Unsinkable Mister Brown (Cruise Confidential 3)

by Brian David Bruns

  “Will you shut up?” Bianca snapped. “You no seen public toilets in Romania. They horrible, papa! There is so much wonderful things to see in my country, but the structure is so bad that people take one look at the public toilets and leave. They no talk about Peleș Castle or the monasteries of Moldova: only the communist public toilets.”

  “Can’t be worse than those in Egypt,” I soothed. “I’ll keep my expectations low.”

  Bianca sniffed indignantly.

  Inside the entrance to the men’s room, I was accosted by a fat, hairy woman of undecided age but decided filth. Darker skin hinted at her being a Gypsy, corroborated by an utter contempt for personal hygiene or unsoiled clothing. She sat heavily upon a tall, broken stool like a bloated frog on a sick mushroom. She was actually inside the men’s room with me.

  The woman croaked something to me not in Romanian, but the Gypsy language Roma, then reached out a claw holding a damp, crumpled roll of toilet paper bereft of an inner cardboard tube. I ignored her and poked my head into the only stall.

  The horror... the horror!

  Because Romania is firmly a part of the West, I was shocked to see that there was no toilet at all. Instead was a creepy, filthy hole in the floor. Arranged around it, Arab-style, were two impressions indicating where your feet should go in order to squat over the hole, should you be wearing a kaftan. Both patterns were filled with urine.

  Not surprisingly, there was no toilet paper.

  I returned to the grotesque woman reluctantly. With great dread I stared at the hand waggling toilet paper at me. Her fingernails had not been trimmed since the revolution. Surely not washed, either. I grimaced as I held out a US dollar with my fingertips.

  She greedily snatched the money up in a blink, then began unfurling the thin roll of paper. With one eye clamped shut, she squinted with the other at her work. How she could peer past the huge, hairy mole above her eye was a mystery. Finally she tugged off three delicate squares of paper—so thin as to have only one side—and handed them to me.

  Pride be damned. I fled.

  For the first time, I was glad Bianca didn’t want to talk. For the next several hours I was unable to speak.

  5

  When imagining Romania, most people do not picture seaside resorts and spas. This is no doubt due to the overbalancing emphasis on vampire pop culture. In fact, Romania’s Black Sea coast has been celebrated since Roman times. Ample archeological evidence supports this, and so does the big-ass statue of the Roman poet Ovid. As we all know, he was exiled in 8 A.D. by Emperor Augustus and died in what is now Constanța. Duh. Lest we forget, Ovid was the wise man who observed, “A woman is a creature that is always shopping.” Another duh, but he was the first man with the guts to actually say it in public.

  Romania’s main Black Sea resorts filed along nearly fifty miles of sandy beaches, dispersed among towns named after Roman gods, cool names like Venus, Jupiter, Saturn, Neptun, as well as Olimp—presumably for Mount Olympus. The resorts lining the coast were spacious and modern, with even a few Art Deco-designed hotels thrown in the mix. After enduring block after block of bloc, this was most refreshing.

  Still, while reminding me of Miami Beach, the Black Sea most certainly was not. Everything was a percentage less perfect: the sand generally not as soft, the weather generally not as warm, the surf generally not as calm, and—most distressingly—the bikinis not generally as small. I was assuaged on the latter point by the fact that most of them did not include tops.

  A friend of Bianca’s, having retired from Carnival after earning a position as head chef of a hotel in Saturn, got us a great deal. Saturn was a tired mid-fifties town, less impressive than the heady luxury of Olimp, for example, but our Romanian-style discount more than made up for it. Our room was on the top floor overlooking the sea, which broke with alarming strength not twenty yards outside our balcony.

  Early on the morning of Friday the 13th, I was awakened from my slumber by Bianca—in only her bra and panties—attacking me with an entire cake.

  “Happy Birthday!” she cried, juggling the cake awkwardly to prevent it from sliding out of its sagging cardboard box.

  “What the...?” I began groggily, then leapt out of bed as the box slipped from her grasp. The cake plopped upside-down onto my still-warm pillow.

  “Jesus Gras, woman!” I exclaimed, hopping about naked in an effort to keep my bare feet off the cold tiles.

  Bianca burst out laughing.

  “I turn thirty on Friday the 13th,” I muttered indignantly. “And wake up to my lover trying to smother me to death.”

  “Sorry,” she said, laughing. “I wanted to surprise you.”

  “You sure did!”

  “Eh,” she scoffed. “Romanian box. Damn it, I wanted to show you his face. He was beautiful.”

  I stepped closer to examine the ruined cake. The crumpled mess revealed a yellow cake with chocolate frosting.

  “Well,” I commented, “The bottom looks great. I’ve been guilty of judging by that alone.”

  I scooped up a finger-full of frosting and streaked it across her bare belly.

  “Bamboclat!” she cried, grabbing a handful of cake and smashing it against my chest. Heavy gobs of chocolate dripped messily from my rather aggressive chest hair. I grabbed Bianca and threw her on the bed. The resulting food fight was far more satisfying than, say, those at grade school in the cafeteria. Afterwards, we lay in the begrimed bed and waited for our panting to subside. Like the sheets and pillows, we were covered entirely in chocolate and crumbled yellow cake.

  “I hope you liked your birthday present better than my cousin did on her birthday,” Bianca commented.

  “You know what I want for my birthday?” I asked dreamily, staring at the ceiling.

  “What?”

  “You to pay the extra tip for the room steward to clean this up.”

  6

  The days were quite hot, which implied much considering I just came from the Caribbean. The Black Sea itself, however, was excruciatingly cold. We were just catching the very earliest of the season. So less time was spent on the beach and more in the cafés. This suited us both just fine.

  A striking difference between America and Romania was in the nature of the outdoor cafés. Extending for miles, even linking up the towns, were dozens upon dozens of prime patios overlooking the waves and beaches, surrounded by lush gardens and mature trees—and all of it was damn near free. In America every square foot would have cost a fortune, with the premium spots no doubt hosting expensive restaurants or exclusive clubs. But here they didn’t even serve food, and gladly let us stay all day for the price of a Coke. No doubt everything had been built ‘for the people’ under the communist regime, but I thought someone would have figured out after a decade of capitalism that these were unclaimed gold mines.

  The afternoon grew late. We walked along the beach, holding hands on one side, and sandals on the other.

  “So,” I said. “When I return to Conquest, are you going to study to become a judge?”

  “What?” Bianca asked, confused.

  “On Conquest you were colder than Oana the Ice Queen.”

  Bianca smirked and appeared ready to unleash a jibe of her own, but suddenly thought better of it. She spent several moments to gather her thoughts. I waited patiently, occasionally pushing her further up the beach when the surf surged too close.

  “I care for you very, very deeply,” Bianca said at last. “I am moved more than you know by you coming back to me. I thought for sure that... that when I left you on Conquest you would go ship-style.”

  “Ship-style?”

  “Bang all the chicks.”

  “Oh, I’m too old for that,” I scoffed. “Though it’s not like I didn’t have temptation.”

  “You will,” Bianca said, staring at the sand. “Is not that you are a man. Is that you are on ships. I know ships, and you don’t. Nobody can until they live it. Everyone cheats on ships at least once. Everyone.”

  “
Bianca—”

  “Just don’t tell me about it,” she interrupted. “Just come back to me, here.”

  “You’re blowing me off,” I said sternly. “You want me only on your terms, is that it? I want to have a life with you, not a string of vacations. Great sex isn’t enough to bring me around the world. Well, not more than twice.”

  Though she still stared at the sand, I spied a hint of her smirk.

  “Look, Bianca,” I said more softly. “Every time I see you it’s as natural and wonderful as the first time, and not a minute seems to have passed—even though its been months. That is something special, something worth fighting for. We have three weeks together here, but then I have four months on Conquest as assistant maitre d’, and two months vacation while you’re on Glory. When I return, as assistant maitre d’ I can transfer you to my ship. We know that. The question is whether we both want that. I do.”

  I paused and looked her in the eye.

  “I’m not sure you do. On Conquest you weren’t ready. It was all crazy fast, I get it. But that was a long time ago. Time’s ticking away, Bianca.”

  Finally Bianca did not shy away.

  “One of the things I love about you,” she said slowly, “is that, like my parents, you are understanding and patient. They stuck by me thick and thin, when I left for Belgium with my ex.”

  “You never told me you lived in Belgium,” I said, surprised.

  “Ten years,” she admitted. “My ex was not very kind to my parents. He actually mocked their commitment to me, that they would still talk to me after our... situation. But in the end I left him, and they were still there for me. And like them, you stood by me despite my coldness, despite all things thrown at you.”

  “But that’s what it’s all about,” I pressed. “I am a simple man, Bianca. Long distance relationships don’t work because the whole point is to be together. True, we can’t be—yet—but we have a clear path and a set timeline. So until that time, I need communication. When we were on Conquest, I never got a single ‘stay by me, I love you.’ I know you were struggling to survive, but I was there for you. But I won’t wait for anybody if they take it for granted.”

  We scrunched awkwardly over the loose sand. The tide had risen too high to walk on the sea-smoothed edge, and the surf was too cold to endure any more surprise splashes.

  “I will do better,” Bianca said, squeezing my hand. “I love you, and don’t want ships to come between us. Ships gave me and my family a life. Ships brought us together. I won’t let them take us apart.”

  7

  My transatlantic flight back to New Orleans went by in a blink. All I could think about was Bianca. Particularly, I replayed over and over each morning we woke up together. Her face wrinkled from the sheets and pillows, she woke with a smile and a laugh. Sometimes it was only in her tired eyes, but it always radiated from the inside out. I loved her intensely, and also felt loved. She cared deeply, and what little time she had to give, she gave completely.

  I had never lived such a wonderful dream as those last three weeks. They were beyond magical. They were prophetic. How could I endure six months without her? But this was ship life, the life we had chosen. Our vacations were perfect because we paid the piper.

  We paid him dearly.

  Chapter 11. The Barry White Omnibus

  1

  Returning to Conquest was a nightmare. Prior to my leaving on the work break, it was agreed I would return as a full assistant maitre d’. I had the approval of Dan, of course, as well as his boss, the food & beverage manager. However, during my absence they had both signed off. Regardless of promises—including that of everyone’s boss, Mladen—the new food & beverage manager refused to promote an American into a position of authority, however menial. This was not a supposition: Gunnar told me to my face. Dan’s warning had been prescient.1

  Gunnar and I hammered out an arrangement that the rest of my contract would continue as part maitre d’. That meant a strange half-waiter, half assistant maitre d’ hybrid. There were no rules for such an awkward position, and Gunnar devilishly overlapped the two roles in order to undermine my success at either. A setback, to be sure, but I was confident I would win him over.

  I was wrong.

  Gunnar was Machiavellian in his efforts to get rid of me: he even arranged my schedule to deny me all access to meals, then sent out spies to catch me sneaking food! The upside was that I finally got skinny. I kept a positive attitude through it all, knowing it was just a delay. Further, without having to fret over Bianca’s odd behavior, I was able to pursue my own path more freely. I made many friends and enjoyed adventures I had previously only dreamed about.

  Yet in the end, despite my best efforts, Gunnar’s position never wavered. He refused to have on his record the promotion of a man who he assumed ‘would just quit.’ His words. International politics swirled around me, whether I liked it or not, as various managers chose sides over this would-be precedent-setting American. A final confrontation resulted in an agreement that I would return from my vacation to another ship, where that food & beverage manager would grant me the stripe of a junior officer. I asked for it in writing, but was denied.

  So while I recuperated a couple months with family, Bianca slugged it out with Dan and the rest of the Romanian mafia on a ship prior to an assignment opening Carnival’s latest ship in Montfalcone. Our emails kept the fire blazing:

  “Reposition cruise, no passengers tonight. After dinner we went to the disco, then we made a crazy Romanian party in a bar, dancing on the tables. At 5.30am we were dragging our sick bodies to the cabins. Lucky me I started at 1pm next day. Lucky everyone, I had a morning face that scared all the mirrors in my cabin.”

  “I'm still shivering thinking about our nights in RO. I miss you and I want you more and more. I hope I'll be able to keep under control this magnificent feeling, otherwise I will explode, because it keeps on growing since Reno, Brasov, Sighisoara, the Red Sea, the Black Sea... is more and more deep and intense. I'm glad actually to have it, because it gives me joy and power, and some kind of path. It's so fulfilling!”

  “I was freezing yesterday in the cabina, and I was missing the way you used to hold me in your arms. It felt so good to fall asleep snuggled against you. Jesus Gras, Brian, once I'll get you, I'll never let you go again. I love the way you love me, the way you smile, you talk, and all I want now is to dive in your dimples.”

  Returning to Miami, ready for my next assignment, the bottom dropped out. Gunnar had ensured I was demoted to waiter. I tried to go over his head, even storming the home office of Carnival to speak with Mladen himself, but was rebuffed. Carnival policy was total support of on-sight officers while at sea, end of story. To get me out of their hair, I was assigned to Carnival Legend, the toughest ship in the fleet: eight day cruises out of New York City, with four days at sea. Even veteran waiters fought to stay off that hell pit. Thus they ensured I would quit.

  It was the worst time of my life.

  2

  Only on Legend did I truly understand what Bianca went through on ships. My existence, too, became all about survival. I, too, did things I wasn’t proud of.

  Management was intent on getting rid of me. The foreign employees did not want me setting a precedent and having Americans take away their jobs. Carnival Cruise Lines was a US company, after all, that rarely hired Americans. Thus my side jobs—those extra duties assigned to all waiters—were uncharacteristically harsh, designed to humiliate. When another man was merely required to gather the salad tongs from around the restaurant twice a week, I was forced to scrub and mop several levels of escalators, including walls and even ceilings—every night.

  I worked fifteen hours a day, every day, cruise after cruise. Only once in eight days did I receive a lunch off. The hundred hour work weeks kept on coming. I stopped counting after fifteen weeks.

  Not only was management out to get me, but fate was, too.

  When I finally changed side jobs to something less labor intensi
ve, the Norovirus struck. Suddenly we had special cleaning day and night. My fingers were already cracked and split, so repeated bleaching was simply par for the course. Dozens of crew feigned illness, desperate for the two-day quarantine that allowed merciful rest. Waiters jumped like rats from a sinking ship. One friend requested a transfer to Inspiration, two others requested Fascination, while yet another left for Paradise. I witnessed my friend Xenia crying from the stress, while my partner Ramona—literally nearing an emotional breakdown—had cried herself to sleep for a month. Everyone was overworked and under appreciated. Ratings for guest satisfaction in the dining rooms plummeted.

  Legend’s response was more work.

  Because the guests were not having enough fun, waiters were forced into joke and trick training, with additional hour-long sessions learning knock-knock jokes and how to fold paper napkins into little birds. This move was not exactly the morale booster Carnival anticipated.

  Lack of proper rest and nutrition, coupled with inane guest requests and pitiful earnings, turned me feral, like a wild animal. Pancake Darwinism made me surly, even aggressive. I stopped talking to everybody and only kept counsel with my diary, into which I poured endless profanity and disdain. Cynicism replaced smiles, laughter lost long ago. I became a zombie, trudging through hour after grueling hour of menial labor for what seemed like no reason at all.

  Astoundingly, life got worse. I will never forget the day I snapped.

  In the few minutes between breakfast and lunch, I ran to the crew internet. Hoping for an email from Bianca, I instead found a message from home. I happily clicked on the email, figuring it would be filled with soothing, Grandma-stories about my nieces. It wasn’t. There had been a suicide in my family.