Page 70 of A Perfect Disaster

The Marine IV docks in Palermo as if, after what happened in Rome and Naples, the universe had decided to offer us an apology for all the commotion.

By 9:30 in the morning, I’m already at the agreed-upon spot, just past the crew exit turnstile on the boarding deck. I’ve got my sunglasses perched on top of my head, a blouse that flutters in the breeze, and comfortable pants. My only intention today is not to think about emergencies, undercover supervisors, company audits, and, above all, Helen. The crew members not on duty have seven hours off on shore. Seven. That means we have to be back on board by 4:30 p.m., and, if fate allows it, I’m going to have a fucking great day without any last-minute rush.

Gonzalo told me he’d be coming. So did Lara, Nico, and supposedly someone else. Naturally, none of them shows up. Surprisingly, the one who walks through security is Helen.

She’s wearing a simple, elegant dark blue shirtdress that contrasts with her pulled-back hair, and sunglasses that threaten to throw me off balance as she walks toward me.

“Hi,” she says, stopping at a safe distance.

“Hi,” I reply.

“Where’s Gonzalo?” she asks, scanning the pier with a hint of suspicion.

“That’s exactly what I’d like to know,” I reply, shrugging.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. A second later, hers vibrates. We both look down at the same time.

There’s a message from Gonzalo in the WhatsApp group we share.

Gonzalo: Either you two work things out, or I swear I’ll throw you overboard on the way to Sardinia. Kisses.

Below it, he adds an anchor emoji, a heart, and an eggplant, which, for the sake of my mental health, I completely ignore. Helen stares at the screen. She frowns and presses her lips together.

“I’m going to kill him,” she mutters under her breath.

“Well, get in line,” I reply.

Helen looks up at me. For a second, she seems on the verge of apologizing for taking up the same square foot of space as me. Then she takes a deep breath, as if suddenly remembering a point on her famous list of interpersonal improvements, and regains her composure.

“We can go back to the ship,” she suggests, glancing toward the gangway where passengers are beginning to disembark en masse.

“We could…” I admit. “Or better yet, we could accept that Gonzalo has blatantly manipulated us and take advantage of the fact that we’re in Palermo to unwind. We deserve it, don’t you think?”

Helen looks toward the city, then toward the ship, which looks imposing and gigantic as it dominates the harbor, and finally, she fixes her eyes on me.

“We have to be on board by 4:30,” she insists.

“Yes, my officer,” I reply sarcastically, raising my hand to my forehead in a military salute.

Then she looks at me over her glasses, with that slightly arched eyebrow that leaves me breathless.

“Don’t you dare use that tone with me, Maika.”

I’m about to do it again, and she knows it.

“Sorry, you just make it too easy for me,” I correct myself with a mischievous smile.

Palermo welcomes us, enveloped in that chaotic beauty that distinguishes the cities of the Italian coast. The streets, illuminated by a sun that seems to bathe everything in gold, are filled with a delicious aroma of freshly baked bread, tomatoes, basil, and citrus. Several Vespas whiz past us, weaving through traffic, and from the balconies overflowing with laundry, a homely scent wafts out that, for a moment, leaves me in awe.

We walk without a set destination, which for a mind like Helen’s is an experience bordering on an extreme sport. I glance at her from time to time as we cross the avenues. She says nothing, simply walking beside me; a bit tense at first, but more relaxed as the minutes pass.

“You’re making a superhuman effort not to organize the morning, aren’t you?” I ask curiously as we turn onto a side street.

“Actually, I am organizing it internally,” she confesses without looking at me, though I notice the hint of a smile.

“You can say that again. You look like you’re mapping out three alternative routes and an evacuation plan in your head, just in case a Sicilian nonna blocks our path with a shopping cart.”

Helen turns her head just then toward a woman who, coincidentally, is pushing a cart overflowing with lemons and oranges on the other side of the street.