When I arrived the gift shop was closed, dark, and silent. But not empty. Through the glass doors, I watched the Mafiosi back Janie into a corner. Like hungry wolves, they inched in, ever closer, ever closer. Their manner was openly hostile. Hurting a woman to gain a false admission of guilt was simply all in a day's work. Janie retreated as far as she could go, then shuffled right back into the wall. Seeing her trapped and frightened, they toyed with her. They carried on a casual conversation with each other, while Janie succumbed to panic.
I kicked open the door loudly and shouted into the dark, "Janie! You in here?"
Though making noises of innocence, I strode directly towards the back corner. It was one thing to push paperwork around, but quite another to push a lady around. I didn't know what would happen, but I was ready to rumble. Rumble with the Mafia? Hard to believe, but the moment felt lightyears away from a casino basement with Joe Pesci flaunting a hammer. And one look at Janie's terrified face would bring out the game in any man.
As soon as the Mafiosi saw me, they backed down. They said nothing more to her, said nothing at all to me. They just walked away. Bullying a lone woman was easy enough for the macho bastards, but the approach of just a single man was enough to send them scurrying like roaches. These were not impressive men, but merely cowards hiding behind organized crime. The Mafia had been outmaneuvered by Francois from the start, and in a last gambit had been unable to break Janie. They departed with nothing to show for their efforts.
But it was not a happy ending. Janie got fired.
2
I sat in my broken cabin. The cracked plexiglass of the gaudy parrot print loomed large. Threatened by the ghastly bright colors as much as the shattered glass, I had tried to remove the thing. It was permanently attached to the wall. The pig hat sat below the lethal shards like Damocles be-throned beneath his Sword. I hugged the Moo Sisters, but they provided little comfort.
The time was nearing for my call with Bianca. Even though we were both in the Med, coordinating this was no small feat, what with differing time zones and her schedule. She still worked more or less every minute of her life as a waitress on Carnival Cruise Lines, and necessarily had to sleep whenever she wasn't. Only too well did I remember living the same; unending twelve-plus hour days of labor, catching snippets of rest that totaled a punishing five hours of sleep a day—if you were lucky.
I hate mind games and was loathe to resort to one, but couldn't resist the urge. After the Cannes debacle I was curious to see how long it would take Bianca to notice I didn't email her. It took three weeks. Then she had just sent a two word email in her frequent all caps:
"WHAT'S UP?"
Clever lass, summed up our relationship in two words! I had long since stopped stewing over the Cannes snub, because it just reinforced the Messina snub. After all we had been through to be together, one snub could be tolerated, but certainly not two.
Bianca didn't want to change her life. Focused so tightly on her own little corner of the world, she didn't see the obvious: the entire planet was evolving around her. Change was inevitable, but she couldn't handle it. So she ignored it—including her own changing. Europe had happened. She wanted to see it more than she wanted to see me. That marked a change in attitude, and motivations were important. I wasn't going to be taken for granted. She no longer earned the benefit of the doubt. She no longer earned my patience. Thus our relationship was over because I stopped fighting for it. For the longest time she'd been worth it. She still would have been worth it, if only she would let herself be. But she wouldn't. I had waited long enough.
And the time had come to tell her. I picked up the phone and dialed Liberty.
"This isn't working," I said to Bianca, via the freakishly dirty telephone. "And I don't think it's going to work."
"Why not?" she asked. "What's her name?"
"Whose name?"
"Who you're seeing, bamboclat! Obviously you have a ship squeeze."
"I do not have a ship squeeze."
"I don't believe it. Why else are you so cold all of a sudden?"
"You don't believe me?" I roared, suddenly angry. "You've accused me repeatedly of being too honest in everything I've ever been involved with. A sign of naïveté, you said. Well, I'm being honest now. I'm not seeing anyone and I'm not going to see anyone on ships. It doesn't work. It never works. Never has, never will."
"Lots of people have a ship squeeze," she continued on blithely. "So you fell for yours this time. It was bound to happen. Come back to Romania and I'll remind you why we've been together all this time."
That's about as close as we got to real communication, because I hung up.
3
Casablanca is an awful place. It is the largest city in Morocco—the largest in the entire North African Maghreb, in fact. It has many near superlatives; it is nearly the biggest economic center in all of Africa, nearly the most populous site in all of Africa, and hosts nearly the largest artificial port in the world. It is the setting of nearly the most famous movie in the world.
An elegant name, Casablanca: the Spanish term for 'White House', though none were to be seen. Stranger than the name itself was that the French left it in place after conquering North Africa. Block after block of dirty concrete buildings stewing in a brown coastal haze were apparently unworthy of transliteration to 'Maison Blanche'. What the place was called by the Almoravids and Almohads and Marinids and Wattasids before the French and Spanish is really rather pointless. The original Berber name from the 7th century B.C. was Anfa, which simply meant 'hill'. Prior to all that mess it was used by the Romans and, earlier still, the Phoenicians.
The weather was Atlantic cool. I was not warmed by walking the streets because I quickly stopped doing so. Lots of big business buildings did not make for interesting sightseeing. Casablanca was just another big city. Take off the beards and swap the headgear and I could have been in Dallas—though as usual in the Arab world, when not in the market there were no women to be seen in public. Nothing evoked memories of Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman, which made sense considering none of the film was actually shot in the titular Casablanca.
I stopped at a café at the base of a nondescript building on a nondescript corner. Sipping from scalding hot mint tea—the first inspiring thing I'd encountered—I stared at all the men in turbans smoking and conducting business. I wanted to feel Gable "I don't give a damn" but, surprisingly, felt Bogart "We'll always have Paris."
I wasn't upset with Bianca. Rather, I was frustrated with my own conclusions upon our last visit together. On the surface my marriage proposal to her in Greece had seemed to be the biggest success I could have hoped for. After being chased for years, Bianca allowed herself to be caught. Only upon setting foot on Wind Surf, and realizing it wasn't a Hollywood ending, did I realize I had pressed her too hard. By answering my ultimatum she had proved nothing.
She didn't belong to me. She belonged only to herself. Though you can try to influence with honest intentions for the best, you simply can't make decisions about life for other adults. You have to respect their decisions. I could not possibly relate to what Bianca had gone through in her life—wrestling with social mores not present in America, struggling through communist deprivation and humiliation—though I understood it. Understanding can lead to empathy, but it is not—and cannot be—true relation.
Thus I did not fault Bianca for her choices. I had screamed inwardly for her to see things my way, even as outwardly we had discussed, planned, and schemed over three-plus years working the sea. In the end, however, she had to be true to the promises she made to herself about what she would and would not do in life. There was room in that plan for me, but not on terms I was willing to accept. I wanted her to break free from her past, saw a way we could do it together, and offered my entire life to help her do so. She kindly refused, fully in deed if only partly in words.
So it was time to continue on separately. Oh, we had been separated by literal oceans since the beginning, but had enjoy
ed and even nurtured a connection that transcended mere miles. The joy was still there, but the connection perhaps not. When I had made that fateful phone call, that terrible moment of realization upon gaining Wind Surf—that first time I had been the one to say 'no'—that was when it was over. Our few communications since then had merely been corroboration.
Yet here I was, still at sea. Should I remain? What was here for me, when I only set down this path for Bianca? Why not chalk it up to a good run, an unusual experience to cherish, but also ultimately to leave behind?
Home was ever tempting. Yet, strangely enough, Wind Surf was beginning to feel like home. And life was good. I was in the Mediterranean with oodles of free time and the most fascinating, ancient ports on the planet Earth. I could not share it with my loved ones, true, but couldn't fathom abandoning such an opportunity for personal experience, education, and expansion. I thought of Faye's wisdom: the best way to let my loved ones share the experience was to live it through me. I also thought of my own wisdom given to Cosmina: make yourself happy first and then find someone to share it with. I hadn't been following my own advice. Oh, the hunt for Bianca had been an exhilarating, wild ride. It made me who I am. In proving myself to her, I had been proving myself to me. I had no regrets, only stupendously awesome memories. And a tattoo.
Still, I was awash with disappointment. I'd tried so hard! I wanted it so badly! Why didn't the cosmos reward me for all the effort I put into this relationship? Oh, I knew life wasn't fair. I'd combatted that through the years with hope. But the habit of hope had been broken. A shame, that. It was a good habit. My mood didn't improve when the next day I saw my new family being broken. Specifically, one of my friends was escorted off the ship by security.
4
The dildo was huge, shiny, and black. Divina the purser, a petite and innocent lass from a small coastal village in the Philippines, had no idea what she held aloft. A small group of us happened upon Divina at her desk, curiously turning over in her hands a string of anal beads. They, too, were huge, shiny, and black—a matched set, apparently. Eddie, Susie, Yoyo, and myself had been en route to the ship's marina, but there was no way in hell we were going to miss this. The banana boat could wait!
"What kind of necklace is this?" Divina wondered aloud, perplexion furrowing her delicate brow. "It's very ugly."
"You don't know the half of it," I said delicately. Eddie sniggered.
"Oh my God!" Susie squawked. "Where did you get those?"
"Yes," Yoyo breathed. "Where did you get those?"
"They were put in the lost & found," she answered.
Yoyo was clearly mesmerized. The petite man—smaller even than dinky Divina—watched, open-mouthed, pinky with its too-long nail tickling the corner of his mouth. When Divina placed the big dildo in a shoe box, his eyes never left it. Indeed, his entire head moved with the motions like a dog following a forkful all the way to his owner's mouth. Divina's face flushed furiously with embarrassment. She recognized what the dildo was, even if she had likely never seen one before, but of the beads she obviously had no clue. She hefted the string again, face repeating the query.
Everyone turned to me. I tried not to read too much into that. But while I love such mischief, I was loathe to explain the details to Divina. She was the sweetest thing ever. Something as carnal as sex play seemed somehow inappropriate around her. Divina fully embodied her name. I finally demurred, saying, "I don't think you really want to know, my dear. But no, that's not a necklace. And you might want to wash your hands."
"Who left those?" Susie wondered aloud.
"Nobody knows, dummy," Eddie teased. "That's why it's in lost & found. Divina, how long you keep 'em?"
Divina slinked the string into the box, and said, "One month, or until somebody calls Windstar Cruises."
"I doubt that'll happen," I predicted. "No doubt the owners were too embarrassed already, which is why they abandoned them."
"What happens when nobody claims them?" Yoyo asked hurriedly. Too hurriedly.
"Everything not claimed is discarded."
"Have you collected anything, uh, out of the ordinary?" Eddie pressed, grinning. Susie gave him a sour look.
"Yes," Divina answered brightly. "Francois' Rolex!"
"No way!" Eddie said. "I thought Francois was infallible."
"He did it on purpose," Divina admitted. "He left it in a cabin after the guests debarked. He wanted to make sure the stewards and security were doing their jobs. He claimed he wasn't nervous, but, you know what?"
She leaned in conspiratorially, and said, "I think he was lying! You know, about being nervous. How couldn't he be nervous?"
"Being superhuman helps," I suggested. "Anything else? You've got me hooked now."
"Sometimes people sign on early, when the stewards are still cleaning the cabins. They keep all the doors open and sometimes people walk into the wrong cabin. One lady complained that the stewardess stole her entire wardrobe. She was really mad and wanted to sue the company—American, of course. They found it all the next day in the neighbor's cabin."
Again Divina leaned forward to whisper something 'scandalous'. "You know what? The lady was really fat. As if the stewardesses would have stolen her clothes—you could fit three stewards in her pants!"
"That's the most common thing," Divina continued. "Except tip envelopes. Those get left in cabins all the time. You know what? Once they found a guy's false teeth!"
"How do you know it was a guy?" I teased. Then mused, "I wonder how he could have left without them? You'd think he'd notice."
"We also found a huge knife in a cabin. Like Rambo. I can't imagine how he got it on board."
"How do you know it was a guy?" I teased again.
"Could have been a pirate!" Yoyo added. "We have lots of those at home."
"Nah," I scoffed. "Harmless."
"Harmless?" Susie asked, shocked. "A Rambo knife?"
"I'd venture a guess that most people would get in worse trouble if they pulled out that dildo."
"Oh, and you know what?" Divina added. "They found a woman's string bikini in a room. She must have been even fatter than the lady with the missing clothes. I think she must have been three hundred pounds. Can you imagine if she wore that in the pool?"
"Nothing harmless about that!" I agreed.
Not surprisingly, the dildo story ran through the crew more thoroughly than a boat drill. While discussions of the intriguing items were frequent, requests to see them were not... with one notable exception. Yoyo lingered around Divina's desk at all hours, day and night, hoping to sneak a peek at the mysterious treasure. Though exceptionally shy, his wonder overcame all. Noting that he was the ship's photographer, I asked why he didn't take a picture of it. He blushed as badly as Divina.
And ever did Divina blush! When the fateful day arrived to dispose of the items, the Surf buzzed like a small town expectant of a parade. Everybody found a reason to sidle up to the purser's desk at some point or other, and 'innocently' inquire if the items had been claimed. Poor, poor Divina. She was red in the face every time. At the end of the night I, too, had to ask.
"You know what?" she said, again conspiratorially. "They disappeared!"
But something appeared off to me. Divina was adorably prone to deeming everything scandalous. Thus, I'd seen her confide many a time. This time seemed somehow forced. Something about her presentation was new. Then I realize it wasn't her presentation that was new, but her watch. It belonged to Yoyo. Or, rather, it had belonged to Yoyo. Methinks some high seas bartering was going on!
5
At sea, ship officers were judge, jury, and executioner. An accusation alone, regardless of whether proof was provided or not, was enough to dump a crew member. And dump is precisely what the officers of Wind Surf did: they abandoned a shocked and confused Janie in Arabic North Africa, leaving her to find her own way back to Saskatchewan. The surprise firing—no warnings, no discussions, just execution—left Janie in quite an emotional state.
I
was setting up my desk in the starboard hall when Janie bounced over to see me. In fact, she actually ran across the hall to give me a huge hug. She squeezed much stronger than I expected. Only then did I notice, hovering in the background, the chief of security. Despite the flood of emotion, the Asian remained firmly professional, intentionally disinterested.
Pulling free from her mighty embrace, I asked, "What's going on here?"
"I've been fired!" Janie wailed. Tears streamed down her face, unchecked.
"Fired?" I said, surprised. "What for?"
"Stealing," she wailed. Tears exploded from her, and she visibly shivered. Janie was obviously suffering from shock. "They think I stole cartons of cigarettes! Can you believe that?"
I couldn't. While Janie was neither subtle nor street smart, she wasn't stupid. Certainly she wasn't stupid enough to steal entire cartons of cigarettes only one day after the Mafia failed to do so. The tobacco inventory, both paperwork and physical count, had been scrutinized as thoroughly as if sniffed by a police dog. These ship officers had outmaneuvered and out-bullied the freakin' Mafia in their own homeland! Did they really think a small-town girl from rural Canada would try the very same crime the very next day?
"You'll have to talk to the hotel director about it," the security chief informed me quietly. He gently prodded Janie onward.
"You know that's not why!" Janie verbally slashed out at him. The chief avoided her gaze, but she kept right on attacking. "It's because I'm sleeping with Asians, that's why! The officers don't like to see a white girl sleeping with Asians."
I frowned less at the accusation than at the Asian chief's response to it. He obviously agreed with her. Clearly he was not happy about his duty.
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