Disclaimer: As in the previous chapter.
A/N: 1) I've used the Collect/Epistle/Gospel prescribed for the 8th Sunday after Trinity. 2) Galata is the old district of Istanbul, inhabited mainly by Greeks.
I'd like to thank all my lovely reviewers in order of their appearance on the review board ;) Bren Eldrid Bera: welcome back, dear! I'm glad you like this one. Alori Kesi Aldercy: thank you for your kind words. As for your questions: no, the narrator is not Will, he's an OC. Why did he kiss Norrington? Well, I suppose that "why not?" would be the shortest answer, but if you want a more detailed one, I suggest that you read "A Look on Helen's Face". Alteng: thank you so much for your constant support! I'm sorry for delay in reviewing recently, but let me assure you I'm always looking forward to Pintel and Ragetti's new adventures ;) BlackJackSilver: I simply don't know what to say; thank you so much for the review of "The Pearls", I really appreciate it. I'm happy you like my little stories, and let me assure you that I respect your writing greatly.
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II
I cover Fat Elsie with a blanket, kiss Nelly on the cheek - she pushes me away - and run down the stairs. The bells are calling me, I'm almost late, late to the Lord's Supper.
"Hey, Jimmy, a shilling for you for guarding Gibbs this morning!"
"Where are you going?" he asks suspiciously. Ah yes, I look nothing like the usual guests at the Red Stocking. I had my clothes washed and my boots cleaned. I have a good soft cloak and a fine Holland shirt, and lo, my hat has feathers, much though I loathe them. I can be taken for a proper gentleman and I want to be taken for such, for I have to mix with the Port Royal's aristocracy today.
"Oh, you can tell your mom I went to church," I say, "and that I will be back soon."
I leave little Jimmy blinking with surprise, and I laugh to myself as I walk through sunny Sunday streets. Such a splendid bright morning greets me here again, and again I have to sacrifice it, sitting in a damp and dark place that people have built in order to run away from the true beauty of the world, the beauty and splendour that scares them, because it surpasses their understanding.
But I look forward to this morning, for at least it won't be wasted listening to Gibbs' rubbish. I'm going to meet Commodore Norrington, who didn't show up in the Red Stocking yesterday evening, thereby worrying me greatly. I don't know if it was me who scared Norrington out of the tavern at our first meeting, during which I guessed his fancy for Sparrow all too easily, or if I'm flattering myself - but I have to convince the Commodore to go back to the Red Stocking. How am I supposed to bring Sparrow to him now, since he has abandoned his drinking habits? A tavern is the only place where an officer of the Royal Navy can safely meet a pirate.
Except for a church, maybe.
I've always been of opinion that churches and taverns are much alike - people gather there to forget their daily worries, and be it by prayer or by drink, they go home intoxicated all the same, the only difference being that they prefer churches in the mornings and taverns at night.
I try to look through the Sunday crowd of St. Peter's Church - they seem to pay as much attention to their attire as the Red Stocking's Saturday customers - to find Norrington. As a respectable gentleman of high standing, he should be seen at the Sunday mass; his religious observance is my only hope now. I cannot pay him a visit in Fort Charles or his house, and I'd rather not risk meeting him outside, for he surely won't have any scruples against about arresting me this time. He hates pirates not only out of duty, but also personally, and especially Captain Barbossa's crew - his ex-fiancee was kidnapped by them. I should be careful with the Commodore now, and truth be told, I wish he weren't too merciful, for I count on his sense of duty in dealing with Jack Sparrow, after all.
It seems I'm really lucky this morning, because the service hasn't begun yet. The irresolute organ sounds fly over the heads of the crowd, the common folk in the back, under the choir, and the white wigs in the front rows. I don't have a wig, but my curly hair isn't bad either, I think, and I'm dressed very nicely, am I not, ladies?... Oh, this petite blonde with a little mole on her right cheek is so sweet when she blushes, and her pale companion, who gives me a deep, long look from under heavy lids, is worthwhile too, with those proud breasts in the delicate frame of a crimped frill. That's why I'd like to go to church more, if only I had time!
I'm beginning to consider staying in the back row, behind my beauties - I will find Norrington later... the blonde holds her handkerchief ready to be dropped - when I see them both frown, and the old lady who came with them takes them into her protective embrace, shielding them from some unwanted sight; the beauties seem disgusted, but quite unhealthily fascinated as well.
I follow their indignant gazes to see a petite lady passing by, obviously in order to take a seat in the rows on the left. She is dressed in a heavy embroidered gown in a pale shade of gold, her hair is adorned with expensive Brussels lace, and there would be nothing extraordinary about her, if she weren't so lively, being so heavily pregnant.
My beauties purse their lips, and I feel very curious about this tiny woman; the way she's moving is strangely familiar to me. Who is she and why are the high-born ladies so interested in her? She has turned her back to us, so I can't see her face. Is she alone here, without any servant, in her state?... It's not right... no, wait, there's her servant - an old woman is following her steps, but she can't keep up with her mistress; she seems crippled, and moreover, deadly intimidated by all these unfriendly glares around. Aww, I'm reminded what a crowd means once again, and my beauties seem to be just one with the flock. Very well, little blonde, keep your handkerchief to yourself, I'll take a look at the lady you despise so much, maybe she'll need some help...
...and she needs it sooner than I think, for she stumbles suddenly before entering the second row on the left. I'm too far away to catch her, and so is her old servant, but fortunately some tall gentleman in a brocade waistcoat supports her firmly, but with all reverence that a gentleman is due owes to a lady - the very moment she regains her balance, he steps aside with a respectful bow, still holding her hand, in case she needs his help again. I smile at the sight of his handsome, serious features - you didn't disappoint me, Commodore, thank you!
He escorts her politely to her seat, and she curtsies gracefully, turning her head a little, just so that I can see her sweetly reddened ear and long lashes... a glimpse of dark cherry lips, a high-bridged nose... am I drunk or what?...
Is that you, Inci, my little devil, my love? But you should be in London!... No, I know it's you, it must have been you who played the "Mandira" tune yesterday, you and nobody else. I know these irregular full lips and these tarry eyes that squint oh so slightly, I couldn't forget them since our first meeting in the merciless street of Galata, when I was thirteen and you were eight, and I assure you I won't forget them till... whatever, I won't forget them easily.
What are you doing here in Port Royal? Ah well, it's been a long time, nearly three years since our last meeting... no wonder things have changed. How happy I am to see you in jewels and velvet, laces and brocade! Whose fortune are you crunching on now? Who wrapped you in this pale golden gown, who gave you these heavy earrings and Brussels lace for your thick dark tresses, and whom do you have to please, going to the Anglican church? Come on, my sweet one, look here, look at me!...
Or no, better not, not now. I know that you won't be happy to see me here. I mean trouble to you, and you could be rather dangerous when pregnant. I'd better talk to Norrington, it's high time - the mass has just begun.
My luck doesn't leave me today, thanks to my decent clothes perhaps, and I'm able to find a place next to my pistol's previous owner. I kneel piously, waiting for Norrington to finish the Lord's Prayer. When the Collect comes - "Almighty God, unto whom all hearts be open, all desires known" - he raises his head.
He doesn't look well, to be honest. His face seems thinner than I remembered, his eyes dull and tired, and I can see that he wants to be alone before God, hiding his seemingly dark thoughts with all his might. The world he is living in probably feels painfully cold and full of torment, and he seeks peace here, among candles and solemn music and incense smell. No, James, mate, your peace is elsewhere.
"Good day to you, Commodore," I whisper.
He turns his head to look at me and frowns disapprovingly; he doesn't recognize me at first. No wonder, for my clothes don't resemble that odd Chinese jacket he saw on me in the Red Stocking, nor do I resemble my previous sick and drunken self. I have to smile at him to see his eyes widen.
"Ritchie... Ritchie Brown?"
"Oh, yes, that's my name. How nice that you remembered it."
There is a certain coldness in his gaze, and the tiredness in his face seems to deepen.
"What do you think you're doing here?"
"I came to visit you, of course. We have to..."
"'We'?! 'We' don't have to do anything, Ritchie. I have to arrest you, and YOU have to run away, if you want to save your skin. Now."
"Ah, please. It's Sunday and we're in a church. How could you send a man to the scaffold on Sunday, of all days? Where's your conscience?"
"Think of your own conscience, won't you? There is much more blood on your hands than I thought. How dare you to show yourself here? Do you know what's on your record? Not only theft and murder..."
"Sorry to interrupt you, but really, Commodore, we have serious issues to discuss. The first is your drinking problem, and the second, which is closely related to the first, is Jack Sparrow."
"Would you please shut up?" he asks quietly, but desperately enough to make me feel sorry for him. I hang my head.
It seems that the minister is still at the Ten Commandments.
"Thou shalt do no murder."
"Lord, have mercy upon us, and incline our hearts to keep this law," Norrington says, not looking at me. I sigh. Oh well, I'll try to behave myself.
"Thou shalt not commit adultery."
"Lord, have mercy upon us, and incline our hearts to keep this law," I say in my most innocent voice.
Norrington throws me a nervous glance.
"Thou shalt not steal."
"Lord, have mercy upon us, and incline our hearts to keep this law," I say.
Norrington sighs.
"Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbour."
"Lord, have mercy upon us, and incline our hearts to keep this law."
"Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour's house, thou shalt not covet thy neighbour's wife, nor his servant, nor his maid, nor his ox, nor his ass, nor any thing that is his."
"Lord, have mercy upon us, and incline..."
"Do you have to mock my faith here, Ritchie?" he asks angrily, still not looking at me.
"It's my faith as well, Commodore. We Catholics have exactly the same Ten Commandments, only we say them in Latin."
"It's not an appropriate place for your worldly-wise talk. Tell me what you want, and be off. If you don't want to be arrested, that is."
"As I said, we have to talk about you, Jack Sparrow, and the Red Stocking."
"The Red Stocking?" He's mildly surprised.
"You've quit drinking, Commodore. That's very bad."
He closes his eyes for a moment, and when he speaks, I can hear how tired and indifferent he is. I've never heard such a flat, broken voice.
"Don't try my patience. Do you have to disturb me in this sacred place?"
"Don't you understand? It seems that you don't go to the Red Stocking anymore. I was waiting for you yesterday, but you didn't come."
"Yes, you're right. I don't drink, and I don't frequent the Red Stocking anymore. In fact, I was looking for a good reason to quit spending my Saturday evenings there. I don't know why, but it became a nasty habit of mine. I ought to thank you for that," he says, not even bothering to smile; but there is still no trace of enmity in this empty voice. It's as if someone else were speaking, someone who doesn't even care about James Norrington's affairs.
"Oh, I suppose I should feel honoured, but do you know what, Commodore? I don't. You ruin not only my plans, but also your own happiness."
"You're trying to amuse me, but let me assure you..."
"Commodore, listen to me, we don't have much time to chatter. You're going to spend every Saturday night in the Red Stocking from now on, waiting for one Jack Sparrow, who's going to come there and meet you soon. You have my word... you probably can't trust it now, but you eventually will. I don't ask for much. Just be in the Red Stocking next Saturday."
It's the first time he lets that apathetic expression slip. He turns to look at me, his eyes enormously big, his lips pale. I feel almost scared. What if he's sick? Is he going to faint here or what?
He must have seen fear in my face, because he blinks repeatedly, trying not to look panicky. He fails. I don't know what to say, and the forgotten sound of the minister's words gets in between us.
"O God, whose never-failing providence ordereth all things both in heaven and earth; we humbly beseech thee to put away from us all hurtful things, and to give us those things which be profitable for us..."
"Commodore," I say cheerfully, "you see? It's good to strive for a thing that is profitable for you. You should take this into consideration and not torture yourself day and night."
He turns away from me, slowly, very slowly, and hides his face in his hands. I bit my lips, praying that today's Epistle isn't some stupid, heartless one.
"Brethren, we are debtors, not to the flesh, to live after the flesh. For if ye live after the flesh, ye shall die: but if ye through the Spirit do mortify the deeds of the body, ye shall live..."
Awww, no luck this time. Oh well. I draw closer to Norrington, removing his square hat from between us.
"Hey, Commodore," I whisper, "don't listen to this. You don't do your soul any good by mortifying your body. We are whole, we need both, body and soul, to be happy and, um... saved. We will be resurrected with our flesh, we can't tear it off ourselves in this life."
"Ritchie, do me a favour and shut up," he whispers back furiously. "I don't remember asking you for the Scripture's exegesis, nor do I believe in your competency in that matter."
I sigh heavily, standing up with all the flock to listen to the Gospel.
"Beware of false prophets, which come to you in sheep's clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves."
Ouch, that's a tough one. I don't even dare to look in Norrington's direction. It seems I've lost my case again.
"Ye shall know them by their fruits. Do men gather grapes of thorns, or figs of thistles? Even so every good tree bringeth forth good fruit; but a corrupt tree bringeth forth evil fruit."
Wait... that rings true.
"A good tree cannot bring forth evil fruit, neither can a corrupt tree bring forth good fruit..."
God, help me, there is hope then!
"...wherefore by their fruits ye shall know them."
Were there ever words that sounded sweeter? That's it, James, give it a try. You are suffering, you are in pain, you are withering away. Is that what you'd call 'good fruit'? Are you happier and more contended, because you're refusing yourself even a shadow of solace? Are you making anyone happy? You sacrifice yourself to a god that doesn't have any altar. How can you know if the fruit is good or bad, if you don't taste it?
"The Gospel was very educating, wasn't it?" I say conversationally, when we finally sit down after the Creed to listen to the sermon... or not.
"Now don't start on it again," he answers stiffly, but without that previous apathy.
"Oh, I don't intend to. I'm sure you understood it right."
"Thank you for your concern, but I'd worry about myself if I were you."
"We're not talking about me, Commodore. I do hope you'll reconsider your all too hasty decision about... um... do you call it abstinence?"
"That is out of the question," he says, looking away.
"Well, you can drink pure water for all I care. The problem is not what, but rather where you will drink. I suggest the Red Stocking. Not that I like that rat hole much, but I've told Sparrow that you will be there."
"It doesn't interest me in the slightest what you told Sparrow."
"Ah, yes, of course. You will do as you see fit. I'm just a messenger. But I think it's foolish not to be interested in an opportunity. You risk nothing, you just shake the tree to see what fruit it bears. It's up to you to pick it or not."
He's sitting by my side motionless, but I know that he's not listening to the minister this time. His eyes are downcast, his thick dark lashes look even darker with his pale face. I suddenly realize that he didn't even mention the pistol that I've stolen from him.
I lean on the back of the next pew so that I can look into his eyes when he raises them.
"Listen to me, Commodore... James, please," I whisper. "Do you know how it feels to be wanted and desired and longed for... and loved, maybe? Not only to love and desire and yearn, but to be loved and desired and yearned for as well?"
I see his eyes go somewhere over me, mechanically, with a humility that is almost painful to watch. I follow his gaze - he's looking at the young woman standing at the right of the row in front. I see her cameo-like profile: soft mouth, little fair locks on the round forehead, clear brownish eyes full of pride and self-confidence. She is accompanied by two men in wigs. Strange... I'd bet I've seen the younger one somewhere.
"Who is this beautiful lady, Commodore?" I ask before I can think.
He smiles. Sadly, but smiles.
"This is my former fiancee, Miss Elizabeth Swann... her last name is Turner now."
"And the young wig is her husband, I suppose? Looks quite helpless."
Norrington chuckles.
"No, he's not so helpless, Ritchie. He stole the Dauntless, the fastest ship of our fleet, along with... with Sparrow, to rescue Miss Swann from your captain."
I cast Norrington a quick, shy glance, only to meet his. Alright, alright. Let the sleeping dogs lie.
"Well, mate, you have quite a handful of beauties here. Oh, by the way, who was that lady you've helped?"
"What are you talking about?"
"That little pregnant lady in the golden gown. She's sitting over there."
It seems that I've given myself away - was it my voice? - and Norrington eyes me with newly arised suspicion.
"Why this sudden interest, Ritchie? What are you up to?"
"Me? Nothing. Why do you think I'd be interested in a pregnant woman?"
His voice is surprisingly cold.
"What did you use my pistol for, pray tell me? Last time I saw you, you couldn't even afford a decent meal, and now you look like my peer. Don't even try to convince me that you've got all these clothes by honest means."
"How nice of you, Commodore," I say bitterly. "Of course, I've stolen all this from widows and orphans, so why do you even bother to ask? Well, seeing that I robbed you not only of your pistol that night, but also of all your money..."
"Oh, am I supposed to be grateful to you, because you kindly left me my money?"
And virtue - don't forget THIS one, James. Oh well.
"Surely not. It's me who should be grateful to you, and it's why I've asked about the lady. I thought that you may fancy her a little or something... and if you do, then she's safe, at least as far as I'm concerned."
He chuckles again, reminding me of that little boy I saw in him, when I recited to him the verse about John Knox and Helen of Troy that night in the Red Stocking.
"No, I don't fancy her in that way. I suppose that many men would like to be close to her, but I doubt that anyone would dare. She's the Governor's mistress, and her name is Isabella Dou."
I feel like falling off my seat. Inci, the Governor's mistress! Little Inci Vay born in the Istanbul slums, Inci who was sleeping in the streets and who was proud of it, Inci whose mother was hoping that she will get lost anyway, until she found out that daughters can bring profit, Inci who was often angry, but never crying, Inci who was so sure that she'll be happy and rich someday, that she was always happy, even if she was rich only from time to time... Now we have something to celebrate. We can pocket the whole of Port Royal together!
"You'd better stay away from her," Norrington warns me. Damn it, did I give myself away again? Ah, Commodore, and you think you know something!...
"Oh, she's not my ideal," I say with a sigh. "I prefer blondes, in fact. Your lady Elizabeth, well, now there's a true beauty, if you ask my opinion."
"No, I don't think I'd like to ask your opinion about women, Ritchie," he murmurs.
I suddenly feel guilty. I shouldn't be so happy, or rather I should see to Norrington's little happiness now.
"You didn't answer my question, Commodore," I remind him.
He rolls his eyes.
"What now?"
"I asked you about the feeling of being loved. Do you know it?"
He closes his eyes again, and he speaks after a while in that empty voice I've learned to fear.
"I'd be much obliged to you if you'd free me of your presence. I don't discuss my private matters with strangers, nor do I ask them to arrange secret meetings for me. I find all this conversation highly disgusting, and frankly speaking, I am just too tired to send for the soldiers now."
"We're not..."
"First, there's no 'we' here."
What happened? Was it the mention of his former ladylove? Or is it some stupid joy that is beaming from me, perhaps? Or is it only his last, deadly strained defense?...
"Second, you're lucky that we're in a church..."
"'We', Commodore?..." I say innocently.
He blinks. I feel so immensely relieved that I hardly can suppress a laugh.
"Please, Commodore, feel free to do whatever you want. I told you who I am the first time we met, and as I said, it's a fair game. You're well within your rights to arrest me, hang me, whatever, but I didn't come here to play with you, or to irritate you. I have only a few words to tell you and I'll leave you alone. I met Jack Sparrow in La Onza de Gracia and we sailed to Tortuga. I had time enough to learn a thing or two about him. It's true we didn't get along too well, but that's another story... and all I want you to know is that if you fancy Jack Sparrow a little, he fancies you twice or thrice that."
I don't look at him, for I can feel his horrified fascination and I'm afraid to see his face now. I'm more than sure that he's listening to my whisper and not to the minister's pious and loud words.
"And if you call Sparrow's feeling for you 'fancy', then I wonder, Commodore, what would you call 'love'?... But oh, yes, it's a small linguistic matter, after all. What counts is that he has courage enough to admit that he thinks about you more than about himself, and that he is cowardly enough to think that he's unworthy to even look at you."
I can't resist looking at him now myself. He's holding onto the pew, pretending that he's listening to the beginning of the rather poorly sung "Te Deum"; his knuckles are white. I'm careful not to raise my voice as I continue my own quiet sermon that is for the Commodore alone.
"He's ashamed of himself just as you are, only for different reasons. Do you think he wants to come to the Red Stocking? Aye, he wants it just as much as you do, Commodore. He'd sail happily around the Spanish Main for years, not setting his foot in Port Royal, being perfectly content to know that you are here safe and sound, and living on that thin hope alone, but at the same time being jealous as hell of you. It almost cost me my life when I told him that I wanted to take something other than material possessions from you. Why do you think I left the Black Pearl? Not because I didn't want to sail to Cancun, but because Sparrow couldn't stand me aboard... because of you... and because I, in turn, can't stand the two of you trampling on your mutual happiness and peace of mind. Before you ask me, Commodore, I'll tell you that I'm no saint and not even a good man, which you probably know, and moreover, I don't give a damn about Sparrow, but I do give more than a damn about you. I have your pistol, I still owe you. I just wanted to pay you back, and I promised myself to see you satisfied and at least with good memories, if not happy. My offer still stands, but as it's clear you prefer Sparrow to me, you can have Sparrow. Or not. As I said, it's up to you. All you have to do is to sit in the corner in the Red Stocking next Saturday. You can have all your brave soldiers with you, or you can be alone only with a glass of claret or water, just be there and watch."
He blinks, looking at me. He's been looking at me for a long time already. I don't understand this stare - there's something about it that scares me, there is too much of something - but when I look at his flushed cheeks, his dry lips that were so obviously bitten, his thick dark lashes... aww, Ritchie, stop it, he already knows you're a whore.
I definitely need a drink.
Then I suddenly catch a glimpse of the pale golden gown. Oh, it seems that my little devil can't stand the Mass. Well, she's pregnant, maybe she feels sick?... Very good, it's a perfect moment for me to leave. Commodore James Norrington is a bit confused now and he most certainly won't remember that I left the church shortly after the Governor's mistress.
"Lift up your hearts," I hear the minister.
"We lift them up unto the Lord," I say with all the flock. Norrington is silent, though.
"Let us give thanks unto our Lord God."
"It is meet and right to do so," I say taking my hat. "Farewell, Commodore, I therefore free you of my presence. Please accept my humble apologies for disturbing you, remember to take the Holy Communion, and please don't forget - next Saturday, the Red Stocking."
tbc
A/N: 1) I've used the Collect/Epistle/Gospel prescribed for the 8th Sunday after Trinity. 2) Galata is the old district of Istanbul, inhabited mainly by Greeks.
I'd like to thank all my lovely reviewers in order of their appearance on the review board ;) Bren Eldrid Bera: welcome back, dear! I'm glad you like this one. Alori Kesi Aldercy: thank you for your kind words. As for your questions: no, the narrator is not Will, he's an OC. Why did he kiss Norrington? Well, I suppose that "why not?" would be the shortest answer, but if you want a more detailed one, I suggest that you read "A Look on Helen's Face". Alteng: thank you so much for your constant support! I'm sorry for delay in reviewing recently, but let me assure you I'm always looking forward to Pintel and Ragetti's new adventures ;) BlackJackSilver: I simply don't know what to say; thank you so much for the review of "The Pearls", I really appreciate it. I'm happy you like my little stories, and let me assure you that I respect your writing greatly.
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II
I cover Fat Elsie with a blanket, kiss Nelly on the cheek - she pushes me away - and run down the stairs. The bells are calling me, I'm almost late, late to the Lord's Supper.
"Hey, Jimmy, a shilling for you for guarding Gibbs this morning!"
"Where are you going?" he asks suspiciously. Ah yes, I look nothing like the usual guests at the Red Stocking. I had my clothes washed and my boots cleaned. I have a good soft cloak and a fine Holland shirt, and lo, my hat has feathers, much though I loathe them. I can be taken for a proper gentleman and I want to be taken for such, for I have to mix with the Port Royal's aristocracy today.
"Oh, you can tell your mom I went to church," I say, "and that I will be back soon."
I leave little Jimmy blinking with surprise, and I laugh to myself as I walk through sunny Sunday streets. Such a splendid bright morning greets me here again, and again I have to sacrifice it, sitting in a damp and dark place that people have built in order to run away from the true beauty of the world, the beauty and splendour that scares them, because it surpasses their understanding.
But I look forward to this morning, for at least it won't be wasted listening to Gibbs' rubbish. I'm going to meet Commodore Norrington, who didn't show up in the Red Stocking yesterday evening, thereby worrying me greatly. I don't know if it was me who scared Norrington out of the tavern at our first meeting, during which I guessed his fancy for Sparrow all too easily, or if I'm flattering myself - but I have to convince the Commodore to go back to the Red Stocking. How am I supposed to bring Sparrow to him now, since he has abandoned his drinking habits? A tavern is the only place where an officer of the Royal Navy can safely meet a pirate.
Except for a church, maybe.
I've always been of opinion that churches and taverns are much alike - people gather there to forget their daily worries, and be it by prayer or by drink, they go home intoxicated all the same, the only difference being that they prefer churches in the mornings and taverns at night.
I try to look through the Sunday crowd of St. Peter's Church - they seem to pay as much attention to their attire as the Red Stocking's Saturday customers - to find Norrington. As a respectable gentleman of high standing, he should be seen at the Sunday mass; his religious observance is my only hope now. I cannot pay him a visit in Fort Charles or his house, and I'd rather not risk meeting him outside, for he surely won't have any scruples against about arresting me this time. He hates pirates not only out of duty, but also personally, and especially Captain Barbossa's crew - his ex-fiancee was kidnapped by them. I should be careful with the Commodore now, and truth be told, I wish he weren't too merciful, for I count on his sense of duty in dealing with Jack Sparrow, after all.
It seems I'm really lucky this morning, because the service hasn't begun yet. The irresolute organ sounds fly over the heads of the crowd, the common folk in the back, under the choir, and the white wigs in the front rows. I don't have a wig, but my curly hair isn't bad either, I think, and I'm dressed very nicely, am I not, ladies?... Oh, this petite blonde with a little mole on her right cheek is so sweet when she blushes, and her pale companion, who gives me a deep, long look from under heavy lids, is worthwhile too, with those proud breasts in the delicate frame of a crimped frill. That's why I'd like to go to church more, if only I had time!
I'm beginning to consider staying in the back row, behind my beauties - I will find Norrington later... the blonde holds her handkerchief ready to be dropped - when I see them both frown, and the old lady who came with them takes them into her protective embrace, shielding them from some unwanted sight; the beauties seem disgusted, but quite unhealthily fascinated as well.
I follow their indignant gazes to see a petite lady passing by, obviously in order to take a seat in the rows on the left. She is dressed in a heavy embroidered gown in a pale shade of gold, her hair is adorned with expensive Brussels lace, and there would be nothing extraordinary about her, if she weren't so lively, being so heavily pregnant.
My beauties purse their lips, and I feel very curious about this tiny woman; the way she's moving is strangely familiar to me. Who is she and why are the high-born ladies so interested in her? She has turned her back to us, so I can't see her face. Is she alone here, without any servant, in her state?... It's not right... no, wait, there's her servant - an old woman is following her steps, but she can't keep up with her mistress; she seems crippled, and moreover, deadly intimidated by all these unfriendly glares around. Aww, I'm reminded what a crowd means once again, and my beauties seem to be just one with the flock. Very well, little blonde, keep your handkerchief to yourself, I'll take a look at the lady you despise so much, maybe she'll need some help...
...and she needs it sooner than I think, for she stumbles suddenly before entering the second row on the left. I'm too far away to catch her, and so is her old servant, but fortunately some tall gentleman in a brocade waistcoat supports her firmly, but with all reverence that a gentleman is due owes to a lady - the very moment she regains her balance, he steps aside with a respectful bow, still holding her hand, in case she needs his help again. I smile at the sight of his handsome, serious features - you didn't disappoint me, Commodore, thank you!
He escorts her politely to her seat, and she curtsies gracefully, turning her head a little, just so that I can see her sweetly reddened ear and long lashes... a glimpse of dark cherry lips, a high-bridged nose... am I drunk or what?...
Is that you, Inci, my little devil, my love? But you should be in London!... No, I know it's you, it must have been you who played the "Mandira" tune yesterday, you and nobody else. I know these irregular full lips and these tarry eyes that squint oh so slightly, I couldn't forget them since our first meeting in the merciless street of Galata, when I was thirteen and you were eight, and I assure you I won't forget them till... whatever, I won't forget them easily.
What are you doing here in Port Royal? Ah well, it's been a long time, nearly three years since our last meeting... no wonder things have changed. How happy I am to see you in jewels and velvet, laces and brocade! Whose fortune are you crunching on now? Who wrapped you in this pale golden gown, who gave you these heavy earrings and Brussels lace for your thick dark tresses, and whom do you have to please, going to the Anglican church? Come on, my sweet one, look here, look at me!...
Or no, better not, not now. I know that you won't be happy to see me here. I mean trouble to you, and you could be rather dangerous when pregnant. I'd better talk to Norrington, it's high time - the mass has just begun.
My luck doesn't leave me today, thanks to my decent clothes perhaps, and I'm able to find a place next to my pistol's previous owner. I kneel piously, waiting for Norrington to finish the Lord's Prayer. When the Collect comes - "Almighty God, unto whom all hearts be open, all desires known" - he raises his head.
He doesn't look well, to be honest. His face seems thinner than I remembered, his eyes dull and tired, and I can see that he wants to be alone before God, hiding his seemingly dark thoughts with all his might. The world he is living in probably feels painfully cold and full of torment, and he seeks peace here, among candles and solemn music and incense smell. No, James, mate, your peace is elsewhere.
"Good day to you, Commodore," I whisper.
He turns his head to look at me and frowns disapprovingly; he doesn't recognize me at first. No wonder, for my clothes don't resemble that odd Chinese jacket he saw on me in the Red Stocking, nor do I resemble my previous sick and drunken self. I have to smile at him to see his eyes widen.
"Ritchie... Ritchie Brown?"
"Oh, yes, that's my name. How nice that you remembered it."
There is a certain coldness in his gaze, and the tiredness in his face seems to deepen.
"What do you think you're doing here?"
"I came to visit you, of course. We have to..."
"'We'?! 'We' don't have to do anything, Ritchie. I have to arrest you, and YOU have to run away, if you want to save your skin. Now."
"Ah, please. It's Sunday and we're in a church. How could you send a man to the scaffold on Sunday, of all days? Where's your conscience?"
"Think of your own conscience, won't you? There is much more blood on your hands than I thought. How dare you to show yourself here? Do you know what's on your record? Not only theft and murder..."
"Sorry to interrupt you, but really, Commodore, we have serious issues to discuss. The first is your drinking problem, and the second, which is closely related to the first, is Jack Sparrow."
"Would you please shut up?" he asks quietly, but desperately enough to make me feel sorry for him. I hang my head.
It seems that the minister is still at the Ten Commandments.
"Thou shalt do no murder."
"Lord, have mercy upon us, and incline our hearts to keep this law," Norrington says, not looking at me. I sigh. Oh well, I'll try to behave myself.
"Thou shalt not commit adultery."
"Lord, have mercy upon us, and incline our hearts to keep this law," I say in my most innocent voice.
Norrington throws me a nervous glance.
"Thou shalt not steal."
"Lord, have mercy upon us, and incline our hearts to keep this law," I say.
Norrington sighs.
"Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbour."
"Lord, have mercy upon us, and incline our hearts to keep this law."
"Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour's house, thou shalt not covet thy neighbour's wife, nor his servant, nor his maid, nor his ox, nor his ass, nor any thing that is his."
"Lord, have mercy upon us, and incline..."
"Do you have to mock my faith here, Ritchie?" he asks angrily, still not looking at me.
"It's my faith as well, Commodore. We Catholics have exactly the same Ten Commandments, only we say them in Latin."
"It's not an appropriate place for your worldly-wise talk. Tell me what you want, and be off. If you don't want to be arrested, that is."
"As I said, we have to talk about you, Jack Sparrow, and the Red Stocking."
"The Red Stocking?" He's mildly surprised.
"You've quit drinking, Commodore. That's very bad."
He closes his eyes for a moment, and when he speaks, I can hear how tired and indifferent he is. I've never heard such a flat, broken voice.
"Don't try my patience. Do you have to disturb me in this sacred place?"
"Don't you understand? It seems that you don't go to the Red Stocking anymore. I was waiting for you yesterday, but you didn't come."
"Yes, you're right. I don't drink, and I don't frequent the Red Stocking anymore. In fact, I was looking for a good reason to quit spending my Saturday evenings there. I don't know why, but it became a nasty habit of mine. I ought to thank you for that," he says, not even bothering to smile; but there is still no trace of enmity in this empty voice. It's as if someone else were speaking, someone who doesn't even care about James Norrington's affairs.
"Oh, I suppose I should feel honoured, but do you know what, Commodore? I don't. You ruin not only my plans, but also your own happiness."
"You're trying to amuse me, but let me assure you..."
"Commodore, listen to me, we don't have much time to chatter. You're going to spend every Saturday night in the Red Stocking from now on, waiting for one Jack Sparrow, who's going to come there and meet you soon. You have my word... you probably can't trust it now, but you eventually will. I don't ask for much. Just be in the Red Stocking next Saturday."
It's the first time he lets that apathetic expression slip. He turns to look at me, his eyes enormously big, his lips pale. I feel almost scared. What if he's sick? Is he going to faint here or what?
He must have seen fear in my face, because he blinks repeatedly, trying not to look panicky. He fails. I don't know what to say, and the forgotten sound of the minister's words gets in between us.
"O God, whose never-failing providence ordereth all things both in heaven and earth; we humbly beseech thee to put away from us all hurtful things, and to give us those things which be profitable for us..."
"Commodore," I say cheerfully, "you see? It's good to strive for a thing that is profitable for you. You should take this into consideration and not torture yourself day and night."
He turns away from me, slowly, very slowly, and hides his face in his hands. I bit my lips, praying that today's Epistle isn't some stupid, heartless one.
"Brethren, we are debtors, not to the flesh, to live after the flesh. For if ye live after the flesh, ye shall die: but if ye through the Spirit do mortify the deeds of the body, ye shall live..."
Awww, no luck this time. Oh well. I draw closer to Norrington, removing his square hat from between us.
"Hey, Commodore," I whisper, "don't listen to this. You don't do your soul any good by mortifying your body. We are whole, we need both, body and soul, to be happy and, um... saved. We will be resurrected with our flesh, we can't tear it off ourselves in this life."
"Ritchie, do me a favour and shut up," he whispers back furiously. "I don't remember asking you for the Scripture's exegesis, nor do I believe in your competency in that matter."
I sigh heavily, standing up with all the flock to listen to the Gospel.
"Beware of false prophets, which come to you in sheep's clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves."
Ouch, that's a tough one. I don't even dare to look in Norrington's direction. It seems I've lost my case again.
"Ye shall know them by their fruits. Do men gather grapes of thorns, or figs of thistles? Even so every good tree bringeth forth good fruit; but a corrupt tree bringeth forth evil fruit."
Wait... that rings true.
"A good tree cannot bring forth evil fruit, neither can a corrupt tree bring forth good fruit..."
God, help me, there is hope then!
"...wherefore by their fruits ye shall know them."
Were there ever words that sounded sweeter? That's it, James, give it a try. You are suffering, you are in pain, you are withering away. Is that what you'd call 'good fruit'? Are you happier and more contended, because you're refusing yourself even a shadow of solace? Are you making anyone happy? You sacrifice yourself to a god that doesn't have any altar. How can you know if the fruit is good or bad, if you don't taste it?
"The Gospel was very educating, wasn't it?" I say conversationally, when we finally sit down after the Creed to listen to the sermon... or not.
"Now don't start on it again," he answers stiffly, but without that previous apathy.
"Oh, I don't intend to. I'm sure you understood it right."
"Thank you for your concern, but I'd worry about myself if I were you."
"We're not talking about me, Commodore. I do hope you'll reconsider your all too hasty decision about... um... do you call it abstinence?"
"That is out of the question," he says, looking away.
"Well, you can drink pure water for all I care. The problem is not what, but rather where you will drink. I suggest the Red Stocking. Not that I like that rat hole much, but I've told Sparrow that you will be there."
"It doesn't interest me in the slightest what you told Sparrow."
"Ah, yes, of course. You will do as you see fit. I'm just a messenger. But I think it's foolish not to be interested in an opportunity. You risk nothing, you just shake the tree to see what fruit it bears. It's up to you to pick it or not."
He's sitting by my side motionless, but I know that he's not listening to the minister this time. His eyes are downcast, his thick dark lashes look even darker with his pale face. I suddenly realize that he didn't even mention the pistol that I've stolen from him.
I lean on the back of the next pew so that I can look into his eyes when he raises them.
"Listen to me, Commodore... James, please," I whisper. "Do you know how it feels to be wanted and desired and longed for... and loved, maybe? Not only to love and desire and yearn, but to be loved and desired and yearned for as well?"
I see his eyes go somewhere over me, mechanically, with a humility that is almost painful to watch. I follow his gaze - he's looking at the young woman standing at the right of the row in front. I see her cameo-like profile: soft mouth, little fair locks on the round forehead, clear brownish eyes full of pride and self-confidence. She is accompanied by two men in wigs. Strange... I'd bet I've seen the younger one somewhere.
"Who is this beautiful lady, Commodore?" I ask before I can think.
He smiles. Sadly, but smiles.
"This is my former fiancee, Miss Elizabeth Swann... her last name is Turner now."
"And the young wig is her husband, I suppose? Looks quite helpless."
Norrington chuckles.
"No, he's not so helpless, Ritchie. He stole the Dauntless, the fastest ship of our fleet, along with... with Sparrow, to rescue Miss Swann from your captain."
I cast Norrington a quick, shy glance, only to meet his. Alright, alright. Let the sleeping dogs lie.
"Well, mate, you have quite a handful of beauties here. Oh, by the way, who was that lady you've helped?"
"What are you talking about?"
"That little pregnant lady in the golden gown. She's sitting over there."
It seems that I've given myself away - was it my voice? - and Norrington eyes me with newly arised suspicion.
"Why this sudden interest, Ritchie? What are you up to?"
"Me? Nothing. Why do you think I'd be interested in a pregnant woman?"
His voice is surprisingly cold.
"What did you use my pistol for, pray tell me? Last time I saw you, you couldn't even afford a decent meal, and now you look like my peer. Don't even try to convince me that you've got all these clothes by honest means."
"How nice of you, Commodore," I say bitterly. "Of course, I've stolen all this from widows and orphans, so why do you even bother to ask? Well, seeing that I robbed you not only of your pistol that night, but also of all your money..."
"Oh, am I supposed to be grateful to you, because you kindly left me my money?"
And virtue - don't forget THIS one, James. Oh well.
"Surely not. It's me who should be grateful to you, and it's why I've asked about the lady. I thought that you may fancy her a little or something... and if you do, then she's safe, at least as far as I'm concerned."
He chuckles again, reminding me of that little boy I saw in him, when I recited to him the verse about John Knox and Helen of Troy that night in the Red Stocking.
"No, I don't fancy her in that way. I suppose that many men would like to be close to her, but I doubt that anyone would dare. She's the Governor's mistress, and her name is Isabella Dou."
I feel like falling off my seat. Inci, the Governor's mistress! Little Inci Vay born in the Istanbul slums, Inci who was sleeping in the streets and who was proud of it, Inci whose mother was hoping that she will get lost anyway, until she found out that daughters can bring profit, Inci who was often angry, but never crying, Inci who was so sure that she'll be happy and rich someday, that she was always happy, even if she was rich only from time to time... Now we have something to celebrate. We can pocket the whole of Port Royal together!
"You'd better stay away from her," Norrington warns me. Damn it, did I give myself away again? Ah, Commodore, and you think you know something!...
"Oh, she's not my ideal," I say with a sigh. "I prefer blondes, in fact. Your lady Elizabeth, well, now there's a true beauty, if you ask my opinion."
"No, I don't think I'd like to ask your opinion about women, Ritchie," he murmurs.
I suddenly feel guilty. I shouldn't be so happy, or rather I should see to Norrington's little happiness now.
"You didn't answer my question, Commodore," I remind him.
He rolls his eyes.
"What now?"
"I asked you about the feeling of being loved. Do you know it?"
He closes his eyes again, and he speaks after a while in that empty voice I've learned to fear.
"I'd be much obliged to you if you'd free me of your presence. I don't discuss my private matters with strangers, nor do I ask them to arrange secret meetings for me. I find all this conversation highly disgusting, and frankly speaking, I am just too tired to send for the soldiers now."
"We're not..."
"First, there's no 'we' here."
What happened? Was it the mention of his former ladylove? Or is it some stupid joy that is beaming from me, perhaps? Or is it only his last, deadly strained defense?...
"Second, you're lucky that we're in a church..."
"'We', Commodore?..." I say innocently.
He blinks. I feel so immensely relieved that I hardly can suppress a laugh.
"Please, Commodore, feel free to do whatever you want. I told you who I am the first time we met, and as I said, it's a fair game. You're well within your rights to arrest me, hang me, whatever, but I didn't come here to play with you, or to irritate you. I have only a few words to tell you and I'll leave you alone. I met Jack Sparrow in La Onza de Gracia and we sailed to Tortuga. I had time enough to learn a thing or two about him. It's true we didn't get along too well, but that's another story... and all I want you to know is that if you fancy Jack Sparrow a little, he fancies you twice or thrice that."
I don't look at him, for I can feel his horrified fascination and I'm afraid to see his face now. I'm more than sure that he's listening to my whisper and not to the minister's pious and loud words.
"And if you call Sparrow's feeling for you 'fancy', then I wonder, Commodore, what would you call 'love'?... But oh, yes, it's a small linguistic matter, after all. What counts is that he has courage enough to admit that he thinks about you more than about himself, and that he is cowardly enough to think that he's unworthy to even look at you."
I can't resist looking at him now myself. He's holding onto the pew, pretending that he's listening to the beginning of the rather poorly sung "Te Deum"; his knuckles are white. I'm careful not to raise my voice as I continue my own quiet sermon that is for the Commodore alone.
"He's ashamed of himself just as you are, only for different reasons. Do you think he wants to come to the Red Stocking? Aye, he wants it just as much as you do, Commodore. He'd sail happily around the Spanish Main for years, not setting his foot in Port Royal, being perfectly content to know that you are here safe and sound, and living on that thin hope alone, but at the same time being jealous as hell of you. It almost cost me my life when I told him that I wanted to take something other than material possessions from you. Why do you think I left the Black Pearl? Not because I didn't want to sail to Cancun, but because Sparrow couldn't stand me aboard... because of you... and because I, in turn, can't stand the two of you trampling on your mutual happiness and peace of mind. Before you ask me, Commodore, I'll tell you that I'm no saint and not even a good man, which you probably know, and moreover, I don't give a damn about Sparrow, but I do give more than a damn about you. I have your pistol, I still owe you. I just wanted to pay you back, and I promised myself to see you satisfied and at least with good memories, if not happy. My offer still stands, but as it's clear you prefer Sparrow to me, you can have Sparrow. Or not. As I said, it's up to you. All you have to do is to sit in the corner in the Red Stocking next Saturday. You can have all your brave soldiers with you, or you can be alone only with a glass of claret or water, just be there and watch."
He blinks, looking at me. He's been looking at me for a long time already. I don't understand this stare - there's something about it that scares me, there is too much of something - but when I look at his flushed cheeks, his dry lips that were so obviously bitten, his thick dark lashes... aww, Ritchie, stop it, he already knows you're a whore.
I definitely need a drink.
Then I suddenly catch a glimpse of the pale golden gown. Oh, it seems that my little devil can't stand the Mass. Well, she's pregnant, maybe she feels sick?... Very good, it's a perfect moment for me to leave. Commodore James Norrington is a bit confused now and he most certainly won't remember that I left the church shortly after the Governor's mistress.
"Lift up your hearts," I hear the minister.
"We lift them up unto the Lord," I say with all the flock. Norrington is silent, though.
"Let us give thanks unto our Lord God."
"It is meet and right to do so," I say taking my hat. "Farewell, Commodore, I therefore free you of my presence. Please accept my humble apologies for disturbing you, remember to take the Holy Communion, and please don't forget - next Saturday, the Red Stocking."
tbc