“This is foolish,” Mrs. Laghari grumbled. “He’s obviously playing games.”
“No!” Nina yelled abruptly, her face contorting like a denied child. “Let him talk.” She spun toward the man. “Are you here to save us?”
His voice softened. “I can only do that,” he said, “when everyone here believes I am who I say I am.”
No one moved. You could hear the smack of the sea against the boat’s sides. Finally, Geri, who is too practical for talk like this, surveyed the group like an annoyed schoolteacher.
“Well, buddy,” she said, “you let us know when that happens. Until then, we better adjust our food rations.”
News
REPORTER: This is Valerie Cortez, aboard the Galaxy, the spectacular yacht owned by Jason Lambert. The billionaire businessman has assembled some of the biggest names in the world for a weeklong adventure, and he’s here with us now. Hello, Jason.
LAMBERT: Welcome, Valerie.
REPORTER: You’ve called this extravaganza “the Grand Idea.” Why?
LAMBERT: Because everyone on this ship has done something grand, something to shape their industry, their country, maybe even the planet. We have technology leaders, business leaders, political leaders, entertainment leaders. They’re big-idea people.
REPORTER: Movers and shakers, like yourself.
LAMBERT: Well. Ha. I don’t know about that.
REPORTER: And you brought them together for what reason?
LAMBERT: Valerie, it’s a $200 million yacht. I think a good time is possible!
REPORTER: Obviously!
LAMBERT: No. Seriously. Idea people need to be around other idea people. They spur each other to change the world.
REPORTER: So this is like the World Economic Forum in Davos, Switzerland?
LAMBERT: Right. But a more fun version—on water.
REPORTER: And you hope many grand ideas come out of this trip?
LAMBERT: That, and some quality hangovers.
REPORTER: Hangovers, did you say?
LAMBERT: What’s life without a party, Valerie? Am I right?
Sea
Lambert throws up. He is on his knees, heaving over the side. His fat midsection protrudes from his T-shirt, and he is hairy at the navel. Some of the vomit blows back in his face, and he groans.
It is evening. The sea is choppy. Others have been sick as well. The winds are fierce. Maybe it will rain. We’ve had no rain since the Galaxy sank.
Looking back, we were still hopeful that first morning—shocked at what happened, but grateful to be alive. The ten of us huddled inside the lifeboat. We spoke about rescue planes. We scanned the horizon.
“Who here has children?” Mrs. Laghari suddenly asked, as if starting a car game. “I myself have two. Grown now.”
“Three,” Nevin offered.
“Five,” Lambert said. “Got you beat.”
“But how many wives?” Nevin poked.
“That wasn’t the question,” Lambert said.
“I’ve been too busy,” Yannis said.
“Not yet for me,” Nina said.
“Have you got a husband?” Mrs. Laghari asked.
“Do I need one?”
Mrs. Laghari laughed. “Well, I did! Anyhow, you won’t have any problem in that department.”
“We have four sons,” Jean Philippe announced. He rested a hand on his sleeping wife’s shoulder. “Bernadette and I. Four good boys.” He turned to me. “And you, Benji?”
“No kids, Jean Philippe.”
“Do you have a wife?”
I hesitated.
“Yes.”
“Well, then, you can start when we get home!”
He flashed a broad smile, and the group laughed a little. But as the day went on, the waves grew bumpier and we all got seasick. By evening, the mood had changed. It felt as if we’d been out here a week. I remember seeing little Alice sleeping in Nina’s lap, and Nina’s face streaked with tears. Mrs. Laghari grabbed her hand as Nina whimpered, “What if they can’t find us?”
What if they can’t? Without a compass, Geri has been trying to chart our course by the stars. She thinks we are heading southwest, away from Cape Verde and farther into the wide, empty Atlantic. That is not good.
Meanwhile, to avoid direct sunlight, we spend hours tucked under a stretched canopy that covers more than half of the boat. We must sit inches from one another, stripped down, sweaty, foul-smelling. It’s a far cry from the Galaxy, even if some of us were guests on that luxury vessel and some of us workers. Here we are all the same. Half-naked and scared.
The Grand Idea—the voyage that brought us all together—was Lambert’s brainchild. He told invitees they were there to change the world. I never believed that. The yacht’s size. Its multiple decks. The swimming pool, gym, the ballroom. That’s what he wanted them to remember.
As for workers like Nina, Bernadette, Jean Philippe, and me? We were only there to serve. I have labored under Jason Lambert for five months now, and I have never felt so invisible. Staff on the Galaxy are forbidden to make eye contact with guests, nor can we eat in their presence. Meanwhile, Lambert does what he wants, barreling into the kitchen, using his fingers to pick at the food, stuffing his face as the workers lower their heads. Everything about him screams gluttony, from his flashy rings to his obese midsection. I can see why Dobby wanted him dead.
I turn away from Lambert’s puking and study the new arrival, who is sleeping outside the canopy with his mouth slightly open. He is not particularly striking for a man who claims to be the Almighty. His eyebrows are thick, his cheeks are flabby, he has a wide chin and small ears, partly covered by that dark nest of hair. I admit I felt a chill when he said those things yesterday: I am here … Have you not been calling me? But later, when Geri handed out packets of peanut butter crackers, he ripped open the plastic and devoured the contents so quickly, I thought he’d choke. I doubt God would ever get that hungry. Certainly not for peanut butter crackers.
Still, for the moment, he has distracted us. Earlier, as he slept, we gathered to whisper our theories.
“Do you think he’s delirious?”
“Of course! He probably banged his head.”
“There’s no way he survived three days treading water.”
“What’s the longest a man can do that?”
“I read about a guy who lasted twenty-eight hours.”
“Still not three days.”
“He honestly thinks he’s God?”
“He had no life jacket!”
“Maybe he came from another boat.”
“If there were another boat, we would have seen it.”
Finally, Nina spoke up. She was the Galaxy’s hairstylist, born in Ethiopia. With her high cheekbones and flowing dark locks, she retains a certain elegance even here in the middle of the sea. “Has anyone considered the least likely explanation?” she asked.
“Which is?” Yannis said.
“That he’s telling the truth? That he’s come in our hour of need?”
Eyes darted from one to the next. Then Lambert started laughing, a deep, dismissive cackle. “Oh, yes! That’s how we all picture God. Floating like seaweed until you pull him into your boat. Come on. Did you look at him? He’s like some island kid who fell off his surfboard.”
We shifted our legs. No one said much after that. I looked up at the pale white moon, which hung large in the sky. Do some of us think it possible? That this strange new arrival is actually the Lord incarnate?
I can only speak for myself.
No, I do not.
Land
LeFleur drove the man called Rom to the north shore of the island. He tried to make conversation, but Rom answered with polite deflections: “Yes, Inspector” and “No, Inspector.” LeFleur eyed the glove compartment, where he kept a small flask of whisky.
“You live up by St. John’s?” LeFleur tried.
Rom half nodded.
“Where do you go liming?”
Rom looked at him blankly.
“Liming? Chilling? Hanging out?”
No response. They drove past a rum shop and a boarded-up disco/café, with turquoise shutters hanging loosely off their hinges.
“What about surfing? You do any surfing? Bransby Point? Trants Bay?”
“I don’t care much for the water.”