THE REPOSITIONED CORPSE
On
a repositioning cruise,while a cruise ship moves from one sea to another,
murder
stalks a petite dancer, who refuses to divulge her secrets, or to disappear.
Prologue: When I left Russia, going to my
adoptive parents in San Diego, I took little but the bright designs inked on my
child’s skin. My Nana had always told me
to show them to no one. I grew up
keeping them covered, although I wasn’t sure why. My new parents assumed I was very modest and
respected my privacy. But even when the
little pictures were removed, they weren’t done with me.
“When you’re on the sea,
you’re nowhere, and yet sort of everywhere, like dead people.”
Peter said that to me once, not too long ago. I thought it was just Peter trying to be
profound, and slightly succeeding. I’d
no idea that I would be able to investigate his theory such a short time later. We were already on the sea, and now I’m
dead.
People think we spirits, incorporeal entities, can see
everything from our unearthly vantage point, but that is not precisely
true. We have access to almost everything,
but
we see only what we focus
on. Unlike God, whom we assume sees it
all, at the same time.
I haven’t met God, but if
I do, I have a bone to pick about the manner, indeed the very fact, of my
death. I am – was – only twenty-nine, a
successful entertainer on the good cruise ship Zuider Zee, and in love with my
sweet Peter, also a singer/dancer aboard the ‘Zoloft’, as he called it, because
of typical ailments of many of our passengers. My death wasn’t supposed to happen; it was a
plan gone wrong. Hard to say who is more
upset, me or The Responsible.
When I became aware, I was on my bunk in the
cabin I share with Peter, on my back with my feet in first position, heel to heel. Peter came in, saw me and screamed
softly. Then he was bending over me,
pleading with me to wake up. I blurred
out and when I came back, he was taking a picture, which seemed awful, until I realized
that steady, meticulous Peter was making a record of the scene. Then he rolled me up in a blanket and draped
me over his shoulders like a rug. I
guess he’d have said I was a part of a stage backdrop if anyone had asked, but
he saw no one as he carried me along ‘I 95’ the long below-guest-decks
passageway that served crew and staff from bow to stern. There was no one in the ship’s clinic, so he
put me in a small room, turned out all the lights and closed the doors. One of the health personnel should have been
there and was no doubt nearby, maybe stealing a forbidden vape.
And so I waited for what happened next. I desperately wanted to tell Peter who had killed
me, but of course, I couldn’t. I pondered
psychic mediums or ghost-induced telekinesis, desperately wanting to
communicate. Then my Filipino friend Boy
Araneta, head steward on the tony A deck, and my self-appointed guardian,
entered purposefully but stealthily. Boy
picked me up, put me in a laundry collection basket, and wheeled me to the down elevator,
then to the laundry, where he unceremoniously dumped me into a ‘to be washed’ cart and pushed it into a dark corner. Dark is hard to find in the laundry, which
runs 24-7, with six monster washers, several dryers, and quite a few workers under fluorescent lights. Boy waved amiably at the launderers and they
didn’t bother him, although delivering dirty towels was not usually part of his
gig. But why had he put me here? According to protocol, I should be in the
hospital, or possibly a freezer compartment until we reached the next port with
a coroner.
Boy answered my silent query, as he covered me with
towels. “Sweetie, Natalya, I’m so sorry
to put you in the dirty linens, but whoever did this could throw you overboard
if they find you. I think I scared them
– I saw someone leave your cabin fast.
When I saw you.(here he gulped audibly)…I ran to find Peter. But he came from the other way. I saw him
take you, and I followed him to the hospital.
I ran to get this cart, because I knew we can’t have anyone find you
until we find out why…. I’ll tell Peter
what I’ve done right away. We’ll keep
you safe…We should have kept you safe….”
Here he had to swallow, swipe away his tears, and heroically engage in
cheerful lies with the laundry staff about his surprise visit. He did ask them to leave this load until
later; he said he would be sending room stewards with more towels. All very non-standard protocol, but everyone
likes Boy.
He whispered, “I won’t let anyone put you in that cold,
dark, sea,” and left.
Like most island dwellers who spend their
lives on the water, Boy couldn’t swim, and nurtured a strong fear of any water
outside of a glass or a shower. Also like many of his countrymen, he was
fiercely loyal to family and friends and would have jumped into the sea to save
he if the need arose, swim or not. But I
was pretty sure The Responsible (can’t exactly say murderer, since it was not
the intent to kill me, just sloppy planning and execution), anyway, pretty sure
my body was needed until they found what they wanted. But I
couldn’t tell Boy that.
I ruminated, staying close to my earthy remains out of
habit or maybe standing guard. I
shouldn’t have worn those teal shoes with that aqua dress, I was musing,
when I noticed a pair of Romanian laundresses pulling ‘my’ cart toward the huge
washing machines. Oh, no, don’t dump
me in there, I silently screamed as Gulya, the heftiest washerwoman,
grabbed my ankle and stopped me as I was flying into the mouth of the gurgling beast. I thumped to the floor in a grotesque
horizontal pirouette, as the pair of them ran off, shrieking.
Unfortunately, The Responsible, who had been searching
for me since Peter first sneaked me away from our cabin, happened to be outside
and were able to get a garbled but informative account of my whereabouts from
the rattled ladies of the laundry. Again
I was scooped up, this time dropped into a clean-linen delivery cart, beneath
some sheets. The cart rattled back down
I-95 and into a staff elevator, which took us to galley level. Usually, people are working in the galley all
night, baking, cleaning, and so on; but, incredibly foolish and lucky, The
Responsible actually managed to carry me, wrapped in a sheet, all the way to
one of the walk-in freezer compartments.
I don’t know what excuse would have been proffered if anyone had stopped
us – This is a large sausage from the homeland – but it never came up.
Once in the freezer, it became clear pretty quickly that
what was sought was not there. The
former me was face-down on the cold floor with one leg raised in a rather
elegant kick. My sweater was pulled up,
my lower back exposed. My tights were
ripped and rolled down on my right leg I heard frustrated gasping and swear
words in Russian that I had not heard in a long time. I was
raised in Russia for several years until my parents, believed by the villagers
to be spies, disappeared. Then I was further orphaned when my grandmother died. I was sent to America as an adoptee, with small
memory of my native language, and two lively tattoos on my lower back and upper
thigh. These I had removed when I took up dancing, since they
sometimes showed through the tights or low-backed costumes. Wait….was that what….?
I had no time to pursue that thought, because the freezer
door opened, a sous-chef entered in search of tonight’s steaks, and
fainted. Another staffer found us both
and managed to call ship’s security. While
the two kitchen staffers went around a corner for water and aspirin, Peter and
Boy, drawn by some mysterious insights, came in, Peter again with camera at the
ready. He snapped the scene, then he and
boy wheeled me away yet again, this time on the bottom shelf of a meal cart,
hidden behind a long table cover.
‘Now where?” Peter demanded anxiously. “We don’t know whether they still need her,
so we can’t go where we’ve been, but we’re running out….” He stopped, staring
at Boy.
“No, no empty cabins in my patch,” Boy said. “Full up.
How about the art gallery, that’s closed until Thursday, because they’re
putting up a new show. No, too many
people in and out. Computer lab…no…hmm.”
“I think I’ve got an idea,” Peter said, somewhere between
doubtful and inspired. “Can we get this
thing to the stage area, as though we’re bringing snacks? The trick will be not to run in to anyone
actually wanting snacks. I hate this,
we’re running around like clowns with the woman I love, I can’t even cry….” He stopped.
At this point they had gotten into and out of an elevator
and were on passenger level C, with no
one currently in the halls. They could
walk all the way to the stern, where the theatre is, as long as they could
avoid any officers or crew, who were now fully aware there was a body dancing
around their ship. They managed it, only
once ducking into a utility closet to avoid the First Engineer. As we rolled, they discussed a plan to expose
The Responsible, which was as crazy as the rest of the day, but just might
work. I was intrigued and a little
amused, as well as deeply sad, extremely angry, and more than a little
astonished at my present state. And I
was proud of Peter.
He knew my history, and he had an idea about who The
Responsible might be. He was right. We had speculated about the ‘Polish’ couple
who performed dances from Eastern and Balkan countries during our
‘international’ stage shows. I’d told
Peter that I was sure they were speaking Russian, not Polish. But why would they lie? Maybe they’re your e long-lost parents, Peter
opined, she does look like you. She
did; we were both petite, pale, with dark eyes and hair. Her pretty but stern face was like my
grandmother’s. But why would they
lie? What did they want? And I remembered my grandmother warning me to
keep my tattoos covered, always. As a
child, I had to wear shorts and tee shirts when I swam.
I
had assumed it was because ‘nice girls’ weren’t tattooed in childhood,
especially with the rather garish peasant-looking designs mine had been. Apparently, the reason was more sinister. Had
I been the bearer of state secrets on my skin?
Even after I’d had the tats removed, I was careful to keep the sites
covered – never wore backless dresses, and when I danced, I made sure that
makeup or flesh-colored bandages covered the scars that were left. So Arman and Dima, for those were my parents’
names, had no way of knowing that the tats were gone.
Their
plan had been rather simple-minded, but it probably would have worked if my
parents had been more efficient spies.
But it seems that prior to
Operation-Retrieve-Information-on-American-Daughter’s Tattoos, they had been in
deep cover for over twenty-five years and had gotten a bit rusty on their
chloroform skills. When they came into
our cabin, ostensibly for a quick talk
about a dance idea involving Peter and me, they lost no time in slapping the
chloroform – soaked rag over my face and holding me down on my bunk until I
passed out. Unfortunately for them, they
held it too long, I actually swallowed some as well as breathing in much more
that my weight class allowed, and I died.
At that point, they heard Peter coming down the hall, and managed to
slip out of our cabin before he rounded the corner. But Boy, coming by for a quick chat, saw Dima
furtively ducking ack into her own
cabin. He was too far away to make a
positive ID, but when he heard Peter’s theory, it all clicked.
“Natalya
will dance one last time, to catch a killer, or two,” Peter vowed, as he
carefully removed me from the cart and placed me, in fifth position, into a
tall armoire just offstage. “Don’t let
anyone touch this until show time,” he warned Boy, who took up guard duty,
standing by faithfully for over three hours, despite having worked a full day.
“We
will probably both lose our jobs over this,” Peter said to Boy.
“You’re
a great dancer, you’ll get another job.
And I have enough money saved to buy my wife the sari-sari store she
wants in San Fernando. Let her work and
I’ll drink beer and play with the kids,” Boy replied.
Peter
had to run a short rehearsal for tomorrow’s show, then get a bite to eat and do
a stint in the piano bar, where he was substituting for a pianist who had
broken a finger playing pool in an Azorean port. By the time he returned and dressed for the
show, everyone knew I was dead, and missing.
Boy made some excuse about needing to give something to Peter to explain
his presence backstage, and he never left off leaning on the armoire, so no one
looked inside.
Despite
the crew’s knowledge and distress, the Captain had decreed that the show must
go on. My understudy, Maya, had red eyes
from crying, but she gamely dressed and made up her pretty face to fool an
audience already cruise-happy and full of good food and good will.
Peter appeared to have
been crying also, but he was resolute and ready to dance. From my vantage point, wherever it was, not
clearly up or next to but definitely there, I could see
both the stage and backstage, where Boy guarded my closet until it was wheeled
onstage for the Doll’s Closet number.
Doll’s Closet was a Nutcracker-ish emsemble number
featuring many armoires like the one I was sequestered in, stationed around the
stage. Two of the smallest dancers,
dressed as children, would open one closet at a time and a dancer-toy would pop
out and dance with them. There was a
teddy bear, a rag doll, cowboy, a panda bear, and a race-car driver whose
dancer maneuvered the tiny wheeled vehicle he carried throughout the dance with
amazing car-like skills. I was in, of
course, the rag-doll closet. Dima, who
danced as the children’s nanny, and Amar, who was on stage as a hidden parent
enjoying his children’s fun, saw me when, instead of hopping out and dancing, I
fell with true verisimilitude, into a rag-doll face-plant on the stage.
Then I really heard some Russian swearing! Dima was yelling and Amar was trying to shush
her. To no avail. Terrified of ghosts, much less a ‘dancing’
corpse, she screamed the whole story to whomever was listening – in
Russian. Peter was smart, he recorded
the whole thing, as well as asking Victor, a Russian singer in the ensemble, to use his language skills to translate. The security people, who Peter had alerted,
along with the Captain, slipped quietly backstage and took the couple away as
soon as Peter and a couple of the other male dancers waltzed them offstage.
Then Peter danced to me, picked me up, shook me in
seemingly playful reprimand, and carried
me offstage. The ‘children’ danced to
the same armoire and a fully alive rag doll hopped out and danced. I was never sure what and how much Peter had
told the various actors in the arrest scenario, but everyone seemed to know
just what to do, and did it. When Peter
brought me backstage, one of the ship’s doctors was ready with a gurney and I
was whisked away below decks and back to the ship’s hospital. Tomorrow was a
port day and I’d be removed from my floating home, my friends and my fiancé,
who would go on to marry another dancer, and to always feel slightly haunted at
sea. I am somewhere in between, in a
poignant space I know I will leave at some point.
I am not yet forgotten.
After the passengers debarked, the entertainers held a memorial for me,
onstage, open to anyone who had known me.
Most of the officers and many of the crew came, for we had been aboard
the ‘Zoloft’ for over a year, and it had been a happy ship. They started a fund to support young dancers,
administered by my adoptive parents. Through the youngsters, a little of me still
dances. Peter built a small garden with a dancing
gnome in his parents’ yard in Iowa. He visits my adoptive parents and will as long
as they live. Boy named his baby
daughter Natalya.
Peter
made a kind of scrapbook of those last pictures of me, in first position, the
pirouette, the kick, the fifth-position face-plant. Natalya dances into heaven, he calls it, and
the final picture is one of him and me in the final dance. He holds me aloft, both of us facing upward, staring
into a future that had changed beneath our feet.
