I asked the Archie man to come nearer and collect the money for my coffee and cookies, but he didn’t accept it:- It’s on the house, sweety, on condition that you come back tomorrow. Have a nice start at work and don’t take any notice of what I said before. –he said-
- About the missing persons and weird things happening in that ship? –I asked-
- Right. That was just a joke. You shouldn't believe everything I say. Sometimes I’m a bit of a smartass.
He laughed. But I didn’t think it was funny. Once you say something, you can’t take it back. What is said just cannot be unsaid. So “what the hell is wrong with the Ice Flower?” was the question I couldn’t get out of my head since he warned me about the weird things that he said were actually happening there. But he had decided to keep his mouth firmly shut.
- Ok Archie. Thanks for the coffee. I promise to be back tomorrow if I haven’t vanished off the face of the earth.
I walked towards the Ice Flower, now all covered with banners announcing the III Annual Kynkybooks Awards. It was a beautiful ship and had a touch of extravagance and distinction. I slipped in the reception area by accident and stood right in the middle of it, dumbfounded and dazzled by the glittering chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, the panoramic glass elevators and the walls covered with perfectly polished walnut panels.I enjoyed the scenery, but couldn’t go too far. A security guard stopped me and asked:
- Can I see your papers, Miss?
- Of course! Mr. Falkenberg sends me; I’m looking for Mr. Diederick Panekooeke, the kitchen manager.
- Mr. Falkenberg who?
My words didn’t seem to impress him in the slightest bit. I gave him my documents and he had a thorough look. He took his list, ticked my name and said:
- Bixby… yes, you’re here. Take the lift downstairs to level four, where the kitchen is –he said, pointing at the staff door-.
The Ice Flower had nothing to do with popular cruise ships like the Jewel of the Waters, or the King of the Oceans, where half of the South Sandwichian middle-class families –including mine- had spent their summer holidays swimming, playing golf and gambling at the casino at affordable prices. But the Ice Flower was much more than a normal cruise ship: it had class.
The journey consisted of sailing on a short trip to the remotest harbours in the North Sandwich islands, reserved for a selected few. But I was not among them. I was there for work, not for pleasure.
So I crossed the staff door and when I found the kitchen, I witnessed an amazing scenery. The atmosphere was frantic: boiling pots steaming and pressure cookers whistling; cooks giving instructions to kitchen assistants; kitchen assistants sprinkling exclusive spices in huge saucepans; huge saucepans where gallons of oil heated and splutted.
A zillion helpers chopped meat and vegetables. Waiters and waitresses tray carried fast like there was no tomorrow.
Diederick Panekkoeke the Great managed everything from his watchtower. It was easy to tell who he was. He didn’t miss anything. That skinny, tall, pale guy gesticulated nervously; he carried a big log book and noted everything, shouting orders to everybody around. When he saw me, he asked:
- Are you the new waitress?
Without even waiting for my answer, he rushed down the stairs and said:
- Come over here, dear. Put a uniform on and start tray carrying to the passenger’s cabins. They’re waiting for their breakfast.
- Ehm… sorry, but I’m not the new waitress, sir. I come for the kitchen hand job. Mr. Falkenberg sends me.
Diederick Panekkoeke stared at me, as as if he hadn’t heard what I just said, pulled a long face and said very slowly with a dirty look:
- Who do you think you are? The Queen of Kookamonga? Put. That. Uniform. On. NOW.
His threatening voice sounded scary as he pointed at me with his finger, failing to touch my nose tip by just an inch. At that very moment, several questions came to my mind:
Firstly: was Falkenberg really the ship owner’s brother? Nobody seemed to know him there, and what was worse: he didn’t appear to be either powerful or respected in the ship.
Secondly: was Diederick Pannekoeke supposed to be the nice guy who would hire me and never overwork me, in Falkenberg's words? He sounded rather more like a tyrannical SOB who would exploit all the kitchen staff without mercy.
And last, but not least: Was I going to be a one-woman band, good at everything but expert at nothing? First a waitress and then a kitchen helper? Or maybe a dry cleaner? That was not exactly what I had been told.
With friends like those, I didn’t need enemies.
Diederick’s eyes threw daggers at me for having objected to his organisational scheme. I didn’t even dare protest, so impressed I was by his imposing presence. One of his hoodlums came up on the spot with a complete waitress outfit hanging from a coat hook.
- There you go, sweety. –said Dierderick-. Remove those horrible old baggy trousers, white t-shirt and faded black cardigan. This is your new kitchen outfit: a cute short-sleeved white blouse, princess style; a soft black velvet short skirt with white lace petticoats; white stockings, garter belts and black buckle shoes. Oh, and don’t forget the cap on top of your beautiful hairstyle. It’s a very sexy outfit, worthy of Cinderella. Now MOVE. There’s a lot to do.
Deiderick’s assistant escorted me to the dressing room. I changed clothes and when he saw me in the waitress outfit, he said:
- Great, but I’ll give you a smaller size. You’ll look even more sexy and get better tips in tight clothes, shorty.
How thoughtful. I wore the smaller size, but the buttons looked like they would be going to pop and break as soon as I’d try to breathe inside that junior petite uniform. What would the Waitress’ Unions think about this?
- How does it grab you? –he asked-
- I can’t breathe –I answered-
- Don’t talk nonsense. You look absolutely cute.
And that was that. I had to wear the Barbie waitress uniform because he bloody well said so.
I was told to take the tray marked “Deck 4, Level 2, Suite 20”. A beautiful ceramic tray with an energy breakfast worthy of a king: coffee, milk, orange juice, a toasted bread and pastry basket, cold meat and sausages, scrambled eggs, fruit jam and a honey bowl. The dishes and glassware were made of china and fine crystal. The silver cutlery shone like a star. The napkins were made of the softest Egyptian satin cotton. There was a delicate porcelain jar with a beautiful red rose in the middle of all these tasty delicacies.
I lined up behind my co-workers carrying that heavy tray. Everybody was given precise instructions about the rooms to be served. We all crossed the flip flap door at the speed of the light towards the elevators. We were told to line up and get organised by decks and levels. I had to take the fourth elevator.
My words didn’t seem to impress him in the slightest bit. I gave him my documents and he had a thorough look. He took his list, ticked my name and said:
- Bixby… yes, you’re here. Take the lift downstairs to level four, where the kitchen is –he said, pointing at the staff door-.
The Ice Flower had nothing to do with popular cruise ships like the Jewel of the Waters, or the King of the Oceans, where half of the South Sandwichian middle-class families –including mine- had spent their summer holidays swimming, playing golf and gambling at the casino at affordable prices. But the Ice Flower was much more than a normal cruise ship: it had class.
The journey consisted of sailing on a short trip to the remotest harbours in the North Sandwich islands, reserved for a selected few. But I was not among them. I was there for work, not for pleasure.So I crossed the staff door and when I found the kitchen, I witnessed an amazing scenery. The atmosphere was frantic: boiling pots steaming and pressure cookers whistling; cooks giving instructions to kitchen assistants; kitchen assistants sprinkling exclusive spices in huge saucepans; huge saucepans where gallons of oil heated and splutted.
A zillion helpers chopped meat and vegetables. Waiters and waitresses tray carried fast like there was no tomorrow.
Diederick Panekkoeke the Great managed everything from his watchtower. It was easy to tell who he was. He didn’t miss anything. That skinny, tall, pale guy gesticulated nervously; he carried a big log book and noted everything, shouting orders to everybody around. When he saw me, he asked:
- Are you the new waitress?Without even waiting for my answer, he rushed down the stairs and said:
- Come over here, dear. Put a uniform on and start tray carrying to the passenger’s cabins. They’re waiting for their breakfast.
- Ehm… sorry, but I’m not the new waitress, sir. I come for the kitchen hand job. Mr. Falkenberg sends me.
Diederick Panekkoeke stared at me, as as if he hadn’t heard what I just said, pulled a long face and said very slowly with a dirty look:
- Who do you think you are? The Queen of Kookamonga? Put. That. Uniform. On. NOW.
His threatening voice sounded scary as he pointed at me with his finger, failing to touch my nose tip by just an inch. At that very moment, several questions came to my mind:
Firstly: was Falkenberg really the ship owner’s brother? Nobody seemed to know him there, and what was worse: he didn’t appear to be either powerful or respected in the ship.
Secondly: was Diederick Pannekoeke supposed to be the nice guy who would hire me and never overwork me, in Falkenberg's words? He sounded rather more like a tyrannical SOB who would exploit all the kitchen staff without mercy.And last, but not least: Was I going to be a one-woman band, good at everything but expert at nothing? First a waitress and then a kitchen helper? Or maybe a dry cleaner? That was not exactly what I had been told.
With friends like those, I didn’t need enemies.
Diederick’s eyes threw daggers at me for having objected to his organisational scheme. I didn’t even dare protest, so impressed I was by his imposing presence. One of his hoodlums came up on the spot with a complete waitress outfit hanging from a coat hook.
- There you go, sweety. –said Dierderick-. Remove those horrible old baggy trousers, white t-shirt and faded black cardigan. This is your new kitchen outfit: a cute short-sleeved white blouse, princess style; a soft black velvet short skirt with white lace petticoats; white stockings, garter belts and black buckle shoes. Oh, and don’t forget the cap on top of your beautiful hairstyle. It’s a very sexy outfit, worthy of Cinderella. Now MOVE. There’s a lot to do.Deiderick’s assistant escorted me to the dressing room. I changed clothes and when he saw me in the waitress outfit, he said:
- Great, but I’ll give you a smaller size. You’ll look even more sexy and get better tips in tight clothes, shorty.
How thoughtful. I wore the smaller size, but the buttons looked like they would be going to pop and break as soon as I’d try to breathe inside that junior petite uniform. What would the Waitress’ Unions think about this?
- How does it grab you? –he asked-
- I can’t breathe –I answered-
- Don’t talk nonsense. You look absolutely cute.
And that was that. I had to wear the Barbie waitress uniform because he bloody well said so.
I was told to take the tray marked “Deck 4, Level 2, Suite 20”. A beautiful ceramic tray with an energy breakfast worthy of a king: coffee, milk, orange juice, a toasted bread and pastry basket, cold meat and sausages, scrambled eggs, fruit jam and a honey bowl. The dishes and glassware were made of china and fine crystal. The silver cutlery shone like a star. The napkins were made of the softest Egyptian satin cotton. There was a delicate porcelain jar with a beautiful red rose in the middle of all these tasty delicacies.I lined up behind my co-workers carrying that heavy tray. Everybody was given precise instructions about the rooms to be served. We all crossed the flip flap door at the speed of the light towards the elevators. We were told to line up and get organised by decks and levels. I had to take the fourth elevator.
"Eggs and sausage" (Tom Waits)
