2011
"At Cherbourg, a woman came aboard named Margaret Brown. We all called her Molly, but history would come to call her the Unsinkable Molly Brown. Her husband had struck gold somewhere out west, and she was what mother called 'new money'.
By the next afternoon we were steaming west, off the coast of Ireland, nothing out ahead of us but ocean…"
(1912, 3rd person limited)
Light
The ship glows with the warm creamy light of late afternoon. Light and Matsu stand right at the bow, gripping the curving railing as they stare out to sea. "I can see the Statue of Liberty already." Matsuda says and Light laughs, "very small of course." He admonishes, describing with his thumb and fore-finger exactly how small.
Light smiles, enjoying the breeze in his hair and the salty smell of the ocean, and leans over, looking down fifty feet to where the prow cuts the surface of the cold, north Atlantic water like a knife, sending up two glassy sheets of water.
(1st person)
L
"She is the largest moving object ever made by the hand of man in all history." Mr. Ruvie says in his English accent, we had been invited to have a tour of the ship by the engineer himself, and brunch as well, because of Aiber's incredible inability to understand money does not impress me.
"…And our master shipbuilder here, Mr. Wammy, designed her from the keel plates, up." He indicates a greying man in his late forties with a humble smile on his face. My attention is drawn to him as he turns the compliment away.
"Well, I may have knocked her together, but the idea was Mr. Ruvie's." he says, trying to divert attention from himself. "he envisioned a steamer so grand in scale, and so luxurious in its appointments, that its supremacy would never be surpassed. And here she is," he slaps the table, "willed into solid reality."
"Why are ships always being called 'she'?" Molly asks "Is it because men believe half the women around have big sterns and should be weighed in tonnage?" she reasons, looking to Mr. Ruvie. The table erupts in a giggle, though I can tell by looking she had meant it in a serious manner. She looks directly at me and says quietly, "just another example of these power-hungry men setting rules their way." I give her a small, but genuine, smile as the waiter arrives for our orders. I pull a cigarette and filter from my coat pocket when my mother and Aiber are distracted, and light up as I listen to Aiber order for me.
"We'll have the lamb." He says dismissively, not even polite enough to look at the man, "Rare. With very little mint sauce." And looks to me after he departs, asking, "You like lamb, right L?"
Molly, who had been observing the dynamic between us, says "Will you be cutting his meat for him too, Aiber?" in an irritated tone, then turns her attention before he can respond, "So," she continues, "who thought of the name 'Titanic'?" she asks, looking around the table, "Was it you, Roger?" she asks with a nod to Mr. Ruvie.
"Yes, actually," he answers, covering his mouth to swallow his food before continuing, "I wanted to convey sheer size, and size means: stability, luxury, and, above all, strength." He goes to continue, but I interrupt him.
"Do you know of Dr. Freud, Mr. Ruvie?" I ask, looking directly at him, my amusement not apparent in my monotone, "His ideas about the male preoccupation with size may be of particular interest to you."
Molly nods her head and giggles and Mr. Wammy covers his mouth to hide his laughter.
"My God!" my mother gasps at me with a disbelieving look on her face, "Liam! What's gotten into—?"
"Excuse me." I say before she can continue, and rise to go to the outside viewing decks.
"I do apologize…" I hear my mother say.
"He's a pistol, Aiber," Molly quips, "Sure you can handle him?"
"Well, I may have to start minding what he reads after all." I hear Aiber say rudely before they are out of earshot and I can get the fresh air I wanted.
Light
I sit on a bench in the sun on the great ship, my leather-bound sketching pad, my most valuable possession, out on my lap as I draw a man holding his young daughter up at the railing of the ship with one of my conte crayons. She leans back against her father's beer-belly as he points out seagulls flying about the ship to her, and my eyes focus on the scene before me as my hand makes sure strokes against the rough paper of the sketch pad.
"That's typical," an angry voice breaks my concentration and I look up to see the speaker, a scowling Asian man with a fluffy head of black hair, watching as a crewmember walks three small dogs. "First class dogs come down here to take a shit." His scowl worsens and I offer my opinion.
"Ah, shows us where we rank in the scheme of things." I say, offering my hand to the stranger, "Light Yagami," I say. "Shuichi Aizawa." He replies, accepting the western gesture. I glance over his shoulder as the sun glints off something on the upper deck. "Like we could forget" I vaguely hear him say, as my eyes are drawn to the most exotically beautiful person I have ever seen.
I find myself completely unable to take my eyes off him, he reminds me so much of a character in a tragic romantic novel, sad and isolated, and all I want to do is comfort him. We are across from each other, about sixty feet apart, but I feel as if I am right next to an angel.
I examine the first-class boys' interesting features. Pristine clothing, a light yellow waistcoat over a white long-sleeved dress shirt and light beige trousers, all of which made his mussed black hair, slightly bohemian in its longer style, like my own, stand out all the more, his pale skin absolutely glowing in the still-rising sun.
"Beautiful." I say aloud without realizing as he turns to look at me, glancing only for a second before looking away, then turning back and staring at me just as unabashedly when I refuse to look away. Our eyes meet across the space of the wall deck, across the gulf between our worlds, and I get lost in the depths of those dark eyes.
He tilts his head in an adorable show of curiosity, and his eyes move, only for a second, to the sketch pad in my lap as a tall blonde man comes from behind and turns him forcibly, red in the face with anger. He grabs the angels arm and attempts to force him back inside the A-deck promenade, but the raven pulls away. They argue shortly in pantomime before the beautiful raven storms away, disappearing inside. I stare after him as the violent man follows in irritation.
"Ah, forget it, boy-o." I hear Aizawa say, "You'd as like have angels fly out your ass than get next to the likes of him." He says, obviously having noticed my preoccupation. I still stare at the place he disappeared to, hoping to see him again, and I completely miss the sad, pitying smile Aizawa sends my way.