I try to recall the ship’s layout from the diagrams Mrs. Sloane requested so that she would be comfortable enough to make the journey. We reviewed them extensively, but it’s hard to think when parts of you are under pressure.
Below the Boat Deck—the uppermost deck, where they keep the lifeboats—the decks descend from A to G and, for the most part, correlate to class, like how wool is rated for quality. This General Room, a gathering spot for the third class, lies in the forward part of the ship, on D-Deck.
No lavatory presents itself, so I hobble down another floor to E-Deck.
The stairway spills onto a wide corridor that runs from port to starboard, such that if the Titanic was a fish, this corridor would be the collar, the choicest piece to eat. I dub it the Collar, and I imagine Miss Hart would approve of the moniker, which is both memorable and practical.
Stewards in high-necked white jackets with gold buttons mill about the area, directing passengers to their destinations.
The sign for the lavatory is like a port in a storm, and I gladly take refuge within it.
Sinks face off against seven water closets, each with a dial near the handle, all marked “vacant.” I throw my jacket onto the nearest hook and quickly smite my hands of any rat chiggers with a cake of soap imprinted with the White Star logo.
When I swing shut the door of the first water closet, an electric light flickers on. Even the third-class bathrooms here have class. Once I am blissfully empty, I lift a back lever, and the toilet neatly accepts my deposit. I wash up again, this time enjoying the cedar scent of the soap.
Now to find Jamie. If I ask one of the stewards for help, will they ask to see my papers? I’ve already made an unfavorable impression on those who needed impressing.
My ruined jacket hangs like a dead badger. I unpin the bee-swarm lace and hold it to my face. The black dots that give the lace its name certainly obscure my Chinese features. I could be anyone under this veil—the queen, even. Perhaps it will give me easier passage here.
I remove my hat and pin the lace to the band so that it overhangs my face to my shoulders. It’s a fashionable curtain, of the sort wealthy women in mourning might wear. As for the rip in my skirt, I twist the garment around so that the tear hangs to one side and won’t vent when I walk.
Back in the Collar, I case the area for a steward. Folks—mostly men—bustle around, carrying suitcases, looking for rooms.
From the ship diagrams, I recall that third-class cabins run along the port side on this level, with first- and second-class rooms on the starboard side. Mrs. Sloane didn’t want to stay on this deck, or D-Deck above it, because of how the classes cohabit, even though the ship is designed so that upper and lower class will never meet. If she was going to ride an elephant, it would be at the highest end, not the rump.
“Only men here at this end for your protection,” a steward tells a young woman with a straw hat. No wonder the lavatory was empty. “It’s against the rules for men and women to visit each other’s rooms. But you’ll like your cabin at the stern. It’s steadier back there, and closer to the poop deck, where the third class can take fresh air. Just follow Scotland Road.” He points down a corridor that runs the length of the ship like the backbone of a fish. “Smartest way to get from bow to stern. You’ll pass a slew of crew cabins, but keep going to the end.”
If the single men are in the bow, I am close. “Excuse me, sir?”
The steward’s eyes widen at the sight of me in my veil. “Yes, ma’am?”
“I’m looking for James Luck. Could you tell me which room he’s in?”
“Let’s see . . .” He runs a finger down his clipboard. “E-16. With the company of Atlantic Steam. Just around the corner.” He opens a hand toward the port side. “But as I told the other lady, only men are allowed in the bow. I can leave a message for you, if you give me your name.”
“Er, no, that’s okay. I will find him later. Thank you, steward.”
He bows, and I wait for him to leave. But the man stands his ground, as if waiting for me to leave. Before he gets suspicious, I duck back into the lavatory to wait him out.
Lifting off my hat, I smooth loose tendrils of hair back into my braided bun. My pounding heart flutters against my embroidered linen blouse.
I imagine how Jamie will take the news. He may play things casual, but I’ll throw my arms around him and squeeze the casual out. But what if he’s different now? Too old for my clowning around. What if the years have given him a vulture neck and a map’s worth of lines on his face, and he rants at the world and spits when he talks?
Perhaps I should’ve warned him I was coming. But would the Titanic receive a telegram on a third-class passenger’s behalf?
I replace my hat and arrange my veil. It’s a good disguise. Maybe good enough to sneak into first class and discover the whereabouts of Mrs. Sloane’s trunk.
After two minutes pass, I poke my head out again. A couple of kids running down the hall stop and stare at me. I shut the door again, waiting for their delighted shrieking to fade, then venture out. I quickly make tracks toward a small companionway on the port side. Room E-16 lies only a few paces down.
My heartbeat knocks double time as I rap twice on the door.
No one answers, but the men on the other side are speaking in Cantonese. Though the sound is harsh to Western ears, it reminds me of Ba’s optimistic voice, and I feel my heart swell. I put my ear to the wood.
“Don’t answer it, Tao,” someone grumbles. “It’s probably that skeleton steward again. Ming Lai already told him we’re not interested in their ‘sweepstakes.’” He says that last word in barely recognizable English.
“Maybe he is here to fill the water pitcher,” says an airier voice, which must belong to Tao.
“Drummer already went to fill the pitcher. Sit down, old fool, and finish your meditation.”
“How can one meditate with you breathing so loud?”
I knock again, and say in Cantonese, “Hello? I’m looking for Mr. James Luck.”
The voices abruptly stop. The door opens, and a man with a braided beard that drips from his chin like an icicle tilts his thin face at me. A queue, like a grown-up version of the beard, hangs down his back. The front portion of his scalp is shaved clean. Chinese men wear this hairstyle to show fealty to the Qing dynasty, though since the Qing dynasty has fallen, some have cut it off.
The man’s curious expression makes him look youthful, despite his many white hairs. “Who are you?” He must be Tao, judging from his airy voice.
“I am Jamie’s sister, Valora Luck, Uncle,” I say, using the respectful term the Chinese use for elders. “Is he staying here?”
I peer inside and see two sets of bunk beds. Four seabags hang on hooks, each embroidered with a different Chinese surname. To my dismay, none belong to Jamie. I’d stitched his myself from sturdy denim.