Then something stupendous happened.
Three Native American brothers, who had been quietly sipping Dalí-tinis all evening, began discoursing over a Salvador Dalí work. As more Dalí-tinis were downed their voices became raised. Before I knew it a shouting match erupted.
"Gentlemen, please!" I soothed. "We need to keep it civil."
One man stepped boldly forward. I presumed he was the eldest simply because his braided ponytail was the longest, being all the way down to his turquoise and silver-studded belt. He gestured to the Dalí and asked curtly, "How much?"
"Fifteen thousand dollars," I answered. "It's part of his famous Collect—"
"I'll take it," he interrupted. Abruptly spinning on his heel, the man regarded his brothers haughtily and declared, "There! It's mine."
A brother, adorned in turquoise, pointedly ignoring his elder, asked me, "Which of this guy's art is worth more?"
To prevent stammering was more than I could manage. "None, sir. This is the most expensive Dalí we have onboard."
"What about those?" he asked, stabbing a finger at a trio of Dalí woodcuts. "They a set?"
"Yes," I stammered. "They represent—"
"They add up to more than fifteen thousand?"
"Uh, yes, probably a little more."
"Wrap 'em."
Both men looked to their remaining brother. I couldn't help but do the same. He regarded them both for a moment, then grinned and asked, "What else you got?"
3
After I locked up the last of the artwork, I returned to the Compass Rose—site of a downright miracle—for a much-needed drink. I figured Cosmina would be present, as it was time for her routine drink before bed. I, too, found a quiet drink on the open deck to be quite relaxing, Cosmina's reproachful bantering notwithstanding. I was just waiting for her to dish on Indians. With a sigh, I resolved myself to be as civil as possible. As lucky as I'd been, there was no question that my aiding her tour excursions provided the boost that made it all work. It was imperative that I maintained that extra visibility. But staying on Cosmina's good side was like walking a tightrope.
I ordered a Dalí-tini and sat beneath the stars. Actually I sat beneath the stairs, at our usual table. The sky above was not particularly black and the stars not particularly bright, so I instead focused my gaze on the glittering of city lights on the none-too-far horizon. The chalky white limestone of Malta receded like a fading ghost.
"Mind if I join you?"
"Faye!" I called in surprise, looking up at the waif-like physician. "Please do. Celebrating alone is no fun. I thought Cosmina might show up, but apparently not tonight. Maybe they're out of cocktail onions."
"Celebration," Faye agreed, slipping into a chair beside me and gently swirling a bottle of beer. "So I hear. Big sales tonight."
"How did you hear that? It was like an hour ago!"
"Small ship," she answered.
I happened to glance past Faye at that moment to see Cosmina stepping into the Compass Rose. Her eyes locked on me, then narrowed on Faye. With an obviously feigned nonchalance, Cosmina mimed to the bartender that she had forgotten something and promptly departed.
"Speaking of a small ship," I said, suddenly reminded of a previous Cosmina quirk, "I haven't heard that anybody is hurt or anything."
"What do you mean?" Faye asked, frowning.
"When you didn't make it to dinner last night in Corfu with Cosmina and me," I explained. "I thought maybe there was a medical issue or something."
"What dinner?" she asked.
Chapter 7. Tunis, Tunisia
1
I woke very early the next morning. Wind Surf was nearing Tunisia and I wanted to see as much of it as possible. We were not scheduled to return for the foreseeable future. While I had bought myself a measure of future on Wind Surf with the previous night's auction, its duration was far from certain. One auction does not a career make. Yet hope is the most powerful motivator of all. Thus I felt good waking for a pre-dawn, coffee-laden stroll on the open deck before the ship docked.
The Tunisian coastal air was humid and smelled different than the sea, different than the European coasts of Greece or Italy. The immensity of the Sahara was on the wind. Wind Surf slid quietly through the choppy gulf towards the fabled desert, towards a sprawl of orange lights hugging its slender green edge. They twinkled unappealingly through a brown haze smothering the sea.
I sipped from my steaming mug, alone and quiet, on the forward bridge deck. Yet I was not alone.
"Good morning," a cheery voice greeted from beside me. I turned and was shocked to see I had been joined by none other than the captain of the Wind Surf.
"Why, good morning sir!" I called back enthusiastically.
Noting the energy in my voice, Captain Turner commented upon it. "You seem happy as Larry this morning. No doubt due to all those sales last night."
Though I had no idea what 'happy as Larry' meant, I presumed it was good. "I should be surprised you know about that already," I said, "Yet I am strangely not. But speaking of sales—if you pardon the pun—I've been meaning to ask someone of authority what the names are for Wind Surf's. I presume they aren't main-topsil-jibs or whatever."
"They're one through seven," he answered. "Not very romantic, I'll grant you, but imminently practical."
"Nomenclature aside, it's a pleasure to work on an actual sailing vessel."
"It is that," he agreed, smiling again. The poor arrangement of his teeth did nothing to lessen their charm. Captain Turner was a portly man of middle to late years. Beneath his captain's cap sprouted short curls, unruly and besieged with grey. His was a plain face, looking less a dashing captain's and more a pragmatic fisherman's. He placed his hands upon the rail and joined me in regarding the approaching port. The humid air was soft and quiet, the moment ripe for reflection, conversation.
"Have you always captained sailing ships?" I asked. "I'd imagine there aren't so many anymore."
"Oh, not always," he answered. "But when offered an opportunity to work under sail, how could any captain worth his salt refuse? As a lad growing up in Portsmouth, I was struck early by the romance of sail. I used to moon over the HMS Victory—Admiral Lord Nelson's flagship during the Battle of Trafalgar, of course. Oh, how I dreamed of captaining one someday, much to my mother's consternation. She forbade me joining the Royal Navy, but there wasn't a lot of opportunity in Portsmouth that didn't involve the sea. I wanted it so badly I made my way up through the hawsepipe."
"As a lad surrounded by a thousand miles of farmland, I never dreamed I'd be talking to a ship captain someday," I replied. "Or have the gall to ask him what a hawsepipe is."
He smiled again. I could tell this was his usual expression. It was a welcome change from the predominantly Italian and Dutch captains I had heretofore worked with. While the source of their temperament was fundamentally disparate, a chronic lack of smiling was inherent to both.
"A seaman's expression," the captain explained kindly, "to evoke an image of a dripping boy whose ambition is so desperate as to drive him up the anchor chain, through its pipe, and onto a ship's deck for a chance at a job. Yet for me it was quite literal."
"You wanted it that badly?" I asked, impressed. "No wonder you made it to the top."
"Oh, not compared to Admiral Lord Nelson," he mused. His ruddy cheeks bobbed with fond recollection.
"One can look at a sailing ship as a tool and, if so inclined, reflect that it was the most influential vehicle in human history," Captain Turner explained. His tone was not didactic, but pleasantly open to the sharing. "Sailing ships rediscovered the continents and far flung islands over which men had scattered over millennia. Sailing ships made the human world one again, and they did it—from discovery, to trade, to conquest, to empire—in just a blink at the end of their days. Imagine all that, in just the last five of the fifty centuries during which boats with sails have plied the waves. What poor Portsmouth lad wouldn't want to be a part of all that before it's gone for g
ood?
"In my early days there were only a few fleets of working sailboats left in isolated corners of the world," he continued. "For most of us sailing ships are just a part of history, a part as removed from our experience as the industrial revolution blacking London's streets."
"But not for us stalwart few," I offered, intentionally glib. "Dare I ask if your mother ever joined you on a ship you've captained?"
Captain Turner chuckled. "Certainly not. But I am proud to have my son aboard. I don't know if he'll ever have the chance again to learn a ship of sail."
A smudge of orange to the east slowly rose red. The rugged silhouette of a ship against the bold brown and orange and red caught us both by surprise. Not just any ship, but a fully rigged sailing ship, the very subject of which we spoke.
"I have to say it," I said reluctantly, "That scene looks startlingly like a painting from William Turner."
"Why so it does," Captain Turner agreed with a laugh. "My favorite artist, not surprisingly. At least that was one profession of which my mother more thoroughly disapproved than sailing."
I was pleased to hear I wasn't the only one with a mother distressed over her son's piratical ways. Though small, it was desirable to have a connection to this accomplished man of the sea.
The ship slid closer, revealing three tall masts fully rigged with sails. The hull gleamed a rich, shiny black, the sails a drab off-white straining in the brown wind. It cut an impressive figure against the dramatic sunrise.
"Now those sails are tonsils," I observed.
Captain Turner pointed to each individual sail, enthusiastically identifying each. "The two triangular sails on the front are the jib and the flying jib. On the foremast there is the fore topgallant, the fore topsail or tops'l—not tonsil—and the fore sail. Behind the mast, those triangular sails are the staysails: the main topgallant staysail, the middle staysail, and the main topmast staysail. A fourth, the main staysail, fits below but is furled."
Without a pause Captain Turner proceeded to identify over a dozen sails. His uneven teeth smiled enchantingly, revealing his joy to discourse his knowledge to someone genuinely interested.
"I hope there's not a test," I laughed, admitting defeat.
"All the large, square-rigged sailing ships that parade as tall ships today are purposefully scaled-down versions of the last big sailing ships," Turner continued. "Rigged much shorter than their ancestors for safety's sake. A short rig means the ship has less sail than her hull can carry."
"For safety's sake?"
"Oh, yes. Those wooden clipper ships that figure so prominently in our imagination were nary one hundred and fifty feet long. Windjammers—their descendants—were of the same idea but, being constructed of iron and steel, grew to monstrous proportions. So monstrous they became sailor killers.
"The Preussen, a five master, was the largest engineless sailing ship ever built, over four hundred feet long with well over an acre of sail. Rumor had it that no deckhand would ship for two successive voyages onboard. She was too hard on her crew. And the Thomas W. Larson, the largest American-built schooner at almost four hundred-foot—made of steel, like the Surf—with seven masts, rolled over at anchor while waiting for a fair wind in the Scilly Isles. Killed fifteen of the seventeen men on board."
"Why were the sailors so scared of the Preussen?" I asked. "Scared it would roll over, too?
"Not Preussen," Turner answered. "But those square-rigged topsails had to be set, reefed, and furled by hand in the old days. Very dangerous when at sea in a storm. Eventually they built rolling yards that turn from the deck. Sails can now be automatically rolled up to furl and unrolled to set, and they can be reefed safely in strong winds by simply rolling in a portion of their area."
"Reef meaning only half open?"
"That's correct."
"So that requires power," I pointed out. "What about all these ships I hear losing power?"
"Modern, sail-less cruise ships, you mean."
"Yeah, I guess that's what I was thinking," I admitted. "But can masts get hit by lightning or anything? I assume it's computer controlled and not some sailors who pull levers or anything."
"You mean assuming the backup generators are not working?" he asked lightly. "Computers begin reefing automatically when power is lost. The sails are furled completely, automatically, when anything of that magnitude goes wrong."
"But no power...?"
"We have tanks filled with oil under pressure," he finished, now smiling broadly. "We store energy, even at sea."
"I had no idea," I mused, impressed.
The captain's lips tugged at a smile, indicating his pleasure at sharing an interesting tidbit usually expressed only in technical terms among knowing colleagues. At least that's how I liked to think of it. No doubt he was just wasting time until we arrived at port. As we did so, Captain Turner turned to me and said, "I know you assist in shore excursions. After the majority of passengers have left, perhaps you would be so kind as to help out the officers, as well?"
"Of course. What can I do for you?"
"We need a dead body," he replied with an amused smirk.
2
"It's hard to find dead Americans," the slender man said from behind a paper-cluttered desk in a desk-cluttered office. His presentation was so deadpan I almost questioned if he had made a joke at all. "Thanks for being a team player."
"My ex-wife frequently described me thus," I quipped. "Unfortunately I think she was referring to the bedroom."
There was no question whatsoever that I had made a joke. Whether it was funny or not... well, the XO's strained courtesy smile answered that question. Alas, my jokes generally prompted such reaction.
The XO, or first officer, was a Dutchman named Emmet. He was the slight, handsome man I first saw in a boiler suit upon the bridge. He had been painting railings. Unlikely as this act was in a man of his rank, his later participation in the ill-fated match of tug-of-war was downright shocking. Emmet was a man who chipped in anywhere and everywhere he was needed. Yet despite such a hard working attitude, he did not chide Barney for playing guitar on the bridge. In short, Emmet was unlike any XO I had ever met. Not that I'd met many—only when I was in trouble—but I was familiar with many.
Of second officers, however, I knew more than a few. And like all things Surf, Barney, too, was unlike his big ship counterparts. Besides his proclivity for Bon Jovi, he easily had the physique of a lumberjack. He pounded me on the shoulder and roughed me up as if old friends.
"You've got the easiest job of them all," he boomed. "Stick with me and we'll make sure you're good and dead."
"Exactly what my ex-wife said," I said, taking one last stab at an ex-wife joke. Can't have enough of those.
Via the crew stairs, Barney descended down into the forward bowels of the Wind Surf. We passed all manner of hallways and storage areas I had not known existed. On a big ship there was always more compartments, but on this tiny vessel it was a surprise. Like living in a small house for months and discovering a new room. Eventually Barney stepped into a chamber so large it was a wonder it fit into Surf's narrowing bow. He slapped the wall to ignite the lights, half of which only flickeringly obliged. The still-dark recesses revealed a nondescript metal bar. Behind hid a kitchenette; dark, cold, forgotten. Obviously once a crew bar, the room now hosted a raucous pile of tables, chairs, and rolling desks.
"Find a spot you like," Barney said. "Don't climb into a cupboard or anything, though. That's not realistic. Just lay down and play dead. Easy. Don't freak when the lights go out and things get nasty."
Seeing me raise my eyebrows, Barney explained further. "We're going to simulate a fire as realistically as possible. The fire team won't know if anyone is below decks or not and will systematically search every room for unconscious victims. Our fire team is really good, so it shouldn't take more than twenty minutes. What makes this drill more accurate is that you're our first American."
"Why does that matter?"
"The fir
e team only has experience hauling out other crew members, and they're all Asian. In a real fire, a guest passed out from smoke inhalation won't be ninety pounds. You're about two hundred, which helps us create a much more accurate scenario. When they come for you, don't make it too easy for them. Be dead weight. Cool?"
I picked my way through the detritus of the dead crew bar to become a dead crew member. Propping my back against a cupboard, I splayed my legs out. From the doorway Barney snapped off the lights.
Darkness swooped in, solid, tangible. This was not the absence of light, but the presence of a thing. Just a few minutes of such absolute black made even an egomaniac feel small. Not scared, but small, insignificant. This was not a place for living men, here, deep below the surface of the sea. I strained to hear a sound, any sound, but there was none. Not even the slap of waves made it into the pit where I lay. I fancied I was in a sensory deprivation tank, but for the sharp tang of back-bar alcohol and solvents stabbing my nose.
After an interminable time, my ears tickled with the muted call of the ship's intercom announcing to passengers the impending fire drill. Don't panic at the alarms, the muffled voice said. Don't panic at the smoke.
Smoke?
A minute later, another sense tickled. The air became chemically dense. The smell was not of smoke, but something equally unpleasant. I mulled over what it could be when I was scared out of my wits by the ship's alarms suddenly blaring. Hearing the ship's horn blasting the fire alarm was nothing new—I'd heard it every cruise for years—but hearing the alarm in my current environment was something else entirely. It was downright unnerving. Red emergency lighting pushed at the black from below rather than above. Though dim, the illumination was sufficient to see the hallway outside. The red opening pulsated in a rapidly thickening haze.
High Seas Drifter (Cruise Confidential 4) Page 10
