Heads You Win

“He’s a trained waiter,” said Elena, before Alex could reply.

“We don’t need one of them,” said the chef. “He can wash the dishes and peel the potatoes. As long as he doesn’t open his mouth, I might even let him have one or two scraps at the end of the day.” Alex was about to protest when the cook added, “Of course, if that doesn’t suit you, your worship, you can always work in the engine room and spend the rest of your life hurling coal into a blazing furnace. I’ll leave the choice to you.” The words “the rest of your life” had a haunting conviction about them. “Show them where they’ll be sleeping, Karl. Just make sure they’re back in time to help me prepare dinner.”

The sailor nodded, and led them out of the galley, back up the narrow staircase, and onto the deck. He didn’t stop walking until he reached a lone lifeboat swinging in the breeze.

“This is the royal suite,” he said, with no suggestion of irony. “If you don’t like it, you can always sleep on deck.”

Elena looked back in the direction of her homeland, which had almost disappeared from sight. She found herself already missing the meager comforts of their tiny flat in the Khrushchyovka. Her thoughts were interrupted by Karl barking, “Don’t keep cook waiting, or we’ll all live to regret it.”

* * *

Most chefs occasionally taste their food, while others sample each dish, but it soon became clear to Elena that the ship’s cook preferred to devour whole portions between swigs of vodka. She was surprised that the officers, let alone the rest of the crew, were ever fed.

The kitchen, which Elena would quickly learn to refer to as the galley, was so small that it was almost impossible not to bump into someone or something if you moved in any direction, and so hot that she was soaked in sweat within moments of putting on a not very white jacket that didn’t fit.

Strelnikov was a man of few words, and those he uttered were usually prefaced by a single adjective. He looked fifty, but Elena suspected he was only about forty. He must have weighed over three hundred pounds, and had clearly spent a considerable portion of his wages on tattoos. Elena watched as he stood over a vast stove inspecting his handiwork while his assistant, a tiny Chinese man of indeterminate age, squatted, head bowed, in the far corner, endlessly peeling potatoes.

“You,” barked the chef, having already forgotten Alex’s name, “will assist Mr. Ling, while you,” he said, pointing at Elena, “will prepare the soup. We’ll soon find out if you’re as good as your brother claims.”

Elena began checking the ingredients. Some of the scraps had clearly been scraped off the plates of previous meals. There was also the odd bone of an animal that she couldn’t immediately identify floating in a greasy pan, but she did her best to salvage what little meat was left on them. She dropped what remained into the bin, which only brought a frown to Strelnikov’s face, as he wasn’t in the habit of throwing anything away.

“Some of the deckhands consider bones a luxury,” he said.

“Only dogs consider bones a luxury,” mumbled Elena.

“And sea dogs,” snapped Strelnikov.

Strelnikov focused on preparing the dish of the day, which Elena later discovered was the dish of every day: fish and chips. Three fish at a time were being fried in a vast, round, burned pan, while Mr. Ling expertly sliced each potato the moment Alex had finished peeling it. Elena noticed that only three soup bowls and three dinner plates of different sizes had been laid out on the countertop, although there had to be at least twenty crew on board. Strelnikov interrupted his frying to sample the soup, and as he didn’t comment, Elena assumed she had passed her first test. He then ladled a large portion into each of the three soup bowls, which Mr. Ling placed on a tray, before taking them off to the officers’ mess. As he opened the door, Elena saw a long queue of morose-looking figures, billycans in hand, waiting to be served.

“Only one ladle each,” grunted Strelnikov, as the first deckhand held up his billycan.

Elena carried out his orders, and tried not to show that she was appalled when Strelnikov dropped a fried fish into the same billycans as the soup. Only one member of the crew greeted her with a warm smile, and even said “thank you,” in her native tongue.

Once she’d completed the task, twenty-three men in all, the cook returned to the stove and began to fry the largest three pieces of fish, one by one, before tipping them onto the officers’ plates. Mr. Ling selected only the thinnest chips to accompany them, then placed the plates on his tray before leaving the galley once again.

“Start clearing up!” Strelnikov barked, as he sank into the only chair in the room while nursing a half-empty bottle of vodka.

After Mr. Ling had returned with the empty soup plates, he immediately began to scour the large pots and the two frying pans. When he heard Strelnikov begin to snore, he grinned at Alex and pointed to a pan of untouched chips. Alex devoured every last one of them, while Elena continued scrubbing the pots. Once she’d finished, she glanced across at Strelnikov. He was fast asleep, so she and Alex slipped out of the galley and made their way back up the spiral staircase and onto the deck.

Elena began to unpack her little suitcase and place each item neatly on the deck, when she heard heavy footsteps behind her. She quickly turned around

to see a tall, heavily built man approaching them. Alex put down his dictionary, leaped up, and stepped between his mother and the advancing giant. Although he knew it would be an unequal contest, he didn’t intend to give up without a fight. But the man’s next move took them both by surprise. He sat down cross-legged on the deck, and smiled up at them.

“My name is Dimitri Balanchuk,” he said, “and, like you, I’m a Russian exile.”

Elena looked more carefully at Dimitri, and then remembered he was the man who’d thanked her at supper. She returned his smile, and sat down opposite him. Alex folded his arms and remained standing.

“We should arrive in New York in about ten days,” said Dimitri in a soft, gentle voice.

“Have you been to New York before?” Elena asked.

“I live there, but I still consider Leningrad to be my home. I was on deck when I saw you climbing into the crate. I tried to warn you to get into the other one.”

“Why?” said Alex. “I’ve read a lot about New York, and even though it’s full of gangsters, it sounds exciting.”

“It’s exciting enough,” said Dimitri, “although there are just as many gangsters in Moscow as there are in New York,” he added, with a wry smile. “But I’m not convinced you’ll ever get off this ship without my help.”

“Are they going to send us back to Leningrad?” asked Elena, trembling at the thought.