17
Maika
“What we’re going to do is contact Shorex’s local receiving agency in Rome and divert one of the backup buses to pick you up at a safe location.”
Helen’s voice comes through the phone with that calmness only she can muster when everything is about to go up in flames.
I picture her standing in the ship’s security office, the folder clamped tightly against her chest, her eyes fixed on the monitoring system, and her jaw clenched with the effort of not yelling at me.
Although part of me wants to thank her for processing the information so quickly, the other part wants to reach through the phone line and shake her by the shoulders until she understands the heart attack I’m having right now.
“Divert a bus? You know the entrance to the Civitavecchia highway turns into a rat trap at this hour, right?” I reply, dodging a group of tourists. “We’d get stuck in traffic the whole way.”
I look around. St. Peter’s Square has turned into a hive of activity.
Next to me, Nico is so pale he looks like he’s just watched his own employment contract float away into the Mediterranean.
He keeps making exaggerated faces at me, widening his eyes, and pointing at his phone in desperation, as if he doesn’t understand that if I could resolve a maritime crisis with theatrical gestures, we’d already be on board with a cold drink in hand on the observation deck.
I cover the earpiece with my palm and glare at him.
“Do you want me to be the one who ends up in the ship’s infirmary because of your nerves?” I snap at him.
Nico shakes his head immediately, terrified.
“Fine,” I sigh. “Then shut up for a second.”
I go back to the phone with my heart pounding in my throat.
“Helen, listen to me carefully…”
“I’m listening, Maika.”
“No, you’re calculating how many unfavorable reports you’re going to stick me with while pretending to listen. There’s a huge difference.”
“Maika, please. We don’t have any leeway. The captain is already asking for the crew and passenger manifest to close the gangway.”
“Listen,” I interrupt her, turning the corner at a brisk pace.
“St. Peter’s Square is just a ten-minute walk from the Roma San Pietro train station.
If I can get the whole group there, we can take the Regional Veloce direct to Civitavecchia.
We’ll skip the Rome traffic, the gridlocked port entrances, and the remote possibility that the bus driver decides today is the perfect day to retire. Don’t you think?”
There’s a silence on the other end of the line. Did I just shock her speechless?
“Are you planning to cross the street with twenty-four passengers from the ship against the clock?” Helen asks, clearly incredulous.
“It’s not all of Rome, Helen. It’s four blocks. And in case you haven’t checked the clock on deck, it’s pretty urgent,” I reply, trying to stay in control. “I know it’s a desperate plan, but it’s also brilliant. My two best sides come out when everything goes wrong,” I say sarcastically.
Around me, several passengers begin to murmur anxiously upon seeing that the official buses are no longer on the esplanade. I turn toward them and raise a hand, forcing my best cheerleader-style projection.
“Everyone, please listen to me! We’re going to take a little stroll over to the Roma San Pietro train station.
It’s right here. I need us to walk together, as a group, without splitting up, without stopping to take pictures, and for heaven’s sake, without buying anything shaped like the Colosseum or a smiling Pope. Okay?”
“But… are we going to make it in time before the ship sets sail?” asks a man, his voice thick with anxiety.
I smile with all the confidence I can muster, as if I were holding the cruise ship’s helm in my hands. Don’t they read the information when they book the cruises, or what?
“Of course.” I force a smile. “No one is going to be left behind, I guarantee it.”
I don’t add “as long as no one falls or gets distracted,” because I sense that wouldn’t help the group’s morale.
Helen speaks to me again over the phone; her tone has changed—now it’s that of the security officer analyzing potential risks.
“I need you to confirm the exact headcount right now.”
“Twenty-four passengers, Nico, and me,” I reply clearly, shuffling my feet across the pavement.
“I’ve got Don Ernesto’s daughter’s contact information, and Nico has already passed the report on to ground support.
My top priority right now is getting the rest of them out of here. Safe, sound, and on time.”
“Agreed,” Helen says. I hear the rapid tapping of her keyboard in the background. “I’ll adjust the plan. I’ll arrange for the port agency to meet you with a shuttle bus at the Civitavecchia train terminal so you can head straight to the pier as soon as you get off.”
This is Helen at her very best. And for the first time since I saw the buses disappear, I feel like I have solid ground under my feet again.
“Perfect. I’ll buy tickets for the whole group as soon as we get to the ticket counter.”
“Don’t let them out of your sight for a second, Maika. If I’m missing a single boarding pass when we cross the gangway, we’ll have a very serious problem.”
“Thanks for the advice, really. I was thinking of letting them go on Via della Conciliazione and wishing them good luck in their lives,” I say sarcastically.
“Don’t even think about joking about that today. Got it?”
I bite my tongue. Literally. Because if I say what I’m thinking right now, the Vatican will excommunicate both of us.
“Group three, keep up the pace! Nico, bring up the rear. Don’t let anyone fall behind.”
The expedition sets off as best it can. We’re neither elegant nor discreet.
We’re a tourist peloton with ship stickers on our chests, backpacks, sweat, and panicked eyes, crossing the cobblestone streets while I lead the march with my cell phone glued to my ear and a professional smile that’s starting to give me cramps in my cheeks.
Rome is beautiful even when it’s ruining your run.
The ocher facades glisten in the afternoon sun, motorcycles whiz past, scraping the curbs at absurd speeds, and the terraces give off a criminal aroma of fresh pasta and espresso.
A couple kisses passionately on a street corner, completely oblivious to the fact that my mental stability depends on a ship’s boarding schedule.
How lovely, how romantic, and how I want to ask them to get out of the way because they’re blocking half the damn sidewalk.
“How are you guys doing? Where exactly are you?” Helen insists.
“Walking,” I reply, and I hear her huff on the other end. “What do you want me to tell you, Helen? The knots we’re moving at? For God’s sake, we’re right in the middle of the street.”
“I just want to know if you’re making good progress.”
I look back over my shoulder. Nico is trying to encourage an elderly couple who are already dragging their feet, and the rest of the group is moving forward like a militarized pilgrimage under the blazing sun.
“We’re doing fine,” I say, picking up the pace. “We may not have the grace of a gazelle, but we’re moving forward.”
Thirty seconds later, I hear her voice again.
“And now?”
“In a Roman alleyway. With hellish cobblestones, tourists everywhere,” I say sarcastically. “Helen, you’re putting unbearable pressure on me. If you say another word to me in the next three minutes—I swear I’ll dump them all in the fountain and quit.”
“Dare to do something like that and I’ll throw you overboard myself the moment you step on deck.”
“Well, go get yourself some chamomile tea, a mud bath, or whatever uptight people use to relax. Damn it!”
Silence falls suddenly. And not just over the line. All around me, too. Several passengers in the front row turn to look at me, including two kids whose eyes are wide as saucers, as if they’ve just discovered that the ship’s entertainment coordinators can swear like sailors, too.
I smile immediately, transforming my face into pure sweetness.
“Everything’s fine, we’re still enjoying the trip in a… dynamic way,” I assure Helen.
Nico brings a hand to his face, running his fingers over it in embarrassment, while Helen, on the other side, takes a deep breath.
“Did you say that in front of the passengers?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.
Everyone here is having an intense and memorable cultural experience,” I whisper, already stepping into the station lobby.
“Helen, I’m moving twenty-four people, including the elderly, to a platform in record time.
If a swear word slips out, you put it in the incident report, deduct my stopover bonus, and we’re even. ”
“I don’t want to dock anything from you, Maika,” her voice softens a notch, losing its earlier stiffness. “I just want you to make it to the platform. Safe and sound.”
For a second, as I dodge the barriers at the entrance, I sense a small crack. A real, human concern. Concern… for me.
And my heart, which is a total traitor, decides to soften in the midst of the chaos.
“We’ll make it,” I assure her.
“You’d better,” she replies.
I smile despite the sweat and the rush.
“That sounded almost affectionate.”
“Don’t get used to it, coordinator.”
We reach the Roma San Pietro concourse out of breath and with our dignity in tatters. The station’s tiles seem like the antechamber to paradise. Passengers file in behind me, panting and casting anxious glances at the departure screens.
“Nico, quick headcount. Now.”
He starts pointing at heads with a trembling finger.
“One, two, three…”
I run toward the ticket machines, trying to figure out the interface. Regional Veloce to Civitavecchia. Departure in four minutes. Travel time: forty-one minutes. Blessed Italian railway.
“Helen, we’ve got a Regional Veloce on the platform,” I report over the speakerphone. “It takes forty minutes. If we catch it, we’ve won the day.”
“Get the tickets now. Don’t let it get away.”
“I’m trying, boss of the universe, but the machine is super slow.”