A Wide Berth

by Stella Whitelaw

  ‘Ah, yes, my ring. Where is it?’ Pierre asked.

  ‘They said they would prefer to see you; to try the ring on, to make sure it’s exactly the right size. They wouldn’t want such an expensive ring to slip off.’

  It’s a serious character flaw, these easy half-truths that slip off my tongue as easily as that ring would slip off my finger.

  ‘Ah, yes, of course.’ It took ten seconds for the information to register that he had to go and get it himself. It must have been an excellent wine and he had mellowed fractionally. ‘Have I got time to go ashore now?’

  ‘You’ve forty minutes.’

  ‘Tight. I’ll take a taxi. Hold the ship back for me, Cassie. Don’t sail without me.’

  ‘Casey,’ I said. I wished I’d told him an incorrect time; one that would have ensured that he missed boarding. Bad, bad thoughts. Lose loyalty bonus points.

  *

  Thirty minutes later I was hung over the rail, hoping that Peter-pecker would miss the departure time. There was always a hope. All the passengers were safely aboard and the departure formalities and safety checks had been completed. It was a balmy thirty degrees centigrade with a southerly force-three wind.

  I would be sorry to see Acapulco fade into the distance. She was so vibrant, so glamorous, the curve of beach a stretch of silvery white. But look behind the glamour and there was poverty and people seeking a desperate means of existence.

  If Pierre did not make it back in time, I would be the entertainment director in charge. I was prepared to work hard. Iron those long dresses, girl. You may get a chance to wear them all.

  But he made it by the coating of his expensively veneered teeth. A taxi screeched onto the quay and Pierre came sprinting up the gangway, seconds before it was hoisted on board. The captain was making his departure broadcast and the lines were ready to let go. The great ship moved away from the berth, picking up the port anchor, swinging astern before rounding to starboard to head out of the bay.

  I was mildly stunned. I had felt positive that he would not make it and I could relax into my new job. But no such luck. The man was with us again, either wearing a huge Aztec ring or not. At least I had made a lot of friends in his absence.

  We had two days at sea ahead of us as we cruised towards Nicaragua. I had never been there before. New places were always fascinating. I knew nothing about the country. It sounded exotic. Lots of calypso music on shore.

  ‘Now, let’s see what you’ve been doing while I was absent. Not a lot, by the sound of it. Is the programme ready to be printed? This evening you can do the disco again. I can’t stand the noise. And you can introduce the pianist, Rack-whatever his name is. The man is so difficult to please. A Russian immigrant.’

  Mentally, I was immediately deciding what to wear, to check the pianist’s musical programme, read up on his personal history. And the daily newspaper had to be double-checked. I’d done most of the work on computer before I went shopping for the ring. I’d learned long ago never to leave the worst job of the day to the last.

  Romanoff Petrik was very good-looking, according to his publicity photos. One of those lean, Slavic-looking men, intense and hungry. He had a long list of impressive credentials and concert appearances. Tonight he would be playing Grieg and Rachmaninoff. I had an understated silver dress, long and clinging, that seemed a perfect choice for the music.

  The grand piano, a Steinway, was in the Cairo Lounge, already in place on a small raised dais. Well-polished wood. I checked that it was in tune. My ear was musically accurate after years of ballet. Passengers could sit in comfortable armchairs, sipping their drinks. It was civilized music appreciation.

  ‘Don’t touch, plis,’ said a heavily accented voice. ‘That’s my piano.’

  I turned slowly, guessing the owner of the voice. He was a hunched giant, intensely staring, black hair tied back in a ponytail, casual black cotton clothes hanging on a thin frame. Didn’t he know we had food on board?

  ‘Mr Petrik,’ I said. ‘Hello, I’m Casey Jones, the deputy entertainment director. I am allowed to check if the piano is in tune. Perhaps you’d like to check as well? It’s a beautiful piano.’

  He didn’t answer. ‘I wish to practise,’ he said.

  ‘Of course. I’ll make sure that you are not interrupted. I’ll put a notice on the doors. I shall be introducing your concert. Are there any changes to your programme?’

  ‘No,’ he said abruptly. ‘Maybe, I don’t know. Perhaps, it depends.’

  ‘I’ll see you later, then.’

  He turned away, towards the piano, and I was dismissed. He was very much the temperamental artist. I left the Russian to practise. As I quietly walked out of the lounge, I heard the first few liquid notes. His touch on the piano was magic. I might enjoy this evening, if I had time to stay.

  Since it was such a big ship, it was quite easy to avoid bumping in to Pierre. I was beginning to know his haunts. He liked a Pimm’s before lunch in the Boulevard Café, the cocktail of the day in the evening in a different bar, then late-night … well, he could be anywhere. It was not that he was an alcoholic, but only that he was rarely seen without a glass in his hand. A sort of stage prop.

  I ran into Edmund Morgan. He had that same morose hangdog look as if he had lost something special.

  ‘Would it be convenient if I had a quick look at Tracy Coleman’s cabin again?’ I asked, before he could change his mind. ‘You said I could. You know, the woman’s eye? I might be able to spot something.’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course. I’d almost forgotten. Come this way.’

  Her cabin, 516, had not been touched. It was in the same state. It still heaved a hefty shock. Who on earth had done this? I stepped warily, in case there was something especially nasty on the floor.

  Then I saw it. Among all the debris on her vanity unit was a blue inhaler. Tracy was asthmatic. She would never go anywhere without that emergency inhaler. You could leave the beige one behind — it was only the regular morning or night inhaler — but never the blue one.

  ‘She was taken by force,’ I said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘She left behind her blue inhaler. No asthmatic leaves behind their blue inhaler, wherever they’re going. It’s a godsend if she has a breathing emergency.’

  He was having trouble taking in the meaning of this. I wondered about his background. Was he shell-shocked from Iran or Afghanistan? Security officers were recruited from all the armed forces, but mostly the Marines. They were the stuff that security officers were made of.

  ‘So this means she may have been abducted,’ I went on. It was hard work. I was still surfing her ruined cabin. She hadn’t taken her sunglasses or her purse. It was difficult to tell from the ripped clothes what she might have been wearing when she disappeared.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said vaguely. ‘Something must have happened to her. She hasn’t disappeared. And all this damage to her cabin. It’s malicious. Some very nasty person has been let loose in here with a knife. Who else might have had a key card?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said again.

  ‘This damage didn’t happen by accident. Maybe she was made to watch it happen, to teach her a lesson.’ It was a grim thought.

  Edmund was nice but useless. I wondered if there was a Mrs Morgan. She must be relieved when he went back to sea. Maybe she sat down, put her feet up and relaxed with a good book and a chilled white wine.

  We left Tracy’s cabin. There was nothing else we could do here.

  *

  We were soon cruising along the Mexican coastline and in no time would enter the Gulf of Tehuantepec before setting a course across the Gulf. It was cloudy but fine and dry with a brisk northeasterly wind. This is what I loved. The sea, the sailing, the moving towards new places on the globe. I was a reincarnation of Christopher Columbus. I must carry his genes. They say we can, nearly all of us, trace our ancestry back to someone famous.

  Dodging the debonair Pierre was a fine art, but I was getting th
e hang of it. Instead, I bumped into Debbie, our trainee. She looked harassed again. I hadn’t managed to have a talk with her yet. The five o’clock talk never took place.

  ‘Is he here?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know. Is there a problem?’

  ‘I’m supposed to be in two places at once.’

  ‘Physical impossibility, of course. Tell me about it.’

  ‘He’s told me to do bingo and quoits, both at the same time.’

  ‘Which would you rather do?’ I asked.

  Debbie looked dubiously at the waves riding by. She did not have reliable sea legs yet. ‘The bingo, I suppose. Although, I quite like quoits, out in the open.’

  ‘You do the bingo and I’ll do the quoits. Have a quiet bingo and then put your feet up for half an hour if you can. You can’t survive rushing around all day.’

  She looked so grateful that I felt I might be recommended for a medal of some sort. ‘Thank you so much, Casey. I can’t work at this pace. Then, this evening …’

  ‘Forget about this evening until it arrives.’

  It would help to put her mind on hold. She needed a respite. And I needed an ally in this strange arrangement. Pierre did not want me here. Debbie did not want to be here. I was here under pressure. And the Aveline was a big ship.

  Fortunately, most of the men watched non-stop sport on the huge plasma screen in the pub, the Goose and Gander. It was always full, twenty-four hours a day. And it smelled like a pub. Spilled beer on the tables and floor, despite the heroic efforts of the cleaning staff. I wondered if Georgina Conway knew of the changes to her mother’s beautiful ship. I doubt if Aveline Conway ever went into a pub.

  So I umpired the quoits game without offending any of the players. It was so bracing and sunny out on deck, how could anyone complain? I had forgotten my sunscreen, but I kept moving. Quoits could be quite energetic.

  It was nearly time to change for the early evening classical concert. Romanoff Petrik was scheduled to perform twice. I presumed that I was introducing both performances, but it had not been made clear.

  The Cairo Lounge was full. That was good. I knew I looked a million dollars in my silver gown, hair simply piled up in an array of curls and tendrils with a few combs. Call it casual.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ I said, moving centre stage. ‘It is with great pleasure that I introduce Romanoff Petrik with a programme of Rachmaninoff and Grieg music. The programme is his own, and it may change as he plays. He will announce each piece as he plays it. I know you will enjoy every moment. Sit back and relax in to this wonderful music.’

  This was pretty good since I did not have much idea what he was playing.

  Romanoff Petrik swept on stage. What a transformation. Clothes maketh the man, as Shakespeare said. He was wearing a black velvet suit, the kind of black that envelopes like a glove. A white silk shirt, open at the neck. His hair was tied back with a velvet ribbon. His face was enigmatic.

  It was a magical concert. I forgot if I was supposed to be somewhere else. Who cared? The music sent me into another hemisphere, spiralling between planets and stars. When he came off, he was too exhausted to talk. I could see the perspiration dripping from his face. His shirt was soaked. He wanted to get away, but passengers were crowding round him, jostling for a word.

  ‘Thank you, thank you,’ he said. ‘No CDs. I don’t do CDs.’

  ‘This way, this way,’ I said, somehow shouldering a path through the clamouring admirers. I got him in to a small side room, where he collapsed in to a chair, cradling his hands. I said nothing, but got him a glass of water. He drank it without a word of thanks.

  Then he stood up. ‘I go now. I play no more tonight.’

  ‘But you have another performance.’

  ‘Cancel it. I am too tired.’

  He nodded abruptly and left the room. I didn’t suppose he would recognize me if he saw me again. He lived in his own world.

  Supper was a fast Caesar salad in the officer’s mess. No time for either dining room sitting. Pierre was making sure I didn’t have a spare minute. It was quiz and disco again. I didn’t ask why. Perhaps Gary had another hangover.

  I began mingling with the passengers arriving for the quiz. It was always so competitive among the teams. The prize for the winning team was a bottle of champagne with house wine for the runners-up. Nothing out of the ordinary. It was the kudos that mattered. By the end of a cruise, it could get really heated.

  There was one such team determined to win, three men and two women. They arrived early and woe to any unsuspecting soul sitting at their favourite table. They liked to sit to one side at a low, recessed table in a corner. It was private and quiet. They ordered drinks. I went over to welcome them.

  ‘Hello,’ I said. ‘That was a good win last night. Did you enjoy the champagne?’

  ‘It was excellent.’

  ‘And we are going to win again tonight,’ said one of the women with a smirk.

  ‘We’re the best team on the ship,’ said the man next to her. I was not sure if he was her husband. They didn’t have that together look that some couples have, or perhaps I had paired them incorrectly. ‘No one can beat us.’

  ‘Then we are going to have a great evening,’ I said. ‘The lounge is filling up. We’ll start soon.’

  ‘And mind you speak up,’ said the second woman. ‘You mumbled a bit last night.’

  Now, I don’t mumble and I wore a body mike which gave me a lot of hand freedom. I knew all the tricks. Passengers often asked me to repeat a question to give them more thinking time.

  ‘I’ll speak extra loudly, just for you,’ I said.

  I did not say that she might be a tiny bit deaf, but the implication was there. My personal ten commandments did not include being rude to rude passengers.

  The quiz started. There was a lot of good-humoured laughter and banter, and this evening’s crowd weren’t taking it too seriously, except the team in the corner. They got quite a bit of barracking from the other competitors.

  One round of questions was on Shakespeare and his plays. One wit declared himself to be Shakespeare reincarnated and another said that he had been born in the same year, 1632.

  ‘And you look it, chum.’

  ‘When is Shakespeare’s birthday?’ The answer was 23 April 1564 and he died on his birthday in 1616, so legend has it. ‘And when did he die?’ Everyone seemed to know that.

  ‘Benedick’s speech in Much Ado About Nothing refers to orthography. What is orthography?’ I asked. This was a really hard one, unless you had the answers in front of you, as I did. Answer: the mastery of spelling.

  ‘Shakespeare coined the word ‘bandit’. What is this word derived from?’

  Answer: from the Italian word bandito.

  We had a quizmaster back in the UK who made up all these questions for cruises. It was a paid hobby. And a nice one, too. I could imagine him sitting in his quiet country garden, surrounded by reference books, scribbling away on a big lined pad.

  The team in the corner spent a lot of time huddled together over that one. The woman who asked me to speak up was bent forward and holding her head strangely. Then I noticed that she was wearing a hearing-aid in her right ear, so she was a tiny bit deaf. She was wearing a very beautiful old opal ring.

  Then I heard one of the men at the table say, ‘Bandit, idiot’, quite clearly. There was no reason for him to repeat the question; everyone had heard it.

  It took all of six seconds for the penny to drop. That was no hearing-aid. It was some high-tech gadget in her ear. They were in touch with a sixth member of the team, situated elsewhere, perhaps in the library or their cabin, surrounded by books or in touch by phone with someone else.

  Or Google. If they had a laptop, they could Google the answer in seconds.

  Big problem ahead. Should I challenge them? Declare the quiz null and void? Create a drama, a passenger versus crew scene? Pierre would be on me like a ton of two-by-fours. It was only a hunch. I had no proof. It was really E
dmund Morgan’s dickie bird. He could talk to them tomorrow.

  But I would let them know that I had sussed them out. ‘Still having trouble with your hearing-aid?’ I asked, leaning towards them so no one else in the lounge could hear. ‘Tricky things, hearing-aids. They are so temperamental.’

  ‘We don’t know what you mean,’ said the second woman.

  ‘I think you do,’ I replied.

  5. At Sea

  The corner team won again. At least they had the grace to look a fraction sheepish as they accepted the bottle of champagne. I made a note of their names, as written on the top of the answer sheet. Mr and Mrs John Fletcher, Mr and Mrs Angus MacDonald and someone who signed himself as T.A. Sullivan. It was enough to go on. I’d worked out that Mrs Fletcher was the woman wearing the hearing-aid contraption.

  ‘Enjoy your ill-gotten gains,’ I said merrily, as I handed over the bottle. ‘That’s a sixteenth-century proverb, as you quiz geniuses probably know. Ill-gotten gains seldom prosper.’

  They hurried out of the lounge. I hoped Debbie would get the quiz tomorrow evening when they might have cooled off. I doubted that I could keep up this facade of good humour. It was supposed to be a game, after all.

  *

  The silver dress was a little over the top for the disco, so I hurried back to 333, D deck and changed into black trousers and a brightly striped silk top. It was warming up outside and the temperature was already in the twenties. Nicaragua was going to be hot and dusty.

  ‘So you have landed the disco again,’ said Daniel Webster as I arrived, somewhat short of breath. It was a long way to walk. He was leaning against the bar with a beer in his hand. ‘What’s the excuse tonight?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said, looking at the play list. At least Gary had selected the CDs to play and piled them up again. ‘It’s some sort of short straw.’

  ‘Is that another word for discrimination?’

  ‘It could be. I don’t like to gossip about my boss.’ I started to read the list, hoping there was something easy on the ears that I would enjoy. Debbie was holding up the bar at the other end of the counter. She was knocking back some sort of coloured vodka. She looked cheesed off.