Free The Black Isle by Sandi Tan

third-class ghetto, incurious, unquestioning, passively believing the lie that the rest of the ship was closed. I decided then that I would never share my findings with Father or Li.
    The doors led directly to the peacock salon. It was as if the man had read my mind.
    I gasped and raced in, the flimsy soles of my shoes immediately buffered by luscious, endless carpeting. Nobody was here, not a soul. A hundred tables were set—starched white napkins atop expensive china, no fewer than three wineglasses per diner. Strains of watery music emerged from the next room. My flesh tingled. Somebody was practicing the harp. The gas-lit chandeliers flared on together at this moment—puff!—and the mahogany pillars glistened with fresh polish. A huge banquet was certainly in the cards for some lucky passengers tonight.
    “How do you know where everything is?” I asked. “We’ve only been at sea one day.”
    “I’ve made this passage many times and know how dull it is if you confine yourself to one area. My wife lives on the Black Isle.”
    “And you live in Shanghai?”
    “Mostly.”
    “Don’t you miss your wife?”
    He smiled ruefully. “I never stop missing her. Even when she’s standing right before me.” He walked to one of the large windows on the sides of the hall.
    It was nearly evening. Stars were rehearsing their twinkles, and a blushing band of peach light lingered at the end of the horizon, fading slowly down the waterline.
    “Look at the water,” said the man.
    As the sky dimmed, the black ocean came alive. Fairy lights, maybe thousands of them, bobbed up and down with the waves, each flashing pink, blue, and silver at different intervals. They formed a dense garland around the ship, their colors unsynchronized, yet harmonious, even hypnotic—pink, blue, silver, blue, pink, pink—like a soft electric glove easing the ship through the dark water.
    “Jellyfish. They light the paths of ships at night so the ships don’t collide with whales or the sunken galleons on the ocean floor. These jellyfish are the seeing-eye dogs of the marine world. They’re possibly the cleverest creatures on earth. People underestimate them because they don’t make any noise, but they have their own way of speaking. Whenever they flash like this, you know things are going to be all right. I wanted you to see them so you’d know that things are going to be all right.”
    I nodded vaguely.
    “It’s late now. You better run along back to your family.”
    Needles of panic. “But I don’t know how to get back.”
    The man pointed to an elegant mahogany door with an inlaid anchor done in red cherry. I ran to it and placed my hand on the brass handle; then I looked back, sorry to have to abandon my handsome newfound friend.
    “See you tomorrow?” the man asked. My mood lifted. “Shall we meet again at the swimming pool?”
    I beamed. “What time?”
    “The same time, after lunch. I could give you English lessons.”
    My heart leapt. “You know English?”
    “And Hebrew and French and Russian. Not by choice. History forces some of us to learn a little of everything.” He waved good-bye. “ Au revoir, mademoiselle . ’Til we meet again.” He turned back to view the water.
    I bit my lip, then asked, “What’s your name?”
    “Odell.” He smiled, charmed that I would ask.
    “See you tomorrow, Mr. Odell.”
    As I ran toward our inelegant cafeteria, guided by the cloying scent of pork trotters being drowned in fat, I thought it odd that the man never asked me my name.
     
    After the peacock room, everything felt even more inferior. The cafeteria floor was covered in cheap third-class linoleum to catch the spills from clumsy third-class hands. The silverware was third class, lightweight and malleable; when our aluminum forks scraped the bottoms of our aluminum trays, they made the harsh squawks of dying parrots. Everybody huddled over their food like ragamuffins guarding their rations. There were teachers, clerks, and