but their tickets check out, so he directs them to the third class passenger rooms.
They hustle down the corridors (Mind that Welsh family, Reader!), checking the numbers until they reach the correct room, inhabited by a Scotsman and another man of unknown origin. Perhaps Indian, Alfred thought, and then was excited, because he had never met an Indian man before.
He grinned over at Feliciano as he threw his things down on the lower bunk, ceding the top one to the possibly Indian man, whose name was Aadi.
"Feliciano! We should go up to the deck and watch the ship take off!" Alfred said enthusiastically. Feliciano nodded.
"Alright, let us go!" The two young men rushed off again, once more wending their way through a crush of people to get up to the deck and find a relatively open spot on the railing, which was crowded with people. Alfred pressed right up against it, hooking his feet beneath the bottom railing and waving zealously to the people flocking to the wharf's edge.
"Bye!" Alfred called, continuing to wave wildly. "We'll miss you! Bye!" Feliciano nudged him.
"Alfredo, there is no one out there who knows us," he pointed out. Alfred shrugged.
"So? Just go ahead and wave, it's all in the spirit of things!" Feliciano seemed to see wisdom in this, because he smiled and joined Alfred in waving and crying goodbyes to complete strangers.
And there they remained, laughing and waving until the ship was tugged out of dock and started off on its long journey to the United States.