Page 37 of A Perfect Disaster

“For once in your life.” How fucking unfair she is.

“What I’m not is a pressure cooker on legs. I don’t know how she manages to live with so much stress.”

The deck is beginning to stir. Some elderly passengers are already strolling around with cameras slung around their necks; others are yawning, huddled in windbreakers that barely shield them from the morning breeze. The outline of the port of Genoa is already visible on the horizon, and before any misfortune strikes—translation: before Helen opens a disciplinary case against me—I head to the disco on Deck Seven, where I’ve arranged to meet my team.

Yes, I’ve read the email from headquarters too. It’s not that the arrival of the Transmarine auditors doesn’t concern me. It matters to me, a lot; our contract renewal is on the line. But panicking has never made a disembarkation go smoothly. On the contrary, fear is the quickest way for an entertainer to end up taking it out on a passenger.

When I push open the club’s double doors, almost everyone is spread out on the velvet sofas.

Lara is sitting on the back of an armchair, tossing a stress ball. Leo and Nico are whispering next to the DJ booth, while Iván arranges some subfolders by color code on the mixing console. Every ship in the world needs an Iván to keep the entertainment department from descending into chaos. “He’d get along great with Helen,” I think, with an involuntary pang.

“Good morning, sailors,” I greet them, letting the doors close behind me. “I see some championship-worthy dark circles under your eyes, which proves that the entertainment team did their job at last night’s party.” I walk over to the central table and lean on the edge. “Let’s get down to business—time is of the essence.”

The group settles back into the sofas. The murmur of voices dies down instantly. Even Lara catches the ball and tucks it into the pocket of her company sweatshirt, a logistical miracle that already deserves a mention in the logbook.

“I imagine those of you on duty have opened the company’s internal email,” I say, sweeping the room with my gaze. Leo snorts and rubs his neck. “The inspectors from headquarters are coming on board tomorrow in Civitavecchia. They’re going to audit everything: punctuality, coordination between departments, passenger satisfaction surveys, and, in short, whether we deserve to keep getting paid or if they’ll have us disembarked at the next port.”

Leo lets out a nervous laugh. Everyone is tense. I can tell by the way they’re holding their pens. This audit is going to be a turning point for the crew’s standing. But, honestly, I won’t let fear paralyze us.

“Listen to me carefully,” I tell them, slamming my palms down on the table. “No panic mode allowed. We’re going to do our jobs exactly as we do every day: with energy, with a smile, and without any weird improvisations on the fly. Tomorrow, the key isn’t creativity—it’s those damn clocks. Punctuality is going to save our skins.”

“How many hours do we have before we head to Naples?” Leo asks, his notebook open.

“Eleven hours from when the gangway opens,” I reply. “The trip to Rome will take at least eight; the round trip will be about two and a half hours if we’re lucky, depending on the traffic we encounter leaving Civitavecchia and how long it takes the passengers to realize that the meeting point isn’t just a suggestion.”

Several of them laugh, and the atmosphere in the disco visibly relaxes. Good. That’s what I’m after. I want them to breathe, to remember that they’re damn good at this. I want them to understand that behind a massive excursion there are schedules, logistics, and boarding lists, sure, but also families who’ve saved all year to see something spectacular. Our job is to make sure that experience doesn’t feel like a military march designed by a soulless algorithm.

I pull out the printed folders and slide them across the table.

“Here are the breakdowns for the buses. Each of you will be in charge of forty-six passengers. Almost all of them are couples and families. Keep an eye on the kids at the bus stops—they get distracted by any ice cream stand. And for bus two, which is the priority-fare group, be as patient as possible with the pace; we have quite a few older people on board.”

“Got it,” Leo nods.

Lara gives a thumbs-up.

“Explain the itinerary over the bus microphone in a clear voice and without rushing,” I insist. “Time for the sightseeing tour, rest stops, exact free time, and return to the bus without a single minute of leeway. Drill the schedules into them. No ‘I think we’ll meet at four.’ No ‘I thought I understood.’ Exact time, exact stop, and take roll call before the driver puts the bus in first gear.”

Leo nods, furiously jotting down notes.

“Will Officer Müller be supervising the gangway?” Lara asks suddenly.

My stomach clenches suddenly, as if we’d been caught in a sudden swell. Her wounded gaze from this morning comes to mind, the edge in her voice, and that index finger drawing an invisible line between us.

“Our thing.” How brave of me, labeling things in my head when we can’t even walk past each other in a hallway without causing a short circuit.

“Müller will be the first to set up security checks on the gangway,” I warn them, forcing a smile. “So nobody better give her a reason to use us as shark bait.”

The laughter returns, clean and necessary. I keep smiling because I need it as a shield. Because if I stop joking, it’ll show too clearly in my eyes how much what she thinks of me affects me; it’ll be obvious that a single word from her has the power to sour even my morning coffee.

“I don’t want any cracks in the teams,” I conclude, regaining the necessary seriousness. “The success of the itinerary depends on this, as does the passengers’ mood and ensuring the inspectors don’t return to base eager to sign dismissal letters.”

I go over the final details of the local guides’ schedules, and when I’m done, the team leaves with a much more focused attitude. It’s not that they’re marching happily into battle, but at least they’re no longer staring at the floor looking for emergency exits.

That’s my role on this ship. Not to shout and put out fires once they’re already consuming the bridge, but to hand out fire extinguishers before anyone even smells smoke.

“All right, let’s get moving,” I encourage them. “Head down to the storage room on Deck Zero and check the group stickers, the bottled water, and the radio terminals. And above all, arm yourselves with patience. Rome is a marvel, but it has the strange ability to turn functional adults into children on a school field trip.”

The team scatters amid jokes toward the crew elevators, and I’m left alone in the middle of the dance floor, watching the service lights fade in the corners of the room. I lean against the bar, exhaling all the air I’ve been holding in my lungs without realizing it.