Short story "Else no one ever will"

 

– ELSE NO ONE EVER WILL –

(Altrimenti Mai)

When my diaries and photos and grey hair conspire to tell me my life at sea is now over, I'll remember … and I alone shall know the truth …

- Capt Harry Grattidge, ‘Captain of the Queens’ -

A

ll day long the sky had been oppressive. A hundred miles to the north of the MS Antares a tropical storm had cut a swathe through the Solomon Islands. At nightfall a rogue wave reached the forty-thousand-ton liner. The cruise ship trembled as the mountain of water smashed into her bow.

The lookout, Able Seaman Jim Hardy, disbelievingly felt himself being carried away by the breaking wave when it sluiced over the foredeck. He struck a bollard, broke his arm, and ended up in the scuppers. Seconds later, up on the boat deck, the Chief Officer’s face was stung by a shower of spray.

Chris Stuart wiped his eyes and with the back of his hand brushed the drops off his uniform. He habitually went for a walk after dinner, when he often had the deck to himself, since most of the  passengers had by then either gone up to the Lookout Bar, directly above the bridge, or they were in the Regal Lounge, leading off the glass-enclosed promenade deck, one deck below him.

 

There was a dance floor in the Regal and until just a moment ago the sound of the band had drifted up the main stairwell. The musicians were Italian, including Gabriella Valenti, the ship’s sultry songstress, who’d been singing Senza Finé (Never-ending) until the wave struck the ship, causing the band to abruptly fall silent.

The Antares groaned as she climbed up the wave and staggered down into the trough behind it.

“Easy now,” Chris whispered while he waited for the twenty year-old liner to steady herself. He imagined that a lot of the ship’s dinnerware had probably just shattered in the galley before it could’ve been stowed.

A woman’s voice unexpectedly drew Chris’s attention. “That was a big one!” she cried.

He looked up and noticed two passengers taking shelter behind a lifeboat winch.

“Nothing to worry about,” he called back. Walking towards them, he added, “A wave like that looks quite dramatic, but the ship is well able to take it.”

That wasn’t entirely true, he reproached himself. The ship had a weakness. One of the first liners with a steeply raking bow just like the bow of the Antares – a Royal Viking class liner – had limped back to port after a storm once, in the late 1980s, with her bow pointing up at the sky.

 

Just then the Antares heeled and Chris noticed they were altering course. He assumed the duty officer had decided to lessen the effect of the rising storm, meeting the rollers at an oblique angle. Captain Hemmings knew of the ship’s weakness and he’d issued standing orders about it.

From the corner of his eye Chris saw another big roller approaching, and when he turned to look, he briefly caught a glimpse of a red object floating past. Almost immediately it was gone and Chris wasn’t even sure he’s seen something real.

Could have been an optical illusion, he told himself, or perhaps a red lifebuoy had been washed overboard?

It unexpectedly reminded him of a time, long ago, when he and Claudia had secretly gone for a swim in the moonlight. Her bikini had been the colour of blood, he remembered. Had she taken it off, or had he only dreamt that? Uneasily he wondered what had become of the older girl he’d once had a crush on. And where would she be now?

 

Claudia had been a bit wild, and she’d reputedly had a small butterfly tattooed on her hip. He’d once asked her if the rumour was true, and she’d laughingly shown it to him. He’d been too young to date her and an older boy had invited her to her Matric dance. From a distance Chris had watched him picking her up. Claudia’s off-the-shoulder dress had been a shimmering red colour.

Chris shook his head. This was crazy. Yet he’d never entirely forgotten his sense of loss when Claudia and her family moved away to the city. She’d briefly come to his house to kiss him goodbye. He must’ve been fifteen or sixteen. Even now he still hated farewells.

C’mon, get a grip, he thought, and with a shrug he dismissed the girl he’d once loved from his mind.

 

“Are you alright?” the woman near the winch called out.

Chris had almost forgotten the two passengers. “Yes, yes, of course,” he called back, and he approached them. “Just observing the sea, in case there’s another big wave.”

“My husband says the sea is primeval,” the woman continued, raising her voice against the strengthening wind. There’s something about that voice, Chris thought. It was high and lively, like Claudia’s voice used to be. When he’d reached them, he looked at the woman more closely, and guessed her to be younger than her companion.

“Primeval?” he repeated. “Do you think so?”

“Oh, not literally,” her husband now answered. Smiling, he added, “Jung spoke of the sea as a symbol of the eternal … a metaphor describing the unconscious mind; something without a beginning or end, the way we promise to love each other forever.”

“I see,” Chris nodded. “Did Jung forget the vow concluding with the words: until death do us part?”

“No, hardly,” the husband remarked. “He was speaking about the collective unconscious, but your observation is very perceptive. Shall we get out of this gale now? It’s getting worse, don’t you think?”

“Yes, sure,” Chris said. “Let’s go over there.”

 

He led them to the nearby entrance giving access to the main stairwell. The Regal Lounge was now diagonally below them.

The band had started to play once again and Gabriella was singing: Altrimenti mai …altrimenti nessun altro potrà…

 

 

“Ah,” said the husband, “that’s one of her favourite songs,”

“So it seems,” Chris observed. “I guess it’s a love song.”

“Yes, so it is. I know a few Italian words. It’s a plea that her lover should love her forever … else no one ever will. Yet that phrase is ambiguous, don’t you think? She doesn’t want to lose him, but at the same time it’s a lament about losing herself.”

 Chris gave him a questioning look. “As if she means to kill herself?”

“Exactly. Love can be irrational. She would rather die than lose his love.”

“I see. Are you a psychologist?”

“Yes and no,” the husband smiled and he held out his hand, “I’m more of a detective. Berger’s my name … James Berger. And judging by the stripes on your epaulettes you must be the chief officer?”

“That’s right. Stuart’s the name. My friends call me Chris.”

“Alright, Chris, and this is Allegra, my beautiful wife.”

“It’s Doctor James Berger,” Allegra proudly corrected her husband. James is a medical doctor and a criminologist. He draws up forensic profiles.”

‘Really?” Chris nodded, taking note that James was correct about his wife being good-looking.

“Yes,” Allegra went on, “He can tell you everything about a murderer’s lifestyle and habits.”

“Aha, forensic profiles?” Chris said. “Then I’m glad to know you.  I sometimes get a gut feel about people. I might want to swap notes with you, James … later on, I mean.”

“Oh, sure,” Berger smiled, “but you aren’t quite over your own loss, are you, Chris? Was it a long time ago?”

Chris gave him a startled look. “How on earth did you know?”

“Well … it’s clear from the way you associate love and death. Losing a loved one isn’t easy, of course. It often feels like a bereavement, a death. What was her name? The first one?”

“Her name?” Chris sighed. “I guess it was Claudia.”

“Nobody since then?”

“Yes, a few … but nothing too serious. I thought I’d forgotten. I suppose the sea reminded me of her a moment ago. So I guess Jung had a point.”

 

Suddenly the music fell quiet once again and a woman in a fiery red ball gown came rushing upstairs, followed by a member of the band who loudly pleaded, “Attesa! Attesa! Gabriella! Per favore. Mi scusi. Please wait!”

“No basta, Borsellino! Stronzo! It’s over! Get lost!”

Neither of them seemed to take any notice of Chris and the Bergers, who’d come to a halt near the staircase. Gabriella and her pursuer noisily continued upstairs.

With a frown James remarked, “Well, for Borsellino things certainly look a bit shaky right now. I wonder if they’ll kiss and make-up?”

“I’d better see to it that they do,” Chris said, moving towards the staircase.

“Did you take note of her dress?” Allegra asked under her breath. “The things some of us do …?”

Chris paused. “The things some of you do? I don’t follow.”

“Aha,” Berger smiled, “my wife understands something about women that even Freud professed not to know. They want men to look at them … as long as they don’t touch.”

“Oh, James, that’s our secret!”

Before her husband could answer, the purser, Mr Nicholson – Old Nick behind his back – briskly came up the stairs as well. He was short and stout, in contrast to the tall, grey-haired captain who came up behind him.

Captain Hemmings, the master of the Antares, paused on the landing, briefly nodded at the Bergers, and said, “Stuart, a word with you, please … over there.”

“Yes, Captain,” Chris answered, and he followed Hemmings until they were both out of earshot.

“Let Nicholson take care of that argument,” said the captain. “You get hold of the bosun. Take him along with you. Go and see if the lookout is safe. Get him away from the foredeck … if he’s still there. Take him inside.”

“Yes, right away, sir,” Chris nodded, but as he turned to go, the captain stopped him. “Wait. Find the second lookout as well. Send him up to the bridge. After that you and the bosun need to take a look at the bow. Be careful. Check for possible damage and report to me. There may be foul weather ahead of us.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Chris said, and he went off to the crew’s quarters.

 

He found the bosun, Tom Jackson, in his cabin up front, and the two of them stepped out onto the exposed foredeck. They didn’t find Hardy up there, but discovered that his watch partner, the alternate lookout, had taken him down to the crew’s mess-room after his fall, where Hardy now sat clutching his arm. His partner nervously stood watching him, smoking a cigarette.

“You, sailor,” Chris addressed him. “What’s your name again?”

“Atkins, sir,” said the alternate lookout, and he added, “Hardy, ‘ere, has broken ‘is arm. ‘Ah helped ‘im to come down ‘ere.”

“So I see,” Chris nodded. “Good work, Atkins. Now, first of all, take Hardy along to the sickbay and find him the doctor. No, wait, rather tell the duty sister to get hold of the doctor. He’s probably up in his cabin, or perhaps in the Regal.  Then go up to the bridge.”

Just then another big wave struck the ship.

“Use the forward stairwell to get there,” Chris said when the noise had abated. “It’s too dangerous outside.”

“You’re telling me,” muttered the lookout.

“Right … and then, when you get there, just tell the duty officer I sent you. Come on now, you two, let’s get a move on!”

 

When they’d gone, Chris and Jackson went up to the fo’c’sle together. They dashed forward, opened the bosun’s locker, switched on the light and climbed down among the spare hawsers, barrels of paint, and brushes that were stored there. Taking along two flashlights they opened a hatch and entered the bow cavity forward of the collision bulkhead.

Some of the bow plates were buckled down there, pushed in between the frames, but Chris couldn’t detect any leaks. It was very unlikely, moreover, that the hull would’ve been breached down below the waterline. If the ship had sprung a leak down there, the collision bulkhead would in any event prevent the inflow from travelling aft, as it was designed to do.

 

After leaving the fo’c’sle, Chris went up to his cabin to change. On the way there he ran into Bill Smith, the senior master-at-arms, who said he was on his way to the bridge.

“Why the big frown, Bill?” Chris asked him, noticing that the Antares’s chief of police seemed to be troubled.

“I found this,” Smith said, and he held out his hand. A thin gold necklace lay in his palm. “It was over there, on the floor in that alley, between a few cabins.”

“So?” Chris observed. “Somebody must’ve lost it. Odd place, though. Those inside cabins are vacant during a world cruise.”

“Exactly,” Smith noted, “and I wouldn’t have gone there, except there’s a pin for my clock there.”

He held up the instrument masters-at-arms use to log their rounds through the ship. “It wasn’t actually the necklace that drew my attention. Come and look.”

Chris followed him and Smith said, “There’s a smear of blood on the wall. Not much, but there are drops on the carpet as well.”

“I see. Do you think there’s been a scuffle up here?”

“Looks like it, Chief. Unfortunately there isn’t a trail one could follow, since the carpet itself has almost the same colour.”

“And those cabins?”

Smith shook his head. “I used my master key to look inside. There’s nothing. They aren’t occupied, as you said. Hope the scuffle wasn’t too serious. That blood is a worry.”

“I agree. Gabriella came up here less than an hour ago, with Borsellino right behind her, the bloody fool. I wonder where they went.”

“Can’t tell just by looking at this,” Smith said. “I’ll check if she’s down in her cabin.”

“Right, you do that. Let’s hope she’s okay. I thought Nicholson was going to sort it all out. He was right behind them.”

“Nicholson?” asked the master-at-arms. “I don’t know about that guy. He seems to have a crush on the girl.”

“A crush? Old Nick? Don’t make me laugh.”

“Yeah, Chief, he’s in love, like half the men on this ship. I’ll check it out, though.”

“Please do that, Bill. I’d do it myself, but I’m off to my cabin right now. I have to change. Jackson and I were in the forepeak. I’m wet and dirty, else I’d join you.”

“That’s okay,” Smith said, putting the necklace away in his pocket. “I’ll find Borsellino as well. I don’t really like him. But the girl is far worse.”

“She’s worse? How do you mean?”

The master-at-arms shrugged. “I don’t like loose women.”

 

In his stateroom, up in the officers’ quarters, Chris took off his soiled uniform and underwear. What a night, he thought as he glanced at himself in the bathroom mirror. Smiling boyishly, he flexed his biceps. He had reason to smile. Captain Hemmings was due to take command of the new Transocean liner after the Antares’s present world cruise.

Chris would most likely be given command of the ageing Antares. It would be a dream come true. He knew the liner like the back of his hand and he loved her despite her unfortunate quirks. She had a tendency to slam her bow in a seaway if she met them head-on, but she seldom rolled, so her stabilisers hardly ever had to be used.

Humming Senza Finé, he opened his shower curtain and sucked in his breath. Gabriella Valenti lay in his shower, half naked, partly propped up against one of the walls. She had abrasions around her neck and blood was seeping from a cut in her scalp, trickling down between her breasts. Looking more closely, he saw she had a wound below her left breast as well.

In a daze he bent down to check her pulse, staring at her breasts to see whether they rose and fell as she breathed. There was no pulse, nor did her chest show any sign that she was breathing. Live! Live! he fervently whispered, shaking Gabriella’s shoulders, after which he examined the wound in her chest more closely, coming to the conclusion she’d been killed by a stiletto plunged into her heart.

 

Chris straightaway realised that the blood Smith had discovered belonged to Gabriella. Borsellino must have throttled her to stop her from screaming for help. Her necklace had broken during the struggle.

They’d somehow evaded the purser – who’d probably become winded chasing up the stairs – and Borsellino had then obviously carried her unconscious body up to the officers’ flat, randomly trying the doors up there, after which he’d left her in Chris’s cabin.

He had of course taken a desperate chance, since the officers’ block was out of bounds to passengers and most of the crew, which was the reason why Chris seldom bothered about locking his door.

He couldn’t imagine, however, why Gabriella had been stripped to her underwear, and he wondered what had happened to her red dress. The blood on her chest revived an old memory. Claudia had looked like that once, he recalled, when she’d eaten a ripe pomegranate next to the pool in her garden, with scarlet juice running down her cleavage. Won’t I ever forget? Chris asked himself.

 

Forcing himself to think clearly, Chris considered whether he ought to call Hemmings. He was less inclined to call upon Smith, the master-at-arms, who might not so readily believe he’d had nothing to do with it. Question was: would Hemmings believe him?

Chris nevertheless realised he had to do something quickly. Then he wondered if Gabriella’s red gown had been hidden somewhere in his cabin. Its presence would obviously cast further doubt upon him. A thorough search showed Chris the dress wasn’t there, but there were several crimson marks on the floor and around his porthole.

He guessed Gabriella’s dress had been flung overboard, provided, however, that the killer had used enough force to clear the alley running outside the officers’ quarters. He opened his porthole and saw that her clothes did not, in fact, lie outside in the alley.

I’d better get rid of Gabriella’s body as well, he thought, so he picked her up, carried her to the porthole and after looking around, manoeuvred her out through the opening. It was a dark, moonless night, so the chance that someone should see him seemed fairly remote.

He climbed out after Gabriella and, feeling both relief and regret, was about to throw her body into the ocean when a voice in head seemed to say, Would you do this to Claudia?

 

Chris’s intimate knowledge of the ship stood him in good stead, once he’d decided he couldn’t go through with it. There was an inspection hatch in an air-conditioning duct near the end of the outside alley. It was the kind of thing one could see, but somehow didn’t really notice. The best hiding places often tended to be out in the open like that.

Stealthily he carried the body there, opened the hatch and lifted Gabriella inside it. By then increasingly heavy seas were causing the Antares to pitch and roll. Heavy spray flew over the ship and would soon was away all traces of blood in the alley.

Climbing back through his porthole, Chris spent the better part of an hour cleaning up every trace of blood in his cabin. After that he locked his door and went out to look for the Bergers.

 

It was past midnight by then and the wooden panelling along the deserted passages and stairwells intermittently creaked. The Bergers had evidently just gone to bed, but upon opening their door to his urgent knocking, and seeing the serious look on Chris’s face, they invited him in.

James listened intently as he told the Bergers his story. Once he interrupted Chris, asking him if had any idea why Borsellino hadn’t simply left Gabriella where he’d grappled with her in the passage.

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” Chris answered.

“That’s okay,” James told him. “Go on.”

Half an hour later Chris had told him all that he knew, and James seemed to sink into a trancelike silence.

After a while he asked, “Does anyone hold a grudge against you? Something that you’re aware of, I mean?”

“That’s a tough one,” Chris frowned, “but I can’t think Borsellino even knows me?”

“Right. Let’s leave him out of it for a moment. Who are the people, besides Borsellino, who could possibly have done it?”

“You don’t think it was him?”

“We’ll find out,” said James. “Where can we find him?”

He got up and put on his clothes. “Fine busman’s holiday this is proving to be,” he grinned. “Now lead on, Chief Officer, first show me the crime scene. Then take me to the prime suspect.”

James returned to his cabin at two o’clock. “Get some sleep now,” he told Chris.

“Do you have any ideas yet?” Chris asked.

“I do, but I can’t be sure yet. We’ll discuss it tomorrow.”

 

The following morning Chris had an ugly surprise. The captain’s personal steward – his tiger, as captains’ stewards are known – rapped on his door to tell him Hemmings wanted to see him.

“Sit down, Stuart,” Hemmings said when Chris entered his cabin. “Gabriella Valenti is missing. I believe she was in your cabin last night, shortly after Borsellino chased her upstairs. What do you have to say?”

“That’s nonsense,” Chris countered. “Who said so?”

“Here, have a look.” Hemmings handed him an anonymous letter. Written in block letters it said:

Last night I see Gabriella and chief officer in passage on bridge deck. Big tear in Gabriella dress.  Chief carry her to his cabin. She not come out. He throw away dress. Falls on boat deck. I put dress in numero 1 boat.

 

“Her dress is in number 1 boat?” Chris asked. “Who wrote this?”

“We don’t know,” said Hemmings, “but whoever did it was right. Gabriella’s dress actually was in Boat No. 1. Smith retrieved it. It looks as if it was ripped off her chest, and there was blood on it.”

“Well then,” Chris interrupted, “Borsellino must’ve done that. We all witnessed the way he went after her. He obviously wrote this letter in an attempt to divert our attention. His poor English gives him away. The Italian word ‘numero’ pretty much proves it was him. Besides … where’s the body? You haven’t got a body.”

“A body, you say?” Hemmings took back the letter. “This doesn’t say ‘body.’ I didn’t say ‘body’ either, so what do you mean?”

Chris wanted to kick himself for his blunder and said, “It’s a logical assumption. Perhaps Borsellino threw her overboard. It wasn’t the kind of night for passengers to go up on deck.”

“Yes, you’ve got a point there, and at first we thought so as well, but the man has an alibi.”

“What kind of an alibi?

“Quite simply that he wasn’t alone,” Hemmings said. “Gabriella and Borsellino publicly broke up with one another at approximately 9 o’clock. We all saw that, and the leader of the band says he briefly went down to his cabin before the band resumed playing. Turns out he and Borsellino are roommates. He found Borsellino in their cabin without so much as a drop of blood on his clothes, and he was crying his heart out.”

 

There was a knock on the door and the master-at-arms came into the room.

“There’s no blood in the chief’s cabin, sir,” he began, “but I found this. It was hidden below some of his clothes in a drawer.”

He placed a sharp-pointed stiletto on the desk in front of the captain. “I dusted it for prints, but there’s nothing – wiped clean, by the looks of it.”

There was another knock on the door and James Berger came in, with the captain’s tiger behind him, looking worried.

“He insisted, Captain …”

“That’s quite true, sir,” said Berger, stepping forward, “I’m afraid I overruled your good man. I’m Dr James Berger.”

He briefly nodded at Chris, showed Hemmings a police badge, and added, “You’re looking for a missing person, not so? And possibly a murderer as well?”

The captain cleared his throat. “Uhm … we possibly are, yes.”

“Well then, Captain, as soon as we dock in Australia, this will in any event fall under my jurisdiction, so I’d suggest we take a shortcut. I already know where the body was hidden.”

Hemmings came to his feet. “You know where the body …?”

Bill Smith swiftly stepped forward as well. “At the moment the jurisdiction is still mine. I’m following leads …”

“Smith, sit down!” Hemmings said. “And you too, Dr Berger.”

He sat down himself and continued, “Now, Dr Berger, by all means tell us what you know.”

“I’ll do that,” said Berger. “Just a moment.”

Leaning forward, he took the letter on Hemming’s desk and read it. “Hmm, interesting. Do you have any idea who wrote this?”

“We assume Borsellino did so,” said Smith.

“The Italian musician with the broken English? Not so. Mr Smith, would you help us? Please write something I’ll dictate to you. Here, use my notebook and pen.”

Smith reluctantly took the proffered notebook.

“Let me see,” Berger began. “Please write, ‘I saw Gabriella and the chief officer in the passage last night.’”

“That’s not how he wrote it,” Smith objected.

“I know that. He used pidgin English. Now what about this? ‘He throw dress away.’”

Smith hesitated. “Uh, that’s what he wrote, isn’t it?”

“Yes, more or less. Of course it’s a split verbal phrase. Italians don’t know that. English-speaking people would usually put it as, ‘threw away the dress.’  Now can I have back my book please?”

Both Hemmings and Smith seemed to be nonplussed, but Berger continued, “Captain, a private word with you, please.”

 

Chris got up and he and the master-at-arms left Hemmings’s dayroom. Half-an-hour later Berger came to see Chris.

“Right,” he said, “your captain is a worried man, but he’s agreed to host a gala concert in the Regal the day after tomorrow.”

“A gala concert? You’re kidding me! More to the point; do you have any idea yet who did it?”

“All in good time, Chris. All in good time. There are quite a few suspects. First of all there’s Borsellino. But then again the bosun could conceivably have done it, although I doubt that. Then there’s the alternate lookout. What’s his name again?”

“It’s Atkins,” said Chris, “but surely …?”

“Oh, he could very easily have done it. Let’s move on though. There’s Smith himself. He seems to be a misogynist – he hates women – and the purser is a distinct possibility. His manner’s too oily.”

“Old Nick? I doubt that,” Chris smirked. “Rumour has it he gets it off with rich old lady passengers – the young ones would probably all laugh at him. What about the band members? Wasn’t it one of them?”

“Let’s hope not,” sighed Berger. “My game-plan won’t work if one of them actually did it. Tell me, do you have enemies aboard?”

“Enemies? You’re implying I might’ve been framed? You’ve already asked me about a grudge.”

“So I did. It’s a possibility, I think. There’s always a motive. What was Gabriella’s favourite song again? Altrimenti mai, not so? Else no one ever will. Prophetic words, perhaps. Shame. Love and death are sometimes just two sides of the same coin. How well do you remember the classics?”

“The classics? Not well at all, James. I’m a seaman, remember?”

“So was Phaon, the boatman for whom Sappho threw herself into the sea. Her love for him was unrequited

“Wasn’t Sappho a lesbian?”

“Yes, people say so, mainly because she headed a cult to Aphrodite. Meanwhile, this is what we’re going to do about the body you nearly threw into the ocean.”

“Damn! I really don’t know what came over me.”

James nodded. “Yes, it does happen. By the way, I’ve had a word with the ship’s doctor. Taken him into my confidence. He’s agreed to assist me with a formal autopsy. Afterwards we’ll quietly bury Gabriella at sea.”

 

He got up. “And now I have work to do. We arrive in Sydney five days from now. That ought to be long enough.”

“Before you go,” Chris said, “can I ask you a question? It’s about Jung. You spoke of him yesterday. Wasn’t he psychic … you know, seeing things that aren’t there?”

“Yes, he allegedly was, Chris, but more often than not his patients were the ones who saw things, or family members.”

“Dammit, James, I also see things. It feels like a curse.”

“I’m sure it does. Allegra is clairvoyant as well, and it scares her. But you’re making a point, are you?”

“Yes, my point is that I saw Gabriella’s dress floating past the ship while she was still singing in the Regal. At least I think so.”

Berger narrowed his eyes. “Go on.”

“That’s it. Can’t you explain it?”

“Perhaps. First of all the phenomenon we call clairvoyance seems to be based upon a dislocation of time. Remember that time isn’t immutable, or linear. It’s relative. Secondly, Jung explained that people see objects, like UFOs, not because they exist, but because they embody a myth, an archetype. Urban myths are unconsciously projected like that, if you see what I mean.”

Chris shook his head. “No, I’m afraid you’ve got me there.”

“Well,” said Berger, “I can’t really explain it in just a few words. What most likely happened is that you unconsciously sensed that Gabriella was in terrible danger and you had a vision about her, a kind of dream, if you see what I mean.”

“Yes, vaguely.”

“Right,” Berger said, “now I really must go.”

 

The stormy weather cleared up after a day and shipboard life returned almost to normal. Notices went up on the notice boards announcing a gala concert in the Regal Lounge to say farewell to the passengers disembarking in Sydney. In addition the announcements said that the band would play Gabriella’s favourite songs in her honour that night.

There was a large turnout and half-an-hour into the evening Berger approached the captain to ask his permission to speak a few words in memory of Gabriella. Hemmings agreed and Berger went to the podium. Shyly he tapped the microphone as if to test it, and then haltingly began his speech:

“Ladies and gentlemen, my name is James Berger. I beg your indulgence tonight to say just a few words about the accident that has cast such a shadow upon this ship and our cruise. It was announced earlier on that tonight the band would play songs in memory of the lady who disappeared from our midst during a previous concert.

“It would seem that almost everyone who was present at that time is also present tonight. Except for one person, of course, unless we accept that our spirit lives on after our death and will someday return.”

The audience stirred but Berger ploughed on: “It is therefore possible that Gabriella Valenti will also return, although her attacker may not have thought so …”

Tumult broke out and Berger waited until silence returned. Then he said, “Gabriella’s attacker must have thought he had killed her. He throttled her and tore off her dress. He may have thought he’d thrown the dress into the sea, but it fell onto a lower deck, where we found it.”

The audience loudly came to its feet and Berger had to raise his voice: “Please sit down, ladies and gentlemen. Now then, when Gabriella became unconscious, her attacker carried her to a cabin. Not his own one. To complete his evil intent, he then stuck a knife into her heart, or rather, he thought so.”

James waited a minute, pretending to look up something in his notebook, and then said, “As you all know, the apex of the human heart lies on the left side of the chest … except in a rare congenital condition known as dextrocardia. Gabriella Valenti’s heart lies on the right side of her chest. Let me demonstrate …”

He turned to the band. “Please, gentlemen. Per favore. Grazie.”

 

The lights dimmed as the bandleader picked up his violin. Softly he began to play Senza Finé. The rest of the band fell in with their leader, and from behind the drapes at the back of the podium, Gabriella, dressed in a dark crimson dress, stepped onto the stage.

 

 

The audience gasped. Gabriella wore her left arm in a sling and she had a black bandage around her head. A broad plaster covered her chest. Her eyes seemed to burn with a fiery hatred as she came forward.

“Per come si chiama questo, Gabriella?” said the bandleader. “Who did this? Was it Borsellino?”

“No!” Raising her right arm she pointed to a figure near the entrance and cried, “È lui che … it is he! Never ever will you sleep the sleep of the living again, you bastardo! Except in hell, where you wanted me to go!”

A horrible cry broke out at the back. “No, Gabriella, I loved you, but you laughed at me! I would’ve given you everything, but you just laughed and laughed!”

Nicholson, the purser, turned around and broke free from the staff who tried to restrain him. Retreating, he shouted, “It was always the Chief instead. Always the bloody Chief … he probably wasn’t even aware of it … or else it was that stupid bloody musician!”

He ran upstairs, with Chris sprinting after him. On the boat deck he nearly caught up, but Nicholson jumped.

“Damn you!” Chris swore. He grabbed the nearest lifebuoy and threw it overboard.

Berger arrived a few minutes later, followed by Hemmings.

“We should stop the ship and put out a boat,” Chris said.

“Good idea,” James agreed. “What he said was tantamount to a confession.”

“Hm, yes,” said Hemmings. “Go up to the bridge, Mr Stuart. No, wait, I’ll go! Not much hope, though. I believe he can’t swim.”

 

“Did you know it was him?” Chris asked when Hemmings had gone. “And who the hell was that girl in the Regal?”

“Yes, I guessed it was him. He’s just a little too unctuous, but clever as well. It would’ve been awfully hard to prove it was him. As for the girl – didn’t you recognise Allegra? She a pretty good actress, wouldn’t you say?”

Chris nodded. “Yes, she’s very good. Terrific, in fact.”

James Berger put a hand on his shoulder. “We’ve just seen how that Nicholson bastard was pathologically jealous of you … and he was twisted enough to kill the girl he supposedly loved. He was a real stronzo, as Gabriella would’ve put it … but he made one very good point.”

“A good point?”

“Yes, girls like you – why do you keep on aching for Claudia? She’s not coming back. C’mon, get on with your life now. Find yourself someone new … before your whole life is over.”  

Chris smiled. “I suppose you’re quoting Jung now?”

“No, he isn’t,” a soft voice answered from behind a lifeboat winch. The next moment Allegra rushed forward, still in her red off-the-shoulder dress and bandage, but without her sling now.

She put her arms around both men. “This time my gorgeous husband is quoting himself, Chris, and I completely agree.”

The moon broke through a cloud and cast a shiny path on the sea.

“Look at that,” Claudia said. “That’s Jung; that’s synchronicity. A little romance is what we all need.”

 

------ooo-----

 

© John van den Berg