Smoky Blue Literary and Arts Magazine #6

perfect. Peter savored and internalized every detail. She wore no jewelry, save a small silver broach. And no ring.

“I was just going to order a Gibson; would you like one?”

She nodded, and said, “Is it good?”

“Gin and vermouth. With a little cocktail onion. Give it a try.”

She considered him with a weary smile. “My father thinks dining with the captain is a mark of social acceptability. I think,” she said in an accent more German than Russian, “it’s just an example of his bourgeois pretensions.”

“But, you’re here with him. Does that mean you have bourgeois pretentions?”

“No. I’m here because he is my father.” She smiled a bit more brightly. “And you are not the captain.”

“Touché.”

“I am Maria. Maria Federoff.” She extended her hand. Smooth and well tended, it revealed no evidence of recent labor. “When I saw you on the deck I supposed you were an American. I fear I was rather unpleasant.”

Surely her mood had shifted―more warm, more engaging. And her smile seemed to manifest a worldliness Peter could only guess at. She flirted unabashedly, her gaze again inspiring fascination--and not so nascent lust. Even when she did not look at him, he felt she was looking at him.

“Oh, I don’t think you were rude,” Peter said. “But you did seem a bit preoccupied.”

Her smile went away. “Yes. I suppose it showed.”

“Anyway, my name is Peter McGowan. And you’re right; I’m an American. But I grew up in Japan.”

“I also grew up in Japan. Sort of. We left Russia when I was a little child. Some years in Germany. My mother was German. Now Japan.”

“Do you live in Tokyo?”

“No. In Yokohama. My father is import-export man. He also has offices in Sendai and Sapporo.”

“Then you know Sendai?”

“No, I never went there.” She said it with an abrupt finality.

She seemed disinclined to say more about herself; the somber mood he’d