“Got it all figured out, eh?” Bianca replied bitterly. “So I am the macho one, yet I am also the weak one empowering my father to cheat. You in there anywhere?”
“Why else would you push that ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy so hard? That’s just a way to avoid dealing with reality you can’t control. I think Piti’s cheating hurts you very much, and you’re trying to keep potential disappointment with me at arm’s length. Is that what happened with Catalin? He cheat, too?”
“Catalin worshipped me,” Bianca retorted with a bitter laugh. “You think you’re so smart, but you’ve got it all wrong. You’re not even close.”
“All right,” I said. “So tell me.”
“What’s the point?” Bianca said, staring ahead. “When you’ll never understand.”
“It won’t matter if I understand or not,” I whispered. “When I leave you and ships behind forever. This is it, Bianca.”
We looked at each other, just vague shapes in the dark. In the distance, a cat meowed.
“Catalin was not my husband, as you thought my father said,” Bianca began slowly. “But he was... somebody’s…”
She took a deep breath.
“My... cousin’s... husband,” Bianca finally said.
Her admission was to the dark, not me.
“You slept with your cousin’s husband?” I said, overcome by shock. I was stunned to hear her admit to an affair with a married man. It seemed completely unlike her, based on a thousand intimate little things that I had learned over the years. When it came to intimacy, Bianca was as conventional as they come. No wonder she took such great pains to hide her past.
“He said he loved me,” Bianca said simply. “And I knew he did. It was obvious. But in communist days he couldn’t divorce his wife. That’s why we went to Belgium. We fled. We shamed the whole family. My parents were the laughing stock of the town. When I finally left Catalin, broke and broken and humiliated, they took me back. But they had to forgive me the humiliation I put them through; they’re my parents. And Romania is our home; they can’t leave, any more than I can. But you…?”
I said nothing.
“There it is,” Bianca said with a sense of finality. “Now that you know, you’ll never want me.”
3
The next morning we rose before dawn for a day trip to Delphi. Quiet seemed appropriate for the ferry across the placid morning sea. The bus roared up a steep, curving road into the mountains just as the pink tinge in the east began to send tendrils of color into the dark sky. Up, up, up we coursed into the dry peaks. The grey rock was covered in green from proliferate scrub, copses of spearing cypress, and thriving juniper. As the bus entered the tumult of the mountains of lower, central Greece, a last look at the sea was past a gargantuan olive grove two millennia old.
On to Mount Parnassus.
The road snaked through a fascinating village slumped atop the brow of a mountain, houses dripping down the steep flanks. The pink tile roofs of Arachova were particularly rosy in the early morning. The main road had been in use for three thousand years, and had obviously not anticipated 30,000 pound tourist buses. Every curve of the corkscrewing street brought us within literal inches of centuries-old—if not millennia-old—houses.
I didn’t notice any of it. I was still in shock. I simply could not imagine Bianca having an affair with a married man and intentionally alienating her parents. That was obviously a different woman, a woman of her past she was ashamed of. The Bianca I knew had been forged of that experience and its awful fallout: a woman of fierce determination to remain in control at all costs. She enjoyed play-acting the wild woman and readily hopped from dance to dance, but that didn’t translate to hopping from bed to bed. She was too conservative for that. True or false, right or wrong, she had believed that Catalin loved her.
Yet for the first time in our relationship, I was shaken. If Bianca had ever been capable of abandoning—nay, humiliating—her beloved family, then she was capable of playing me for all these years. From outside our relationship, it surely seemed obvious that was what was happening. But only we two knew the truth of each other, and we didn’t care what it looked like from outside. Of course, Bianca had surely felt that way with Catalin, too.
Had I really been fighting the good fight, or was it time to run for the hills?
Arriving at the complex of ruins snapped my stupor. Who hadn’t heard of the famed Oracle of Delphi? Here kings and conquerors were given a glimpse of the divine will, an ambiguous and powerful portend of the future. At a glance, the ruins appeared to be tumbling down the mountainside, so steep it was, but in fact were tethered by 2,800 year-old foundations. Though trees rose from some temple ruins, many pillars of milky white yet rose to the blue sky. A huge half-moon theater of thirty-five rows still inspired awe. From the top row, the view dropped down the angled tiers of seats, past the stage, past the foundations of ancient temples, to plummet into the fertile valley below. That same angle was unbroken for a thousand feet!
Bianca and I wandered separately through the grounds of the complex. She claimed to be fascinated by the beehive-shaped stone the ancient Greeks believed was the center of the world, whereas I imperiously went further up the mountain to where an athletic stadium had been cut into the living rock. In reality we just didn’t know what to say to each other.
No one living knew for certain where the oracle herself had actually performed her duties. She had been positioned in a temple above a fissure, from which hallucinogenic fumes had risen. Thusly intoxicated, the oracle would spout gibberish to be ‘translated’ by the priests into a prophecy for the paying guest. Alas, over twenty-eight centuries things change, including fault lines.
As I explored, I eventually found myself before the Temple of Apollo, where something happened. I stepped off the Via Sacra—the route that all fortune-seekers were required to walk—to the ruined temple. It was here that fortune seekers gave gifts to the priests and sacrifices to Apollo. Only foundations remained, extending deep along the flank of the mountain. A handful of columns signaled the far end. Stepping onto the entrance stone, I stopped.
There is a disconnect when viewing ruins. What you see is not what once was, and it’s up to you to bridge the gap of time. Imagination is required—especially when you know that the people who made all this thought that rock over there was literally the belly button of the earth!
But something here was different.
I dropped down to my knees and traced a finger along the smooth marble. This stone had been the threshold of the main temple since the beginning. Each and every man who sought the famed Oracle of Delphi had been required to step on this very spot. Not just irrelevant kings of the ancient world—the stuff of boring history lessons even in their own far-off lands—but also a man whose name is yet a household word today, all over the world. Alexander the Great, arguably the greatest single conqueror in the history of mankind, had stood right where I was standing now, on this little stone. It was a fact. Time no longer mattered, imagination was no longer required.
And everything became clear to me.
4
After a quiet dinner back on Angistri, Bianca and I left the torch-lit terrace and strolled along the beach. Eventually we found a spot quieter than the rest, and rested. The sun had long since set, but the rocks beneath us were still warm. Orange lights from torch-lit cafés behind us cast across the beach to tickle the restless waters.
“I learned something today,” I said quietly. “I want to make sure you do, too.”
Bianca watched the orange-lit edge of the waves lap over the stones.
“Do you know why people went to Delphi?” I asked. “To get a measure of control over their lives. They figured if they toiled hard enough to get there, they deserved it. They figured if they paid enough of a sacrifice, they deserved it. They believed the gods had ultimate power over their fate, but they would do anything to get a measure of control over their lives.
“You and I both know that was al
l crap,” I added brusquely. “The priests made a killing off selling overpriced sacrificial lambs and expensive trinkets to give to Apollo. The oracle herself was simply high on volcanic fumes and spouting gibberish, and the priests ‘translated’ it into something you wanted to hear. Usually it was ambiguous enough to always seem right. You left with the illusion of control.
“You, Bianca, are using the ships to pay the heavy price of sacrifice to get that feeling of control. With ship money, you bought a house for your parents. You’re atoning for having hurt them in the past. But love isn’t about control and you can’t buy it. Your parents love you and just want you to be happy, to live your own life. You’ve done enough for them. If they can communicate that to me, it’s amazing they can’t get it through to you.
“I haven’t given you enough credit. I thought that because you couldn’t control Piti’s actions, you found other ways of dealing with it, like focusing so hard on ‘coming back’. Just like I thought that because you couldn’t control my reaction to your past, you hid it and found other ways to deal with it. But you do know that love is acceptance. You and your mother accept that Piti cheats because you both love him.
“I love you, regardless of your past. I may not ever truly understand, but I want you for who you are. I accept who you were. This guilt of yours is from another life. You’ve reformed, yes, you’ve atoned, definitely, but you still haven’t learned. You’re still running scared, scared that you’ll lose control and end up selling dubbed tapes in the cold. You’ve been running a long time. You’re running so fast that you’re running right through your life.”
I toed a rock, flipping it into the water.
“You’re running right past me.”
Bianca was silent.
“Today I stood in the footsteps of Alexander the Great,” I said to the sea. “He inherited all of Greece from his father, the first time it had ever been united. But he dared to demand more from life. He fought for it, and created the largest empire the world had ever known. He looked at the big picture. Until now, I haven’t been able to see the big picture. I’ve refused to see that you are unable to commit.”
I took Bianca’s hand and said, “We’ve both made our mistakes, and yet here we are, together again. From here we must move forward together. I want to give you a level of commitment you couldn’t get before. No more games. Be with me on the ships, or in America. I want you to marry me.”
Bianca continued her silence and stared at the sea. Finally she turned to me and said, “Da.”
“Da?” I said, surprised.
“Da,” she repeated.
“You mean that’s it?” I said, seeking clarification. “I always imagined that she would say ‘yes’ when I proposed, I guess. Not that I ever really sat around and thought about it.”
“As a girl I did imagine being asked,” Bianca quipped. “And I would always say ‘da’.”
Bianca and I shared a smile on the dark beach.
“Now to the important stuff,” I eventually said. “Let’s see if those sisters have any țuica left!”
5
That night, Bianca slept so tight to me I could feel her heartbeat. She was stiflingly hot, actually, but that was all right. The blind love I had for Bianca had been exposed to illumination. Across the years and the seas, I had learned much about love, much about Bianca, but most of all about myself.
“There is nothing more enticing, disenchanting, and enslaving than the life at sea,” Joseph Conrad had once written.
I reflected on his brilliant, dark novel Heart of Darkness. At first I had thought it was a story about adventure. The main character sailed far, after all, to exotic lands. Far from civilization, he witnessed the extreme behavior of men in extreme situations and the cruelty of men unburdened by scrutiny. Conrad was revealing the heart of mankind. But now I could reflect on my own years at sea. I, too, had witnessed the depravity of man. I, too, had tapped the source of the novel’s intense loneliness. It was not the absence of companionship or its great physical distance, but the absence of understanding. Rare indeed is the landlubber who fathoms what changes a man of the sea.
What are our responsibilities to each other, and how far must we go to fulfill them? At sea, such things are thrown into particular light. Sometimes it revolves around duty, other times around empathy.
In my journey to be with Bianca, I had gone through a bizarre series of triumphs and setbacks, literal starvation and wanton gluttony, temptation, denial, and other. Through it all, I had learned I could remain true to myself and to my beliefs. Further, I refused to lose my happy-go-lucky self. But I knew if I ever did lose it, I would find it right here with Bianca.
About The Author
Adventuring in over 50 countries to gather material for his bestselling books, Brian David Bruns has won numerous literary awards, including the USA REBA Grand Prize. He has contributed to Yahoo Travel, BBC, CNN, Travel Channel, and Reader’s Digest.
Bruns abandoned everything at age 30 to chase a woman who worked at sea, becoming the only American waiter in Carnival Cruise Line history to complete a full contract without quitting. His Cruise Confidential series chronicling the debacle has on two separate occasions been featured on ABC’s 20/20.
After residing in Dracula’s hometown for several years—a mere kilometer from the house where Vlad the Impaler was born—Bruns moved to Las Vegas with his Romanian wife. They live with two cats, Julius and Caesar.
Author’s Note
Books 1 and 2 of this series, Cruise Confidential and Ship for Brains, respectively, are narrative exposés of the cruise industry. Unsinkable Mister Brown, though overlapping both its predecessors’ timelines, stands alone as a true tale of travel and romance. Book 4, High Seas Drifter, explores the Mediterranean and the shocking reason I no longer work at sea.
The full international whirlwind love affair I shared with Bianca is presented here from even before our first kiss. Readers familiar with Cruise Confidential will recognize herein certain events which, though truncated, are necessary for this narrative. The events of Ship for Brains fit snugly between Parts I & II.
As usual, all names have been changed, excepting singer/songwriter Laureen Niamesny from Seven Seas Mariner. (Her music is available on CD—see the Notes section). Oh, and I really am Brian and Bruns really is Brown in Romanian.
Please note, at the end of Cruise Confidential Bianca’s ship was erroneously referred to as Glory, and is here correctly identified as Miracle.
Most importantly, I cannot truly express in words my gratitude to my wife. Thank you for your support of my careers both at sea and at home, and of this book in particular. Proclaiming my life and my feelings for the world to judge was one part liberating and two parts terrifying. After all, it’s not just about me. Your depth of love and understanding continue to delight me daily.
Please enjoy the opening chapters from my first fiction book, The Gothic Shift. This collection won the 2014 International Book Awards Fiction: Short Stories. Kirkus Reviews says: “A delightful balance of whimsy and the grotesque, with a glimmer of moonstruck romance. Bruns creates well-imagined, realistic settings for his lively characters.”
But, like ships, it’s not all fun and games. As Horror Novel Reviews notes, “I found this book to be an extreme delight. Bruns builds each piece with a subtle tension rather than in your face horror. But do not misunderstand that statement: the horror is there and very real."
I hope that you, too, find it worthy. Do let me know!
Brian David Bruns
Twitter: @BDBauthor
June 10, 1994
1
Returning to the table with momentous strides, he set the heaping plate before him. Deft with enthusiasm, the man slid into the seat and wriggled in firmly. His napkin was plucked from the table, the tips thumbed deep into his shirt collar. The peach linen reflected curiously from polished silverware, echoed in popping bubbles of champagne. He brought simple contents from the buffet, but reviewed them with inten
se, manifest scrutiny. His plate was piled high with pink, unpeeled shrimp. The mound of morsels rose like a pyramid. Circling the heap were four lemon wedges. All faced inwards, all payed homage to the shrine of nourishment. He had very consciously placed them equidistant from one another. Zero, ninety, one hundred eighty, and two hundred seventy degrees were perfectly denoted.
The man’s lips cracked into an anxious grin. A mottled tongue peeked from behind coffee-stained teeth. There was something very unsettling about his mouth. The tips of his short white mustache were stained pink.
He was ready to begin.
With a grand sweep of both hands, he pushed the entire affair from the plate directly onto the tablecloth. Shrimp tumbled to the linen, lemons cascaded after. The backs of his hands became greasy, covered with lemon juice. He brushed them absently upon his pants.
After cracking thick, knobby knuckles, he began to peel. The meat was deposited once more onto the grease-smeared plate. The large hands did not appear a part of the man who utilized them with such precision. Though his waist was trim, his hands were quite bloated. They bobbed in the air before him, not possibly part of his slender person, but as if they belonged to a swooping, pale vermin.
Slowly the plate filled with shrimps anew, now peeled and ready for consumption. The linen beside the plate had since grown wet and slimy beneath the detritus, but the man paid it no heed. Such was his focus; he maintained the appearance of an unthinking robot, a shrimping machine. Yet this was not so. Beneath the mildly sweating forehead—the work was undertaken with great expense of focus and effort—and knitted white brows lurked a thinking man. His mind orbited the plate’s growing contents with unparalleled marvel. He throbbed with anticipation of what was to come next.
Unsinkable Mister Brown (Cruise Confidential 3) Page 36