The Cat’s Table Read Free

chance to escape all order. And I reinvented myself in this seemingly imaginary world, with its ship dismantlers and tailors and adult passengers who, during the evening celebrations, staggered around in giant animal heads, some of the women dancing with skirts barely there, as the ship’s orchestra, including Mr Mazappa, played on the bandstand all wearing outfits of exactly the same plum colour.

 
    LATE AT NIGHT, after the specially invited First Class passengers had left the Captain’s Table, and after the dancing had ended with couples, their masks removed, barely stirring in each other’s arms, and after the stewards had taken away the abandoned glasses and ashtrays and were leaning on the four-foot-wide brooms to sweep away the coloured swirls of paper, they brought out the prisoner.
    It was usually before midnight. The deck shone because of a cloudless moon. He appeared with the guards, one chained to him, one walking behind him with a baton. We did not know what his crime was. We assumed it could only have been a murder. The concept of anything more intricate, such as a crime of passion or a political betrayal, did not exist in us then. He looked powerful, self-contained, and he was barefoot.
    Cassius had discovered this late-night schedule for the prisoner’s walk, so the three of us were often there at that hour. He could, we thought among ourselves, leap over the railing, along with the guard who was chained to him, into the dark sea. We thought of him running and leaping this way to his death. We thought this, I suppose, because we were young, for the very idea of a chain , of being contained , was like suffocation. At our age we could not endure the idea of it. We could hardly stand to wear sandals when we went for meals, and every night as we ate at our table in the dining room we imagined the prisoner eating scraps from a metal tray, barefoot in his cell.

 
    I HAD BEEN asked to dress appropriately before entering the carpeted First Class Lounge in order to visit Flavia Prins. Though she had promised to keep an eye on me during the journey, to be truthful we would see each other only a few times. Now I had been invited to join her for afternoon tea, her note suggesting I wear a clean and ironed shirt, and also socks with my shoes. I went up to the Verandah Bar punctually at four p.m.
    She sighted me as if I were at the far end of a telescope, quite unaware I could read her facial responses. She was sitting at a small table. There followed an arduous attempt at conversation on her part, not helped by my nervous monosyllables. Was I enjoying the voyage? Had I made a friend?
    I had made two, I said. A boy name Cassius and another named Ramadhin.
    ‘Ramadhin … Is that the Muslim boy, from the cricketing family?’
    I said I didn’t know but would ask him. My Ramadhin seemed to have no physical prowess whatsoever. He had a passion for sweets and condensed milk. Thinking of this, I pocketed a few biscuits while Mrs Prins was attempting to catch the eye of the waiter.
    ‘I met your father when he was a very young man …’ she said, then trailed off. I nodded but she said nothing more about him.
    ‘Auntie …’ I began, feeling secure now in how I could address her. ‘Do you know about the prisoner?’
    It turned out that she was as eager as I to get away from small talk, and she settled in for a slightly longer interview than she had expected. ‘Have more tea,’ she murmured, and I did, although I was not enjoying the taste of it. She had heard about the prisoner, she confided, although it was supposed to be a secret. ‘He’s under very heavy guard. But you must not worry. There’s even a very senior British army officer on board.’
    I couldn’t wait to lean forward. ‘I have seen him,’ I gloated. ‘Walking late at night. Under heavy guard.’
    ‘Really …’ she drawled, put out by the ace I had played so quickly and easily.
    ‘They say he did a terrible thing,’ I said.
    ‘Yes. It is