by Merle Kröger
The music is already blaring again.
And Wiltrud is gambling somewhere. My little sister.
Sybille and her husband used to read a lot, as a means to cope with the war and their own history. She is always startled by the lust in her peers’ faces, the greed. Ambition may be a virtue, but at what point does it cross the line? Lust for food. Lust for life. Lust for careers. She can see the greed in Wiltrud’s eyes, when she claims she is just going to take one more turn out on the deck to stretch her legs.
If she thinks about it objectively, it has always been complicated between them. Wiltrud constantly strove to get the better of her: she went on to finish high school, then college. There was no point in discussing anything else. Later it was a Hamburg shipper’s son, who had more family wealth than Ulrich could ever earn as the head physician at a hospital. Already early on, Wiltrud’s children learned how to elude her demands. And now it is obviously the addiction to the lucky strike. The money means nothing to her, since she has enough already.
Sybille is frightened that Wiltrud will not be able to find her, even if in a moment of clarity she does recall that her sister is all by herself on deck, dependent on her help. The girl from security surely forgot about her long ago.
Has a cruise passenger ever died of starvation or dehydration? Fat chance. The idea of starving in the midst of this abundance actually makes her laugh.
Pull yourself together, Sybille. You have to do something, right now, before you are too weak because you failed to take your pills. It is now or never.
She reaches behind her. The wheelchair is there. Step one, step two, step three. Everything in due order.
She shifts her center of gravity so that the footrest sinks.
Her torso comes upright, as her head flops onto her chest. Now she can only look down.
She grabs her left leg with both hands and sets her foot on the floor.
Now for the right leg.
Foot on the floor. Pay attention! Don’t tip to the right.
Centimeter by centimeter, she scoots her body ninety degrees to the left. Stands up.
The wheelchair has to be to the left of her, so she waves blindly in that general direction until she hits something: the armrest. The wheelchair is sitting with the seat toward her, the brakes on.
No chance.
She must spin around. Hand back again. Holding tight with both hands, her feet scuttle to the left.
One, two, three. Forward, millimeter by millimeter.
Done.
Now grab the armrests with both hands.
Hold tight.
And pull.
One, two, three.
Get up, you old nag.
Done.
She releases the brake. Now she can use the wheelchair turned backward as a walker.
She has to follow her instinct. The casino is in the ship’s stern, to the right and down, so to the elevator.
Good luck. She cannot see what is in front of her, just the floor. The floor is light yellow. Watch out, an edge. Now red, dark red.
The blow comes hard and without warning.
She staggers and uses all her strength to lift her head.
She is standing on the jogging track!
The young man is already gone, and all she can see is his colorful outfit, earphones in his ears, muscular calves.
She can no longer hold her head up.
Something pops in her back, directly below her neck.
Second, third, or fourth vertebra.
Osteoporosis. Porous. The vertebrae are cracking, and the doctors have advised surgery and infusions with cement, in order to stiffen the vertebrae.
She feels dizzy.
I’m scared.
Suddenly hands. Hands and voices. Someone grabs her, twirls her around, and pulls. Don’t pull!
She falls back into the chair. Red floor. She cannot see the person. Hello, I don’t see you. Who are you?
In her ear. English. “Madam, your cabin?”
“Casino,” she manages with effort. “My sister is in the casino. Wiltrud Herrendorf.”
Dark red. White stripes. Light yellow. Green.
Where am I?
Panic.
“Let go of me! Get my sister! Right now!”
The wild ride ends instantaneously.
“As you wish, madam.”
Green. Fake green grass. Yuck, how tasteless.
She is cold. She would like to go to the cabin, take her pills, slip under the warm cover, sleep, dream. Her eyes are already closing.
“Sybille!” All she can see are Wiltrud’s legs, slender in white cropped pants. Brown ankles, sandals, painted toenails. “I told you to wait for me!” She doesn’t need to look up to see what kind of look Wiltrud is now throwing her. Deadly, like back then in Gdingen.
All your fault.
The legs crouch down. She smells of alcohol, as something tumbles out of her pants pocket. A silver chip. She steps on it. Too late, dear Wiltrud.
Forced cordiality. “I’ll take you to the cabin now, okay?”
Sybille lifts her hand.
Swinging door. Elevator. FRIDAY is written on the foot mat.
Today is Friday.
Corridor. Patterned rug in brown and yellow.
Cabin. Rug. Pale green.
Humming. Safe. Open. Shut.
My jewelry. The code is our mother’s birthday. Wiltrud keeps her chips in there. I cannot get to it anyway. My hands tremble. I cannot hit the buttons or even stand.
Sybille would like to sleep.
Her fourth thoracic vertebra has collapsed.
SPIRIT OF EUROPE | DECK 4
Nikhil Mehta
Smile!
“Please, officer, look this way!”
Very well. He straightens up, shoulders back, stomach in.
“The uniform suits you, officer!”
“Thank you, ma’am.” They press their sweaty bodies against his. The men get all chummy and sling their arms around his shoulders.
Smile!
Right, that’s enough now.
Soon he won’t have to wear this ridiculous Love Boat uniform anymore, that’s for sure. His lawyer’s email should be arriving any day now, and then the path is clear. Back to India, right to the top. No one to stop him.
NaMo—that’s what they call him in Gujarat—has been prime minister of India for over a month now. Our man Narendra Modi is like a one-man task force: a tsu-NaMo after his overwhelming election victory. May he bring India as far as he did Nike’s home state, Gujarat. It was an economic miracle in the prosperous north, nothing short of that. The Indian middle classes need growth, prosperity, and security. It has all been just talk for too long. The Nehrus and the Gandhis have clouded our minds. Jai Ram!
I tell it like it is. Since the terror attacks in Mumbai, we once again know where the enemy is located. In this regard, I sympathize with the colleagues from Israel. The world has reached a historic watershed, if you know what I mean. We have to make a decision, and India has decided. We are the twenty-first century.
Nike steps back from the people and watches as the Burmese remove the barrier tape. The show is over. He is happy with the way things turned out. There is always a solution, and Miami will see it that way, too.
Done. And now on to the jobs at hand. In his head, Nike runs through his to-do list.
Report. The first officer has already gone back up to the bridge, but he is not part of the chain of command for security issues. That’s between Nike and the captain.
Then Miami. A video chat with Sheila is probably in the cards.
The Nigerian will have to stay for the time being. As long as he doesn’t cause any trouble, that’s fine with him. They must find a political solution, sooner or later. He’d prefer later. He will talk to the man himself.
Masarangi should set up the conference call now. Where is she anyway? Ah, over there by the door, waiting for his orders. He sends her down to the office.
He turns and is halfway up
the stairs before she materializes next to him.
“Sir!”
“Now what?”
“You promised—the singer. What are we going to do?”
What are we going to do? “Girl, he hasn’t even been missing for twenty-four hours. Not even his band has raised the alarm. As long as they don’t complain, it’s not my responsibility.”
Where are we? Deck 6. He pulls her into the Maharaja Lounge, where everything is decorated Oriental style, the way Americans like to imagine India, including fake elephant and tiger heads on the wall. The Filipinos are running through their program as usual, with the guy on bass doing the singing. They don’t even need the singer. Note to self: Email the cruise director a memo. Save on costs.
The early drinkers are seated in front of their cocktails. Bad weather means cash.
“I want to hear it from them, all right, girl? You go over there now and tell them that if something isn’t right, then they should come straight to me. Got it?”
She nods and walks across the lounge to the stage, where she waits until the number is over.
You can’t let talk like this become a habit. At some point, everyone starts unloading on you. It’s in situations like this that true management skills reveal themselves—leadership. God knows Nike has completed enough of these seminars in the last few years. Miami is crazy about them.
Never mind that he had learned everything there was to know about leadership as a boy in the RSS. Its opponents call the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh the cadre factory of Hindutva. Yes, and we take it as a compliment!
NaMo and Nike’s father were there close to the same time—in different shakhas, the local groups, but they knew each other by sight. Nike and his brother also joined as soon as they were old enough. The greatest thing for him was the annual summer camp, the Sangh Shiksha Varga in Gujarat. That feeling of exercising with thousands of comrades: morning training, cricket, yoga. Physical discipline is the name of the game: RSS’s credo since its founding in 1925. Sure, it was around the same time as the Hitler Youth! The model isn’t exactly a secret. But we still exist, and we have achieved everything: the end of British colonial rule in India, the national reconstruction of the Indian nation as a Hindu cultural entity. We even supply the prime minister. What more do you want?
His phone rings. The bridge reports that one of the suites is asking for Officer Masarangi from security. They put her on. The passenger is a woman, elderly by the sound of her voice. Nike can barely understand her; her English has a strong German accent.
“Ma’am, how may I help you?” He makes sure to keep the right amount of respect in his voice. The Germans are his favorite guests, but not only because of the sneakers and Hitler. They stick to the rules. The only thing that bothers him is that they keep calling security about the towels left on the unoccupied sun loungers. She mumbles something about her jewelry and asks that the woman be sent up. “Masarangi. Yes, she’ll be right there, ma’am.”
Even better, this way he’ll be rid of her. Nike makes a mental note of the suite number. Indian students have to memorize so many things, so a four-digit number is child’s play for him.
The band has just stopped playing. Polite applause. He watches Masarangi talking to the bass player—Raymond is his name, isn’t it? Raymond laughs and waves her off. Masarangi’s mouth twists. She should be careful; making sulky faces like that will give her wrinkles sooner than she likes.
She comes back. “They say he’s always skiving off.” She doesn’t buy it.
Nike takes her arm and guides her toward the staircase. “Look, girl.” The fatherly approach. “You’re getting all worked up, officer. Let me explain something to you. On average, five thousand people live on this boat. Most of them don’t know each other, and yet there are rarely any accidents or crimes on cruise ships. Isn’t that astonishing? Of course, there are exceptions, but we aren’t going on that assumption yet. We’re assuming that your singer is somewhere on board, sleeping off his hangover. If that isn’t the case, then he’s no longer on board. And I’ll tell you now…” He lowers his voice. They are on Deck 7 now, just where he wants her. The library is in the bow, and like usual, it is completely empty. The only person in sight is a boy lounging on one of the artificial leather seats, playing with his Game Boy. Nike motions for Masarangi to join him between the dark wooden shelves, fake veneer that looks like warm tropical wood. “If he’s no longer on board, then there’s a ninety-nine percent chance that we’re dealing with a suicide.” Her eyes widen with shock. “Yes, Masarangi, face up to the facts. Only the strong survive. And the weak…” Well, how should he put it? “A cruise ship like this seems to be a magnet for such people. They come on board as crew members, and when the moment comes, they jump. Sometimes it’s bad news from home that’s the last straw. Or a passenger who woke up on the wrong side of the bed. And you know what, Masarangi? Not one of those wastes a single thought on the problems he causes us, you and me. We have to inform the rescue service, which, of course, can never find a person on the high seas without exact coordinates. No chance. Then the paperwork. The harbor police. Miami. Worst-case scenario, the whole story appears on one of those cruise haters’ blogs, and the family of the victim initiates years of lawsuits, from one case to the next. My worst nightmare. Your father’s nightmare. And yours in the future. Do you often have nightmares, Masarangi?”
She shakes her head.
“Good. Consider yourself lucky. I have them.” He lays his hand on her shoulder and points to the left. “Now off you go to Suite 7945. The lady specifically asked for you. And I’ll take care of your Jo, if it becomes necessary.”
She disappears without any further objections. That turned out to be easier than expected. I will take care of it. Nike the Fixer.
He storms up the next flight of stairs. As soon as he’s done with this job, all the illegals and suicides, the greedy, the sick, the gambling addicts, and the sunburn victims can all go to hell. But until then, he needs to keep his nose clean. They screen you very thoroughly in the president’s Special Protection Group. Even NaMo can’t do anything about that, though it has been hinted at to Nike that there would be a position for him there. As long as he can get an acquittal in that old matter and if his files are otherwise clean. These files happen to be in Miami.
He takes the last flight two steps at a time. It’s just a couple of meters down the hallway to the bridge.
He will go in there now and report to the old man. The people on the raft: only men, no women, no children, all in good health. They distributed ten liters of water and blankets, and informed the men that the rescue service is on its way.
“No further incidents, Captain. All under control.”
Followed by a video conference with Miami.
Followed by a conference call with Annapuma Security. Masarangi Senior, once a soldier, always a soldier. He will get his daughter under control.
Nike punches in the code on the keypad, and the door to the bridge opens. He nods to the Gurkha who is still standing guard.
The old man is pacing up and down; everyone else is standing around, waiting. Moret is seated in front of a computer, poring over some maps. Navigation. Weather data. If the captain weren’t here, they would be betting on which would get here first: the Spanish sea rescue service or the storm.
“Finally!” The captain, too, wants to get back to his office, seeking coffee and God knows what else. A sleeping schedule too irregular for too long. Many people take pills against that. He is restless, like a tiger in a cage. “Mehta, where have you been all this time?”
“Emergency on Deck 7, Suite 7945.” Cover his back. “Either burglary or dementia.”
The old guy laughs, and Kiyan, the second in command, grins. “Good work out there, Mehta. As far as I could see from up here, all clean and according to regulations.”
Nike delivers his report as planned, the way the captain wants to hear it.
The radio crackles. Moret swivels around, leaps up, and cov
ers the distance to the microphone with long strides. A quick glance at Nike.
Wait a second, did Moret just smirk a little? Nike is alarmed.
“Anything else, Mehta?” The captain yawns.
“No, sir.”
As if prearranged, both of them look toward Moret, who is fumbling around with the buttons on the radio set without looking up.
“Gentlemen, I will be downstairs. We will get moving once we have the go-ahead from Cartagena.” The old man motions for Nike to leave the bridge with him.
Not that, please, despite his love for Germany. Captain Björn-Helmut Krüger is famous for his never-ending monologues on world events. A staunch Social Democrat. In India, he would be a member of the Congress Party.
Such men are anachronisms, history.
Today is NaMo.
Tomorrow is Nikhil Mehta, alias Nike the Fixer.
AIRWAVES
Spirit of Europe:
Spirit of Europe, go ahead, please.
Salvamento Marítimo:
This is Sea Rescue Cartagena. You want information about the speedboat? ETA… [incomprehensible] in fifteen minutes. Ten to fifteen minutes.
Spirit of Europe:
Okay. ETA to our vessel is ten to fifteen minutes. Thank you, Sea Rescue Cartagena.
Salvamento Marítimo:
Yes, when the speedboat arrives, you can proceed on your voyage.
Spirit of Europe:
Okay. Spirit of Europe copy. When the speedboat is here, we can proceed with our voyage. ETA ten to fifteen minutes. Thank you. Spirit of Europe standing by 27.
Salvamento Marítimo:
Okay, thank you very much Spirit of Europe for your cooperation.
SPIRIT OF EUROPE | BRIDGE
Léon Moret
Ha! Things will get going in a moment. Léon rubs his hands together, stretches and switches off the radio. The Salvamar Rosa will be arriving from approximately north by northwest. The quartermaster is already in the ejection seat.
