She checks herself, wondering what compelled her to give voice to that bitter remark, but Vincent just nods thoughtfully.
‘I should have asked for some time to think about it before saying anything … I was just so taken aback.’
‘I get that,’ Marianne says, hesitating before pressing on. ‘I’m probably being old-fashioned, but I actually think it’s the man’s job to propose.’
Vincent looks at her in bewilderment. She must have sounded ancient. Of course, the young people have different rules nowadays, even if she doesn’t understand them.
‘But I know things are more equal nowadays,’ she hurries to add.
‘It was a man proposing,’ Vincent says.
She hesitates, unsure whether she has understood him right. ‘To you?’
‘Yes.’
It takes an even bigger effort to sound unperturbed this time. When Sisyphus heaved that boulder of his up the hill, it was a nice little stroll compared to this.
‘And you … you are special friends?’ She can find no better word for it.
Vincent’s smile is reply enough.
She clears her throat. Her cheeks are glowing again. Pulsating. She doesn’t want to think about what two men might do to each other in bed; she’s not even sure she has rightly understood how it works. Now she looks at Vincent and her stupid brain is trying to picture it, but it seems so outlandish. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I was just so surprised. You don’t look like one … of them.’
‘Like one of them? Like I’m gay, you mean?’
‘Yes,’ Marianne says, uncertainly. ‘Or whatever word we’re allowed to use nowadays. It’s not easy to keep up, you know …’
‘It’s okay.’
‘I just don’t want you to think I’m prejudiced,’ she insists. ‘I have no opinion on how other people live their lives. God knows I have no cause to get on any sort of high horse.’
‘It’s okay,’ he says again.
She exhales, raises her glass for another sip and accidentally downs the rest of her wine.
Silence falls between them, but somehow it doesn’t feel as awkward as maybe it should.
‘I just made love to a new man for the first time in … Well, I wonder if you were even born,’ she hears herself say, and then a thought strikes her. ‘I don’t even know his surname. What do you say to that?’
Why doesn’t she have a filter any more? Why is she saying whatever comes to mind to this poor young man?
‘In this case, I reckon I’m the one who shouldn’t get on any sort of high horse,’ Vincent says. ‘Would you like another round?’
Marianne catches herself nodding.
‘Where is he now then?’ Vincent asks when he returns to their table. ‘The man with no surname?’
‘I don’t know.’
And then she tells him the whole story, obviously not sharing lewd details about what happened when the lights were out, but what she does tell him feels almost as revealing. Vincent just looks at her, doesn’t seem to think she is out of her mind, and maybe that is why she concludes by telling him the most embarrassing part.
‘I’ve been so lonely. Sometimes, I don’t even feel entirely real. I never thought I would be one of those lonely old people you hear about, but …’
She spreads her hands. ‘Turns out ending up alone is easier than you think,’ she concludes.
‘Maybe I should have said yes after all,’ Vincent says, trying to smile.
She shakes her head forcefully. ‘Not because you think it’s a safe investment,’ she says. ‘I was married, wasn’t I? No, I think friends is the way to go. I just let them drift away over the years. I always put family first. And one day my husband was gone and the children had moved away.’
She silences herself with a big gulp of wine. She has never thought about this before. Maybe the geographical distance is helping her see things more clearly.
‘Why did you say no?’ she asks. ‘To the proposal?’
Vincent sighs and presses his fingertips against his forehead. She notices that he has barely touched his wine and forces herself to leave off her own glass while it is still half full.
‘I don’t know,’ he says, in a way that makes it clear to her that he does know, he just needs a moment to admit it to himself.
She waits, fiddling with the foot of her glass.
‘I might have said yes if … if there had been a part of me, or of us, in how … how he did it. I love him, I do. But ever since we moved in together I’ve felt like … there’s no space for me in our relationship. He kind of … does everything. Sorts everything out. Thinks of everything. Makes sure we talk about everything. And I feel so …’
He groans and rubs his eyes. ‘I’m not explaining this very well. He’s perfect. He is. As you can tell. I’m complaining about things I should be grateful for. But it’s as if I’m always struggling to keep up. I’m just so … emotionally slow. I need time to digest things, think them through. Once I know how I feel about something, it’s always kind of too late. He’s already decided and moved on. And … maybe this proposal was the last straw. It was amazing but … but I had to pull the emergency brake. I just wanted time to think about something properly for once. I can’t get married without being completely sure about what I want.’
Marianne can’t stop herself any longer. She sips her wine. ‘Maybe you should tell him those things. I’m sure he would understand.’
‘I’ve looked for him everywhere. And phones don’t work here. But he probably wouldn’t pick up anyway.’
He looks miserable; Marianne wishes there was something, anything, she could do for him. It has been a long time since she felt this strongly about anyone, and it takes her a minute to find the words for what has been awakened in her: maternal feelings.
They watch the stream of people moving through the corridor outside the pub.
Both searching for one particular face among all the strangers.
Dan
‘Dan,’ Captain Berggren says. ‘It’s good you stopped by.’
He looks drowsy and smells of sleep. He hasn’t had time to put on his uniform jacket with all the fancy insignia, and Dan can see the string vest under his shirt.
He wonders what Berggren’s quarters are like on board. The officers’ cabins are said to be much swankier than the rest of the staff’s, and the captain’s must surely be the poshest of all.
Berggren turns to Adam, who is still sitting on Dan’s hip with his arms around his neck.
‘And who is this then?’ he says.
‘My nephew, Adam.’
Adam fixes the captain with his big blue eyes: a cherub in his red hoodie, innocence incarnate with his chubby cheeks, once again declaring that he is going to be a sea captain when he grows up. When he is acting his part, it is impossible to imagine that he is older than Berggren.
‘You wanted to see me?’ Dan says.
‘Yes, I heard there was some trouble down at the karaoke today. But I would prefer to speak to you privately. Maybe you can come back when the boy has—’
‘We can talk now,’ Dan says.
‘I don’t think that’s appropriate. And the boy should be in bed.’
Berggren gives Dan an appraising look, and Dan smiles. He wonders if the captain can sense the reek of blood and death coming from the two of them. Wonders if Berggren has realised, on some subconscious level, that he is about to die.
‘I’m a bit concerned about what happened tonight,’ the captain says.
‘You should be,’ Dan says, and sets Adam down on the floor.
The Baltic Charisma
Bosse’s fingers dance across the keyboard, pressing buttons, jumping between camera angles. The internal telephone on the desk gives a plastic ring. He hopes it is Mika, calling to tell him the little ones have been found. He thinks about how sick he is of parents who fail to look after their children properly and then go hysterical when they disappear.
‘We’ve had calls from deck six,’ Mika tell
s him. ‘Cabins 6502 and 6507 are reporting some kind of commotion in the hallway, knocking and thudding against their doors. Can you see anyone who might have flipped their lid over there?’
Bosse pushes a few buttons, expertly scans the screens. The sternward hallway on the portside is empty, aside from a man with a towel around his hips peeking out of cabin 6507.
‘Nothing yet,’ Bosse says. ‘Or … Well, what do we have here?’
His fingers hover in mid-air as he peers at the screen showing the central hallway. On it is a woman with dark hair hanging down her back in sticky tangles. Her name is Alexandra, but Bosse doesn’t know that. He switches cameras to have a look at the woman from the front. He pushes his steel-rimmed glasses higher up his nose, but even so, he squints at the black-and-white screen.
‘Here we go,’ he says. ‘There’s a half-dressed little harlot running around, knocking on doors. It looks like she’s vomited a whole box of red wine all over herself.’
Mika asks Bosse to spare him the more colourful details, tells him he will send security. Bosse lifts his mug to his lips, eyes still glued to the screen, and realises it looks like the woman is spattered with blood. He tries to tell himself that it is just his imagination playing tricks on him; after all, he’s seen thousands of girls like this over the years. Nothing special about this one. One of the doors the girl has knocked on opens. 6805. An older man pops his head out. Bosse can’t see the details of his features, but his body language is clear: it goes from drowsy to shaken in a split second. Unease creeps up Bosse’s spine. When there is a knock on the door right behind him he jumps; lukewarm coffee spills over the edge of his mug, soaking the thighs of his uniform trousers. A few drops end up on his crossword puzzle, dissolving his scrawled capitals. He spins around in his chair; opens the door without getting up. Dan Appelgren is standing outside. That pathetic little faggot. Bosse notices that he looks swollen, figures it must be all the alcohol he guzzles. Other things too, if the rumours are to be believed. Dan is holding a little kid by the hand. The boy reminds Bosse of his grandchildren back on Åland.
‘Look,’ the kid says to Dan, and points to the screens.
Bosse turns around, sees what is happening. He throws himself at the buttons. A child should not have to see things like that. No one should have to see things like that. Behind him, Dan and the child step into the office and close the door behind them.
*
In cabin 6805, Ros-Marie wakes up with an open crime novel straddling her nose. Something has roused her; dazed, she blinks at the darkness. Her body feels heavy and cosy; she smiles and stretches, thinking about the massage in the spa and the wine she had with dinner and how she and Lennart made love until past midnight. She puts the book down on the nightstand and turns on the light. The other bed is empty. The duvet has slipped halfway down to the floor and the pillows are in disarray.
‘Lennart?’ she calls out, and knocks on the toilet door. Her voice sounds much too loud in her head, as though her ears have popped. Then she remembers why and takes out the bright yellow earplugs. Knocks again. Pushes the handle down. Opens. Fumbles for the light switch while thinking about all the cholesterol in the buffet. I hope Lennart isn’t feeling poorly. Or that he’s had a heart atta— She cuts the thought short. A familiar anxiety is slithering about in the pit of her stomach. The light comes on. The bathroom is empty. No Lennart. Neither dead nor alive. No, be quiet now, Ros-Marie. Every time you have a bit of fun, you think there will be hell to pay for it. That’s not how it works. There wouldn’t be a single lottery winner still alive. Lennart would laugh at you if he knew you’d worked yourself into a tizzy just because he went for a stroll; he probably couldn’t sleep.
Ros-Marie tries, but she can’t shake the feeling of impending disaster. And then she spots Lennart’s brown boots on the floor outside the bathroom. He wouldn’t have left the cabin in nothing but his stocking feet. But then again, he’s not here either. The muscles in her back and neck, soft as butter after her massage, are stiffening again. Someone might have knocked, some madman out to rob him, stab him, throw him overboard, and I didn’t hear anything because of those damned earplugs … She tries to laugh at herself the way Lennart would. You’d better stop reading crime stories at bedtime, Ros-Marie. She straightens her nightgown, which has slipped off one shoulder, and opens the door to the hallway.
She appears on one of the screens in Bosse’s office. Bosse is slumped back in his chair. His eyes are open but unseeing. Dan and Adam are gone.
Ros-Marie looks both ways down the short central corridor, wondering which way she should go, and curses her poor sense of direction. But then she hears a wet grunting somewhere to her right. Lennart.
The carpet outside the door is wet and spongy. Blood is seeping up between her naked toes. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see red spatters across their door, but she refuses to take it in. She runs towards the sound, forcing down the scream trying to push up through her throat. Lennart is going to make me laugh about this. Ros-Marie and her lively imagination, always such a worrywart, always convinced the sky is falling. Yes, we are going to laugh at this. I just have to find him first.
She reaches the T-intersection at the stern, hears a new sound on her right and runs that way, comes out in the long corridor that stretches all the way to the bow. One of the nearest doors is open. Ros-Marie draws nearer like she’s sleepwalking. She hears a gurgling from inside. This is a nightmare, the most vivid nightmare I’ve ever had, and I’m going to tell Lennart about it …
When she knocks on the door, it slides open. There is blood in there. So much blood. Covering Alexandra’s teeth, her soiled top, Lennart’s ashen face. The gurgling is coming from his throat, which is nothing but a fleshy mangled mess. And Alexandra looks up at her, drawing her lips back so Ros-Marie can see even more of her crimson teeth. Ros-Marie’s scream finally finds its way out of her body, like a genie in a bottle, and it just goes on and on, filling the cabin, pushing out into the hallway; it is never going to return to its prison.
Pia
‘You can’t fucking do this,’ slurs the man Pia has handcuffed to the white metal railing.
‘We’ll stop by to check on you,’ Pia says. ‘I promise you will be just fine here.’
‘But what if … there’s a fire … ?’
The rest of the half-hearted protests turn into an incomprehensible stream of vowels and nnnnghhh sounds. He yanks at the handcuffs and the rattling reverberates through the staff stairwell, stabbing at her eardrums.
She straightens up, trying to ignore the headache. Part of her agrees with his objections. It does not feel good putting them here. But she also knows she has no choice. Otherwise they would be back out on the ship in minutes and causing trouble, staggering around one of the weather decks, maybe falling overboard.
Never allow anyone to become a danger to themselves or others. This is the only rule that can’t be bent. And all the drunk tanks are occupied. The guys fighting at Club Charisma have taken over the cells the old men from Charisma Starlight were in.
‘Are you all right up there?’ she calls.
It feels like the roof of her mouth is about to split open. She pushes her tongue against her palate. It almost seems like something is moving in there.
Jarno comes down the steps. His boots are thumping; the steel construction vibrates and clanks. He sounds like a herd of elephants. She tries to force down her irritation. It is not his fault her head hurts.
‘My guy’s going to pass out any moment,’ he says. ‘And I can see yours is already well on his way.’
Pia looks at the man at her feet. His chin has fallen onto his shoulder. A saliva stain is spreading across his scarlet jumper. He is still muttering aggressively.
Let them drink themselves to death, she thinks before she can stop herself. Let them kill each other, the lot of them. I will go back to Calle. Or, even better, my own cabin. I don’t give a flying fuck about this. I’ll pull the duvet over my head and disappear.<
br />
She is never going to be enough for all these paltry human dramas, night after night. Four security guards to look after what amounts to a small town, cut off from the rest of the world, where the inhabitants have marinated themselves in alcohol and over-the-top expectations.
‘I wish tonight would be done already,’ she says. ‘I’m getting too old for this shit.’
Jarno grins. He has heard her say that before. But she has never meant it more than she does now. She glances up the stairs and hears snoring. Good. Then maybe they will keep calm for a while at least.
Their belts crackle.
‘Pia? Jarno?’ Mika says. ‘We have a woman covered in vomit, dark hair, wandering around deck six near the stern.’
Pia rolls her eyes, but that only aggravates the pain in her head and she immediately regrets it. ‘Can’t Henke and Pär get this one?’ she says.
‘No. They’re busy elsewhere.’ Mika’s voice sounds strange. But then again, he usually sounds strange.
‘Did something happen?’
‘I … I wasn’t going to mention it until I knew more. I’m sure it’s nothing, but …’ Mika’s voice is choking with tightly restrained panic.
‘What?’ she says sharply.
‘I’m not getting a response from the bridge,’ Mika says.
‘What do you mean? How the fuck is it possible that no one’s picking up on the bridge?’
‘I don’t know. Pär and Henke are on their way to check it out.’
Pia thanks him reflexively as she puts her radio back in her belt. She exchanges a look with Jarno. Sees her own concern mirrored in his face.
Albin
Lo’s head is on his shoulder. Her breathing is slow and regular. He thinks she has fallen asleep, but there is no way of checking without risking waking her.
They have talked and talked about all the things they are going to do in Los Angeles and Albin knows they aren’t going to go, at least not now, but that is okay. Just fantasising about it has been almost as good as being there for real. In fact, it is better. When it is just make-believe, he doesn’t have to think about how it would be for his mum, and how he doesn’t want to leave her behind alone with Dad, or that he would miss her way too much and worry all the time.