“No. But I drink—a lot. Go on. Tell me.”
“You should put me in your book because I’m desperate. I live alone, in a magnificent apartment in Rome on the Piazza Navona. I have so much money, I don’t know what to do with it. I haven’t had a real boyfriend for years, but I’ve slept with over a hundred men since I was fourteen. I have a degree in law no one cares about. I’m much smarter than my sister, but, alas, I don’t have her looks, so no one notices. Desperate characters are always more interesting, aren’t they? You know that; you’re a writer. Look at Anna Karenina. Or Madame Bovary. Although I wouldn’t go so far as killing myself. Afraid of the mess. Tonight, for instance, because I’m so desperate, I could do something foolish and ridiculous, just to ruin my sister’s party. If you look over there, you will see the way my parents are watching me. See, that spindly man with the glasses, in black tie, and that pinched-faced woman in green, drenched in diamonds. My parents. Look at them. They are so worried that something might go wrong tonight in their perfect world. And over there, look, my new brother-in-law’s parents. Like royalty, my dear. That posh lady in blue, wearing her ridiculous tiara, and that bloated man with the white mustache. All these people here tonight are the crème de la crème of Rome—bankers, trophy wives, heirs, designers, politicians, masters of the universe who fly in private jets and who get their monogrammed sheets changed every day.”
“Just how would you ruin the party, Lily?”
“I’m drunk enough already as it is, but I have a couple of ideas. I could strip and jump naked into the pool. I could set some woman’s haute couture dress on fire. I could smash up the buffet. I could call the Gallo Nero from my cell phone and tell them a bomb is going to go off.”
A loud explosion startles them, coming from the sea, from the motionless Sagamor. Fireworks, popping upward like long-stemmed white flowers.
“Looks like people on board know the famous newlyweds are here tonight,” says Giancarlo drily. “That boat has been there for over an hour. Maybe they’re hoping to join the party.”
The guests clap and cheer again. More fireworks go off loudly, shimmering into the black sky.
A woman’s gushing voice is heard: “What a lovely idea! How sweet of them!” Nicolas notices Dr. Gheza’s looking out to sea with a perplexed expression. A couple of smaller boats can be made out in the dusk, speeding toward the Sagamor. Dr. Gheza walks quickly to the bar and asks Giancarlo for the telephone. He speaks staccatolike in rapid Italian that Nicolas does not catch. His hand slices the air, moving up and down. His mouth is tight and thin. Then he hangs up and storms away. Lily translates.
“The old snob wants to know what those cazzos on board think they are doing. How the hell do they know about the wedding party? No one from the Sagamor is allowed to land at the Gallo Nero tonight. ‘Get some men out there right now to stop boats coming in.’ That’s what he said.”
Disco music is now being played. The silver crooner has gone. The golden honeymooners move with the smooth, sure steps of nightclubbers. “Dancing Queen,” by Abba. Other couples join in; they twirl and strut, smiling and laughing.
“How I hate watching my parents dance,” groans Lily. “It’s almost as bad as imagining them having sex, which I’m sure they haven’t for the past century.”
“I think I must put you in my novel,” says Nicolas. “You’re just too funny.”
“I knew I could corrupt you.” She grins back. “Do you think writers are vampires? I mean do you use us? All the people you meet in your everyday life. Do you suck inspiring stuff out of us?”
“Yes, we do,” he says grudgingly. “In a way. Only it’s not that simple.”
“I’d love to be a famous writer. I would write scandalous novels about my ex-boyfriends and get excommunicated by the Pope. I would have adoring fans lining the Piazza Navona just for a glimpse of me having a joint on my terrace. My parents would never speak to me again. It would be divine. Are you working on a new book? Or do you hate that question?”
“I hate that question.” He laughs. “But I’ll answer it. I’m supposed to be working on a new book.”
“And you’re not?”
“My publisher thought I had nearly finished it, when I hadn’t even started it. Now, because of some stupid Facebook pictures, she thinks I’ve sold it to someone else. She’s furious and hurt.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“Write the book. Send it to her when it’s finished.”
“And what is the new book about? Or are you not telling?”
Nicolas smiles down at her. “You’ll see.”
They gaze out to the immobile Sagamor.
“That ginormous thing looks like a floating parking lot,” drawls Lily. “It’s ruining my view. Who would ever pay to spend time on such an ugly boat?”
“The cruises are popular with older people,” says Giancarlo. “The seniors.”
“I would rather die,” groans Lily.
“My sister went,” Giancarlo continues. “It is luxurious, signorina. The Sagamor, for instance, has four swimming pools, a theater, a movie center, a spa, six restaurants, a dozen bars, a discotheque. My sister loved it.”
“A nightmare!” murmurs Lily. “Put me on one of those and I’ll hang myself subito presto.”
Nicolas and Giancarlo cannot help laughing.
“At last! Look,” Lily says, “it’s turning. It’s going away.”
The angle of the brilliantly lit-up boat has changed and it seems to be heading in another direction.
“Wonder what took them so long,” says Giancarlo. “A mechanical problem?”
The wedding party is dancing to “YMCA,” by the Village People. The music is turned up louder. Everyone has blissful smiles. Dr. Gheza and Lily’s mother are indulging in a sort of disco minuet.
“Ciao, Sagamor,” chants Lily in tune with the song. “Ciao, Sagamor!”
“No, no, its not moving away,” says Giancarlo, frowning. He screws his eyes up to see better. “This is … O Dio. O Dio!”
“What?” says Lily impatiently. “What do you mean?”
Giancarlo drops the lemon in his hands. He rushes to the part of the terrace that is closest to the seafront, leaving the party behind. He is followed by Lily, staggering on her high heels, and Nicolas.
The Sagamor can be seen clearly from where they now stand. It has not turned away. It is listing sharply to the right, against the reef. Flashing orange lights shine out from it like beacons, revealing panic-stricken movements of tiny figures scrambling along the decks. Several boats bob up and down on the water below, looking puny in comparison with the enormous slanting structure.
“Madonna santa!” says Giancarlo incredulously.
“Ma che cazzo!” screeches Lily, grasping Nicolas’s arm.
The disco music is deafeningly loud, but the three of them can make out the blast of alarms and sirens coming from the boat, howling in the night.
“How did this happen?” asks Nicolas, hypnotized by the sight of the huge ship tilting to one side, an oversized, monstrous Humpty Dumpty.
“It came in too close,” says Giancarlo. “The hull is damaged. The water is not deep enough inland for such a big vessel.”
“What about those fireworks?” asks Lily. “Do you think they were for Cordelia and Giorgio?”
“I’m not sure if anyone on board knew the party was being held here, signorina. Dr. Gheza asked that it be kept secret.”
“So you’re saying that those fireworks were distress rockets?”
“Yes.” Giancarlo nods. “Only we didn’t realize there had been an accident. Everyone took too long to react. We were busy with the party.”
“How many people do you think are on board?” asks Nicolas.
“Around four thousand,” says Giancarlo.
“Why aren’t they getting passengers off? What are they waiting for?”
A group of men appear on the lower terrace, just below them. They are armed, wearing blue-and-red uniforms.
>
“Oh! The police!” cries Lily with relish, clapping her hands. “Mamma mia! Looks like my prayers have been answered after all. Cordie’s party is going to be so ruined.”
DONNA SUMMER AND “LOVE to Love You Baby” resonate across the Gallo Nero. Cordelia and Giorgio, unfazed by the presence of their parents, eagerly show their entourage how unabashed their sex life is as they mime copulation to perfection, encouraged by clapping, whistling, and cheering.
With voyeuristic satisfaction, Nicolas watches the police savagely interrupt the dance and order the music to be stopped. Donna Summer lets out a final strangled whimper. The dancers stand in their finery, heaving and short of breath. Dr. Gheza’s face is again as black as a thundercloud. Nicolas doesn’t need Lily to translate. “What on earth do the carabinieri think they’re doing?” he howls, pursing thumbs and fingers together in that most Italian gesture. “This is a private party, a wedding party, with very important guests. How dare they barge in this way?” The police wordlessly point to the sinking ship, visible from the other side of the terrace. The entire party rushes to where Nicolas, Giancarlo, and Lily are standing. Dozens of telephones are held up as pictures are taken. Everyone wants a photograph of the sinking Sagamor.
Dr. Gheza and a man in black, the one Nicolas remembers seeing on his first day here, seem to be arguing with the police. Dr. Gheza keeps repeating “No, no, no,” staunchly shaking his head. Nicolas asks Lily what the fight is about.
“The police want to open the hotel to the people being rescued. Gheza is refusing, saying they are exaggerating, that the boat is only five hundred yards away and people can swim. It’s a warm night, he says; the sea is not cold.”
“What a loathsome bastard!”
“Didn’t I tell you?” asks Lily self-contentedly.
The Sagamor is now completely slanted, tipping toward them, its starboard side almost covered in water. They can see inside the void of its single smoke stack. The sirens have stopped blowing and an eerie silence has fallen. How many people are still on board, wonders Nicolas. Have they been rescued from the port side? Where are they being taken to?
The argument goes on. Do the police have any idea of the importance of the guests here tonight? Gheza goes on, stamping his foot. Lily translates for Nicolas, whispering in his ear as the director continues, seething. Can they please acknowledge the prestige of his hotel, the luxury of it. The police only have to look. The wealthiest family in the country, a best-selling author, a well-known actor, a famed politician, respected businessmen—the Gallo Nero is the sanctuary of the rich and famous. He must protect them all. This haven cannot possibly be opened to strangers, and on top of it all, the flower beds and lawns will be ruined by helicopters landing. Have they lost their minds, or what? The Sagamor is not going to sink; it is lying on a reef. People are near enough to be rescued by boat and taken somewhere else, end of story.
Waiters continue to offer champagne to the guests, who chatter and point to the boat with awed whispers and excited giggles. Cordelia and her new husband pose for a photo, with the Sagamor in the background.
“Mamma is worried her jewels might be stolen if they open the hotel to the survivors, and Papa is convinced the paparazzi will gate-crash the party,” says Lily. “Oh, and now the police are saying they’ve heard enough. The Gallo Nero is being opened to the Sagamor survivors. Look at my parents! Look at Cordelia!” She crows in delight.
It is like watching actors on a stage. A play a modern Oscar Wilde could have written. Dr. Gheza worried about helicopters ruining his flower beds, the bride’s mother, fearing for her diamonds, while out there, maybe people are drowning, maybe already dead. Nicolas could sit back and merely watch. He could choose safe passivity. He could tape it all in that secret part of his mind and use it later for the book. He will use it, he knows. But not by choosing passivity. Not by standing here and looking on.
He takes Davide’s card from his pocket and dials the number. Davide answers on the first ring.
“Hey, Davide! Remember me? Nicolas Kolt? You took me to the Villa Stella last night.”
Of course Davide remembers. What can he do for Signor Kolt? Meet him at the pier, now? Certo!
“Where are you going?” hisses Lily as Nicolas turns to leave.
“Going out there.”
She sneers. “Oh, I see. Playing Mr. Hero?”
He looks down at her with pity. “Why don’t you come with me?”
“Me?” she says.
“Yes, you, the desperate alcoholic spinster.”
“I’m not wearing the right shoes,” she mutters, looking away.
“Good-bye, Lily.”
He runs down the stone steps as fast as he can. Davide is standing by the boat, waiting. A group of people are huddled together, staring out to the agonizing Sagamor. He recognizes the Swiss couple among them.
“Can you take me to the ship, Davide?” he asks.
“Dr. Gheza says no.” Davide falters. “He ordered us to stay here and to let no boat come in.”
“I don’t care about Dr. Gheza. He’s busy arguing with the police right now. He’s going to have to open the hotel to survivors; he has no choice. We need to go see if we can help in any way.”
“Can we come?” ask the Swiss couple in unison. They are good swimmers, thinks Nicolas.
“Of course!” he replies.
A woman’s piercing cry is heard.
“Wait! Wait for me!”
It is Lily, shoeless, waving as she rushes down the pier.
Davide helps her on board.
“This is the most exciting thing that’s happened to me in years,” Lily says rapturously. “And I’m not even high!”
As they approach the gigantic mass, a bitter smell comes wafting toward them, caught on the summer breeze—the stench of burned rubber and leaking fuel. The Riva bypasses the impressive bulk of the Sagamor, heading out to its port side. An apocalyptic scene greets them. Lily wails. Even the Swiss couple express shock. Davide is forced to stop the engine as panic-stricken people dot the water, screaming in anguish as they flounder. Little boats jam-packed with passengers bob crazily up and down by the huge white hull, where a long gash can be seen, like a gaping, bloodless wound. Patrol boats direct powerful spotlights up at the stranded ship, and they see that lifeboats can no longer be dropped down along the Sagamor’s flanks because it has listed too sharply. They hang there, crooked and useless. Up on the decks, highlighted by roving spotlights, more passengers wave and shout. The monstrous ship lets out creaks and groans, as if it’s a living creature thrashing in pain, about to draw its last breath.
The Swiss couple stand up. She takes off her pumps, smoothing down her long black dress. He removes his dinner jacket and shoes. With the same harmony that Nicolas admired every day during their morning swim, they dive headfirst into black water littered with debris. They swim away, and rescue an elderly woman, cradling her head in their arms as they steadily bring her back. Nicolas and Davide haul her on board. She looks frail, like a wet bird. The old lady cries, wordlessly, clinging to them, her back racked with sobs. She finally manages to say in French that she cannot find her husband. Where is he? They jumped together; he said he was right behind her, but she cannot find him. Please, can they help her find him? Nicolas asks her what happened. Lily takes the Swiss man’s jacket and wraps it around the old lady. “We were in the middle of the gala dinner. There was a bang, deep down in the ship. The plates and glasses fell off the table. No one said what happened. We had no idea what to do. For an hour, we stayed there, in the dining room, and then they said to go back to our cabins and wait. The ship was tipping sideways, more and more, and then it rolled over, falling over to its side, and my husband said to get my life jacket quickly, that we must jump. We were not far from land; he could see lights. In the terrible panic, we jumped. Please find him! Please find my husband!” Lily tries to comfort her as the Swiss couple go back into the water.
Ahead, Nicolas notices a rope ladder dangling from
the Sagamor’s lower deck. A man wearing a long black robe is clambering up it. Another man is watching him from a small boat, steadying the ladder with both his hands.
Nicolas kicks off his shoes.
“What are you doing?” pants Lily.
“Going up there.”
“Are you crazy?”
Without listening to her, he jumps into the water. It is not that easy to swim in his clothes. The sea is greasy, dirty, speckled with floating rubbish. He swims slowly to the other boat. The man on board roughly asks him what he wants in Italian. Nicolas points to the rope ladder. High up above, the man in the black robe has nearly reached the deck. The other man laughs, shaking his head. “Pazzo! The boat is going to roll over even more and sink! That man going up, he’s a priest. He’s doing his job, saving souls. You should save your own!”
Before Nicolas can answer, a feminine voice behind him bursts out in vehement, crude Italian. The man shrugs, sighs, and seems to comply, holding out his hand to help Nicolas on board.
From the boat, Nicolas turns, to see Lily in the water.
“Shit,” she says. “I forgot I had my contact lenses in. I just lost both of them in the sea.”
“So you can’t see a thing?” asks Nicolas.
“Oh, sure I can. They just make my eyes look like Elizabeth Taylor’s. You know, violet?” She turns her attention to the man on the boat. “Hey, stronzo!”
Shrugging again, the man pulls her into the boat, then grabs the rope ladder.
“I don’t know why I’m doing this,” mutters Lily, seizing the ladder. She looks down at the sopping, ruined silk of her dress. “That was Prada, you know.”
It is a taxing climb. Better not glance behind, thinks Nicolas as he grasps each rope rung with a wet hand. He sees Lily’s bony feet above his head, her emaciated rump. Why is she here? he wonders. Redemption? Guilt? And what about him? He nearly laughs. Yes, what the hell is he doing? No time to think. Move on. Come on. One hand after the other. Slowly. Surely.
When they get to the deck, a disturbing silence greets them. From time to time, a muffled scream or shout is heard coming from far away. The acrid stink of burning rubber is stronger here. There is another smell: the reek of fear, of anguish, of death.
The Other Story Page 27