Blood Cruise by Mats Strandberg
He hands back the change for the pints and takes the next order. And the next. And the next. He enters the zone where he is like a machine, just doing the job. Banters, fires off smiles, winks when he senses it might generate extra tips, but he isn’t thinking. His mind is completely blank.
Marisol has tried to get him to meditate. He can’t imagine anything more stressful than sitting completely stock-still. But what Marisol describes when she tries to convince him – the quieting of the thoughts, the sense of being present – reminds him of this flow-state. Work is his meditation.
‘Four Cosmopolitans,’ a girl says, and he nods at her, making a mental note of her sharply drawn-on eyebrows. There is always some little detail to help him remember who is waiting for what.
Filip pours ice into Martini glasses to chill them. Vodka, Cointreau, ice and cranberry juice in the shiny shaker. He spots Jenny, who has taken a seat in Marisol’s section of the bar. She is wearing her red stage dress and there is a glass of vodka soda in front of her, the same drink as every night. Red lipstick stains the edge of the glass. She looks like a star from a bygone era, her blonde hair in glossy curls. She is about to go on. He has heard her run through more or less the same repertoire all year and still he is going to miss her husky, smoky voice, which somehow makes him believe the insipid dansband lyrics. The day after tomorrow is her last night on board, and to be completely honest, it is not only her voice he is going to miss.
Filip puts the drinks down in front of the girl with the eyebrows, takes her credit card and swipes it through the card reader.
‘You all right?’ he calls out to Jenny, who smiles.
‘Absolutely,’ she calls back. ‘Aside from the fact that, yet again, there’s no cruise director.’
He tries to give her an encouraging smile. He knows how much she hates having to take on the cruise director’s duty of leading the singing of ‘Happy Birthday’ to the people in the audience whose birthday it is. It makes her noticeably uncomfortable to engage with the audience that way.
Someone shrieks: the old men at the bar have started fighting. Marisol has already picked up the phone to call the information desk to request security.
Filip walks around the bar to place himself between the old men, hands on their chests to keep them apart. Luckily, they are so drunk they don’t put up much of a fight. They’re more preoccupied with staying on their feet.
Pia and Jarno arrive in less than thirty seconds.
‘All right, gents,’ Pia says, and Filip backs away to give her space. ‘What’s going on here then?’
‘Yes, my name is Hans-Jörgen and I want to report this bastard for assault,’ says the obstinate old man, spitting saliva.
‘Then I’m reporting you right back!’ the other one bellows. ‘I didn’t start it; all these people are my witnesses.’
‘I think it would be a good idea if the two of you were to come with us and have a nap,’ Pia says. ‘Then we can talk some more when you’ve sobered up a bit.’
Surprisingly, neither man objects. They just glower at each other.
‘How did it work out for Calle?’ Filip asks, while Pia and Jarno put handcuffs on the two old men.
‘All done with the proposing,’ Pia replies. ‘And let me tell you, the guy had no clue. He looked pretty shaken.’
Filip laughs. ‘I hope they stop by,’ he says. ‘I wouldn’t want to miss Mr Perfect.’
‘I wouldn’t count on them leaving their suite tonight,’ Pia says with a smile. The handcuffs jangle. ‘I was thinking we could go for a walk with them on the promenade deck tomorrow, before your shift.’
‘Absolutely,’ Filip says.
Impatient looks from several people at the bar. It is time to go back to work.
‘You haven’t seen anything I should be keeping my eye on?’ Pia says.
Filip had almost forgotten about the emaciated woman by the dance floor, but now his eyes turn that way of their own accord. The silhouette is gone. For some reason, that makes him even more uneasy.
He shakes his head, attempting to rid himself of the feeling.
‘Nothing worse than a couple of kids trying to swipe leftover beer. A boy and a girl. He was about twelve, from Thailand or thereabouts would be my guess. She was blonde, could have been anything between twelve and seventeen.’
‘All right,’ Pia says. ‘See you later.’
She and Jarno each put an arm around one of the old men and guide them towards the exit.
Filip goes back in behind the bar and thinks to himself, not for the first time, that everyone working aboard the Charisma is lucky they have Pia. He knows the security guards on many of the other ships only handle what they absolutely have to and pretend not to see the rest. They leave people passed out in hallways, look the other way when drunk parents drag their three-year-olds around the dance floor long after midnight. It is largely thanks to Pia things aren’t more out of hand than they are. Filip knows that if the owners had their way, they would push the alcohol even harder, serve people who are too drunk to order. The cruiseferries aren’t bound by the same laws and regulations as bars on dry land, and the Charisma has to start turning more of a profit if she wants to keep afloat. But Pia would never allow it and her attitude rubs off on the rest of the security staff, and that in turn persuades everyone working in the bars to think twice.
Filip takes the next order: five pints for a man with blond dreads and a Green Party pin on the collar of his denim jacket.
‘Did things work out okay for your friend?’ Marisol calls to him, and Filip nods happily, giving her a thumbs-up.
The next order is for two glasses of red and a bowl of peanuts. An older couple. The man has a cluster of age spots by his hairline. Then two more pints. Two guys in striped polo shirts.
Calle
They walk down the ninth-deck corridor to the suite. Calle’s body feels light. His soul has swelled, expanded like an entire universe. It almost overflows when he looks at Vincent, sees how overwhelmed he is.
‘Don’t forget to breathe,’ Calle says, and laughs.
‘I think I need a drink,’ Vincent tells him, his voice thick. ‘Let’s head to the bar where your friend works, okay?’
‘I want to spend some time alone with you first.’
Calle manages not to let it slip that he has one more surprise in store. They reach their door at the end of the hall. Calle inserts the key card and gives Vincent a quick kiss before opening it and stepping in.
Vincent freezes in the doorway. Stares at the rose petals scattered across the hallway floor. Calle turns the lights on and Vincent’s eyes grow wider.
‘How … ?’ he says. ‘How did you—? But we were just here?’
Calle takes his hand, stares at the beaten white-gold ring on Vincent’s finger identical to the one on his own. Same size, even.
They walk into the large room on the lower floor, grinding rose petals into the carpet. There’s a bowl of pink jelly hearts on the coffee table. Clutches of pink streamers hang from the banister of the staircase leading up to the bedroom. Soft rain patters against the large windows. As they walk past them, Calle glances down at the bow deck. The white railings, sharply lit against the dark water, meet in a rounded point: an arrow pointing straight out to sea. The deck is crowded, despite the drizzle.
They go upstairs. A champagne bucket is sitting on one of the nightstands. Pia and Filip have scattered rose petals on the bed as well. A big banner above the headboard reads CONGRATULATIONS! written in rounded letters using red and hot-pink felt tips.
‘My God, they’re nuts,’ Calle says with a laugh. ‘All that’s missing now is a couple of pink teddy bears or something.’
But he is touched. He sits down on the bed and picks up a petal. It is soft and silky against his fingertips.
‘Come here,’ he says.
Vincent stays where he is on the top step of the staircase. He stares at the banner as if he doesn’t understand what it says. ‘You must have been planning th
‘You really didn’t know?’
Vincent shakes his head.
‘Really? I was so nervous …’ Calle starts saying, but cuts himself off when their eyes meet.
Something is wrong. Vincent is not just overwhelmed. He looks sad.
‘Are you okay?’ Calle asks.
‘I just need the loo,’ Vincent replies, and walks back downstairs.
The tap starts running in the bathroom after he locks the door behind him. Calle slaps his knees, drumming out a nervous beat. He is imagining it. He needs to stop imagining things.
Vincent said yes. They are getting married. He and Vincent are getting married! Of course that is a lot to take in. He has been thinking about it for months, planning the whole thing.
Calle studies the ring on his finger, turning it this way and that. He stands up. His jacket is too tight. He removes it and pulls at the neck of his T-shirt, which suddenly feels like it is throttling him.
He walks to the railing and looks down at the room below. He can’t see the bathroom door from where he is, but he can still hear the tap running.
Calle grabs the champagne bottle from its bucket; the ice rattles loudly. Melted water drips from the bottom. He peels off the foil and rotates the cork until it comes out with a pop. Should he have waited until Vincent came back up? Too late now. He pours champagne into the two flutes, waits for the foam to settle, tops them up. Hesitates for no more than a split second before taking a couple of deep swigs, then pours himself a second glass. He wishes he had some candles to light, but there are none to be had on the ship, on account of the fire hazard.
The bathroom door opens downstairs. Calle takes a glass in each hand and sits down on the bed. Waits. Hears footsteps.
Vincent’s head appears. He stops halfway up. ‘I can’t. I’m so fucking sorry, but I can’t.’
‘What do you mean?’ Calle asks, even though he knows already.
‘I can’t marry you,’ Vincent says.
Calle has a sinking feeling, strong enough to pull the Charisma into the abyss. ‘But you said … you said yes,’ is the only thing he can think to say.
‘What was I supposed to do, in front of all those people? What was I supposed to say?’ Vincent sounds almost accusatory.
Calle gets up off the bed. A handful of petals flutter to the carpet. ‘I just don’t understand.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Vincent says. ‘I didn’t mean … I just didn’t know what to do … What the best thing would be …’
His eyes look so sad, like a beaten dog: as if Calle has put him through an ordeal. Calle has no idea what to do now. He holds out a flute, but Vincent shakes his head.
The letters on the banner beam at them mockingly. Calle downs a glass of champagne in one go. The foam swells in his mouth. He has to turn away to swallow it while putting the glasses down.
‘But why?’ he says without looking at Vincent. ‘We’ve been talking about getting married.’
‘I know,’ Vincent says. ‘But that was a long time ago and …’
‘A long time ago?’ Calle cuts him off. ‘We talked about it this summer … that we were going to do it after we moved …’
‘I know.’
‘Right. So what the fuck has changed since then?’
‘I don’t know. I wish I could tell you.’
Calle turns around. Vincent looks more miserable than ever.
‘I don’t know why I don’t want to,’ he says. ‘It doesn’t feel right.’
‘Have you met someone else?’
Vincent shakes his head firmly.
‘Then what is it?’ Calle demands.
Silence.
‘Do you even want to be with me at all?’
Vincent hesitates a second too long. ‘Yes,’ he says.
But he has already averted his eyes.
Calle wants to hate him for doing this. For destroying everything. ‘How long have you felt this way?’
‘What do you mean felt this way? I don’t even know how I feel.’
‘Ambivalent,’ Calle says. ‘Isn’t that what this feeling is called?’ His voice sounds cold and detached. Good. ‘Were you already feeling this way when we bought the flat? When we took out that massive mortgage?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Vincent says. ‘I’m sorry. I thought it would pass. I thought it was one of those things that just come and go …’
‘That come and go?’
‘Yes! It happens. You’ve never had doubts?’
‘No,’ Calle says. ‘I haven’t.’
They look at each other. The distance between them feels vaster than the whole of the Baltic Sea.
Maybe our relationship is like the sea out there, Calle thinks to himself, beautiful and glittering on the surface, but full of dead zones, so damaged nothing can live there. And I had no idea.
He thinks about their flat. The newly sanded floors. The paintings that are finally all in the right place. The extra loan just to finance the renovation of the kitchen. The fucking ordeal of moving in Stockholm. The stress of the sale, the charade of the home staging, the surreal sums of money they had played with when they signed their souls over to the bank. Had Vincent already known he wasn’t sure then?
‘I know things have been difficult for a while,’ Calle says. ‘Or maybe for a long time. But that’s behind us now. And maybe you’re just nervous because things suddenly turned serious …’
He stops talking. He can’t humiliate himself by trying to persuade Vincent, even though it is all he wants to do. It’s supposed to be us. It’s supposed to be you and me. I can’t be wrong about that, can I?
‘I don’t know what happened,’ Vincent says, ‘but I can’t marry you until I’ve figured it out.’
‘And how are you going to figure it out?’ Calle asks. ‘By sleeping around a bit to see if you can find someone better?’
He doesn’t even know what he is saying any more. Can’t find a thought or a feeling to hold on to.
‘Cut it out,’ Vincent says. ‘It’s not about that.’
Then what is it about? Calle wants to scream.
‘What do we do now then?’ he says. ‘What the fuck do we do now?’
Vincent says nothing.
‘I can’t be with you if you don’t know how you feel,’ Calle says. ‘You get that, don’t you? It won’t work. I can’t walk around and be all … see, being with me is amazing.’
‘I realise I can’t ask that of you,’ Vincent replies.
‘So this is it? I guess it must be.’
Suddenly, dead silence inside him. His feelings have stopped pulling in every direction. They have simply vanished. And his mind is no longer racing. It is laser-sharp, starting to organise things into a to-do list.
They need to move again. Neither one of them will be able to afford to stay in the flat on their own. They are going to have to bring in an estate agent, have another valuation done. Talk to the bank lady with the big hair who looked so happy for them. He has to find a new flat, pack all his things in the moving boxes that are still sitting in their attic storage space.
But first he has to get off this damn ship. He has to survive tonight and tomorrow, figure out where to go once they disembark.
He realises Vincent is crying on the stairs and his first impulse is to console him.
‘I need to get out of here,’ Calle says.
‘We can go somewhere to talk.’
‘No,’ Calle says, ‘I don’t want to talk. Stay here. Or do whatever you want. But I can’t be anywhere near you right now.’
He pushes past Vincent on the stairs, trying not to look at the banner, the petals on the floor. The bunches of streamers hanging from the banister whisper softly in the draught as he passes. He finally reaches the cabin door, steps out into the hallway and closes it behind him. His breathing is heavy and laboured.
Luckily, no one is around. He pushes down the tears trying to escape. He needs to hold on to this clarity of mind.
He can
Tomas
He stares at the ceiling, then looks around, bewildered, before remembering where he is. Becomes aware of the stench in the cramped space. Sees the bloody
my blood
little body lying on its side next to him on the floor. Tries to understand what just happened.
He needs to lean heavily on the edge of the bed to get to his feet. The adrenalin has dissipated; now his entire body is shaking.
This is too easy, he thinks to himself. The boy was so strong. He is just playing possum. Any moment, he is going to open his eyes. The hand, so limp now, is going to grab him, quick like a cobra. His eyes are going to open and it is going to start again …
The boy’s body has firmed up. His skin has acquired a pale but healthy glow from the blood-filled flesh underneath it; his cheeks are rosy.
Suddenly Tomas’ perspective shifts. He sees the scene from the outside. He sees what everyone else would see. And he breaks down in tears.
How is he going to explain that this tiny child terrified him, scared him beyond all reasonable limits, so that he was barely aware of what he was doing when he