Page 43 of A Perfect Disaster

“Of course,” I reply with my best crew smile, “but don’t block the way and don’t lose sight of the group. The ship won’t wait for anyone.”

I love seeing how people get excited about places they’ve dreamed of visiting for years. I love accompanying them, solving those little problems that come up, and creating calm when the world is filled with noise. I love feeling like I’m doing my job well, even though Helen insists on thinking that entertainment is only good for playing “Follow the Leader” in the pool.

Maybe that’s why today feels like a chance for redemption. Not against Helen, but against her doubts. Against my own guilt. Against the phrase that creeps inside me, pricking me endlessly. “We’re professionals, Helen. We always have been, and today I’m going to prove it to you.”

The first part of the itinerary goes by with the usual hiccups. A passenger loses his ticket and later finds it inside the Rome guidebook. A little girl cries because she wants to climb onto a fountain that, of course, is off-limits to touch. Nothing serious. Nothing that can’t be solved with patience, a little water, and a smile that doesn’t give away how badly you’re dying to sit in the shade for five minutes.

By midafternoon, my subgroup is the last to visit the dome of St. Peter’s Basilica. The other passengers have already completed the tour and are gradually making their way back to the bus meeting point. Our group has been slightly delayed by the security check at the entrance and by a family that needed to reorganize their bags, cameras, hats, bottles, and, it seems, their entire existence.

But we’re still on schedule. Maybe a little pressed for time. But on schedule, after all.

“Remember,” I announce to the twenty-six people with me as we gather, “we’ll take the stairs calmly, without cutting in front of anyone and following all the staff’s instructions. It’s narrow in some spots, so no rushing.”

Some fan themselves with the brochures. Others look up, impressed by the height, and by that feeling of entering a place where time seems to have stood still.

The walls of the Vatican hold a special silence. A solemnity that seeps under your skin even when you’re more focused on counting heads than on lifting your spirit.

The Giuseppe Momo staircase seems to twist upon itself with no end in sight. People move slowly, hands resting on the railing; their breaths grow deeper, and the occasional nervous laugh can be heard. I shift my gaze, looking back and forth, making sure no one falls too far behind.

Everything is going well. Until, of course, it stops going well.

There’s a sharp crack, a murmur, and a woman screams:

“Dad!”

I turn so quickly that I almost bump my shoulder into someone. An older man—Don Ernesto—collapses partially against the side of the staircase. He doesn’t fall completely because his daughter is holding him up as best she can, but his face is pale, his lips have lost their usual color, and his eyes are closed.

The world suddenly feels like it’s closing in on me.

“Make some room,” I say immediately as I move toward them. “Please, no one push. Everyone stay still on your step.”

Nico is a few steps below and looks at me with wide eyes, frightened.

“What do we do, Maika?” he asks.

“Find the Vatican security staff and tell them we need immediate medical assistance. Now!” I instruct him.

He nods and makes his way down with difficulty, clearing a path in clumsy but effective Italian. I crouch down next to Don Ernesto, while his daughter trembles visibly.

“He’s feeling dizzy,” she explains to me. “He said he couldn’t breathe and…”

“Don’t worry,” I reply with all the calm I can muster. “We’re going to help him. Does he have any medical conditions? Is he taking any medication?”

The woman begins to answer through her tears: high blood pressure, pills, the heat, travel fatigue… I listen carefully, nod, and mentally repeat each detail to relay it later to the medical team. I pull out my work phone and see I have no signal. I move my arm to the side, as if I could negotiate with the thick Vatican stone walls. Nothing. A blank symbol. Not a single bar.

“No, no, no… shit,” I whisper to myself.

I try to call Helen or send her a message. But I fail miserably.

This can’t be happening to me. Damn it. No, no, and no. Not when Helen expects exact timelines, updates, and confirmations before giving the order to depart from the port of Civitavecchia. Not when her trust in me hangs by a thread so thin I can almost hear it snapping.

The Vatican staff arrives after a few minutes that feel like an eternity. Then the paramedics show up, and quickly, the medical evacuation protocol is activated. They tell us that no one can go up or down, and the staircase is completely blocked off while they attend to Don Ernesto and organize his safe removal on a stretcher.

“How long will this take?” I ask one of the supervisors in English.

A police officer replies kindly, “As long as necessary.” I hate those two words. “As long as necessary” could mean ten minutes, or it could mean the beginning of my downfall and a report for abandoning my post.

I inform the group as calmly as possible: