A Shark Out of Water Page 6

  “We just received permission from Copenhagen,” he said baldly. “We’ll be assembling a team of pilots to convoy ships through Danish waters tomorrow morning.”

  Without further elaboration, he moved to return to his waiting suppliants but Madame Nordstrom detained him. “Wonderful!” she exclaimed, hailing a triumph. “We all thought that would take much longer.”

  Zabriski ignored the cue. “It’s only going to help smaller craft,” he said meticulously. His perfunctory response cost Madame Nordstrom her audience. Separate discussions broke forth as the gathering dissolved into its parts. Madame Nordstrom bit her lip briefly, then startled John Thatcher by clasping his arm and stepping to Zabriski’s side.

  “Stefan,” she said. “You should meet Mr. Thatcher. He is from the Sloan Guaranty Trust, in New York.”

  Zabriski was obviously itching to get back to work but he was a professional civil servant. He greeted Thatcher conventionally and produced some acceptable small talk. “Then Mr. Gabler is your associate? I’m looking forward to my talks with him.”

  But his next remarks divulged his real order of priorities. Abandoning Everett Gabler, John Thatcher, and the money they represented, he turned to Annamarie. “You know, Madam Chairman, now that everybody’s attention is focused on the shortcomings of the present canal, this is our opportunity to initiate discussions with Bonn about a new system.”

  Ruefully she gestured toward the chaos engulfing Holtenau. “Stefan, let’s all concentrate on getting this canal open,” she suggested, “before we start building another one.”

  The reminder was more than enough. “You’re right, there is too much to do now,” Zabriski agreed. “And I want to talk to Myers!”

  With that, he hurried off.

  “Just a minute, Wanda,” said Madame Nordstrom swiftly. “Will you warn Stefan that the press will be out in force when those convoys leave for Denmark?”

  “I’ll tell him, all right,” Wanda said cheerfully, “but he won’t take it in. Maybe I’d better arrange the details.”

  Stepping aside, Thatcher was struck by the contrast between the two women. Annamarie, erect and composed, her tidy chignon glinting in the sunlight, was coolly efficient. Wanda, her thick cloud of dark hair whipping in the breeze, was agreeing to directions with eager nods and exuberant gestures.

  Once she was at liberty, Madame Nordstrom sounded an apologetic note. “Stefan,” she explained, “has his blind spots.”

  In other words, he had time for his grandiose hopes but was oblivious to the need for favorable publicity. Thatcher could have formulated a harsher verdict but he was primarily interested in the Kiel Canal.

  “If you mean Zabriski’s enthusiasm for a major new system, I understand that he’s not alone. They were discussing it just this morning on the plane from Gdansk.”

  “But who was doing the talking?” she asked reasonably.

  Thatcher’s reply did not impress her. “Oh, Leonhard Bach!” she sniffed. “I thought you meant BADA delegates. For example, I know that you’re friendly with Peter von Hennig. Did he give you any intimation of the latest German thinking on the subject?”

  Large blue eyes had been trained on John Thatcher before. Furthermore he had his own turf to protect. “As a matter of fact,” he said without a qualm, “the subject hasn’t arisen.”

  * * *

  After hours of salty breezes, bright sunshine, and healthy exercise on docks and embankments, Thatcher expected an evening of casual comfort. Instead he got a whiff of an older, statelier past. The Hotel Maritim, like the city of Kiel itself, was a postwar construction. Nevertheless, its atmosphere recalled a turn-of-the-century watering place. Garden paths were laid out for leisurely promenades, a series of lounges on the ground floor beckoned guests to elaborate tea and coffee rituals, and the dining room elevated dinner into a protracted, elaborate ceremony. At the Maritim, merriment was not the keynote.

  Tonight Peter von Hennig was dining elsewhere with the directors of Germany’s largest shipping line. He had, however, done his duty by Thatcher, first introducing him to Casimir Radan, the Polish delegate, and then providing a dinner companion in the shape of BADA’s Danish representative.

  Fortunately Eric Andersen, a rangy, weather-beaten Arctic expert who was the voice of environmentalism on the council, was not rabid on his subject. He started by comparing notes on what they had seen earlier that day. “An incredible sight,” he agreed. “Especially when you’ve sailed through the canal as often as I have. And the congestion in the Danish channels is breaking records too.”

  “What about the convoys BADA is starting tomorrow? Won’t that make things worse?”

  “Probably,” said Andersen, “but you see . . .” Deploying knives and forks he diagrammed a course that relied heavily on superb seamanship.

  “So Denmark is running some risk giving BADA permission to take more ships into the area?” Thatcher asked.

  “It’s our contribution to BADA,” said Andersen with mock solemnity. “If Denmark can help sort things out, everybody will benefit.”

  Thatcher knew about selfless gestures. “A favor done is a favor earned, eh?” he suggested.

  “I certainly hope so,” Andersen replied. “I need all the goodwill I can promote.” Advocacy can be palatable when it comes leavened with good humor. But good sense is also desirable. A few cautious questions reassured Thatcher on that score.

  “Despite what you may have heard, we’re not all extremists.” Andersen smiled. “Sure, some of the fringe types are against any commercial development. But for most of us, modest well-thought-out projects that improve what’s already in place are totally acceptable. Take this harbor grant for example. Denmark voted for it because it will do a lot of good for Tallinn or Rostock, whichever way things go.” Like Peter von Hennig, he was not ready to commit himself.

  “You sound quite sympathetic to your opponents,” Thatcher observed.

  “Let’s just say I understand them. All they need is education.” At these dread words, Thatcher stiffened but Andersen remained low-keyed.

  “It’s up to us to explain why making a million marks is no good if it sticks you with two million marks worth of toxic waste.”

  His approach was more sensible than wholesale condemnation but there was a drawback, as Thatcher pointed out. “Education takes time, especially when people are as desperately poor as they are in the East”

  “It’s uphill work with the rich too,” said Andersen. “You Americans are worse than the poor bloody Poles with all your AC and cars.”

  Thatcher had long since learned that temperatures in Atlanta and distances in the Rockies were not regarded as sufficient justification. “And are conditions in Denmark ideal?” he inquired.

  “Touché,” said Andersen. “But we are ahead of most nations.”

  After a short discourse about enlightened public policy Thatcher felt free to exact a return. “Yes, I see the value of windmill farms,” he said with some truth, “but sooner or later lines are going to be drawn over larger undertakings. For instance, these proposals to expand the Kiel Canal.”

  “Thank God that’s not in the immediate future,” said Andersen with sincerity. “The last thing the Baltic needs is more traffic before it’s cleaned up. But you’re right. When the time comes there’ll be a pitched battle about the scope of the improvements. Some lunatics are actually talking about two separate, one-way canals. The construction alone would devastate the whole peninsula.”

  Thatcher suddenly saw the Sloan figuring as an enemy of planet Earth. “Surely there are more responsible proposals,” he protested.

  “Hundreds!” snorted Andersen. “But every damned one of them will be big enough to require careful scrutiny from us.”

  Thatcher did not know whether to be relieved or not. But with the long-awaited arrival of the soup, Andersen turned to less contentious matters.

  “My daughter is thinking of going to college in the States,” he began. Miss Andersen was only 13 but Wel
lesley, Stanford, and Princeton lasted nicely through dinner.

  Chapter 6

  . . . and a Bottle of Rum

  Conversations at other tables were just as desultory. Two hours of rich food and interminable delays had produced a pall of insidious lethargy. A small combo in the corner contributed to the prevailing somnolence. Its repertoire had been so carefully screened for genteel suitability that the musicians were bored to distraction. As the evening progressed they too collapsed into a remorseless diminuendo.

  One guest was still alive and kicking.

  Leonhard Bach raised his voice in genial complaint. “C’mon, we’re all falling asleep here. Play something with a little punch.”

  The band nodded, grinned, and began a selection marginally more animated than the “Dead March.”

  “Hell, no,” said Bach, placing a meaty hand on the table to lever himself upright. With an encouraging smile, he urged: “Play ‘Laughing Louise.’”

  Mindful of management’s admonitions, the band denied any knowledge of “Laughing Louise.”

  “But everybody knows it.” Swinging around to appeal for support, Bach stumbled against a chair leg and would have pitched forward if his tablemate had not extended a steadying arm. By now the attention of most diners had been attracted. Some were indifferent, some amused, a few affronted. But the two German engineers Bach chose to address had missed what was going on.

  “You’ve heard of ‘Laughing Louise,’ haven’t you?” he challenged them.

  Startled, they automatically agreed.

  “See!” Bach bellowed triumphantly.

  All hotels have experience with guests who over-imbibe but this maître d’hôtel was too inflexible to resolve the difficulty. Under his lowering glare, the band remained frozen until another guest took matters into his own hands.

  “Now, Leonhard,” said Stefan Zabriski, joining Bach and placing a calming hand on his shoulder, “if they don’t know it, I’ll play it for you. Didn’t I see a piano accordion somewhere?”

  There was one on a chair by the bandstand. Slipping into its straps, Zabriski beamed confidently and began a rousing rendition of the hoary favorite.

  When Leonhard Bach responded by raising his voice in an off-key accompaniment, the issue trembled in the balance. As a soloist Bach would have been a social embarrassment, but the Gods were with him. The two engineers, still baffled, obligingly joined in.

  “Everybody sing!” Leonhard Bach commanded, waving his arms.

  Amazingly, they did.

  Stefan Zabriski had not only saved the day, he had become the indentured entertainer of the evening. Pelted with requests, he tossed off sea chanteys, sentimental ballads and then, at the urging of a young couple, a polka.

  The twosome instantly took to the minute dance floor. Emboldened by their example other diners began pushing back tables and soon every one of the few women present had been swept up. Most of the hopping and skipping was more spirited than skillful. But one dazzling pair stole the show. When they swung past, Thatcher was astonished to recognize Stefan Zabriski’s secretary. She and her partner, Casimir Radan, the stout white-haired dignitary Thatcher had met earlier, were proving to the world why the polka is named after Poland. Her olive cheeks flushed with color, her black eyes sparkling, Wanda magically conveyed the impression of voluminous petticoats flicking around her ankles.

  “Amazing,” Thatcher murmured.

  But Eric Andersen was watching Wanda’s partner.

  “Casimir’s still pretty spry for his age, isn’t he?” he remarked indulgently.

  At the end of the polka Zabriski, now accompanied by a band absolved of responsibility, moved on to even more robust selections. John Thatcher, who had been unable to identify any of the previous offerings, now knew he was listening to a student drinking song. While Zabriski belted out the melody, while the clarinet soared to new heights, the audience heartily stamped its feet and roared its lungs out until the concluding bars. Then: “Hoch! Hoch! Hoch!” they all shouted, raising their glasses high.

  * * *

  At 11:30 a mutinous dining room staff finally forced the maître d’hôtel to take action. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced during a temporary lull, “we will now be serving brandy and liqueurs in the lounge.”

  On the principle that if the Pied Piper leaves town the children will follow, he descended on Stefan Zabriski. After warmly insisting that Zabriski regard himself as management’s guest for the evening, the maître d’hôtel ushered him up the stairs. Instantly the waiters started clearing tables and the band began packing. But these prods were unnecessary. Zabriski had become such a magnet that his audience simply surged after him.

  In the lounge it developed that Zabriski needed a rest. Mopping a glistening brow and breathing hard, he modestly disclaimed any personal merit. “I enjoyed it. But, my, I haven’t done that for a long time.”

  At his side Leonhard Bach, hoarse-voiced from his own exertions and now visibly reeling, shared in the triumph.

  “I guess we showed them BADA knows how to celebrate,” he declared to the world at large. “And why the hell shouldn’t we? Everything’s going our way.”

  “Yes, there won’t be any doubt about our capability now,” Zabriski agreed happily. After a revivifying sip, he produced a compliment of his own. “And it’s good of you, Leonhard, to set aside your own losses to join in our victory.”

  Blinking owlishly, Bach tried to adjust to this portrait of himself. “Losses?”

  “I remember the Valhalla’s Gudrun was due to pass through the canal today. It must be costing you a pretty penny.”

  “Lord, after seeing those burnt-out hulls I’m just grateful she wasn’t scheduled for two days ago.” Unwilling to have the moment soured by insurance claims, he went on cheerfully: “But come on, Stefan, tell us where you learned to play the accordion that way.”

  Wanda Jesilko, now equipped with a double vodka, had made her way to their side.

  “That isn’t even half of it,” she said, laughing. “Go on, tell them, Stefan.”

  When he did not immediately comply, she continued affectionately: “You should hear him on the violin. Or on the flute for that matter. And he can play anything from classical on down.”

  Basking in her tribute, Zabriski explained that it all came from his humble origins. “You see, my father was a barge captain and we lived on board. So the family had to entertain itself. Whatever instrument anyone could beg, borrow or steal, we all learned to use.”

  “Despite all those forms and papers of yours, you’re a regular, Stefan,” Bach announced as he nearly flattened the slight Zabriski with a comradely pat on the back. “Off the barges, eh? That’s a hard life.”

  “But a good one,” said Zabriski after recovering his breath. “Oh, what stories we could tell, Leonhard.”

  Bach was momentarily taken aback. Before bursting on the world as a man of action he himself had been a paper pusher. A career in the Rostock harbormaster’s office until the fall of East Germany had not furnished many anecdotes about life on the bounding main. Fortunately several old salts in the crowd were more than willing to contribute their own tall tales.

  At least one spectator found nothing to admire in this feast of harmony. Jaan Hroka had sidled up to the improvised bar where John Thatcher and Eric Andersen were observing the scene.

  “Would you look at that? It’s enough to make you sick,” he snarled. “Bach makes a fool of himself so Zabriski comes running to the rescue. And now it’s Stefan and Leonhard all over the place even though Bach’s as drunk as a skunk. Anything that damned German wants, anything Rostock wants, BADA just hands it over.”

  Andersen did not appreciate this outburst and, looking about for relief, was happy to point out that the Estonian delegate was beckoning Hroka. “Vigotis, for goodness sake! Well, I’ve got a few things to say to him too,” said Hroka, stomping off.

  “Whew!” breathed Andersen, looking on with distaste. “Still, Zabriski should be more carefu
l about Bach.”

  “What on earth are you talking about, Eric?” Thatcher asked.

  Madame Nordstrom, emerging from the crowd. “I for one was profoundly grateful to see Stefan exercising some tact.”

  While Thatcher procured a brandy for her, Andersen explained. “Yes, Annamarie, but you just missed Hroka complaining about favoritism. And you have to admit that, right now, friendly attention to a Rostock shipper invites misinterpretation.”

  “Good lord, I’d forgotten Hroka came along with us,” she exclaimed. “It’s a wonder the whole evening didn’t turn into a debacle.”

  “A debacle?” asked a new voice. “That sounds good to me. I myself have just spent several hours of unutterable boredom.”

  Peter von Hennig showed no signs of wear.

  “Were you expecting to have a rollicking time?” Thatcher inquired.

  “Certainly not,” said von Hennig. “The larger the shipping line, the greater the disruption caused by the Kiel catastrophe. I expected the directors to be worried, I expected them to be weighing alternatives. I did not expect them to be agonizing over their entire fleet. My God, we considered every individual vessel they own, its current location, its possible reroutings and, of course, every penny of additional expenditure . . . what is that noise?”

  In a far corner of the lounge a scratch quartet had just burst into song. Their close harmony was almost drowned by the boozy chatter on every side.

  “I’ll be damned,” accused the indignant von Hennig, “you’ve been having a party.”

  “You missed the sing-along,” said Thatcher gravely, before going on to a fuller description of high times at the Maritim.

  To Annamarie’s dismay von Hennig donned his official mande. “Our Estonian delegate must have been pleased to see Zabriski emerging from his shell in the guise of a friend to Rostock,” he declared sarcastically.