The really bad news was that Robin had no idea how to conduct an inventory on his own, as apparently Vanessa had always been in charge of paperwork. He moved slower than molasses in winter, and complained more than even Harald.
The really really bad news was that after three laborious hours of dealing with Robin’s lackadaisical efforts, the computers went dead. We were unable to print and mutually sign off on the ship’s inventory. We photocopied an old paper report and hurriedly ticked off the expensive works I had sold, but I was legally liable for any mistakes—mistakes that could cost me many thousands of dollars.
The really really really bad news was that Sensation’s new accountant had erred on the end of cruise reports and had to redo them later in the week, so I was unable to even leave with the necessary documentation. There was literally no possible scenario worse for a departing auctioneer, and everything was entirely beyond my means to remedy.
Stress. Lack of time. Pure, utter hell. I heard Lucifer’s ugly laughing in my head.
I was still fighting with documentation when security found me and ordered me to the gangway. On the way, I passed Farida. She ran over to hug me, and I scooped her up with one arm and carried her like that halfway to the gangway because security wouldn’t let me loiter.
Just before I was escorted to shore, I stopped. The rather large Indian chief of security barked at me to keep going, or the port authority would have to report my delinquency to the U.S. Coast Guard.
“Wait!” I cried. “I left some vital paperwork in the art locker on deck two.”
“Have them mail it,” he replied curtly. “Nobody messes with Coast Guard.”
“Five minutes,” I insisted. “I’ll be back in five minutes.”
“No way,” he said resolutely. He thrust a strong, brown finger towards the gangway.
I turned and ran back into Sensation, shouting over my shoulder, “Can’t deport me: I’m American anyway!”
I rushed into the elevator, but didn’t stop at deck two. I went up to the salon.
The reception area was swamped with guests inquiring about the spa, the massages, the facials, the whatever. Vela sat amidst the bumbling crowd, shining radiantly in her sequined best. When she saw me, she jumped up from behind the desk, pushed through the crowd, and gave me a big, powerful hug. Powerful, indeed: I felt my spine crack! Only then could I leave Sensation.
Half an hour later I was staring out the open facade of the Cigar Factory in the French Quarter. Across from me was the little triangular park flanked by the streets Decatur, Conti, and North Peters. Beyond a parking lot flowed the Mississippi. The little park was lined with shrubs that directed my gaze to a towering public statue. Resting upon tiers of marble were three bronze figures: the lowest a morose Native American, above a Bible-toting Capuchin monk, and boldly strutting above both was the founder of New Orleans, Jean-Baptiste Bienville.
This was my favorite spot to kiss Bianca, other than our brick lane under the old citadel in Sighișoara. I felt numb, and not because of the January drizzle. In the blink of an eye, Sensation had become a place of comfort. I had stayed longer on other ships, but had never before been emotionally engaged. I made real friends on Sensation. I hadn’t thought that was possible on ships.
Now I understood why Bianca insisted on remaining emotionally closed at sea. I would miss them all mightily. Well, not Harald so much. I could see them all in my mind: Oana’s alternating cute smile and cold shoulder while passing hours at her desk, or Ildi’s hyperactive but highly contagious laugh in Formalities. I warmed at Farida’s beaming enthusiasm and adventurous spirit—whether luring me to an iguana, joining me on a bungee chair, or at our dinners on the open deck sharing appreciation and wonder at the mighty sea at night. Susana, the sweet but fiery little thing, with tall and droll Michel. I felt my heart pound while running with Vela, my head swim at her intoxicating, feminine smell.
And Marc? He was my best friend of all on Sensation. Hours of relaxed conversation about politics and literature, of philosophies and faiths. He was as curious and accomplished an explorer as Stanley or Shackleton. Stay chill, brother.
Life was charmed for a while. Sensation was the first ship I had worked where leaving was a time to cry, not to fly. I was so sick of saying goodbye. I hated ships for that. Ships were life times ten. They brought wonders beyond imagination, then took them right back. It was our lot to be thankful for the moments. I was sick of moments. I wanted more. I vowed the next ship was Bianca or bust. I couldn’t handle saying goodbye anymore.
The only plus was that Bianca was on vacation in February, so I could spend some time with her in the real world. Before I went another round with Lucifer, I had to find some answers in the Carpathian snow—like whether or not I truly knew who I was fighting for.
Chapter 16. Carpathian Snow
1
Winter in the Carpathians was magical. It was the stuff of dreams, an idyllic wonderland that, as the carols romanticize, actually included horse-drawn sleighs. Though cloudy, the forested hills glowed with the clean face and crisp, undulating lines of untrammeled drifts. Snow was plentiful but light, not heavy and wet; winds were gentle and tinged with pine, not bitter and cutting. Indeed, the air was content to loiter just below freezing, loathe to hinder anyone’s life beyond merely maintaining that softening blanket of snow. Around every curve of the road was another cluster of snow-capped cottages, windows warm and orange. I wondered if Thomas Kinkade had ever visited.
My arrival in Romania had been timed to coincide with Bianca’s end of contract. I had been warned that she slept for the first couple days, but assumed she was exaggerating. Hardly. She did indeed sleep for two days, with nary a wakeful moment. She didn’t even eat, but only woke enough to give a kiss to her dear father and a hug to her dear mother. Then back to bed until her subconscious told her it was time to live again.
I smiled when I saw a new refrigerator magnet among those lucky letter ‘P’s, mounted as they were in palm trees and cruise ships. I had sent Bianca a big brown letter ‘B’. Silly, yes, but it’s the silly little things that make life fun, like jumping into a pool totally clothed—or, better yet, totally unclothed. I also spied Lucky munching on M&M’s I had sent, customized brown with Romanian text. That had not been so easy to accomplish: they had to verify that frumoasa mea and te iubesc—‘my beauty’ and ‘I love you’—were not obscene or some terrorist code. My delight was doused when I next noticed the art books I sent her so long ago were still wrapped in plastic.
Why did life always give conflicting signals?
Living in the Pop house—even if temporarily without Bianca—still felt right, though. More than ever, in fact, because I was picking up some Romanian. I discovered that the thrust of a conversation could be gathered from a relatively small grasp of the language. Further, even Romanians commonly confused their own language’s cumbersome grammar, so my horrendous conjugation was no barrier to their understanding.
The first morning, while sipping coffee together on the three-season porch that was working overtime, I was surprised to catch Piti musing with Lucky about what my father did for a living. Aligning bits and pieces comprehensibly—though obviously incorrectly—I managed to answer that my father had designed radios for NASA’s lunar missions. Piti thought that was delightful. I thought the communication was.
The next morning the parents Pop were ready to take our conversation to another level. Piti fretted impatiently while Lucky leisurely poured my coffee and presented a thick slab of cozonac, my favorite Romanian pastry with walnuts and cinnamon. She gave me a wink, and together we overtly ignored Piti’s restless wiggling. With grand flourish, Lucky offered me nearly everything in the kitchen. I carefully considered each and every item, only pretending to notice Piti when țuica was offered.
Piti was so eager to talk that he nearly leapt out of his chair. Finally, exuberantly, he opened his mouth to speak... but said nothing. His white brow plunged when he realized he had forgotten his prepared Eng
lish. Grumbling, he thumbed through the Romanian/English dictionary to refresh his memory. Lucky laughed and gave him a kiss on the cheek, which irritated him even more. He swatted at her like she was a fly.
“Bianca...” Piti finally said, eyes squinting through reading glasses, “Foarte... focus... Piti și Lucky. Bianca nu... focus... Bianca.”
I set my coffee down, nodded, listened.
“Check!” Piti continued, motioning to signify our surroundings. “Casa... garden... bun, deștul. Eh... good, enough. Merci mult Carnival. Boot...”
“But,” I corrected kindly.
“But,” Piti repeated with difficulty. “Bianca nu... marry. Bianca nu... children. Sheeps...”
“Ships.”
“Sheeps,” Piti repeated, unsuccessful with the short ‘I’. “OK. America OK. Piti și Lucky OK here. Da?”
He was trying to say Bianca had done enough for them and should live her own life. I quite agreed. I reached over and took the dictionary from Piti. I flipped through the pages, but surprisingly didn’t find the word I was looking for in either the Romanian or English sides. I improvised by using a word I happened to remember from a long ago walk through the countryside.
“Bianca... magaruș.”
Piti’s white brows shot up in surprise, then immediately knit in confusion. I had called his daughter a little donkey. I chuckled and flipped through the dictionary. It did not translate the word stubborn or obstinate, but rather had recalcitrant. Go figure.
“Aha! Incapaținat,” I explained. “Stubborn. Similar magaruș.”
Laughing, we marched onward to understanding. Piti and Lucky were worried that Bianca’s life was passing her by. They wanted her to have a family of her own—already long overdue in Romanian society—and if that meant in America, they would be happy for her. They would miss her, of course, but already did nine months of the year. They wanted my help convincing her that she had already provided all they would ever need for the rest of their days. She needed to finally forget about Catalin.
“Catalin?” I asked in Romanian. “Who is Catalin?”
Piti and Lucky shared a surprised look. With a sour face, Piti scanned the dictionary. Finally he pressed his finger to a word and showed Lucky. She shrugged.
“Aah,” Piti replied. “Husband.”
2
On day three, Bianca finally stepped out of the bedroom. She was alive again after the dark and deadening winter of Carnival and, like a bud waking to late-spring sunlight, soaked up the warmth, released stored hope, unfolded. She was so rejuvenated, in fact, that I felt guilty bringing up the ships at all. Returning to Transylvania, I had figured Bianca’s and my roles were reversed from our previous ‘Romanian recalibration’. During that summer on the Black Sea, Bianca had felt culpable for failure. This winter in the Carpathians, it was my turn. She was concerned about me losing my spot on Sensation. I was concerned about losing my integrity. But now there was a whole new element to get sorted out—and fast. Who was this ‘husband’ of Bianca’s?
But first: the corpse and the clown.
Rival cousins Radu and Adi were at each other again, only this time I started the whole mess. Who would have thought taking the two sets of cousins out to dinner would create another revolution in Romania? We were all at Cristina and Adi’s apartment when the subject of where to dine was discussed—though discussed was hardly the word.
“Hotel Sighișoara,” Adi called enthusiastically. “Best place in town.”
“The Stag House,” Radu challenged with an ugly, toothy grin.
“Nu, nu,” Adi continued, blowing off Radu’s suggestion. “Hotel Sighișoara is an important landmark that once housed the city council.”
“Over a century ago!” Radu countered. “Who cares about that? The Stag House is an important landmark that holds the Romanian-German Cultural Center now.”
“I’m tired of your Germany!” Adi exclaimed, flapping his arms in exasperation.
“And I’m tired of your kitchen cupboards!” Radu shot back.
“Good! Go back to Germany and buy another computer. They sell brains, too?”
Two days later, they were still at it. They hadn’t paused for a minute. Radu had even taken a day off from work to keep the argument going. He loitered at the train depot all day, harassing Adi as he conducted trains. Finally Adi couldn’t take it anymore and had the poliția escort him away. Radu had been so angry he raged all night long. Poor Laura. She looked like she had worked a full contract in a ship dining room: her eyes were sunken even deeper than Radu’s. While the ladies and I shivered in the dark of the old town’s Citadel, Radu and Adi stayed hot by maintaining a fire of verbal abuse.
“What time is it?” Radu sneered to Adi. “Check your little pocket watch, train-boy. Can you blow your whistle for us?”
“I work for a living!” Adi roared. “I work hard and come home to a loving wife. In Germany all you’ve got are your two hands!”
“Can I get out of here?” I begged Bianca.
“Oh no you don’t,” Bianca laughed. “Cristina and Laura have had to deal with this for two days.”
The sisters nodded in unison with comically long faces.
“OK, bambo, I save you this time,” Bianca said. “Go to the shop over there and buy two packs of Marlboros, two Snickers, and two Cokes.”
I frowned at her. “You mean now?”
“Da. In fact, add six packs of menthols.”
“Sounds like an interesting plan you’ve got brewing.”
“Romanian-style,” she agreed.
So I ran off to the nearest magazinul, as Romanians call their little corner stores, trying to remember the list and pondering the strangely intense debate. Adi and Radu both championed buildings central in the old town of Sighișoara. Both structures were built 600 or more years ago, and both offered the same food. Yet these two men were about to come to blows. Obviously this was about more than which restaurant.
While in line at the store, I was particularly self-conscious. The only winter coat I had was a bright yellow ski jacket, which lit up the black and grey of Romania as brightly as the Vegas Strip lit the desert. Encumbered with my goodies, I waited at the end of a long line and listened to the comments whispered disdainfully in Romanian.
“Typical American: he comes to our country and buys Snickers, Coca Cola, and American cigarettes. He probably only eats at McDonald’s, too.”
At that point, I would have suggested a McDonald’s if Sighișoara had one!
When I returned with the designated items, Radu and Adi were arguing so fast in Romanian I couldn’t pick up a word of what they said. Their body language was clear enough.
“Aah!” Bianca said, taking up the goods. “Now we can get to the bottom of this!”
“And what exactly is the bottom of this?” I asked. “Why is this such a big deal?”
“You need to understand,” Bianca explained. “This is the first time in over a year they have gone out to dinner. This is a big deal.”
“I’m happy to hear that, but it doesn’t explain why they’re behaving like children.”
“Machismo,” Bianca said, wrinkling her face. “It’s easy to ignore that the rich American is paying, but they still need to feel in control. That’s why us women can’t say anything. But we can get around that if handled right.”
Bianca gave a can of Coke to both combatants, then continued to pay off Radu with the Marlboros and Adi with the Snickers. She gave a long, almost pleading speech in Romanian. Radu sulked. He tried to look cool by lighting up a Marlboro with overt affectation, but only looked like the zombie of James Dean. Adi, on the other hand, beamed like a child. He gave one candy bar to Cristina and wiggled with excitement as he stuck the other in his pocket.
“There!” Bianca said, returning to my side. “I tell them you are really into creepy stuff, but are too shy to ask to be next door to the house of Vlad the Impaler. That means the Hotel. I bribe them so they save face.”
“Yeah, OK, but why a
can of Coke before dinner?”
“For the wine, babaloo,” Bianca replied, surprised. “They can’t order it in the restaurant or they will look like peasants.”
“And the menthols?”
“For us girls,” Bianca replied, distributing the cigarettes to her cousins. “It’s your apology to them for the last two days of hell.”
Bianca pocketed two packs of the menthols and added, “This for my services.”
The arbitrated Hotel Sighișoara proved to be an excellent choice. The cellar, which was promptly set aside for our party, was pure medieval awesomeness. The walls were built entirely of roughly cut, but highly polished, ancient stones. Each had been expertly fitted and mortared, and as they stacked upward they curved inward, creating a rounded ceiling. Like a long igloo of rock. Wrought iron wall sconces of huge dimension—obviously age-old and having once held torches—were capped with electric globes to provide light. They were strung together with heavy, dungeon-worthy chains. Occasional wooden shelves jutted from the curving walls to hold displays of antique musical instruments. In one corner was a narrow table laden with ornately curved candelabra and flickering candles, while the point of interest at the other side was a four-foot opening in the stone blocked by a thick iron gate. The floor was planed planks of ancient oak.
Dinner was wonderful, though of course not on par with Lucky’s culinary prowess. It is a well-known fact that the best food in Romania comes from the home—no doubt due to the superlative ingredient to be found there. Love is tangible. Our evening progressed in the expected series of food, dance, food, dance, with drinks throughout. Though the cellar looked archaic, the sound system hidden among the foundations was anything but.
Unsinkable Mister Brown (Cruise Confidential 3) Page 27