American automobiles and American hot dogs and the wonder of American dollars, no?”
Daniel downs his cognac. A gentle warmth spreads through his body.
“… and American cars and American liberty and that boring, boring American game called baseball …” At this both men break out laughing, for it suddenly seems so ridiculous, the experiences they are choosing to endure just to get to a place where everyone lives like the better families back home, in houses built from wood. “Hey,” Gheorghe exclaims, “I made him laugh! I can’t believe it! I made him laugh! Oh my God, we need to get into fights more often!”
As they burrow deeper and deeper into Spain, the land levels out and the train gains speed. In the afternoon, the bar car fills with Spaniards coming to pass the time, and it isn’t long before Daniel starts imagining he can understand the rudiments of what they are saying—really, the language is not that different from Romanian, as long as you can filter out the thick, lisping pro-nounciation. He and Gheorghe take seats near the rear corner of the car and make sure to keep to themselves. They are drinking seriously now, each man spending more of his construction money than he should, until it gets to the point where their good mood evaporates and is replaced by something murkier—something that deepens their breathing, and hazes their vision, and makes them teeter in their seats. They do not stop, and by the time they’ve changed trains and disembarked in the port town of Algeciras, they are exhausted, and sick, and so drunk it is all they can do to stand.
SEVEN
The accommodation ladder is lifted. The forward and aft mooring lines are winched into the hull, and a tug pulls the big ship toward the mouth of the harbour. Below deck, the main propulsion engine strains, and ink green water churns behind the stern. At first, nothing happens. Then, there is movement, as slow as an old man’s speech.
Throughout the day other boats appear on the horizon, looking faded and still. Gazing north, the seamen aboard the
Maersk Dubai
can see the Florida Keys, curving away from them. After the boat has spent a day churning east, the islands are still visible from the stern, though from this distance they appear to form a single, hazy coastline. Ahead, there is ocean, and sky, and a wavering horizon. The big ship takes the rhumb line, straight across the Atlantic, avoiding the rough weather reported near the Gulf Stream. With time, the islands of the Caribbean disappear behind the curve of the earth, the
Maersk Dubai
now alone in a grey, infinite wash.
A measure of normality has returned to the ship. Talk of promotions has stopped, free beer and cigarettes have disappeared from the mess hall, and the gift of chocolate is not repeated. The officers no longer roam the decks, engaging the able-bodies inchit-chat, and the captain has retreated to his cabin, appearing only occasionally on the bridge. The only officer who maintains any kind of presence is the chief officer, who still practices karate and tai chi on the expanse of deck outside of the accommodation, oblivious to the glances of the seamen. The meetings in the cabin of the oiler, Juanito Ilagan, become less frequent, until they stop altogether—as far as Juanito and the others can tell, the immediate threat is over, their objective now simply to make it through the voyage, at which time they will decide what, if anything, they should do. In place of the meetings, the normal diversions of sailors return—cards, videos, gossip over cups of coffee—along with a blurring of the division that had existed between the sailors who met nightly in the oiler’s cabin and the sailors who did not want to get involved. There are even brief moments of pleasure: a wild hand of poker, a rainbow stretched across the blue expanse of the sky, the second cook spilling a pot of hot coffee over his pants (and, even funnier, his bug-eyed retelling of the event later on). One
Daniel downs his cognac. A gentle warmth spreads through his body.
“… and American cars and American liberty and that boring, boring American game called baseball …” At this both men break out laughing, for it suddenly seems so ridiculous, the experiences they are choosing to endure just to get to a place where everyone lives like the better families back home, in houses built from wood. “Hey,” Gheorghe exclaims, “I made him laugh! I can’t believe it! I made him laugh! Oh my God, we need to get into fights more often!”
As they burrow deeper and deeper into Spain, the land levels out and the train gains speed. In the afternoon, the bar car fills with Spaniards coming to pass the time, and it isn’t long before Daniel starts imagining he can understand the rudiments of what they are saying—really, the language is not that different from Romanian, as long as you can filter out the thick, lisping pro-nounciation. He and Gheorghe take seats near the rear corner of the car and make sure to keep to themselves. They are drinking seriously now, each man spending more of his construction money than he should, until it gets to the point where their good mood evaporates and is replaced by something murkier—something that deepens their breathing, and hazes their vision, and makes them teeter in their seats. They do not stop, and by the time they’ve changed trains and disembarked in the port town of Algeciras, they are exhausted, and sick, and so drunk it is all they can do to stand.
SEVEN
The accommodation ladder is lifted. The forward and aft mooring lines are winched into the hull, and a tug pulls the big ship toward the mouth of the harbour. Below deck, the main propulsion engine strains, and ink green water churns behind the stern. At first, nothing happens. Then, there is movement, as slow as an old man’s speech.
Throughout the day other boats appear on the horizon, looking faded and still. Gazing north, the seamen aboard the
Maersk Dubai
can see the Florida Keys, curving away from them. After the boat has spent a day churning east, the islands are still visible from the stern, though from this distance they appear to form a single, hazy coastline. Ahead, there is ocean, and sky, and a wavering horizon. The big ship takes the rhumb line, straight across the Atlantic, avoiding the rough weather reported near the Gulf Stream. With time, the islands of the Caribbean disappear behind the curve of the earth, the
Maersk Dubai
now alone in a grey, infinite wash.
A measure of normality has returned to the ship. Talk of promotions has stopped, free beer and cigarettes have disappeared from the mess hall, and the gift of chocolate is not repeated. The officers no longer roam the decks, engaging the able-bodies inchit-chat, and the captain has retreated to his cabin, appearing only occasionally on the bridge. The only officer who maintains any kind of presence is the chief officer, who still practices karate and tai chi on the expanse of deck outside of the accommodation, oblivious to the glances of the seamen. The meetings in the cabin of the oiler, Juanito Ilagan, become less frequent, until they stop altogether—as far as Juanito and the others can tell, the immediate threat is over, their objective now simply to make it through the voyage, at which time they will decide what, if anything, they should do. In place of the meetings, the normal diversions of sailors return—cards, videos, gossip over cups of coffee—along with a blurring of the division that had existed between the sailors who met nightly in the oiler’s cabin and the sailors who did not want to get involved. There are even brief moments of pleasure: a wild hand of poker, a rainbow stretched across the blue expanse of the sky, the second cook spilling a pot of hot coffee over his pants (and, even funnier, his bug-eyed retelling of the event later on). One
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