He recognizes the tune, “Stardust,” and finds himself speaking the words under his breath. The melody . . . haunts my reverie, and I am once again with you . . . The music buoys him up. It carries him forward and back. He floats in time, returning to the river, the silver Detroit River, a luminous streak that inspires him, even at this juncture, to dream. He stares at the gold dial. He tries to stop thinking. He concentrates, hoping for a steady calm, but the borders in his mind give way. Now, no matter the effort, none of it can be forgotten, not the Great War or the wars that followed, not the crossings or the tricks of navigation, and certainly not the lies, expedient though they were, or the grim betrayals, the costs, the necessities of doing business. Be smart, he thinks, hold fast to a line – but the song and the river run . . . HE TAKES up the planks and lowers the first case into the bilge. The air is thick with humidity. A cold sweat streams down his face. He wears leather gloves and lifts one case at a time.
