On his last day, Ed Carrboro woke at seven as the Galatea sailed her way westwards. As he opened his eyes he was aware of no thoughts. The suite was already bright with sunlight, shifting and dappled by the sea. Ed felt the strain on his joints and the looseness in his muscles as he pulled himself from the strange side of the bed. He got up and showered, then shaved with his old open razor, scraping over the hard grey stubble, slowly, his hand steady yet. He dressed in a white linen suit, took out his panama and placed it with his walking stick on the table beside the door. He opened the door and brought in the paper, lowered himself into the armchair, and dozed until eight.
Mano knocked and brought in the breakfast tray. “Good morning, Mr Carrboro.”
“Good morning, Mano. How are you today?”
Ed could smell the coffee as Mano poured. He watched Mano unscrew the lid of the marmalade and place it between the toast rack and butter dish.
“Venice today, Mr Carrboro.” Mano placed his cloth back over his forearm. Ed turned his head towards the balcony and watched the muslin billow in the breeze. There were no domes or canals, still only sea. “You asked me to remind you of the journalist today; at eleven.” Ed nodded, still watching the flow of the drapes.
“Thank you, Mano.”
The butler bowed slightly and smiled. “Have a good morning.”
Ed ate a little breakfast. With the paper on the table before him the hot light radiated back at his face. Occasionally he turned the page. He drank a little coffee and the breeze touched the back of his neck. His eyes blurred and the print on the page swam a bit. He reached back and ran his fingertips down his nape as though the hand wasn’t his.
After breakfast Ed took up his walking stick and put on his hat. As he shuffled his way to the elevator some passengers said good morning. Each crew member said, “Good morning, Mr Carrboro.” And for each he had a smile and a touch to brim of his hat.
The elevator doors opened on to the promenade deck and into a burning morning, Ed stepped out and the heat fell upon him. He pulled the hat down closer to his eyes and walked slowly aftwards to the gazebo. The deck was frantic with people in bright clothes; everywhere there were flashes of pastel, sunglasses, white teeth; there was noisy chatter and laughing. The gazebo was dark inside and cool. He took the reserved sign from his chair and lowered himself, leaning into the cane. The wicker held his back erect. Ed Carrboro sat in the gazebo and gazed into churning foam the ship left in her wake.
He woke, his mouth dry, and looked at his watch.. There was a tall glass with half melted ice and a pitcher of lemonade beside him. Ed lifted the cold jug, found it heavy, and poured himself a draught. In the smell of the lemonade and the clink of ice he heard her again; he heard her say, in her slow, drooping accent, “Now that’s what I call real lemonade, honey.” In his first sip and the sugar and acid spread over his dry tongue and the memory slipped. Ed swallowed and leaned forward over the glass and breathed in hard to bring it back. But it was gone and the lemonade smelled of lemonade.
At eleven Mano brought the journalist. The journalist gestured for Ed to stay seated as he took another wicker chair and brought it over. Mano poured drinks for them both.
“Mr Carrboro,” the journalist reached out a hand and took Ed’s. “My name is John. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He had a British accent.
The journalist was older than Ed had expected. He looked comfortable in a loose white shirt and slacks, and he too had a panama which he laid beside him when he sat. He had a rich head of hair and a full grey beard. Ed said, “You look like you should be the captain of the ship, with that beard.”
