The Last Paradise

by Antonio Garrido

  5

  Maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea.

  From the first light of morning, the North River docks had been abuzz with sailors and stevedores emptying the bellies of gigantic cargo ships. The yelling of foremen haranguing their workers intermingled with the cries of fish auctioneers, the sirens of the steamships leaving port, and the high-pitched squawks of seagulls as ravenous for food as the unemployed men who milled around the warehouses looking for work.

  And where there were jobless, there were always cops.

  Jack scanned his surroundings but didn’t spot any police. He helped Sue drag their luggage through the crowd, negotiating goods and passengers, and they filled their lungs with the intense salt air. He had improved his appearance by carefully shaving, and had used a touch of blusher that Sue had insisted on spreading over his cheeks, aware that they needed to look healthy in order to get past the tuberculosis checks. Even so, Jack, whose main concern was to go unnoticed, walked bent over to disguise his height and hide his features.

  When they reached the wharf from which the American Scantic Line ships operated, Jack had to raise his voice to make himself heard over the cranes’ incessant screeching.

  “Right. This is where we agreed to meet Walter,” he yelled, leaning their bags against the wall of a hut. “You should wait here while I buy the supplies we need.” He looked at his fistful of grubby bills and searched around for a marketplace. “Watch out for pickpockets. This place is swarming with them!”

  Sue gave Jack a defiant look.

  “Trust me, I ain’t gonna let some rat ruin the best day of my life,” she replied, and she sat on the suitcases, adopting one of the most determined poses that Jack had ever seen.

  He left behind the crowds that had gathered at the entrance to the offices of the shipping company that ran the New York–Copenhagen–Helsinki route, and made for a vast warehouse where a sign over the door announced that it sold the finest salt fish in the city. As he walked in, the smell of sea and salt guided him to the stall of a fishmonger who was shouting himself hoarse, extolling the virtues of his herring. Yet, instead of succumbing to the man’s crowing, Jack stood motionless, his eyes fixed on the elegant young woman wearing a hat who was examining goods at a nearby grocery stall.

  It had been a long time since he’d seen such a distinguished lady; the young woman looked straight out of one of the lounges of the Waldorf Astoria. Hypnotized, he slowly approached the stall and saw that the woman, dressed in an elegant fur coat, was inspecting a can of Petrossian beluga caviar. Jack observed the young woman’s gloved fingers caressing the overpriced cans as if they were jewels. With no premeditation, he positioned himself beside her and picked up a yellow can from the counter.

  “Don’t be fooled. You’d do better to buy this Avruga. They make it near here, in Delaware. It’s cheaper and tastes delicious,” he advised her, surprised at his own gall.

  The young woman looked him up and down.

  “Are you a fishmonger?” she asked with a scowl.

  Jack blushed. For a moment he’d imagined himself in Detroit, flirting with a secretary he could dazzle with little more than the sound of his convertible.

  “No. I’m afraid not, but everyone knows that Delaware caviar is just as good as the—”

  “On the contrary, young man: what everyone knows is that the sturgeon in the Delaware River all but died out twenty years ago, and since then they’ve sold substitutes. I’ll take six cans,” the young lady said to the stallholder. “Of the Petrossian,” she added.

  Jack gazed at her as she walked off, spellbound by the surreal image of a siren among dockworkers. Then he looked at the exorbitantly priced cans of Petrossian caviar and compared it to the cheap substitute he had recommended. He figured there was as much difference between those two cans as there was between the women whom he had until then pursued and the elegant young lady who had just walked away.

  When Jack, bearing a supply of kippers, arrived back at the spot where he’d left Sue, he found her with her arms around Walter, smothering him with kisses like a teenager with her first summer love. He fended off a stab of jealousy as his friend greeted him, waving the tickets that would get them out of the United States. Jack examined his ticket and saw that the reverse side showed the name and a photograph of the ship SS Cliffwood, along with its astronomical price of $180. He could not help gawking when he considered that the sum was the same as a year’s rent on the apartment from which he’d just been evicted.

  “Here. Your passport.”

  Jack looked over the forged document that Walter handed him. Jack ran his fingers over the imitation-leather cardboard. The material seemed genuine, but the official stamp that validated the photograph wouldn’t fool a child.

  “The guy who made it assured me they’d only pay attention to the Amtorg recommendation in the Soviet Union,” Walter said, seeing Jack’s skeptical expression.

  “I’m relieved to hear it.” Jack clenched his teeth. “And I guess that guy will be sitting comfortably on his sofa when I have to explain to the Russians why I’m trying to enter their country with a passport that looks like it was won in a raffle.”

  “Oh, come on, Jack. Give me those kippers to carry, and stop being such a wet blanket. I promise you, compared to the trouble you have here, any problems you encounter in Russia will seem like a blessing.” With a smug expression, he pushed Jack toward the SS Cliffwood’s gangway.

  While they waited to embark, Jack looked doubtfully at the dilapidated hull of the ocean liner and sighed. Despite its impressive size, the only thing about the ship that resembled the photograph on the back of the ticket was the black paint that covered it. None of the passengers in front of them seemed to notice the ship’s imperfections. On the contrary, the emaciated workers wearing donated suits chatted excitedly, their smiles disguising the scars that hunger and desperation had left on their faces.

  At twelve o’clock sharp, the sailor guarding the entrance unknotted the rope that cordoned off the gangway and blew his whistle, prompting the impatient line of passengers, with their trunks, bundles, and cases of belongings, to start moving like a caravan of peddlers. Jack, Walter, and Sue got ready. The line climbed toward the deck at a sluggish pace until, when Walter was just a few yards from showing his ticket to the ticket collector, some yelling made him stop unexpectedly.

  “What’s happening?” asked Jack. He looked ahead but couldn’t see anything unusual.

  Walter, who as a precaution had positioned himself a couple of places ahead in the line, could see that there had been an altercation. He turned to Jack to warn him that a police officer was present and had begun to request passports.

  “They’re saying they caught someone trying to stow away. If we try to board now, we’ll be arrested,” Walter whispered. His eyes were bright with fear. Jack saw more cops arriving, and he placed his hands on his friend’s shoulders to calm him down.

  “It’s too dangerous. If we leave the line now, we’ll arouse suspicion. We have to carry on.”

  “What about your passport? Shit! It might pass as genuine in Russia, but we’ll get busted for it here.”

  “Pass me the kippers and let me take care of it. Sue, you go with Walter.”

  Walter sputtered something but obeyed. Jack took his friend’s place in the line and whispered something into Sue’s ear. Then he slung the kippers over his shoulder, gripped the passport between his teeth, and with a determined stride, pulled on the trunk that contained his belongings.

  “Come on! Keep moving!” yelled the policeman checking documents.

  Jack strode up to him, and after laying the trunk on the floor, he took out his ticket with his free hand. When he held it out, the uniformed cop fixed his eyes on Jack’s and narrowed them.

  “Your passport,” he demanded.

  “Huh? Oh, sure, my passport . . . ,” Jack stammered through his teeth, keeping the document in his mouth.

  At that moment, Sue stumbled into Jack, making hi
m drop the kippers, which fell onto the ground along with the passport.

  “Oh shit! I’m sorry, officer,” said Jack as he knelt to pick up the fish and the passport. “Excuse my wife. It’s the first time she’s been on a ship, and she’s nervous. Here you go.” He handed the policeman the document opened to the page with his photograph. The cop took it from him and studied Jack, showing little sympathy. Jack felt his heart thump in his chest. He disguised his nerves as he knelt to finish picking up the kippers. The cop frowned.

  “Nice way to ruin a new passport,” the officer finally said, brushing off some fish remnants that had stuck to the fake stamp. “Your wife should be more careful if she wants to stay married. Here you go. Now move on, please.”

  Once on board, Jack finished cleaning off the kipper he had pressed against the stamp when he’d bent down to pick it up from the ground.

  “You dirty crook! You did it on purpose?” Walter exclaimed. “The stumble . . . the kippers . . .”

  “And I was his accomplice,” boasted Sue, taking Jack’s arm. “Clearly, Walter, this young man’s worth his weight in gold. You should take note.”

  Walter’s smile froze on his lips.

  “Oh I should, should I?” He dragged the luggage to the place where the rest of the passengers were congregating.

  An impeccably uniformed American Scantic Line officer led the group to its quarters belowdecks. On the way, the officer informed them that the SS Cliffwood had been used as a freighter by the navy during the Great War, and that, after the armistice, it was acquired by the Moore & McCormack shipping company, which fitted it out as a combined cargo and passenger ship. That was why it had only a limited number of individual cabins, reserved for the most well-to-do passengers, and a communal sleeping area for the second-class passengers.

  “Your attention, please,” said the officer. “As you know, weather permitting, we will arrive in Helsinki in five days. During the crossing, you will be able to go on deck whenever you wish. Up top, near the bridge, you will find a small canteen selling cigarettes, food, and beverages. The latrines are at the rear of the hold.”

  “Compared to the Aquitania, this rust bucket’s what a donkey is to a mustang,” said a passenger, spitting on the floor.

  “I heard you, sir,” said the officer, unruffled. “This ship may not be a luxurious ocean liner like the one you mention, but neither do the jockeys that ride Thoroughbred racehorses resemble the rustlers who ride donkeys.” He tipped his hat by way of a good-bye and turned to return to the deck. “Access to the hold is strictly forbidden. Anyone found contravening this order will be punished.”

  At two o’clock in the afternoon, gripping the handrail on deck, Jack listened to the whistle that announced the departure of the SS Cliffwood. He looked around at the other passengers as they waved good-bye to the friends and relatives who’d come to see them off. Some cried; others gazed vacantly at the huge buildings they might never see again. Jack contemplated them, too, while the cold East River wind stung his eyes. As the ship left the wharf, Jack remembered what Walter had given as his reason for staying belowdecks. Sue and I are staying down here to watch the luggage, Jack. You should do the same. Stay on guard and keep your most valuable things with you if you don’t want them to be stolen. And that was what he’d done: gone up on deck to imprint in his mind the image of New York and keep it with him so that nobody could ever steal it.

  6

  The third day of the crossing was the worst.

  Shortly after the ship weighed anchor, Jack had begun to feel unwell, but he stayed on deck long enough to flush out the memories that tormented him. But the constant heave of the rough sea, foreshadowing the imminent storm, had made the passengers seek refuge on the mattresses of their bunk beds. Sue and Walter passed the time in the communal dormitory, fantasizing endlessly about their future lives. She imagined herself in her little Soviet house with a garden and swings for their little ones, while Walter saw himself as a future representative of the American workers. However, his friends’ dreams excited Jack about as much as watching paint dry. In Russia, there would be no luxury cars to own, no elegant suits to wear, no jazz clubs in which to have a good time. With luck, his greatest achievement would be having the opportunity to work like hell for a miserable salary for the rest of his days. He took a deep breath and rolled over on his bed. The ship’s constant heaving was making him queasy. Finally, he got up to wander around the dormitory and stretch his legs.

  As he strolled, he noticed that one of the portholes that looked into the hold had been left ajar, so he approached it to get a better view. He was trying to make out what was inside the containers stacked on the other side of the bulkhead, when an arm pulled him unceremoniously away from the window.

  “May I ask what you are looking at?”

  Jack gave a start when he found himself face-to-face with an angry, white-bearded man. He was one of the Russian workers who appeared every now and then to go down into the hold to check on the cargo.

  “Oh, I was just being nosy,” Jack explained.

  “Yes . . . well, in Soviet Union, we don’t like nosy people,” the man said with a strong Russian accent.

  Jack guessed that the furrowed face in front of him did not belong to a simple workman. He didn’t want any trouble, but neither would he let some stranger bully him.

  “As far as I’m aware, this ship doesn’t belong to the Soviet Union.”

  “Maybe ship, no, but cars in hold, yes.” The Russian’s voice sounded authoritative.

  Jack tensed his muscles. He was about to respond, when Walter came up behind him and pulled him back toward the bunks. As he retreated, the white-haired Russian challenged Jack with his eyes.

  “They’re all yours!” Jack muttered under his breath as he let Walter drag him away. “Frankly, I’m about as interested in those crates as I am in your sister!”

  The man ignored Jack’s taunt. He simply closed the porthole, checked that the door to the hold was locked, and returned to the deck. When he had gone, Walter stood in front of Jack.

  “Have you lost your mind? Do you want to make us enemies of the Russians before we’ve set foot on Soviet soil?”

  “Did you see what that guy did to me? I was just looking, and he pulled me away like I was a dog pissing on his boots.”

  “Then put up with it, for Christ’s sake! After everything we’ve been through, I’m not going to let you get us sent straight back to America because of your pride.”

  “Those crates were from Ford.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’m telling you, those massive containers were from the Ford Motor Company. It was printed on them in red ink: ‘Ford Motor Company. Dearborn, Michigan, USA.’”

  “So what? What does it matter if they were from Ford or General Motors? Some American engineer probably ordered a couple of cars to take his girl for a ride.”

  “That’s what that Soviet operative wanted me to believe, but those crates don’t contain cars. I worked at Ford for nine years, and I promise you that no car from that company is as big as a bus.”

  “Then whoever’s bought them must have a lot of girls, and needs a bus to take them out. What does it matter?”

  Suddenly, a large wave hit the side of the ship, making it lean. Jack managed to grab a bunk bed to keep his balance, but Walter rolled off along the floor. An alarm on deck announced the storm’s arrival.

  Jack helped Walter get back to his bunk. Gradually, the persistent pitching of the SS Cliffwood grew more severe until it became an eruption of creaks, lurches, and shudders. Before long, luggage was scattered across the floor, its owners able to do little more than scramble after it and cry out in fear. Jack realized how dangerous the situation was when one of the passengers lost his balance and hit his head against a pillar. The people around him screamed. He quickly took off his belt and used it to secure Sue to her bunk. Walter copied him and did the same with his own belt. Jack, meanwhile, gripped the bars, trusting in the strength of his
muscles, while the storm battered the ship mercilessly.

  Amid the chaos, passengers called out for help to the crew members who had come down from the deck to secure the cargo in the hold. But before they could do anything, a violent wave made the ship’s bow rear up, and after a few eternal seconds suspended in the void, the liner smacked down against the surface of the ocean with a great crash.

  Jack lost his grip and was thrown from the bunk, stumbling forward until he crashed against the door to the hold. When he managed to sit up, he saw how the ship’s lurches were tossing passengers and luggage around like rag dolls. A trickle of blood from a cut over his eyebrow blinded him. He wiped his eyes as well as he could and looked around, searching for a way to get back to his friends, when he heard a piercing scream behind him. He turned around. It was coming from the hold. Through the porthole, he could make out a crowd of men trying desperately to move an upturned container. Someone appeared to be hurt. Another scream made his blood run cold. Without a thought, he opened the door and went in, finding himself in front of a group of Russian workers frantically trying to pull away the remains of the container and extract the screaming man, who, he now saw, was trapped under a huge machine. Jack recognized the contraption as a Cleveland press, a steel monster that must have weighed more than thirty tons. Through the mass of workmen, he saw that the machine had crushed the man’s left arm, so that in order to free him, it had to be lifted. But in the manner they were attempting it, they would never pull it off him.