THE NAVIGATOR

Max is almost certain that he has dressed himself correctly. There’s a bit of chafing in a couple of areas, but he doesn’t see any obvious tags or seams. He checks his collar and runs his fingers down the front of his shirt, counting buttons, making sure everything is lined up correctly. Tying his shoes is problematic. Not because his fingers aren’t working properly but because bending over makes him want to die. And then vomit. And then drive an ice pick through his eye and out the back of his own skull. All of which would be counterproductive given his current situation. So in the end he has to lean against the wall and lift his foot as high as he can without falling over.

This is demoralizing, he thinks. Nothing so easily renders a man helpless as a ferocious hangover. Max has seen grown men cry for their mothers after waking up from a night of binge drinking. Not that he’s experienced this often himself. He is, typically, a man of moderation. But there’s something about Emilie that drives him to extremes.

He doesn’t remember much about last night. Shutting the door to his cabin. Kicking off his shoes. Bypassing the glass and going straight for the bottle. And that look on her face. He can’t get it out of his mind no matter how many times he blinks or rubs his swollen eyes. She hadn’t even looked at him. Emilie had simply walked straight past, chin tilted, eyes glassy, mouth set. If he’d had to describe the look in a single word he’d say hatred. She hates him. And can he really blame her? He’s a fool. Wilhelm Balla? Why the hell did he share her secret with the steward? Why had he shared it with anyone? Max knew by the look on her face that there was no making this right. And yet Emilie is the least of his problems right now. The navigator is certain that if he can’t get his Scheiße together this morning, if he can’t do a convincing job of hiding his indiscretion, he will face the wrath of Commander Pruss.

His dirty clothes are soaked and wadded in a corner. He’ll have to leave them there and send Werner back with a bucket to collect them. There’s no way to carry wet clothes back to his cabin.

Werner.

Max needs him. It rankles him that his best chance of recovering from this situation requires the help of a pubescent boy. And this after the lecture he’d given Werner the day before about respect and behaving like a man. Max isn’t sure whether he should apologize to the cabin boy or strangle him.

Werner knocks on the door. Opens it. Beckons him out with a wave of his hand. “Follow me,” the boy whispers, and leads Max toward the kitchen.

We’re making a habit of this, Max thinks. Two mornings in a row Werner has taken it upon himself to interfere. Twice now Max has been fetched from that small tiled room by a boy who doesn’t even shave.

Max expected the headache and the dizziness and the cotton mouth. Standing in the shower, fully clothed and deeply exhausted, he had even made peace with the looming nausea. What he hadn’t prepared for was the emotional excess brought on by his physically weakened state. Every emotion is visceral, floating right beneath the surface. Anxiety that his secret will be found out. Panic. Paranoia. Fear. And then a profound and complete anger when Werner swings the kitchen door inward and he finds himself staring into the smug face of Xaver Maier.

“Damn,” the chef says. “How much did you drink?”

Max can feel himself pull an arm back, ready to knock Maier’s head right off his knobby shoulders. But he’s moving slowly because Werner leaps up and grabs Max’s arm. Drags it down against his side.

“No!” the boy scolds. “We need his help.”

He wonders briefly if the chefs have been talking, if Emilie’s little spectacle has been rehashed at every opportunity since yesterday afternoon. He wonders if Werner knows, and then he decides that he doesn’t care. Max lunges at the chef again.

Werner swats his hand—actually swats his hand—like he’s batting away a fly. “Stop,” the cabin boy says. “No fighting.”

It’s an admonition that he must have heard a million times growing up. There’s the hint of matronly impatience to the tone, and Max suspects that Werner is mimicking his mother.

Maier looks over the navigator’s appearance, eyes settling on Max’s collar, and he is certain he must have buttoned something wrong.

“You need coffee,” the chef says. “A lot of it.”

Werner chimes in, trying to be helpful. “And water. The colder the better. That’s what Balla said. Lots of water.”

A silver carafe of steaming coffee is on the stainless-steel counter—Maier has been hard at work already—along with a bowl of sugar and a small pitcher of cream. The chef pours Max a cup without asking permission or preference. He offers it, black and piping hot.

Max doesn’t take it from Maier’s hand.

“Drink.”

“Fuck you.”

Werner’s eyes go round.

“She kissed me. You saw that much yourself.”

“You didn’t seem to mind.”

“And?” Maier says. “Good grief. I’m a man. I know a pretty woman when I see one. Not that it matters. You’re the one she wants. And I don’t know what you did to piss her off, but please stop blaming me for it. I don’t owe you anything. Certainly not an apology. And I didn’t have to get out of bed early to help sober up your sorry ass. Drink the coffee.”

Maier hands the coffee cup to Werner and Werner places it in Max’s hand. “Why are you doing this?” Max asks.

“Emilie is my friend. She wouldn’t want you punished. Thank her.”

“We aren’t exactly on speaking terms at the moment.” Max takes a sip and struggles to swallow it. He spits it back into his cup. “Too hot.”

“Hold this down and I’ll give you one with sugar. Hold that down and I’ll give you some cream. Start with water if it’s too much. I’m not going to spend my morning mopping up vomit. And learn how to hold your liquor. This is disgraceful.”

The concession is demoralizing. He looks at Werner. “Water.”

Werner swaps out a glass for the mug in his hand. The water is easier to take than the coffee. Max swishes it around his mouth to warm it up and then swallows. He repeats this process, head tipped back and eyes closed, until half the glass is gone. Then he guzzles.

Max breathes deeply through his nose for several minutes once the water hits his stomach. Yes? No? He’s not sure for one long moment whether it’s coming back up, but in the end he decides it’s going to stay down.

“Coffee,” he demands, extending his hand.

He takes one sip and his begrudging respect for Xaver Maier grows by several degrees. The coffee is good. Hot and strong and smooth. He’d prefer it with a bit of sugar and a drop of cream—just enough to cut the shine—but this will do. Max takes several long, measured sips, then stands there, eyes closed, working on the coffee until the mug is empty.

“Sit down,” Maier says. He looks at Werner. “Wait a few minutes. Don’t give him anything else. I’ll cook him something.”

Max lays his head on his forearms, mumbles into the fabric of his sleeve: “Not hungry.”

“Don’t care.” Maier turns his back and pulls a skillet from the pan rack hanging above the counter.

A few minutes later the smell of bacon and fried eggs fills the small kitchen.

“The key,” Maier says, “to surviving a hangover is to trick the body back into operating like normal. Right now all of your energy is being spent on removing the alcohol from your system. Which is why you’re nauseous and addled and sluggish. Your head feels like a wheel of cheese with a chunk broken off. Your eyes have been rubbed with salt. Your throat is scorched. Too much energy is being expended in all the wrong places. It’s a waste of body function.”

Shut up. Too many words. Max’s mental protest does not stop the chef from continuing. He flips an egg in the pan and sprinkles it with salt and cracked pepper.

“I can live at a level near complete intoxication without anyone being the wiser because of three things: salt, coffee, and water. Thus,” he says, dumping the food onto one of the white china plates, “bacon and eggs. Eat up.”