The Rebellious Tide Page 4

  Sebastien stood paralyzed in the middle of the mezzanine floor, surrounded by the man’s voice from six metres away. He was so close, but his consciousness was dimming. The collar of his shirt tightened around his neck.

  Tearing his gaze away, he pivoted and collided with a waiter. A silver tray fell to the floor with a loud clatter, spilling several glasses of orange liquid all over Nikos and his crisp white suit.

  “Gamóto!” the young security commander wailed. The sound of shattering glass followed like exclamation points.

  “I’m so sorry,” the waiter said, horrified. Nikos fumed, but he didn’t say another word. His accusing eyes shot to the waiter, then Sebastien, before he stormed off toward the exit.

  “Nikos, relax! It was an accident!” Kostas called out to him.

  Sebastien couldn’t help glancing in the man’s direction. Their eyes met, and for a second he couldn’t look away. An unsettling current passed through his body, and he wondered if his father felt it, too. With a shake of the head, he overcame the paralysis and made his retreat.

  The blood rushed through his veins like a geyser through a pipe. He felt so alert he was dizzy.

  Ilya was recounting the entire scene that had ended in Nikos becoming a human dishcloth, but Sebastien couldn’t focus on the words. The carpet swayed beneath their feet as they left the Odeon and entered the casino.

  The flashing lights and dinging noises made his head feel like it was going to erupt. The slot machines sounded like hammers crushing carnival lights and police sirens.

  “I need some water,” he said, interrupting Ilya as he was describing the look on Nikos’s face.

  A raised lounge overlooked the gaming tables from the centre of the casino floor. It was styled like a circular temple, complete with Ionic columns that stretched up to the ceiling. Sebastien thanked the bartender as he reached for the glass.

  “Are you okay?” Ilya asked, watching his cabinmate down the contents of the glass in a single swallow.

  They perched themselves at a counter facing the casino floor. Sebastien wiped his lips with the sleeve of his turquoise blazer. “I’m good now. My head just hurts. That’s all.”

  “I read somewhere that nine out of ten headaches are caused by dehydration,” said a petite woman seated beside him at the counter. Like the rest of the casino staff, she wore a button-up vest over an emerald-green shirt. Her hair was pulled up into a bundle of dark curls. Wisps of steam rose from the mug in her hands.

  “I guess I chose the right remedy.” Sebastien smiled as he held up the empty glass. He glanced at the badge pinned to her vest.

  Diya Sharma

  Gaming Attendant

  India

  “Meet my newest cabinmate,” Ilya said to the woman. “Sebastien, this is Diya. She’s the queen of blackjack.”

  “I hope you’re saner than Ilya’s last cabinmate,” she said, shaking Sebastien’s hand.

  Ilya groaned. “Let’s not think about him.”

  A flash of white caught Sebastien’s eye. Three officers entered the casino from the hall that led to the theatre. In the middle was Giorgos, the deck commander with the unsmiling face. He sauntered past the blinking lights and crowded tables at an arrogant pace, slow enough to make clear he had the authority to simply be present and supervise.

  Giorgos halted at the roulette wheel, and his eyes drifted toward the bar. Sebastien thought the commander was looking at him before he realized the attention was on the woman by his side. Giorgos and Diya glared at each other across the casino. She turned away.

  “I need to get back on the floor,” she said. Her face, which had appeared tired but kind a second earlier, was now alert and tense.

  “It was nice to meet you,” Sebastien said with a wave.

  She gave him a hurried kiss on the cheek. “Welcome aboard.”

  Relief swept over Sebastien like a breeze as they descended the stairs into the underworld. As glamorous as it was on the passenger decks above, he didn’t belong there. It was all smoke and mirrors. Fake statues. Warm champagne. Everyone on their best behaviour.

  There were no forced smiles here in the lower decks of Hades. It wasn’t pretty, but it was real.

  “Are you ready for our final stop of the evening?” Ilya asked, with a devilish look in his eyes.

  “As long as it involves a cold beer.”

  They followed the stairs past the staff quarters to C Deck, where the less-privileged crew called home. A steady bassline reverberated throughout the narrow corridors. Ilya led him through a door with a sign that declared the location in twisted tubes of neon light: Crew Bar.

  The crowded room was dimly lit and filled with smoke. Sebastien thought something must have caught on fire before he realized the only thing burning was a battalion of cigarettes. A man with locs piled high on his head stood behind a DJ booth as reggae blasted through the speakers.

  “This place is ours,” Ilya shouted as he made his way through the crowd, kissing cheeks and waving to calls of his name. “On the upper decks we’re squeaky clean. Wholesome, even. It’s all a show for the guests. It’s what they pay good money for. They want to talk to us. Flirt with us. Fuck us. Abuse us. All we can do is smile. But down here, this is where we remember who we are.”

  A slender man in a nude-coloured leotard approached. His skin was flawless, but he looked like a stylized raccoon with dark makeup around his eyes. The man and Ilya leaned in to kiss each other on the cheek, but their lips manoeuvred to meet at the last second. The man’s hands disappeared beneath Ilya’s turquoise blazer before their bodies drifted apart. He didn’t say a word as he vanished into the smoke.

  “He’s one of the dancers who perform in the theatre,” Ilya explained. “Very friendly.”

  It wasn’t hard to notice the attention Sebastien was attracting as they made their way to the bar. Eyes darted in his direction. Mouths came up for air from their glasses. Voices lowered mid-conversation.

  “You’re fresh meat,” Ilya said. “Enjoy it while you can. You won’t be fresh for long.”

  Seated throughout the crew bar were the various tribes of the underworld. It was the one place on board where it didn’t matter if you were crew or staff or officer. The rigid rules of Glacier society were loosened by free-flowing liquor and the human need to connect. Although the tribes intermingled, most didn’t stray too far from their distinctive circles.

  There were the dancers — beautiful creatures who were treated like celebrities. They wore the same costumes they performed in during the captain’s cocktail party, mostly feathers and sequins and skin. Ilya’s friend in the leotard seemed to have more than one person to warm his hands. “The dancers are a lot of fun, but they’re full of drama,” Ilya said with a shake of the head. “They also survive on a diet of vodka and avocado. I see them in the gym every day. If they gain more than ten pounds, they’re gone.”

  The cleaning crew dominated the area of the bar with the foosball tables. They cheered loudly as they played, spinning the rods as though they were on Wheel of Fortune. “We call them the Filipino Mafia. They run an entire black market of pills, drugs, whatever you want. They’ll also cut your hair for ten euros.” He pointed to his own head. “Not bad, huh?”

  Members of the spa team clustered on couches in the corner. Made up of massage therapists, beauticians, naturopaths, and fitness trainers like Ilya, they were mostly young and less cynical than the rest of the staff. “They have the best stories, if you ask me. The things they see in those treatment rooms …”

  They settled into an area filled with a mix of others — entertainers, shop attendants, shore excursion guides, even a tailor. Claudette, Sebastien’s South African boss with the pretty laugh, was chain-smoking while a bartender who appeared to be ten years younger gently kissed the side of her neck.

  “I know it’s only your first day, but does anyone catch your eye?” Ilya asked. “What do you like? Ladies? Lads?”

  Sebastien laughed. Subtlety wasn’t Ilya’s strong suit
. “I’m open to anything, really,” he answered. “I don’t usually know what I like until I see it.”

  He sat back and surveyed the room. He saw a piece of himself in everyone there. The lives they left behind weren’t good enough. They came from different parts of the world, each of them with a different story, but something common brought them here to this ship. Together, they formed a family of outsiders. They found refuge from reality in the middle of the sea.

  A mob of white entered the bar. Among the six officers, Nikos was the only one not in uniform. He wore slim black pants and a loose green sweatshirt. He no longer looked untouchable.

  “And the malákas have arrived,” Ilya muttered into his ear. “That’s what we call the officers — malákas. I think it means jerk-off in Greek.”

  “They can’t all be that bad.”

  “They’re not. But they’re not all that good, either.”

  The crowd parted to make way for Nikos and the five others. Sebastien watched as they ordered a round of beers from the bar. With bottles in hand, they huddled around a high-top table against the wall.

  “I’ll be back,” Sebastien said before being swallowed by the dense crowd. The officers were clearly surprised as he joined them at their table a few minutes later holding two bottles of beer. The conversation they were having went quiet. Nikos examined him with the same combination of curiosity and suspicion he’d shown earlier.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” Sebastien said. “Nikos, I just want to apologize for what happened upstairs. I didn’t mean to bump into that waiter.”

  The young commander cocked his head to the side but remained silent. The other officers continued to stare, not knowing what to make of this stranger’s brazen interruption.

  Sebastien held one of the bottles above his head. Without a word, he tilted it toward himself and let the frothy liquid pour over his hair. It spilled down his face and onto his chest, soaking his shirt and blazer. He placed the other bottle on the table and pushed it toward Nikos. He looked into the amber eyes as he held out his hand.

  “Now we’re even.”

  No one moved. They stared at Sebastien while his arm hovered above the table. After a heavy silence, Nikos’s lips curled upward in a reluctant smile. An abrupt laugh escaped him, and soon the other officers were laughing. He grabbed hold of Sebastien’s hand and gave him a slight nod.

  Ilya looked dumbstruck when Sebastien returned to his side, dripping beer. “What the hell was that?”

  Sebastien wiped his face with a paper napkin and squeezed it over the empty glass in his cabinmate’s hand. “You’ll see,” he said. “I have a feeling that man is going to be useful.”

  FOUR

  Bang Bang

  The Glacier sailed steadily to the island of Sicily. Two weeks had passed since Sebastien walked up the gangplank from the clay-coloured port of Civitavecchia, and he was getting into the swing of his new life at sea. Even the unsteadiness of the swaying floor beneath his feet no longer fazed him. He preferred the constant motion over the rooted inertia of Petit Géant.

  Most mornings would introduce a different port, storied places like Barcelona and Málaga. He would take the elevator all the way to the open-air Sunset Deck where he could admire each new destination. Every morning brought a different view, just as he had dreamed as a child. There were sandy coves and hills cloaked in mist, cities with earthen rooftops and gleaming towers of glass.

  Despite the ship’s perpetual motion, most days followed the same routine. Breakfast would be served in the cafeteria. Staff would head into port to explore while crew would remain on board to clean cabins, scrub decks, and prepare for the evening’s festivities. The Glacier would set sail just before sunset. Once the horn sounded from the pyramid-shaped funnel, staff would be on duty to entertain the guests as the ship came alive again.

  The evening sun flooded the atrium with honey-coloured light. Sebastien’s photo station was set up on the Adriatic Deck balcony overlooking the Agora lobby one level below. It was filled with music and chatter, but the lounges began to empty as people made their way to the dining hall for the late seating.

  Guests had two options for having their photos taken. They could pose in front of the balcony with the atrium unfolding behind them, or they could choose from a selection of canvas backdrops. One depicted a stereotypical Greek island scene, complete with whitewashed walls and pink bougainvillea. Another was a night-time view of Athens with the Acropolis lit up like a birthday cake. The most popular backdrop was the open sea with the Glacier floating in the distance. Sebastien was surprised by how many people opted for a fake view over the real one.

  “Smile!” he said, snapping a large Italian couple in front of their chosen backdrop — sunset over Santorini, another favourite. There was no one else waiting in the queue, so Sebastien was relieved to see the couple hurry off to dinner.

  He leaned over the balustrade and observed the Agora below. It was quieter now, but a few dozen guests from the early dinner seating were scattered throughout the lounge.

  The laugh was instantly recognizable as it echoed across the atrium. He followed the sound to see his father standing on the other side of the circular balcony. Giorgos stood there, too, his stern face an odd contrast to Kostas’s cheerful smile.

  Sebastien lifted the camera to his eye, adjusting the lens to home in on the two commanders, like the crosshairs of a rifle.

  He pressed the trigger.

  Bang.

  Bang.

  He kept his eyes fixed on his targets as he crossed the deck to the other side of the balcony. They stood at the railing beside fan-shaped plants in a cauldron-sized pot. He crept behind the foliage until he could hear the men’s voices. They were too focused on their conversation to notice him.

  “We need to deal with him,” Giorgos said, his voice taut as a violin string.

  “He doesn’t know anything,” Kostas said. “He’s a harmless cabin cleaner. What could he possibly do?”

  “He could tell someone.”

  “Then what?” Kostas’s tone was tinged with impatience. “Who would believe him?”

  The men were silent as two guests in evening gowns walked past.

  “We need to be more careful,” Giorgos said moments later, his voice quieter.

  “What do you propose we do? Throw him overboard?” Kostas laughed so abruptly that Sebastien bolted upright at the sound.

  The two commanders made their way to the grand staircase that led to the Agora below. Sebastien gripped his camera as he followed several paces behind. They lowered their voices, and he could no longer hear what they were saying.

  A quartet of jazz musicians played from a circular stage in the middle of the lobby bar. The wail of the saxophone and rattle of the drum drowned out other sounds.

  Kostas and Giorgos paused on the landing where the three flights of stairs converged. With his gaze distracted by the two men, Sebastien’s feet flew out from under him as he slipped on the top step. Panicked, his hands reached for the railing but grabbed only air. He tumbled down the staircase, an avalanche of limbs, before crashing on the landing in a heap.

  It took him a moment to realize that the white objects beside his head were shoes. Dazed, he looked up to see the faces of the two commanding officers. The atrium’s glass ceiling hovered high above them.

  “Are you okay, young man?” There was concern in the creases around his father’s eyes.

  No words came to Sebastien, but he held their outstretched arms as they helped him to his feet. Several guests stifled laughs in the lobby bar, but he barely noticed them.

  “That was quite the fall,” Kostas said. He smiled, but it was more friendly than mocking.

  “I’m not known for my grace,” Sebastien said, adjusting his uniform. It was true, despite his athletic prowess. His mind tended to focus on one thing at a time, and it was often out of sync with his restless body. He had been clumsy ever since he was a child.

  Giorgos displayed no emotion as he examined
the stranger, but Kostas chuckled warmly.

  “I’m no gazelle myself,” his father replied. “Watch out for these slippery floors. They can be deadly.”

  “I will.” He paused. “Thank you.”

  Sebastien turned to walk away when Kostas stopped him. “You’re new, aren’t you?”

  “I started two weeks ago. I’m a photographer.” He held up the camera that was loosely strapped around his neck, hoping it was still intact.

  “It’s good to have you aboard.”

  It’s good to be here, Father.

  It was clear he didn’t realize who Sebastien was. There was no glint of recognition in his eyes. Kostas would never guess that this young man could be his son because it had never been important to him. Ruby and her unborn child were just a forgotten part of his past, something unfortunate and insignificant that happened many years ago.

  Sebastien didn’t want him to know — not yet. It wasn’t the right time. He had even considered changing his surname before coming on board to avoid the risk of it giving him away. Now he could see he had nothing to fear.

  Even so, Sebastien hadn’t been prepared for Kostas to be kind. This development agitated him. He used to have complete control over his perception of his father. His imagination had assigned a personality riddled with flaws and failings. Kindness hadn’t been one of them.

  “It’s good to be here, sir.”

  He noticed for the first time what looked like a scar that began at the base of his father’s forehead. The jagged seam of skin trailed above his right ear before disappearing behind thick waves of hair. Sebastien found it strangely comforting. It was a reminder of how much there was to uncover about this man.

  “Since you’re here, why don’t you take our photo?” Kostas suggested.

  “Absolutely.” Sebastien held the camera to his eye, framing the two commanders with the Agora behind them. One man beamed while the other stood begrudgingly, but there was one thing they shared, something Sebastien hadn’t possessed in a long time. It was conspicuous in the way they held their shoulders and tilted their chins.