Ah, the world was a mess. But it seemed a little less messy after a drink from the first open bottle. If someone else discovered the filthy man crawling around in the black space between decks, there would be hell to pay, plus all the paperwork for the captain. It was up to Assan. If the captain never found out, well, he would never find out.
Two storms at sea slowed down the Berengaria, then the ship had to wait two days at anchor until a harbor pilot finally came out in the little boat, climbed up the pilot ladder, and made his way to the bridge to guide the ship into the port. It was night by the time she was tied up at the dock, one ship of so many. The chief saw Assan at the rail, looking at the skyline of a city in the distance.
“That is Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. America.”
“Where is Chee-ca-go?” asked the Bulgarian.
“Farther from Philadelphia than Cairo is from Athens.”
“So far? Son of a gun.”
“Philadelphia looks like paradise, eh? But when we dock in New York, New York, you will see a real American city.”
Assan lit a smoke, offering one to the chief.
“Better cigarettes in America.” The chief smoked, eyeing the Bulgarian, who had caused no problems for him. Not a single one. “Tomorrow they search the ship.”
“Who?”
“American big shots. They search the ship, high and low, looking for stowaways. Communists.”
At the mention of Communists, Assan spit over the rail.
“They count heads,” the chief continued. “If the numbers don’t match up, it’s trouble. If they find nothing, we off-load and then go to New York, New York. I will take you for a shave there. Better than the Turks can shave.”
Assan said nothing for a moment. “If there are Communists on this ship I hope they find them,” he said, spitting over the rail again.
Assan lay in his rack faking sleep as other crewmen came and went. At 4:00 a.m. he dressed quietly and slipped into the passageway, checking around each corner to make sure he was not seen. He made his way to the fuel station and used the iron bar to lift one plate of the steel decking and slide it open.
“It’s now,” Assan said.
Ibrahim crawled up from below, his elbows and knees rubbed raw and bleeding from living in the low, dark space between the deck and the ship’s inner hull. How long had he been down there? Eighteen days? Twenty? Did it matter? “Let me get my can,” Ibrahim whispered in a croak.
“Leave it. We go. Now.”
“A second, please, Assan. My legs.”
Assan massaged Ibrahim’s legs for as long as he dared, then helped his friend to stand. Ibrahim had been on his feet only a few minutes each day. His back ached horribly and his knees were actually shaking.
“We have to go,” Assan said. “Follow me by two meters. We wait at every corner. If you hear me speak to someone, hide where you can.”
Ibrahim nodded, taking small steps, following.
A ladder led to a hatch that led to a room that led to another hatch and another passageway and another ladder. At the top of it, another passageway and one more ladder, though this was more like a stairway. Assan pulled on a heavy steel door that opened inward and halted. Ibrahim smelled fresh air for the first time in twenty-one days, that’s how long it had been since the Berengaria had left Piraeus with Ibrahim hiding under the steel decking.
“It’s okay,” Assan whispered.
Ibrahim stepped through the doorway and was finally outside, the night a blessing, as his eyes tried to adjust. The air was warm, the air of summertime. They were at the portside rail, facing away from the dock, the water twelve meters below. Hours earlier, the ship’s Pomak fireman had tied a rope, anonymous as any on deck, to the lowest rung of the rail. “Climb down this. Swim around to the dock and find a way up.”
“I hope I can still swim,” Ibrahim said. He was laughing like it was a funny joke.
“There are bushes nearby. Hide in them until I come tomorrow.”
“What if there are dogs?”
“Make friends with them.” That made Ibrahim laugh again as he swung over the rail, the rope in his hands.
The chief was with the captain on the starboard wing of the pilothouse taking their morning coffee. The longshoremen had off-loaded most of the cargo, and the docks were busy with trucks and cranes and workers.
“We’ll go to the Waldorf Hotel,” the captain said just as the chief saw Assan walking down the gangway and off the ship, with his knapsack that once held bottles of Johnnie Walker Red Label. He was carrying, too, a parcel under his arm. Crewmen returned to the ship with parcels, filled with goods they could buy only in America, under their arms. But here Assan was leaving with one.
“Big steaks, like this.” The captain held up his fingers showing the thickness of what his steak would be. “The Waldorf Astoria Hotel. They have the steaks.”
“That’s a good place,” the chief said as Assan disappeared into some bushes.
Assan found no sign of Ibrahim and was worried that American big shots had searched the bushes for Communists and uncounted heads with no papers. Not wanting to call out, he howled like a dog. He heard a dog howl back, but it was Ibrahim, who came out of the bushes, stripped to the waist and carrying his grease-caked shoes.
“Who’s a big dog?” he asked, smiling.
“Were you all right through the night?”
“I made a bed of reeds,” Ibrahim said. “Soft. And the night never got a chill.”
Assan opened the parcel, showing some clothes and soap and food and a shaving kit. There was also a folded newspaper bound in twine. Inside was Ibrahim’s share of the drachmas the two had saved from all the odd jobs they had worked in Greece. Ibrahim pocketed the bills without counting. “How much will a train cost to get to Chee-ca-go, Assan?”
“How much from Athens to Cairo? Find a money changer at the train station.”
After Ibrahim had eaten and washed, Assan sat him down on a rock and took the razor to his face, shaving his friend, as there was no mirror for him to do it himself.
From the bridge wing, the chief searched the bushes through a pair of glasses. In a gap between waving branches, he saw Assan shaving the face of a man he could not recognize. A problem had left the ship without bothering the captain. No need for a coffin, either. Assan was one smart Pomak.
As Ibrahim ran a comb through his wet hair, Assan tried to clean his friend’s shoes. “The best I can do,” he said, handing them over.
Ibrahim reached into his pocket and pulled out a single drachma and slapped it into Assan’s hand. “Here. A perfect shine on perfect shoes.” Assan took a bow and both men laughed.
They walked together to the end of the dockyards, able to mingle with others coming and going. They saw huge cars, trucks the size of houses grinding gears and pulling big loads, and more ships, some much larger and newer than the Berengaria, others rusted buckets. They saw men eating rolls with sausages in them at a kiosk with a sign Assan could spell out—he had been learning the American letters—H O T D O G S. Both Bulgarians were hungry but neither had American money. At the end of the dockyards there was a gate with a guard in an office, but every American walked past without so much as a pause.
“Assan. I will see you in Chee-ca-go one day,” Ibrahim said. Then in English he said, “Tenk choo berry mich.”
“All I did was carry your shit away,” Assan said, taking one cigarette, then giving the pack to Ibrahim. He smoked it while watching his friend walk to the gate, pass the guard with only a nod, and disappear down the road toward the skyline of Philadelphia.