by Merle Kröger
You think it’s ridiculous, Wiltrud? Really?
Well, the Hamburg tabloid papers will certainly find this video ridiculous as well, especially once I provide them with a few more details.
How you tried desperately to buy the love of this young man.
A woman of your background, Wiltrud.
You should be ashamed.
SPIRIT OF EUROPE | DECK 9
Seamus Clarke
Is the ship swaying, or is it me?
Seamus can’t fit his bloody Sea Pass into the slit in the cabin door.
The door to the cabin across the way flies open. “Miles?” a dark-haired woman cries, her breasts nearly tumbling out of her robe. American, Seamus assumes. Face already overhauled once. He follows her gaze down the empty passage.
“It’s just me here, luv,” he grunts.
Only now does she seem to register his presence. She mumbles something, and bang, she’s gone.
It’s always that way. Pure class warfare is raging on this ship. Those who can afford a suite can dine whenever they want, along with unlimited access to loungers on the sun deck and free cocktails. No doubt there’s a crew member, name of Pawel or Stanley, on constant call to kiss their asses as needed, too. Anyone who pays for an outer cabin with a balcony gets tickets to dinner at eight and a wide grin from the cabin steward, along with carte blanche to send dirty looks at the people across the way.
Kelly and his brothers meant well.
Dinner at six. A cabin with a window.
Some people don’t even have that.
Eventually the bloody door opens and he gets into the cabin. Is it day or night right now? He’s already forgotten. The window lets out on the shopping promenade.
There’s no daylight inside here.
The designer watch sale is still going on in front of the jewelry shop, as men rip blingy watches off each other’s wrists. Whose is bigger? Go ahead, show me yours. Credit cards flash.
Kelly is sitting in front of the cafe with a couple of girls from Dublin, and she isn’t missing out on the show, as they sip colorful drinks with slices of fruit on the rims. Her gaze darts up to him, and she waves.
Seamus waves back. “Enjoy yourself, my girl.” You’ve earned it.
He takes a step back and rams into the edge of the bed, as something brushes against his shoulder.
“Damn it!”
Today it’s a monkey.
A different animal every evening, twisted and turned out of towels. They’ll do anything for a good tip. The monkey rocks quietly to and fro.
It is far from cute.
He avoids the animal’s stare and sits down at the desk, before connecting the camera to his laptop and copying the pictures over. Familiar movements. Seamus is a techie, according to Kelly. In the mornings, when she is at work and he can’t sleep anymore, he fiddles around on the computer for hours, loading things on his Facebook page and exchanging stuff with friends. Follows his favorite channels. Checks out what’s going on in the Republic. Listens to music.
He wouldn’t have been able to set one foot on this ship without the flat rate. Poor Kelly, everything costs extra. It’ll be a pretty penny when it’s all said and done.
When the dark Frenchwoman at the reception desk explained to them that an extra tip of twelve dollars was expected, Kelly had grown very pale around the nose. Per person per day! And always with that smile on her lips. She looked like a supermodel, dragging you to Hades with a smile.
Seamus had wrapped his arms around his Kelly. “Forget about it, girl. I’ll take care of the rest.” A couple of extra shifts should cover it.
Copy process complete.
Now he can start the upload. For the trip, he’d set up a special YouTube channel. “You owe us that, little brother. Every evening, we want to see something from the world of the rich and beautiful.” He can visualize them all sitting around up there at Rob’s, since he has the biggest house, right at the foot of Black Mountain. It is all thanks to Rob’s successful trucking company.
“Oh, boys, today you’ll get something special.”
That was the belly flop contest. And then… He scrolls through the pictures.
Ah, there it is.
Man, that’s quite the jiggle you’ve got, Seamus Clarke! Coming down with Parkinson’s or something? Anyone who watches that will get dizzy.
He pauses the video clip to figure out the exact number of boys in the boat to add later to the comment box.
It’s eleven.
Zoom out.
The mob at the railing, and then the men out there on the sea again. Two worlds. Unequal worlds.
Seamus wishes that he’d brought a beer up with him.
Next clip.
There’s the boat that went out to them. Applause. He’d filmed that from Deck 4. Now they’re coming back, mission accomplished.
Next clip.
Ah yes, there he is back out on deck. That had to have been right before the storm, though he can’t really remember. He’d already thrown a few back by then.
Seamus grins.
Wait a sec.
Stop.
He counts.
Again.
Twelve.
Go back to the other clip.
Eleven.
Wide-awake now. Like in the hospital, he can see everything. Earlier, it had been eleven. Then the lifeboat goes out, and then it is twelve.
Seamus leans back.
One more on the raft.
What does that mean?
There is only one explanation.
Just one.
Someone from this ship is now out on the raft.
“Kevin.”
Utter rot. Pull yourself together, Seamus Clarke. Kevin is dead and has been for the past thirty-seven years.
He turns around and stares at the dumb monkey.
You’re just made out of towels.
There are no such things as ghosts.
Seamus thinks.
Why didn’t I bring a beer, damn it?
What to do?
You have to do something.
Are there smugglers on board, or something like that? Not on a pleasure boat. Or maybe?
Is it possible to find someone on this bloody internet who could answer a simple question for him? Seamus clicks through his 243 friends, but they are all old codgers.
No, wait. Stop.
There, Fiona, Rob’s second oldest. She is studying law in Bologna. He scrolls through her profile. Hadn’t she recently posted a link to an NGO that focuses on refugees in the Mediterranean? Yep, Fiona’s a real little troublemaker, just like her father. Always taking on the high and mighty.
His fingers fly across the keys. “Take a look at this, Fiona.” He posts the YouTube link and writes her a short note.
Send.
This will be something for her to chew on for a while, young and full of revolutionary energy. You can’t help feeling sorry for the young ones. They don’t know where to go with it. That wasn’t a problem we had.
Seamus stands up, stretches, and goes to the window.
The last of the designer watches have swapped owners.
Kelly’s drink is almost empty.
Let’s go, old friend. The lady wants to kick up her heels yet today. Let’s enjoy life, Kelly, love of my life.
The Irish way.
And next year, can we maybe go back to Donegal?
Do you remember how they used to always search us on the stretch between Derry and the Republic?
Every single time.
Roadblocks. They would see our names in the passports, and then it was two hours of shenanigans, at least. Once we were back on the road, we could breathe deeply. Out of Belfast, out of the insanity. The purest paradise.
Donegal.
Swimming in the ice-cold sea until we froze our bums off.
Tinkering around in our old camper.
Visiting Rob and the others in their campers down the road.
Going to the pub in the evenings,
and stumbling into ditches on the way back, because we were that drunk.
“True, old friend?” He gives the towel monkey a shove. It swings.
And swings.
And swings.
Long after Seamus has left.
SPIRIT OF EUROPE | DECK 12
Nikhil Mehta
Nike works through his program very diligently, refusing to indulge in even one moment of dreaming or high spirits. Is he supposed to waste his time dancing around here or what?
Before every assignment, he spends hours putting together a plan with his personal trainer in Mumbai, which he then executes, no matter what.
At some point, the party is over.
Then it’s his time. Off goes the uniform.
Ninety minutes alone with your body.
Ten minutes of interval rowing to warm up.
He adjusts the leg press so the pain in his thighs sets in immediately. Fifteen repetitions followed by short breaks.
The spa area is mostly empty at this time; the guests, even the athletic ones, are off stuffing themselves. There’s one suntanned Northern European, somewhere between sixty and eighty, lying motionless in the whirlpool. Occasionally, he takes a sip from his cocktail. Alcohol in the fitness area. Gold Cruises knows no limits where money is concerned.
Move on.
Over to the negative bench press. Nike carefully spreads his towel on top of it and hooks himself in. Now he has an upside-down view of the circular room.
Sit-ups. Fifteen. Short pause. Another set. Pause.
A girl is working out on the cross stepper in the back of the room. Guilty conscience, too fat. She had dinner at six and will go get some pizza later.
Move on.
Back and biceps on the vertical traction. Three sets of fifteen.
Dumbbell rowing, twenty-five kilos.
He feels the burn in his biceps. Good.
Is the guy in the whirlpool still alive? The model of the SS Spirit of Gold hangs above him.
Another coincidence. Is there such a thing as a coincidence? In the never-ending cycle of life, death, and reincarnation? The Spirit of Gold is the mother of all ships in the Gold Cruises fleet.
Nike saw her die.
It was 1996, and they were on the beach of Alang, Gujarat. Nike, his brother, and his father were there for Sangh Shiksha Varga. An endless, wonderful summer. Alang is the biggest ship graveyard in the world. The world dumps its garbage here with us, his father liked to say. One day we will play right at the top. Believe me, son.
He sits down on the bench. Curl bar, three sets of fifteen curls. Two guys come in. Envious glances. Yes, take a look. The six-pack is real. The funny thing is that nobody recognizes him. You’re always just one of those dark guys in uniform. No need to remember the actual face, but here in the gym, we’re equals.
You always meet twice.
He bounces back to his feet, over to the bars. Three sets of fifteen.
Nike is ready for the highlight. Slowly over to the bench, then sets the weights.
Thirty.
Fifty.
He knows they are watching, the two guys.
Sixty.
Tough, that’s really tough.
Made it. Once more.
Good thing he had taken that booster. If you take it half an hour before you start your workout, you are not only awake and energized. You are focused.
Eight.
Nine.
Come on, one more time.
Ten.
The sweat is streaming into his eyes.
He grabs the sixteen-kilo dumbbells and does his set of flies.
Last thing, the treadmill. He walks slowly around the semicircle of silent machines and carefully selects one after checking the view.
Yes, that works.
Intervals. He starts at level twelve, and the machine does the rest for him. It will advance him up to sixteen at regular intervals. Up. Down.
In front of him, the starry sky, a panorama view. The storm has totally vanished.
Nike runs himself into a trance.
The moon is almost full.
In front of me, a silver belt extends right out to the horizon.
A path.
My way to the stars.
The email has finally arrived. Acquittal.
Free.
Free of guilt.
After twelve years. He had been a young policeman in Gujarat, India.
We were told to look the other way.
That came from way up, they said.
If they call and ask for help, hang up.
Twenty-four hours.
He had looked away.
He runs.
He runs along.
Faster now. The belt beneath him is racing. Sixteen.
The belt stretches before him, as if made of spun silver. Infinite.
A follower.
The mob raged out of control.
We’ll kill them. We’ll chop them into pieces. We’ll set their houses on fire. We’ll take revenge.
Nobody put themselves in its path.
We will take what we’re owed. We are Hindus. We are India. Jai Ram.
The boy, who’d been persuaded by the NGOs to accuse him, can’t walk anymore, but there is nothing physically wrong with him. He feels guilty, they say, because he was the only one from his family to survive. A fake, if you ask me. They say he lives with relatives now, safe and sound, and will be a man soon. Maybe he’ll have the courage to come look him in the eye
Nikhil Mehta. Acquitted.
For lack of evidence.
Fifteen televisions switch on at the same time. Franz, who is on night duty in the spa, appears in his line of vision. “Sorry, officer. They want the news.”
Nike smiles. It’s all right.
The spell is broken. Human voices fill the spa. Putin appears on the screen above his treadmill, smiling too.
Nike keeps smiling.
His phone rings.
The treadmill stops.
SPIRIT OF EUROPE | DECK 13
Léon Moret
Léon kisses Mado, who sparkles brighter than the artificial star-spangled sky in the Star Lounge. Her beauty takes his breath away. She’s a queen.
Mado’s gig will start any minute. She likes transformations: uniform and glasses in the morning, femme fatale at night. This sideline is her real passion. Mado sings Nina Simone covers for the discerning audience.
She takes a step back from him and slowly walks in between the tables. The old geezers stare at her, as the women turn away, humbled by her beauty.
Oh man, this woman is pure sex. Léon wants to scramble after her, tear off her sequined gown, and fuck her, right here, in front of all these people. Look here, this is my wife.
His wife. Forever.
They got married in Las Vegas. Flew in just a couple of friends and Mado’s sister. Her parents didn’t want to come: We are simple people, that is not our world. And Georges and Sylvie? In Las Vegas? Never.
That was okay. It was our world, our party, our life. When the sun rose, she sang for him and him alone. A naked African goddess. Léon swore that he would always worship her. In the autumn, when the caravan of Gold Cruises ships moves back over to the Caribbean, they will go ashore at Martinique.
Mado’s family is from there, and they will have a huge party with her clan.
“You’ll be the only white person there, Léon, my darling.”
So what?
I belong to you, Mado. Play with me, do whatever you like.
She stands on the small stage up there. The spotlight comes on, and the pianist begins to play. Mado blows him a kiss, as the randy geezers crane their necks.
Feel free to take a look.
Do you see the stripes on my uniform?
He turns and goes to the door. For the next few hours, she belongs to the others. Her voice follows him until the door closes. He pauses for a moment. He is suspended between the pool deck and the video screen above. Music videos are playing on mute, and
the DJ is in the middle of a set on the small stage below. A couple of girls are dancing, as a boy jumps into the pool fully dressed. People will keep lining up at the cocktail bar as long as it’s still happy hour. The Tunisian barkeeper looks up and smiles at him. What was her name again?
Léon yearns for the dark silence of the bridge. He looks at his watch. It’s not worth playing another round of FIFA. The PlayStation can stay off for today. He goes over to the elevator and waits for the glass cabin. A couple gets out, about the same age as Georges and Sylvie.
What a thought.
During his first season on the Mediterranean, he had called them from somewhere. “Would you like to take a trip?” Léon was sure that Fabian would enjoy being on board, since he loved colorful, bright things. “Hey, you can tour Europe without having to find a hotel that’ll accommodate the wheelchair.”
Sylvie laughed. “Léon, are you serious? Georges on a cruise. He’d sooner go on a crusade.”
Georges grabbed the receiver from her hand—“Do you know how many tons of diesel your polluting monster chugs every week, asshole?”—and hung up.
Léon enters the code, and the door to the bridge opens. The Gurkha smiles. Léon smiles back. He sees Mehta’s and the captain’s silhouettes against the illuminated curtain. He walks past. It sounds like trouble: “….an overboard, Mehta! The Spanish doctor reported it straight to Miami. Do you know—”
Léon steps toward the window. Does that mean the Syrian is already in the hospital?
He listens to his inner voice, more curious than worried.
Onboard security is definitely Mehta’s baby.
Wow.
If he got busted, that would be mind-blowing. And totally deserved.
Léon strolls around to the starboard side. The less he picks up of the conversation, the better for him. The sky is full of stars, and it is only three more days until the full moon. The white shimmer on the dark water reminds him of Mado’s sequined dress.
Mado.
Beacons at ten to twelve. The Spanish coast. If his inner GPS is not mistaken, that is around the location of La Mancha. Somewhere out there in the darkness lies the beach that poisoned Fabian in his mother’s womb.
