True Stories (27 page)

Trays of vodka are brought round by the crabby Russian waitresses. Carola's eyes meet mine, in the cross-class mutual recognition of two clapped-out party girls. We seize a glass each and raise them to one another in a toast. Bev and a young bank manager she has befriended (he wears a red bow tie and she tells me later, solemnly, that he is ‘a perfect gentleman') sip at their vodka gingerly, with wrinkled top lips and squinched-up eyes. ‘Throw it back!' cries Carola, demonstrating.

‘Eewww,' go Bev and the bankman, sipping away.

A huge Australian behind Carola hands me his full shot glass, his mouth curling in contempt for any drink other than beer. I drain it. Carola seizes two more from a passing tray. A Russian band, Kalinka, is playing away dutifully on a small stage. ‘What's the thing that front bloke's playing?' says Carola. ‘He's cute.'

‘Looks like a saxophone,' I say. ‘It's got a bend in it.'

‘Hyuk hyuk,' says Carola. ‘Wonder
what else
'
s
got a bend in it?' Bev turns away from the bankman to hide her laughter.

The lone man with the moustache strolls into the saloon. Carola seizes Bev's arm and hisses, ‘There's Ray.'

‘Why does he limp?' I ask. ‘Was it a shark attack?'

‘Nuh. Motorbike,' says Carola. ‘He shouted me drinks last night at the disco. He come down to my cabin door with me at 2 a.m. But I sent him away. I go, “You can't come in. Me girlfriend's asleep.” He goes, “
I've
got a cabin.” I go, “Yeah, and how many people asleep in it?” “Four.” “Yeah
right.
” '

Ray turns from shaking hands with the captain and heads in our direction. Carola is beaming up at him, tossing back her hair, but he walks straight past without even a glance at her. Her smile fades. ‘He's probably got the shits with me,' she murmurs, 'cause I wouldn't let him in.' She downs another vodka, gives me a crooked grin and says with a shrug, ‘Pity. He's a real good kisser. Real nice.
Gentle.
'

Dinner is dried-out slabs of unrecognisable protein, platters of tired old lettuce. People are beginning to lose patience with the Russian service. Looks of mutinous solidarity flash between the tables, behind the backs of the flouncing, scowling waitresses. But Lorraine refuses to criticise anything. She ploughs through three courses, smiling as she chews, and casts reproachful glances at us three ungrateful whingers, who by this time are living on soup and fruit.

Bored and irritable, we let Lorraine drag us back to the saloon, to see the ‘Russian welcome show'. The band Kalinka strikes up a folk song, the lights dim and, before our jaded eyes, six glorious Russian maidens float through the door and on to the dance floor. They are wearing long cream frocks with loose sleeves, and above their shining foreheads tower strange, ethereal bishops' mitres, made of palest, dewiest gossamer lace and tied to their heads with sashes. Their beauty draws from us a collective gasp. A man blurts out, ‘It's the waitresses!' Another shouts, ‘And they're
smiling
!' A roar of applause goes up.

Each holding a lace hanky in her fingertips, the women perform a graceful dance. They sweep grandly, but their feet in white strapped shoes are tiptoeing like mad under the long skirts which brush the floor. We are amazed by the formal sweetness of their expressions. Their smiles are fixed, but there is a soft spark in their eyes and their faces are luminous. One girl mis-steps and is shoved back into place by her partners; they can't help laughing, which brings another cry of joy from the rapt audience. They are joined by handsome young men, some with flashing gold teeth, and launch into a stamping peasant dance that brings the house down.

This marvel is followed by ‘one of our very experienced cookers', a stout woman in a long red dress, who seizes the mike like a pro and belts out, in a horribly loud and unmodulated voice, a song about ‘a brave captain'. The vibe drops. I sneak on to the deck.

The night is soft with a starless, velvety blackness. I turn this way and that, disoriented, and suddenly, between our ship and the open sea, I notice a small, dense, brilliant mass of light. It surges up in the air, then drops again, then rises. For a mad second I think it's a tiny model ship somehow attached to the radio mast of the
Mikhail Sholokhov—
then I realise we are rolling so voluptuously that the horizon on which the other ship lies is constantly changing position. The ship is like a dazzling brooch, spiked now here, now there, always rising and falling.

Sunday, after a rough night, dawns bright and calm. The sick creep out, blinking and peering about them like souls who doubt their release from purgatory. ‘I was stood up last night!' announces Lorraine stoically as she pulls out her breakfast chair. Stefan, it seems, retired to his cabin early and refused to come out. ‘We all went down there to try and get him to come up—it was
them
worryin' about him, not me chasin' him—but he was just too sick.' Stefan, meanwhile, is installed at his friends' table, tearing into a cooked breakfast. Lorraine keeps glancing at him uncertainly. The light has gone out of her face, a little.

Last night's mythical Russian princesses have turned back into sullen slaveys, despising those they serve. Lorraine points out that at every meal, when we first take our seats, the teacup handles are pointing to the left instead of to the right. She begins to perceive a meaning in this—‘or could it be feng shui?' She wonders aloud whether there might be ‘stigma attached to working on this boat: maybe they've been naughty? Maybe it's like our community service?'

‘You mean,' I say, impressed, ‘that this is some sort of floating gulag?' We stare at the waitresses. We would like to be friendly, but they go on steadfastly ignoring us. Somehow this is painful. We feel rejected and rather glum.

But out on deck, it's a perfect day. The ship is a clean and brilliant white, the sea swarms with shattered fragments of light. Wherever I look there are pleasing shapes, patterns, blocks of white and crimson and dark green against a blue sky. Flags flutter hard, expressing themselves in a language I don't understand. This is how cruising is meant to be. For a couple of hours, tranquillity descends on our ship. All the deckchairs are in use. People stay still, basking, drinking, smiling, talking in soft voices.

Poor Bev, though, is horribly seasick. Carola takes her to the Russian doctor, who charges her fifteen bucks for a hit of Stematil. She huddles in a protected corner of the deck, rugged up in her brand-new, creaking, black leather jacket. Her face is pale green, her forehead beaded with sweat. I squat beside her and try to get her mind off her nausea by asking her whether she is enjoying the book she has with her (the only non-airport book I've seen on board),
For the Term of His Natural Life.

‘To be frank, no,' she says. ‘It's too fancy. “The grass was green, the sky was blue, the ocean something or other.” I don't care about that. I want to know
facts.
' She smokes fiercely, while she lays out for me her political theories: a GST, instant closing-off of all immigration, then a price freeze, then a wage freeze. I have no views on these topics and my attention keeps drifting away to the dazzling ocean. ‘You're a writer. What do
you
think?' says Bev sternly. ‘This affects
you.
' She keeps her eyes on me, but I feel her interest in me leaking away.

Lone Ray strolls past. ‘I like these blokes on the ship,' says Bev when he's out of earshot. ‘But last night one was tryin' to kiss me—they were all around me, pushin' and shovin'—I didn't like it. I didn't like it
at all.
I said to the one with the walking stick, I said, “I like them, but they're goin' about it the wrong way. They make me feel like I'm a bitch on heat.” '

‘And what did he say?'

She shrugs. ‘He agreed.'

At lunch a rumour whizzes round that last night's fish was off.
Everyone
declined to eat it, even the Russian DJ, who was seen out at the Lido Bar scoffing bought pies. Several people have suffered from both vomiting and diarrhoea. By dinner time there are rumbles of protest about the Russian waitresses' surly manners and the gross food. One passenger, sick of waiting for insulting service, gets up, barges to the sideboard, and fills a plate with her own choices. Two waitresses hurry over and blast her with ferocious looks, but she stands her ground and returns their stares, wordlessly, with knobs on: she is a tall, well-built Australian girl and her face is flushed with rage.

I order minestrone and the waitress slaps down a bowl of watery chicken consomme. ‘Excuse me,' I say. ‘I ordered minestrone.' She shrugs, picks up the dish and strolls away. Minutes later she returns and places the same thing in front of me. I hear my voice trembling dangerously as I say, ‘This is
not
minestrone.'

‘Min'stron,' she insists.

I bang the table and yell, ‘This is
NOT MINESTRONE
. Minestrone has
beans.
'

Impassively she removes the plate and replaces it with a bowl of darker, thicker fluid. Our table is frozen in terrible silence. Lorraine is staring at me as if I had used a four-letter word. Flustered, I plunge my spoon into the soup and fish out two dark, kidney-shaped objects. I hold them up. ‘See? Beans.' Gwen lets out a yelp, and stifles it.

The waitress comes back with a tilting salad platter. Professionally handling spoon and fork, she slings on to Lorraine's plate one brown stalk off an iceberg lettuce, one quarter of a tomato, and one angled, shrivelling slice of cucumber. She slouches away. For three beats Lorraine looks down at her plate. Then she turns her face up to us, takes a deep breath, and says in a loud, disgusted, incredulous voice, ‘Isn't that bloody
miserable
?'

The four of us crack up. Lorraine's face goes dark red with the strain. She mops her eyes with a screwed-up paper napkin. ‘I think I've been drinkin' too much?' she gasps. ‘I'm gettin' emotional?' At this we throw down our cutlery and shriek. Our heads are bowed among the plates. People at other tables start to crane their necks. Lorraine is possessed by hopeless paroxysms. The napkin is almost stuffed into her mouth. Shirley, flushed and quivering, has to take off her glasses and wipe away tears. ‘At last, Lorraine,' chokes Gwen through her clean cotton hanky, ‘at last we've got you to
complain
about something.'

When we have composed ourselves, we sit looking right into each other's faces for the first time, without defences. ‘I've been thinking?' says Lorraine earnestly. ‘It must be because youse have all been travelling before but I haven't? So I've got no idea what it's right for me to expect?'

‘Travelling?' says Gwen in her soft voice. ‘I've never even been up in a plane.'

In the pause that follows, we hear the huge fat father of a huge fat family, two tables away, heave a contented sigh as he lays down his knife and fork. ‘Aaaah,' he says. ‘I still reckon Australian food's the best in the world—don't you?' The other members of his family nod happily and go on chewing and swallowing.

‘Helen,' says Shirley. ‘Can you write about this, in that newspaper you work for?'

‘I can,' I reply, ‘and I will.'

Lorraine leans forward and lowers her voice. ‘Do you think I should ask Stefan to take me out to dinner when the ship docks? 'Cause I'd only be able to see him in Sydney. He keeps saying to me, “Why can't I visit you? You're free, aren't you?” But he couldn't come to where I
live.
It'd be too…complicated.'

‘Get rid of your boyfriend,' says Gwen bluntly. ‘Then you
will
be free. Because you're divorced.'

Lorraine writhes. ‘Yeah but there's something in me that won't let me
do
that. Anyway, I didn't come on this cruise looking for a shipboard romance. Two days ago I didn't even
know
him.' She sits up straight, as if with fresh resolve. But Stefan, on his way to the door, stops five paces from our table and stands there looking at Lorraine. Beaming, she jumps up and dashes over to him.

Gwen, Shirley and I exchange significant glances as they walk out together. We feel protective of Lorraine, with her manoeuvres and her vague fantasies. ‘He looks a bit of a tough customer,' says Gwen. ‘Don't you think?'

‘Yes,' I say, ‘Dark. But kind of…interesting.'

‘What that girl needs,' says Shirley, pushing back her chair, ‘is a property settlement. So she can shake off her no-hoper ex.
And
her boyfriend.'

That evening I make a valiant effort to sit through an Australian cabaret in the saloon. Two scrawny sisters in strapless lamé mini dresses squall a Beatles song, then the MC drags out on to the dance floor a shy man who has proposed, during the cruise, to his much younger Chinese girlfriend, and been accepted. He is ecstatic, she demure. A pav with sparklers is produced and we all sing ‘For They Are Jolly Good Fellows'. Some of the Australian women in the saloon cast narrow looks at the new fiancée.

Passing through the casino on my way to bed, I spot Shirley pumping coins into a fruit machine. I stand next to her for five minutes, completely unable to grasp the principles of the game. She is so phlegmatic that I can't tell whether she's winning or losing. Coins start to rattle and slide wildly inside the machine. ‘Are you winning, or is it?'

‘It's the boat starting to roll,' she says without looking up.

I go to my bunk and read
Moby Dick.
The tannoy in my cabin is leaking an irritating thread of music. I turn the volume down as far as it will go but still the song oozes out. When I look out my porthole in the small hours, the horizon is tilting at a forty-five-degree angle.

It's still dark on Monday morning when
Mikhail Sholokhov
enters Sydney Heads. I hang over the rail, amateurishly angling my camera, and watch the drama of the pilot battling through big seas to reach us. Presently the decks are lined with passengers in raincoats, silently watching the sky turn a murky yellow. We slide past Rose Bay, Double Bay, Rushcutters. The city is going to work all around us; we too are on our way to work.