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“Taking pictures?”
“Manufacturing. She told me, ‘Dis time I vill be boss.’”
“Have I told you that you look absolutely gorgeous in that dress?”
“Only twice since we were married.” She stepped closer to press her lips to his. “Isn’t it wonderful? Now people expect us to kiss in public— Oh my, Irina is giving us a Talking Pictures play.”
The stewards suspended the sailcloth beside the piano. Actors, two men and a woman, positioned themselves behind the cloth with an array of gongs, triangles, drumsticks, whistles, and washboards.
“Where did she find a Humanova Troupe in the middle of the ocean?” marveled Marion.
“I say, what is a Humanova Troupe?” asked Lord Strone. The British colonel had been hovering near Mademoiselle Viorets.
“Humanovas make sound for the movies,” Marion told Strone.
“Sound? In the cinema? Do you mean like the orchestra?”
“Much more than an orchestra. The actors speak lines of dialogue. And make effects.”
“Effects?”
“Gunshots, whistles, bells. Surely you’ve heard Humanovas in London. Or Actologues?”
“Rarely get to town anymore, m’dear. Retired, don’t you know?”
Bell concealed a smile at the sight of Archie’s red eyebrow cocked toward the skylight. Strone was laying it on with a trowel, but a flurry of marconigrams from Van Dorn informants in England had repeated, in guarded language, rumors that His Lordship was, as Bell suspected, attached to Great Britain’s newly formed Secret Service Bureau with offices at Whitehall in the center of London. He left London only to undermine England’s enemies abroad.
Urged on by Irina Viorets, the stewards arranged chairs facing the improvised screen, and within minutes the lounge had been transformed into a moving picture theater. Members of the ship’s orchestra gathered around the piano with violins and a trumpet. They struck a clarion chord.
The wedding guests took their seats. The lamps were lowered. The projector clattered and light flickered on the screen. From behind the screen, an actor read aloud the movie’s title card.
“Is This Seat Taken?”
“It’s a Biograph comic,” Marion whispered to Bell. “Florence Lawrence is in it.”
The scene was laid in a ten-cent moving picture theater just as the movie ended. A well-dressed audience applauded when a woman with a pistol arrested a villain, who was marched off by a policeman. The actors behind the sailcloth clapped their hands as the movie audience applauded. The next film on the ten-cent theater screen showed a conductor and piano player auditioning singers and dancers.
The actors behind the sailcloth sang and shuffled their feet on the washboards, and the ship’s piano played ragtime.
A lady looking very much like the woman with the pistol walked into the ten-cent theater wearing an enormous hat and looked for a seat. An actress called, repeatedly, “Is this seat taken?” Theater patrons refused to move, protesting that her hat would block their view of the screen.
The lady in the big hat was followed by a man in a top hat, who looked very much like the villain just arrested. An actor called in a strong voice, “Is this seat taken?”
Theater patrons yelled that his hat was too big. Shouting matches ensued — angry words and a general banging came from behind the sailcloth.
Lord Strone laughed, “If my wife could see the thoroughly unpleasant sort who attend the cinema, she’d stop badgering me to take her there.”
The ship’s orchestra took up an aria from La Bohème.
On the theater screen, the director threw auditioning singers out the door.
Behind the sailcloth, the door banged and actors laughed.
In the ten-cent theater, ladies in increasingly large hats took their seats, provoking a riot.
A whistle blew behind the sailcloth. In the ten-cent theater, the clamshell jaws of a steam shovel descended from the ceiling and plucked off a lady’s hat. Ladies removed their hats. The lady in the biggest hat refused. The jaws descended again and lifted her, hat and all, out of the ten-cent theater. The actors behind the sailcloth cheered.
Lord Strone led the laughter. “I say! That’ll teach her. Whisked off like rubbish.”
