“This should be fun,” said Valerie. “I predict five drunk stripteases, four lip-synching drag queens, three bad comedians, two okay musicians, and a semiprofessional emcee.”
“Are these seats taken?” said a voice.
Christine looked up. “Miriam! Have a seat.”
She hadn’t seen Miriam since the captain’s table dinner, and hadn’t been able to speak to her. But she seemed like a different person now. An unmistakable glowing aura radiated from her.
“This is Sasha,” Miriam said, gesturing at the handsome gentleman at her side. He had black eyes and a well-shaped nose, broad shoulders and a full head of salt-and-pepper hair. He wore a cotton button-down shirt and blue jeans. He was sexy, no matter how old he was. “Sasha, this is my new friend, Christine.”
“I’m happy to meet you,” said Sasha as they seated themselves in the two other chairs at the table.
Christine widened her eyes at Miriam, and Miriam twinkled her eyes back at her. “And you must be the friend Christine has told me so much about,” she said, turning to Valerie. “Forgive me, I’ve forgotten your name.”
“Valerie,” said Valerie, who couldn’t hide the fact that she had no idea who these old people were and didn’t care.
“And what are you young ladies doing on this boat full of old people?” asked Sasha. He had a low, gravelly voice tinged with an accent.
“Oh, I’m trying to get a little work done,” said Valerie. “I’m a writer.”
“I’m on vacation,” said Christine.
“What do you do?” Sasha asked.
“I’m a farmer,” said Christine. She was getting a little tired of saying this every time she met someone. She wished she had something more interesting to offer about herself.
“Great combination,” said Sasha. “A writer and a farmer.”
“Oh. We’re not together,” said Valerie. “Though if I had to marry a girl, it would totally be Christine.”
“I used to be a writer,” Christine said, feeling defensive. “In New York.”
“So how long have you two been married?” Valerie asked in a skeptical voice. Miriam and Sasha exchanged an amused look.
“I was married for forty-three years, and my wife passed away last January,” said Sasha. “Miriam and I have just fallen in love after more than half a century of friendship and working together.”
“Oh,” said Valerie. She looked consternated by this for some reason.
“That’s amazing,” said Christine. “I’m so happy for you, Miriam. Both of you.”
Their drinks arrived, tropical and festooned, tart with just the right amount of sweet. Kimmi flew onto the stage out of the velvety darkness and grabbed a microphone. “Thanks for coming, everybody! So I’d like to introduce tonight’s first act, a singer from Brazil. Give it up for Beatriz Oliveira! Accompanied by our very own house band, the Kool-Tones!”
The jazz quintet off to the side raised gleaming horns in a salute, the drummer simmered his sticks on the floor tom, and Valerie’s friend Beatriz took the stage in a skintight fuchsia dress.
“I’m feeling mighty lonesome,” she sang in a smoky whisper. “Haven’t slept a wink…” Her interpretation of “Black Coffee” began with all the appropriate pathos, but as it went along, she sounded increasingly defiant, like a woman who was not resigned yet to her fate. Her face opened like a flower in water, blooming, her eyes alight with a glinting, self-possessed sexual straightforwardness that belonged to the present-day era, her own time. “My nerves have gone to pieces, my hair is turning gray…” As she sang, Christine watched Miriam and Sasha out of the corner of her eye. They were holding hands on top of the table, leaning into each other with abstracted yet fully awake expressions. He drew her in close, Miriam looked giddy with joy, and Christine felt a pang of vicarious envy. She missed being in love. Marriage wasn’t about heady, swooning romance and it never had been, she knew that full well and accepted it, but the small whiffs of vicarious helium she was breathing in were enough to set up a powerful and irrational yearning for it, just once more, in some small way, the way a reformed alcoholic seated next to a happy drunk at a dinner party might crave some booze.
“They’re so lucky,” Christine whispered to Valerie, nodding toward Miriam and Sasha.
“I bet you miss Ed right now,” Valerie shot back.
“No,” Christine said bluntly. “Not at all.”
Valerie leaned against her, and they both laughed in the old way, with a shared sense of generalized scorn for men, glad to be unencumbered, independent, free.
chapter thirteen
Laurens was on Consuelo all night. He abruptly left the pass, where he’d been overseeing plating and garnishes, to stand directly behind her, as close as he could get without touching her; so close, Mick knew, that she could feel his exhalations from his nose on the back of her neck. Every now and then he’d correct her flatly, jabbing his finger to point at the offending action. “You waited too long to turn that,” he said. “Three seconds too much and a chop is ruined.” A minute later: “Don’t heat the fucking sauce till it boils, you break it that way.” Mick could feel Consuelo tightening, bracing herself, maintaining control and calm through strict, years-long internal discipline. Laurens was cool and icy; she was cooler, icier. Mick would have reacted exactly the same way. She was a pro, and he was proud of her. There was no reason for Laurens’s treatment of her tonight except that Laurens probably sensed that she wasn’t subordinate enough. She took too much pride in her work and invested too much ego in it for his liking, for the good of the kitchen’s overall morale, and so she required further taking down. He was doing his job, and she was doing hers.
“Yes, Chef,” she said for the tenth time, stepping aside so Laurens could show her the way he wanted the meat plated. Almost nine minutes had gone by since he’d stepped back to correct her, and she hadn’t cracked, not even a little. Her eyes were on her work, not flickering, not slitting. Her hands were steady. Laurens was testing her, poking at her, determining her weaknesses, and she was rising to it. But Mick kept close tabs on her anyway. He’d vouched for her and brought her with him to the main galley. So if she exploded at Laurens, or flashed any temper, Mick would be called upon to step in somehow and smooth things over. All his antennae were tuned in, his muscles tensed for intervention.
Laurens lifted the sauté pan of sweetbreads Consuelo was cooking in butter and held it under his nose, breathing in their steam, then shook it gently, assessing their turgor. “Did you blanch these?”
“Yes, Chef,” said Consuelo.
“When you sauté sweetbreads, blanching robs them of flavor.”
“Yes, Chef,” she said.
Mick felt a surge of pride in her. She was tough. Laurens was right, also. She shouldn’t have blanched them.
“It makes them easier to slice but it’s lazy. They’re better unblanched.” Laurens put the pan back down.
“Yes, Chef,” said Consuelo. Her voice sounded steady and earnest.
Just as Mick relaxed his grip and started to submerge himself in his own rhythm of work, Consuelo turned to Laurens, casually, as if she were about to add something to her submissive agreement.