"That's encouraging," I said slowly. "I think."
"And besides," Eddie said with emphasis to Susie, "You were happy yesterday when Cosmina finally promised you your gondola tour."
Susie brightened a bit, but still managed to correct her boyfriend, "Our gondola tour. I've always wanted to see Venice, and now we're going to see it in style. You could learn some romance, Eddie."
"Beer being cheaper than milk is faster than romance," Eddie retorted. "With better odds of success."
"We're going to Venice?" I asked. "Tomorrow we're in Sicily or something, aren't we? I'm having trouble keeping up. Seven ports in seven countries in seven days, and each cruise different. How the hell am I supposed to plan? Anyway, is Cosmina the tour lady I keep hearing about?"
"She's the port excursions manager," Susie answered, rolling her eyes. "From Romania, wherever the hell that is. Russia, I guess. She organizes the group tours, but not the diving tours, thank God. She's awful."
"She's not that bad," Eddie disagreed.
"Only because you're with me!" Susie retorted. Eddie just shrugged.
Our conversation was cut short. Descending the stairs from the ship's interior came a knock-out blonde in a skimpy bikini.
"Ah, she's here!" Eddie cried. He jumped to his feet—perhaps a bit too enthusiastically. Obviously mollifying Susie's annoyance was not his priority.
Susie shot a glare across his bow and said with particular emphasis, "Yes, they are."
Following the attractive mother were two equally beautiful daughters. There was no question they were family because they looked like small, medium, and large versions of the same person. The youngest, about ten years old, wore her hair in a quivering ponytail like her mother, whereas the daughter of fifteen sported a sassy pixie-cut. All three wore matching bikinis of dark blue, which matched their eyes. My, were they idealized.
"Good morning," the mother said, flashing a pretty smile. "They've drug me here for a banana boat ride. We have a reservation. The Deiters."
"Yay!" the youngest burst out, squirming with excitement. "Banana boat! Banana boat!"
"You bet," Eddie said as he fished through the lifejacket pile for appropriate sizes. "I'll have you out in no time."
"I'll have you out in no time," Susie corrected again. "Eddie will be manning the platform."
Any thoughts that Susie and Eddie were just enjoying good-natured banter were soon squashed. She left with a huff that indicated she was clearly upset with him. Eddie took it all in stride and presented the Deiters with a genuine smile.
"Where's the fourth person?" Eddie asked as he assisted the youngest into her lifejacket.
"Oh, my husband won't be able to join us," the mother said. Her face soured as she added bitterly, "Work, he says. Can you believe that?"
Eddie glanced at his wiggling charge, looking chagrined.
"I'm sorry," he said earnestly, "but we can't go on the banana boat without four people. Ship rules."
"Why not?" the mother asked. Her stance hinted that she was used to men giving her whatever she wanted. And what she wanted right now was to keep the light in her daughters' eyes from dimming.
"Ship rules," Eddie repeated. "Insurance rules insist on maximum safety, which means four bodies. For balance and weight and stuff. I'm sorry, there's no one else here to join in. Usually the deck is packed with people, but they're all out already. I'm sure if you just wait a bit..."
"That won't work," the mother said. She indicated her teenage daughter and explained, "My daughter Lisa and I have spa treatments in an hour. This was for Tina."
"Mom," little Tina asked in a tiny voice. "Why can't we go?"
The mother brushed a soothing hand over the girl's pouting cheek. It was unpleasant being witness to the girl's disappointment.
"Unless..." Eddie said. "Hey, Brian, you wanna go on the banana boat with them?"
I glanced at the athletic bikini-clad woman, suddenly envisioning us thumping together through the crystalline Mediterranean—sans children, of course. I quickly realized how rude that was, so I mentally added in the hot teenager. At that point I wisely dashed all damning visions from my head lest I reveal myself by accidentally making eye contact with Susie.
"Uh, yeah. Of course I can," I said, emptying the pockets of my dress shorts. I paused a moment before removing my shirt, suddenly recognizing I had a protruding gut. Where the hell had that come from? I sucked it in as much as I could.
Mrs. Deiter required Eddie's assistance getting onto the inflatable banana boat. She was all beauty but no balance. She all but clung to the lucky bastard. Despite his appreciation for Mrs. Deiter's overt beauty, Eddie was every bit the professional. Securing his guests properly occupied the whole of his attention. He hauled little Tina into place behind her mother, giving her clear but kind instructions. Before our very eyes Lisa bounded through the air to land expertly on the shifting, wriggling banana. It was a most impressive leap. Obviously she inherited balance from her dad.
Lisa tossed her head back in satisfaction and boasted, "Lead cheerleader!"
Eddie muttered, "No surprise there."
Susie sniffed loudly on the Zodiac.
I was strangely nervous sliding in behind Lisa. My designated handles were nuzzled right up under her pert bottom. She was fifteen going on twenty, and knew exactly what it meant to be a hot blonde cheerleader. She was workin' it, too, arching her lithe body in all the right ways to secure a male's attention. Talk about overkill: to turn on a fifteen year-old boy she need only breathe. Yet here she was, working that giant rubber banana in ways best left to a Vegas VIP club. I should have been secretly enjoying it. I was nothing if not dirty-minded. But I had yet to reach the inevitable mid-life crisis, when twenty year's difference in age was desired. To me she was just a girl. More or less. I was still alive, after all.
Susie aggressively gunned the engine of the Zodiac and we were hauled to sea. Obviously Eddie's joy had piqued her anger. Even more obvious was that she was going to take it out on us. We crashed over and through the waves at break-neck speed, criss-crossing our own path to hit the wake as hard as possible. I began to think Susie's goal was to intentionally dunk the women as punishment for being so beautiful.
Mrs. Deiter and Tina shrieked in good-natured fun. Lisa whooped and leaned in a desperate bid to add more excitement to the ride. I tried not to cry. Keeping my hands on the slippery handles was difficult enough without the powerful distraction of tight, Prime A cheerleader buttocks bouncing and rubbing on them. I was going to get sued. I just knew it.
Five minutes later, it was all but assured.
Eventually we pulled back to the marina. The Deiters were wet, bedraggled, and beaming. I was all those things and nervous. When I saw Yoyo at the marina with his camera, I almost began to panic.
"Have fun?" Eddie asked Tina as he lifted her gently onto the deck. Lisa, of course, leapt up herself, making sure she stuck her butt out at just the right angle to ensure I'd see it. She need not have bothered: it was seared into my memory for life.
"Whoa, Brian!" Eddie said. "You okay? You look pale."
"I'm fine," I said, scampering off to the side. I retreated to the back of the marina, but for some reason Waryo followed me, snapping pictures.
"Jesus, Yo," I complained, holding up a hand. "Get your camera out of my face. Keep it on the banana boat, man."
A frown darkened Yoyo's delicate features. "Banana boat? Ardin just said go here for pictures. He didn't say banana boat."
"Yoyo," I said delicately. "It's your responsibility to take photos that people will want to buy. Hey—stop taking pictures of me, for cryin' out loud. Them! The guests. How on Earth could you not notice them?"
"But I didn't bring zoom lens," Yoyo whined. "You guys were so far out."
"Well, next time you will, right?" I said. I resisted the urge to repeat Ardin's catchphrase 'time to learn'.
Actually, I was thrilled to hear of Yoyo's mistake. I didn't want any photographic evidence of the ride
for the prosecution. Even with a trademark Yoyo blur, any good lawyer could prove just about anything—and they wouldn't even be lying. For, on a particularly sharp curve near the end, when the banana hit the wake, I was nearly thrown off. I had reflexively grabbed whatever I could to save us from all going over.
"Mom!" Lisa cried, hauling on Mrs. Deiter's arm. "Did you see that last bump? I thought the fat old guy was a goner—until he grabbed my butt!"
Mrs. Deiter looked at me, brow raising. I smiled wanly, grabbed my clothing, and fled.
3
I stared into the mirror of scuffed plastic and sighed. Somewhere since becoming an art auctioneer I had lost my athletic physique. Before ships I had always taken advantage of my height to hide a few extra pounds, but working as a waiter on Conquest I had been literally starved, so I stopped paying attention to the size of my middle. But then came two years as an art auctioneer, which meant three meals a day in guest buffets. Or, in the case of my last ship, mandatory five-course meals with guests. Passengers always complained of gaining weight on cruise vacations—imagine what it was like to live in a horn of plenty? When I was a 'young and hungry' auctioneer, so to speak, I had exercised my discipline as much as my body. When had that stopped?
And my middle wasn't the only thing larger than it should have been. When did my forehead get so big? My hair looked terrible, and not just because the sea's humidity made it bushy. My head looked like a scrub forest that had been partially deforested, with two clear-cut swathes extending back from the temples to create a pronounced widow's peak. I grabbed the pig hat—for safety always kept on the back of the toilet—and slid it onto my head with a strange intensity. I hoped some silliness would ease my sharp self critique. It didn't.
I had been aboard for less than a week. That time offered a few mild sprinkles of interest and a deluge of woe. At the peak of my ambitions I would have been hard pressed to make anything out of this mess I had inherited. Correction: I had earned. I wanted to blame Bianca for getting me into this, but that was just me being petty. She had warned me about the sea, spoke cryptically of the toll it took on the body, on the spirit. I had thought my spirit indomitable, my youthful verve eternal. But now there was a thirty-something, chubby man with a receding hairline in the mirror.
My time at sea had been a mistake. I was alone in a way I never felt before. Oh, I had been alone for nearly unendurable tracts while at sea, sometimes fighting for Bianca, other times waiting. But I never felt truly lonely. Bianca was ever just out of reach, but never too far. I refused to let the distance be too far, even if it was just in my mind. I had been sustained by the idea of Bianca, and fought the good fight in the hope that someday we would be together, forever. There had been no tangible proof that my unconditional love was reciprocated, but I felt not only sustained, but emboldened by the giving of it. Is that how people with faith felt about God?
But it was all gone now. Before Bianca I had found inspiring the world at large, the great accomplishments of man in art and architecture, exploration and science. Everything held fascination for me, if it was but new. Then I met a woman who blasted away all other thoughts as mere trifles. I became obsessed, a one-dimensional man. Could I resurrect my love of knowledge, of culture, and return them to my life? I was in the Mediterranean, after all. But I didn't want to tarry on the Wind Surf. It was time to admit my mistake and move on with my life. Can't fix a problem until you admit you have one. Well, my issue had resolved itself, more or less, as I was bound to fail on Surf. So why let it take any more of my fast-dwindling youth? I had no reason to fear abandoning the sea, for it owed me nothing. Certainly it hadn't owed me Bianca. Certainly it hadn't helped us be together.
I ripped the pig hat from my head and dropped it to the wet shower floor. There was no way I was going to merely exist here, abandoned and forgotten like an old blind woman. A plan came to mind; a plan to make ends meet, a plan to get the most out of this so-called ship life. And step one involved finding the shore excursions manager, this Cosmina. Everybody had warned me about her—Jeff, Ardin, Eddie and Susie—I didn't care. Once again, my hopes lay in a woman. Once again, she was Romanian. At this point I was fairly certain that the translation of 'Romanian' was 'issues'. Would I ever learn?
Chapter 4. Venice, Italy
1
I met Cosmina in her office. She was very proud of her office, despite it being one of those old-style ship rooms the size of a stacked washer & dryer. It was so ridiculously small I doubted she could actually sit at the desk and have the door closed simultaneously. Not that Cosmina would ever want the door closed. How else would passersby see who was worthy of this personal space, such as it was? The fact that only a dozen or so bodies had access to this part of the ship, and already knew and worked with her, was irrelevant. Cosmina held a position of import. Cosmina held sway. Cosmina had an office!
I knocked on the open door. The port excursions manager was bent over a ledger, head buried in her hand. She jumped at the noise, and glanced up with eyes red-rimmed and blinking from too much reading. Her hand instantly moved through her short hair in an effort to hide hint of paperwork frustration. I obliged her gesture by giving her a compliment.
"Nice office," I said.
"You think I don't deserve an office?" Cosmina bristled defensively.
"Of course you do," I replied soothingly. "You have a lot of work to do. Shore excursions are always important, but on this ship they're paramount."
Her expression softened. She wore a standard issue Surf polo of turquoise over white shorts. Her face was Romanian-round with big cheeks. Rather than being high-boned and rosy, however, Cosmina's cheeks were those of a chipmunk whose feast was interrupted. Her hair was dark brown and bobbed.
"It's because of all that work I'm here," I continued. "I thought maybe you could use my help."
"What's that mean?" she said, defenses rearing again. "Who says I need help?"
"Nothing, no one," I answered quickly.
This was not exactly true. I had observed her that morning and found her people skills quite lacking. Despite it being the last day of the cruise she did not seem to have built any rapport with any passengers. I had overheard plenty of grumbles about her apparent lack of organization, and I concurred with the several guests who commented that she appeared distracted and harried. Perhaps she had just had a bad morning, but to me she looked overwhelmed. To be fair, organizing several hundred passengers into separate groups, all of whom had to be escorted from the lounge at different times for half a dozen different tours was a big job, and she was more or less alone.
"Let me explain," I hastily added. "I'm experienced in handling large groups and I have nothing to do in the mornings. I thought I could help when your lounge is full. That's all."
She eyed me shrewdly for a moment, then pursed her lips. "You're the new art guy," she said.
"That's right. I've been an auctioneer on the big ships and am used to handling crowds of hundreds. I thought we could work together. I'm having trouble with visibility, and everybody on board goes on your tours. So as long as I can introduce myself and my job, I'll be your assistant all week long and help with the crowds. Really, I'm not doing anything else and you look like you could use the help."
"What does that mean?" she challenged.
I defended weakly, "We're all family."
She pursed her lips again, even as her eyes scanned me up and down. She seemed somehow satisfied with my wardrobe of a silk shirt over khaki slacks, but lingered on my shoes. Worry flushed through me. I well-knew how Europeans judged a man by his footwear—assuming he didn't wear tennis shoes, at which point he was dead in the water. For that very reason I had eschewed my usual Birkenstocks in favor of soft leather loafers from Romania. I sensed she had recognized the brand. Wearing them may have been a mistake, I suddenly realized. Few people are more critical of Romania than Romanians.
"All right," she said reluctantly. "We'll talk tonight. I have a group doing a gondola tour at 7 p.m. Meet
me there to discuss it. Dress nice."
She returned to her work, indicating the audience was over. I thought that the meeting hadn't gone too badly. But like always with ships, like always with Romanian women in particular, I had no idea what I was getting into.
2
We had actually arrived in port the night before. Like everybody else, I had stood huddled upon the open deck as the Surf sailed past the huge floating dikes, past the famed Lido island, and towards the city. It was a surprisingly cold night with low, broken-bottomed clouds dropping rain lazily over Venice. The sleepy drizzle made the old palaces drab and tired, scars highlighted with bright new mortar in the cracked backs of the ancients. A gentle rumble of thunder settled over the city as a breathy snore.
We sailed down the Canale della Giudecca, a wide artery that was restless and choppy and imminently forgettable. Far more interesting were the canals that spread through the floating city in lieu of streets. I pondered who would make an entire city without roads. Why? And why here, on this stinky backwater? The canals were flat green opal in color, barely disturbed by the fitful rain that made it past the bunched shoulders of age-old palaces. Such were the capillaries filtering through the living heart of Venice. Imminently ugly, utterly impractical, undeniably romantic.
Originally Venice was anything but romantic. It was interesting, though. Venice, as we know it today, began with a bunch of people running for their lives with nowhere else to go. The good ol' Germanic barbarians had forced the remnants of the Romans—folks from Spina, Adria, Altino, and Padua, among others—off their land. They could either drown or settle on the briny, lagoony, and all-around crappy islands.
Not surprisingly, the refugees chose the latter. Being savvy types, they even turned their plight into advantage: they became salt producers. Back then, in 600 A.D. or so, the distance between the mainland and the Venetian lagoons was not the two miles of today, but twenty-five. The spread was treacherous enough to be nicknamed 'the Seven Seas', in part because of all the sandbars sectionalizing the waters. That is not the origin of the term 'seven seas' because the locals immediately filled it in. This new land, now called Chioggia, was conducive to salt, and this new people, not yet called Venetian, was conducive to business. How else could they survive on such briny, lagoony, and all-around crappy islands?
High Seas Drifter (Cruise Confidential 4) Page 5