by Merle Kröger
Ejection seat. Nobody has relieved him yet.
Behind him, the captain is radioing alternately with Miami and Salvamento Marítimo. Don’t take them on board, under any circumstances. Ah. Léon can almost hear Captain Krüger’s artery swelling. “No, but we have to check at least. That’s maritime law.” We have to assist stranded people. Someone gives him a long speech, probably on responsibilities and insurance regulations. He finally loses his temper. The damned sea rescue service won’t be here for at least an hour. He is dispatching a lifeboat now. “I don’t care!” he yells. “I’m still in charge here!”
Léon smiles. So old school. Won’t let himself be talked out of his convictions. Maybe he should have told the captain back then—no, it turned out all right. Best not to stir things up.
It is a good thing this raft is so far away. The other one, back in June, was right in front of the prow, in the middle of the night. They had basically thrown themselves in front of the Europe. They wanted to come on board. Maybe they hadn’t even had a leak. You can get water inside a boat in other ways. Léon had woken the captain, and they had decided to bring the people on board. There were almost forty of them, even some women.
Nike had had quite a lot to do. He had finally been able to implement his emergency plans. Normally nothing like this happens. The people on the raft had to leave everything behind except for the clothes they were wearing. No weapons. No germs. No electronic devices that could be used as bombs. They brought them into the conference center and set up a buffet. The good life until the next harbor. Doors locked from the outside.
Léon went straight from the bridge to a party that night. One of the Eastern Europeans was celebrating his birthday, and those people celebrate longer and wilder than anyone else. They had gotten hold of the raft, hosed it down, and filled it with ice cubes to cool the vodka. That is how cynical they are. The elevator did not arrive, as is often the case. They have sex in there at night. Or whatever. So down the stairs on foot, he got the floors mixed up—everything looks the same here. In any case, he suddenly found himself outside the conference center. Nike’s guard was not there, maybe in the restroom. Then he heard someone hammering against the door from the inside. “Hey, let us out! We want to go to the disco!” Léon listened. Sure, obviously they could hear it, since it was right below them, the even better life. “Hey, let us out! Just one hour.” Clubbing. They’d just been fished from the middle of the ocean and this was what they were worrying about? Léon laughed. Those guys were pretty chill.
Then, once more, he can’t remember. His memories pick up only after the door is already open. Two guys. High fives.
“Okay, hurry up.”
“Hey, cool, man.”
“You have to be back before we dock.”
“Sure, man!” Victory pose to those behind them.
“Just you two.”
The three of them headed down to the party, and it was pretty cool. The Nigerian was really funny. The other guy was Syrian or Iraqi or something, a bit depressed by the war down there, but that is easy to forget about if you’re dancing to the Balkan beat. You can have an absolute blast. Léon can’t remember how he got to bed that morning. That doesn’t happen to him very often.
For once, he and Mado had the day off together and went ashore. Which harbor was it again? Probably Malta. They ate seafood and rented a convertible. That counts as our vacation, when it is just the two of us. No one requesting anything. No uniforms. No responsibility. Just some bay that none of our buses goes to. That is paradise.
When they got back to Valletta just before cast-off, the border police had already picked up the refugees. Nike was hopping mad, because one of his staff messed up the head count. He was kicked off board, without notice. Lots of excitement, lots of shouting on the pier.
Léon had not even thought about whether the two runaways had gotten back on time, and nobody ever asked him about it. The only thing he can vaguely remember is the skirmish at the party. The Nigerian got in a fight with a Romanian, shouting about all the plans he had for when he finally made it to Europe. In any case, the Romanian yelled back: “You have no idea, you fucking nigger. You’ll be deported, right away!” The Nigerian wanted to head-butt him, but someone intervened, and the DJ cranked up the music.
SPIRIT OF EUROPE | DECK 12
Lalita Masarangi
Judging by the noises coming out of the stall, it’s likely to take a lot longer. Lalita is standing in front of the mirror in the handicapped restrooms. The old woman intercepted her; it couldn’t be helped.
Jo will have to wait.
Jo.
She leans over the sink and examines her face. They say that Gurkhas’ faces show no emotion. They are 100 percent fearless. Are you fearless, Lalita? Will you be able to bear what you see when you find Jo?
Something is wrong. Very wrong.
This time you will look danger in the eye, Lalita Masarangi. You won’t run off again. You are fearless. You are a Gurkha.
That time it had all been too much for her! Losing both brother and boyfriend on the same day, farewell by text message: “We’re sorry, Anu.” That was her older brother’s nickname for her, because as a child she had always talked to Annapuma. Her father, pale and choking with rage. The sadness behind her mother’s unwavering smile. Fate had wanted her to find the old newspaper that same day, on the bus en route to school in Aldershot, which was just an hour from London and the two boys who had broken her heart. Nine hours and a whole world away from Annapuma, her mountain.
She had chosen Annapuma. The mountain has always been her secret friend, a confidant and ally for the girl from Pokhara. Nothing in the world is as powerful as the Himalayas. You have to lower your eyes when Annapuma is lit up by the sun, so bright, so unbearably bright. Mighty warrior, guarding the valley.
She wrangled a flight to Nepal out of her daddy. Then she was back with her grandparents in Pokhara, after six years in Aldershot. “You have changed, girl.” They did not know her brother was gay. Only good news is passed on. Their son, her father, after fifteen years of service in the British army, was now the proud owner of his own company in England: Annapuma Security Services Limited. He had made the right decision, the son, when the Maoists seized control of the capital in 2004. “Child, child, these are uncertain times. The king has abdicated; the Maoists are in parliament.”
She told the grandparents about Aldershot for hours on end: About the pensioned Gurkhas who arrived daily, after finally receiving the right of residence for themselves and their families. About the famous actress who fought for the right of the elite soldiers to live in the country they served. And about people, her neighbors, who quietly, behind her back at first, and then ever more loudly, complained about the town’s decline.
There are things she did not discuss: How embarrassing the old Nepalese are who wander around town. How embarrassing it is to be part of it. How embarrassing the extra mention in social studies class is, the one about how bravely the Royal Gurkha Rifles fought for Great Britain.
This was another reason she wanted to get away.
She had brought the newspaper with her. “The Girls Who Are Fighting to Become Gurkhas.” Even the trainer is mentioned in it, the one who prepares the girls in Kathmandu for the entrance exam. What are you trying to prove? she’d asked herself. That you’re better than your ancestors? For two months, she waited patiently in Pokhara, until her family allowed her to enroll in the college for design in Kathmandu.
Instead of learning to draw, she trained like an animal. The requirements: fourteen pull-ups and seventy-five pushups in a minute, seventy sit-ups in two minutes, three miles uphill in the high mountains with twenty-five kilos on your back. She has perfect eyes and hearing already. Gurkha Girl.
Strong girls she met in the gym: Maoist ex-guerrillas and daughters from middle-class families like herself. They chatted for hours, discussing all the truths they had grown up with. What if the Brits had only been making the Nepalese believe, for hu
ndreds of years, that they were a race of warriors so that they could have cheap soldiers? Was it actually okay for a government to export young people, instead of educating them properly? On the other hand, for many of them, it was the only opportunity to make good money. Maoists also have to survive.
And above all, the question: Will they accept?
Will the Gurkhas accept women in their regiments?
After a little under a year, Lalita passed the entrance exam as the first woman ever. Wow.
Nevertheless, the Gurkha Rifles still refused to accept her, arguing that women endanger the unity of the troops. Her own people.
She was more than welcome to apply as a soldier with the regular British troops, according to the nice white colonel in the British army office. But by then, she had gone off it all. Bugger them! As British cannon fodder to Afghanistan?
Not me.
Back in Aldershot, her daddy invited her to Gurkha Villa, which serves unbeatably good momos, Nepalese dumplings with lots of chili. He presented her with a kukri dagger and offered her a job in his company. Not too bad.
“Ma’am, are you all right?”
The old woman remains locked inside the stall. Rumbling noises come out. Lalita hopes she makes it back into her wheelchair in one piece. She shudders at the thought of having to go in. Playing nurse is not her sort of thing.
“Shall I call someone?”
“Definitely not! My sister is at bingo.”
At least she is unlocking the door from the inside now. Lalita casts a last glance in the mirror. Get the woman out quickly and then keep on searching.
In the casino.
Jo, what did you want there?
“You are a beautiful young lady.” Suddenly she is right beside her, rolling up on silent wheels.
In the mirror, Lalita sees the woman’s face, the head fixed to her neck all crooked and twisted, but the eyes peering up at her are very sharp and young somehow. She feels herself flush.
“No need to be embarrassed.” The slender hand taps her lower arm. “Could you please flex your muscles?”
What’s that all about? Well, she does it. Suddenly the fingers grip her arm, and the old woman pulls herself up to her feet. “My hair is a nightmare.” With her free hand, she runs her fingers through it.
Lalita watches. The linen trousers are also askew. “May I?” She carefully places the woman’s hand on the edge of the sink, so that she can support herself. Then she uses both hands to grab the waistband and tugs. “That’s better.”
Their eyes meet in the mirror, and they both smile. “My name is Mrs. Malinowski. And you are Ms. Masarangi.” That is what it says on the name badge Lalita wears, like all other crew members. The woman nods and mumbles to herself. “….he names are similar,” Lalita thinks she hears.
She bends down to better understand the soft voice. Mrs. Malinowski rustles rather than speaks.
“And now tell me what is bothering you, Ms. Masarangi.”
Lalita is startled.
“I have been watching you for a while, since out on deck, and just now I’ve heard you sigh a few times.”
A little later, Lalita pushes Mrs. Malinowski back outside. She does not want to go back onto the lounger in the suite area. She is sick of lying there like a sitting duck for everyone to look at pityingly.
She turns the conversation to the refugee boat. “I was also a refugee, so I know how it feels.” She is disgusted at how some people hang around and stare. “It takes those people’s dignity, doesn’t it, Lalita? May I call you Lalita?”
Lalita nods and continues pushing the wheelchair.
“When will we take them on board? The men out there?”
She can barely understand the soft voice. “I don’t know, ma’am.”
On the other side, there are masses of empty loungers. In the half shade behind the fitness area, she helps Mrs. Malinowski lie down.
She squints at her from behind tired eyes. “Go find your friend, everything else can wait. And when you have found him, don’t let him go.”
Lalita takes the fragile hand and presses it to her heart.
Everything else can wait.
Casino.
SPIRIT OF EUROPE | ELEVATOR (OBSERVATION LIFT)
Nikhil Mehta
He’d intercepted Lalita Masarangi in the casino running after her boyfriend during office hours—the cheek of it! Nike makes a mental note to talk to Miami about Annapuma Security Services. Agencies for former Gurkha soldiers are springing up like mushrooms. The British army is downsizing its units, but it cannot possibly be laying off as many elite soldiers as are flooding the security market right now.
The elevator goes first down, then back up, before stopping once more on the promenade deck.
Mental note: check programming.
Nike watches Second Security Officer Masarangi, who is staring dolefully through the window toward the stage on the promenade. It is not difficult to guess what she is thinking of right now.
A family gets in, parents and children, all overweight and badly mannered. Judging by the time, they have squeezed in a snack between lunch and cake in the Café Royal. Overeating is the most common cause of heart attacks and collapses on cruises, beating out even sunstroke and alcohol poisoning. The children shout at each other, and Nike assumes they are either Dutch or Belgian. The father has ketchup on his shirt; the boy has a slice of pizza in his hand. He steps forward to the windowpane, stares out and drops it. Nike says nothing—that is protocol—but the mother catches his glance and bends down with a groan to pick up her offspring’s scraps. They get out on Deck 8.
Masarangi is now staring vacantly at the carpet, which today reads FRIDAY. People here forget everything, even what day it is.
“Officer!” Nike bellows. Her gaze shoots up. Good reflexes. “Prove to me that you are worth your pay. I need your full concentration now. I want you to accompany me outside.” He sees protest flare up in her expression.
He needs one or two women on his team. Controls are carried out at every harbor, in and out. The Sea Pass, which replaces credit cards and room keys on board, is scanned. All bags go through x-ray, and smuggled alcohol is usually confiscated. It can be picked up at the end of the journey. A body search is routinely carried out if the metal detector goes off. This is impossible without female staff present.
Nike prefers to work with Israelis, men or women. They are tough, combat trained, and obedience is installed in them from birth. Young and fit. Ultimately it is make or break for them, since it’s them or the Arabs. He has to admit that the grandchildren of Auschwitz survivors fascinate him. It is okay to say it out loud. Hitler is a popular first name in India. Mein Kampf was just reprinted in a classy new edition, and he has a copy on his bookshelf at home for everyone to see. So what?
A few years ago he went on a tour of Germany with his brother. They started in Herzogenaurach, to visit Puma and Adidas: business first. It was impressive how two global players emerged from healthy competition in this picturesque place. The Indians could take a page out of their playbook. Up the Rhine on a boat, and then a short visit to Berlin at the end, soil steeped in history. You could see immediately where the German determination comes from. They finish what they start, but Nike, who has been wearing Adidas ever since, thinks they persecuted the wrong people back then. That cannot be denied anymore. And, as already mentioned, he prefers to work with Israelis. The team that he got on really well with has been called back, from one day to the next. They are currently busy razing Gaza.
Miami took appropriate action. An internal paper was put together; the analysts crunched a bunch of numbers and came to the conclusion that there is such a thing as an ideal security team on board a cruise liner. Ideal in the sense of cost effectiveness and psychological profile: headed by an Indian with experience in the navy, police force, or hotel security; in the midfield, a couple of Gurkhas with front line experience, in case things get too dicey; and at the bottom, for patrols, the Burmese, who do not conside
r it beneath them to do deck work. The women are provided by the respective agencies, this one from Annapuma, in a three-pack with the two ex-soldiers, who do not ask any questions and obey him without question, despite his younger age.
Sure, he would prefer to have the men with him to face what is ahead, but now he needs people from whom he can demand complete obedience.
Deck 10. Nike pushes the button that prevents the doors from opening. Outside, there are a few children in their swimming gear. They will have to wait.
“Masarangi.” Questioning eyes. Fear. That’s good, that’s where he wants her. He forces himself to speak quietly, almost tenderly. “I spoke to your boss before you came on duty.”
It’s impossible for her to mask her shock. “Dad?”
“I thought as much: your boss is your father.”
Nike mentally pats himself on the back. Good, carry on. Just a hint. Her father would probably not be terribly pleased to hear that his daughter is involved with—well, with a trashy lounge singer, isn’t that right? But don’t you worry, girl. Nike will help you. He will help you find this singer. Just not now!
Now we have an emergency situation and that takes priority. “Understood, Masarangi?”
She nods. “Yes, sir.”
There we go. Nike bestows a smile on the children outside the glass door and pushes the button.
Only the Frenchman is missing now.
Taking long strides, Nike drives the girl ahead of him down the corridor, past the officers’ cabins. He punches in the number code. The door to the bridge opens. He nods to the Gurkha on guard duty and points to the right. The fruit arrangement on the coffee table is still under its cellophane.
The old man intercepts him, evidently in a hurry. “Come on, Mehta, let’s go. We have to get out there and see how the people are doing. Women, children, pregnant women, injured?” Miami is putting pressure on the captain: when they will be moving again, the fuel costs. The Spanish coast guard is stalling him, can’t get their asses moving.