Page 71 of A Perfect Disaster

“In this line of work, you can never rule out any threat,” she replies with feigned seriousness.

I laugh heartily. And then something simple and beautiful happens: Helen laughs too. Her warm, rare laugh lingers between us as we walk on until we reach a square where the sun makes the Baroque facades shine as if someone had polished them especially for us.

We enter a small church where the air is cool and the only thing you can hear is that deathly silence capable of giving you goosebumps. Helen instinctively lowers her voice to point out a detail in a ceiling fresco, and I move a little closer, just to enjoy her closeness and this respite that feels like normal life.

“I’m not as dramatic as you make me out to be, Maika.”

“Let me remind you that you wrote a guide on how to approach me and act like a normal person,” I remind her affectionately.

“It was a management tool,” she defends herself, though her eyes sparkle so brightly they give away her amusement. “What’s more, it worked.”

“A little,” I concede.

“Then don’t criticize my methods,” she concludes, nudging me.

We step back out into the bustle of the street amid laughter, sensing how, little by little, the tension is fading. Palermo pulses to the beat of street music, the fast pace of its people, and the commotion of children playing ball in an alley.

By mid-morning we find ourselves sitting at a small table under a green awning, overlooking a narrow street. We order pasta, caprese salad, water, and, at my suggestion, a pitcher of well-chilled house white wine.

Helen eyes the drink as if it were a flammable substance and looks at me with a raised eyebrow.

“Maika, we have to be on duty in a few hours,” she reminds me. “Don’t you think that’s a bit much…?”

“You said it yourself, in many hours,” I interrupt her, holding my glass between my fingers. “By the time we get back to the ship, the alcohol will have worn off. Besides, half a glass of Sicilian wine isn’t going to stop you from reciting the ship’s safety code from memory. Enjoy yourself a little.”

Helen sighs, but gives in and lets the waiter pour her a little. She raises her glass and looks me in the eyes.

“To Palermo,” I propose.

“To the right to take a break,” she adds.

“To that, too.”

We drink. The wine is ice-cold, smooth, and has a hint of citrus that makes me close my eyes for a second. The fatigue that’s built up over the last few days of the voyage is still there, but it doesn’t weigh on me as much anymore. Maybe it’s the sun, maybe the wine, or maybe because Helen is sitting across from me, without her uniform, without a folder in her hands, and without pretending that she’s indifferent to my feelings. The truth is, it feels like we’ve been together on this cruise for an eternity, when in reality it’s only been a few intense days. But I suppose Helen Müller has that effect: she distorts time.

We talk about everything and nothing at the same time. Soon, though, the conversation shifts naturally as the waiter clears the plates and we leave the last half of our glasses to linger over the meal.

“Yesterday’s evaluation session was intense,” I comment cautiously, testing the waters.

Helen pauses for a moment.

“Yes, it really was,” she admits. “I didn’t expect them to put us in such a direct face-to-face situation, or to force us to lay ourselves bare professionally like that.”

“Neither did I,” I confess. “Although you did very well.”

“Is that part of your strategy to make me fall at your feet?” she asks with a hint of irony.

“No. It’s a completely sincere observation,” I clarify, leaning toward her slightly. “Well, and maybe a little strategy too. I already told you. You should break the rules a little.”

The corners of her lips turn up.

“You were brilliant too,” she acknowledges in a low voice.

“I know…”

Helen lets out a laugh, shaking her head.

“Such a lack of modesty.”