Кейт Кристенсен - The Last Cruise

Mick had simply wanted their father to run a more orderly and efficient household, to be an effective head. Beata had been emotional, egotistical, whereas Mick was always pragmatic, interested primarily in survival. Beata had died in a motorcycle accident at nineteen. She had been sparky and charismatic, just like Consuelo; they also shared outsized pride and temper and a cavalier refusal to play the game, a self-defeating stance that only ever bit them in the ass. And it made Mick sad. He liked Consuelo. He wanted her to do well. She was a talented chef, bright, skilled.

But then he remembered that she’d fucked things up for him, too. Whatever ground he’d regained with Laurens after his faux pas at the captain’s table dinner was lost. He had failed to keep Consuelo in check. It wasn’t his fucking fault, but he couldn’t tell Laurens that when he and Laurens inevitably discussed the incident later. Instead, Mick would have to take responsibility for her, apologize, act contrite. It made him seethe with frustration. It was one thing to watch someone torpedo her own job, another thing entirely to be implicated in her behavior and held responsible for it.

He managed to get through the shift by going from one thing to the next, trying to focus on what was at hand, immediate. And when it was finally over, the last meal served, the last tray of leftovers stored, the equipment clean and wiped down, the floors swabbed, they all straggled over to the pass and gathered around in their usual raggedy ranks for the end-of-night meeting. Most nights had gone extremely well, which meant that this gathering was usually short, sweet, punchy, and even festive, with bottles of beer handed around, maybe a pan of leftovers passed with a fork, everyone exhausted, sweaty, relieved. But tonight the galley was silent. The tension from earlier had deepened to a blanket of smog. Kenji raised an eyebrow at Mick, who answered with a shrug so small his shoulders barely moved.

Laurens had been in his office for the last few hours, between service and the closing staff meeting. It was a power move, like everything he did. He never fraternized with the other chefs or staff. He wasn’t given to lingering. As always, his arrival in the galley caused the room to go quickly silent. Everyone stood still. Consuelo waited next to Mick, holding her knife case, though she breathed evenly, her arms loose by her sides. Mick was impressed in spite of himself at her cool. His own hands were clenched.

“Hello, everyone,” said Laurens. He looked very pale. His eyes were rimmed red. He held one arm across his stomach as if he were protecting it. He stopped at the head of the pass and looked around at their faces, stopping on Consuelo’s while he spoke, looking directly at her. His voice sounded a little weak, but he didn’t hesitate. “We had a situation tonight. It could not be handled during service without disrupting the passengers’ dinner. I am going to deal with it now. Consuelo, from the beginning you have been a problem in this kitchen, and what happened tonight was inexcusable. You will be put off the ship in Hawaii. Please leave my kitchen now and do not come back.”

Consuelo hefted her knife case lightly from hand to hand. “Yes, Chef,” she said in a clear voice. Mick imagined for an instant that she was about to take her fish knife from the case and stab Laurens through the heart. But instead she walked out of the galley, her back very straight, her gait unhurried. The door swung behind her.

“And everyone else,” Laurens began, but he stopped as one by one, without a word, the crew turned and followed Consuelo out.

“Hey, what are you doing?” Laurens said to their departing backs. “I didn’t dismiss you.”

No one answered him. Mick watched in astonishment as the most obedient and lowliest of his staff, every ranking color of neckerchief from dishwashers to line chefs, filed out the door. He tried to catch someone’s eye, anyone’s, but no one would look at him. The displaced air of their bodies blew against his cheeks along with an animal smell of sour sweat.

Laurens turned to Mick and Kenji. They were the only two left in the galley. “What the hell is going on here?”

Kenji looked at Mick with the same baffled expression. “I don’t know,” he said.

“Me neither,” said Mick. “I’ve never seen this happen before.”

The three of them stood and stared at each other for a moment in silence. Mick heard his own heartbeat loud in his ears. “I think it’s a protest,” he said, remembering the atmosphere in the crew lounge these past nights. He could hardly believe he was saying this, but it was the only thing that made sense.

Laurens coughed. “You’re fucking joking, right?” He leaned against the counter, one hand clutching his stomach. The skin of his face was stretched so tight the knobs of his cheekbones gleamed in the overhead glare. “Where’s the night crew?”

“I don’t know,” said Kenji. “They should be here.”

“Chef,” Mick said. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” said Laurens. Something rippled across his face, a spasm of some kind. “Please go and inform the night crew that they have duties to perform. I want them here now. Go and find Paolo. I’ll be in my office.” He turned and made his way slowly toward the far end of the galley. But before he’d even reached the door to the first storeroom, he collapsed to the freshly mopped floor. At first Mick thought he had skidded and tripped, since the floor was gleaming wet, but instead he lay propped on his elbows, vomiting.

Kenji grabbed a clean torchon off the counter and helped him up. Mick wet another torchon at the prep sink, wrung it out, and handed it to Laurens.

“This is bad,” said Laurens, gasping, clutching his stomach as he mopped his face. He leaned over and vomited again and kept heaving.

“Let me take you to the infirmary, Chef,” said Kenji. “You need a doctor.”

Mick took it as a clear sign of how sick Laurens was that he didn’t try to argue. “Find Paolo,” Laurens called to Mick as Kenji helped him out of the galley. “We need the night crew in here.”

Miriam couldn’t help smiling at Kimmi’s unflagging energy and enthusiasm as she introduced and applauded one act after another, a jazz guitarist, a retired opera singer, an amateur stand-up comedian.

Kimmi was nominally the Sabra Quartet’s boss on the cruise, and as such, she was easygoing and not unduly concerned with protocol; not a stickler, but not lax, either. She was professional and fun, but there was more to her than that. Every time Miriam saw her, she was making an extra effort to be humane and responsible, talking confidingly to an elderly man as she helped him up the stairs by making it look as if she’d just taken his arm, joining a solitary diner whose spouse was under the weather, rousing torpid midafternoon sunbathers by the pool to get up and swivel their hips to a Frank Sinatra song, which they did with laughing good cheer. She was doing double duty on this cruise. As the entertainment director she was responsible for fun, and as the cruise director she was responsible for morale, and she took both seriously.

During a sweet rendition by two old men of an Everly Brothers song, Miriam’s attention was caught by one of the waiters. He walked quickly, head unobtrusively down, toward the Weisses’ table, which was near the front of the stage. Miriam watched as the waiter leaned down and whispered something in Larry’s ear. Larry put a hand on Rivka’s shoulder, whispered in turn into her ear. Rivka stared up at him as Larry stood and followed the waiter to the back of the lounge, threading the thronged tables, and out the door.

“Where’s he going?” Sasha said into Miriam’s ear. So he had noticed too.