High Seas Drifter (Cruise Confidential 4)

by Brian David Bruns

  The gendarme was not happy. He began insisting for me to obey in a manner that intimidated me and scared the bejesus out of the driver—which in turn scared the bejesus out of me. It was a nasty spiral. The driver urged me to go outside, begging with clasped hands. He was visibly sweating. Soon I was, too. In heavily accented English, the driver implored, "Please go. He no take you unless... stay in light. Stay in light."

  "Now I'm really freakin' out," I commented, only half in jest. To Yousef, I asked, "What the hell does he mean?"

  "I go with you," Yousef said. "He will not arrest you without taking me, as well."

  "Tell me what the driver means by 'stay in the light,'" I insisted. "If that's some sort of Poltergeist reference, I'm running. You hear me? I'm running."

  "Stay in the headlights," Yousef explained. "If the gendarme tries to take you away, stay visible to the driver and the passengers."

  With great reluctance I stepped off the bus. Yousef quickly interjected himself between me and the gendarme. Stepping onto the hard-packed dirt of the roadside, I glanced around nervously.

  The sun had set and the air was cooling. A strong breeze blew from the east, from the rugged Atlas Mountains behind us. Some distance away, the dunes piled up to the side of a rocky outcropping. The silhouette of date palms teased at life, yet atop the rocky promontory sat only the blasted, bleached ruins of an ancient fortress. This desert was dead, dead, dead. Nothing lived here at all except miraculous flies the size of swallows. The stupid things went straight for my eyes, presumably for the moisture. They kept thumping into my face.

  We stalked over to the front of the bus and stood firmly in the blast of the headlights. The gendarme motioned towards his patrol car sitting in the dark, but I shook my head. He marched up and began yelling at me. It was not pleasant, and even more disconcerting because I had no idea what he was saying. I was distracted mightily by the headlights flashing on the fully automatic assault rifle he wore over his shoulder. I know everybody else in the world thinks to be American means to sleep with an M-16, but that is obviously not true. An angry man with an assault rifle yelling at you in a foreign tongue is the stuff of nightmares.

  I did not want to end up in a Moroccan prison. Being in the country without a legal form of ID was enough to warrant it. Despite what I said, what the hell did I know about my ship ID's legal status? I just assumed I was legal—and we all know what happens when we assume. I could easily have been in breach of some provision of international law, or Moroccan law. Even the suspicion of it was enough to justify being arrested and processed. And if that occurred, well, anything could happen....

  Yousef was a godsend. He didn't bother translating everything, which was probably a good thing. For nearly an hour they shouted back and forth. An hour! Finally the vibe changed. The gendarme, unable to separate me from the group, seemed to realize his limits. Unless he was willing to truly escalate the situation—a risky proposition with the driver and forty-odd passengers watching—all he had was intimidation.

  In the end all was cleared. To say I was relieved is a whopper of an understatement. Surprisingly, we didn't even have to bribe the guy. No doubt he knew that you just don't harass tourists or they don't come back. To be honest, he probably just wanted a little retribution for the fact that America was currently invading two of his fellow Arabic nations. The gendarme drove off, and we did, too. Or tried to. We got about ten miles before the bus broke down.

  Needless to say, there was no cell phone reception out in the middle of the Sahara. Fortunately the bus had a CB radio, which was used to call in for a new bus. None were available. What they were all doing after dark on a weekday remained a mystery. A repair vehicle was sent out. The passengers were allowed to wander outside the bus, of course, but none did. Considering what they'd just witnessed with me and the gendarme, nobody felt like stretching their legs—or even peeing. Eventually the repairman came and replaced the fan belt. We limped back to Essaouira, a whopping four hours late. A mortified Cosmina nearly swooned with relief.

  Chapter 19. Ibiza, Spain

  1

  Though it had been a long day, after the Marrakech debacle I felt the need for a drink to unwind. Cosmina joined me, wanting to hear about all the sordid details. Our usual table in the Compass Rose was occupied so she invited me to her cabin for a drink. Kicking off our shoes, we sat on the bed and shared a bottle of wine. Cosmina, to my astonishment, didn't smoke too much. Perhaps that's because she smoked two whole packs while waiting for our bus to return. Reminiscing about the day, we managed quite a few laughs about it all—the arguments with Aurelia, the bus being pulled over, the bus breaking down, the thought of Yoyo trying to handle it all. Now that it was over, it was easy to laugh. Or maybe we were just getting tipsy.

  "Looks like you and Aurelia are really getting along," Cosmina said in an obviously leading manner.

  At first I shrugged, but after a moment nodded and said, "We're not like you and Barney or anything, but we enjoy each other's company."

  "Because you're done with Romanian women," she offered, laughing.

  Chuckling, I admitted, "Can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em."

  "Well, I'm sorry about lunch," Cosmina said.

  I waved it off, saying, "Aurelia can be quite vexing."

  She wasn't apologizing to Aurelia, whom she had wronged, but to me. Cosmina did the same thing with Susie, way back when she snubbed her on the gondola tour in Venice. Even when apologizing Cosmina seemed to have an agenda. I asked her if she knew anything about Eddie's getting fired, and she nodded. I then asked if she knew anything about an officer not sticking up for Eddie, and she shrugged.

  Obviously Cosmina had the ear of the ship's officers. I had hoped she'd feel free to spread a bit of gossip on this issue. It's not like these were military or insider secrets or anything! But I was concerned by some mystery officer dealing death blows to careers, especially to a man who was liked by all. Not only was Eddie liked, but he went out of his way to help senior officers. He dove with Emmet all the time, checking for explosives and whatnot. Barney, too, was a fan of the dive team. He and Susie both grew up in the same small town in Canada. Eddie hadn't moved there until his teens. But while Barney had a connection with the diving couple, he was in deeper with Cosmina, who abhorred Susie. Had he been the one who didn't support Eddie? Was he the phantom firer?

  We finished the first bottle of wine and moved on to a second. It was getting late and we were getting tired, but one more glass seemed warranted. I yawned even as I poured the glass. Cosmina tugged off her socks and wiggled her toes.

  "No luck for you," she said. "My socks are off."

  "Mmph," I mmphed. I was too tired to articulate.

  Cosmina was quiet for a moment, wiggling her toes, then blindsided me.

  "When I was younger," she said simply, "I was raped."

  Though surprised, I managed not to stare. I immediately felt awkward. How selfish was that? She was the one who'd just admitted something deeply, deeply personal, yet I was the one feeling uncomfortable? Was I supposed to say something? I couldn't for the life of me think of an appropriate response. So I set my wine down and listened.

  Still staring at her feet, Cosmina continued, "It was raining and muddy. All I could focus on was how cold my feet were. They were so cold. So cold and wet. That's all I could think about through the whole thing. It's all I can remember of it, even now. So now I can't make love if my feet are cold."

  Looking up at me, she asked, "Makes me weird, doesn't it?"

  "Not at all," I said. "Not at all."

  Many aspects of Cosmina's character suddenly became clear. Psychology wasn't the only thing that made people act they way they did, but it certainly contributed. Rape was never about sex, but control. Control had been taken away from her, leaving nothing to fill the void except feelings of inadequacy. Now, years later, she fought tenaciously for control over the most meagre of situations. She was a tyrant when she could be, and bitter and petty when she
could not. She had grown to covet strength and to admire it in others, even as she grew to hate weakness. That helped explain, for example, why she liked Francois and hated Yoyo.

  Though her admission shocked me, she was very pragmatic about it. She dropped the bomb, shrugged, and moved on. Happily, this was because she'd finally found someone sock-worthy. I had already liked Barney, but now I liked him even more. Though a gentle soul himself, he knew the toughest people to deal with were usually the ones most in need of someone to try.

  2

  Café del Mar was the leading chill out lounge on the island of Ibiza, which meant it was probably the leading chill out lounge in the world. Ibiza was the party capital of Europe—even over perennial favorites like London, Paris, and Amsterdam—with more clubs per square meter than probably anywhere else in Europe. Unlike all those hyperactive pits of electronic dance music, Café del Mar was all about chillin' out. To aid in this, the club was positioned over a westward facing beach. The sun never went down alone, but was attended nightly by vast, adoring crowds. The music selected by the DJs to commemorate the moment was very eclectic, representing all aspects of music from all corners of the globe. They had produced about forty major hit CDs in the past 25 years.

  "I must touch sacred ground," Nigel the pianist said. "You with me?"

  "A pilgrimage it is!" I agreed.

  The trip took a full month to plan. Mainly this was because Surf didn't hit Ibiza regularly and schedules were conflicting. By the time the stars did align for the trip, a whopping ten people wanted to go. Appropriate for a world-renowned club playing world-wide music, the pilgrims represented America, Australia, Bulgaria, Canada, England, Poland, and Romania. As our numbers swelled so, too, did our anticipation. Certainly music was a huge part of my life, though I never gave it enough credit. Rather, I was a gluttonous consumer, greedily snarfing it down while utterly failing to acknowledge the effort behind it.

  The fateful day arrived. The weather was overcast, but we shone brightly with enthusiasm. By ten o'clock in the morning all of us had gathered but one. Twenty minutes later Rick showed up. Huffing and puffing, he dropped a heavy duffel bag to the ground. A cigarette bobbed from his mouth. Smoking was a habit he'd taken up recently.

  "Sorry I'm late!" he panted. "Busy morning."

  He began tugging the gold hoop in his ear. This, of course, meant he was planning mischief.

  "Lots of paperwork?" Nigel asked with an Englishman's polite, if false, empathy.

  "Lots of beer," Rick corrected. Sure enough, out of the duffel came a six pack of beer.

  The walk to the car rental agency in Ibiza Town was short, and soon two cars were procured. In that time we learned that Rick had not been exaggerating. His staggering indicated he was already quite drunk. This was different than our previous drunken escapade, the circuit of Rome. Both Natalie and I sensed it from the very beginning. The vibe was way off. This was not a happy, silly little romp. This was serious drinking. Nobody just 'playfully' drank that much that early all alone. Despite his obvious inebriation, he was terribly excited to drive on the right side of the road in an American manner. He'd never done so before. Needless to say, I didn't relinquish the keys. He was angry but made a big, blustery show of dropping the subject.

  The ten of us piled into our two cars. I drove one, hauling Aurelia, Rick, Natalie, and the ship's fitness god, Daniel. Nigel drove the other car with his bandmate Neil and three gals from the gift shop: Mel, Nina, and the new girl, Vikki. In our car, Rick glugged down another beer in record time, then dropped the empty can back in the duffel. Beer dribbled over two large CD cases, which prompted a curse from him.

  "Dammit!" he blurted. "Got beer on me music."

  "What the hell, Rick," Natalie chastised, looking over his shoulder—rather easily, I might add, since she was so tall. "Why did you bring so many CDs?"

  "Cruising music!" he answered proudly. He fumbled through the selection—spilling more beer upon it in the process—until he found what he was looking for. "I've been collecting Café del Mar music for years! Not a single store bought disk here, mate. No way! These are all custom CDs carefully assembled—hic! Custom."

  "Why did you bring so many?" Daniel asked lightly in his rather strong Polish accent. "It's only an hour drive."

  "An hour?" Natalie cried, horrified. "Nobody told me it'd be an hour. That's it, I'm bored already."

  We made it across the island in good time and had to poke at the back yards of about a dozen houses before we found access to the beach. We followed the jagged, rocky shores until we came upon the club. It was closed.

  "I expected it to be closed for the morning," Nigel observed, “but I didn't expect it to be closed for the season! This is off season? The weather's better than an English summer!"

  Sure enough, our continual wait to make the trip happen had taken too long, and the season came to an end. As Nigel noted, the weather was still actually quite nice. We took our photos of the original Café del Mar building—there's a dozen around the world now—touched the sacred, puffy clouds painted on its walls, and had a laugh over the whole thing. Most of us had really come to lay on the famous beach. To our shock, however, it wasn't a beach at all, but a rough slag of rocks! It hurt like hell just walking on it. How people could relax upon those crags for hours in anticipation of the sunset was clearly evidence of mass drug abuse. So much for the great pilgrimage.

  We wandered on foot awhile, until we found a place for lunch. We managed to chew up a lot of time. There were laughs aplenty at our bad luck. Little did we know just how bad it was about to get.

  Upon returning to the cars, we discovered ours with the front passenger door wide open. That had been Rick's seat. Apparently, in his drunken stupor, he had forgotten to lock his door. His duffel bag was gone and, with it, all sixty-plus of his CDs.

  Rick was furious. He immediately began blaming me for not locking the car. Why it was my responsibility to lock his door was not explained. He raged at the sky, raged at the car, raged at me. His face became splotchy and red. Waves of discontent rolled off him almost visibly. Natalie tried to console him, but was roughly disabused of the idea.

  "It's not about the money!" he snapped. "It's about an era of my life that some bloody bastard stole! I'll never get that part of my life back, you understand? What the bloody hell would you know? You're just a child."

  "Hey, now," I warned. Rick spun on me and began raging anew. "Why didn't you lock the bloody car, you bloody wanker? You told me it was locked!"

  "It's not my job to lock your door," I retorted. "It's not my fault you showed up drunk—at ten o'clock in the morning!"

  "How 'bout we just find a real beach?" Nigel interjected.

  "Fine," Rick seethed. Sulking like a child, he stomped over to the car and slammed the door shut with tremendous force. Indeed, he yanked the handle so hard he tore it from the door. As we shuffled into our places, I was given some nice moral support from the others. As we drove off, Rick ripped off the end of a cigar with his teeth. He spit the butt at me, snarled, then lit up. I ignored his taunt. Soon the back of the vehicle was obscured in a haze of white cigar smoke, much to the chagrin of the ladies.

  We drove along the coast of the island of Ibiza, just south of the town of Sant Antoni. After awhile we spotted a particularly attractive jut of the beach. The coastline, long battered by the sea, had been eaten into a twenty foot cliff. The exposed rock was a buttery golden brown, and deep like a perfectly baked Chicago-style pizza crust. At the bottom the restless sea tossed over smoothed pebbles and sand. The beach was rugged but inviting. The sun crept low early, creating a light soothing and seductive. Catching the soft, horizontal rays, the cliffs glowed like the brick of a fireplace.

  We pulled our cars right up to the edge of the cliff, for at that point there was no road but a broad expanse of rocky plateau. The ten of us pushed out of the cars eagerly. Some of us wanted to play in the waves, others to gaze upon them, still others to stroll along them. Rick wasn't in the
mood for any of it, not surprisingly, and didn't follow the others down a side slope that led down to the water. Natalie bravely volunteered to stay with him.

  "Gimme the keys," she ordered, holding out a clawed hand.

  "Why?" I asked, glancing furtively atop the plateau. Rick stood perilously close to the cliff's edge. Seeing me look up, he flipped me off.

  "He wants to listen to his last CD. The one that was in the player."

  Before I handed over the keys, I gave her explicit instructions to not let Rick drive. "I mean it, he's obviously very drunk and very dangerous."

  "No kidding," Natalie said sarcastically.

  "I'm serious, Natalie," I admonished, holding back the keys. "You're only eighteen. You ever know anybody killed from drunk driving? I do, and he wasn't nearly as far gone as Rick. I'll go swimming with these..."

  "Okay, okay," she relented. She clicked her fingers together, the long nails of her outstretched hand sounding like a crab clacking its claws. Reluctantly I handed the keys over.

  But the beach was calling. The ladies were already tiptoeing through the sand and surf. Aurelia, who hadn't brought a bathing suit, wanted to walk along the beach for a ways. She took my hand and we strolled along the dunes and hillocks of long grass. It was nice to be with Aurelia and stuff, but mostly I wanted to get away from Daniel. The fitness instructor wore tight little swimming trunks that revealed a physique to make the statue of David jealous. Bastard. And speaking of godlike bodies, Nina was mercifully wearing a bikini. She and Nigel wandered off to find a quiet spot somewhere. Lucky bastard.

  Eventually we returned to the group. Next to Vikki, who was sprawled across the pebbles and snoring, Aurelia wiggled her little bottom into the sand and watched the afternoon laze by. I stripped to my trunks and plunged into the mild surf. I was only in the sea for about two minutes before blinding pain ripped across my shoulder. It was a freakish amount of pain, quite possibly the worst I'd ever encountered in my life. This wasn't just some sting or a jab, either, but wave after wave of scalding hot pain. I looked around, assuming a shark had ripped off my arm or something. There, just chillin' in true Café del Mar fashion, was a little jellyfish.