ABOARD TITANIC — Ethan Cole’s Voyage

I smelled dinner before I saw the dining room.

Warm bread.

Butter.

Roasted meat.

Coffee.

Something rich and sweet I could not identify.

By the time the doors opened, I had decided that maritime journalism was the finest profession in America.

The First Class Dining Saloon was enormous.

That is not elegant writing, but sometimes elegance should surrender to accuracy.

The room seemed to continue far beyond where a dining room had any right to end. White-paneled walls reflected warm electric light. Tables were dressed in spotless linen. Glassware sparkled. Silverware had been arranged with military precision.

I stopped just inside.

Samuel, standing nearby, murmured, “Try not to look frightened.”

“I’m not frightened.”

“You are staring at the forks.”

“There are too many.”

He almost smiled.

A waiter showed me to my place.

I sat beside Eleanor Brooks.

She looked at the silverware.

Then at me.

“This must be difficult for a journalist.”

“Why?”

“So many weapons.”

“I was wondering whether any of these are decorative.”

“The outer ones first.”

“Mrs. Brooks, you may have saved the reputation of the Boston press.”

Across from us sat Mr. Arthur Whitney, a businessman from New York who spent the first ten minutes explaining exactly how much money his company made.

Beside him was his wife, who spent the same ten minutes looking as though she had heard those numbers before.

I began to understand why long voyages produced strange friendships.

Food arrived in courses.

Soup.

Fish.

Meat.

Vegetables.

Bread.

Dessert.

Then coffee.

I could have written a page about the food alone, but what interested me more was the movement.

Waiters appeared and disappeared with astonishing efficiency.

One plate vanished.

Another arrived.

Glasses were filled almost before anyone noticed they were empty.

Conversations rose and fell around the room.

English voices.

American voices.

French.

German.

Laughter from one table.

An argument about business at another.

A child somewhere behind me was repeatedly told to sit properly.

I smiled.

For all the grandeur, humanity remained humanity.

After dinner, Eleanor and I walked toward the reception area.

“Do you always travel alone?” she asked.

“Usually.”

“No wife?”

“No.”

“Sweetheart?”

“Mrs. Brooks, are you interviewing me now?”

“I have crossed the Atlantic enough times to know conversation is a valuable resource.”

“I’m twenty-eight.”

“That was not my question.”

I laughed.

“No sweetheart.”

“Tragic.”

“Is everyone from Philadelphia this direct?”

“Only the interesting ones.”

We reached the staircase.

A few members of the ship’s orchestra were playing nearby.

The music floated through the open space.

Passengers gathered without formally gathering. Some remained standing. Others sat nearby. A child leaned against his mother’s skirt.

I watched the musicians.

“Do they play every evening?”

“Often enough,” Eleanor said.

The music made the ship feel smaller.

Not physically.

Emotionally.

When strangers hear the same melody, they share something for a few minutes whether they intend to or not.

Afterward I went outside.

Night had settled completely.

This was my first true look at the Atlantic after dark.

I had expected blackness.

Instead, the ocean held faint silver where light from the ship touched it. Beyond that small glow was an emptiness so complete it made the brightly lit windows behind me seem fragile.

I pulled my coat tighter.

The wind was colder than Southampton.

From inside came muffled music and conversation.

Outside there was only water.

I walked along the promenade.

Through windows I could see people reading, talking, writing letters.

Every window was a tiny world.

I wondered about the people in Third Class below us.

The emigrants.

Families carrying everything they owned.

Young men going to America for work.

Women bringing children to husbands already overseas.