Voyage 1909 Ch. 01

She heard a voice of her manager overhead.

"Anna, the boarding starts in half an hour. I just saw her at the pier, what a beauty. I mean our steamer, George Washington. Built last year, her maid voyage performed only a few months ago. Eight decks, first class cabins with attached baths, comfortable second and third class cabins, nice steerage compartments for immigrants. Dining and smoking rooms, lounges, a solarium and a gymnasium. We, of course, have first class cabins, one for me and Mordkin, and a separate one for you."

Her eyes still closed, she wasn't listening to him. Her thoughts still dwelt on that "nutcracker" episode. While executing an arabesque during her dance, she quite accidentally kicked her former partner, Vlaslav Nejinsky, right in his groin. The dancer at once shrieked and collapsed onto the stage, holding his bulging crotch, writhing on the floor and hissing painfully:

"My balls, balls, balls... Bitch, you destroyed them, you fucking bitch, my fucking balls..."

Half the audience burst with loud laughter, the other half were watching his sufferings in awe

Half the audience burst with loud laughter, the other half were watching his sufferings in awe. Nejinsky had to be substituted and taken to the hospital, her kick proved to be extremely powerful and dangerous. Аll the following day reporters pursued her, making such a fuss about the accident. She got tired answering their stupid questions about the condition of Nejinsky's testicles and how she felt about the incident. The dumbest of all them and most frequently asked was how soon she would dance in the Nutcracker ballet and if her prospective partners would wear groin cups ever henceforth. She was really exhausted with all this unnecessary publicity.

"Well, Anna," Victor Dandre said, "I have to see to our luggage and find Michael, he must be drinking coffee in one of the cafes."

She heard his footsteps leaving, then another man's voice:

"I beg your pardon, Miss Pavlova."

She opened her eyes to see a tall man of about forty standing before her.

"Let me introduce myself, Arthur Marvin, a film maker and a co-founder of the Biograph Company, our film studio located in New York city. I'm on my way home and must admit that I'm extremely happy to spend a few following days aboard the same ship with you. I saw you dance in Paris. It was phenomenal, your magic dance of the Dying Swan to the great music of Tchaikovsky. I've never been so charmed in my life. You're a genius of dance. A goddess of the ballet."

"Thanks for the compliment, Mr. Marvin."

"And that kick of yours! I saw it! I mean that kick into Nijinsky's privates. It was great!"

"Please stop it. I'm really sick of people mentioning it."

"Okay, what I'd like to say is that I want to offer you the main role in my next motion picture. It's called 'The Fall of Troy'. I see you performing as Helen of Troy. And that climax scene, I so clearly see it now, I visualize it with you. The city of Troy is defeated, Paris is killed, and Menelaus at last finds his unfaithful wife, who betrayed him and caused the Trojan War. He wants to kill her. Just imagine yourself as Helen and listen:

"I wait for one who comes with sword to slay --

The king I wronged who searches for me now;

And yet he shall not slay me. I shall stand

With lifted head and look within his eyes,

Baring my breast to him and to the sun.

He shall not have the power to stain with blood

That whiteness -- for the thirsty sword shall fall

And he shall cry and catch me in his arms...

"No, he will not catch you in his arms, just see it, you cast off your robe, you stand absolutely naked before him, baring all your perfect body to him and to the sun, the bastard stares at you, at your body, totally hypnotised by your shining beauty, drops his sword and all of a sudden you kick him right in the balls! What a scene! Menelaus down on the ground at your feet, the feet of Helen of Troy, you proudly watching his helpless body writhing in male agony, while your perfect body..."

"Do stop it!," the balerine exclaimed and got up to her feet. "First, all proposals concerning my career are to be made through my manager, Victor Dandre. Second, I have no wish whatsoever to kick anybody's balls neither on stage, nor on screen. Got it? Have a nice day, Mr. Cinematographer."

Arthur Marvin reluctantly turned around and slowly walked off along the hall. Well, nothing had yet been decided. Eight days' voyage ahead, there would be enough time for him to persuade that stubborn dancer. He would certainly get that woman into kicking Menelaus' balls.

He would certainly get that woman into kicking Menelaus' balls.

4.

11.50 a.m.,

SS George Washington

Watson entered the cabin to find Sherlock Holmes sitting on one the two chairs by the table, which was crowned with an opened bottle of Scotch and a tumbler half filled with whisky.

"Dear Holmes, you've overslept and missed breakfast along with the stop at the port of Cherbourg."

Watson plumped himself down onto his berth.

"Have you got used to women's clothes Watson?" asked the detective and took a sip from the glass.

"Not quite yet," Watson took off his hat and wig to throw them onto the empty chair, then started taking off his high heels. "I thought you were going to watch Moriarty boarding the ship at Cherbourg, dear Holmes."

"What's the use? He certainly got aboard cleverly disguised and with a false identity. We have plenty of time to catch him unawares."

"I watched people getting on board our steamboat at Cherbourg. None of them resembled Professor Moriarty. Anyway, there were some prominent individuals joining us - Anna Pavlova, a famous Russian ballerina, then there was Arthur Marvin, an American cinematographer..."

"Arthur Marvin?" exclaimed Sherlock Holmes, interrupting his companion. " Marvin the filmmaker! That asshole!"

"Why do you call him an asshole, Holmes?"

"That imbecile shot a film called 'Sherlock Holmes Baffled" a couple of years ago," the detective lifted the tumbler and emptied it in a gulp. "Sherlock Holmes never gets baffled, everyone must know that. Want a drink, Watson?"

Holmes picked up the bottle and made an offering gesture toward Watson.

'No, thanks. It's early for me to start drinking Scotch."

"Well," said Holmes, refilling the tumbler, "what else happened this morning outside our cabin."

"Remember that pissing man on the deck last night?"

"You mean that psychiatrist from Vienna, Sigmund Freud?"

"Yes, that's him. He's sailing to America to give some lectures on psychoanalysis there. He's travelling with a companion, a young physician from Switzerland. His name is Carl Jung. The guy was sitting next to me at breakfast. He's happened to be a rather talkative man and I've made friends with him. He even seemed to be flirting with me."

"You mean Freud's buddy flirted with you, Watson? I must confess I never thought you'd be able to make an impression on men. You're certainly beyond praise, my dear friend. Just don't forget to shave your face regularly and cleanly."

"Oh, I'm going to the bathroom right now. It's a pity we're not travelling first class. They have bathrooms in the first class cabins, while second class passengers must take baths in shared bathrooms in the end of the corridor. One must appoint one's time to use it through the steward, but I'll go and try my luck without appointment. I need a towel, some soap and my razor. And where are my slippers? My feet are so tired of walking in high heels."

When Watson was fully equipped for his ablutions and ready to leave the cabin, he stopped by the door and turned to the detective.

"Holmes, you invented it, didn't you?"

"Invented what?" asked Holmes.

"That episode with Achilles being slapped on the groin when dressed as a woman. After breakfast I visited the ship's library and leafed through the History of the Trojan War. There's not a single word about such an accident in there. Yes, Achilles was hiding among women, disguised as a girl, but the whole story never mentioned his testicles being injured. It was his heel, not his balls, that had to be protected carefully. That heel of his was his weakest spot, while the rest of his body, testicles included, couldn't be harmed by anybody. Holmes, you invented the story."

"My dear Watson," said Holmes with a sigh, then rose from his chair to stretch himself at once on his berth. "The Trojan War is an invented thing in the first place. Well, there's another cautionary tale for you. There was this chaste goddess Diana, who was in the habit of hunting all sorts of game throughout the woods, accompanied by a bevy of virgin nymphs. Then there was this guy Leuccipus who had some quirky idea to disguise himself in a girl's outfit in order to be able to run and frolic in the woods together with Diana's nymphs. Once, while the goddess and her nymphs were chasing some animal through thick brake, some whippy twig lashed Leuccipus right across his groin..."

"And what happened then?" inquired Watson.

"The nymphs immediately killed him by plunging their spears into his body."

"But why?"

"Because he'd shrieked 'oh my fucking balls', you moron," grumbled the sleuth. "Go and bathe yourself, Watson. And don't forget to put on your wig before you leave the cabin."

In less than two minutes Watson burst back into the cabin, panting for breath, his eyes bulging, his face covered with sweat, his dress unable to hide his huge erection.

"I saw her, I saw her," he murmured, trying to catch his breath.

"Who did you see, Watson?" asked Holmes, surprised to see his companion in such a state. "And please close the door, my dear friend."

"I thought there was no one in there," Watson said, after he shut the door of the cabin. "The bathroom door wasn't latched from the inside. I just entered and saw her there, standing completely naked before me. I saw her body. Beauty incarnate! A goddess! She's perfect!"

"Watson, can you be more precise?" said Holmes, sitting up on his berth. "Just tell me straight whose body made your dick stick out like that."

"Athenais. I recognized her at once. John Godward's model. What was her name?"

"Jane Carter."

"Exactly, Jane Carter. She's aboard this ship. But why?"

"Elementary, my dear friend, she's Moriarty's niece," Holmes smiled cunningly.

"His niece? Then it definitely must be her who stole that painting," said Watson, lowering himself onto his berth.

Sherlock Holmes got up and picked up the bottle from the table.

"Have some Scotch, Watson, and calm down, please. You must never forget that you're a woman to the rest of the world now. So neither can you be hit in the balls, nor can you have such tremendous boners."

"I'm a man after all!" protested Watson. "Or should I have my balls and dick cut off?"

Holmes said nothing but splashed some whisky into the tumbler and offered it to his companion.

5.

"So, this is your cabin," James Moriarty sat down on the berth and looked around. "I see you're not traveling alone. Are you with a man?"

"Yes, Uncle," said Jane Carter, standing in the center of the cabin. "His name is Henry Fairfax."

"I didn't know you were going to New York with a boyfriend. What's his line?"

"His line?"

"His line of business."

"He's an actor," said Jane. "Used to play on stage in England and now wants to try acting in motion pictures in America."

"Where's he now?"

"In the smoking room, I think."

"Take a seat, dear," Moriarty motioned his niece to the chair by the porthole.

"Ever told him about me, or my plans?" he continued, after the girl sat down.

"Of course not," replied Jane.

"That's good. Just keep silent about me. Now I'm Thomas Irving, a professor of botany, crossing the Atlantic to study the orchid plants of both Americas. Well, there's something I must give you now," Moriarty produced a parcel from the Gladstone bag he'd brought with him and started tearing it open.

"What's this?" asked Jane.

"A dress for you. A quick-change one," Moriarty unfolded a beige gown before his niece.

"Quick-change?" the girl took it from his hands. "What for?"

Moriarty smiled:

"In your case I'd call it 'quick-take-off'. Just a few seconds and you're completely naked, provided you have no underwear beneath it."

"What's the idea of getting naked so quickly?" asked Jane with a baffled air.

"Well, my dear," Moriarty crossed his legs, "it was a motion picture I saw in Vienna that gave me this fantastic idea. It was called "Living Marble". Three men decide to play a prank on a colleague. They present him a naked statue in a classical stance placed on a pedestal, then leave him alone in the room. The joke is that the statue is actually a girl whose naked body is painted white like marble. The man is enchanted with the statue and starts touching and caressing it, only to let her come alive and jump down on the floor. What a surprise! His friends appear and have a good laugh."

"What has this story got to do with me? This idea of getting naked?"

"Naked is the best disguise," Moriarty smirked. "That's how we'll be able to have you unnoticed in the Metropolitan Museum of New York."

"Naked and unnoticed? How possible?"

"Have you forgotten your taking part in tableau vivant and performing as a living statue? You really looked like a marble statue of Venus. So I decided to put this talent of yours to use for our venture in New York City."

"In what way?" asked Jane.

"We both go and visit the Met just before its closing time, you dressed in this garment and some hat. In the hall of the Greek and Roman sculpture we quickly get your face painted like marble, provided the rest of your body, the hair included, has been painted so beforehand. Then in some shadowy nook of the gallery you tear off your garb and take a pose like some ancient statue. After the last visitor leaves the hall and the museum is closed, you come alive and ready to act according to my instructions, which are yet to be given to you later. So, what do you think of my plan?"

"Well, Uncle," Jane gave out a deep sigh, "you know well why I agreed to help you

"Well, Uncle," Jane gave out a deep sigh, "you know well why I agreed to help you. It's just because I need money. Now instead of participating in all this, I'd like to offer you to buy some painting from me."

"What painting?"

"Depicting a nude girl, the sort of pictures you like."

"Who painted it?"

"John Godward."

"Godward? The guy you posed for?"

"Yes."

"So you posed for this picture, too, I assume. And how did you get it?"

"Just took it from his studio."

"Took it? You mean stole it?"

Janed nodded her head.

"You stole a painting from the artist you posed for? Oh my God! Next thing you do is you leave the country on the first steamboat bound for another continent. Are you crazy? You're the first one to be suspected of the theft."

"Will you buy it?" Jane gave her uncle an inquiring look.

"Moriarty never buys works of art. Moriarty steals them. But he does it in a clever way, never getting under suspicion and always establishing himself a cast-iron alibi. That's the way I do things. Now you've made a big mistake by stealing that painting, a mistake that badly endangers our venture. You should have consulted with me before committing such a thing."

"What should I do now, Uncle?" Jane sounded confused.

"Is the painting with you?" asked Moriarty.

"Yes, in one of the trunks in the luggage compartment."

"Hope we'll get it through the customs in New York, then we'll see what to do about it. Does your boyfriend know about it?"

"No, he doesn't."

"That's good. Just keep him out of it. Why have you decided to travel with this actor?"

"He loves me," Jane answered calmly.

"And you, do you love him?"

"I don' t know."

"You don't know. Sounds nice. What in the first place do you need money for? To get married to this would-be film star?"

Miss Carter stood up, laid the quick-change dress on the birth not occupied by her uncle, then drew a book from under the mattress.

"Here's the reason I need money," she said, holding out the book.

Moriarty took the book and read out the title:

"Memoirs of a Man's Maiden Years by N.O. Body. What's this?"

"N.O. Body is just the pseudonym of Karl M. Baer. He was born a girl, but three years ago, in 1906, he was the first one in the world to undergo a sex-change surgery to become a man."

"So what?" asked Moriarty, scrutinizing his niece's face.

"I need this sort of operation, too," replied the girl, averting her eyes.

"You?" exclaimed Moriarty, "you need a sex-change operation?"

"Yes, I want to be a man," Jane Carter pronounced timidly.

"What?" Moriarty cried out. "What did you say?"

"I want to become a man," Jane replied, sounding more confident, "and I need money to undergo sex-change surgery."

"Jane, are you crazy? You possessing such a gorgeous female body, you want to become a man? Your ravishing form, I must confess, gives boners even to me, your uncle, and fills my mind with incestuos fantasies. Just imagine what all other men feel about you. To get rid of all your female charm would be the stupedest thing to do."

"Uncle, I want to have boners myself. I want to have a penis. A big, thick dick! A mighty shaft of my own between my own legs. I constantly feel emptiness down there, the emptiness that should be filled with a male thing as soon as possible."

"You're nuts, Jane. What a partner I have! A partner who steals a picture of her nude body to sell it in order to have a dick sewn on between her legs, and a pair of dangling balls to boot. Don't you see how foolish you are, Jane? A girl with a dick! What a daffy thing!"

"But I've seen a woman with a penis this morning!" declared Jane, nervously.

"Where?" Moriarty asked, looking surprised.

"In the bathroom. There was a lady there with a huge erection underneath her dress."

"What nonsense! Did you see her naked?"

"No. She saw that the bathroom was occupied and quickly left the room."

"That's enough for now. I just have to digest this shocking information. We'll talk it over later, dear niece," Moriarty tossed the book down on the birth, got up to his feet, picked up his bag and stepped up to the door.

"A lady with a dick," he said thoughtfully, taking hold of the door knob. "I can smell something bad brewing up round here."

Professor Moriarty shook his head, opened the door, stepped out of the cabin and trotted off down the corridor.

6.

"Watson, you said you'd made friends with Carl Jung?" said Holmes, lying on his birth.

"I wouldn't call it friends," replied Watson, putting 'The History of the Trojan War' aside on the table and sitting up on his berth. "But we had a rather friendly chat at breakfast."

"I want you to go on with your friendly talks with that shrink guy. As I understand he shares a cabin with his companion. Just go now to their place and get Jung out of the cabin. Suggest you both have a stroll along the promenade deck, or better have some drinks, there's a nice open air cafe on the awning deck."

"I can't see the point in spending time with him, Holmes. And what should I talk about with him?"

"It's up to you because it's of no significance at all. The point is that I want Doctor Freud to be left alone in his cabin. Just need to have a cosy tête à tête with him."

"I don't even know where their cabin is."

"Cabin 231, deck B."

"But how, Holmes? Don't tell me you deduced it."

"Sometimes tipping a steward works better than any deduction and reasoning."

"Mr. Jung is a psychiatrist, and I'm afraid that my true gender may be easily revealed to him."

"Try your best, my dear friend," said Holmes, motioning his companion to get up from the birth.

In half an hour Sherlock Holmes was standing before cabin B231, a messenger bag slung over his shoulder. He knocked lightly on the door.