Albert is suddenly and sickeningly lonely. It's almost more than he can take, that thick and brooding heaviness bearing down on his chest through the cramped darkness, sloshing deep and nauseating in the pit of his belly with every roll and toss of the ship on those dreaded waves. It presses at his eyes--a dizzying headache--and at his lungs--short of breath--and at his aching leaden limbs slick with icy sweat. It's worse than too much wine, worse than sickness, and worse, he thinks, than death.
So he snatches back a hand that has already reached for a nonexistent cigar (and tries to snatch back his mind, which is already lost in longing dreams of fragrant smoke) and rolls lethargically from the surface the sailors call a bunk; he calls it a slab of rock in disguise. Another passenger is snoring a phlegmatic sort of lullaby to accompany the waves sloshing softly against the ship's hull. Dizzy and uncertain, half-dreaming, Albert stumbles through the darkness, his feet unsteady on the rolling floorboards. Half-dreaming--until moments later the wild ocean wind whips his face and the scent of sea salt fills his nostrils, both repugnant and alluring. Out on the ship's deck, he slumps against the railing--a splinter digs its way into his too-soft wrist--and stares out into the night-dark sea, a clouded reflection of the star-studded sky. The ocean is roaring in his ears; he wonders what it would be like to plunge into those churning, inky, icy waters--certainly no icier than the sweat soaking his feverish body.
He says, softly, suddenly, under his breath, feeling foolish and childish and forlorn, "I want to go home."
And failing that, he wants a cigar. Soft and aromatic smoke, warming and soothing his throat and calming his restless mind. But the only air is that harsh sea wind, chill on his face and rough and salty to breathe--and he is a far way from home. As far as could be, and going further still, speeding along through the darkness on the swelling, tossing waves. Oh, far away from Marseille, where his mother, veiled and aging, wilts and withers away. Further still from Paris, from his father's corpse and the forgotten comforts of home; servants and cigars and a box at the opera every night, good meals every day and countless bottles of wine. It's nauseating to think of Paris now, that beautiful city of lovers and lights and too much heartache, that city where he left his father's body sprawled alone and forsaken in a house packed with francs but sick with dishonor.
Oh, Franz would say to count his blessings, wouldn't he? No more cravats or stuffy waistcoats or manners all the time--not with this ship speeding quietly away to the wild fronts of war. Except the loneliness is far worse, far more constricting, than fancy clothes and manners ever were. Does Franz know that? What would he say then?
Or would Franz say anything at all? Albert wonders this now, staring into the leaping sea spray, so distant from Paris and from Franz. Where is his old friend now? Franz, who has looked anxiously after Albert as long as they have known each other, since they were laughing school boys together under sunny childhood skies, growing up side by side like brothers, constant companions--where is Franz now? Oh, Franz warned him, time and time again in Rome, of the Count, but Albert, as dazzled then by the enigmatic man as he is now by the wild throbbing sea and the silent fields of stars, would not listen, could not listen. Franz was there then , warning him in his headstrong youthful blindness, the wise and sensible Patroclus to his young and senseless Achilles, but where is Franz now? Certainly not here at his side to guide him, to throw himself into battle and die for him--no longer his Patroclus.
Lonely and heartsick and selfish and guilty, he watches the crashing waves and sweats feverishly into the cool night.
And a million dark and dazzling waves away, a million miles for all it matters, in that shining city of lovers and lights, Franz lies sleepless and sweating in a tangle of sheets, lonely and heartsick and selfish and guilty.
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