Кейт Кристенсен - The Last Cruise

Behind the bar stood a tiny, pale, dark-haired woman. “I am Natalya,” she told them in a flat bored voice, placing napkins in front of them as they seated themselves on two stools in the center of the bar. “I am happy to serve you. What’s your pleasure tonight?”

“I’m already drunk,” said Valerie. “So I think I’d better take it easy.”

“Really?” said Christine.

“Fuck no,” said Valerie. “I’ll have a martini, very dry, stirred, straight up, olives. Let’s do this.”

Christine laughed. “Make that two.”

A moment later, with casual flips of her wrists, Natalya set two brimming martini glasses on the napkins in front of them. “Enjoy,” she said in her dead voice.

“Cheers,” Valerie said, knocking her glass against Christine’s, and licking the booze off her wrist. Christine chewed a big, hard, gin-soaked green olive and looked around at the hanging strings of light, the rustling palm fronds, the surface of the pool, shimmering and rocking. She felt the ship underneath her, light but solid, felt its buoyant forward momentum from the powerful engines firing many stories below. Because of Valerie, she had been thinking all night about the workers who kept the ship running for all the vacationers whose pleasure came at their expense. But she was unable to feel terribly guilty about it at the moment. The olive left a rich, oily, salty film on her tongue that made her instantly crave another one. She took a gulp of the icy martini. It went down her gullet as smooth and hard as liquid glass.

“Natalya,” said Valerie, a little too loudly.

“Yes,” said the bartender from the shadows. “Another round?”

“Not yet,” said Valerie. “I’m wondering if you have time to talk to me about your job. I’m a journalist. I’m writing a book about workers. I’m on this cruise to collect stories from the people who work on this ship. I’m not here for fun.”

“You look like you are here for fun,” said Natalya. Her tone was insolent. “I am sorry but I have no time for talking.” She had been standing idly, gazing out at nothing, but now she picked up a rag and began to swab the bar top.

“See?” Valerie murmured to Christine. “They don’t want to talk to me. Oh well. Who can blame them? I wouldn’t want to talk to me either.”

Christine gave her a little nudge of pretend agreement. They both laughed.

Mick was almost done shaping the sausage patties. Next to him in the cold room, Consuelo was slicing strips of bacon with a long, sharp knife and layering them in a shallow stainless steel pan. Their breath steamed in the air. They had been discussing the night’s weak spots, strengths.

“Nice job on the sliders,” he said now. “They couldn’t get enough of them.”

“Thanks, Chef.” He felt her swell with pride. Its warmth filled the space between them. Good. He had systematically beaten her down through the night. Now he had her; she was on board.

Mick was dying for a cigarette. He only smoked after his shift these days. Consuelo stacked the last neat, thick bacon slice and sealed the pan with plastic and slapped a strip of tape on it and took a Sharpie from her apron pocket and marked it with “Bacon,” her initials, and the date. She stripped off her latex gloves and trashed them while Mick finished the last little meat patty, sealed and marked the pan. His gloves came off; he flexed his fingers, ready to get out of the kitchen and head for the crew lounge to throw himself into a chair, light up, and crack a beer. His crew would work for a few more hours, and the night service crew was just arriving for their shift, but his work was done until 0600 tomorrow morning. He thought ahead, mentally making Hollandaise. He hated fucking brunch. The worst meal ever invented. Including fucking high tea. Forget it. It was a good idea not to think one second beyond that first long, slow, cold, bubbly gulp of beer prickling in his nose, that first inhalation of smoke piquing his lungs.

Consuelo followed him out of the cold room, expertly dodging the other cooks rushing around, the old kitchen dance. On his way out Mick said his good nights, checked everything again, but there was nothing else for him to say or do tonight; they’d had their post-closing meeting already, the ones who were done, and Paolo was in charge of the night crew, thank God. Mick knew him from other cruises; he was Argentinean, a fruit bat, a prima donna, but a hard worker and solid under his theatrics and tantrums.

In the locker room, he and Consuelo stripped casually, without looking at each other. Aprons and jackets went into the laundry bin, checked pants followed, clogs and neckerchiefs went into their lockers; then, standing back to back, they silently dressed in jeans and black T-shirts. He slipped on the leather jacket Suzanne had given him and turned around to see Consuelo, identically dressed, in the mirror.

“Nice outfit,” he said, laughing.

Consuelo flicked a quick grin at him, already moving on to wherever she was going—a date, judging by the look on her face, shining and expectant, wide awake. She was in her mid-twenties, twenty-seven at the oldest. Mick remembered being that young, only seven or so years ago, but it felt like decades. The endless supply of energy, the boundless anticipation.

“ Buenas, Chef,” she said, and was out.

In the staff lounge, he went to the bar and ordered a bottle of ice-cold Belgian beer and closed his eyes and shivered as the first chug went down his parched gullet. He was badly dehydrated from his hangover earlier, the stress of this new setup, forgetting to drink water through his shift. He drank again. The beer was almost gone already.

He knew that smoking was allowed on the Isabella as part of this cruise’s late-’50s retro theme, but Mick wasn’t sure that extended to the crew. He didn’t care at the moment. He fished his pack of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket, tipped one out, stuck it in his mouth, and flicked his lighter.

There were three distinct groups of people in here, the various mafias converging at the end of their work shifts, none of them Hungarian, as usual. He heard Jamaican-accented English from the crowd nearest the door, Spanish against the wall, and Russian in the corner. He looked around for an empty chair, flopped into the one nearest him, leaned back, and closed his eyes.

“Hey.”

It was Consuelo, giving his shoulder a light tap as she moved past. He caught a whiff of her perfume, some spicy combination that smelled like cloves, musk, and a flowery depth, but not sweet, a deeply carnal smell.

“Hey,” he said back, squinting up at her.

She kept moving past him, lithe and focused as a fillet knife. He watched as she went over to the Spanish-speaking contingent and thrust herself into their midst, then he reminded himself that she worked on his station, and he was her boss, and he shut his eyes again.

The staff lounge was traditionally the place on any ship where the crew came to unwind, if they were lucky enough to have one. Crew lounges often got crowded and wild, with half-naked dancing, drugs, fights, heavy-duty make-out sessions. In the lounge, you could do what you wanted, because management usually stayed away. Apart from the crew mess where they ate their meals, drinking here and working out in the crew gym were the only two social release valves the workers had during their time at sea, when there was no shore leave. This bare-bones room with its makeshift bar and motley assortment of chairs and tables, mismatched castoffs and discarded leftovers, was the only place on the entire ship where they were allowed to drink besides their quarters, which were too small for more than a few people to fit into. But at least the lounge had plenty of alcohol. The dank, dark, cramped little gym next door with its two treadmills, one elliptical machine, two weight benches, and a smattering of suspiciously moist yoga mats was much less appealing.