High Seas Drifter (Cruise Confidential 4)

by Brian David Bruns

  The casino had closed early. There weren't any gamblers and Dimitar wanted to join the party. Thus he cast loose the feisty mouse Aurelia. She wore a particularly tight but highly complimentary red outfit with devilishly sharp lapels. She looked great. We'd been seeing each other socially a fair amount lately and, after a few drinks, one thing led to another.

  We retired to her cabin, which she luckily enjoyed alone. It was fortunate nobody else lived there. No, not because we wanted privacy, but because any cabin mate surely would have died. It was hotter than a sauna in there! Just opening the door released a flood of hot air into the corridor. As if that weren't enough, on her bed were heavy winter blankets. Aurelia was like a small burrowing mammal, sleeping twelve hours a day in her dark, steamy little den. At one point in the night I woke and had to stick my head in the corridor just to breathe.

  The next morning was nothing short of hilarious. I had to make it back to my cabin—through the guest hallway—wearing the dress. Makeup was smeared into my stubble from a night of passion and agonizing heat. In true female fashion, I had lost my shoes after having taken them off at some point in the night. My painted toenails looked marvelous, if nothing else did. Guests were freaking out. The walk of shame, indeed!

  Chapter 17. St. Tropez, France

  1

  In A.D. 68 the decapitated body of a Christian named Tropez, martyred in Rome and thrown into the sea, washed up in southern France. All these years later, the place is still known for body parts: toned and tanned and half-naked on beach towels, that is. For St. Tropez's Pampelonne is the beach for body parts, as it was here in the 1960's that Europe was introduced to topless sunbathing.

  Ironically, the French Riviera favorite isn't just known for nudity but its opposite, too. Fashion forecasters, merchants, and designers are drawn by its reputation for cutting-edge chic. They shop its skinny, cobbled streets lined with expensive boutiques.

  St. Tropez (pronounced san tropay) was one of the coolest villages Wind Surf lay anchor to. You didn't have to be an exhibitionist or celebrity to walk its beaches, but you felt like one. Certainly Aurelia and I did. The weather was great. We'd never have guessed it was November. Work was great. I'd never have guessed I was in the auctioneer's doghouse. Life was great. Without making too big a deal about it, Aurelia and I were enjoying each other.

  But we had nothin' on the three legged dog.

  While walking toes in the sand we were nearly bowled over by a large, shaggy dog as he raced into the sea. He didn't see us at all, so intent was he on a stick thrown by his humans. He leapt into the mild surf and splashed and surged and yipped and yapped. Once snapping his jaws onto the errant stick, he came trotting excitedly back out for more. Only then did we notice he had only three legs. That didn't slow him down at all! He bid his humans to repeat, and they obeyed. We hustled out of there, lest we be caught in the maelstrom of smiling, perky puppy.

  After the early morning stroll, we returned to the Surf—Aurelia to her oven for sleep, I to the lounge for tours. Cosmina had a busload of tourists who wanted to see the countryside of Provence. Not surprisingly, she didn't want Yoyo in charge. So I spent the whole day wandering the streets of various villages in Provence, such as Ramatuelle, Gassin, and Grimaud. It was an entirely different world, Provence. The people, the pace, even the hours lazed away like on island time.

  While I thought St. Tropez the stuff of dreams, others did not. Some thought it a horrible place. Susie, in particular, thought so and was very vocal about it. A group of us had tendered into town after dark: Eddie and Susie, Cosmina and myself—Barney and Aurelia were both working—and Natalie and Yoyo. While Susie led us around the quay she was nothing short of disgusted by what she saw. Or, rather, what she didn't see.

  As is the French style, the quay was artificially angular and lined with tall structures. Over the centuries they'd gotten crammed so shoulder-to-shoulder they became one giant wall of apartment. Borrowing from their Italian neighbors, each section of the 'wall' was painted a different color. This eased the burden on the eye but did nothing to ease the burden on the soul. The quay, while fascinating, felt entrapped. Above the wall rose the pointed yellow dome of a church. Just as the Eiffel Tower was the sole structure to pierce the uniform Parisian landscape, so, too, did the Church of Saint-Tropez break the monotony of standardized rooftops. Surely only a royal decree sometime past could explain such complete parity of height.

  "Doesn't this awful place have any restaurants?" Susie spat. Her eyes scanned the length of the quay, glancing over and passing by a dozen eating establishments. Indeed, the first floor of every structure in the 'wall' was either a boutique or a café.

  "We've passed a bunch," I answered, confused.

  "I don't want a French restaurant," she answered snidely. Obviously I was being stupid.

  "Well, what do you want, then? McDonald's?"

  "Yes."

  "Are you serious?" I asked, stunned. "We're in freakin' Provence and you want McDonald's?"

  "You don't like McDonald's?"

  "No, I don't," I responded. "But that's not the point. Live a little! You're half-way around the world. Why not try something new?"

  "Are you in charge tonight, or am I?" she retorted. Eddie gave me a glance that implored retreat. I gave her a mock bow and acquiesced.

  That evening was indeed Susie's turn to run the show. Oh, did she lord it over us. When someone else happened to select the itinerary or organize an outing, she claimed to think nothing of their role. But with her in charge? She was in charge. Or so she thought, anyway, and reminded all of us—continually.

  She also couldn't stop reminding us how tough she was. Vicious, in fact. That's what Francois had said. So Susie said it, too. Again and again and again. Now, I'm no stranger to self-glorifying stories about how tough I am and stuff, but this chick was completely desperate for attention. Is that what everybody thought when I opened my mouth? Perish the thought.

  All that had happened was that Francois had taken some paperwork from her and, in the process, messed up her personal system. This caused her more work, so next time she guarded it from him. He laughed and called her vicious. That's it. That was the story. Yet before we'd even left the tender she had dropped the word 'vicious' at least twenty times.

  It didn't help that her narration kept getting interrupted. So Susie returned to the subject of her viciousness again and again. Far worse than logistical interruptions, such as boarding the crowded tender, was Natalie and Yoyo. Seeing that they were with two couples that night, they took it upon themselves to play couple, too. Considering Yoyo was about five feet high and Natalie was over six, they were an arresting sight.

  "Vicious! That's what Francois said after he messed up my paperwork, and—what are you doing?"

  Yoyo had hopped into Natalie's arms and flung his skinny arms around her neck.

  "I have my own system," Susie continued. "I know what I'm doing, and he just—are you two kissing?"

  Yoyo began peppering Natalie with kisses.

  "I know what I'm doing, and he messed up my paperwork, so I—will you two stop it?"

  Nibbling of ears. Giggles. They began comparing long fingernails. Of course, Yoyo had them only on his pinkies.

  "Oh my God, stop!"

  Those of us unable to hide our snickers received a nasty glare from Ms. Vicious. In exasperation, Susie flung a hand out at the very next restaurant and declared authoritatively, "We're here!"

  "Here?" Cosmina challenged, surprised. "You sure? It looks—"

  "Yes, I'm sure!" Susie interrupted (viciously).

  What Cosmina was no doubt going to say was 'expensive'. In Susie's haste to take back control of the situation, she'd obviously figured any port in the storm. This was perhaps unwise. But she marched in as if she were Prince Albert of Monaco—who'd dined there quite recently, in fact. She gave orders like royalty, too.

  "There will be six of us. Well, then put those two tables together! Yes, those two. No, we will not be needing
the wine list. Bring some water. Yes, we'll have cocktails. What do you mean you don't have Miller Lite?"

  We situated ourselves around a long table along a brick wall heavy with photographs of celebrities. Sylvester Stallone. Michael Douglas. I seriously thought I was the only American to have ever sat there who hadn't won an Oscar. We shared uneasy glances. Susie didn't notice, having made a point of not meeting anyone's gaze.

  Only then did she look at the menu. She couldn't read French, of course, but she could readily identify behind each item a helluva lot of zeroes. Alas, Susie may have thought she was a princess, but her budget did not share her confidence. She looked exceedingly nervous. She motioned everybody closer. We all leaned in.

  "Okay," she whispered. "When I give the order, do what I say."

  The waiter returned. Everybody leaned back and began conspicuously lounging, glancing at anything but each other. A giant basket of bread was served: gorgeous, steaming, fresh-baked loaves of crusty French bread. Susie stared at them as if they were baked gold. She looked like she was about to panic.

  As the waiter finished his action, Susie whispered, "Ready..."

  Cosmina, not appreciating being ordered around, opened her mouth to protest. But just then the waiter walked away. Susie pounced on the opportunity, hoarsely whispering, "Run."

  "What?" I said, surprised.

  "Run!" Susie repeated urgently. She pushed Eddie out of his chair with great force. He tumbled out awkwardly, then hastened out the front door. We fled. So fast did Susie bolt from the table, she kicked over her chair. We ended up sharing a bowl of olives at a neighboring bar.

  Susie continued with her self-congratulatory talk about being vicious, while the rest of us politely ignored her restaurant misstep. All but Eddie, that is. Whenever Susie wasn't looking, he shook his head in disgust. After two or three times, and two or three beers, he suddenly declared, "Tomorrow! Boy's day out. Who's with me?"

  Susie stared at him, shocked. Eddie didn't let her retort, but pressed onward.

  "Brian? Yoyo? You guys in?"

  "I'm photographing a tour," Yoyo said.

  "Unfortunately," Cosmina muttered.

  Recognizing this as a cry for help, I agreed to join Eddie. For the rest of the night Eddie wasn't the only one avoiding Susie's angry glare.

  So the next day Eddie and I tendered into Marseilles. Surprisingly, the first order of business was going to McDonald's. While the Golden Arches were an American creation, it was foolhardy to think they'd only enslaved the 'natives'. Eddie insisted upon such fare and I acquiesced.

  "Please don't tell Susie," Eddie begged. "She'll be furious if she knows I did this without her."

  "We could always tell her we went to a strip club," I offered.

  "She'd take that better," Eddie agreed grimly.

  Afterwards we hopped on a ferry, bound for some exceptionally unique places. First we toured the quarantine islands of southern France, the Iles du Frioul. They were a series of gnarly-shaped islands two miles offshore of Marseilles. The rugged, bare rock was ignored for millennia, but eventually deemed the perfect place to quarantine plague victims. While it is unknown how many men and women succumbed to their disease—real or suspected—certainly nobody lives there now. Dotted here and there about the islands are the ruins of the quarantine hospital and even an old fortress used by the conquering Nazis in WWII. As interesting as the rugged islands were, they were nothing compared to what awaited us on the island of If.

  Chateau D'if (pronounced deef) was startlingly similar to San Francisco's famous Alcatraz. Both were heavily fortified, hardcore prisons on a rock in a bay just outside a major port city. Both were constructed to house particularly bad or celebrity inmates. Because Alcatraz rose from the frigid, lethal waters of San Francisco Bay, it was considered escape proof. Ironically, Chateau D'if—lapped by the welcoming, beautiful waters of the French Riviera—proved to be more so. Why? Because Chateau D'if was not about rehabilitation, but retribution. They shackled you to a wall in a tiny stone room with no windows and watched you writhe until you died.

  The prison itself was originally a fortress built to defend Marseille. It looked exactly like you'd expect with sheer walls, round towers, and battlements. Storms of angry waves and angry men were rebuffed by a thick stone sea wall. This protected the one landing on the small island, more or less. Even so sheltered, the waves made disembarking tough business. This was in no way a place for ease or comfort. This was a brutal place of stone and iron built by men of the same.

  Upon entering the fortress, fascination sours into nothing short of horror. The cells are tiny, dismal, and filled with a chill that can only come from centuries of torture and death. The courtyard is small and cobbled. A dramatic stone staircase spirals tightly up to the second level. The mezzanine is lined with the awful cells, each its own shape and configuration. The only uniformity is shackles and the desperate scratchings of fingernails in the rock.

  I'd never heard of Chateau D'if, even though the literary great, Alexandre Dumas, wrote extensively about it. Not only did he write The Three Musketeers, but also The Man in the Iron Mask. The latter swashbuckling affair was inspired by real life, with Chateau D'if being home to the poor bastard in the title. His 'suite' was a vaulted brick tomb with a small fireplace, a table and chair, a bitter breeze for companionship, and no hope of escape. Another notable inmate of Chateau Di'f was written in The Count of Monte Cristo. Unlike the mysterious Man in the Iron Mask—who was probably in reality the twin brother of King Louis XIV—the Count was fictional.

  After wandering the fortress prison awhile, Eddie and I moved to a table sitting crookedly upon a rock overlooking the sea. The wind whipped by forcefully on its way to the keep, where it whistled through the arrow slits and battlements. Even out in the sun I suffered a chill. I couldn't even imagine being locked in that breezy, damp hell hole. It was weird to sip cappuccinos and play civilized while gazing upon such a Medieval atrocity.

  "The irony of this is killing me," Eddie commented. "I was in quarantine for three days and felt like I was in jail. I finally get out and what do I do? Tour a quarantine island and a prison."

  "We're all creatures of habit," I consoled with a smile.

  "I'm officially running from my girlfriend today," he added.

  Recognizing that this was the moment Eddie had been waiting for, I lent an ear.

  "I wanted to die in there, man. Three days locked in a room with somebody you like is tough, but when you're at each others' throats all day? Awful. The funny thing is that we didn't even talk."

  "Then why was it so bad?" I prompted gently.

  "Silence is worse. I guess there's so much to talk about we didn't want to bother starting. I don't know. All I know is that my sense of adventure is growing and hers is gone. Being a dive master is awesome. But Susie just wants to go home."

  "Home has a strong pull for many," I agreed.

  "She just wants to be the princess again," Eddie scoffed. "We're both from a small country town where her dad owns a bunch of things. When we first started dating back in high school everybody called me the gold digger! I wanted out of that town big time. In the beginning Susie was kind of swept up in my sense of adventure, I think. When the opportunity to become a diver in St. Maarten came up, she came with me. I think she only agreed because she knew it was a short term thing. But we stayed for over a year. And why not? We were living in paradise, making money, diving. It wasn't just play, either, because it was great for my getting into the RCMP as a diver. I didn't want it to end, so I convinced her to join me for a contract on Surf."

  "The Wind Surf seems to spell doom for many a relationship," I commented lightly. "Yet I find myself loving it here."

  "Me, too!" Eddie agreed. "What's not to love? We're seeing the entire Mediterranean! But Susie hates it. I'm getting sick of her bullshit. I think she's just scared of not being in control. She wants everything familiar, all the time. That's why she wanted to find a McDonald's yesterday: so she wouldn't ha
ve to try something new and risk not liking it. You saw what happened when she was forced to step outside her comfort zone. She made a fool of herself."

  "Well, we've all done that," I offered. Eddie shrugged, recognizing the remark for false chivalry.

  "We're growing apart and Susie's getting desperate to stay together. She squeezes tighter and I pull back harder. A downward spiral, eh? We only got together because it's what you do. I'm not feeling the love and don't know how to break it to her. She was always high maintenance, but she's never been so bitchy before. I don't think she realizes she's driving the wedge deeper."

  Eddie scanned the sexy blue of the Mediterranean, breathed in the salt air, and smiled.

  "An entire afternoon with no drama," he sighed. "I'm so glad Susie's not here."

  "I'm glad Cosmina isn't!" I joked. "We're not even a couple but seem tied together at the hip. Still, imagine how much worse it would be if they were both here."

  Eddie laughed and said, "We'd push 'em in a cell and throw away the key. I'd think Cosi would lighten up now that you're with Aurelia."

  "Oh, we're not really a couple or anything," I said. "Just a ship squeeze, I guess."

  "Well, Susie's mad at you because of it. She sees us growing apart and sees you two happy and fresh."

  I nodded, musing.

  "I'm going to keep going," Eddie finally admitted. "Farther and farther. It's what I want to do, but also because I know sooner or later Susie will drop out."

  Eddie finished his coffee and added with a mischievous smile, "And it's easier than confronting her."

  2

  Though I happily toss out some good-natured grumbling about going into port with Cosmina, the truth is that more often than not we manage to have a good time. Every time Wind Surf docked on the party island of Ibiza, Spain, for example, we had fun. Sometimes that meant getting wildly drunk on sangria and gorging ourselves on tapas. Sometimes it meant getting a tattoo. And sometimes it was all about a sex shop.