Tabloid Dreams Read Free Page A

chance to express that view for many decades to come,” I said.
    â€œThe change is nearer than you think,” she said with some vigor now in her voice, even irritation. I was glad to hear it.
    â€œI didn’t mean to take up the political point,” I said. “I simply meant you will survive this night and live a long time.”
    She lowered her face.
    â€œThat’s your immediate concern, isn’t it?” I asked, trying to speak very gently.
    Before she could answer, a man I knew from the smoking lounge approached along the promenade, coming from the direction of the bow of the ship. He had gone out of the lounge some time earlier.
    â€œLook here,” he said, and he showed me his drink. It was full of chipped ice. “It’s from the forward well deck,” he said. “It’s all over the place.”
    I felt the woman ease around my shoulder and look into the glass. The man was clearly drunk and shouldn’t have been running about causing alarm.
    â€œFrom the iceberg,” he said.
    I heard her exhale sharply.
    â€œI never take ice in my scotch and soda,” I said.
    The man drew himself up. “I do,” he said. And he moved away unsteadily, confirming my criticism of him.
    She stood very still for a long moment.
    All I could think to say was something along the lines of “Here, here. There’s nothing to worry about.” But she was not the type of woman to take comfort from that. I knew that much about her already. I felt no resentment at the fact. Indeed, I felt sorry for her. If she wanted to be the sort to travel alone and vote and not be consoled by the platitudes of a stiff old bachelor from the Civil Service in India, then it was sad for her to have these intense and daunting intuitions of disaster and death, as well.
    So I kept quiet, and she eventually turned her face to me. The moon fell upon her. At the time, I did not clearly see her beauty. I can see it now, however. I have always been able to see in this incorporeal state. Quite vividly. Though not at the moment. There’s only darkness. The activity above me has no shape. But in the sea, as I drifted inexorably to the surface, I began to see the fish and eventually the ceiling of light above me. And then there was the first time I rose—quite remarkable—lifting from the vastness of an ocean delicately wrinkled and athrash with the sunlight. I went up into a sky I knew I was a part of, spinning myself into the gossamer of a rain cloud, hiding from the sea, traced as a tiny wisp into a great gray mountain of vapor. And I wondered if there were others like me there. I listened for them. I tried to call to them, though I had no voice. Not even words. Not like these that now shape in me. If I’d had these words then, perhaps I could have called out to the others who had gone down with the Titanic, and they would have heard me. If, in fact, they were there. But as far as I knew—as far as I know now—I am a solitary traveler.
    And then I was rain, and the cycle began. And I moved in the clouds and in the tides and eventually I became rivers and streams and lakes and dew and a cup of tea. Darjeeling. In a place not unlike the one where I spent so many years. I had recently come out of the sea, but I don’t think the place was Madras or near it, for the sea must have been the Arabian, not the Bay of Bengal. I was in a reservoir and then in a well and then in a boiling kettle and eventually in a porcelain cup, very thin: I could see the shadow of a woman’s hand pick me up. I sensed it was Darjeeling tea, but I don’t know how. Perhaps I can smell, too, in this state, but without the usual body, perhaps there is only the knowledge of the scent. I’m not sure. But I slipped inside a woman and then later I was—how shall I say this?—free again. I must emphasize that I kept my spirit’s eyes tightly shut.
    That was many years ago. I subsequently