Page 50 of A Perfect Disaster

Arturo doesn’t flinch, but Julianne keeps that analytical smile that we ship’s officers fear so much. I’m unable to gesture; my throat is dry.

“How long have you been on board?” I ask, forcing myself to keep my composure.

“We boarded in Marseille,” Arturo reports. “We’ve been monitoring interdepartmental coordination during disembarkations at previous stops. Today we were assessing the handling of potential contingencies in Rome, and we had the opportunity to witness the resolution of this latest… incident.”

A few suffocating minutes on a staircase in the Vatican, emergency paperwork with the local police, twenty-four cruise passengers on tenterhooks, a train we caught on the fly, and a return to the pier with the ship’s sirens blaring, urging us to depart. All summed up in a neat, office-like summary, with no trace of the sweat or the anguish that had been squeezing my chest while I waited for Maika to appear before me.

“We need to meet immediately,” Julianne declares. “Let’s go up to the officers’ deck conference room.”

I look at Maika. She shoots me a quick glance, laden with a vulnerability she rarely allows herself to show. There’s too much unresolved history between the two of us to fit into this hallway.

“She just arrived from shore,” I interject before my mind can weigh the consequences of contradicting an auditor. “My colleague needs a few minutes to stop by her cabin. At least to freshen up a bit.”

I don’t know why I’m protecting her in front of the top brass. Or maybe I do know, but I’m terrified to admit it. Maika glances at me out of the corner of her eye, taken aback, and that surprise stings more than any dig she could have thrown my way.

Arturo shakes his head, unyielding.

“I’m sorry, officer. The report must be drafted before the ship leaves territorial waters.”

“Understood.”

We walk toward the service elevators in silence. Maika walks beside me, her shoulders slumped and her gaze fixed on the floor. I can’t help but analyze every detail about her. Her stiff hands, the red mark left by her bag strap on her wrist, the loose strands of hair falling down her neck.

I force myself to stare straight ahead as we go up to the officers’ deck.

“What the hell is going on here?” I mutter, almost to myself.

Maika lets out a bitter laugh that cuts off immediately.

“If you figure it out, let me know. I’m still trying to decide if I survived Rome or if this is a hallucination caused by dehydration.”

The officers’ conference room on the bridge is too brightly lit, too cold, and has that distinct smell of wax and cleanliness so characteristic of command centers. An oval mahogany table, four leather chairs, the navigation screens turned off, and the muffled hum of the ship’s engines coming to life in the background. Julianne and Arturo show us to our seats. Maika slumps into her chair, though she straightens her back instantly. I sit down next to her, adopting the stiff posture dictated by protocol.

Arturo unfolds a tablet on the table, and Julianne folds her hands slowly.

“Before we go over the procedures,” she begins, “we’d like to inform you that the passenger evacuated at the Vatican is in stable condition at the medical center in Rome. The company’s ground support team has already taken care of his accommodations, medical insurance, and tickets to rejoin the cruise at the next port if he’s discharged.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Maika close her eyes and exhale all the air she’d been holding in her lungs. That relief from someone else hits me hard in the chest.

“Thank you,” Maika manages to say.

“Good,” Arturo continues, typing on his screen. “Let’s focus on the sequence of events following the loss of signal.”

All my defense mechanisms kick in reflexively.

“What happened…” I interject, “is that as soon as the coordinator reestablished contact upon stepping out into the plaza, port logistics were restructured from the ship, and the arrival of the entire group was ensured before the gangway closed for good.”

Julianne studies me with a clinical gaze.

“That’s on the terminal log, officer,” she admits. “The group cleared the scanner on time.”

“Therefore, we’ve proven that everything worked as it should,” I conclude.

Maika turns her head toward me. I sense her confusion at the fact that I’m using the plural to defend us.

Arturo rests his forearms on the table and fixes his gaze on mine.

“The result was optimal, Helen. But it could have gone differently and cost us a fortune, not to mention the complaints and claims from the passengers that are sure to come. Because they’re sure to come.”