Кейт Кристенсен - The Last Cruise

There was a silence. The room’s walls seemed to vibrate a little from the shock waves emanating from Isaac and Jakov.

“Sleep together,” said Isaac, pale, his laughter gone. He clutched his viola in both hands against his belly and stroked it as if it were an upset, high-strung cat.

“That’s right,” said Sasha, as if he’d just realized that he had a part in this little drama too. “It’s true. Do you mind changing rooms with me, Isaac? We can do it this afternoon.”

“Do I mind,” said Isaac in a daze, “do I mind.”

“Of course he minds,” said Jakov, “and I do too. I don’t want to bunk with you, Isaac. You snore.”

“He does snore,” said Miriam. “But Jakov, I’m sure you do too. And anyway, why should I have to put up with it? I put up with it for years already.”

“I can’t hear myself,” said Jakov. “But him, I’ll hear.”

“Stop it,” said Isaac. “This isn’t funny. What do you mean, sleep together? You two? In the same bed? Sasha. Tell me. Is that what you’re saying?”

“Yes,” said Sasha, “and what are you, her father? Am I some boy come courting her? I’m asking you to switch rooms with me, that’s all. You don’t need to know anything else. It doesn’t concern you.”

Miriam looked around the airless, ugly room with its mustard-yellow rug and hideous paneling and ridiculous little pulpit. As a place of worship, it was sadly lacking. As a place of high interpersonal drama, it was comic. Isaac’s thin hair floated in wisps above his scalp and caught the light. Jakov’s shirt had some egg yolk on it from breakfast, and his face was crumpled from his pillow. Even Sasha looked old and funny in this room, and Miriam was certain that she did too. A giggle rose in her throat. She couldn’t hold it down.

Isaac began to weep. He looked down at his viola, careful not to let tears splash onto the glossy wood. His thin chest heaved. His soft stomach convulsed. “Miriam,” he said. His voice was plaintive and stricken. “You would do this to me now?”

Miriam crossed the room and put her hand on his back and rubbed gently between his shoulder blades as she’d done for their children when they were sick or upset. “Shhhh,” she said as he leaned into her. “This doesn’t mean I don’t still love you, neshama. You’re my children’s father. You’re my life’s mate. Don’t cry. I deserve to be happy. I deserve to be loved by a man. You and I, that part of us is over, remember? But you’re family to me still, and you always will be.”

Isaac took a breath and shook his head. “I know that, Miriam. I know. I just needed a minute. Now we should rehearse and no more talk about this.” He wiped his eyes with the back of one hand. “And yes, Sasha, I will exchange rooms with you, and Jakov, we will snore together in beautiful harmony.”

Miriam felt she had never loved Isaac as much as she loved him right then. His back had been quivering. She could feel what a blow this was to him and how much it cost him to summon his generosity. But he had done it. This was a demonstration of love he had never shown her when they were married.

Miriam looked over at Jakov. He was gazing at her with tender, stricken sorrow. But he had no say in the matter, and everyone knew it, Jakov most of all.

They all sat in their seats and ran through the Six-Day War Quartet, and for the first time, they played it without a single mistake.

Valerie was sitting up in bed, staring into her laptop screen, tapping away with one earbud in her ear. A pot of coffee sat on a tray on the nightstand.

“Did you read the history of the ship in the brochure?” Christine asked as she brushed her hair.

“No, why?”

“It’s an interesting story,” said Christine. “You might want to talk about it in your story about the cruise.”

“This ship is only interesting because it’s old.”

“She’s beautiful, too. And a lot of famous people have sailed on her.”

“You’re such an elitist,” said Valerie breezily, still typing.

“Why is that so bad?” said Christine. “So I like some things more than others because they’re better, so what?”

Valerie didn’t answer, so Christine went into the bathroom and closed the door. She looked into the mirror as she brushed her teeth and made a snarling face. Her mouth was misshapen by the brush, rabid-looking with the foaming toothpaste. She had been reveling in dressing for dinner every night in beautiful clothes, and drinking martinis and dancing and being flirted with by Brooklyn hipster dudes and cruise-ship captains. It had all reminded her that she was still youngish and even attractive. But this morning she had woken up with a sense of caution, hearing her mother’s voice telling her to know her place, not stick her neck out, act right so people wouldn’t talk. She vowed to reclaim her low-profile New England humility. She was much more comfortable that way.

“Maybe you should include a chapter about farmers in Maine,” she said to Valerie as she took her bathing suit off the balcony railing where it had been drying and stuffed it into her bag. “We’re struggling low-level workers, by any standards. It’s hard to raise crops and livestock in rocky, thin, acidic soil and Zone Four winters and short growing seasons. It’s kind of insane that we do it at all, much less succeed at it.”

Valerie went on typing as if Christine hadn’t spoken. Her silence wasn’t hostile, Christine thought, but more like the oblivious absorption of a professional to whom a layperson was speaking words that had nothing to do with her, and were therefore outside of the realm of her attention.

“And speaking of struggling,” Christine went on, opening the door, “it’s time for my busy day by the pool. You coming?”

“I’ll meet you up there in a bit,” Valerie said without looking up. “I just have to finish this. God, I wish there were fucking Internet in this fucking ocean. I’m kind of dying without it. Or cell service at least. I can’t even text anyone.”

“Who would you text if there was?”

“No one,” Valerie said. “You.”

They both laughed as Christine headed out the door.

Mick arrived eighteen minutes early for his shift. Laurens hadn’t shown up yet, but that was normal. Still, Mick’s mouth was dry and his heart was beating too quickly. He wanted to dive into work immediately, immerse and submerge himself in physical labor, the harder, the better. It was the best way, really the only way, to block out mental stress. And he was nervous and on edge. It wasn’t just Laurens’s curt dismissal of him after his fuckup, dashing his hopes for a job in Amsterdam, nor was it whatever he’d been sensing in the crew lounge last night, the anger and tension of the layoffs. Mick was angry at himself. What the hell was he doing on this cruise, anyway? Why had he agreed like a lapdog to forgo his vacation, bribed by a promotion that meant nothing in the end? And no extra pay. And no Suzanne, no Paris.

Consuelo was already on the line, prepping braised pork chops. She flicked a look over at Mick, but didn’t say anything. The rest of the crew was there too, hard at work. No one seemed startled to see Mick arrive early. They were all involved with their various meat projects, searing and breaking down and braising. A glance at the meat station was like a snapshot of controlled carnage: flesh, bone, blood, gristle, skin. It was like a surgery room, all gleaming stainless steel and sharp, specialized instruments, and the chefs were swathed in white like doctors, working silently as if they were saving and healing live bodies rather than cutting up dead ones.