High Seas Drifter (Cruise Confidential 4)

by Brian David Bruns

  "Yes, for a few days," Cosmina continued, lighting a cigarette. While I knew she smoked a lot, I was horrified she would do so where she slept. Despite being a copious cigar smoker, I failed to understand how nicotine could dominate life. For me it was all about the comforting ritual when the time was right. For her it was about the necessary high all the time. "Ardin was awful, though. Not like you and me. He was insubordinate and not pro-active. Certainly he wasn't grateful."

  "Why would he be grateful for helping you out?"

  "You don't think I improved sales of his photographs?" she asked, sucking in a cloud.

  Understanding blossomed. Cosmina was used to being the center of attention. She was verily treated like a queen by those on shore, delighting in the gifts grateful tour owners bestowed upon her. She also received swag from guides themselves, for one cross word from her could send them packing. As shore excursions manager she was also treated with respect by Francois, for Wind Surf was all about excursions. Like the monarchies of old and corporate bosses of all ages, she took credit for the work of those beneath her. In short, Cosmina was assuming full credit for my art auction success.

  The fact that it was I who volunteered to help her for our mutual benefit was irrelevant. The fact that my auctions were now held in a superior location was irrelevant. The fact that I had thought of the Compass Rose and had to convince Francois to allow it was irrelevant. The fact that it was all blind, dumb luck was irrelevant. Oh no, Cosmina felt my success was entirely because I was her assistant onboard in organizing her clients.

  She wanted me to grovel to get my old 'job' back.

  "Cosmina," I said sincerely, but carefully, "I am appreciative of the arrangement we have. It helps me, it helps you. But I'm not going to thank you for me doing my job."

  "I see," she said, disdaining me with both a sniff and a shrug. A knock sounded at the door. Cosmina bounded up, saying, "He's here!"

  "Who's here?"

  "The new cruise director," she answered. "The man who will help me with my shore excursions from now on."

  2

  "Champagne!" a voice cried, pronouncing the word in a decidedly non-English manner. A very small, moderately dark-skinned man held up two bottles of French champagne. This was no mean feat, for beneath both arms he also held two French baguettes. The nuance of his speech clearly indicated his origin as the same as what he peddled. His grin flashed brighter even than when his eyeglasses caught the light.

  "Come in, Fabrice!" Cosmina invited, reaching around his arsenal of goodies to give him a warm embrace.

  "Ello!" he called to me enthusiastically. "My name eez Fabrice. Like ze fabrique softenair."

  I was grateful he repeated his name for clarity, for his accent was extremely thick. His English sounded like a foreign language! It had a wonderful lilt to it, emphasizing many syllables that native speakers shorten. He hurriedly set his baggage on the table and approached to shake hands. Fabrice was even shorter than Yoyo, though he was not nearly as petite. His frame was trim, but thick with strength. No doubt he worked his abdomen constantly with all his laughing. He bubbled with unbounded enthusiasm and was, in a word, adorable.

  "It's a pleasure to meet you," I replied, shaking his hand vigorously. He added enthusiasm by cupping our shake with his left hand.

  "Yoo like champagne, don't yoo?" he asked. "God's greatest geeft to mahnkind."

  "No," I corrected, pointing to the block of cheese. "That's God's greatest gift to mankind."

  "Ah, oui!" he cried joyously, rushing over to inspect the goods. His eyes scrutinized the flaking cuts and chalky texture in great detail. Without looking up he asked, "Zees eez from Tooneeseea? Excellent! Eet will not be pasteurized. Très bon!"

  "A shame Brian won't be able to have any," Cosmina said with a sly smirk.

  I gave Cosmina a flat look and a flat question. "Am I not worthy?"

  "You're American," she answered tartly. "You'll get sick if you eat anything unpasteurized."

  "I've lived in Romania for the last three years," I pointed out. "One of the first things I discovered was how incomparable unpasteurized cheese is. Americans have absolutely no idea what they're missing."

  "And wiz enough champagne," Fabrice added brightly, "Yoo cahn eat a dead feesh right off ze beech and not get seeck!"

  Heads swiveled to regard the strange, little man. Under the scrutiny he amended, "Eef yoo so desire."

  Bubbly was poured, imbibed, and appreciated. Fabrice had somehow secured bread still fresh from the bakery. Perks of being a cruise director, he said with a smile. He sure knew how to pick it; soft flesh embraced by a superbly crisp crust. Every hand-shorn chunk gently warmed the flesh, the delicate, cloying bakery scent kissed the nose. And the cheese? Pure ambrosia; a subtle blend of chalky and creamy that pasteurized milk is utterly unable to produce. Not that I blame the milk. I wouldn't be at my best after being gamma irradiated with Cobalt-60, either.

  Cosmina watched Fabrice and I eagerly working together and enjoying the feast. And a feast it was. Bread and cheese of that magnitude was as satisfying as a five course meal. Yet Cosmina did not join in. Indeed, she looked positively frustrated. Finally, exasperated, she blurted, "Fabrice is French!"

  Not missing a beat, Fabrice held up his champagne and said, "I am!"

  "Let me guess," I said lightly. "Americans and French aren't supposed to get along."

  Reading each others' mind, we clinked champagne glasses.

  "You seem un'appy, Cosi," Fabrice correctly observed. "'ave some champagne. It's excellent!"

  "I don't like champagne," Cosmina muttered, turning her back to us and lighting another cigarette.

  "At least dine wiz us!" Fabrice pushed. "It eez excellent."

  "I don't like goat cheese," Cosmina sniffed.

  "Would you prefer something American?" I teased over a mouthful of awesomeness.

  "I'm European!" she snapped, cutting herself a huge chunk, proverbial nose in the air. She gobbled down the big handful of cheese aggressively, actions straining the credulity of words.

  "So where are you from?" I asked Fabrice as we settled into our meal.

  "Sete," he said. "A coastahl villahge. Vairee beautiful."

  He proceeded to narrate with a strong, deep French accent. His words were muddy and difficult to understand. Despite this, he was an enthralling, animated storyteller.

  "We'll be visiting een a week or so. I can show yoo ze first ship I ever sailed on. Eet's still zere, all nets and feesh guts. Oui, what a mess zat was. I was fourteen years old and one night I asked my mothair to wake me at tree in ze mornang and take me to ze pier. She asked why, so I told 'air I had signed on as a feesherman. Zat was ze first she'd 'aird about it. She was not 'appy. Of course, she was even less 'appy when I came home tree weeks latair. I stank of feesh. Oui, ze smell! I walked een when my family was 'aving deennair and she ordered me back outside. I was made to streep naked right zere at ze front door so she could trow my clothes in ze trash. But I still stank of feesh. It gets eento your 'air and shampoo won't get eet out. Eet gets eento your skin and soap won't wash eet off. I smelled like feesh for weeks—longer zan I was out catching zem!"

  While Fabrice giggled pleasantly at the memory of havoc, I looked to Cosmina. She sat back on her bed, deep in a haze of smoke that looked like it had settled in for the night. Each time Fabrice mentioned the smell of fish, she flinched.

  "And not only did I steenk of feesh," he continued blithely, "but even my bedsheets began steenking of feesh. I slept wiz mackerell all suhmmair."

  That did it. His referring to stinking sheets put her over the edge.

  "Stop already!" Cosmina cried, hands clutching her belly. Her face looked pained, like somebody had punched her in the stomach. She jumped up and whipped open the door. "Out! Get out."

  Recognizing her urgency, we complied.

  "I'll see you in the morning, Fabrice," Cosmina said, shooting a meaningful look at me. Though in discomfort, she was still able to make a jab.


  "Toomorrow mornang?" Fabrice said, frowning. "I'm sorry, but I can't help you. I 'ave meetings all mornang."

  Now Cosmina really did look like somebody punched her. She stammered, "Wha...? What meetings?"

  "Zee old cruise director eez leaving. I need to see 'im off with a propair 'andovair. Zen I 'ave meetings wiz Francois all mornang. What about you, Brian? Can you help Cosmina in ze mornang? Francois says you are very good wiz crowds, even suggesting we can work togethair on—"

  Cosmina cut him off, saying, "I can handle it." She shooed us out, trying to hide her grimace. Her stomach audibly roiled.

  After the door slammed shut behind us, Fabrice and I looked at each other in the hallway. A moment passed, then we both burst out laughing. "I warned 'air," he said ruefully, "She should 'ave drunk ze champagne!"

  Poor Cosmina. Her perfectly planned evening went badly awry. I wasn't entirely sure why she hoped Fabrice and I wouldn't get along. True, in that year of 2005 America and France were still very much at odds over the Iraq invasion. But working on ships, she should have known better than to think international crew would let petulant nonsense like 'Freedom Fries' dictate how we felt about each other. We got along famously.

  But her miscalculations went beyond failed hopes for conflict over nationality, failed hopes for jealousy over the cheese, and failed hopes for groveling over the 'job'. Not only was Fabrice unable to assist her the next morning, but Cosmina spent the whole disastrous day working alone with a horribly sick stomach from cheese she didn't even want to eat. For once the joke was entirely on her.

  3

  The company I worked for, Sundance at Sea, made an aggressive takeover of the gift shops on the majority of the world's cruise ships. This would not surprise anyone who had actually met the highly energetic and enigmatic Sundance owner, Frederick. His appetite was gargantuan, his pockets deep. He was also the world's worst micromanager. In order to keep the new acquisitions under his direct supervision, he gave control of each gift shop to the ship's resident auctioneer. Thus I suddenly became in charge of the Wind Surf's gift shop.

  Frederick was literally a genius of the highest caliber—he was consulted by MIT, for cryin' out loud—and assumed his employees were equally capable of mastering any new subject as quickly and as thoroughly as he. I would argue that being able to sell $100,000 Picassos was not qualification for successfully hustling $10,000 worth of ashtrays and T-shirts every week. If anything, it was the other way around! I was not happy about this one whit, and feared a nasty collision with Janie, the gift shop manager. I need not have worried. In her usual cheerleading manner, she expressed unbounded enthusiasm for the change. The fact that her paperwork would get double-checked before being sent up the ladder didn't hurt, either.

  I happened to have dinner that night in port with Janie and one of her employees, not to mention a bunch of Wind Surf's other usual suspects. While groups of colleagues on the big ships do occasionally meet up during port stops—I'd had many a debauched lunch with various waiter mafias—it is unusual to have a multi-disciplinary dinner off the ship. After the setting sun turned aquamarine waters fitful black, a mixed bag of 'family' tendered to port. While I represented the art department and Janie and Melanie represented the gift shop, attendees also included Yoyo the photog, Eddie the dive instructor, Cosmina of shore excursion fame, Fabrice the cruise director, and spa giantess, Natalie.

  And what a mesmerizing port it was! Hvar island in Croatia is simply gorgeous; an ancient place with well worn and well trodden public squares and walks built right up to the sea. This was necessary, since the entire island averaged a measly seven miles wide—which included a mountain range. During the day, Hvar (pronounced 'far' for some bizarre Croat reason) island looked little more than a huge, ungainly line of limestone. Yet nestled into its nooks, crannies, and sea-worn edges were gorgeous structures of stone. Everything was of stone, in fact, whether hewn and hauled by man or risen and eroded by nature.

  The limestone of Hvar is dirty white. At a glance it is very similar to creamy Maltese limestone, but upon closer inspection it doesn't have the purity of color or luminosity. That's not to say it isn't beautiful. Records indicate a bunch of Hvar's limestone was exported all the way to Berlin for the parliament and other governmental buildings. That's not surprising, as the Germans at one time controlled Hvar—as did the Greeks, Romans, Byzantines, Venetians, Bosnians, Hungarians, Venetians again, Byzantines again, Germans, French, and who knows who else. Surely the Turks were involved in there somewhere, and probably some Martians as well. All told, over thirty empires have run the thin strip of stone. Though currently under the dominion of Croatia, it was being utterly invaded by Italians. Droves of them filled the streets, looking beautiful, smoking cigarettes, and speaking not only loudly but also with their hands. Hvar boasted the highly dubious claim of being the sunniest spot in all of Europe, and the Italians were intent to find out the truth of the matter.

  But we saw the island at night, squinting through the tender's scratched plexiglass at forested islets along the way. Incorrectly translated as Hell's Islands, it was frequently raised there. But our destination was the long, cut-stone quay built by the Venetians to hold their fleet long, long ago. The seaside strip was dark, broken only by lights from the abutting windows of venerable apartments. Ancient stone is best when shadowed. The tender pulled up to the dark quay and the few people shuffled out. Between the noisy, gassy revving of the engine thumped the heavy bass of techno music. The alluring call of modern sirens thumped from the far edge of the quay, where silhouettes of slender bodies gyrated against a backdrop of neon and flames.

  Cosmina did not lead us towards the ultra clubs, however, but to the other end of the quay, where it opened into the town square. Dominating the corner was the 'new' arsenal. New was relative, of course, as it was built in the late 1500s to fight the Turks. It reminded me of a gargantuan, five-story barn, but instead of doors it offered an archway large enough to bring inside the galleys in case of invasion. Currently it was stoned up and more or less smooth, which summed up the political situation, as well.

  Our group reluctantly passed the beastly building and into the yawning silence of the wide square. No music met the ear, no life met the eye. The only movement was wavering gaslight, which kept the square in mystery. The occasional lighted window above peeked down from the darkness warily, as if we were the invading Turks of long ago. The far end was dominated by a stone church and resident belfry rearing into the night.

  "This place is creeping me out," Natalie complained, footsteps echoing off empty flagstone. "It's like wandering in a spooky old castle."

  "I'll protect you!" Yoyo consoled. Giggling, he jumped into the air in a vain attempt to reach her height.

  Yoyo's levity did little to ease our trepidation, which soon heightened as Cosmina led us into a narrow road between two sentry-like stone behemoths. The flagstones angled up sharply, for the city itself began climbing the steep ridges that formed the spine of the island. Looming buildings leaned in menacingly. After a few twists and turns in the near darkness, the alley-like road opened—swelled, really—just enough to allow a few tables before an octagonal, four-story dwelling. A paltry few gas lamps sputtered, stretching shadows from iron clamps hammered into fitted stone. Above the minimally-inviting tables staggered windows, uneven, shuttered tight.

  "We dining with Dracula, or what?" Natalie exclaimed in awe. 'I think there's a serial killer here somewhere."

  "You're the one with claws like Wolverine," Janie pointed out. "What am I gonna do?"

  "Don't cheerleaders know how to kick?" Natalie shot back.

  "Natalie's right," Mel the shoppie urged. "I don't want to eat here."

  "Yoo 'aven't even seen ze menu!" Fabrice teased. "Peel and eat eyeballs, pair'aps? A good chef can make anyzing delicious. Sauteed wiz a little white wine and garlic, excellent!"

  Cosmina's hands went to her belly and she passed a sour look. After recovering, she quickly slapped Fabrice on the
shoulder. He mimed great pain, then continued with a devilish grin, "Boiled brains wiz geengair to 'elp settle your stohmach."

  "I was told they have great pizza by those who know," Cosmina explained haughtily—too haughtily. Her tone indicated overcompensation of setting, not stomach. I strongly suspected she was just as freaked out by the haunting atmosphere as the rest of us. Certainly it was the most Medieval pizzeria I had ever seen. When the door to the restaurant creaked open, I expected nothing less than a minion wheeling out an iron maiden. Instead it was the proprietor, who helped us pull tables together. Several bottles of red wine were ordered. Natalie stuck to beer.

  Inspired by—or, rather, intimidated by—the setting, the seven of us felt particularly close that night. Certainly we leaned in close. But forced joviality soon became the real thing. After a few glasses of wine we found ourselves having a grand old time. Laughter wafted up over those shuttered windows, all the way to the stars. Multi-disciplinary shop talk swept joyfully back and forth like world-class tennis players in a friendly pick-up match. I shared with Yoyo the basics of artistic composition to help with his photography. Cosmina explained to Natalie the benefits of using Janie and Mel as tour hosts, not to mention her brilliant idea of using Fabrice and I for her onboard organization. Natalie protested that she wanted to be a tour host as well, but Cosmina quickly dashed that by saying she was 'unreliable'. After the rest of us surreptitiously pointed at Yoyo—an occasional tour host himself—Cosmina quickly amended that Natalie was 'uncontrollable'. This new explanation not only mollified, but actually pleased Natalie.