“No doubt she would agree with me,” Charles replied non-nonplussed. “She receives poor enough treatment in England, but I get the shaft in Turkey. No one there trusts anyone, whether English or Turkish or Arabic. I honestly don’t know what they want.”
Charles leaned back and smiled sardonically. “But at least they aren’t French.”
“I must say, Charles,” I said, changing the subject, “Even though I have lived in Transylvania, you are the first undead I have actually conversed with. Certainly you are the first with a penchant for hip hop lyrics.”
“I’m on Turkish time,” he replied. “I may look like a zombie and certainly feel the part, but couldn’t sleep if I tried.”
“I was referring more to your image. I think Anne Rice would adopt you.”
His thin goatee curved into a smirk. “Auctioneers need to have presence. It helps to command a room full of vacationing, champagne-guzzling passengers. I’m not a forceful type, so I use my image to capture attention. Besides, I like getting second glances.”
Not long after, Denny and Jesse joined us after their performance for a final round or three of Red Stripes. It was customary for departing crew to get almost no sleep, so Shawn pushed ever onward. A queue of Steiners paraded by over the hours to say their goodbyes, and Shawn dutifully wrote down email addresses on a napkin. By 3 a.m.’s arrival, the subdued festivities came to a close.
“Here you go,” Shawn said as he handed me the napkin scrawled over with emails and phone numbers. Also included was a hundred dollar bill.
“You presume much,” I said.
“On the back is my address in Calgary,” he explained. “I need you to send my Marc Chagall and the two big art books there for me. I didn’t have time.”
“Don’t worry about it. Just go forth and prosper.”
He rose tiredly and gave me his last puppy-dog turn of the head. “And if you want to keep those emails, be my guest.”
I staggered back tiredly to my little cabin, while Charles climbed a deck higher to where his guest cabin awaited. Because there were no vacancies among the crew cabins, Shawn strode off to the infirmary to catch a nap on an examination table before his 6 a.m. departure.
3
As a rule, auctioneers are fiercely independent and unique in character. It was too early to tell if Charles and Tatli were the former, but they had the latter in spades. The morning after the crazy auction-from-memory, I joined the new auctioneering couple for breakfast. We sat at a quiet table away from the other guests on deck eleven at the Windjammer Café.
If Charles resembled the walking dead, Tatli was the embodiment of healthy life. She was pleasantly rounded with flowing sandy hair. Her skin was a radiant, natural bronze that practically glowed from within. Not a blemish was visible upon that skin, not one mole, pimple, or freckle. Such purity is so rare that I was continuously struck by it. Her round face had rounder cheeks and boasted pretty, dark eyes. She was the Raphael angel to his El Greco ghost.
Somehow I sensed that Tatli was a reserved person, yet this morning all evidence was to the contrary. She had not eaten at all during their lengthy travels and had slept through both dinner and the night. The abused remains of numerous melons lay discarded about her, and she eagerly sliced and devoured still more. Charles looked on with obvious distaste, but only after several fish were destroyed and she focused on a pile of greasy bacon did he finally speak.
“Tatli, please,” Charles said as he nibbled on his toast and marmalade. “Slow down.”
“Apparently you’ve never been to an American barbecue,” I quipped.
“No, but I’ve seen the effects,” he said sarcastically. “Anyway, it seems we’ve got our work cut out for us on this Widow Maker, as they call it. Even so, I will not work day and night seven days a week like Shawn did. I saw that we are in Nassau from sunup ‘til after sunset every other cruise. I intend to take that day off, or at least work only evening. We have enough time for that.”
He eyed his wife snarfing down greasy bacon and amended, “Unless my wife dies of indigestion. In that case, I guess it will become the Widower.”
“I am a fool for bacon myself,” I said. “But, Tatli, as a Turk are you not Muslim?”
Tatli paused only long enough to give me a quick smile, bacon-filled cheeks like a squirrel storing for winter. She nodded and Charles answered more fully on her behalf.
“She is a modern Muslim. She drinks, too, but not as much as I’d like. Tatli may be very quiet but she is a solid thinker. She does all the math for us and makes all the negotiations. In fact, she does everything that matters. I’m lazy and just stand out and talk a lot. And look good, of course. But she gets things done. I would be lost without her. Which is why I am going to take away the remaining bacon.”
Giving action to his words, he reached over and removed the last four pieces of bacon from her plate. He dropped them with a greasy thump onto his own and pushed it away. Tatli, mouth too full to stick her tongue out, taunted him with a mocking wrinkle of her face.
After graciously assisting their little quarrel by devouring the debated bacon myself, I began to compare their apparent relationship with mine and Bianca’s. I did not focus on the constant, good-natured ribbing, but on other parallels. Already Charles had admitted his own inferiority in business details. I fear I was very much the same, and certainly gave great credence to Bianca’s brains and ability to conduct business. Both our ladies also boasted a shared strength over us poor Western men; they came from bartering cultures and could negotiate circles around us. Charles and I, English and American respectively, were at a severe disadvantage while at sea. Luckily for us, our positions gave us a great equalizer common to members of our societies: money.
Thus, by the end of the bacon, I had already made up my mind about Charles and Tatli. Hasty decisions were the norm at sea, after all. They wore their relationship on their sleeves for all to see. So I saw, and I liked what I saw. They were a product of their respective cultures yet found a way to mix the two. He necessarily acted in charge but was in fact not. I sensed this suited them both. I also sensed this was the nature of most relationships anywhere, just not as overt.
Unfortunately, I was not alone in my quick measure of the new auctioneers. Hot Man voiced his assessment from the first, and his body language needed no megaphone.
“Obviously you don’t know anything about ships,” he said crisply from behind his desk when we met him after breakfast. He ignored Charles’ outstretched hand, but at least gave him the courtesy of standing up to berate him. “That ponytail is completely inappropriate and will be cut off immediately.”
Charles retracted his hand. Indignant, he responded in an equally terse manner.
“Hello,” he said tartly. “My name is Charles and it’s a pleasure to meet you. And I have been on nearly one dozen ships, including two from Royal Caribbean. Not once has there ever been a problem with my hairstyle.”
“We have rules for crew,” the hotel manager said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Rules that apply to all crew. Do you think you are above the rules on your very first day? Nearly missing embarkation, I might add.”
“I was early, in point of fact. Port security supersedes ship security,” Charles retorted, crossing his arms behind his back and standing stiffly defiant. “Regardless, such rules as you quote apply to crew, not concessionaires.”
“The rules apply to whomever they apply to,” Hot Man answered in a huff. “In this case, they apply to you. If you are not an entertainer, you are bound by the same hygiene rules as the crew.”
“I am in a guest cabin for a reason,” Charles answered smoothly. “Auctioneers have a wide variety of latitudes over other concessionaires. It is in our contract with the cruise lines.”
“My ship means my rules,” Hot Man said forcefully. “You have until the end of next cruise to comply or you will be ejected. After that point, you are free to take up this issue with the corporate office.”
With those f
inal words, the hotel manager sat back down and pointedly ignored us in favor of his paperwork. Several files covered the name placard on the front of his desk, and it occurred to me that I did not even know this man’s name. He had refused introductions from Shawn and me as well. He was only referred to by others as Hot Man. We departed primarily in silence, barring Charles’ gnashing of teeth and low growl.
Because the previous day had been so crazy, Charles had not seen the locations about the ship where art was displayed. I suggested a quick ship tour so he could walk and cool down. During the entire walk from Hot Man’s office on deck four up to the Champagne Bar on deck seven Charles fumed. Fortunately, the lounge was closed at this hour so no one observed his rage when he finally cut loose.
“I’ve had this ponytail for ten years! I have been on dozens of ships, and never has any German asshole had a problem. I hate this ship already.”
“He’s Dutch,” I corrected.
“He’s an asshole.”
“That is our only original Tomasz Rut painting,” I said, trying to change the subject. I indicated a large, lusty painting of a nude male struggling to tame a rearing stallion. Both figures rose from the dust and blackness, magnificently powerful with skin glistening and muscles pulsing with heat.
Charles stared at the painting for long, slow moments, gaunt figure swept continuously by his ponytail thrashing like the mane of the agitated horse. Finally he said, “Can you believe the nerve of that man? I am so insulted I can’t even begin to speak of it. What kind of a greeting is that, anyway?”
“I don’t deny the asshole behavior, Charles. But you’ll want to keep your voice down about such things in here,” I warned. “This is where the officers congregate.”
Charles sunk into one of the deep chairs of the quiet lounge, all sharp knees and elbows at acute angles. He pursed his lips in thought for a moment and settled down. Finally he asked, “Artwork displayed only here, in this one lounge?”
“Correct.”
“Not even a full line of easels in the Centrum area where we conduct all the auctions?”
“Four easels only, two on each side. Actually, half the auctions are in the Paint Your Wagon Lounge, when we aren’t kicked out for karaoke.”
“Lovely. No real display of art that we can show the guests. Here we have three paintings, in the lounge that no doubt gets the least guest traffic. No desk upon which to even display a catalogue. No time off from port of call.”
“Hence the Widow Maker,” I said.
“Hence the Widow Maker,” he repeated quietly.
“This lounge gets few enough guests,” I offered. “But they are invariably loaded. That’s why our best works are here. Sell one of these bad boys and we clear G2. I used to work this lounge in the evenings.”
“Doing what? Surely not conducting an auction?”
“Networking. I am a natural schmoozer.”
“Yeah, you look like an ass-kisser. How’s that working for you?”
“Not as well as I’d like,” I admitted. “I just came from auctioneer screening a week ago and have only been an unpaid trainee. But I generate a little interest and get qualified bodies to the auctions. It’s breaking my bank, but it’s beneficial.”
“So you have to pay for that, too? Let me guess: full guest price on drinks. The handover report indicated the costs on this ship are extremely high. I pay nearly double for champagne here. Shawn said he paid $80 a month for online access to guest credit, though every other department gets it free. And I have to pay the printer to make our flyers for the guest cabins and I have to pay for the room stewards to put them there.”
“But we get free paper because Shawn porked a purser,” I offered. Charles ignored me.
“In fact, I have to pay for my own laundry here, too. What kind of officer has to do that? 80¢ for a T-shirt, my underwear is 40¢ and, get this, they charge 15¢ a sock! I’m sure I’ll have to pay extra for ironing. Unless, of course, you have an ironing board.”
“It’s funny you mention that,” I said with a little pride, “Because I actually have an ironing board autographed by M.C. Hammer.”
Charles had been burying his head in his hands, but slowly looked up at me.
“Not with me, of course,” I quickly added.
“Why, I do believe that you are serious,” he said. “All right, I’ll bite.”
“I used to work at the best hotel in my hometown in Iowa,” I explained. “M.C. Hammer came to town for a concert and booked the entire top floor of suites for him and his entourage. Remember those huge, baggy pants he wore? Can’t exactly send those to the cleaners, you know? So they needed a full length ironing board and the hotel only had the short, portable ones. I was dating the Guest Services Manager in charge of getting one on the fly, and I happened to live nearby. So I ran home and got my ironing board, but insisted that he autograph it. Otherwise, who would believe me?”
Charles regarded me skeptically a moment, then chuckled. “Who would believe you indeed? But that story is way too stupid to be made up.”
Hoping to have cheered him up a bit, I smiled and added, “As your Lord Byron noted, ‘The truth is strange: stranger than fiction.’”
Distraction over, Charles leaned back and stared at the ceiling. “Jesus, is there anything I don’t have to pay for on this ship? No doubt I’ll have to pay top dollar at the spa to get my haircut for Herr Assmunchen.”
I remained silent, completely unqualified to comment. One expense that Shawn had not included in his handover report was the cost of having me on board. As a trainee I was unpaid, but with Charles’ arrival I was now an associate and would get a sizable chunk of his sales commissions. I opted not to mention that at the moment.
“And the two art movers?” Charles continued with mounting disgust. “My God, did I really read that they are paid $200 a week? I can get six Filipinos for that money!”
This topic, however, I knew enough about to comment. “Denny and Jesse are worth every penny, believe me. You never saw them in action because yesterday was so whacked out. But they do far more than move all the art: they handle everything from top to bottom. They are fully qualified to close sales on their own and man the check out desks.”
“I understand,” Charles dismissed with a grunt. “I’ll have to let Tatli look at the numbers, but unless we consistently reach Goal 2 I don’t see how we’ll make any money on this ship. As the Bard says, I’ve got my mind on my money and my money on my mind.”
“Sir Snoop Dogg,” I agreed, recognizing the lyrics he sang.
“Shawn made G2 regularly?”
“More or less,” I answered.
Charles loosed a long, slow sigh before rising. No doubt he wanted to crawl back into his coffin. We wandered down to the purser’s area and saw that the computer doctors had revived their patient. We greedily loaded the fresh art data into our computer, but then Charles’ pale face somehow got paler. Disdainfully, he tossed me the laptop.
“Brian, can you see anything changed here?”
I noticed a change. A big, nasty mother chicken of a change.
“The goals have gone up!”
He clapped me on the shoulder and gave me a predatory grin. “Learned a lot in the last week? You, my friend, had better be worth it.”
Quick to change the subject yet again, I glanced once more at the resurrected ship’s computer. “I see there is an email from the powers that be.”
“Powers that be?” he asked, amused. “Is that Ebonics?”
“Says here that Denny and Jesse will be attending the next auctioneer screening. They leave in one week!”
Charles released yet another long sigh and said drily, “At least I no longer need worry about how expensive they are.”
4
That afternoon I had to set up the art auction more or less alone. Denny and Jesse were scrambling to make preparations to sign off Majesty of the Seas and fly to the Sundance Art Gallery in Pittsburgh.
Setting up for an auction had man
y challenges, far beyond merely hauling artwork. First we had to clear the auction, no matter how routine, with Hot Man and the chief officer, for some reason that defies explanation. Then we notified the housekeeping manager, who allocated crew, stackable chairs and folding tables. Then the bar manager had to requisition cases of champagne and a bartender.
These avenues did not involve bribery, barring our redoubtable Amor. Because he received a commission on every bottle of champagne he opened, a preventive bribe of five dollars spared us the expense of entire cases of wasted champagne. We also bribed the printing manager to print our flyers, no doubt because sleeping with him was out of the question. We bribed the housekeepers to distribute the flyers to the cabins, because there were too many to sleep with. With twelve hundred guest cabins even on the modestly sized Widow Maker, there was no other practical way to do it.
By far the most important spoke of the bribery wheel was the cruise director. He placed our ads in the daily papers and spoke about us during various events, including the all-important PA announcements. We were always on the lookout for new and appreciated ways to express our gratitude. But the biggest challenge on Majesty was the unavoidable lack of bodies on board. Who would give up all day in the Bahamas for an auction in the karaoke lounge?
The art locker was ten feet deep and extremely narrow, with only a single light bulb above the door to cast the corners in shadow. Both sides were lined floor to ceiling with tiers of carpeted shelves, all spilling artwork. The larger compartments on the bottom were packed with huge frames arranged like books. The top tier stacked frames two high in this manner, and any open gaps were stuffed with smaller artwork. The locker was so narrow that pulling out the large artwork was impossible until all the other works were first removed, in order to angle them out.
True to his word, Charles was lazy. He stayed in the locker selecting artwork, leaving me to cart it all to the lounge all the way in the stern. Each load turned the art cart into a porcupine-looking creature of bristling frames and edges, and every doorway tried to snag one. On a ship equal in length to Titanic, that was a lot of doors! Even worse were these damnable ridges of soldered metal unevenly placed in our hallway. These stupid lips served no apparent purpose, such as connecting metal plates. What, the builders thought if deck three was underwater, an inch-high ridge would stop the ship from flooding? Those little bastards tripped me up several times, dumping artwork everywhere. Oh, lipless hall, where art thou?
Ship for Brains (Cruise Confidential 2) Page 6