Everyone in the room looked unhappy, including Larry. Clearly this was news to most of them.
“We’ve established a clinic on the promenade deck,” Eric was saying. “It’s the best we can do for now. And we’re going to need all the hands we can get.” He said this to the captain, not challenging him, but implying a question.
“Well, about that,” said the captain. He hesitated, not with uncertainty, Miriam thought, but for effect. He looked directly at Larry. “As most of you know, right before the fire, we had a situation in which about half of the crew walked out.”
“Yes, Captain,” said Larry with a hint of annoyance. “I’m well aware of the situation.”
“Then you know they’ve set up camp on the main deck. And they seem to have taken over the buffet galley as well, at least until Cabaret agrees to reinstate their contracts, in which case they would be willing to resume their duties.”
“Bullshit,” said Larry. “It’s a publicity stunt. I’m not reinstating any contracts. I don’t even have the authority to do that without approval from the CEO of the company and the board of directors. Honestly, this is outrageous. Criminal, in fact.”
“Mr. Weiss,” said the captain with elaborate courtesy. “Perhaps if you just agreed to have a conversation with the leaders of this protest.”
“No way,” said Larry. “Absolutely not. First of all, I don’t negotiate with terrorists. And second of all, how do we know they didn’t set the fire themselves? Do we know that?”
Captain Jack seemed frustrated, Miriam thought, which made sense, since he clearly couldn’t dictate the workers’ terms, couldn’t do anything but defer to Larry. “Well, it’s critical to the well-being of this ship that we get them back to their stations, in uniform, as soon as possible. Otherwise our situation could disintegrate further.”
“Sorry,” said Larry Weiss without looking at all sorry. “You can let them rot or throw them overboard. I don’t give a fuck what happens to them.”
Miriam almost gasped aloud. Rivka’s grip was cutting off the circulation in her arm.
“Anyway,” said Larry, “what I want to know is, why the hell don’t we have power? Where is the backup engine?”
“With all due respect, sir,” said the captain with cautious geniality. “The company decided to use the space for extra cabins instead. Better for revenue, that was the rationale.”
“Well,” said Larry, “that should never have happened.” He looked around the room for someone to blame. But since there clearly wasn’t anyone, he changed tack. “Well, luckily I’ve arranged for a military helicopter to come this evening. It can only make one trip, and it can only take limited weight. I’m airlifting the executive chef out, he’s dangerously sick and he needs a hospital.”
“My hero,” muttered Rivka.
“My wife and I will be leaving the ship as well,” he was saying. “So you all will just have to sit tight and wait for the tugboats to arrive.”
“I’m not going,” Rivka said. “I’m staying here with the people whose lives are your responsibility.”
“No,” said Larry. “You’re coming with me.”
“No, I am not,” said Rivka. “I’m staying right here, and you should too. This is your fault. You canceled their contracts. You wouldn’t pay for backup engines. And now you’re ditching the ship?”
Everyone in the room, including Miriam, stared at her.
“Okay,” said the captain. “Meeting dismissed. Except Elhadji and Chen, I need you two for further instructions.”
Rivka marched out and along the catwalk. Miriam hurried after her.
“I want the whole quartet to move up to my quarters,” Rivka said as she hustled along. “All four of you, as soon as Larry’s off the boat. I’ve got room, no sense wasting it.”
“Thank you,” said Miriam, matching her stride.
“No,” said Rivka. “It’s for me. I want company. You’re doing this as a favor to me.”
“Is a helicopter really coming to get him?”
“If Larry wants a helicopter, he’ll get one.” They started down the stairs. “And a new wife. Goddamn it, I’m thirsty.”
The sun hit their faces with a hot blast as Christine and Valerie emerged from the stairwell and out onto the expansive main deck. It was the lowest and largest outdoor deck on the ship, and from it, the higher decks rose in a terraced block. At some point during the night or early morning, the aft section of the main deck had been converted into a makeshift camp. Corners of bedsheets had been tied to high railings and awnings in taut rectangles to make ceilings for shade. Bunk mattresses were lined up underneath, each made with sheets tucked in just so, pillows plumped, cotton blankets folded at the foot, everything crisp, orderly. So this was what happened when a bunch of room stewards went on strike and set up a tent village, Christine thought. It was all so impeccable. The crisp military neatness was at odds with the mood among the crowd on deck, young workers out of uniform, wearing their own clothes, lounging on deck chairs, at ease for once. They were quiet, seemingly relaxed. At first glance, they could have been a group of young passengers, enjoying a sunny morning on a cruise. But a pall hung over them like the smoke from last night’s fire, and on closer look, the casualness of their postures seemed forced, provisional. Their faces were tense and alert. Their voices carried to Christine as she hesitated by the stairwell doorway. She heard several foreign languages at once, for the first time since she’d come on board, of which she recognized only Spanish.
Valerie left Christine’s side and inserted herself among them, claiming an empty deck chair in a circle of young women. Perched on the edge of the chair, she eased her notebook from her bag and opened it discreetly, scratching with her pen on a blank page to make sure it worked as she asked a question, listened to the answer. Christine watched from the doorway as Valerie began writing quickly, her usual chaotic discontent concentrated into one hard knot of purpose. The women seemed eager to have someone to talk to, someone who appeared to be on their side.
Christine thought of Lester and Camille below in the galley, how purposeful and sure they’d seemed to her. In contrast, these kids—as Christine thought of them, since most of them seemed well under thirty—looked defiant on the surface and nervous and scared underneath, unsure of everything. This was clearly not an ideological movement, politicized and telegraphed to a larger world. They seemed more like a provisional, loosely knit faction of strangers, bound by desperation and need. Christine felt uneasy, standing there where she didn’t belong, watching, with nothing to offer them but silent compassion.
The young woman Valerie had been talking to stood up and led Valerie over to another group, offering her a seat with them. One member of the group seemed already to know her: a wiry, striking, Hispanic-looking young woman Christine didn’t recognize. She started talking rapidly to Valerie, watching her intensely as Valerie wrote everything down, almost reading over her shoulder. Christine guessed this might be the same angry young female chef with the masculine-sounding name Valerie had interviewed a few days earlier. Christine was too far away to hear what they were saying, but she saw from the woman’s body language and the way the others seemed to coalesce around her, paying her close and respectful attention, that she was one of the leaders of the group.
Valerie buzzed back over to Christine. “They’re not giving in,” she said with quiet excitement. “Not until Larry Weiss agrees to negotiate with them. He’s refusing to even talk to them, so they’re at an impasse. I’m going to find this rich asshole and try to get a statement from him, anything I can use.”