Terrine of various fish in octopus mantle over sautéed sugar snap peas.
I started out of my reverie. Something had changed: the light, the ambient noise, the guests’ looks. I was apparently in a state of extreme sensitivity, in which I could detect the tiniest vibrations. When Bittmann began to speak of Yvette, I knew something was wrong. Or better, I knew something was going to go wrong in a second.
Yvette was such a dear, according to Bittmann. He’d known her a long time. A fabulous beauty, he said. And of course, a superb actress. Yet despite her accomplishments, she’d remained the same. Still the nice girl next door.
Maybe the movement I felt beside me was Jola, suddenly sitting up a little too straight. In any case, the noise level around Bittmann’s voice seemed to drop down so far that I could hear every word he said. The music, if in fact any was playing, fell silent. Everybody listened.
Yvette had sailed on the Dorset before, Bittmann said, and she would have very much liked to come along this time too. A good addition she would have been, because by now she was an expert sailor.
“But seasick,” the lady director cried out.
“But seasick,” Bittmann confirmed.
“Could you all please stop repeating the word seasick?” Jankowski asked.
“But you refused my pills,” the photographer cried.
“Ingwer! Please!” cried Jankowski.
They laughed together about something that had happened on the boat a few days before. It was Theo who took it upon himself to bring the conversation back to its topic. He asked, “So why couldn’t Yvette be here this time?”
It was clear that all the guests aboard the Dorset knew the answer already. Theo too looked as though he’d been informed. Bittmann had probably told him earlier what Yvette Stadler’s present occupation was. Theo just wanted to make sure that the matter would be gone over in public one more time. When he asked his question, he was looking at Jola, not Bittmann. His face shone with pleasant anticipation. He looked like a man scarcely able to suppress his laughter. I felt Jola tense up beside me. As though her body were preparing for a life-threatening assault.
“Yvette’s on the shores of the Red Sea as we speak,” said Bittmann. “Beautiful spot. A few years ago, on our legendary tour, we ran into a heavy storm. We were all drenched to the skin, and when we finally reached the new marina in Hurghada, Boris and Til, wearing nothing but underpants, jumped into the water and—”
“But what’s Yvette doing down there by the Red Sea?” Theo asked impatiently. He was grinning. He’d obviously lost all desire to control himself. I had the impression that Jola was starting to tremble.
“She’s preparing for a new role,” Bittmann said. Now he too was looking at Jola. “Surely you’ve heard about it? From your father?”
Jola didn’t react. She extended a hand toward her wineglass, reconsidered halfway there, and put the hand in her lap.
“What role is that?” asked Theo.
“Well, they’re making a film about the life of this woman deep-sea diver.” Bittmann was speaking to Jola again. He assumed that such news would be of professional interest to her. “I can’t come up with her name at the moment.”
“Lotte Hass,” Theo said.
“Yes, maybe so.”
Bittmann still had noticed nothing. Everyone except him and the African had lowered their spoon to their terrine bowl. They gazed at Jola, who had turned as pallid as a corpse.
“In any case, we must keep this among ourselves until the official press conference. I know about it only because it was Yvette’s reason for declining my invitation. Otherwise she would’ve come aboard in Casablanca.”
Theo turned toward Jola. “Wasn’t that role the reason why we came down here, love?” he asked. “The reason why you’re taking this diving course?”
“But casting …” Jola cleared her throat. “But casting doesn’t start until the week after next.”
Her voice toppled over at the end. I admired her. She fought against domination like a bull in an arena. Theo thrust in the next lance. “Wasn’t your heart set on playing the Girl on the Ocean Floor?”
“What I told you was insider information,” Bittmann said. “They made an internal decision that Yvette absolutely had to get the part.”
“Didn’t you say”—Theo started laughing again—“didn’t you say this was your last chance?”
“Jola …” Bittmann looked stricken. “Don’t tell me you intended to try for the role yourself.”
“Because otherwise you’d never be able to get out of that soap-opera shit?” Theo slapped the table with delight. “You’d never be taken seriously as an actress? You’d just be an aging TV whore nobody would remember in a few years?”
Jola had lost. She’d lost against Theo, against the people around the table, and especially against herself. A gasp escaped her throat. She sprang to her feet and ran out of the salon and up the steep stairs. I wanted to go after her and was already half out of my chair when my eyes fell on Theo. He broke off laughing to raise his eyebrows and shake his head. That meant Let her go. I sank back down. He kept looking at me while his chest began to quiver with laughter again. Now what was that? His eyes seemed to ask. You couldn’t give your new girlfriend any help at all? Fucking beginner.
Amid the general silence, the African turned his head from one side to the other and asked in English, “What is?”
After a longish pause, Bittmann said, “I feel very sorry about that.”
“She’ll get over it,” Jankowski opined.
“I don’t think so,” said Theo.
“Dessert?” Bittmann asked.
Vanilla panna cotta with pistachios and red wine jelly.
When the dessert plate lay in front of me, I couldn’t hold out any longer. I murmured an apology and left the table. Before I reached the main deck, my cell phone rang. I thought it must be Jola and answered at once. It was Bernie. He spoke in English, and pretty rapidly at that. A stream of mostly incomprehensible language rushed past my right ear. Every now and then, single words I could understand briefly emerged from the torrent: “Fuck”; “Dave”; “Aberdeen.” I heard the word crazy twice.
“Bernie,” I said. “What’s the matter?”
“You can have the fucking boat. But don’t ever ask me again.”
“Pardon?”
“Aren’t you listening, man? You can take the Aberdeen out tomorrow morning. But forget about us! Dave — is — not — coming — and — neither — am — I, understand? It’s the last thing I’ll ever do for you. You’ve lost your fucking mind.”