“Engine fire,” said one of the other officers.
“How did it start?”
“We don’t know yet.”
“Is it out?”
“It’s contained, but they’re still fighting it.”
“Where’s the power? What about the backup generator?”
“All we have are basic communications and emergency lights.”
“Seriously?”
The other officer jerked his head in the direction of Larry Weiss, who was on his feet now, pacing about the room, shouting into his satellite phone handset.
The officer spotted Sasha and Miriam. “Can I help you with something?”
“We came to find out what was going on,” said Sasha.
“The captain just made an announcement that the fire is contained and the ship is safe,” said the officer. Miriam opened her mouth to explain that they hadn’t heard the captain’s announcement because she’d been standing right here while he made it, but the officer gestured to the open doorway to the stairwell. “You’ll be safer down with the other passengers.”
Larry hung up the phone and turned to the captain. “What a mess. Un-fucking-believable.” He turned to the crewmembers nearby. “What? You’re just standing there? Why aren’t you fixing this shit?” Then he saw Miriam and Sasha and strode over to them and put his hands on their shoulders. “You two,” he said. “Get downstairs and follow instructions. And if you see my wife, tell her to go to our suite and stay there.”
Miriam felt his hand on her shoulder like a steel clamp as he herded them out of the room.
“What’s happening, Larry?” she asked him.
She looked up into his face and met his gaze. He looked startled to recognize her there, surprised to remember who she was, his old friend Miriam.
“It’ll be fine,” he told her, his tone softening. “Little blaze in the engine room, should be out by now, or soon.”
“Will the power come back on?” Sasha asked.
“I’m sure it will,” said Larry with his old easygoing confidence. “Don’t worry, go back to your cabins and be comfortable. We’ll take care of this.”
As Miriam and Sasha went down the stairs, she heard his voice again, penetrating, full of punitive anger at the bridge crew, and felt as if, after all the decades she’d known him, she had just seen Larry Weiss clearly for the first time.
* * *
*
Mick retraced his steps back to the crew lounge in the glow of the emergency lights. He had already concluded that the power had gone out because of the fire. The next logical conclusion was that the crew who’d walked out had deliberately set the fire to sabotage the ship. It seemed crazy. But then again, he had never in his life witnessed a galley crew walk out on their executive chef. He had no idea what they were capable of doing now, how far they were willing to take this insane protest. Maybe Consuelo had actually poisoned Laurens. She had joked about it the other day. At least, Mick had thought she was joking. Who knew anymore?
When he got to the open door to the darkened crew lounge, he heard shouting, chaos, thumps. A few people were lighting candles.
“What’s going on?”
“Why is the power out?”
“Hey,” Mick yelled into the crowd. “Did you assholes start a fire?”
Some began to panic at the mention of fire. There were shrieks, curses. Someone standing close to Mick said something in a low, despairing mutter in a language he didn’t know.
“A fire,” said Mick. “It made the power go out. Does anyone know anything about this?”
“No,” came shouts from several people.
“Where is the fire?” said Trevor.
“We should go and help,” said Rodrigo.
“No!” He heard Consuelo’s voice clearly. She stood with her arm raised theatrically in the manner of a rebel statue, lit by candlelight. Her voice was clear and ringing. “No one leave! It works better for us if we stay together and don’t give in!”
“People will be scared,” said a young woman Mick recognized from salad prep. “It won’t hurt us to see if they need anything.”
“We aren’t their servants anymore,” said Consuelo. “We’re equals now. And if we stay here, we have more leverage, if we stay true to what we’re doing. It’s better for us. No one leave!”
Mick could see how much she loved this role, resistance leader, venting her righteous anger in service of a cause instead of having to keep it suppressed on the line. She was flying high. Not even the news of the fire and the power going out had daunted her.
He pushed his way through the crowd and stuck his face near hers, tapped her on the shoulder.
“Did you poison Laurens? Tell the truth.”
“Poison—what?”
“He’s throwing up. He went to the infirmary. What did you do?”
She looked shocked, genuinely. “I would never do that,” she said.
“Did you people start the fire?”
“No! This is the first we’ve heard of it. Why the hell would we do that?”
He locked eyes with her for a beat or two. “If there’s a fire,” she called as he turned into the crowd, “then we’re all fucked. All we did was walk out.”
Exhausted, Mick stepped out of the lounge and stood alone in the dim, smoky hallway. He had no one to confer with. Kenji had taken Laurens up to the infirmary. Jean-Luc was a competitive, pouty meathead and would be of no help to him. Paolo had joined the walkout, and there was apparently no night crew now, either.
He couldn’t face going back to the galley alone. He craved a short glass of straight whiskey with a ferocious bloodlust. With no real idea of where he was headed, he found the nearest stairs and climbed upward, out of the smoke. A cigarette, jaj istenem, he wanted a cigarette.
* * *
*
Christine and Valerie had made their way up to the solarium at the very top of the ship to join a crowd of people. The ship lay on the calm ocean. Smoke from the fire hung over the open decks like drifting clouds of noxious incense. Without the soothing effect of the constant, low-level vibrations of the engines, everyone was full of nervous jitters, as if all the engines had transferred their energy to the passengers themselves, and the sudden lack of propulsion had awakened everyone out of their dreamy languor. Christine heard sharp voices, felt bodies moving around her in restless dislocation and fear.
From the front of the solarium came a bridge crewmember’s voice, amplified through a megaphone. She sounded very young, but calm and confident. “Everyone, hello, I have good news! The fire is out, and no one was hurt. And we’re working on getting the power back up for you.”
There were some wan cheers as flashlights were trained up to illuminate her. Small arrows of rain slanted down through the beams of light.
“Well, folks, we had a small engine-room fire,” she said. “Our crew has put the fire completely out with no damage to the ship, and the engineers are working on repairing the generators.”
“When will we have power back?”
“As soon as we can.”
“Is there a midnight buffet?”
“Not tonight. I’m sorry.”
She put the megaphone down for a moment while another bridge crewmember said something into her ear. She listened closely, nodded, lifted the megaphone again, and resumed.
“So we’re going to work through the night and do our best to have the power back up by tomorrow morning. Meanwhile, we need you all to stay warm and safe, so the captain is asking that you all go back to your cabins right now. I know it’s a bit smoky below, and the air isn’t working, so you’ll need to open your windows enough to let fresh air in. Keep your doors open if you have inner rooms. There’s emergency lighting in the hallways. The crew will be here to assist if you need us. So try to get some sleep, and we hope to have ev
erything back up and running in the morning.”
“Oh man, this is fucked up, Christine.” Valerie’s voice vibrated through their pressed-together skulls as Christine put an arm around her and they leaned into each other. “I’m so sorry I brought you on this disaster cruise.”
“It’s not your fault,” Christine said. “Anyway, aren’t you glad I’m here? What if you were alone?”
She could feel Valerie’s anxiety subside. She liked having her arm around her friend. It made her feel motherly. It was not a bad feeling at all, this power to soothe and ground someone with your physical presence alone. Valerie’s shoulders and ribs felt as insubstantial as wicker.
Christine realized that she was ravenous. It was funny how quickly she had become conditioned to look forward to the midnight buffet. Normally, at home, she and Ed ate dinner at about six-thirty and nothing else till breakfast the next morning. Yet it had taken only a few days of sumptuous late-night spreads to get used to this nightly indulgence.
Laughing inwardly at herself, she realized that she felt irrationally cheerful about this situation, on the whole. This was the way she usually reacted when things went “pear-shaped,” as her mother put it. Maybe it was because, when Christine was growing up, any small catastrophe had caused her parents to focus on her and her sister instead of being their usual distracted and worried selves, as if having the barn wall collapse or the tractor break down or the lambing ewe die made them remember that they loved their children.
“Hey,” said Valerie. “There’s that guy. That chef.”
Christine caught sight of him, emerging from the stairwell nearby. Mick, she remembered. That was his name. When he saw Valerie and Christine, his knotted expression eased and he seemed on the verge of greeting them. Then his face went blank and he turned away, as if he’d remembered that he didn’t know them, or didn’t care if he did, and went off into the darkness.
chapter fifteen
As soon as it was light enough to see, Christine got out of bed and stood in her pajamas by the open window, hugging her arms to her chest to warm herself. The ocean looked pellucid and calm. The cabin felt stiflingly small behind her.
“Oh God,” moaned Valerie from beneath her covers. “Did we dream all that?”
Christine turned to address the fetal knot cocooned in its nest of blankets, hair sprouting onto the pillow. “I wish we had.”
“What’s going on?”
“We’re still adrift, I think,” said Christine.
Valerie unpeeled the blankets from her head and squinted at Christine. “Well, this is a plot twist I didn’t expect. Power outage. My cruise-ship chapter just got a lot more interesting. This could even be a book of its own.”
“That might be the one good thing in all this.” Christine stretched, hearing her joints crack, feeling her muscles elongate like rubber bands. She yawned so hard her jaws creaked. “I have to get out of here. Want to come?”
“I’m not awake yet,” said Valerie, pulling the covers back over her head. “Bring coffee if you can find any,” she added, her voice muffled.
In the bathroom, Christine peed and flushed the toilet. Nothing happened. So the plumbing wasn’t working: that was bad. Instead of trying to take a shower, which she imagined would be futile now, she pulled on shorts and a T-shirt, brushed her hair. Out in the hallway, it was so quiet she could hear her own footsteps as she padded along on the patterned carpet with its dizzying interlocking mod diamonds and ovals. No vibrations underfoot meant that the engines were still out. So was the air-conditioning. The door at the end of the hallway was propped open, letting a fresh bright breeze pour through.
It was just past dawn, she guessed, judging by the soft spangled light on the water. She was alone on the staircase, alone in the hallway. As she approached the open door to the breakfast room, she heard activity and saw two waiters in uniform taking dishes off rolling carts and arranging them on a long table. The room was bleached with light and filled with the sound of the waves, closer down here than on the upper decks, the morning light and salty air contrasting with the kitschy decor, synthetic burnt-orange drapes, sunburst wall-to-wall carpet studded with pink and ocher and magenta, and stackable mass-produced cushioned chairs and institutional tables.
At the other end of the room she recognized Sidney, the maître d’, wrestling with a large sliding window on a track. He stopped to rub his shoulder. Then he fished a flask out of his hip pants pocket, unscrewed it, and took a deep drink.
“Can I help you open it?” Christine asked, walking toward him. “It looks like a job for two people.”
Sidney shoved his flask back into his pocket. “No no, I can manage. Breakfast isn’t ready yet, I’m afraid.”
Christine looked around. Besides Sidney and the two other men, there was no one there. Usually the breakfast room was thronged with staff. She watched as Sidney pulled and pushed, straining against the sliding door. It wouldn’t budge.
“Here,” she said, dragging a chair over to the window. She stood on it, grasped the pane, putting her own hands on it above Sidney’s handholds, and tugged with him. The window opened smoothly on its tracks, letting warm sea air billow into the room.
Christine jumped down and returned the chair to its table.
“Thank you,” said Sidney. “Couldn’t have done it without you.”
“Your name is Sidney, right? I know because I’ve met you every night at dinner.”
“And you’re Christine Thorne from Fryeburg, Maine.”
She couldn’t help smiling as she heard her name and that of the little town she called home. “What’s happening? Do you know?”
“Well, we’re in a bit of a pickle, to tell you the truth,” said Sidney. “Nothing you should worry about, though.”
“So the power’s really out,” said Christine. “Can they fix it?”
“Oh, I reckon we’ll be all right. That crew knows what they’re about down there.”
“Is there anything I can do in the meantime? I would love to help out if I can.”
“Thank you, but that’s not necessary.”
He made “necessary” sound like a euphemism for “appropriate.” Christine pressed on. “I mean it. Really. I work hard. And I’m good at taking orders.”
Sidney hesitated. He was clearly unwilling to say no to a passenger’s request, no matter what it was. “Try the galley,” he said with dubious reluctance. “They’re a bit short-staffed at the moment. Little to-do last night. They might welcome an extra pair of hands.”
“Thanks,” she said.
He gave a slight bow from the waist and turned away, done with her. Christine hesitated, wondering where the hell the galley was, but she was too intimidated by his demeanor to ask for directions.
* * *
*
Mick woke up in blackness, rolled out of his bunk and stood up, opened the door to the hallway to let air and light in, and looked around for his clothes. His roommate was in the top bunk, his face turned to the wall. Mick stared at the back of his head. He couldn’t picture his face. What was his name? Silvio? Salvatore? He usually worked the night shift and didn’t come in until Mick had left. He should have been in the galley, not sleeping here.
Mick snapped awake remembering the walkout, Laurens, the fire. He stood still outside his room, listening for the familiar thrum of the engines below him. But there was nothing, only a stifling silence. He headed quickly down the hallway, almost running. The emergency track lights were still on, and the air was dense and smelled of smoke and God knew what chemicals they’d used to put out the fire. He assumed he’d lost most of his staff, and the power was still out. How would he cook with no electric stoves? Frozen and refrigerated food wouldn’t last more than a day. They were due to resupply in Hawaii, so there wasn’t much food left on the ship. He would have to make a full inventory of their stores, try to make them last un
til…
His thoughts were interrupted by a loud, clear voice behind him. “Hello, good morning, can you tell me where the galley is?”
He stopped and turned. It was that woman from Long Beach, the friend of the journalist. She had an odd expression on her face as she also recognized him. “Oh. Hi.” She hesitated, and Mick waited for the other shoe to drop. “You’re the chef,” she said politely.
“That’s right,” said Mick. “How can I help you?”
“I want to help you, actually,” she said. “I just talked to Sidney up in the breakfast room. He said maybe you could use a hand down here. I’m Christine.”
He was tempted to tell Christine, brusquely, to go back up to the breakfast buffet and leave all this to the crew, but he wasn’t sure there was a crew, and she was staring at him with a bug-eyed determination that made him pause.
“All right,” he said. “Follow me.”
He led her through the restaurant. Everything was still as it had been left the night before: tables set, shelves stocked for service, bar organized and gleaming. Ready for lunch. But with no crew to speak of and no power, lunch would most likely have to be basic, thrown-together sandwiches, which Mick suspected would not go over well with some of the passengers.
He stopped and turned to face her. He might as well tell this one before they all found out. “Here’s the thing, Christine. Most of the galley crew quit their jobs last night and walked out. Hard to do on a ship this size, but they’ve done it.”
She didn’t look entirely surprised. Maybe she’d already heard. “What happened?”
“They said they won’t do their jobs anymore unless management renews their contracts with better terms.”
“Wait. Why?” she asked. “Because of the fire?”
The Last Cruise Page 18