by Merle Kröger
Did I do the right thing, Kevin? Or am I a wretched coward? I don’t know, but perhaps you do. Yes, you out there in the raft, the one with the red cloth.
Kevin!
Seamus sets his empty beer glass close to the door. A really nice swell. Deck 4 rises and falls, rises and falls. The first raindrops lose themselves among the lifeboats suspended over the railing.
Nevertheless, Seamus pulls his video camera out of his pocket and takes off the lens cap: routine gestures done umpteen times, familiar.
Seamus films.
Wait a sec, am I seeing things? Is the raft moving, or is it just the wind? Aye, they’re clearing out. I’ve got to be crazy.
Seamus lowers the camera and squints into the misty gray. It thunders. The machines beneath him hum.
Who’s moving? They or we?
We’re moving.
It looks like a storm’s coming.
“To your health, men, arrive safely. To your health, Kevin. May the Holy Mother of God protect you.”
Long live the bloody Titanic. Head held high, straight to its sinking. The Titanic was launched from Belfast, and now they’ve built an entire museum for it. For a damned ship that sank with man and mouse on board. How morbid is that? How can we live in a city that has produced nothing but death and doom?
Tonight is Formal Night. I’ll lead my lady dressed up to the nines to dinner, and they’ll be astonished. We’re Irish, and we love any excuse for a good knees-up. Come rain or shine.
Seamus throws one final glance at the rough sea. Deck 4 is now completely desolate. Water is spreading out across the floor, turning it into a reflective surface.
The automatic door hisses open, and inside, the Filipino combo is fighting its way through this week’s charts more pathetically than usual.
Seamus decides to lie down for a short nap.
SALVAMAR ROSA
Diego Martínez
The storm front is coming straight at them from the north, with the boulders of Cabo de Palos vanishing from one moment to the next. Gusts sweep over the leaden-gray sea with gale-force winds of eight, nine. He stands on the bow as the first breaker arrives, and the Rosa begins to buck like a furious horse.
Downward.
His eyes scan every square meter of water in sight, and he lets his thoughts run free.
It was March 5, 1938, when Commander Luis González Ubieta sailed out here on the bow of the Libertad, leading the Republican fleet from Cartagena to Palma de Mallorca. Actually it was late evening, but that doesn’t matter. You could barely see your hand in front of your eyes. The two cruisers and five destroyers were navigating with darkened lights. Their goal was to infiltrate Palma Harbor and to stage a surprise attack against the Nationalists there. Suddenly González Ubieta noticed dark silhouettes very close by: ships, large ones. The two fleets were circling each other in the dark. Neither fired a shot, neither wanted to make itself a target by opening fire. In the end, it was the Fascists who lost their nerve first.
Thoughts speed back to the present. They must be drifting somewhere! Hell is about to break loose here. Diego leans out with his whole weight between the Rosa’s metal bars.
There’s nothing to be seen.
The Spirit of Europe is rapidly departing. They want to reach Mallorca yet tonight. It’s no fun in this weather, with all those vomiting tourists on board. Diego would actually really like to take a cruise sometime with his entire family. Well, maybe later, when he has the money for it, when the times are better, when he actually has his own family. Maybe.
The radio blares in his ears. The patrón is bellowing at Cartagena for sending the cruceiro away too soon, and now we can’t find the goddamned raft.
Where’s the helicopter?
Alicante. Too far away, but it should come anyway.
“Can you see anything?” That’s for him. Diego knocks against the outside of his helmet. The damned headset has a loose contact. He lifts his hand, thumb down. Negative.
You’d think it would be easy. The wide sea. A single boat. You couldn’t miss it. But these pateras are like gelatin. They wobble between the waves, too small for the radar to catch.
The patrón flips on the searchlight.
Up there! Is that it? He wipes his eyes with his sleeve.
An illusion.
The wind tugs at his overalls, and he turns around. The girl is standing behind him. Oh God, he’d forgotten all about her. She has pulled the cover around her shoulders and is gesturing. Girl, you’ll fly away! He places a hand on her shoulder, and with his other, he pushes her slowly but steadily toward the cabin. He can hardly get the door open, as spray drenches the back of his overalls.
Finally inside. The patrón is still on the radio. Diego gestures that she should sit down: a bench, a table, no luxury, but better than nothing.
He points to the Thermos: “Hot coffee!”
She wants to say something, but he has to get back out.
“I have to be out there. You understand?”
She nods.
Back out. At first, the noise is deafening. The storm has arrived. It thunders. He struggles, step by step, back up front to the lookout.
Nothing.
Even if they find them, how is he supposed to get them on board in this surf? That’s the critical moment. One false move, one guy too frantic, too excited, and the rubber boat will tip over. Those things are way too unstable, and once the people are in the water, most of them can’t swim. They drown before your eyes, and you can’t do a thing. Nothing worse.
Spain’s worst ship catastrophe.
He had just been thinking about that.
His abuelo mentioned it only once. The day on which he had watched 1,476 men drown in the sea before his very eyes. Diego was still a boy, so that had to have been in the late eighties. Franco was finally gone, and his grandfather had received a medal and had needed a brandy. His abuelo, like all the men in the Martinez family, was no great talker, but on that day, he had talked, while the whole family listened. The children sat breathlessly under the table, hoping that nobody remembered them and sent them to bed. Diego would later play the scene out over and over again with his Playmobil figures.
March 7, 1939, one year after the Battle of Cabo de Palos, shortly before the end of the Spanish Civil War. Catalonia had already fallen into the hands of Franco’s forces. Only Cartagena was left, barely held by the Republicans, when the uprising broke out here. The Fascists had already declared themselves the victors, and they sent their fleet from the north in order to occupy Cartagena. The Republican ships were fleeing across the Mediterranean, but the Republicans quelled the uprising with their last remaining resources, regaining control of the powerful guns on the fortress around Cartagena. One after the other, Franco’s ships turned around. Only the Castillo de Olite kept going. She was navigating blind, without radio contact, the only ship in the fleet that passed Isla de Escombreras, and the soldiers assumed that the other ships had already taken the harbor. They sang Nationalist songs and unfurled their flag. A shot thundered from the cannon above Escombreras, grazing the ship.
The songs fell silent.
The second shot went astray, and then panic broke out on deck.
The third shot was a direct hit on the munitions depot. As the Castillo de Olite broke apart, men, or parts of them, flew high into the air, right before the eyes of the fishermen from Escombreras.
Diego Martínez and the other fishermen didn’t waste much time, before they ran to their boats and headed out. Over the course of one night, they pulled hundreds of injured, shivering men out of the cold water. Many of them were killed by their own comrades as they tried to climb over one another into the tiny fishing boats.
Afterward, they hauled the dead ashore.
The Republicans took the survivors off their hands and carried them away, grumbling about the fishermen who felt obliged to rescue Fascists.
The war ended twenty-five days later, General Franco the celebrated victor.
A co
uple of weeks later, soldiers returned to the village, this time Franco’s Guardia Civil. They were looking for the cashbox from the sunken Olite. The wife of the lighthouse keeper, an ardent Fascist, sent them to the fishermen. The soldiers seized all the men in the village and stuck them in prison, but the cashbox was never found.
That’s how it was back then. The fishermen had to pay for the fact that they had saved lives.
“And you know what, boy?” His abuelo had pulled little Diego out from under the table. He had peed in his pants in excitement, but the old man didn’t care. “I would do it again. Do you know why?” Diego didn’t. “We, the fishermen from Escombreras, won’t let anyone dictate to us what is right and what is wrong!”
It thunders. Diego’s gaze wanders involuntarily toward the coast, over to where the old cannons are still standing on the summit. But the coast has disappeared behind a wall of rain. There is nothing to see, just water, everywhere.
No raft.
He feels helpless. Weak. Powerless.
First the dead boy, and now the raft is gone. We always arrive too late. The Mediterranean is filling up with bodies, like a mass grave, and we continue to go swimming on the weekends at the beaches of El Portús and Portmán.
Pull yourself together, Diego Martínez.
“There’s no point. The helicopter should keep searching.” The patrón’s voice rattles in his ears.
Diego lets go of the bars. He now notices that, despite his gloves, his hands are very stiff. That is how hard he has been holding on.
He lurches toward the back and throws himself against the door.
And is inside.
The patrón, Jorge is his name, has his hands full keeping the Rosa on course. Diego removes his helmet, his hands shaking. He desperately needs a cup of coffee. The passage down below is so narrow that he can hardly fit through in his overalls.
The woman is leaning against the cabin wall and has shut her eyes. Diego sits down quietly beside her and pours himself some coffee. He squints to the left, not wanting to stare at her. Maybe she really is asleep. She’s pretty, but not as young as he’d thought. A wrinkle on her forehead. She moves, and the wrinkle deepens as if she is in pain.
At least I pulled you from the water alive, beautiful. How did you land on the harbor wall at Cartagena? Why did you want to plunge into the water? Or did you slip?
He wants to know. He rescued her, so her life was in his hands. He feels a need to protect this life, as if it is especially valuable, especially fragile. One life against so many deaths. That is his deal with the devil on this day.
She moans in her sleep, as the wrinkle deepens even more. He looks over very shortly, then back away, before taking a sip of coffee. Very slowly, like in slow motion, he begins to feel the rolling of the ship under him. Then the girl’s body as it presses against his, slumping until her head rests on his shoulder.
Don’t move.
We’ll just sit like this.
Forever.
SPIRIT OF EUROPE | DECK 7
Lalita Masarangi
Outside the suite’s panorama window, the weather’s reminding her of 2012, that apocalypse movie. For a moment, Lalita forgets why she is here, then the woman in the wheelchair clears her throat. “We don’t have much time. My sister might return any minute.”
Thunder rolls.
“Yes, of course. So sorry, ma’am. What can I do for you?” Lalita feels like her head might explode. This day never seems to end. She is still on duty, still has no idea where Jo might be.
“Are you still looking for the singer?”
Lalita nods. Is that why the old woman asked her to come? Doesn’t she have anything else to do?
She moves into the light so she can get a better look at Mrs. Malinowski. Better is the wrong word, since she is now looking right down at her head. The silver hair falls in silky, thin strands from the side part over her ears. She wasn’t this stooped before. I can’t see her eyes. Creepy.
“Ma’am, you reported a burglary? Please tell me what you are missing, and since when.” Stick to protocol, security training. Stay objective. Don’t get drawn into personal conversations. Attentive but noncommittal. The passenger is always right. Fulfilling a dream. Western Mediterranean.
My head. Nightmare.
“I fear something has happened.” The old woman speaks downward, as if to herself. She cannot raise her head, but why not? Why do people get so bent? Lalita would like to straighten her up.
What is that supposed to mean? “Ma’am, I’m sorry, I don’t understand—”
“Come with me.” She shuffles forward, moving the wheelchair across the suite, centimeter by centimeter.
Lalita shuffles forward alongside her and feels stupid.
“Open the safe.”
Now what? Is this a trap? The others tell stories, in the evenings in the crew bar, about passengers who make a joke out of framing crew members for some offense. They quite calmly watch you being fired and disembarking in the next harbor, just for the fun of it. How sick is that?
“Open it. I’ll give you the code.”
And then? Then I’ll be standing in front of the open safe, and the sister will show up and find me alone with this helpless old woman. Lalita shakes her head. “We’re not allowed—”
Mrs. Malinowski interrupts her. Her wheezing sounds like the very loud rustling of leaves, like when you shuffle your feet through autumn foliage. “Good God, girl, you can see that I can’t reach it!”
“Please calm down! Please.” All right. If she insists. She goes to the safe and waits for the woman behind her to give her the four-digit code.
The safe springs open, and Lalita sees jewelry boxes, old-fashioned ones, made of blue and red velvet. Next to them, neatly piled by color, sit a large number of chips from the casino.
And in front of them piles… Oh no.
She picks it up: a silver triangle, rounded at the edges, a hole through it, engraved with a jumping dolphin. The Dolphins at Dawn.
His guitar pick. He wears it on a silver chain around his neck and takes it off only when he plays the guitar. His lucky charm.
How did it get here? In this suite? With the German woman?
“Can you remember whether he was wearing it last night?”
Of course she can remember. Of course he was wearing it. He never took it off. It was a gift from Bella, his grandmother. Bella, the freedom fighter. You remind me of her, Gurkha Girl. Lalita turns around, the plectrum in hand, and crouches down. She has to see the face.
The eyes squint up at her, behind the gold-rimmed glasses. “I’m afraid my sister may have had something to do with your boyfriend’s disappearance.” She makes a helpless gesture with her hands.
Lalita takes the hands in hers. They are ice cold. “Can we ask your sister?”
Mrs. Malinowski shakes her head. Resolutely. Okay, so no. Is she frightened of her sister? She is probably dependent on her, but Lalita has to know what happened. She is sure now that something is not right, since he would never willingly take the guitar pick off.
“Shall I report it?” The head shaking again. Yes, no, it’s pointless. No evidence. And Nike wants absolutely no more trouble.
Okay.
The casino. “Your sister plays in the casino regularly?” Nodding. And Jo worked there, at least according to the bass player. Was the sister there last night?
She doesn’t know. Her medication is too strong, and she sleeps like a log.
Lalita suggests they check the CCTV cameras again. There are more than a thousand cameras on board; one of them must have recorded something.
Mrs. Malinowski is horrified. This surveillance is terrible. What about privacy?
Lalita pushes her across the corridor to the elevator. “It’s for your own safety, ma’am.”
The woman has forgotten her pills, so that means back to the suite again and then back to the elevator. Wait. “Are there some here, too? Everywhere? Are we being monitored right now?”
Lalita has to laugh. “Don’t think of it like that. It’s not as if there are twenty people sitting and watching what’s going on in every little corner of the ship around the clock. We can activate the cameras by hand. A maximum of four at the same time. The data is stored, and people feel safer.”
“Not me.” She feels watched, controlled. She grew up in a system like that. Everyone was monitored; nobody could escape. “You are naive, young lady.”
Of course she’s naive. This is getting better by the minute. Her boyfriend has disappeared, this woman’s sister had something to do with it, and she is naive.
The elevator stops, and she pushes Mrs. Malinowski out onto Broadway.
It’s better if not too many people see her, since Broadway is strictly off-limits for passengers. No exceptions. They have no business here. This is no place for dream vacationers.
Then again, Lalita is security, and security is allowed to do whatever it likes.
“Oh, gray linoleum,” she rustles from below in the wheelchair.
“Don’t speak, please.” She should damn well keep her trap shut. “Keep your feet up.” Lalita picks up the pace. The more they hurry, the less time for questions.
Faces.
Curious. Tired. Annoyed.
“Watch out! Emergency coming through.”
Faint giggles come from the wheelchair.
“Shh.”
Everyone moves aside. The woman just looks too wretched, the way she is hanging in her chair.
Lalita parks Mrs. Malinowski behind some pieces of furniture waiting to be repaired. They are fixed to the wall with straps. “Don’t move.” Not that she can anyway.
She turns down the corridor that leads to the offices. This is a dangerous spot, since all sorts of officers mill around here. HR folks. Machinists. Safety. Security.
She slips into her office. Nike is on a video call with Miami in the adjacent conference room. She’ll have to risk it. All in, now or never.
A moment later, she has managed to just barely wedge the wheelchair into the windowless office. She locks the door from the inside, drops into the office chair, and activates the four CCTV monitors.