"He better be," she smoldered adorably. "He comes back here I'm gonna pop a cap in his ass."
Lest we risk thinking that life was looking up, reality came crashing down upon us like a ton of manure. Eddie somehow managed to join me for a drink after dinner, where he told me about the stink of it.
"Well, it happened," he said simply. "I got fired."
I stared at him in shock.
"Susie's packing right now. I had to lie to get away for a bit. I just wanted to be away from her for a little bit tonight."
"How...?"
"The family sued Windstar Cruises and the knee-jerk reaction was to fire me," Eddie explained. "What can you do?"
"Goddamn ships," I complained bitterly. "You did everything possible for them, everything by the book. You saved their lives! Hell, you even went to the freakin' hospital in Italy with them. I guess I'm not surprised they're suing the cruise line, but did they really have to put it on you? The family didn't give you any credit?"
"Actually, I heard they did," Eddie said. "All the officers backed me up, too. All but one. That was enough. So I'm gone."
All of the officers backed him up, but one. That sounded familiar.
"Who?" I asked. "Who didn't back you up? I thought you got along with everybody."
"I don't want to talk about it," Eddie said, waving off the subject. "It's done. I feel stabbed in the back, to be honest."
I desperately wanted to press the matter. This did not feel like an isolated incident at all. In all my years of ships, and all the hundreds I'd worked with on a daily basis, I'd never known so many to get fired so fast. It all seemed to come down to one mystery officer, too. I had no proof of that, of course, but could not deny the feeling that death stalked the decks of Wind Surf. Was it the same mysterious officer who had Janie fired, took a shot at Yoyo, and now stabbed Eddie in the back? Like Eddie, I got along very well with all the officers aboard. I couldn't imagine any of them being so petty. Only one thing was clear: someone on Wind Surf was a closet asshole. A phantom firer.
"Guess I'll have to deal with Susie after all," Eddie added. "I can't stay on ships anymore."
"Sure you can," I disagreed. "Getting fired on one cruise line doesn't matter to the others. Any first worlder who's survived ships is hot property. But you're right about one thing: you'll have to deal with Susie."
Eddie smiled ruefully and added, "Easier to jump ship in port."
"I'm going to miss you, buddy," I said earnestly, and we clinked glasses.
2
I have wanted to see Marrakech for many years. My ex-wife and I planned on a trip for years. Somehow I have a feeling I beat her there. Ha ha, bitch! Just kidding. Anyway, Marrakech was all that I hoped and more. There were snake charmers in the massive square, theatrical water carriers plying the bazaar, and spice markets with piles of saffron three feet high. For Marrakech was truly the gateway to the mighty Sahara, the world's greatest desert. Camel trains came in daily. I heard the Muslim prayers five times a day broadcast over the air. I saw the veils, the djellabas, the donkeys, the monkeys. I very nearly saw the jails—permanently.
The tour was rather complicated. The ship dropped us off in Casablanca and two busses would drive the 300 kilometers into the desert, right up to the Atlas mountains, to the fabled city of Marrakech. Once the tour of the city was complete, the busses would drive through the Sahara to the western coast of Morocco to meet up with Wind Surf at a small port called Essaouira. The dual port action wasn't the worry, so much as Marrakech itself. That promised to be most tricky.
We would have to herd eighty utterly overwhelmed suburban Americans single file through crowds of screaming hawkers, rug sellers, spice merchants, snake charmers, barefoot children, laden donkeys, and spitting camels. That would be hard enough to accomplish in the open, but we had to keep everyone together through a warren of streets, alleys, stalls, tents, niches, alcoves, and mosques unchanged since the 12th century. Safety was such a concern that three local guides were hired for each bus, as well as two crew members.
Therein lay the trouble.
The day before Cosmina and I retired to our usual table in the Compass Rose to work out the details. Cosmina smoked like a fiend. She was understandably concerned. She would be on one bus, of course, and I would be on the other. But who else? How many reliable crew members could we find who were off duty long enough to join a twelve hour tour? Fabrice was too busy for that, as was Barney. The marina remained open, which meant Eddie and Susie had to stay aboard on this, their last chance for a port before leaving. After the accident the previous week, that meant Faye had port duty, as well. The spa was open all day, thus negating Rick, Natalie, or Ingrid. That left who?
"Yoyo, of course," I said.
The eruption of tobacco smoke enveloped her head as if her temper had exploded like gunpowder.
"He lost eight guests in Italy doing a tour safely done by millions every year, for Christ's sake," she snorted. "Can you imagine him taking control if something goes wrong?"
"Well, you already said no to all the shop girls," I retorted. "That's the only department closed all day. Except the casino."
Cosmina's eyes narrowed.
"Fine," she finally said. "But she'll be on my bus. I don't want you two making out when you're supposed to be watching passengers. You get Yoyo."
And so it was.
Going so far from shore, so deep into a non-Western culture, required some guidance. Prior to departure Cosmina gave a ten minute lecture on what to expect. Her speech was an odd mixture of prevention and tarnation. It began with cultural attitudes about getting along with locals. Being a Muslim nation, most rules fell on the shoulders of women, of course. Photographs: it was extremely rude to take someone's picture without asking permission, especially of women. Eye contact: women, keep your eyes to the pavement to avoid confrontations with men who feel challenged by you. "La, shukran"—no, thank you—needed to be said forcefully at any invitation or approach.
As Cosmina continued, she grew heated. Being from a distinctly macho culture like Romania, her ire was not directed at the inequality of the sexes. She was used to that, and even agreed with an alarming amount of it. Rather, Cosmina began frothing at the mouth over the fact that, well, we were going into Morocco. She was scared she was going to lose some tourists. Her nerves crackled with such ferocity that her speech was nothing less than fire and brimstone.
"Stay in the group at all times!" she cried. "Women, especially, will find things uncomfortable. Men will glare or leer at you if you're alone. And for God's sake, don't show any skin! Do you have any idea what will happen if you show skin? You will get eye-raped, for sure, but probably worse. Wear long pants and long sleeves at all times, or else! Men, too! You go in there wearing shorts and a T-shirt and I can't protect you. They have people juggling fire, for Christ's sake, and snake charmers. If you leave the group, I cannot guarantee your safety. I've hired three local guides to assist each busload, but what can they do against the masses of angry Muslims wielding fire and commanding poisonous snakes? You've got fifteen minutes before the busses leave. So go back to your cabins, dress appropriately, say your prayers, whatever you need to do. Because once you get on the bus, it'll be too late."
"Very inspiring," I congratulated as she stepped off the stage. "Look, you made Yoyo cry."
The petite photographer stared up at Cosmina with huge, terror-filled eyes.
"I need a cigarette," she muttered, then stormed past the crowd of awe-struck passengers—each and every one thinking they'd made a horrible, horrible mistake.
The drive to Marrakech took three hours. Once we left the city, the desert yawned deep and wide. It was hard to imagine that we were heading directly into a desert waste stretching a whopping 2,800 miles. That was the distance between Los Angeles and New York City! Imagine driving across the entire breadth of the continental United States—the world's fourth-largest nation—and never seeing anything grow. The Sahara was crazy desolation. Even the cowboys, riding atop exhaus
ted and dehydrated horses through the scrubby Old West, got to see the occasional buzzard circling above. Not in the Sahara. Maybe things had lived there once, but it's been an unending circle of death for millions of years. Indeed, there were sections of the Sahara where not even insects lived.
The city of Marrakech was deceiving to the core. At a glance, there wasn't much to appreciate. Oh, there were plenty of gardens boasting date palms and several very fine mosque towers, but if driving through one might not take much notice of the place. When staring at drab, patched walls, it's easy to yawn and move on. Yet just behind the mortar, sheltered in a courtyard surrounded on all sides for ultimate privacy, are secret gardens of the lushest beauty. Peppered throughout the seemingly dirty and downtrodden streets, tucked inside and just out of view, were moments as wondrous as anything the pasha could boast of in the Alhambra. Then again, it could also just be a utilitarian, mud-brick courtyard festooned with dripping laundry. And that was the magic of Morocco: it was impossible to imagine what was just out of sight. It was a mesmerizing land where wealth of all types, be it monetary or cultural, abuts illiteracy and subsistence.
But we were not explorers. We were suburban Americans. That meant shopping. And what better place to shop than the ancient medina? For the medina, while overwhelmed with acrobats and actors and magicians, was really about shopping. Morocco was a land of fantastic handcrafts, a wonder of woven cloth and rugs of all colors. Leatherwork was everywhere, tanned in a startling variety of colors from tanning pits in use since antiquity. Anything and everything could be found among the tents and stalls, from pounds of real saffron to bottles of not-so real magical potions. In short, the Medina was everything you'd imagine from a bazaar in the Sahara. I was expecting Disney's Aladdin to run by at any moment, having stolen a loaf of bread.
But behind the wonder lay danger. The place was chaotic. The sights, the sounds, the smells: all were overwhelming. Even experienced travelers get lost in a place like that. Luckily, the guides on my busload of tourists were top notch. They kept the guests organized and moving smoothly. The only difficulty was with Yoyo. He was supposed to stay at the front of the tour with the main guide, in order to photograph the tourists oohing and aahing. Invariably I found him wandering aimlessly on his own, playing with a brass trinket or following a camel. I was very, very glad I had chosen to bring up the rear. Otherwise Yoyo would never have made it back.
No, the real drama came during lunch. For it was here that both busloads of tourists met up. The eighty-odd passengers took over a restaurant in a gorgeous outdoor courtyard. A dozen round tables mingled with countless giant urns pregnant with lush plants and even palm trees. Everywhere were fountains whose water overflowed with rose petals, lending the air a soft, lush quality. The hard desert sun was diffused by shady palms and flapping canopies, leaving the mosaic-covered floor cool. Each table was hosted by a local guide to educate the passengers on the unique cuisine of Morocco. To each table was brought a huge tajine filled with steaming cinnamon and pepper chicken and an extremely delicate hand-rubbed orange couscous.
All that was awesome. Sitting at the table with Yoyo, Cosmina, and Aurelia was not. The two women had been fighting all morning. It was epic. Actually, as feisty as Aurelia was, she rarely directed her energies towards actual confrontation. She took the passive in passive aggressive quite literally. In other words, she utterly blew Cosmina off. And therein lay the problem.
It all started with wardrobe. Though Aurelia had been in attendance for Cosmina's fire and brimstone speech, she felt no compulsion whatsoever to wear long sleeves or even pants. Cosmina had been too busy freaking out—I mean 'being efficient'—to notice. Once the bus took off and the two were finally sitting next to each other, Cosmina nearly had a heart attack. Aurelia was wearing a pink T-shirt—tight enough to show no bra—and cargo shorts with a decidedly feminine cut. She had also brought a sweater, which she tied around her waist. When challenged by Cosmina, she merely shrugged. The vitriol had been building ever since. And finally, during lunch, it erupted.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" Cosmina seethed to Aurelia.
"What?" Aurelia asked, nonchalantly dropping several sugar cubes into her mint tea.
"You ordered American food? Why did you order American food? You can't order American food!"
"Why not?"
"Because we're on a tour!" Cosmina viciously whispered. "We have to lead by example."
"But I don't like tajines," Aurelia said simply.
"How do you know?" Cosmina retorted. "How could you possibly know what a real tajine tastes like? We're not in the Moroccan restaurant in Bucharest. What do you know about Morocco? I've studied Morocco because it's my job. It's what I do for a living, learning about other cultures. I'm the professional here. You're not. You'd be totally lost here without me."
Aurelia didn't say anything. Cosmina gladly filled in the silence with angry, repetitive mutterings.
"...tell me she doesn't like tajines! She doesn't know anything. Nothing. She knows nothing!"
"I know I don't like tajines," Aurelia finally sassed back, sipping her tea.
"You don't know shit!" Cosmina exploded. Several guests turned to look, so she hunkered down and continued with a fierce whispering.
"Look at what you're wearing! How stupid can you be to wear that? I should just leave you here. How would you like that? Just leave you here to get along by yourself in this strange land in your wet T-shirt."
Cosmina leaned in close to Aurelia's face and taunted, "What do you think of that?"
Aurelia, unfazed, replied, "I lived in Morocco for three years."
Then, turning to a passing waiter, Aurelia proceeded to converse with him in a mix of French and Arabic a long, long time. The waiter, delighted with the surprise conversation, eventually bowed and walked away. He wasn't the only one surprised, actually. I think it was the most I'd ever heard the aloof Aurelia speak.
Cosmina sat and watched the whole conversation, dumbfounded. The moment Aurelia turned back to her mint tea, Cosmina took a final jab. With great—if hushed—authority, she declared, "My word is law!"
Aurelia shrugged her delicate shoulders and then proceeded to actively ignore her. Cosmina was furious. I was impressed. I recalled the dinky blackjack dealer when she was shaking her fist in the lounge and screaming, "Look at my balls!" I sensed I could learn something from this little one about defying expectations.
Trying to diffuse the tension at the table, I suggested to Cosmina, "Perhaps we should switch on the way back."
"Shut up!" she snapped. "I'm keeping you with Yoyo forever!"
It didn't turn out that way, however. Yoyo missed the bus and only at the last second hopped onto Cosmina's. A good thing for him, too, as the drive home was nothing short of ruinous.
It all started when our bus driver got pulled over by the Moroccan Royal Gendarmerie for speeding. That, in and of itself, was not the problem. It was amusing, in fact. Of course, we've all heard horror stories of reckless tour bus drivers driving off cliff-side roads in the Andes or something, but our driver was nothing of the sort. He was driving down a ramrod straight road through the middle of hours and hours of empty desert. I guess cops had speed traps everywhere.
Alas, the driver did not have all his papers. I don't know what kind of papers that involves in an Arabic country, but he didn't have 'em. A quick bribe of the officer solved that problem. That should have been the end of it. But it wasn't the end of it.
The gendarme waved a hand to indicate all the passengers and spouted something in Arabic. Sometimes Arabic language sounds very ugly. With the night creeping over the Saharan wasteland and a gendarme in blue military fatigues carrying a machine gun yelling at us, it was ugly indeed. I leaned across the aisle and asked our guide, Yousef, if we should be getting nervous.
"He wants to know who is on the bus," Yousef informed me.
"No problem," I said. I stood up and called out to the passengers to pass their passports up to the front.
Booklets were passed from hand to hand, back to front, sometimes dropping in the darkening bus. Annoyances were muttered, as well as a few curses, but mostly people were hushed. A pile of passports rose from my seat. The officer took his sweet time picking them up one by one, flipping through them, peering in detail with his flashlight, and finally comparing each to the bus driver's list. The process took so long that the passengers began speaking amongst themselves, quietly at first, but with growing casualness. Soon the entire bus was talking. A nasty bark from the gendarme shut everybody up immediately.
The list did not correspond to the passports. Heated words were exchanged between the gendarme and the driver, then the gendarme and the guide. One need not speak the language to recognize accusations or defenses. After several minutes of heated debate, which appeared to include references to another bribe, the gendarme stuck a thumb at me.
"What's going on?" I asked Yousef.
"Your passport isn't here."
"Of course not," I said. "It's on the ship."
"I told him that. He wants to know why."
"I assume it's to stop crew from jumping ship in foreign ports."
Yousef spoke, the gendarme responded. The atmosphere was getting more heated, not less. Finally Yousef turned back to me again and asked, "How do you justify going so far into Morocco without a passport?"
"A crew ID is a legally accepted form of identification," I replied, growing nervous. I couldn't help but dwell on the irony that every other cruise line I'd worked for allowed American employees to keep their passports. Only on Windstar Cruises did I have to relinquish the document and rely on my cheap plastic crew ID. That was a perk that had annoyed many of my fellow crew members.
The gendarme barked orders at me and gestured outside. His hard posture and impatient stare made it clear he wanted me to exit the bus.
My throat got dry.
"No way," I said. To Yousef I repeated several times, rather urgently, "No way. Please tell him I am staying with the group."
High Seas Drifter (Cruise Confidential 4) Page 28