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be very inconvenient for everyone.’
    â€˜For economy,’ the captain said. He added, ‘The news on the radio tonight is not good. Rebels are said to have attacked across the Dominican border. The government claims that all is quiet in Port-au-Prince, but I would advise those of you who are stopping here to keep in close touch with your consulates. I have received orders to land passengers promptly and proceed at once to Santo Domingo. I am not to delay for cargo.’
    â€˜We seem to be hitting a spot of trouble, dear,’ Mr Smith said from his end of the table and he took another spoonful of what I took to be Froment – a dish he had explained to me at lunch.
    â€˜Not for the first time,’ Mrs Smith replied with grim satisfaction.
    A sailor came in, bringing a message for the captain, and as he opened the door a breeze set the French letters asway; they whined where they touched. The captain said, ‘You must excuse me. My duty. I have to go now. I wish you all a convivial evening,’ but I wondered whether the message had been pre-arranged – he was not a sociable man and he had found Mrs Smith hard to accept. The chief rose too as though he feared to leave the ship alone in the captain’s hands.
    Now that the officers had gone, the purser became his old self again and he egged us on to eat more and drink more. (Even the Smiths after a good deal of hesitation – ‘I am not a true gourmand,’ Mrs Smith said – gave themselves a second helping of Nuttoline.) A sweet liqueur was served which the purser explained was ‘on’ the company, and the thought of a free liqueur mesmerized us all – except, of course, the Smiths – into further drinking, even the pharmaceutical traveller, though he looked at his glass with apprehension as though green was the colour for danger. When eventually we reached the saloon a programme was lying on every chair.
    The purser said gaily, ‘Chins up,’ and began to beat his hands softly on his plump knees as the orchestra entered, led by the cook, a cadaverous young man, with cheeks flushed by the heat of stoves, wearing his chef’s hat. His companions carried pots, pans, knives, spoons: a mincer was there to add a grinding note, and the chef held a toasting-fork as a baton. In the programme the piece they played was called Nocturne, and it was followed by a Chanson d’Amour, sung by the chef himself, sweetly and uncertainly. Automne, tendresse, feuilles mortes , I could catch only a few of the melancholy words between the hollow crash of spoon on pot. Mr and Mrs Smith sat hand-in-hand on the couch, the rug spread over her knees, and the traveller in pharmaceutical products leant earnestly forward, watching the thin singer; perhaps with a professional eye he was considering whether any of his drugs might be of use. As for Mr Fernandez he sat apart, every now and then writing something down in a notebook. Jones hovered behind the purser’s chair, occasionally leaning down and whispering in his ear. He seemed in the throes of a private enjoyment, as if the whole affair were his own invention, and when he applauded it was with a self-congratulatory glee. He looked at me and winked as much as to say, ‘Just you wait. My imagination doesn’t stop here. There are better things yet to come.’
    I had meant to go to my cabin when the song was over, but Jones’s manner awoke my curiosity. The pharmaceutical traveller had already disappeared, but I remembered it was past his usual bedtime. Jones now called the leader of the orchestra into conference: the chief drummer joined them with his big copper saucepan under his arm. I looked at my programme and saw that the next item was a Dramatic Monologue by Mr J. Baxter. ‘That was a very interesting performance,’ Mr Smith said. ‘Didn’t you find it so, my dear?’
    â€˜The pots were serving a better purpose than cooking an