Free A Rather Curious Engagement by C. A. Belmond Page B

below and see the kitchen and cabins? ” Laurent asked politely. He showed us the two staircases in the bar area: a very beautiful, dramatic curving one with mahogany banister; and a much narrower, functional one for the crew. I pictured the crew nimbly scurrying up and down their own staircase, and I imagined that the two separate staircases were as much to keep the owners and guests out of the way of the busy crew, as it was to provide privacy for revellers.
    The master “cabin” (bedroom) was truly luxurious, having a great bed with matching walnut tables and 1920s lamps, a bookcase, an armoire with drawers beneath it, and a chest of drawers with an adjoining vanity table and mirror. There was even a private bathroom with a triangular-shaped shower in the corner. Laurent showed us that all the doors down here slid open and closed along tracks that took them into the walls, rather than swinging open into a room and taking up valuable space. It made for a neat, compact “ship-shape” sleeping level. The guest rooms had a shared bath, and smaller beds, but plenty of drawers and cupboards.
    The crew had bunk beds and footlockers in a room off the kitchen. The kitchen was the most modernized, with brushed aluminum cabinetry and a stove that was “gimballed” which meant that when the sea acted up and the boat tilted, the stove would maintain its balance, to prevent having the cooking food slosh over and scald the cook. I noted that everything was either mounted or anchored in some way, a constant reminder that you were on a boat which could pitch, roll, but hopefully not overturn. To me, these signs of the very changeable aspect of travel were a reminder of the impermanent nature of the voyage of life itself.
    When we climbed back up to the main level, Laurent then let us scamper up a ladder-like stair to the smaller topmost “bridge deck,” which had a little sunbed area in the rear. In the center was a lifeboat (another reminder of life’s little emergencies). And at the fore was the boxlike “pilot house” where you steered the ship. Or, your captain did. I admired the lovely antique fittings such as the ship’s wheel, bell, compass, clock, and chronometers.
    Finally, our tour was over. But I didn’t want to go. The whole thing felt like the ultimate dollhouse. I wanted to plunk right down in that cute furniture and have dinner on those adorable dishes, and then wash the cups in the tiny sink, like a little girl playing house. Then I wanted to tiptoe into the bedroom and pick out a book from the glassed-in bookcase, and turn on one of those quaint lamps and fling myself down on the grand bed in the master cabin, and read about historical expeditions while Jeremy mixed me a cocktail upstairs in the bar. There were even charming little curtains at the portholes.
    While I was mentally playing house, Jeremy went over the listed details about the engine and all that necessary nuts-and-bolts stuff. He’d already gotten Denby, the expert who repaired high-end and vintage cars, to visit earlier with an engineer friend, to assess the boat’s engine. Denby’s report indicated that the engine had passed inspection with “flying colors.”
    Laurent informed us that the captain and crew who had worked on this yacht for many years were still available and willing to continue working for the new owner. Apparently, the current owner was an elderly gentleman who was well-known and respected, and had taken part in annual boat races, so everybody knew it was a good boat. But the poor man was not in the best of health, so he had finally decided to part with it.
    “Have you had many interested viewers?” Jeremy asked as casually as he could. Laurent said, suavely and carefully, “A bit. Yes. But not too many. Some think it old-fashioned, because they want only the big boats with all the modern conveniences, you know, radar, GPS, VHF, satellite TV, stereo system and DVD player.”
    The fact that he was not afraid of