The Rebellious Tide Page 3
The hiking backpack he sat on was stuffed with almost everything he owned. An elegant woman in sunglasses dropped a handful of coins in the cap on the ground in front of him. He realized he looked like a beggar. “Signora!” he called out, wanting to return her money. She quickened her pace. He pocketed the change.
Fuelled by rage and a desperation to flee everything he knew, Sebastien had spent the last two months fixated on a plan. He had a purpose now. It brought him to Civitavecchia and, more specifically, to the Glacier.
It wasn’t a real glacier, of course. It was a ship. Towering above him like a steel behemoth, its hull was white like snow. A thousand eyes stared down at him — panels of blue-tinted glass held in place by silver bolts. The ship exhaled a thin plume of smoke from the pyramid-shaped funnel at its summit several decks above him.
“Sebastien?” A woman in a turquoise pantsuit stepped off the gangplank that led to the ship’s crew entrance. A silk scarf decorated with golden anchors was tied around her neck. It was his first time hearing a South African accent. “Sebastien Goo?”
He stood up and waved before slinging the heavy backpack over his shoulder. She smiled brightly as she approached, her heels unsteady on the concrete dock.
“It’s Goh,” he corrected her with a smile. “Like ‘Go home.’ Not Goo.”
She held her palms to her chest with her mouth open, embarrassed. “I’m so sorry!”
Sebastien laughed. “It’s fine. It happens all the time,” he lied.
The woman introduced herself as Claudette, manager of the photography department. She led him up the gangplank into the belly of the ship. Two uniformed men in blue shirts and dark pants stood guard. One of them made small talk with Claudette while the other checked Sebastien’s passport and employment papers. The guard handed back the documents and gave him a decisive nod.
“Thank you, sir,” Sebastien said with an overly enthusiastic smile. The guard jerked his head in the direction of the metal detector beside him. An X-ray machine devoured the backpack before spitting it out on its conveyor-belt tongue.
“Why is this ship called the Glacier?” Sebastien asked, as he followed Claudette through a maze of steel corridors. “Seems like a strange name for a Greek ship sailing the Mediterranean.”
“It used to do the Baltic route. I guess they didn’t bother to rename it.”
She stopped abruptly at a door painted the same ivory colour as the walls. “This is your cabin,” she said as she knocked.
The door opened seconds later to reveal a man in his early thirties, wearing nothing but a pair of orange soccer shorts. A fresh layer of sweat coated the well-defined lines of his torso. His close-cropped hair was the colour of sand.
“And this,” Claudette said, her cheeks blushing, “is your cabinmate.”
“Welcome aboard!” The man took Sebastien’s hand in a crushing grip. “I’m Ilya. Sorry for looking like such a beast. I was just doing a quick workout.” He pivoted to grab a towel, revealing constellations of little round scars across the otherwise smooth skin of his back.
“I’ll let you boys get acquainted,” Claudette said. “Ilya, be a doll and give Sebastien a tour of the ship. Sebastien, I’ll come by in three hours to brief you on your first assignment.”
“My first assignment?”
“The captain’s cocktail party. You’ll be taking photos.”
“Cocktail party?” Sebastien hadn’t known what to expect on joining the staff of a ship, but he didn’t imagine sipping a negroni with the captain.
Claudette let out a pretty laugh and looked at him as if he were a puppy learning to swim for the first time. “This is no oil tanker. This is the Glacier.”
The Glacier was a 90,000-ton floating hotel that offered guests the same grandeur they’d expect to find in any European capital. “It’s a luxury liner, not a cruise ship,” Ilya explained an hour later as they marched through the winding passageways of the staff quarters. “At least that’s what they want us to call it. Cruise ship is a dirty word here. It’s more or less a cruise ship, though, but with a superiority complex.”
The two men were dressed in identical uniforms the staff members wore while visiting the upper decks of the guest quarters. The gold buttons on the turquoise blazers were embellished with anchors. Their white pants had perfect creases ironed down the fronts. Sebastien tugged at the collar of his shirt. He wasn’t used to being strangled by a necktie.
A gold badge was pinned to the lapel of each jacket. His cabinmate’s badge said:
Ilya Tereshchenko
Fitness Trainer
Ukraine
He glanced down at his own badge.
Sebastien Goh
Photographer
Canada
Ilya strolled through the corridors like he owned the ship, explaining every stop along the tour with the flair of a maestro. He seemed to know everyone they passed, swapping smiles and air kisses.
“We call this Styx,” Ilya explained, sweeping his arms outward as though revealing the grand prize of a game show. The wide passageway was the main artery in the lower decks of the staff quarters, stretching from one end of the ship to the other. “There are seventeen decks on the Glacier. The top fourteen are where paying guests wine, dine, and sun themselves into a stupor. The bottom three are where staff and crew live. These lower decks we call Hades — the underworld. Styx is the river that runs through it. In Greek mythology, the newly dead are ferried down the River Styx but only if you’ve paid the toll.”
The Glacier’s version of the River Styx was a social hub for the ship’s staff and crew. There was the cafeteria (“The food isn’t too bad, if you’re a zoo animal”), the staff bar (“The crew bar on C Deck usually gets wilder”), the staff purser’s office (“Uma will be your favourite person. She’s the one who pays us in cold, hard cash”), the computer lounge (“Since they installed Wi-Fi everywhere, nobody goes here except for the Filipino Mafia”), and the medical clinic (“As many free condoms as you need!”).
Over a thousand people worked aboard the Glacier. They lived on the three lower decks of Hades, ordered by the ship’s strict social hierarchy.
Located just below guest quarters was A Deck, where the ship’s white-suited officers lived. An exclusive wing near the stern was home to the captain and his commanders. If the officers were the upper crust of Glacier society, the commanders would be the aristocracy. “You need a special key card to enter, unless you make friends with one of them,” Ilya said with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “Their cabins are much nicer than ours. They don’t have to share with a mate. They have portholes so they can look outside and not feel like they’re rotting inside a coffin. There’s even carpet!”
Directly below the officers was B Deck, home of Styx and all members of staff, including Ilya and Sebastien. This was the realm of the turquoise-suited middle class comprised of people holding titles deemed respectable, such as massage therapist and art auctioneer. They generally came from wealthier countries. “As staff, we get more privileges than crew. We can hang out in the guest areas when we’re off duty as long as we’re dressed appropriately and wearing our name badges. Crew aren’t allowed to do that. We can go to the crew bar, but crew can’t enter the staff bar. Class division is a cruel reality here, I’m afraid. It’s sickening, but I guess we’re the lucky ones.”
Near the bottom of the ship were the crew quarters of C Deck. This was for the lower class of servers, cooks, bartenders, housekeepers, and deck cleaners. Most of them came from countries in Asia and Eastern Europe. “They work longer hours and get paid worse than staff. Plus, guests and officers treat them like servants.” Ilya shook his head in disgust. “Most have families back home. The money here is better than it is there. They deserve more respect.”
“It sounds a lot like the real world,” Sebastien said with a shrug.
“You’re wrong, my friend.” A devilish smile returned to Ilya’s lips. “This is as far from the real world as you can get.”
“Ready to see the world above Hades?” Ilya asked, adjusting Sebastien’s necktie.
They went up a set of stairs and stepped through a nondescript door. There was no doubt they were now in a part of the ship designed for the guests. Even the air felt cleaner and cooled to the perfect temperature.
In contrast to the utilitarian aesthetic of the decks below, the setting was opulent. The soles of their shoes sounded more dignified against the marble floor. The richly upholstered lounge chairs looked more comfortable than their cabin beds. Windows stretched from floor to ceiling to reveal the indigo sea outside. The ship’s forward motion cut across the surface of the water, creating waves that rippled toward the edge of the earth.
“What’s with these statues?” asked Sebastien, examining a life-sized replica of a Greek sculpture. It was a man with blank, pupil-less eyes and a calm expression on his face. Every muscle of his nude body was flexed to flaunt his physique, although his manhood was nothing to brag about. Similar statues of ancient Greek men and women were lined along the hall. The unusual thing about these sculptures was that they were covered in a translucent blue glaze.
“They’re frozen,” Ilya said. “We’re on the Glacier. Get it?”
“Clever.”
“You’ll see this classical-ice-age motif all over the ship. The Glacier is owned by one of the richest shipping families in Greece. This was their attempt at making the country’s heritage relevant in the Baltic. I suppose it’s better than ancient Greece post–climate apocalypse.”
“They’d have to change the name from Glacier to Puddle.”
“Dork,” Ilya said with a laugh.
Sebastien couldn’t hide how awestruck he was when they reached the atrium. The entire centre of the ship was hollowed out so that, looking up, he could see the twilight sky beyond the glass ceiling dozens of metres above. All of the interior guest decks had open terraces with lounges and gardens that hung overhead. Two elevators travelled through glass tunnels from top to bottom. He’d never seen anything like it.
The Agora was the ship’s central lobby at the base of the atrium. Guests in evening wear sipped cocktails in the lobby bar. A tuxedoed man charmed the keys of a grand piano while a voluptuous chanteuse serenaded the room in front of a vintage microphone, the kind Marilyn Monroe held to sing “Happy Birthday” to the president. An impressive Y-shaped staircase led to Adriatic Deck’s circular balcony above the Agora, where Sebastien and Ilya stood.
“We’re not in Hades anymore,” Sebastien said, turning to Ilya.
“Don’t be fooled. They’re mere mortals like us.”
The captain’s cocktail party was always held on the first night of a new sailing, known as embarkation day. It was the only social event at which the ship’s reclusive captain would be expected to make an appearance, albeit briefly and begrudgingly. The Glacier had sailed away from Civitavecchia to begin an eighteen-day circuit around the western Mediterranean. After returning to Italy, it would carry on eastward to Greece.
Various venues throughout the ship were used to host the welcome-aboard event. That evening it was in the Odeon, a cavernous theatre that dominated the forward end of the guest quarters. A chandelier hung from the ceiling like an array of icicles, a senseless design choice given how precariously it swayed whenever the ship listed. The orchestra level and balcony were lined with rows of plush turquoise seats.
Sandwiched between these two levels and almost parallel to the stage sat the mezzanine, the centre of the party. Sculptures and leafy plants were scattered throughout the open space. The backlit bars that lined the perimeter were already crowded with people impatient with thirst.
“Thank you kindly,” Ilya said with a smile as he snatched two flutes of prosecco from a tray held by a waiter. He clinked the glasses together before handing one to Sebastien. “Yamas!”
“I’m on duty.”
“You’re taking photos of drunk people. You should blend in.”
Claudette’s instructions were to get guests to pose for photos they could purchase later at the portrait gallery above the Agora. It wasn’t difficult. All he had to do was hold up his camera, and people would eagerly get into position, baring their bleached teeth and thrusting glasses in the air.
It was easy to spot the staff members who had the privilege of enjoying the party. Generally younger than the well-heeled guests, they also wore name badges like the one pinned to Sebastien’s blazer.
The officers looked elite in their formal uniforms of collared shirts and jackets studded with gold buttons. Every article of clothing on their bodies was a brilliant shade of white. Their shoulders were adorned with black epaulets that proudly, or not so proudly, displayed their rank with golden stripes. Four stripes were worn only by the captain, and the number descended from there. The guests were drawn to the uniforms like flies to honey, eager to shake hands and have their photographs taken with these alluring men of the sea. The officers themselves seemed bored, clustering together so they could sip their drinks in peace.
“They’re all Greek,” Ilya said under his breath as he gestured to the officers, “and take themselves far too seriously.”
One of the younger officers walked by, eyeing them with suspicion and curiosity. He strutted across the room with curt, confident steps, yet the effect was self-conscious, as though he were trying to prove something. His chest was held outward a touch too proudly, his chin a degree too high.
“Nikos Antonopolous,” Ilya said. “Deputy security commander. Thinks he’s hot shit because he has two stripes and gets to bark orders at the security guards like they’re a pack of dogs. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him smile. Also, a total closet case.”
“Really?”
“Don’t be fooled by the macho exterior. He got drunk once in the crew bar and tried bringing me back to his cabin. I politely declined. He’s had it out for me ever since.”
Nikos stood at the other side of the room flanked by fellow officers. Sebastien caught him glancing back at them.
“You weren’t interested?”
Ilya laughed. “Interested? Sure. But men like that aren’t allowed to like other men. I didn’t leave homo-hating Ukraine to hook up with guys like Nikos. He’s a classic Greek tragedy.”
When he was sure Nikos was no longer looking their way, Sebastien held the camera to his eye and pointed it in his direction. The viewfinder displayed a blur of white and gold. With a twist of the ring around the lens, the brooding features of the man’s face came into focus. Sebastien froze.
Standing beside Nikos was a man telling a story. His hands waved in the air as everyone around him listened intently. There were three golden stripes on the epaulets of his white uniform. He looked to be in his midfifties, but there was a youthful vanity about him. Neither tall nor large, he held himself proudly with a set of square shoulders. A thick tangle of hair rippled from his angular face, unnaturally black and hardened in waves. His story seemed to reach its climax, and he laughed. Sebastien could hear it clearly from across the room. The man laughed thunderously until there were tears in his eyes.
It was his father.
“Are you okay?” Ilya put his hand on his cabinmate’s shoulder and gave him a little shake.
“Who’s that man?” Sebastien asked, shuffling behind a sculpture of a frozen Greek Olympian holding a discus. “The older one with the three stripes?”
Ilya poked his head out from their hiding spot to get a better look. “That’s Kostas, the hotel commander. He’s basically the top boss, besides the captain, of course. The captain’s usually holed up in Olympus — that’s what we call the navigation bridge — and Kostas runs the show down here. Most of the staff and crew ladder up to him.”
“What’s he like?�
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Ilya shrugged. “He’s what you’d get if you mashed together Santa Claus and George Clooney, with a dash of Genghis Khan. He can be charming but then turn in the blink of an eye. I only know this because he attends my kickboxing class twice a week. He surrounds himself with his white-suited cronies and doesn’t mingle with the commoners. You’d be better off with him not knowing your name.”
“Who’s he with?” Sebastien pointed his head discreetly toward another middle-aged officer standing beside Kostas. The man was slimmer and several inches taller. A humourless expression was his face’s default. Even when he smiled, his mouth simply lengthened horizontally instead of curving upward. Like Kostas, he wore three stripes on his uniform.
“That’s Giorgos, the deck commander. Engineers, officers — all the technical people we need to actually sail the ship — they report to him. He doesn’t talk much. As much fun as a bag of sand.”
Ilya looked puzzled as Sebastien started to walk away. “Where are you going?”
He held up the camera. “I’m going to meet them.”
The clamour of the party dissolved into a hallucinatory fog. Sebastien’s legs went numb as they pulled him forward, through the hazards of the crowd, to his father.
This is it.
He swallowed the rage that was creeping up his esophagus until it was safely hidden beneath the ribcage. His pace slowed as his head felt light. His eyes were fixated on the smile on his father’s cleanly shaven face. It was the same face he’d studied over the years from the safety of his bedroom, the same face that would visit him in his sleep.
Seeing Kostas Kourakis in a three-dimensional form, moving and talking like a sentient being, meant that Sebastien would have to give up control. His father could no longer continue existing as a property of his imagination.