Кейт Кристенсен - The Last Cruise

Christine realized that she was ravenous. It was funny how quickly she had become conditioned to look forward to the midnight buffet. Normally, at home, she and Ed ate dinner at about six-thirty and nothing else till breakfast the next morning. Yet it had taken only a few days of sumptuous late-night spreads to get used to this nightly indulgence.

Laughing inwardly at herself, she realized that she felt irrationally cheerful about this situation, on the whole. This was the way she usually reacted when things went “pear-shaped,” as her mother put it. Maybe it was because, when Christine was growing up, any small catastrophe had caused her parents to focus on her and her sister instead of being their usual distracted and worried selves, as if having the barn wall collapse or the tractor break down or the lambing ewe die made them remember that they loved their children.

“Hey,” said Valerie. “There’s that guy. That chef.”

Christine caught sight of him, emerging from the stairwell nearby. Mick, she remembered. That was his name. When he saw Valerie and Christine, his knotted expression eased and he seemed on the verge of greeting them. Then his face went blank and he turned away, as if he’d remembered that he didn’t know them, or didn’t care if he did, and went off into the darkness.

As soon as it was light enough to see, Christine got out of bed and stood in her pajamas by the open window, hugging her arms to her chest to warm herself. The ocean looked pellucid and calm. The cabin felt stiflingly small behind her.

“Oh God,” moaned Valerie from beneath her covers. “Did we dream all that?”

Christine turned to address the fetal knot cocooned in its nest of blankets, hair sprouting onto the pillow. “I wish we had.”

“What’s going on?”

“We’re still adrift, I think,” said Christine.

Valerie unpeeled the blankets from her head and squinted at Christine. “Well, this is a plot twist I didn’t expect. Power outage. My cruise-ship chapter just got a lot more interesting. This could even be a book of its own.”

“That might be the one good thing in all this.” Christine stretched, hearing her joints crack, feeling her muscles elongate like rubber bands. She yawned so hard her jaws creaked. “I have to get out of here. Want to come?”

“I’m not awake yet,” said Valerie, pulling the covers back over her head. “Bring coffee if you can find any,” she added, her voice muffled.

In the bathroom, Christine peed and flushed the toilet. Nothing happened. So the plumbing wasn’t working: that was bad. Instead of trying to take a shower, which she imagined would be futile now, she pulled on shorts and a T-shirt, brushed her hair. Out in the hallway, it was so quiet she could hear her own footsteps as she padded along on the patterned carpet with its dizzying interlocking mod diamonds and ovals. No vibrations underfoot meant that the engines were still out. So was the air-conditioning. The door at the end of the hallway was propped open, letting a fresh bright breeze pour through.

It was just past dawn, she guessed, judging by the soft spangled light on the water. She was alone on the staircase, alone in the hallway. As she approached the open door to the breakfast room, she heard activity and saw two waiters in uniform taking dishes off rolling carts and arranging them on a long table. The room was bleached with light and filled with the sound of the waves, closer down here than on the upper decks, the morning light and salty air contrasting with the kitschy decor, synthetic burnt-orange drapes, sunburst wall-to-wall carpet studded with pink and ocher and magenta, and stackable mass-produced cushioned chairs and institutional tables.

At the other end of the room she recognized Sidney, the maître d’, wrestling with a large sliding window on a track. He stopped to rub his shoulder. Then he fished a flask out of his hip pants pocket, unscrewed it, and took a deep drink.

“Can I help you open it?” Christine asked, walking toward him. “It looks like a job for two people.”

Sidney shoved his flask back into his pocket. “No no, I can manage. Breakfast isn’t ready yet, I’m afraid.”

Christine looked around. Besides Sidney and the two other men, there was no one there. Usually the breakfast room was thronged with staff. She watched as Sidney pulled and pushed, straining against the sliding door. It wouldn’t budge.

“Here,” she said, dragging a chair over to the window. She stood on it, grasped the pane, putting her own hands on it above Sidney’s handholds, and tugged with him. The window opened smoothly on its tracks, letting warm sea air billow into the room.

Christine jumped down and returned the chair to its table.

“Thank you,” said Sidney. “Couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Your name is Sidney, right? I know because I’ve met you every night at dinner.”

“And you’re Christine Thorne from Fryeburg, Maine.”

She couldn’t help smiling as she heard her name and that of the little town she called home. “What’s happening? Do you know?”

“Well, we’re in a bit of a pickle, to tell you the truth,” said Sidney. “Nothing you should worry about, though.”

“So the power’s really out,” said Christine. “Can they fix it?”

“Oh, I reckon we’ll be all right. That crew knows what they’re about down there.”

“Is there anything I can do in the meantime? I would love to help out if I can.”

“Thank you, but that’s not necessary.”

He made “necessary” sound like a euphemism for “appropriate.” Christine pressed on. “I mean it. Really. I work hard. And I’m good at taking orders.”

Sidney hesitated. He was clearly unwilling to say no to a passenger’s request, no matter what it was. “Try the galley,” he said with dubious reluctance. “They’re a bit short-staffed at the moment. Little to-do last night. They might welcome an extra pair of hands.”

“Thanks,” she said.

He gave a slight bow from the waist and turned away, done with her. Christine hesitated, wondering where the hell the galley was, but she was too intimidated by his demeanor to ask for directions.

Mick woke up in blackness, rolled out of his bunk and stood up, opened the door to the hallway to let air and light in, and looked around for his clothes. His roommate was in the top bunk, his face turned to the wall. Mick stared at the back of his head. He couldn’t picture his face. What was his name? Silvio? Salvatore? He usually worked the night shift and didn’t come in until Mick had left. He should have been in the galley, not sleeping here.

Mick snapped awake remembering the walkout, Laurens, the fire. He stood still outside his room, listening for the familiar thrum of the engines below him. But there was nothing, only a stifling silence. He headed quickly down the hallway, almost running. The emergency track lights were still on, and the air was dense and smelled of smoke and God knew what chemicals they’d used to put out the fire. He assumed he’d lost most of his staff, and the power was still out. How would he cook with no electric stoves? Frozen and refrigerated food wouldn’t last more than a day. They were due to resupply in Hawaii, so there wasn’t much food left on the ship. He would have to make a full inventory of their stores, try to make them last until…

His thoughts were interrupted by a loud, clear voice behind him. “Hello, good morning, can you tell me where the galley is?”

He stopped and turned. It was that woman from Long Beach, the friend of the journalist. She had an odd expression on her face as she also recognized him. “Oh. Hi.” She hesitated, and Mick waited for the other shoe to drop. “You’re the chef,” she said politely.