Chapter Text
Miro is sitting on the deck, his notebook in his lap and a pen in his hand, but the page remains blank. He’s looking around and sees all the possible protagonists of this story, but he suddenly doesn’t know what to write.
He doesn’t know how to describe the third class boy holding hands with the first class lady’s maid, looking at the sunset in silence, their mutual understanding so deep that they don’t even need words. Doesn’t know what to write about the lady wrapped in the coarse blanket staring into space with red-rimmed eyes. About the two young stewards, one in the uniform of Cunard Line, the other still wearing his White Star Line one, taking care of the little children who are most likely alone on the vessel. About the Portuguese family huddled together, about the stoic figure of Officer Henderson, about the tall blonde gentleman chatting with a Carpathia sailor, not even what to write about Klaas-Jan and his smug smile. He doesn’t even know what to write about himself and Thomas.
He closes the notebook resolutely. The stories are not his to tell.
***
Daniel storms in the inn room, gripping the fresh newspaper tightly, barely catching his breath. “You won’t believe this!” he says and throws the newspaper at Simon. “Your bloody sickness saved our lives!”
Simon catches the paper and reads the first page quickly. “Damn!” he says and looks at Daniel. “Didn’t you say she was unsinkable?”
Daniel just shrugs.
“Yeah, excuse me if I don’t believe you anything you say for the rest of our lives,” Simon mumbles and goes back to reading.
“I need a glass of something strong,” Daniel says. “Or two.”
***
There are reporters, photographers, sensation hunters waiting for the Carpathia in New York, together with the families and friends. Shakira looks around, trying to find Irina, but she doesn’t seem to be anywhere near. Instead, she notices Fernando Llorente, who looks somehow reluctant to leave the vessel that saved them, like it’s the only safe place on Earth. Officer Henderson is eyeing the reporters hatefully and it almost makes her smile.
When she steps on the ground, it feels almost surreal. She isn’t truly home, but to feel something solid underneath her feet is strangely comforting.
“Miss Mebarak?” a voice sounds next to her.
“Yes?” she looks up at the tall man next to her.
“Your father sent me to pick you up,” the man says. “The car is over there. As for your luggage...”
“I think it could be classified as lost,” Shakira raises her brows.
“Of course. I’m sorry, it was stupid of me...”
“No, it wasn’t,” she smiles. “It’s not important. They were just things.”
She follows him to the car waiting a bit further from the crowd. It’s brand new and cosy. The man opens the door and helps her get in.
“Thank you...” she says and looks at him questioningly.
“Gerard, Miss.”
“Thank you, Gerard,” she smiles. “Now take me as far from the sea as possible.”
***
The hotel room is big and cosy, but Irina doesn’t pay attention to anything. If she still were her old self, she would have noticed the wallpaper peeling off slightly in the corner and the absence of fresh flowers on the table. Now she only sits at the writing table, putting together the answers for all those telegrams she’s received since her arrival. People expressing their relief that she is safe, people she doesn’t even know and doesn’t care about and who most likely don’t care about her either.
Her father had sent a car with a driver to pick her up at the port when Carpathia docked. Before, she wouldn’t have even thought about it. Now it’s so absurd. She is his only daughter, she could have been dead and he sends a driver. What world is this?
She remembers all the relatives waiting for the survivors, remembers the Dutch family waiting for their son, the mother crying and the father patting him on the back. The families of the third class passengers hugging them, the mothers, fathers, sisters... In that moment, Irina wished she were poor, but loved.
A knock on the door tears her out of her gloomy thoughts and she lifts her head. “Enter!”
The door opens and Esther walks in. “Miss Shaykhlislamova?”
“What is it, Esther?” Irina asks, looking at the blank page of the paper.
“I wanted to tell you that I will not be staying with you here in America.”
Irina looks up to her and blinks. “For what reason?”
“I’m going back to Spain.”
Irina raises her brows. “Back to Spain? Don’t be ridiculous. What are you going to do there?”
“Get married.”
Irina just looks at her bluntly.
“I found a piece of happiness in this tragedy and I won’t let it slip through my fingers,” Esther says. “No matter how many steps I have to descend.”
Irina takes a deep breath and then gets up. “Well, then I can only wish you good luck,” she says. “If you think that you are doing the right thing...”
“I am sure about it.”
Irina smiles, then reaches for a stash of cheques and fills one in. “This should be enough for... a decent wedding dress,” she says and hands it to Esther.
Esther looks at the cheque and blinks. “This is enough for a small house, Miss!” she exclaims.
“A house or a dress, whatever you need,” Irina says. “Whatever makes you happy. Be happy. Also for me.”
***
The lady behind the desk at the Cunard Line office smiles at Álvaro, hands him the accounting book to sign after he receives his salary, and then hands him an envelope.
“What is this?” Álvaro asks.
“This was sent to the Cunard Line with your name,” she says.
Álvaro opens the envelope and then turns back to the woman. “Are you sure that this is mine?”
“Of course, Mr. Morata, it has your name on it,” she smiles.
“What is it?” his colleague asks, trying to peek in the envelope over Álvaro’s shoulder, which, given Álvaro’s height, seems to be an impossible task.
“A cheque for five hundred pounds,” Álvaro whispers. “And a first-class ticket to New York.”
His colleague just whistles. Álvaro puts the money and the ticket back in the envelope and looks at the lady behind the desk. “Do you have a return address somewhere?”
She blinks in confusion. “Yes, I think so...”
“Then send it back,” Álvaro says and hands her the envelope.
“What are you doing?” his friend whispers, clutching his sleeve. “Are you mad?”
“I got paid my extras for doing my duty,” Álvaro says. “I don’t help people for money, I help them because it’s what God and my captain want me to do. What kind of person would I be?”
“I’ll call you a fool until the day you are a ship’s captain and earn a hundred pounds per month. Which means I’ll be calling you a fool until the end of your life.”
***
The man in the White Star Line office looks tired and annoyed at the same time. With all the telegraphs, requests for refunds and the telephone ringing all the time, it’s no surprise.
When Óliver hands him a paper, he doesn’t even look at it. “And this is?” he asks.
“My request for a transfer to the Cunard Line,” Óliver says.
The employee looks unimpressed. He takes the paper, throws it in a huge pile of others and rubs his eyes behind his glasses.
“You’re not the first, and not the last, I think,” he sighs. “Well, your contract with the White Star Line can be regarded as... resolved. You can go wherever you want to go.”
“Thank you.”
He walks out and grins at Javier, who is waiting outside like stepping inside the White Star Line office is worse than walking through the gates of hell.
“Done?” Javier asks.
Óliver nods and looks at the ships in the harbor. Javier watches him for a while. “At first I thought you wouldn’t even want to come back. To sea.”
Óliver shakes his head and smiles. “I hold no grudge against the sea. It’s not its fault. I think from time to time God reminds us we’re not as great as we think, and I just happened to be one of those he needed to remind of that.”
“And that’s it?” Javier raises his brows.
“Yes,” Óliver nods. “Lesson learned.”