sailors, all quips and barbs and needlings, though it does feel as though they’re doing something wrong by enjoying themselves.
He relaxes, slightly, and learns things about the engine crew: that the oiler, Ilagan, used to be a professional karaoke singer, and that he came from the same province as the officer, Broas. That the second cook, whose name is Ricardo, is intent on marrying a girl back in Manila, should her parents ever give their consent. That the electrician, an older man named Wilfredo, used to be in the Filipino navy. That the fitter, Alfredo, is also from Ilocos, the northern province where Rodolfo was born.
“You know,” Rodolfo says, “my AB, Manuel, is from there as well.”
“Which one is he?”
“Manuel?”
“Yes.”
“A small man, a bit older than the other ABs. A little too much weight …”
At this, the other sailors nod, for they understand Rodolfo is talking about the nervous deckhand, the one rumoured to behaving the most trouble dealing with what they all saw that morning.
“And what of you, Bosun?” the electrician asks. “Have you always been a sailor?”
“Oh no,” Rodolfo says. “I used to work for the city—my wife’s uncle got me the job. But working in politics, it wasn’t for me. It wasn’t for me at all.”
“Why not?”
“All the wheelings and dealings, seeing how things get done, seeing how palms get greased. Oh no, it wasn’t for me. So I talked it over with my wife, and I told her how I felt, and she said, ‘Okay Rudy, if you’re going to make a change you might as well do it now, when you’re young.’ A few months after that I shipped out.”
“And with every shore leave,” the second cook jokes, “another baby! How many is it, Bosun?”
“Five,” Rodolfo answers, “and counting!”
At this, everyone laughs; even Ariel Broas chuckles for a moment. Slowly, their laughter is replaced with the awkward silence of five men who have decided it’s time they started talking about what they’ve come to discuss. Rodolfo looks from face to face. The oiler lights a cigarette. Ariel Broas clears his throat, and asks simply, “Do we know where they were from?”
“Eastern Europe,” says Juanito. “I think. You could tell by the way they spoke.”
“Yes,” says the fitter, “Serbia, maybe. There are lots of Serbs and Croats trying to get away from that place. Who can blame them?”
“Or Czech,” says the electrician, “maybe Czech. Or Romanian.”
“Yes,” Rodolfo pipes up. “Romanian.”
The others look at him.
“They knew Spanish words.”
“So?” the fitter says.
“I knew a Romanian sailor once. He told me his language wasn’t like the languages of the countries near his. He told me it had French words, and Italian words, and Spanish words. When I was talking to them, I heard words from those languages …”
“Didn’t they get on in Spain? Maybe they learned those words there?”
“Maybe,” Rodolfo says.
“Did you get their names?” the second cook asks.
“Yes … one was named Peter, I think, and the other was named something like Rada, or Radu, I’m not sure.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Broas says.
The others look at him.
“What matters is whose fault it was. I blame the shipping company. The captain did it because he was following orders.”
“I don’t think so,” Juanito says.
“Yes. I think so. He would have radioed the shipping company. They would have told him to do it. That’s what would have happened.”
At this, everyone but Rodolfo begins talking, in voices lowered to a hissing whisper, someone saying, “No, no, it was our weak and stupid captain,” and someone else saying, “No, the chief officer was behind it all,” while another man says, “Yes, I agree with Ariel— it was the shipping company.” As he listens, Rodolfo realizes that the discussion is making him feel light-headed and weak.
“Bosun,” Broas says. “What do you think?”
Five sets of eyes turn to Rodolfo. He
He relaxes, slightly, and learns things about the engine crew: that the oiler, Ilagan, used to be a professional karaoke singer, and that he came from the same province as the officer, Broas. That the second cook, whose name is Ricardo, is intent on marrying a girl back in Manila, should her parents ever give their consent. That the electrician, an older man named Wilfredo, used to be in the Filipino navy. That the fitter, Alfredo, is also from Ilocos, the northern province where Rodolfo was born.
“You know,” Rodolfo says, “my AB, Manuel, is from there as well.”
“Which one is he?”
“Manuel?”
“Yes.”
“A small man, a bit older than the other ABs. A little too much weight …”
At this, the other sailors nod, for they understand Rodolfo is talking about the nervous deckhand, the one rumoured to behaving the most trouble dealing with what they all saw that morning.
“And what of you, Bosun?” the electrician asks. “Have you always been a sailor?”
“Oh no,” Rodolfo says. “I used to work for the city—my wife’s uncle got me the job. But working in politics, it wasn’t for me. It wasn’t for me at all.”
“Why not?”
“All the wheelings and dealings, seeing how things get done, seeing how palms get greased. Oh no, it wasn’t for me. So I talked it over with my wife, and I told her how I felt, and she said, ‘Okay Rudy, if you’re going to make a change you might as well do it now, when you’re young.’ A few months after that I shipped out.”
“And with every shore leave,” the second cook jokes, “another baby! How many is it, Bosun?”
“Five,” Rodolfo answers, “and counting!”
At this, everyone laughs; even Ariel Broas chuckles for a moment. Slowly, their laughter is replaced with the awkward silence of five men who have decided it’s time they started talking about what they’ve come to discuss. Rodolfo looks from face to face. The oiler lights a cigarette. Ariel Broas clears his throat, and asks simply, “Do we know where they were from?”
“Eastern Europe,” says Juanito. “I think. You could tell by the way they spoke.”
“Yes,” says the fitter, “Serbia, maybe. There are lots of Serbs and Croats trying to get away from that place. Who can blame them?”
“Or Czech,” says the electrician, “maybe Czech. Or Romanian.”
“Yes,” Rodolfo pipes up. “Romanian.”
The others look at him.
“They knew Spanish words.”
“So?” the fitter says.
“I knew a Romanian sailor once. He told me his language wasn’t like the languages of the countries near his. He told me it had French words, and Italian words, and Spanish words. When I was talking to them, I heard words from those languages …”
“Didn’t they get on in Spain? Maybe they learned those words there?”
“Maybe,” Rodolfo says.
“Did you get their names?” the second cook asks.
“Yes … one was named Peter, I think, and the other was named something like Rada, or Radu, I’m not sure.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Broas says.
The others look at him.
“What matters is whose fault it was. I blame the shipping company. The captain did it because he was following orders.”
“I don’t think so,” Juanito says.
“Yes. I think so. He would have radioed the shipping company. They would have told him to do it. That’s what would have happened.”
At this, everyone but Rodolfo begins talking, in voices lowered to a hissing whisper, someone saying, “No, no, it was our weak and stupid captain,” and someone else saying, “No, the chief officer was behind it all,” while another man says, “Yes, I agree with Ariel— it was the shipping company.” As he listens, Rodolfo realizes that the discussion is making him feel light-headed and weak.
“Bosun,” Broas says. “What do you think?”
Five sets of eyes turn to Rodolfo. He
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