"Shit. Shit." Bianchi often swore in English when he was angered or upset so as not to soil his own language. "Who is it?"
When Nanda shrugged the captain ordered him to get two more men to the anchor room. The Chinaman, Guang, and the African responded, leaving the rest to wonder why the ship was not at anchor and what could be the cause of such urgency. The captain himself roused the engineer and then left the bridge to Nanda. The sound of men running could be heard from different quarters of the ship before it funneled into the bowels and converged in the hold. The captain was first to arrive. The engineer was next, but the Chinaman and African were hot on their heels.
Once there, they fanned out into a semi-circle. Stunned by what they saw, they fell mute. The engineer was the first to act when he came to his senses. He lunged for the windlass and shut off the hydraulics, silencing the groaning of the chain, the churning of the motor, and the banging of bone against metal. When that was done he stood back with his mates. All were more angry than distressed. The love boat would be cancelled for sure. Instead of the big bosomed American prostitutes it would be the U.S. law swarming the Faret Vild, and he did not like that at all.
Guang, the Chinaman, and the African were not happy either, but they weren't worried about the women; they were worried that they would be called upon to bear witness to the authorities. On this vessel, as all others, none of them were without fault and many were on the wrong side of the law. They preferred to come and go unnoticed. To make much of the dead at the expense of their living and their freedom was viewed as a ridiculous exercise. Besides, the dead man was unknown to them. If he were a stowaway, then he had taken his chances and lost. If he were not, then he was bad business that belonged to someone on board. In that case, the only law that mattered would be the captain's. The other one - the not quite dead one - they knew. It was not unexpected that this had happened. That one had simmered with anger from the beginning of the voyage, and that sort of thing always came to a bad end.
It seemed a long while that they waited for orders. Perhaps the captain was waiting for the one in the shadows to die. Perhaps he did not know what to do. The crew was aware that the Indonesian often helped the captain to make decisions, but this time Adeano Bianchi surprised them. He took command, snapping his fingers at Guang.
"Infermeria. Pubblicare una guardia."
There was no doctor aboard, but Guang was certified in first aid and there were supplies in the infirmary. The man was trustworthy which made him the best one to put on guard, but he was also slow moving. The captain waved him on.
"Rapidamente. Rapidamente."
Forgetting English was the universal language of the ship, the captain fell back into Italian. Not that it mattered what language he spoke. Everyone understood that speed was necessary if for no other reason than to allow the anchor to lower. The swells from the north could change the ship's position for the worse if they were not secured soon. Repositioning would waste precious fuel and raise questions from the Port Authority; questions Adeano Bianchi did not want to answer.
"Now!"
The captain's roar finally set them to work. Guang took the bloodied one and the African and the Serb were left to the man caught in the chain. They jockeyed for position, arguing quietly about how best to extricate him before beginning their grisly task. The Serb slipped on the bloody floor once. When he righted himself, they found their rhythm.
The captain watched, tight lipped and solemn. He tilted his head when it seemed the dead man's own would fall off as he was pulled away from the anchor chain. When it remained attached to the torso, Adeano Bianchi seemed relieved. Seeing that the crew was better than he had given them credit for, he offered some encouragement and praise while he considered what else must be done before anyone from the outside stepped aboard the Faret Vild. Checking his watch, Adeano noted that time was short so decisions must be made quickly. When the dead man was finally freed, the engineer stepped in and reset the windlasses. As the anchor chain unfurled, Adeano Bianchi directed the two men carrying the body.
"Contenitore quarantasette."
Container number forty-seven was nearly empty, and the temperature change needed to preserve the body would make no difference to the cargo it carried as far as the captain knew. Not to mention it seemed fitting to put the man in one of the containers he had watched over so carefully. Forty-seven was due for Panama, so that would give the captain time to think what to do.
The men heard Adeano Bianchi but remained where they were. Their eyes still on the chain, they held their collective breath and waited for the massive anchor to hit bottom. Only then did they re-adjust their load and go on their way with the body slung between them. When they came to the narrow ladder, the Serb passed the body up to the African and then joined him to carry the dead man toward the stern where they found the container.
Left alone, the captain looked at the mess on the floor and the walls and contemplated the problems that might lie ahead. It was possible that the Port Authority would question why it took so long to anchor, but that was a simple fix. He could adjust the log or point to the slack of the chain and the natural drift it would cause. He would tell them that the ship was old and the hydraulics needed work. The company would pay a fine and there would be no more to it. The authorities were all about business, and a fast turn around was all they really wanted. No, the discrepancy of anchoring was not a problem, but the dead man was another matter.
The dead man was Adeano's special guest. They had done business once before, a test run to see if the captain was a proper partner. Adeano had passed with flying colors and been awarded this job. He had been told what he needed to know about the cargo and no more. It was illegal, it was worth a great deal of money, and there was a ready market among Americans. Adeano understood. He did not need the man to draw him a picture. He also knew that the people waiting for this cargo had a strict time schedule and would not simply be disappointed with this turn of events, they would be vindictive against those who disrupted their business. It was possible that he, Adeano Bianchi, would be held accountable even though he only had control over the transport. Then again, was the dead man really of such consequence? It was the cargo that mattered, not the one who delivered it. Yes, the Italian decided, this was an inconvenience and nothing more. He would search the man's quarters. Certainly he had records, contact numbers, and an inventory list. Surely there would be something that would help Adeano show his good faith to whoever was working with this man. With that information, the captain would fulfill the order in Los Angeles as well as the one in Panama and all would be well.
Satisfied that everything that could be done was being done, he ordered the engineer to 'clean this up', and started down the length of the ship meaning to go to the man's cabin first thing. He didn't get far. There was a niggling worry in his head like an earworm; a tune playing endlessly, the lyrics of which he could not make out. The captain swung himself up onto the first rung of the ladder and as he began to climb he thought that, perhaps, the unpleasantness of a body on board his ship was bothering him. Yet that didn't seem right. He would simply dispose of the body once they were out to sea. If asked at the next port, he would say the man left the ship of his own accord. Let anyone prove that he had not.
No, the body did not seem to be a bothersome thing to Adeano Bianchi. What niggled at him, he realized, was the one who was still alive. It would be best if that one was dead too. He might have to encourage such an outcome. As sad as that would be, Adeano consoled himself with the thought that a quick confession to the monsignor and a heartfelt penance would take care of his soul while the deed itself would secure his job. The captain was, after all, a practical man.
By the time he thought all this, Adeano was on the upper deck, looking at the blinking lights of the port on one side and the grey/black darkness of the early morning on the other. It was then that he understood what was amiss.
The problem was not the dead man, nor the near dead.
The problem was not the crew who he trusted to keep their counsel.
The problem was not the state of Adeano Bianchi's eternal soul.
The problem was the one who had not been in the anchor room, or on the deck, or anywhere else that Adeano knew of. If he had come upon the bloodbath in the anchor room, he would never have left his mate's side. If he didn't know of the incident, then Adeano wanted to be the one to tell him what had happened to his friend.
Changing course, the captain went to the crew lounge instead of the bridge. The men sitting around the narrow table looked up. Each was somber. The news of what had happened traveled fast. The captain counted heads. Five mates were missing. Four could be accounted for. The one who was not there was Adeano's earworm.
"Trova il ragazzo," he said. And then in English, “Find the boy”.
2
Day 1 @2:30 A.M
He lay back against the wall, arms close to his body, feet tight together, burrowed into a corner under a ladder, beside a blue container. Once again his name crackled over the intercom, but he didn't respond to the captain's command to report. Throughout the ship his mates called out for him in their many accents, but he stayed quiet. While he could identify each of their voices, it was impossible to be sure of their positions because the Faret Vild was like any other container ship: a massive steel shell crisscrossed with wires, mazed with pipes, connected by a labyrinth of catwalks, and cavernous spaces that were packed with giant metal boxes above deck and below.
It was cold in places, hot in others and oven-like near the engines, but mostly the interior of the Faret Vild was cold. There were crawl spaces where voices were nearly lost and vast expanses where they became distorted. He had misjudged only a moment ago. Thinking one of his mates was aft, he instead found the man almost on top of him, cutting off his escape via the gangway, ruining his first plan.
That first plan had been the best. When the ship docked he had intended to make his way off the Faret Vild, losing himself in the crush of men who would be tending to the cargo. Once away, he could tell the authorities what he knew of the matter in the anchor room and make sure his injured mate was taken away and cared for. But the ship was not hurtling toward port with the body of the dead man; no one was calling for medical attention for his mate. That meant he would not have a chance to slip off the Faret Vild unnoticed. The lowering of the anchor only confirmed his injured mate's warning that no one aboard this ship could be trusted.
Knowing a life hung in the balance, the second escape plan was to lower the gangway while at anchor, slip into the water and swim for it. That could be easily done without assistance, and he could maneuver the gangway into position a few feet from the water's surface. That would make his escape safe and, if luck held, unnoticeable for a good long while.
Then he would. . .
Then he could. . .
He would. . .
He could. . .
It didn't matter what he could have done because now he was trapped below deck with the African blocking his way, taking a smoke, cutting off the route to the gangway. It would have been easy to take him down, but the young man had seen enough blood in his life to last for eternity. And, truth be told, he liked the African, so he eased away unseen and hurried down to another deck.
The captain's voice came over the intercom, ever more strident, ordering him to report to the bridge. Instead he went on his own way: mirroring the movements of those who searched for him, dodging them when they turned away, becoming a shadow when they looked toward his hiding places. They went right; he went left. They shined a light fore; he slipped behind a container aft. He climbed down the metal ladders with the care of a thief, waiting for the sighs and groans of the ship to cover his movements.
He went down another, shorter ladder, jumped the last two rungs and hit the ground running. He ducked under pipes big enough for a man to stand up in, touched the smaller ones, and avoided the steaming ones. He stayed close to the containers that were filled with things people needed and things they didn't need but would buy anyway.
Skirting around the last container, he crouched with his fingertips on the cold floor, pulled his lips tight, and tried to breathe evenly. When he saw no one and heard nothing he gave one last look around, whispered a prayer of sorts, and went for plan three: the hydraulic door. It was as wide as ten men standing finger-tip-to-finger-tip and as tall as three standing atop one another's shoulders. The engines were quiet as they lay at anchor, but that didn't mean they were silent. He heard the sounds of the ship and felt the strain of every piece of metal that held the old vessel together. Above it all he heard the thud of his heart.
Suddenly dizzy, he put his back against the wall, doubled over, and spit out blood. He had run into a pipe in the dark and could feel that one of his teeth was loose. There was a knot on his head. These were minor things compared to what he had seen in the anchor room. The memory of that made him ill, and for a moment he considered going to the captain or enlisting the African's help. He would ask to simply stay by his mate's side and accept what consequences came, but the moment passed. He had been warned. His head snapped toward a sound, his hand instinctively went to the zippered pocket of his pants where he safeguarded the thing his mate had thrust upon him.
Take it to an important person.
His ears pricked. One man, maybe two were coming though it sounded as if they were still far away.
Tell them my name.
He remembered the look of desperation in his mate's eyes.
Take it. Tell them.
The words had been spoken like a dying wish. He shook his head, refusing to accept that this was the end. Not his mate's, not his. That was why he had to go.
Twirling to face the wall, he flipped the cover on the panel that controlled the hydraulic door, but stopped short of moving the switch. In a split second doubt paralyzed him. He argued with himself, pleaded with himself, railed at himself. Either he had the guts or he didn't; either he had the will or he didn't. He was not a coward, but he was frightened as any human being would be. Once he flipped the switch the door would open and set off warning lights on the bridge. It might escape notice for a few minutes, but the captain's inattention wouldn't last long. The one thing he was charged to do would remain undone because he hesitated; the one life he cared about would be lost.
Gathering his courage, he activated the massive door. It pulled back slowly, opening laboriously, revealing the world outside the ship in inches, feet and finally miles. The port lights blinked, twinkled, and flared. Tethered ships seemed to undulate with the movement of their night crews. Monstrous cranes plucked up containers as if they were children's toys. A red one swung in the air, the name Maersk was painted in letters three stories high. Another was blue and yet another yellow. The port looked magical, safe, and so far away.
Below him the sea was indistinguishable from the sky: both were blacker than black. While the ship was at capacity the containers were not all full, so the Faret Vild rode high in the water. It was impossible to know exactly how long the fall would be, but the smell of the ocean and the sound of the water lapping against the hull told him it was a longer distance than it was safe to fall. He judged that the ship was nearly three miles off shore. That could be a good thing. If the fall didn't kill him he could swim a few hundred yards out and disappear into the dark. Then again, distance could be a bad thing. If no one could see him swim out, they also wouldn't see him drown if the fall stunned him.
Six of one half a dozen of the other.
All this was a crapshoot. All his life had been one. He had never beaten the odds, but neither had he laid a bet that broke him.
The air was cold; the water would be colder. He knew that he was strong, but sometimes strength was not enough. Stamina, tolerance for the cold, and courage to face what might lie beneath the water's surface were needed to survive in the ocean. One wrong move and he would be gone just when he had found a reason to live again.
Lips tipped up in a sad litt
le smile, the young man realized he was wasting time. Speculation was a ridiculous exercise. Loss was a part of his life. So many he loved were already gone and the one he was leaving on board the Faret Vild, the one he hoped to save, would probably be gone soon too. Still, he would try to help. It was all he could do; it was what he had always done.
With the giant door locked in place he raised his head and took a deep, bracing breath. He heard his name called as if in a dream. Knowing they were closing in on him, he raised a foot, stepped into the air, and fell through the cold dark.
Arms crossed over his chest, legs together, he broke the water's surface like an arrow. His body didn't immediately register the shock of the frigid water or the impact of the fall. The taste of blood washed off his lips and was replaced with that of salt, which was then replaced with no feeling at all as the ocean-cold took its toll and the dark engulfed him. He felt peaceful as he descended. Slowing and twirling, his hair floated above him, and his feet tugged below him. He didn't know how long he sank, but somewhere in the back of his mind he understood that he was going too deep.
Fighting the languor he released his hands, spread his arms wide, and stroked upward with all his might. He kicked hard, scissoring his legs, propelling his body against the heavy sea. Three strokes; three kicks. Three more of each. Unsure of whether he was up or down, knowing he was still too deep, he released his breath in short bursts and chased after the bubbles. At first they fizzed around him making it impossible to tell up from down. Struggling to control his panic, he breathed out again, parsing the precious air in order to more easily track the bubbles.
There.
Yes.
These bubbles drifted up, and he followed them praying that the surface was only a few strokes away.
His lungs were on fire. He couldn't feel his hands. He pulled harder, pushing through the water, kicking fiercely. He twisted and turned, and finally wiggled out of his jacket. It drifted away. He jack-knifed and managed to untie one boot. Heavier than the jacket, it sank beneath him. The other couldn't be undone, but still he was lighter and that was something. Out of practice in the water, out of breath, he swam for his life.
Lost Witness Page 2
