Read Online Empire of Ruins by Arthur Slade - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Arthur Slade
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time when it was just him, Mrs. Finchley, Tharpa, and occasionally Mr. Socrates.
“ ‘Is this a dagger which I see before me, the handle toward my hand?’ ” Modo recited. “ ‘Come, let me clutch thee!’ ”
Mrs. Finchley clapped her hands. “You have outgrown me!”
Modo enjoyed the part of Macbeth, one of his favorite characters. “But I
haven’t
outgrown you!” he answered.
She patted his shoulder. “I mean in your talent. I hope you never outgrow spending time with me. I’m so proud. There are times when you are completely involved, when you become the character you are playing. That’s at the heart of great acting. You have tremendous ability for someone so young—but you need to forget something.”
“Forget what?”
“Yourself! The best actors must believe in their hearts that they are who they pretend to be.”
There must be something to that, Modo decided. But he never felt as though he could forget who he was, so he could never completely throw himself into a part. How could he forget his life, his face?
He set down the imaginary dagger.
“How is Octavia progressing in her studies?” he asked. He hadn’t had more than a few private conversations with her since they’d boarded the ship. She joined them for meals but was busy with her own training.
“She’s progressing nicely. A smart, raw talent, that one,” Mrs. Finchley said.
“As talented as
moi
?” He feigned lightheartedness. Mrs. Finchley had sounded so proud of her, and his fists had involuntarily tightened.
“Ah, each of you has your own unique talents. Now, let’s work on your accent and bearing.”
After the fourth straight day of his physical training, he knocked Tharpa onto his back twice. Each time, Tharpa stood, brushed himself off, and gave Modo a grin. “Good! Good!”
When Modo wasn’t training, he wandered the
Rome
,looking out at the Atlantic, stopping at the saloon for lemonade or lime juice. He was relieved that the steamship hugged the European coast. He shivered when he imagined falling into that water again, as he had only a few short months ago. He’d come so close to freezing to death; his body remembered it well. And every time he looked down into the deeps he thought of Captain Monturiol and Cerdà and swallowed a lump of sadness. The Atlantic was their grave, a sunken submarine ship their coffin.
He distracted himself from his memories by following one of Mr. Socrates’ orders: to learn as much about the other passengers as possible. There were 125 saloon passengers in all. It had been a simple matter of asking for a tour of the clerk’s office, then sneaking a look at the list while the clerk was called out to answer some question about pay stubs. The names were common enough:
Mr. and Mrs. Henderson. Mr. and Mrs. Hare. Messrs. M. Collier and C. P. Davis. Mr. Carpenter. Miss Hoddle and Miss Fulton. Mr. and Mrs. O. Sheppard and two children. Mr. R. Reid and son, A. Reid, and servant. C. Chandra and Mrs. Finchley
.
Modo read the last few lines again. There it was in writing. Anyone who read it would believe he was Mr. Socrates’ son. He assumed that Mrs. Finchley hadn’t had to change her name because she wasn’t an agent. And it was curious that Tharpa wasn’t listed by name as a passenger. If the ship went down and all souls were lost, would he even be counted?
Modo memorized the list. He would make it a game to put a name to each of the faces. He would do the same with all of the ship’s cabin boys, stewards, seamen, and officers.Mr. Socrates didn’t expect any sort of trouble on the ship, but it was wise to know with whom they were spending so much time.
There were other distractions, of course. He tried to learn as much as possible about Australia by listening to the accents of the colonial passengers and quizzing any with whom he chatted. Being in first class also meant painting lessons (which he skipped), card games, sing-alongs, croquet on the deck, and even cricket in one
“ ‘Is this a dagger which I see before me, the handle toward my hand?’ ” Modo recited. “ ‘Come, let me clutch thee!’ ”
Mrs. Finchley clapped her hands. “You have outgrown me!”
Modo enjoyed the part of Macbeth, one of his favorite characters. “But I
haven’t
outgrown you!” he answered.
She patted his shoulder. “I mean in your talent. I hope you never outgrow spending time with me. I’m so proud. There are times when you are completely involved, when you become the character you are playing. That’s at the heart of great acting. You have tremendous ability for someone so young—but you need to forget something.”
“Forget what?”
“Yourself! The best actors must believe in their hearts that they are who they pretend to be.”
There must be something to that, Modo decided. But he never felt as though he could forget who he was, so he could never completely throw himself into a part. How could he forget his life, his face?
He set down the imaginary dagger.
“How is Octavia progressing in her studies?” he asked. He hadn’t had more than a few private conversations with her since they’d boarded the ship. She joined them for meals but was busy with her own training.
“She’s progressing nicely. A smart, raw talent, that one,” Mrs. Finchley said.
“As talented as
moi
?” He feigned lightheartedness. Mrs. Finchley had sounded so proud of her, and his fists had involuntarily tightened.
“Ah, each of you has your own unique talents. Now, let’s work on your accent and bearing.”
After the fourth straight day of his physical training, he knocked Tharpa onto his back twice. Each time, Tharpa stood, brushed himself off, and gave Modo a grin. “Good! Good!”
When Modo wasn’t training, he wandered the
Rome
,looking out at the Atlantic, stopping at the saloon for lemonade or lime juice. He was relieved that the steamship hugged the European coast. He shivered when he imagined falling into that water again, as he had only a few short months ago. He’d come so close to freezing to death; his body remembered it well. And every time he looked down into the deeps he thought of Captain Monturiol and Cerdà and swallowed a lump of sadness. The Atlantic was their grave, a sunken submarine ship their coffin.
He distracted himself from his memories by following one of Mr. Socrates’ orders: to learn as much about the other passengers as possible. There were 125 saloon passengers in all. It had been a simple matter of asking for a tour of the clerk’s office, then sneaking a look at the list while the clerk was called out to answer some question about pay stubs. The names were common enough:
Mr. and Mrs. Henderson. Mr. and Mrs. Hare. Messrs. M. Collier and C. P. Davis. Mr. Carpenter. Miss Hoddle and Miss Fulton. Mr. and Mrs. O. Sheppard and two children. Mr. R. Reid and son, A. Reid, and servant. C. Chandra and Mrs. Finchley
.
Modo read the last few lines again. There it was in writing. Anyone who read it would believe he was Mr. Socrates’ son. He assumed that Mrs. Finchley hadn’t had to change her name because she wasn’t an agent. And it was curious that Tharpa wasn’t listed by name as a passenger. If the ship went down and all souls were lost, would he even be counted?
Modo memorized the list. He would make it a game to put a name to each of the faces. He would do the same with all of the ship’s cabin boys, stewards, seamen, and officers.Mr. Socrates didn’t expect any sort of trouble on the ship, but it was wise to know with whom they were spending so much time.
There were other distractions, of course. He tried to learn as much as possible about Australia by listening to the accents of the colonial passengers and quizzing any with whom he chatted. Being in first class also meant painting lessons (which he skipped), card games, sing-alongs, croquet on the deck, and even cricket in one
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