Eighty Days to Elsewhere Read online

  Dropping my suitcase by the door, I pause outside to smooth out the itinerary, which has become crumpled and sweaty from being clutched in my hand on the way over. Suddenly the door flies open beside me, and as someone comes rushing out, I stagger back, trip over my suitcase, and go flying.

  My daypack takes the brunt of the fall, so while I’m winded, nothing really hurts. But the instinct to leap back to my feet is stymied by the heavy suitcase, which is pinning one of my legs. I flounder around on my back, stuck like a turtle overturned on its shell.

  “I’m so sorry,” comes a deep voice from behind me, and a pair of large male hands quickly set me back on my feet. It’s not until I’m vertical again that I realize who the hands belong to.

  Before me stands the Evil Nephew himself.

  “I’m sorry,” he says again. “Are you okay?” He’s red in the face, clearly embarrassed to have knocked me over, and it takes him a second or two longer to recognize me. I recoil in horror and snatch my arms away.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I splutter.

  “I—I didn’t see you behind the door,” he says defensively. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I mutter, quickly scooping up my scattered papers from the floor. “It doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters at the moment is the fact that your uncle is trying to take away the livelihood of my family.”

  “He’s not my uncle,” he says.

  “So—you’re just his lackey, then?”

  His expression darkens. “What exactly do you mean by that?”

  Grabbing my suitcase, I push past him and stomp to the closest desk. By the time I think of a suitably cutting reply, he’s gone.

  Just as well, since I have no time to waste exchanging barbs with the guy who may or may not be Frank Venal’s Evil Nephew. What I need is to find a way out of this city, and soon.

  * * *

  —

  Booking the first leg of this insane adventure takes longer than I expect, mostly because the travel agent is so skeptical of my choices. I need to leave the country by tomorrow—but not on a plane? Things get a little smoother once I explain the parameters of what I’m trying to do.

  The travel agent, whose nameplate reads “Lakeesha Jones,” smirks at me.

  “Girl—you heading off on a round-the-world trip by yourself? Planning on a little Eat Pray Love action while you’re on the road?”

  I can feel myself blushing, which irritates me. “Of course not. It’s for my job. A—uh—potential job, anyway.”

  “Uh-huh,” Lakeesha says. “Well, let’s see what I can do for you.” Her fingers clack away on the keyboard, and after a minute she swings her screen around to show me what she’s come up with.

  “A—boat? Like a cargo boat?”

  “It’s a container ship. But they occasionally take passengers. You got lucky, Ramona. Openings like this usually need to be booked months in advance.”

  Rubbing my suddenly damp palms against my jeans, I try again. “I was thinking of something more like—a cruise ship, maybe?”

  She laughs out loud at this. “Leaving New York mid-March? I don’t think so.”

  In the end, since I don’t have any better ideas, I slide my new credit card across the counter to her, and she hands me a ticket.

  As I race back down the street to the passport office, my mind returns to the interaction with the Evil Nephew. I suppose it is possible he has no say in Venal’s business, and might, in fact, not be evil at all. On the other hand, he might be lying through his teeth. Who knows? All the same, I feel guilty for snapping. The whole lackey thing was a step too far. I’ve had this job less than a day and I’m already on the moral low ground, I think gloomily.

  A more worrisome thought strikes me. Evil Nephew or not—what the hell was he doing at the travel agency?

  * * *

  —

  The worst part of sitting in the passport office is the anxiety. By four thirty, my guts are churning. Apart from a short tea and bathroom break around two, I’ve been sitting here in the waiting room all afternoon. What have I gotten myself into?

  The truth is, I’m not sure what makes me feel worse—the worry that they won’t be able to sort out my passport in time, or that they will. It’s not until ten minutes before the end of the business day that my name is finally called.

  The woman behind the booth is dressed in a green satin blouse tucked into a navy skirt and her name tag reads ‘Juanita.’ She pulls a file folder across the desk and looks through the glass at me, her dark eyes crinkling at the corners.

  “You’re the last of the day,” she says, stamping the date on my paperwork with a practiced hand. “It’s good luck, yeah? Luck of the Irish!”

  “I—hadn’t even thought about that,” I mutter, and her smile broadens at my expression.

  “Don’t look so worried. This is good luck, not bad.” She glances at her screen. “You have to be traveling in the next forty-eight hours to qualify for this quick renewal, right? Let’s see your ticket.”

  I slide the ticket from the travel agent under the glass partition. Juanita’s eyes widen as she glances at it, then she looks back at me and winks.

  “An adventurer, huh? I can’t say you look the part.”

  Somehow, this rankles. “What does that mean?”

  She leans closer to the glass and gives me a slow once-over.

  “You’re too tall,” she says, at last. “And with that red hair and pale skin, you look like you should be playing basketball for Bryn Mawr, and then changing into flats and taking tea in the library.”

  I narrow my eyes at her, and shuffle my Chucks under the overhang of the desk so they won’t show. “Isn’t that a little personal, coming from a government employee?”

  She chuckles. “You’re my last client of the day. I could always . . .” She mimes tucking the paperwork into a drawer.

  “I went to NYU, not Bryn Mawr,” I say hurriedly, skirting the whole library thing, which is a little too close to home. “And there’s a first time for everything, right?”

  I’m trying for hearty enthusiasm, but even to my own ears I sound more like I’ve lost a puppy.

  She taps the ticket. “This your final destination, then?”

  I shake my head and slide the itinerary through to her. She glances at it, then tucks it with the receipt into my new passport, and slides the whole thing back under the glass partition.

  “You goin’ all these places? You’re gonna need shots,” she says, reaching to flip a ‘Closed’ sign behind the glass. “You got all your shots?”

  This time, she laughs out loud at the look on my face. “Wait a sec,” she instructs, and ducks out of sight. Dropping to one knee, she digs around inside the bottom drawer of a file cabinet, and then yanks out a piece of paper.

  “The clinic on Madison Avenue is open till seven,” she says, glancing at her watch. “Better to do it here than in some grotty place on the road, right?” She slides the page under the glass, lifts a hand in farewell, and disappears into the back.

  The security guard holding the door gives me a big grin. “Bon voyage,” he says. “Right in time for some green beer too!”

  And I decide on the spot he is absolutely correct.

  * * *

  —

  Sometime after nine o’clock, passport in hand, I make my way up the elevator to the ExLibris offices. While not technically pissed out of my gourd, I’m two glasses of green beer and a tequila shooter less anxious than I was before I hit the travel clinic.

  Which is another way of saying I got all my shots, okay?

  When the elevator doors open, the entire floor seems to be in darkness, apart from the city light pouring through every window. I concentrate on keeping a straight trajectory down the corridor toward Teresa Cipher’s office. As I near, I see the yellow light of a desk lamp spilling
out through the door.

  Dropping my suitcase in the hall and clutching on to the doorframe, I swing myself into the office with a little more enthusiasm than I intended.

  Teresa Cipher looks up at me over a pair of red reading glasses.

  “Good evening, Ms. Keene,” she says, her voice holding the sooty rasp particular to smokers of a certain age. “Did you have a successful day?”

  “Believe it,” I crow, slapping my newly acquired paperwork onto her desk. “And check this out.” Yanking my NYU hoodie over my head, I show her my arms, each bearing several Band-Aids. Glancing down, I see my left bicep has already taken on a gentle blue tinge.

  Teresa Cipher raises an eyebrow, perhaps because my arms look like they have survived an attack by a deranged porcupine, or maybe at the smell of my breath. Not sure which, actually.

  “Are you still feeling up to the task at hand?” she asks, after a moment.

  I slump into the chair in front of her. “Abso-freakin-lutely,” I say as convincingly as my thick tongue will allow.

  She raises her eyebrows skeptically, but after examining my ticket and passport, the CEO slides my papers into a large manila envelope and hands me a waiver to sign.

  She collects the pen from my hand and then leans forward to lock eyes with me. “Ramona,” she says quietly. “I’m taking quite a risk here. ExLibris is relying on you. There’s still time to walk away if you don’t think you are up to the challenge.”

  Any residual tipsiness falls away from me instantly. “I can do this,” I say aloud to her—and to myself. “I’m going to do this.”

  Teresa Cipher looks down at the Rolex on her wrist. “Good. I’ll forward the further necessities—including visas, and a credit card issued in your own name—to one of the checkpoints in Europe. You’ll receive more information from my assistant shortly.”

  Europe. The very word makes my hands shake, so I clutch them together, and manage to squeeze out a thank-you. Then, snatching up the papers and my luggage, I stumble down the corridor toward the elevator. Once inside, I drop my hands to my knees and force myself to take deep breaths all the way down.

  chapter ten

  IMAGE: Loading Crane

  IG: Romy_K [NYC, March 17]

  #LoadingDock #BonVoyage #GoodbyeCruelWorld

  13

  Almost two hours later, I find myself sitting inside a dingy waiting room beside something called a “Lading Office” on the docks in Brooklyn. This is the Red Hook neighborhood, which I know only because there’s an IKEA here, serviced by a water taxi, which is free-with-purchase to Manhattanites.

  Like anyone could walk into an IKEA without buying something.

  Until today, wandering the halls of a Swedish home store is the most exploration I have done in the Red Hook area, I’m ashamed to admit. I have a slightly better understanding of the neighborhood now, since I’ve endured a fairly thorough walk-around. On my way here, I caught the F train with no trouble, and alighted at Carroll Street, but I misread the map on my phone, and ended up at the Brooklyn cruise ship terminal, by mistake. After finding myself at the so-empty-it-echoed terminal, I walked out as far as I could toward the water, and caught sight of the cranes on the other side of the little enclosed bay. They were all lit up so I kept them in sight as I trudged around, and found this Lading Office at last.

  Based on the general ambiance of this place, I’d much prefer to be at the Brooklyn cruise terminal. Of course, Old Romy wouldn’t have considered a cruise in a million years. She would never have committed to traveling around the world, let alone having her arms shot so full of vaccines that they feel ready to fall off. To tell you the truth, sitting here in this dark, silent waiting room, me and my sore arms are missing Old Romy.

  Still. I’m here. The decision is made. The green beer and tequila-fuelled bravery has long since drained away, and everything has taken on a dreamlike quality. The sort of dream where you’re lost in a place you’ve never been, and have no hope of finding your way home. So, more of a nightmare, in point of fact. A nightmare, smelling of tar and old rope, with an undertone of secret decay.

  Taped to the glass of the office window is a handwritten note. The note reads: Keen Passenger, wait here for Lading Officer. Back at midnight.

  Hoping this means me, and knowing there may never have been a less keen Keene passenger, here I wait. There can be only one outcome if I leave New York. But it’s too late now.

  To take my mind off what’s coming, I pull the papers from the envelope Teresa Cipher handed me. A quick glance shows me the first page is a blank report—what looks like a pretty standard outline of the information she expects me to provide at each stop on this insane journey. The second is the copy of Phileas Fogg’s imaginary itinerary. I still haven’t even cracked the cover of Merv’s book, and I have only the faintest recollection of the story at all. This reminds me, with an added pang of guilt, that I ran out of time for a final return to the bookshop. I’d planned to head over there after collecting my passport, but the trip to the travel clinic put an end to that idea. Time is no longer on my side.

  Maybe this is a good thing. I wouldn’t even begin to know how to say goodbye.

  Affixed above the office window with the note is an old clock, hanging a little askew, and loudly ticking away the seconds as they pass. The face of the clock is rusted, and it reads three minutes off the time registering on my phone. Either way, I know there’s barely thirty minutes before I leave New York for the first time since I was a kid. Without even finding time to say goodbye to the people I love the most.

  In order to avoid thinking of this, I focus on the list of mandatory checkpoints noted on the itinerary in front of me. The list seems pretty straightforward: ExLibris Offices, New York → the Reform Club, London → la Tour Eiffel, Paris → Brindisi, Italy → Suez Canal, Egypt → Aden, Yemen → Mumbai, India → Kolkata, India → Victoria Harbour, Hong Kong → San Francisco Train Station → ExLibris, NYC.

  Ten stops by the end of April. The ticket Lakeesha Jones issued gives me a room on the only seagoing vessel heading east on March 18th. It’s a cargo ship called Guernsey Isle, destined for Liverpool. Until today, I didn’t even know cargo ships let people ride along.

  The only mental image I have of a sea journey is from a movie. In my mind’s eye I see Kate Winslet as Rose, wearing her enormous purple hat, boarding the Titanic. Maybe an iceberg will get me too.

  In any case, the Guernsey Isle is no ocean liner. While Lakeesha booked a private room for me to sleep, all other facilities are apparently shared. I’ve never had to share a bathroom with anyone, apart from Jersey at college, and she’s a neat freak.

  A ship’s horn sounds with a deep, resonant boom, startling me to my feet. For the first time, I turn to look out the window facing the water. My whole view is taken up with the side of a giant container ship, painted green and sitting tight against the broad dock. There’s no evidence this behemoth even rests on the water. No bobbing. No motion at all, apart from the men driving forklifts purposefully to and fro along the dock. I can’t see a departure gate, or any kind of a sign indicating the Guernsey Isle is leaving at all. In fact, I can’t even see the name of the ship anywhere. The letters “MSC” are emblazoned on the side, so the little handwritten note on the window is the only evidence I’m even in the right place.

  There’s a sharp knock behind me, and I turn to find a man with a red, heavily creased face squinting at me through the office glass.

  “You Keene?” he yells.

  When I nod, he points at the door, and walks away without another word. Clutching my pack and my battered old suitcase, I hurry through the glass doorway and follow him up the gangplank to meet my fate.

  chapter eleven

  IMAGE: Deck Guernsey Isle

  IG: Romy_K [Atlantic Ocean, March 18]

  #AllAboard #TheFirstofSevenSeas

  11
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br />   The red-faced man turns out to be the port agent. He introduces himself, but I’m so tired I immediately forget his name. He then walks me into an office where a female immigration officer awaits us. She’s dressed, at nearly 1:00 a.m., in full uniform—complete with a grey, flat-topped, peaked cap and sidearm—but smiles at me kindly, all the same. She stamps my passport and then instead of returning it to me, hands it to the man beside her. He is stern-faced, and when he speaks to her, it’s with a thick German accent. He’s wearing a heavy, burgundy cable-knit sweater stretched across his broad stomach, and a navy wool beanie pulled down to his enormous eyebrows. Though he looks nothing like the dapper captain on the Titanic—or even Captain Kirk, for that matter—he turns out to be one Captain Gerhardt Anhelm.

  The captain’s face holds a slightly startled expression as he glances up from my passport to my face. It turns out my cabin had been reserved until yesterday by an old Swedish couple who are apparently semi regulars on this route.

  I follow Captain Anhelm into a small elevator. “You were very lucky to get this spot,” he says in a thick German accent. “Einar must be doing poorly. His health has been a little bad lately.”

  The elevator door opens onto a dizzyingly high gantry that allows us to cross from the Red Hook shipping offices over to the vessel itself. I’m so unnerved by the height that I keep my eyes locked on a strand of wool that has unraveled on the back of the captain’s sweater. It’s left a small hole and all I can think is that Tommy, had he been here, would have it mended in a hot second. In fact, he likely would have embroidered over the repair with something manly and nautical, leaving it better than it had been before.

  But Tommy isn’t here. I’m alone, following this man—who, with his muttonchop whiskers, looks more like a Teutonic Smee than any kind of ship’s captain—to my doom.

  As we step over the threshold of the ship’s entryway, we are met by a crew member, who salutes smartly. The captain clasps the man’s arm, speaking a few urgent words in German. The crewman’s eyes suddenly glisten. I can’t understand a word of German, but I recognize enough to realize the news of Einar Svensson—the passenger I’ve displaced—has been passed along. Both men wipe their eyes, and then the captain hands me over to a woman he identifies as his second officer. She hangs an ID badge on a lanyard around my neck and escorts me to my tiny quarters.