Bon Bon Voyage (10 page)

In your food processor or blender, puree 2½
cups fresh rasp
berries; ¼ cup sugar (10 to 1 if you need more coulis); and 1
teaspoon fresh lemon juice
(or more to taste). Pour mixture through a fine sieve (pressing on the solids) into a bowl.

Carolyn Blue, “Have Fork, Will Travel,”
Madison, WI, State Courier

14

What I needed was to head straight back to the room and complete my column, but everyone else at the table insisted that we watch the evening's entertainment. Since they weren't intending to visit the casino, I let myself be persuaded and ended up stuck between the cereal king and an executive from a Silicon Valley computer company.

The first act, a comedian making jokes about his wife, set Vera off again. She listened to about three minutes of his routine and then said, loudly, “That man's a sexist pig.”

The comedian stopped talking, cupped his hand to his ear, then leapt over to our half-circle, shouting, “Granny. I love you.” He tried to kiss my mother-in-law, which was a serious mistake because when she jerked away from him, she spilled her martini on the fly of his baggy trousers and snapped, “What happened to you, you moron? Your mother tried to abort you, and it didn't work? I have to give the woman credit for trying.”

The comedian, who was billed as Russell Bustle, grasped his fly and yelled, “Look. I came. This is one sexy old babe.” Commander Levinson, grimfaced, stood up and gave the man a shove that sent him staggering backward. I tried to scoot down in my seat, embarrassed to death, and that ugly security officer, who was wearing a tux instead of his white uniform, came over to intervene.

“I intend to file a sexual harassment charge against this oaf,” said Vera, and ordered another martini since her glass was empty after the drink landed on Russell Bustle.

Mrs. Gross could be heard croaking, “Way to go, Granny!” Luz and the doctor from Atlanta were laughing their heads off, and Randolph Barber got the whole incident on video while the security man and the comedian had words, most of them interrupted by feminist threats from my mother-in-law and Luz's remarks in Spanish, which Vera translated.

“Our friend, the famous designer from Madrid, says that your comedian should be put off at the next stop for—not sure of what that means—perhaps abuse of respectable women.”

The comedian, who
was
unquestionably disgusting, was marched away by Mr. Hartwig, and the dancing girls came on. Still, the thought that they might actually put Russell Bustle off the ship in Tangier worried me since I doubted that Tangier was a friendly place for an American to be stranded.

While Vera stared angrily at the chorus line of skimpily clad dancers, gritting her teeth and muttering about women being seen only as sexual objects by chauvinist cruise lines, Commander Levinson ignored the dancers completely and took it upon himself to talk Vera into a moonlight stroll on the deck. He thought the walk would be good for her heart and her blood pressure. Although I'd expected her to insist on staying to harass the rest of the entertainers, she surprised me by agreeing and stood up, leaving me wondering what exactly he'd meant by a moonlight walk being good for her heart. He had a surprise coming if he was imagining a romantic interlude.

The chorus girls were followed by a second round of drinks for the rest of us—including Mrs. Gross, who, carrying her own bottle of wine, invited herself to join our party—and a pianist playing and singing romantic songs from Kurt Weill's Broadway period. Luz listened to two rounds of what she called “sentimental crap” and then left as well, accompanied by Dr. Beaufort E. Lee, who was obviously enchanted by her or her new dress.

I felt quite melancholy, having been deserted by my roommates and left with the cereal king; the computer executive, who looked about twenty, but claimed to be thirty-six; and Mrs. Gross, who declared over the music that she had found a cockroach in her raspberry crème brûlée at dinner and planned to sue the cruise line. Raspberry crème brûlée sounded good to me. If it turned up again, I'd certainly try it. Then Mrs. Gross advised us to do as she planned to do—not sign up for any of the shore excursions, which were overpriced and boring.

“But I want to see Tangier,” I protested.

“Get off the ship, flag down a taxi, and take your own tour,” said Mrs. Gross. “You can come with me if you want to.”

“Isn't that dangerous?” I asked, thinking a woman her age shouldn't be wandering around an Arab city in a taxicab. Still, for me the tour was free, and I intended to get the most out of it. I doubted that a Moroccan cab driver would make a very knowledgeable tour guide.

When I explained, she shrugged and said, “Suit yourself,” and she left.

“She's one of those people who spend their lives cruising and getting freebies from the cruise lines with a lot of loud complaining,” said Greg Marshand, interrupting his own monologue about successful putting on wet greens. “She probably brought the cockroach with her.”

“That's not a very nice thing to say,” I retorted.

“Well, she better watch out. The companies keep lists of those people, and they share the lists. I saw a guy get put ashore at the next port for posting a newsletter about the high price of drinks at the bars. He wanted to organize a buy-no-alcohol boycott, so they charged him with mutiny. His wife was furious and yelled at him all the way down the gangway.”

I found that a truly astonishing story and wasn't sure that I believed it, but my thoughts were interrupted by the computer man, John Killington, who said, “That lady is really asking for trouble if she hops a taxicab in Tangier. That's not something you do in third-world countries. The first thing I was told when I went to Russia on business was to avoid taxis you hadn't called yourself. The gypsy cabbies will take you out into the country, rob you, and toss you out of the car.”

“You're right,” I agreed morosely. “Almost that very thing happened to me in Barcelona.” Then the pianist began singing “September Song.” That was really too much. Here were Jason and I, getting older—certainly not November old, but perhaps October, which the song skipped, and free to enjoy traveling in each other's company before we reached December and were
too
old—and what was Jason doing? Talking toxins in the middle of the Canadian wheat fields. I could have wept. Instead I excused myself and went to my room. My
empty
room.

As I passed out of the nightclub, I heard Mrs. Gross, who had joined another table, saying that she'd found hair, not her own, in her shower, and she intended to lodge a complaint. Now that was really disgusting, if true, I thought, so I stopped and advised her to talk to Ombudslady Sandy Sechrest.

“I'd say that's a made-up name,” muttered Mrs. Gross. “She probably picked it out to make herself seem more nautical and less like all the other perky cheerleader types.”

I thought of warning Mrs. Gross about her chances of being charged with mutiny by the cruise line and put off the ship or robbed and dumped by a third-world cabbie, but I doubted that she'd listen since she'd paid no attention to my advice about seeing the ombudslady.

Once back in our suite, I put on my nightgown, ate a package of chocolate-covered macadamia nuts from the room bar, and finished my column—there's nothing like chocolate to chase away the blues—but still my friend and my mother-in-law hadn't returned. Feeling very lonely because they both seemed to have acquired male companions, and I was all by myself, I went to bed. This was
not
turning out to be as much fun as I had expected. But tomorrow was Tangier, which sounded so exotic. Probably the food would be, too, and having had much more sleep than my roommates would get, I'd be ready for the adventure instead of tired and grumpy.

I woke up only once, and that was when Commander Levinson and Jason's mother came in talking about Mrs. Gross, who had staggered off with a bottle in her hand and taken the elevator to the wrong floor. I buried my head under my pillow and went back to sleep.

15

Bruce Hartwig dropped into a chair in the officers' section of the crew dining room and blew out an angry breath. “We've got a goddamned old feminist crone on board. Raised a ruckus at the show tonight, and I had to drag the comedian out in the middle of his act. Marbella's on his high horse and laid into the show director, so she got pissy and said she'd pull all the entertainers if we dumped Russell.”

“Russell is disgusting—not at all what's appropriate for this group,” said Hanna. “I find him offensive myself.”

Hartwig shrugged. “We've also got a thriller writer called the Wild Welshman—Owen Griffith. Anyone ever heard of him?” No one had. “Well, let's hope he doesn't think he's some
Murder-She-Wrote
type who wants to solve real crimes.”

Froder laughed. “So ve give him some thrills. Maybe he is never hijacked before. He can write a book, und ve sue him for some of der money.”

“We've better things to worry about, me darlin's,” said the Irishman. “Just received a bulletin. We've got a deadbeat on our passenger list.
Queen of the Southern Seas
passed the word. A woman named Gross, R. L. Gross, is suing them for poisoning her on a cruise from Singapore to Hong Kong. Their ship's doctor says there was nothing wrong with her.”

“You call that a problem?” snapped Hartwig. “Let her sue the line. Won't make any difference to us once we're gone. But if the entertainers quit, we'll have a load of angry passengers before we ever hijack the ship. We need to keep them happy until we clear the Canaries. After that, we've got a day or two before they get really mad and think about making trouble.”

“The guns will take care of that,” said Hanna disdainfully. “It's not as if we're hijacking two hundred commandos. Don't tell me you're afraid of the passengers, Bruce.”

“Well, he should be,” said a croaking voice from the doorway, taking them all by surprise. “Because I intend not only to sue, but to tell the captain your plans.”

“That's her. The deadbeat,” said the Irishman. “
Southern Seas
sent a photo.”

Bruce Hartwig stood up and walked toward Mrs. Gross, who had forgotten completely that she had come to complain about alien hairs in her shower. “Stay away from me,” she said, “or I'll sue you personally and have you arrested as well.” Her voice had climbed from a low croak to a high one and reminded Hartwig of a parakeet his mother had let loose in the house when he did something to irritate her. He'd hated, and still did hate, birds. He reached out for the woman's arm, thinking that there was no one in the brig. They could drug her and hide her in there until they took over the ship. Since he controlled the brig, it shouldn't be a problem.

“Look, Mrs. Gross,” he said with the smile that always disarmed people, even on his admittedly ugly face. He could see Patek coming up on the other side of her. “You must have misunderstood—” The old bitch kicked him in the knee.

Before Hartwig could get control of his temper, Patel slid between her and the door and wrapped his arm around her neck. When she struggled, they all heard the sharp crack of brittle bones breaking, and the old woman slumped, head askew, against the head steward.

“Dead?” asked Froder calmly.

“She better not be,” snarled Hartwig.

“Alive, she is problem we can't solve. Dead she is no worry.” Patek let her slide to the floor and rubbed his hands against the legs of his uniform as if disposing of any essence she might have left on him.

“Hell, all we had to do was drug her and hide her until—”

“No, Bruce. Better she is dead,” said Patek as he locked the door to the dining room. “We dump her overboard and—”

“—risk her getting caught in the propellers?” asked Froder. “Then she vould be discovered. Broken neck und absence of vater in der lungs vould be necessary to explain.”

“Well, we can't keep her on board dead,” protested Hanna. “That's disgusting. She'll start to smell.”

“Maybe not,” said Hartwig thoughtfully. “I can take care of it. But, Patek, I give the orders here. You've screwed things up, and I don't like it.”

Patek said nothing. He sat down and resumed sipping his cup of tea.

“Don't know what you're planning, laddie,” said the Irishman to Hartwig, “but people are going to notice she's missing.”

Absently, Hartwig scratched the chest hair that showed above the open shirt of his tux. “So, you fix the computers, Patrick. I want them to show that she left the ship in the morning and never returned.”

Hanna nodded. “Very good. She says to people in the club that she won't take our tours. She'll get a taxi to take her around Tangier. It's cheaper. Who knows what might happen to an old woman in an Arab taxi in an Arab country.”

Hartwig nodded. “So after the tours return, we use the loudspeakers a couple of times to ask passenger Gross to call the desk, and then we leave.”

“Will she be aboard or dumped in Tangier?” asked the Irishman. “
Southern Seas
will think we wouldn't let her back on, laddie.”