Where'd You Go, Bernadette(62)
The H&H Allegra finally sailed into port. She’s smaller than any cruise vessel I’ve seen in Seattle, but a real gem, with fresh paint. The dockhands rolled up a set of stairs and the passengers started filing out and going through immigration. Elgie sent word that we were there to see Bernadette Fox. Passengers and more passengers streamed by, but no Bernadette.
Poor Elgie, he was like a dog whimpering by the door for his master to get home. “There she is…,” he’d say. Then “No, that’s not her. Oh, there she is!” Then all sad, “No, that’s not her.” The passengers slowed to a trickle, and still we waited.
After a long worrisome gap of no passengers at all, the ship’s captain and a few officers walked toward us in a tight pack, talking severely among themselves.
“She didn’t,” Elgie muttered.
“What?” I said.
“You’re fucking kidding me!” he said.
“What?” I said, as the captain and his gang entered the immigration hut.
“Mr. Branch,” the captain said in a thick German accent. “There seems to be a problem. We can’t find your wife.”
I’m not kidding, Audrey. Bernadette did it again! Somewhere along the way, she disappeared from the ship.
The captain was really shaken up, you could tell. He’d reported it to the president of the cruise line and promised a thorough investigation. Then it got truly surreal. As we stood there, absorbing this huge bomb that had just been dropped, the captain graciously excused himself. “The next group of passengers is due to arrive,” he said. “We must prepare the ship.”
The purser, a German woman with bleached-blond hair cut very short, handed us Bernadette’s passport with a sheepish smile, as if to say, I know it isn’t much, but it’s all we have.
“Wait a second—” Elgie cried. “Whose responsibility is this? Who’s in charge?”
The answer, it turns out, is nobody. When Bernadette boarded the ship, she left Argentina (it was stamped right there on her passport), so this wasn’t Argentina’s problem. But because Antarctica isn’t a country, and has no ruling government, Bernadette didn’t officially enter anyplace when she left Argentina.
“Can I search the boat?” Elgie pleaded. “Or her room?” But some Argentinean official insisted we couldn’t board because we didn’t have the proper paperwork. The captain then trudged back along the rain-swept dock, leaving us standing there, agape.
“The other passengers,” Elgie said, running to the street. But the last bus had already departed. Elgie then made a mad dash toward the ship. He didn’t get far because he ran into a pole, which knocked him to the ground. (His depth perception is hinky because of the one dark lens.) By that time, the Argentinean customs agent was standing over Elgie with a gun. My screaming had caused enough of a ruckus for the captain to at least turn around. The sight of Elgie flat on the slimy dock, groaning, “My wife, my wife,” with a gun pointed at him, and me jumping up and down, was enough for even a German to take pity. He came back and told us he’d have the ship searched and to wait.
As far as I was concerned, if Bernadette was across the ocean in Antarctica, Antarctica could keep her. Yes, you heard me. If I didn’t like that woman before, I really didn’t like her now that I was pregnant with her husband’s baby! The reason I can admit to such craven selfishness is because here’s how much I love Elgie: if he wanted to find his wife, then I wanted to find his wife. I swung into full admin mode.
I got in line behind the dozen crew members wanting to call home during their quick turnaround. When it was my turn, I miraculously got through to Agent Strang at the FBI. Elgie and I shared the earpiece as Agent Strang connected us to a friend of his, a retired maritime lawyer. We explained our dilemma, and he searched the Internet from his end.
Our silence made the waiting sailors more irate by the minute. Finally, the lawyer got back on and explained that the H&H Allegra was registered under a “flag of convenience” in Liberia. (I’ll save you a trip to the atlas: Liberia is an impoverished, war-torn country in West Africa.) So that was of no comfort or help. The lawyer told us to expect zero cooperation from Harmsen & Heath. In the past, this gentleman had represented families of persons who’d gone missing from cruise ships (who knew that’s an industry unto itself?), and it took him years and government subpoenas to obtain so much as a passenger list. The lawyer then explained that if a crime occurred in international waters, the government of the victim has jurisdiction. However, Antarctica is the one place on the planet that isn’t considered international waters, because it’s governed by something called the Antarctic Treaty. He said it looked like we had fallen down a legal rabbit hole. He suggested we try to get the Liberian government to help, or the U.S. government, but we’d have to first convince a judge that the “long-arm statute” applies. He didn’t explain what that was because he was late for squash.
Agent Strang was still on the phone, and he said something about us being “shit out of luck.” I think he had grown disgusted with Elgie and especially Bernadette, for the trouble they had caused. For some reason he was no fan of mine, either.
Time was ticking. Our only connection to Bernadette was the ship itself, which was leaving in an hour. The fleet of buses returned, this time with a new group of passengers who dismounted and started to wander around snapping pictures.