The Last Cruise

by Kate Christensen

  “No power yet,” said Christine. “But coffee.”

  “Thank you.” Valerie picked up the cup, took a sip. “Is everyone freaking out? Are we getting rescued?”

  “I don’t know. Half the crew walked out last night just before the engine fire. They didn’t set it, I don’t think, but they’ve taken over the buffet galley and set up camp on the main deck.”

  “Holy fuck,” said Valerie, coming instantly awake. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No. It’s true. They’re on strike. They’re trying to negotiate with the owner to get their jobs back, but on better terms. The rich guy we met the other night at the captain’s table dinner, remember?”

  “Okay,” said Valerie. “I need to go and talk to them right now.” She downed the rest of her coffee and leapt from her bed, went into the bathroom and closed the door.

  “Don’t use the toilet,” Christine called. “We can’t flush it.”

  The door opened. “Wait, what?”

  From her pocket, Christine took a wad of small yellow plastic sacks with biohazard markings on them and gave them to Valerie. “Bio-bags,” she said. “Crewmembers were handing them out earlier. We’re supposed to leave the full ones in our bathroom, and they’ll collect them.”

  “This sucks,” Valerie muttered as she closed the door again.

  “Also,” said Christine when Valerie emerged looking grim, “no showers.”

  “No showers.” Valerie stared at Christine. “When are they going to fix it?”

  “I don’t know,” said Christine.

  Valerie slid a cotton dress over her head, stuck her feet into sandals, and picked up her notebook on her way out the door. “I hope I can remember how to take notes by hand.”

  * * *

  *

  The ship felt as if it were set into a block of concrete, no motion anywhere, nothing but flat sea and hard sky. Miriam was sweating from every pore. The back of her neck felt swaddled in an electric blanket. Rivka clutched her arm as they went along the catwalk toward the bridge.

  “Good,” Rivka said into her ear as they stepped into a small room off the bridge, “Larry’s not here yet.”

  The so-called war room was empty except for Captain Jack and two senior officers, who stood poring over a vast oceanic map on the table. Two younger men in lower-ranking uniforms stood uneasily behind them. It was a small room, just a teak-lined cubbyhole really. Behind the men, on a long countertop, was an array of blank computer screens and instrument panels, now defunct.

  The officers didn’t notice the two old women, which was just as well. Miriam could read music and words and land maps, but not ocean maps. She stared at the unfurled paper with its longitudinal and latitudinal lines, the huge expanse of blue covered with numbers and dots, thinking wistfully about her daughter, her son, her grandchildren. She wondered how Isaac was doing. She’d left him in the shade on the pool deck with Jakov, who was feeling queasy and bilious in the heat. Sasha was still down in the engine room, but what he was doing down there was a mystery, since the engines were, as far as anyone knew, completely kaput.

  Larry Weiss entered, flanked by two more senior officers. He stood by the window with his arms crossed high on his chest, his legs apart, ignoring his wife, who ignored him back. Miriam could feel them both bristling. The brightly sunlit little room seemed as crowded and full of faces as a rush-hour subway car.

  “Hello, everyone,” said the captain. He looked unruffled, almost relaxed, unlike the rest of them. His gaze slid past Miriam. “First things first: Jim, how’s it going down there?”

  “No luck with the engines,” said a strapping young man with a crew cut. “But my guys are on it. They’ll keep working till we get back to port.”

  “What’s the backup generator situation?”

  “We’ve got bridge communication, the PA system, and sat phones, plus the shipwide network of emergency lighting, but that’s about it.” Jim had a hangdog expression, as if this were his own personal fault. “That means no AC, no vacuum pumps for the plumbing, and no refrigeration or propulsion.”

  “So we have basic communication capabilities and limited lighting, but nothing else,” said the captain.

  “That’s correct, sir,” said Jim.

  No one looked at Larry Weiss.

  “Tom,” said the captain, turning to another young man on whose uniform the clusters of insignia and brass appeared to be second only to the captain’s, “when can we expect to be hauled out of here?”

  “Cabaret is sending tugboats, but they’re still days away. HQ is looking into sending additional supplies and water if we need them.”

  “An airdrop,” said the captain. “Okay. No power, no tugs yet, limited food and water. Elhadji, what’s the weather look like out here?”

  “Clear skies all week,” said one of the lower-ranking men behind the captain. “Fingers crossed.”

  “Crossed fingers won’t save us in a storm,” said the captain. “Chen, are we set with the lifeboats? Manual winches good to go?”

  “Yes, Captain,” said a younger officer. “And we’ll organize another muster drill this afternoon.”

  Although Miriam always wanted to know the worst, the mention of lifeboats was frightening. Rivka’s fingers had been squeezing her upper arm so hard it almost hurt.

  “Good,” said the captain. “Phil, what’s the report on the galleys? How’s morale?”

  “Chef Laurens is very sick,” said a deep-voiced officer. “But Chefs Mick and Kenji have taken over in the main galley. Tonight they’re planning to do a cookout on the pool deck. We’ll have drinks and music, if possible. We want to keep people happy.”

  “Lots of booze,” said the captain. “Keep it flowing. But not too much. We don’t want any man-overboard situations.” It was evidently meant as a dark joke, but no one laughed. “And also, keep those bio-bags in circulation, make sure they use ’em, otherwise this boat’s going to stink like a barnyard.”

  “Aye-aye, sir,” said Phil. “My team is on it.”

  “Now,” said the captain, straightening up and crossing his arms. Miriam didn’t know a thing about the formalities of nautical command, but the captain’s dramatic show of authority seemed intended to impress Larry Weiss. “We have another situation to add to the engine and generator failures. Eric, why don’t you brief us on the latest with this illness we’ve been seeing? Chef Laurens isn’t the only one, is he?”

  “The medic says it’s norovirus,” said a bald senior officer with a mournful face. “About eighteen, twenty people are pretty damned sick already. It’s fairly common, as we all know, especially on cruise ships. And there’s no real way to treat it, you just quarantine the patients and let it run its course. But it’s gonna be hard to keep things sterilized with no plumbing and limited water. This bug tends to spread pretty fast in the best of conditions.”

  Everyone in the room looked unhappy, including Larry. Clearly this was news to most of them.

  “We’ve established a clinic on the promenade deck,” Eric was saying. “It’s the best we can do for now. And we’re going to need all the hands we can get.” He said this to the captain, not challenging him, but implying a question.

  “Well, about that,” said the captain. He hesitated, not with uncertainty, Miriam thought, but for effect. He looked directly at Larry. “As most of you know, right before the fire, we had a situation in which about half of the crew walked out.”

  “Yes, Captain,” said Larry with a hint of annoyance. “I’m well aware of the situation.”

  “Then you know they’ve set up camp on the main deck. And they seem to have taken over the buffet galley as well, at least until Cabaret agrees to reinstate their contracts, in which case they would be willing to resume their duties.”

  “Bullshit,” said Larry. “It’s a publicity stunt. I’m not reinstating any contra
cts. I don’t even have the authority to do that without approval from the CEO of the company and the board of directors. Honestly, this is outrageous. Criminal, in fact.”

  “Mr. Weiss,” said the captain with elaborate courtesy. “Perhaps if you just agreed to have a conversation with the leaders of this protest.”

  “No way,” said Larry. “Absolutely not. First of all, I don’t negotiate with terrorists. And second of all, how do we know they didn’t set the fire themselves? Do we know that?”

  Captain Jack seemed frustrated, Miriam thought, which made sense, since he clearly couldn’t dictate the workers’ terms, couldn’t do anything but defer to Larry. “Well, it’s critical to the well-being of this ship that we get them back to their stations, in uniform, as soon as possible. Otherwise our situation could disintegrate further.”

  “Sorry,” said Larry Weiss without looking at all sorry. “You can let them rot or throw them overboard. I don’t give a fuck what happens to them.”

  Miriam almost gasped aloud. Rivka’s grip was cutting off the circulation in her arm.

  “Anyway,” said Larry, “what I want to know is, why the hell don’t we have power? Where is the backup engine?”

  “With all due respect, sir,” said the captain with cautious geniality. “The company decided to use the space for extra cabins instead. Better for revenue, that was the rationale.”

  “Well,” said Larry, “that should never have happened.” He looked around the room for someone to blame. But since there clearly wasn’t anyone, he changed tack. “Well, luckily I’ve arranged for a military helicopter to come this evening. It can only make one trip, and it can only take limited weight. I’m airlifting the executive chef out, he’s dangerously sick and he needs a hospital.”

  “My hero,” muttered Rivka.

  “My wife and I will be leaving the ship as well,” he was saying. “So you all will just have to sit tight and wait for the tugboats to arrive.”

  “I’m not going,” Rivka said. “I’m staying here with the people whose lives are your responsibility.”

  “No,” said Larry. “You’re coming with me.”

  “No, I am not,” said Rivka. “I’m staying right here, and you should too. This is your fault. You canceled their contracts. You wouldn’t pay for backup engines. And now you’re ditching the ship?”

  Everyone in the room, including Miriam, stared at her.

  “Okay,” said the captain. “Meeting dismissed. Except Elhadji and Chen, I need you two for further instructions.”

  Rivka marched out and along the catwalk. Miriam hurried after her.

  “I want the whole quartet to move up to my quarters,” Rivka said as she hustled along. “All four of you, as soon as Larry’s off the boat. I’ve got room, no sense wasting it.”

  “Thank you,” said Miriam, matching her stride.

  “No,” said Rivka. “It’s for me. I want company. You’re doing this as a favor to me.”

  “Is a helicopter really coming to get him?”

  “If Larry wants a helicopter, he’ll get one.” They started down the stairs. “And a new wife. Goddamn it, I’m thirsty.”

  * * *

  *

  The sun hit their faces with a hot blast as Christine and Valerie emerged from the stairwell and out onto the expansive main deck. It was the lowest and largest outdoor deck on the ship, and from it, the higher decks rose in a terraced block. At some point during the night or early morning, the aft section of the main deck had been converted into a makeshift camp. Corners of bedsheets had been tied to high railings and awnings in taut rectangles to make ceilings for shade. Bunk mattresses were lined up underneath, each made with sheets tucked in just so, pillows plumped, cotton blankets folded at the foot, everything crisp, orderly. So this was what happened when a bunch of room stewards went on strike and set up a tent village, Christine thought. It was all so impeccable. The crisp military neatness was at odds with the mood among the crowd on deck, young workers out of uniform, wearing their own clothes, lounging on deck chairs, at ease for once. They were quiet, seemingly relaxed. At first glance, they could have been a group of young passengers, enjoying a sunny morning on a cruise. But a pall hung over them like the smoke from last night’s fire, and on closer look, the casualness of their postures seemed forced, provisional. Their faces were tense and alert. Their voices carried to Christine as she hesitated by the stairwell doorway. She heard several foreign languages at once, for the first time since she’d come on board, of which she recognized only Spanish.

  Valerie left Christine’s side and inserted herself among them, claiming an empty deck chair in a circle of young women. Perched on the edge of the chair, she eased her notebook from her bag and opened it discreetly, scratching with her pen on a blank page to make sure it worked as she asked a question, listened to the answer. Christine watched from the doorway as Valerie began writing quickly, her usual chaotic discontent concentrated into one hard knot of purpose. The women seemed eager to have someone to talk to, someone who appeared to be on their side.

  Christine thought of Lester and Camille below in the galley, how purposeful and sure they’d seemed to her. In contrast, these kids—as Christine thought of them, since most of them seemed well under thirty—looked defiant on the surface and nervous and scared underneath, unsure of everything. This was clearly not an ideological movement, politicized and telegraphed to a larger world. They seemed more like a provisional, loosely knit faction of strangers, bound by desperation and need. Christine felt uneasy, standing there where she didn’t belong, watching, with nothing to offer them but silent compassion.

  The young woman Valerie had been talking to stood up and led Valerie over to another group, offering her a seat with them. One member of the group seemed already to know her: a wiry, striking, Hispanic-looking young woman Christine didn’t recognize. She started talking rapidly to Valerie, watching her intensely as Valerie wrote everything down, almost reading over her shoulder. Christine guessed this might be the same angry young female chef with the masculine-sounding name Valerie had interviewed a few days earlier. Christine was too far away to hear what they were saying, but she saw from the woman’s body language and the way the others seemed to coalesce around her, paying her close and respectful attention, that she was one of the leaders of the group.

  Valerie buzzed back over to Christine. “They’re not giving in,” she said with quiet excitement. “Not until Larry Weiss agrees to negotiate with them. He’s refusing to even talk to them, so they’re at an impasse. I’m going to find this rich asshole and try to get a statement from him, anything I can use.”

  “You’re getting involved?” Christine wanted to caution Valerie to leave this alone, but she knew it was useless. This was her job.

  “Are you kidding?” said Valerie. “I have a frontline scoop on the first-ever official walkout on a cruise ship. Of course I’m getting involved! Want to come with me?”

  “No thanks,” said Christine, feeling her old discomfort with the more predatory, brazen aspects of journalism. She left Valerie to her interviews and headed back to the galley, back into the flow of work again, back where she belonged.

  * * *

  *

  When the emergency blasts sounded, one short followed by one long, Miriam was sitting in Isaac and Jakov’s cabin with Jakov, who wasn’t feeling well. Miriam suspected that he was suffering from heart trouble. He had been diagnosed with a bad heart several years before, and he’d been eating nothing but meat and cheese and buttery pastries for days.

  “Do I have to go too?” he said as the instructions to go to their muster stations came over the PA system. “I don’t think I can stand up.”

  “You stay here. I’ll say you’re sick and you went to the last one. Remember your muster station number?”

  “Eight!”

  The quartet had attended so many muster drill
s on so many cruise ships over the years, they could all put on life jackets automatically by now. Strapping hers on, Miriam made her way down to the assembly deck. Days ago, when they were still docked in Long Beach, the first muster drill had been festive, full of laughter and cheering. This time the mood was more grim. Miriam found Sasha and Isaac already wearing their life jackets, standing by the railing as their station leader took roll call and marked each name and cabin number off a list on a clipboard. The forty or so people assigned to Miriam’s lifeboat stood in a ragged, sticky mass. No one laughed or cheered. Several people tugged at their life jacket straps as if they suspected they were defective. Others peered with fretful skepticism over the railing at their lifeboat as if assessing its seaworthiness as well as the likelihood that they’d actually have to get in it.

  When Jakov’s name was called, Miriam said, “He’s sick. He couldn’t make it.”

  The young deck officer, an Asian boy in an orange safety vest, scowled at her as if Jakov’s absence were somehow her fault. “Everyone has to attend muster drills, ma’am,” he said with frosty admonishment.

  “He can hardly stand up,” said Miriam. She heard an edge in her own voice. “He knows where to go and how to put on a vest.”

  The officer ignored this and went on calling names.

  “What a putz,” muttered Isaac in Miriam’s ear.

  She was too stricken to laugh.

  chapter seventeen

  After lunch service was over, Mick left the galley and went down to his tiny cabin. He stripped off his clothes and wet himself thoroughly in a forbidden trickle in the shower, then turned off the water and lathered his hair and soaped and scrubbed his entire body. He rinsed off quickly, dried himself with a rough towel, put on a clean T-shirt and pair of checked pants, then his chef’s whites from the morning, and headed back to work. In the crew lounge, the ragtag members of his small galley crew had put together a hearty but sensibly expedient staff meal of whatever odds and ends were most likely to go bad first: day-old loaves of bread and a few ripe soft cheeses, kiwifruit and raspberries on the edge of spoiling, flats of smoked trout and salmon that had been opened already. The crewmembers were spread around the tables, popping open cans of cola and bottles of tea, eating and drinking ravenously and quickly, since they weren’t sure when their next meal would be.