My Clarity

Chapter nine

Chapter nine:

In the First-Class smoking room, Cal was lighting a cigar over a fine port, discussing polo ponies and stock deals with Astor and Guggenheim. The room was full of blue smoke as the captains of the industry and finance talked quietly or played cards. It was an all-male preserve the fortress of the elite. White gloved waiters circulated bringing gin tonics and brandies. Jack entered, quickening his pace to take a seat beside Colonel Gracie at the nearby table. It was reminiscent of the gentleman’s club which he had sampled once or twice, mainly in London, perhaps that was the intention of the room just without the circulating prostitutes there to indulge the man after they had consumed far too much liquor to even know what or who they were doing. A typically male approach to life when taking leave of the stressful daily life of an upper-class male, but to Jack, it had never really held any substance to entertain him.

In a cloud of smoke, Hockley was already narrowing his gaze, but Jack sipped his warm brandy. He was quiet. Reserved. Rested. The talk was low, each man observing the surroundings as though there was a need to keep an eye out for something extraordinary.

‘’I feel a wager on when we shall arrive in New York,’’ Gracie nodded to Hockley. ‘’Shall we say fifty bucks?'’

‘’When do you suggest we shall be in New York?’’

‘’I should say Tuesday night. Fifty bucks.’’

Hockley glanced to Gracie, then to Jack. ‘’What do you say, Dawson? Hundred bucks on Wednesday morning?’’

‘’I have no interest.’’ Jack shook his head, smirking as they came to some arrangement.

‘’Fine, Wednesday morning and I say hundred bucks.’’

‘’Very well,’’ Gracie nodded, taking the bet as serious as he would stocks. “They tell me your stock is on this very ship.” He exhaled a cigar, as he shuffled a deck of cards about in his hands.

“Yes.”

“How fortunate.”

Hockley called to a circling waiter to take another brandy. His manservant stood glumly at his side. Jack leaned back, resting one hand on the arm of the chair. His attire pulled at him. Unlike the others, who was precisely dressed in tailored clothes and a deftly knotted necktie, Jack wore an open-necked shirt having pulled off his tie on the way down to the smoking room. It should have been a travesty but he was never one to care too much. What’s the worst they would do? Escort him from the premises. Hell, no, no such spectacle would ever be caused.

 Gracie watched him closely. “What was said between you?”

“Who?” Jack narrowed his gaze until he saw Gracie indicate to Hockley.

“Not much. Never many words.”

“And your parents, they died young, what would they make of you now?”

“They pitied any man who leads this kind of life.” Jack gestured loosely at their refined surroundings. “Sleeping in a large house. Burdened by possessions. Having a schedule. Carrying a pocket watch. All of it.”

All of it had evoked warm childhood memories. And longing. Jack wanted that life, had never stopped wanting it. He had never found anything to replace it. This life was unfulfilling. It wavered on desperation. Madness. Unnaturalistic.

“To my mind there is nothing unnatural about wanting a roof over one’s head when it rains,” Gracie said. “Or owning and tilling the land, or measuring the progress of the day with the use of a clock. It is man’s nature to impose his will on his surroundings. Otherwise, society would disintegrate, and there would be nothing but chaos and war.”