by Merle Kröger
“I can’t see anything,” Mrs. Malinowski moans.
Is her head sinking even farther down onto her chest, or is Lalita imagining things? The woman reminds her of a little bird, a bird preparing to die.
Nonsense.
She pulls the wheelchair next to her, as close as possible. With her left hand, she holds the mouse, and with her right, she carefully reaches her arm around the head, places her hand on the forehead, and gently pulls.
“Harder!” She is greedy. Greedy to look ahead, to finally see a piece of the world again.
Right, that is as far as she will stretch.
And go.
Lalita clicks her way through the cameras. She has no access to the material inside the casino, but the casino has two entrances. In a manner of speaking, it forms the heart of the ship, since there is no way around it. Everything is designed in order to drive the passengers through here, like flies; the weak ones get stuck and sucked dry.
She activates both cameras and then a third, which monitors the adjacent space: the lobby bar and elevators.
“There! My sister.” Lalita can see the woman only from behind. She holds herself very straight. Indefinite age. She totters inside.
Eleven P.M.
Midnight.
Lalita fast-forwards.
At some point, much later, Jo appears on the screen.
Exits again almost immediately, fetches a drink from the bar and downs it while walking. Goes back in.
Out, in, out, in.
You’re drinking too much, Jo. What are you up to?
Short pause. Mrs. Malinowski crumples again, like a marionette without a string. Her painful groans tug at Lalita’s heartstrings. She stretches her knotted shoulders.
Move on. We’re running out of time.
Okay. Forward. The sister appears again. A hard woman, rich and old. She makes the hair on Lalita’s arms stand on end. A mighty opponent.
“Follow her. Stay on Wiltrud.”
How can this crooked, delicate creature stand up against that one? It’s just not possible. Lalita lets her fingers fly across the keys, as Wiltrud moves from camera to camera. Into the elevator. Down the corridor. To her suite. Door closes.
That was it. We got it wrong.
Maybe she found the guitar pick somewhere.
Empty corridor.
Back to the casino?
“No. Wait.”
What’s the point?
Forward.
“I’m sorry, Lalita.” Yes, sure, she is sorry. This bent old woman feels sorry for her, because Jo is now staggering down the corridor instead of staying with her. Through the camera’s fish-eye lens, he looks completely lost. He looks up briefly, and her hand twitches. Why didn’t you say anything, Jo?
Move on.
Move on.
Let him pass the door.
Jo stops and knocks quietly. Wiltrud opens the door.
Jo disappears inside the suite.
Lalita has bitten her lip so hard that it bleeds. She can’t wipe it off, because her hand is still holding up the woman’s head. The other hand is on the mouse, as if grafted onto it.
Keep going.
The door opens, and Jo comes out, rushing down the corridor as if being chased by ghosts. The sister follows, her hair down. What’s in her hand?
Zoom in.
Money. Hundred-euro notes.
Onward.
They argue in the corridor, and he takes the money. Again that glance upward, as if he knew you would be watching this later, Lalita. As if it were staged just for you. Why, Jo? Why are you doing this?
He takes the woman’s hand, and she follows him.
Into the elevator. They head up silently.
Deck 12. There they are. Jo pulls her forward, up to the grassy golf area. The green glows brightly in the cold light of the ship’s floodlights. Lalita sees its bright toxic green, even though the CCTV footage is black and white.
The surveillance camera is mounted right in the middle of the foredeck. The scene unfolds before this central perspective, like a tableau, as if it were onstage.
Jo laughs. He seems happy, too happy.
They dance.
From right to left, out of the picture.
Next camera. Portside. Lalita is hyped up. She can’t feel her arm anymore, the one holding the old woman’s head up.
The couple in black and white is dancing, seen diagonally from above. A silent movie. Bizarre. They are dancing right above the side windows of the bridge.
Lalita zooms in.
Wiltrud’s eyes are closed, but Jo’s are not.
He lets her go. She stumbles.
He looks into the camera. That look again.
He pulls her toward him from behind.
He kisses her.
Then Jo lets himself tip backward over the railing.
Or did she push him?
The surveillance is completely useless.
You see everything, but you know nothing.
Cry, Lalita.
What else can you do?
RAFT (NO NAME)
Karim Yacine
Pick up.
Pick up.
Pick up.
The signal is growing weaker.
We’ve got to get out of here as fast as possible.
Karim is crouching under the tarp, clutching the engine’s tiller handle. He has three pieces of thin plastic sheeting with him: One for the five in the bow. One for the teacher, Abdelmjid, the sleeping cousin, and the injured man. One for himself and the engine. The two boys have caps and act like hardened men.
Flying blind.
He can’t see anything, with or without the tarp. The boat underneath him wobbles up and down, as if it were made of liquid. The motor greedily devours the fresh gas and rattles at full torque. The only thing Karim can hear is the roaring of the storm, but his hand can feel the vibration, and he registers the machine’s power in his body. He stares at his cell phone. The GPS is still activated. You have to stay on course. The Spanish mainland lies to the west. That’s where we want to go.
What’s up with Zohra? Why won’t she pick up?
Karim would give anything to turn back the past hour and toss his fear overboard, which has gripped him during this crossing. It is the first time he has ever been frightened, and the fear makes him feel small and cowardly.
He’s afraid that Zohra will leave him.
He’s afraid of the detention center at Murcia.
He’s afraid of death.
He’s afraid of the moment he’ll finally be alone with Zohra, alone in the house in the mountains, of the moment when Zohra will lift the blanket that covers the Black Decade. Her questions, which will stretch on forever, because there are no answers.
France is a neutral zone, a transit region. We can become other people there, even though we’ve become who we are today because of the French. A serpentine eight with no end.
Breaking the silence.
“Breaking the silence” is a good expression.
Something breaks forever.
Don’t set her free.
Fight for your life.
That young Frenchman with the canister full of gas has given him life. Take it, make something out of it. Take it as a sign. You and Zohra’s future lies in France, not in Algeria. Algeria will kill your love, which will suffocate under its large, dark blanket.
It thunders.
Sagging with rain, the tarp presses around his body. Karim feels as if he is shrink-wrapped in cellophane. I don’t want to suffocate.
With his left hand, he yanks off the tarp, and the wind and rain pelt his skin.
Alive!
With this realization, his mind switches back to full power. Don’t just think about yourself. You have ten men and a severely injured person in this boat. Bring them to safety. Give them freedom.
For the first time, he looks behind him. The cruise ship, already far away, disappears into a wall of rain. A flash of lightning flickers across the dark gr
ay sky. All it takes is a fraction of a second, as the raft rides a wave crest. An orange glow. The sea rescue boat is here. It is fast and has the stronger engines.
But Karim has the advantage. We’re the invisible ones, les invisibles. With all of your technology, your radar, your speedboats, you can’t detect us. We can hide between the waves.
As the zodiac plunges once more into a wave trough, Karim heaves to. Now he can stay parallel to the wave, as long as he maintains his speed. The GPS vanishes into his pocket, and his inner radar kicks back on.
He scans the sky. Give me a bright spot, just a shade of difference. The teacher pokes his head out from under the tarp, as if he senses that something has changed.
“I’m taking you ashore!” Karim yells.
He no longer feels the motor.
He’s surfing.
He’s flying.
Westward.
That is where we’ll reach land, on a black beach that can’t be missed from the sea. A black beach that he had discovered on Google Maps, one that has only a few houses, no harbor.
This beach is the gateway to everything we need, a future for all of you in the bow. A shop that peddles something other than just dates for Abdelmjid. Selective amnesia, perhaps at some point, for the cousin who lost his brother. The newest games for the kids from the quarter. French books for the teacher. A hospital for you, unknown friend.
And for you, Karim?
Will you be brave enough to ask Zohra for forgiveness?
Karim surfs.
Don’t turn around.
After an eternity—minutes or hours?—a distant hill rises up out of the mist. It has to be an island. It appears to be floating in the air, over the sea.
Where are we?
Then he sees a beacon to the left of the island, its flame licking up high into the sky. See, it looks like it’s ripping the sky apart. Mountains materialize out of nothing.
He chokes the engine.
He will very slowly steer the zodiac between this island’s boulders. This is where he will wait until darkness comes.
THE FOLLOWING NIGHT
SPIRIT OF EUROPE | DECK 6
Sybille Malinowski
Sybille sees the man’s shoes and suspects what is about to come. He stands spread-legged, so she cannot get by with the wheelchair.
“Good evening, my ladies!” She can sense the grin suspended on his face. She has always valued good social manners; they are simply in your blood. But nothing revolts her more than phony cordiality. Mechanical artificialities are no different from the dancing bears at the circus. She hears Wiltrud respond curtly. This is where they have something in common. If he now just wouldn’t—
“Wash your hands, please.” He stands straight like the number 1 and will not let them pass until they hold their hands under the disinfectant dispensers. The wheelchair stops right in front of the plastic column, and Wiltrud’s hands unwillingly accept their fate.
Sybille giggles quietly. All that sinfully expensive hand cream is going straight to the devil.
Thanks to plastic surgery and expensive cosmetics, on her good days and in flattering light, her little sister looks like she is in her midfifties. However, her hands are those of an old woman.
“Do it, Sybille!”
All right! I finished up a while ago. It is just that my hands have not really gotten started. See how they tremble uncontrollably, like little animals, completely independent from me and my wishes.
Oh, the sanitizer is cold.
My hands flutter, and half of the liquid trickles onto the rug. Rightly so.
She is pushed on. Good thing that their table is up high, right at the balustrade, so she can gaze down on the heads of the diners on the first and second levels.
And on Claus.
Good evening, Claus, my friend.
Here is an admirer who suits her taste, consummate old school. The photograph hangs at the center of the flight of stairs leading down: the shipowner Claus Goldstein in a tuxedo, leaning nonchalantly on the railing of a passenger steamer, his passenger steamer. The America-Europe line, between Hamburg and New York.
Oh, how she had loved traveling on it! Wiltrud and her husband had been among the first passengers. This was during the time she was working in the medical store, to help finance Ulrich’s med school. No need to mention the two children.
Claus Goldstein was a figure practically plucked from a fairy tale. Wealthy Jewish family. Fed the half-starved residents of Hamburg out of his private soup kitchen after World War I. Became unbelievably rich from auto imports from the US. The first passenger ships between Europe and Palestine, one of which carried Max and his sister away from the Nazis to safety. What twists and turns human fate can hold. Sybille never would have guessed. This was the Goldstein who had conveyed her cousin into a future on the other side of Auschwitz, the Goldstein whom the Nazis arrested and dispossessed. Two years later, he immigrated to the US. His wife practically bought his freedom at the last second. It was this Goldstein who, after the war, had no greater dream than to revitalize the passenger ship traffic between America and Europe. This Goldstein was the founder of the company that is now a corporation with the name of Gold Cruises, headquartered in Miami.
“Sybille!” Wiltrud hisses from where she is sitting across from her.
The table next to theirs has been occupied since Southampton by a British couple, along with their son, daughter-in-law, and two grandchildren. The grandparents look like they have leaped out of one of those awful American TV series, so sleek.
“Good evening,” the couple purrs. The others are missing. Without being asked, they report that the rest of them are down on the ice rink. This is addressed directly to Wiltrud, of course. Wheelchair-bound Sybille is shunned like a leper.
The conversation burbles on: Gold Cruise Card, Star Lounge, free drinks. Eventual delay in Mallorca, because of that incident this afternoon.
“Incident?” Sybille throws herself into the conversation as abruptly as she can. “But they’re people! People who need help, not—”
The woman brusquely interrupts. “It’s just irritating when you’re the last ship to arrive. Someone’s always snatching the best things right out from under your nose. Isn’t that right, darling?”
The waiter walks up, a new one this evening. The old one was Alexander from Greece.
A black man. His name is Oke. Something’s wrong with his posture; maybe he has a foot malposition, but that could be treated. Oke also speaks to Wiltrud, reeling off the usual recommendations from the head chef. She puts her glasses on decisively, studying the menu, the wines.
Oke waits.
Sybille studies his feet. Shoe inlays would certainly be helpful.
“What would you like to start with this evening, ladies?”
Wiltrud orders. For starters, two seafood ceviches; for the main course, grilled fillet of plaice with potato-artichoke au gratin for my sister and saddle of lamb with the thyme reduction for me. And the sauvignon blanc for both of us. Wiltrud always orders the second most inexpensive wine on the menu. Wine costs extra.
“I don’t want anything.”
“What?” She imagines Oke’s gaze flying between her and her sister.
“Sybille!” Wiltrud hisses again.
“I don’t want to eat anything.”
“But, madam, the food is—”
“The food is free, I know. I just don’t want to eat anything.” Sybille has prepared herself for this moment: brace yourself on both hands.
Head, get up.
Okay, a couple of centimeters.
She sees the Royals’ martini glasses floating through the air. Sybille calls them the Royals because they’ve bored them with their incessant chatter about how important the monarchy is for England since the very first evening.
Sybille has had enough.
The battle with utensils gets harder each day, not to mention the stares that she does not see but can feel, like pinpricks.
How unpleas
ant.
And the waiter, whether Alexander or Oke, who whisks away her totally soiled napkin with an elegant flick of the wrist.
It is enough. Starting tomorrow, she will dine in her suite.
“I’m not eating.”
Wiltrud, there you are. I’m not sure how long I can hold my head up.
“Be quiet!” she interrupts her sister, who is about to start lecturing her. Oke slips away. “Listen to me. Get that thing out, your tablet.”
Wiltrud obeys, astonishingly. She picks up her Gucci bag and pulls it out.
“Email.” Oh, if only her voice were as steady as it used to be. This is only half as much fun as it could have been. “And you, mind your own business!”
The Royals jerk back. I think this is the first time they have noticed me. Yes, I’m a thinking person!
Wiltrud’s finger glides nervously across the screen.
Sybille’s neck hurts unbearably.
She mentally lets it all go.
Her hand reaches for the balustrade. Ah, now I’ve got Goldstein back in view. Is he smiling a little? Does my little show amuse you, Claus? He winks at her.
He winked. Really.
Wiltrud has surely found the email with the film by now. The entire humiliating scene.
Her young lover.
The end of a dream.
My God, Wiltrud.
Sybille studies Claus Goldstein and imagines the two of them dancing a sublime waltz under the chandelier. Magnificent.
“What’s this, Sybille?” Wiltrud whispers.
“We’re playing a little game.” Focus on your voice, Sybille. Speak loudly and clearly.
She has thought it all through.
The cruise ends at Monte Carlo, and Wiltrud won’t want to skip the famous casino there.
“We’re playing one final game, little sister. All or nothing.”
Your house. Your fortune. Your freedom. Everything on a single card. In Palma, we will go to a notary, and you will sign everything over to me. In Barcelona, I will have a bill made out to me from my bank, and in Monte Carlo, we will gamble. If by the end of the night you have won, I will agree to go to a care facility, as you have proposed. If you lose, you will move in with me, into my beloved house on the Alster. No worries, you won’t have to wipe my backside. Others can do that better than you, but you will keep being my companion. Go with me to the opera. Occasionally go on trips, as long as that is still possible for me. All according to my conditions.
