The Stowaway Read Online Free PDF Page B

over a breakfast of cold salty gruel, Gheorghe ambles up to the bars. A guard lazily approaches. There are words. Gheorghe backs away, shrugging his shoulders, feigning a lack of concern. A few hours later, he tries again, this time passing the guard a few bills. He returns to sit beside Daniel.
    “Okay, it’s done.”
    A different guard approaches with a ring of keys. He nods at Gheorghe, who stands and motions for Daniel to do the same. They walk to the bars and wait while the guard fiddles with the key ring. He curses under his breath, for both the latch key and themetal lock box are old and rusting and have chosen that moment to misbehave. Finally, the door swings open with a muted screech. The guard ushers Daniel and Gheorghe along a hallway and up some stairs. At the landing, he opens a side door, letting Daniel and Gheorghe into an alley. The door clangs shut behind them.
    As Gheorghe stretches, Daniel feels a relief so profound he grows dizzy with it.
Never again
, he thinks.
Being locked up doesn’t agree with me.
    “Ah,” says Gheorghe. “Things are looking up. Can you believe, all that fuss for six American dollars? This world—it’s a crazy place, don’t you think?”
    “Yes, it is that.”
    “Listen. A friend of a friend of my uncle has a construction company in France. I’ve got a job to go to there. It’s where I’m going.”
    Daniel says nothing.
    “I’m thinking,” Gheorghe continues, “we could travel together for a bit. I could use the company. That is, if you want.”
    Daniel peers at him, appraising the offer.
    “All right,” he says. “If you want.”

THREE
    All twenty-two men are on deck, posted in a half-moon formation, staring at the spot near the port-side gunwale where the stowaways had climbed, trembling, onto the ladder. The waters are rough, the boat rising quickly and then, at the break of each swell, dropping in a shower of froth. Despite the roughness of the sea, there isn’t a man on board who has to extend his arms to maintain his balance or take a sudden sidestep when the ship rolls in a trough.
    The captain turns and, head down, marches toward the accommodation. The chief officer shouts“Bosun!” and, a second later, Rodolfo starts the gangway hydraulics, two of his ABs guiding the ladder as it folds, like an accordion, into its docket. The rest of the men disperse—the bridge officers head upstairs, the mess crew goes back to the kitchen, the engine crew goes below. The remaining ABs drift towardthe starboard aft. Each of them looks dazed—that easily, all evidence has been erased, the event now existing only in their memories. Up ahead, their tools lean against the gunwale.
    At lunchtime, Rodolfo accepts a tray of spicy fried chicken and noodles from the Filipino second cook before moving to sitwith his ABs and two men from the engine room—theship’s oiler, Juanito Ilagan, and the pipefitter, Alfredo Panelo. As Rodolfo pulls his chair they glance upward, the oiler murmuring, “Hey, Bose.” Other than that, nobody speaks. Occasionally, one of them takes a bite and chews, though mostly they push the food around their plates, creating stringy mounds that, a second later, they flatten with the backs of their forks. Rodolfo can hear the second cook working in the kitchen, and he can hear the sound of cutlery pivoting against hard plastic plates. Otherwise, there’s a dull, thickened quiet, and it seems to Rodolfo that this absence of conversation has a weight, and that this weight isbowing the sides of the mess room, causing the walls to creak and complain. He sips his coffee and stares at hisfood. Though the dinner is one of his favourites, today it looks almost larval, as though it might start to writhe in front of him. He pushes away his plate, and takes another sip of coffee, and stares at the fake wood grain of the tabletop.
    One by one, the men leave the table, scraping uneaten food into the trash cans located near the mess exit. Rodolfo goes to his cabin