Кейт Кристенсен - The Last Cruise

The galley air was thick and sour, even though all of the ship’s doors and windows had been opened to let air circulate through the lower decks. Christine could feel occasional hot burps from outside permeate the inner crevices of the ship. It was no hotter today than yesterday or the day before. It was the lack of air-conditioning that felt strange, one more dubious luxury she had acclimated to in a few short days. In Maine, almost no one had it or needed it. Now, she felt its absence acutely as she stood at the prep counter, making cheese sandwiches. The cheese was sweating in the heat, half melted. The tomatoes and cucumbers were limp. It was a big comedown from the usual midday feast.

Working alongside her was a young married couple, Camille and Lester, who’d grown up together in a small village in the Philippines. Over the course of slapping hundreds of slices of cheese between hundreds of slices of bread, Christine learned that this was their first cruise working together in all their years with Cabaret, four for her, five for him. “So at least we’re together,” said Camille. She was a short, dark, skinny girl with a round face, glasses, and heavy straight black bangs. She looked like a teenager to Christine, but she must have been at least in her mid-twenties.

Lester had small, darting eyes, a thick scar running down one cheek, and an angular, anvil-shaped head. His piratical looks were, Christine had realized within two minutes of talking to him, completely at odds with his personality.

“It would be terrible to be separated right now,” he was saying in a gentle, thoughtful voice. He was almost in tears, imagining this hypothetical separation from his wife. “Especially if she was the one stuck here.”

Camille put a latex-gloved hand on his shoulder. Lester covered her hand with his own latex-gloved one.

Christine looked up as Mick appeared by her side, handing out drinks. “You have to keep drinking,” he said, passing her a bottle of iced tea, still somewhat cold. “It’s hot down here, especially if you’re not used to it.”

“Thank you,” she said, blowing a lock of hair out of her face with a sideways grimace.

All morning, she had been trying to square this competent, thoughtful, caring man with the drunk meathead who’d hit on the waitress in the hotel bar, the showoff at the captain’s table dinner. He didn’t seem like the same guy at all. He had brought her into the galley crew effortlessly, without making her feel awkward or intimating to everyone that she was some sort of princess, slumming it.

When the sandwiches were done and stacked on a tray to be brought upstairs, Christine took off her latex gloves, scooped out a cupful of coffee from the pot she’d left to steep, and headed out of the galley to her cabin.

“This might be the weirdest coffee you’ll ever drink,” she announced, opening the door.

There was no answer. The lump in Valerie’s bed was, Christine assumed, Valerie herself, still sleeping, so she set the cup on their shared nightstand. Valerie groaned and sat up. “What time is it? What’s happening? Did they get the power back on yet? It’s so hot in here.”

“No power yet,” said Christine. “But coffee.”

“Thank you.” Valerie picked up the cup, took a sip. “Is everyone freaking out? Are we getting rescued?”

“I don’t know. Half the crew walked out last night just before the engine fire. They didn’t set it, I don’t think, but they’ve taken over the buffet galley and set up camp on the main deck.”

“Holy fuck,” said Valerie, coming instantly awake. “You’re kidding, right?”

“No. It’s true. They’re on strike. They’re trying to negotiate with the owner to get their jobs back, but on better terms. The rich guy we met the other night at the captain’s table dinner, remember?”

“Okay,” said Valerie. “I need to go and talk to them right now.” She downed the rest of her coffee and leapt from her bed, went into the bathroom and closed the door.

“Don’t use the toilet,” Christine called. “We can’t flush it.”

The door opened. “Wait, what?”

From her pocket, Christine took a wad of small yellow plastic sacks with biohazard markings on them and gave them to Valerie. “Bio-bags,” she said. “Crewmembers were handing them out earlier. We’re supposed to leave the full ones in our bathroom, and they’ll collect them.”

“This sucks,” Valerie muttered as she closed the door again.

“Also,” said Christine when Valerie emerged looking grim, “no showers.”

“No showers.” Valerie stared at Christine. “When are they going to fix it?”

“I don’t know,” said Christine.

Valerie slid a cotton dress over her head, stuck her feet into sandals, and picked up her notebook on her way out the door. “I hope I can remember how to take notes by hand.”

The ship felt as if it were set into a block of concrete, no motion anywhere, nothing but flat sea and hard sky. Miriam was sweating from every pore. The back of her neck felt swaddled in an electric blanket. Rivka clutched her arm as they went along the catwalk toward the bridge.

“Good,” Rivka said into her ear as they stepped into a small room off the bridge, “Larry’s not here yet.”

The so-called war room was empty except for Captain Jack and two senior officers, who stood poring over a vast oceanic map on the table. Two younger men in lower-ranking uniforms stood uneasily behind them. It was a small room, just a teak-lined cubbyhole really. Behind the men, on a long countertop, was an array of blank computer screens and instrument panels, now defunct.

The officers didn’t notice the two old women, which was just as well. Miriam could read music and words and land maps, but not ocean maps. She stared at the unfurled paper with its longitudinal and latitudinal lines, the huge expanse of blue covered with numbers and dots, thinking wistfully about her daughter, her son, her grandchildren. She wondered how Isaac was doing. She’d left him in the shade on the pool deck with Jakov, who was feeling queasy and bilious in the heat. Sasha was still down in the engine room, but what he was doing down there was a mystery, since the engines were, as far as anyone knew, completely kaput.

Larry Weiss entered, flanked by two more senior officers. He stood by the window with his arms crossed high on his chest, his legs apart, ignoring his wife, who ignored him back. Miriam could feel them both bristling. The brightly sunlit little room seemed as crowded and full of faces as a rush-hour subway car.

“Hello, everyone,” said the captain. He looked unruffled, almost relaxed, unlike the rest of them. His gaze slid past Miriam. “First things first: Jim, how’s it going down there?”

“No luck with the engines,” said a strapping young man with a crew cut. “But my guys are on it. They’ll keep working till we get back to port.”

“What’s the backup generator situation?”

“We’ve got bridge communication, the PA system, and sat phones, plus the shipwide network of emergency lighting, but that’s about it.” Jim had a hangdog expression, as if this were his own personal fault. “That means no AC, no vacuum pumps for the plumbing, and no refrigeration or propulsion.”

“So we have basic communication capabilities and limited lighting, but nothing else,” said the captain.

“That’s correct, sir,” said Jim.

No one looked at Larry Weiss.

“Tom,” said the captain, turning to another young man on whose uniform the clusters of insignia and brass appeared to be second only to the captain’s, “when can we expect to be hauled out of here?”