Havoc

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Alone in his cabin for the past three days, the madman rocked gently on his narrow bunk, his eyes fixed on the dull sheen of his personal safe while fever sent alternating currents of heat and cold through his body. He was unaware of the great ship’s passage across the Atlantic, the rhythm of her four engines turning the large propellers, the spectacular service offered by the crew, or even the cycles of day and night. It took all his mental ability just to keep his focus on the small safe.

Since leaving Europe, he’d ventured from his cabin only late at night to use one of the communal washrooms. Even on these furtive forays he’d hurry back to his room if he heard other passengers stirring or crewmembers attending their duties. On the first night of the trip and during the following day, a steward would knock on his door, inquiring about his needs, asking if he wanted tea, a cocktail, or perhaps some soda crackers to settle his stomach if the ship’s motion was making him ill. The passenger had refused everything, struggling to maintain a patina of civility. But when the waiter returned to ask if the passenger wanted dinner brought to him on the second night, the man in cabin 8a flew into a rage, cursing the hapless steward in a mix of English, Greek, and an African dialect he’d picked up in the preceding months.

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