The Other Story

by Tatiana de Rosnay

  The Sagamor, by rolling onto its side, has a changed and disturbing topography. Walls have become floors. The hallways are now vertical shafts. Each surface is treacherously slippery, coated with a slick layer of water and oil. Chunks of broken glass hang like frosty icicles. They see clumps of elderly people clinging to railings in the cavernous orange-and-purple atrium, now horizontal. Some are being helped by the priest, who got there just before them. Other trembling white-haired septuagenarians are making their slow way to a higher deck.

  “Why is there no one here to help?” asks Nicolas.

  “I guess the younger, stronger people got off first,” replies Lily. “They left the old folks behind.”

  They inch gingerly across the long hallway on bare feet, skirting shards of glass and long spills of oil. They come to a restaurant, now a vast swimming pool. Hundreds of tables, gilded chairs, and white napkins float merrily by, along with thick swirls of lobster, chicken wings, smoked salmon, lettuce leaves, and bread rolls.

  The glaring lights overhead begin to wink and flicker with a buzzing sound.

  “Is anyone here?” yells Nicolas.

  “Remember Jack and Rose? Rose made it. Jack didn’t.”

  “Shush, did you hear that?”

  “What?”

  A faint wail.

  “Someone is here.”

  They strain their ears. They hear it again, distinctly. A final flicker and fizzle, and darkness falls. The general electrical system has failed. The only feeble light comes from luminous green squares over doors and emergency exits. It takes them ten minutes to find passengers trapped in a long hallway that has become a vertical, narrow well. The people have water up to their waists. The water is slowly rising with ominous gurgles. Nicolas peers down at terrified faces eerily lit up by the green signs. Not one of them is young. How many? Three, maybe four. They speak poor English.

  Nicolas rushes back to the restaurant, fishes tablecloths out of the water. He wrings them out as best as he can, then ties them feverishly together, like sheets. They lower the tablecloths. Lily and he, heaving, breathless, their palms burning, chafing, and bleeding against the damp cloth, frantically fighting the slippery surfaces, bruising and grazing their elbows and knees, haul up three shaking, wet passengers one after the other. Two women and a man. All in their seventies or eighties.

  Around them, the doomed Sagamor shudders and groans. Deafening cracks are heard.

  “We need to get off the ship. Now. We have to go,” Lily says.

  “Wait,” orders Nicolas. “There is still someone down there.”

  At the bottom of the shaft, a face is turned up to them. Nicolas sends the cloth back down. The person makes no effort to take it.

  “Please!” he yells. “Please let me help you! Take this; I will pull you up.”

  No response.

  “I’m taking them with me,” says Lily. “Come now!”

  “Do they know who this is? A friend of theirs?” asks Nicolas.

  They shake their heads. No idea. They don’t know who it is. Lily herds them along, protectively, leading them away.

  “Are you coming?”

  “I want to rescue this person!” he shouts back to her.

  Nicolas is alone. He lies flat on his stomach, the twisted sheet in his bloodied hands. He hears the regular trickling of water surging, rising higher by the minute. If he goes down there, he will not be able to make his way back up.

  “Can you hear me?” he says, his voice clear, ringing out in the hallway.

  The face is upturned to him once more, and in the greenish light he sees it is a woman—an elderly woman with white hair. Her eyes are large and soft. He makes out the shimmer of earrings and a necklace. She has water up to her shoulders now and her face seems to float up to him, carried by the inky water.

  “Please let me help you. Just catch this with both your hands, and I will pull you up. I will bring you up and take you off the boat.”

  Still no answer. Just the sweet, weary old face gazing up at him. He feels a strange sort of terror pluck at him. What if he cannot save her? What if she won’t let him? He takes a deep breath. He must calm down. He must think carefully.

  “You must be very tired, but after I pull you up, I will carry you; you won’t have to walk.”

  Will he be able to carry her down the rope ladder, over his shoulder? He’ll bother with those details later. The important thing is to get her out of the shaft.

  “Do you speak English or French?”

  The old lady shakes her head.

  “What is your name?”

  Silence. She will not answer him. The ship groans and cracks. Nicolas hears a scream from far away. Someone crying. He feels the fear grip him again. He must get off the boat. But he cannot leave the old lady behind. He cannot walk away and leave her there in that black well.

  He jabs a finger to his chest. “Nicolas,” he says. “Nicolas.” He points down at her. “And you?”

  “Natacha.”

  The accent is unmistakable. His heart leaps.

  “You are Russian?”

  “Da.” She nods.

  “Puzhalsta!” he shouts. “Please! Natacha, let me pull you up. Let me!”

  He desperately wishes he had learned Russian, his grandmother’s language, the language his father never knew. How he wishes he could speak it now, to coax Natacha up, to win her trust. He is sure that if he were able to say a few sentences to her in Russian, she would listen to him, let him save her.

  Natacha. His great-grandmother’s name. In his mind, he sees the photograph on the grave at Volkovo, the scarf knotted around her face, the gentle smile.

  He wants to pronounce her name in the most Russian way possible, as if it were written in Cyrillic, Наташа, as if the Russian blood running in his veins could somehow, miraculously, reach out and reason with this old woman.

  “Natacha,” he cries earnestly. “Natacha!”

  She shakes her head.

  “Niet, Nikolaï.”

  She utters his name the Russian way, the enchanting way Lisaveta Sapounova used to.

  The black water has reached her chin. She is not afraid. She smiles up at him bravely. He cannot bear watching her.

  He knows he will remember that face, that smile, for the rest of his life.

  He scrambles up, crying for help, screaming at the top of his lungs, tripping and stumbling along the slippery deck. If he finds someone, they can drag Natacha out. If he finds someone, she will be safe. But there is no one in sight. He shouts, his voice hoarse, his throat painful. The only noise he hears is the gushing of water making its inexorable progress. He remembers the BlackBerry in his pocket; he thinks maybe he can call for help. But the phone did not survive the swim. He hurls it furiously away.

  Out on the deck, the moon, indifferent to the chaos, casts a silvery light over the disaster. Nicolas sees how much the ship has rolled, lying fully on its starboard side. Helicopters circle overhead, aiming spotlights at the Sagamor. He feels there is hope. If he can attract attention, if he can show those who have come to save them where Natacha is, then perhaps she can still be rescued. He stays on board, precariously perched on the railings, waving to the helicopters, tears streaming down his cheeks as the huge carcass continues to shake and crack beneath him. He can hear the yells of passengers below in the water, but he has only Natacha on his mind, saving Natacha, making sure Natacha is safe. How long he waits, he does not know. When the men with wet suits at last set foot on the ship, he leads them back to the restaurant, now filled with water, and he realizes with horror that the shaft is unreachable, completely flooded, and that there is no hope left at all.

  AT DAWN, THE FIRST rosy rays of the sun reveal an unearthly vision, so startling, so shocking, so hypnotizing, Nicolas cannot take his eyes off it.

  A gigantic white mass, sunk against the reef, half of it rising from the water, a beached monster revealing its vulnerable, wounded belly.

  SAGAMOR.

  The oversized bl
ack letters. SAGA, story. AMOR, love in Italian. MOR, mort, death in French. A story of love and death. Those words, too, fascinate him.

  Nicolas stands on the cement slab. His face is bruised, his arms and legs ache, and there is a gash on his chin. His white shirt is torn, his jeans are in shreds, and his hands and feet are bloody.

  Around him, a medical team bustles, handing hot drinks to survivors. How many? Hundreds and hundreds of them. They roam over the Gallo Nero, wrapped in blankets; they sit on the terrace, in the restaurant, on the lawn. They seem drained. Their eyes, like his, turn again and again to the capsized ship.

  Helicopters come and go. Motorboats roar in and out by the pier. The place is swarming with people. Police officers are posted at every corner. Nicolas recognizes guests from the hotel. Some do their best to help and rush around; others are already taking off, venting about the heavy traffic jam blocking access to the main roads. Others, wearing bathrobes, placidly watch the scene from their windows. More still take photographs with their phones. Waiters try to do their jobs, serving guests, also offering to help. Dr. Gheza is nowhere to be seen. Nearby villagers have come, bringing food, beverages, clothes. The press has arrived. Numerous vans with satellite dishes pop up here and there; reporters lurk, cameras in hand.

  “Aren’t you Nicolas Kolt?” jabbers an excited woman with a press accreditation around her neck, thrusting a microphone at him.

  “Who?” he asks.

  “The writer.”

  He shakes his head. “Nope.”

  She turns away, disappointed.

  Sorry, he feels like saying, Nicolas Kolt is indeed here, but he doesn’t feel like talking. What could he tell you anyway? That there is an after and a before? That a page has been turned overnight? That Nicolas Kolt has never felt so far away, so alienated, so distanced from himself? That his previous life bears an uncanny resemblance to the dreadful wreck of the Sagamor?

  “Are you okay?” asks one of the doctors.

  The man’s features are drawn. He must have worked all night long.

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  “That cut on your chin. Let me see.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  The doctor ignores him and dabs a liquid on his chin with cotton. It smarts.

  “You were one of the last people off the ship, weren’t you?” asks the doctor.

  Nicolas nods.

  “Not like the captain. He was the first to leave, I’m told.” The doctor’s voice is dry. “He’ll be the shame of our country for years. Twenty people died last night and at least fifty passengers are still missing. He wanted to show off in front of the Gallo Nero, to bring the boat in as close as possible.”

  Another agitated reporter appears, flourishing a camera.

  “Nicolas Kolt! Were you on board? Can you tell us what happened?”

  Should he tell the reporter that he went up on that sinking ship and desperately tried to save an old lady, and failed? That the old lady’s face will haunt him till the day he dies?

  “No, I’m not Nicolas Kolt.” He waves the man away.

  “It’s true, you do look like that writer,” remarks the doctor. “My wife and girls loved that book. They loved the movie, too.”

  Nicolas does not reply. The cut on his chin stings.

  Glancing up at the terrace, he sees a group of journalists setting up an interview with lights and a camera. He recognizes Lily, still wearing her crumpled silk and gauze dress. She speaks into a microphone, miming the climbing of a ladder with her hands. The reporters listen, enthralled.

  Nicolas imagines the headlines. SAGAMOR DISASTER HEROINE: BRAVE HEIRESS SAVES THE LIVES OF THREE PEOPLE THE NIGHT OF HER SISTER’S WEDDING PARTY.

  He looks back at the Sagamor. It is impossible not to look at it. Divers can be seen circling in motorboats, commencing the grisly chore of bringing bodies back. All those goods trapped within the great ship. He makes a mental list. Luggage, clothes, money, computers, cameras, books, letters, jewelry, souvenirs, everything that will be lost forever. The vast amount of food rotting away underwater, the enormous quantities of fuel, of oil, the pollution slowly seeping into the beautiful seabed.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” the doctor asks again, peering at him. “Perhaps I should have a proper look at you.”

  Nicolas is led to a nearby tent, told to lie down on a stretcher. His blood pressure is taken; a light is shone down his throat, into his ears. Expert hands palpate his stomach, his chest. His bleeding hands and feet are bandaged.

  Nicolas feels almost comfortable lying there, save for the wretchedness tearing at his heart. He can still glimpse the wreck in all its horror through the tent’s open flap. There may be passengers alive in there, somehow, somewhere, stuck in air pockets, like survivors miraculously plucked from rubble days after earthquakes. He thinks of those waiting: those who have not yet heard from their loved ones, those who have not even heard the news, seen the unbelievable images on television, those who do not yet know that death will come knocking at their door, today, with a phone call.

  Exhausted, Nicolas dozes off. When he opens his eyes, the sun is high in the sky. It is past noon. Outside the tent, the same activity ensues. Haggard passengers are parked here and there. Some eat sandwiches. Others cry. Others lie under parasols, huddled up in sleep.

  Nicolas walks carefully on his bandaged feet to his room. It is perfectly tidy. His clothes have been unpacked. His toiletries arranged in the bathroom. The Hamilton Khaki watch is on the bedside table. White roses and a bowl of fresh grapes sit near the sofa. It is as if nothing had happened. But when he glances through the window, he sees the bloodcurdling mass of the ship. Crowds of people are still taking photographs. Policemen firmly order them away. He watches. The telephone rings. It’s reception. He has messages. Several people have tried to reach him: Emma Duhamel, Malvina Voss, Alice Dor. He should call them. They are all anxious, because his mobile is not taking messages and they have seen the alarming images on the television. Instead of making phone calls, he takes his notebook and his father’s Montblanc pen. The first and only word he writes in it is the name Natacha.

  Nicolas goes back down to the terrace, the Moleskine in his pocket. He finds he cannot turn away from the Sagamor. He is drawn to it, chillingly. The sight of it wounds his eyes, but he must look at it again and again.

  A tap on his shoulder. It is Lily, wearing jeans and a T-shirt. Her face, devoid of makeup, is surprisingly pretty.

  “There you are! Mr. Hero!” She hugs him, pressing her bony body to his. “I was so worried about you! I thought you were stuck on the boat! Did you save that last person?”

  “No,” he chokes.

  Lily’s hands fly to her mouth. “Why?”

  His chest feels tight.

  “She wouldn’t come.”

  The unbearable vision of Natacha waiting for her death down in the rising water makes him shudder from head to toe.

  “Shit, that’s so sad,” mutters Lily. She wraps her arms around him again. “I should have stayed with you. We could have pulled her out, the two of us.”

  He manages to say, “She was Russian. Her name was Natacha. She just wouldn’t be saved.”

  “But why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’re crying,” murmurs Lily. “Are you all right?”

  The sadness is spurting from a closed and forgotten place, from an emotion he fought so hard to protect himself from. Over Lily’s head, Nicolas looks out to the wreck. Natacha. Наташа. Her weary face turned up to his in the greenish light, the dignified beauty of it, the bravery of her last smile. What was Natacha’s story? Was this her first time in Italy? Who was she with? Surely she hadn’t been on this cruise alone. Why had they left her behind? Had she decided to let the water circle around her and pull her in because she was too tired to move? Or was there something else? A deeper, darker reason? Some other secret explanation that gave her no more incentive to live? Some final understanding that numbed her, forcing her to
stay there, trapped, as death slowly inched its wet way up her old body? Natacha’s final choice triggered questions deep within him, those very questions he had not wanted to look at for so long, and that Margaux Dansor had faced for him through her own destiny, not his.

  “You’re going to write about all this, aren’t you?” Lily murmurs.

  “Yes,” he replies. “I am.”

  “What are you going to start with?”

  He holds Lily tightly. Her embrace is a comforting, friendly one.

  “Before I begin, the first thing I need to do is call Alice to tell her she has a book on the way. To tell her she has not lost me, that I’m still her author and that Dagmar Hunoldt talked mumbo jumbo about astrology and Epicure.”

  “Dagmar, you mean the Dagmar Hunoldt?” whispers Lily.

  “I’m not even sure it was her. It doesn’t matter.”

  Lily takes a step back and stares up at him. Again, he is touched by her natural beauty, the simple lines of her face.

  “You’ve changed, Mr. Hero.”

  “You’ve changed, too. That stoned girl at the bar is miles away.”

  She hugs him again.

  “What about your ex-girlfriend? The one you wouldn’t talk about? Is she still in the picture?”

  “No,” Nicolas says unhesitatingly, watching small dinghies circle the wreck and divers shouting to one another in Italian. “She doesn’t know it yet, but she will soon.”

  He does not mention the unborn baby. He knows his mind is made up. There will be no wedding. No future with Malvina, even if there is a child. The strength of that inner conviction sweeps through him with an unexpected force. He does not bring up Delphine, although he also knows he will want to talk to her as soon as he returns to Paris, and that he will do everything in his power to see her.

  “Are you going to put me in your book?” Lily pleads. “You promised!”

  “How could I not?”

  “Will it take place at the Gallo Nero? What will it be called? Will we all be in it? Will it begin with the ship sinking, or end with it?”