Chapter 23

“Khrystyna, leave us.”

“Go up to the bow. Your dad and I need to talk. Jimmy, go with,” I said.

We were at the stern ... standing in the port sugar scoop, 90 feet to the bow isn’t all that far but we had tacked into a pretty brisk wind and the anchor rattles a good bit.

“She can go ... but ... she must be back in time for school,” said Mr. Kucherenko. Do you promise she will be back by mid September? Say ... the fifteenth?”

“Cyn ... shut up,” I said. “We’ll try, Mr. Kucherenko.”

“Why did you stop your sister?”

“She makes promises I can’t keep,” I said, “If we fail we all fail but I get blamed for it.”

“That is what I hoped to hear. It’s big water ... sometimes it’s not possible to keep a schedule.” He reached for his wallet, “What would a charter cost ... Istanbul to Odesa with stops along the way?”

“You can’t buy her passage. She’s going to be crew ... we pay her. When we’re done she’ll be a qualified ordinary seaman. She could work any number of cruise-ships.”

“Spending money, then?” Mr. Kucherenko said, “Two thousand American dollars?”

“If you want her to have it ... give it to her. I won’t be responsible.

“We’re going to be gone three months. Does she get an allowance?”

“23 euros a week,” he said.

“Good Lord ... I was planning on a thousand a month until she passes Ordinary Seaman. It’s what we would pay our crew members a week ... if they weren’t already paid in advance.”

“She will learn a trade?”

“If she works at it and learns ... yes. If she gets her papers I’d be willing to hire her every summer.”

“You go to America?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“You would hire her to work in America?”

“If she passes? Yes.”

“Good.” He added, “Things are not so good with Russia. It will be worse and maybe never get better, we have the warm water port Russia wants. Eventually they will take the Crimea. If you take her now, you can just keep going. Political asylum?”

Hoo-boy howdy! That stumped me. How can I refuse. It’s what we did.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“Write it down. I won’t take her without permission.”

“I had hopes,” he said. He passed me a thick envelope. “Everything she needs is in there. There is ... ah ... don’t open it until you are off Gibraltar. Okay?

“Is good word ... Okay.”

“As soon as we get the dinghy loaded.”

Khrys came back from the bow in time to see her dad step ashore.

“I can go?”

“Yes.”

“I need my clothes,” she said.

“We supply a uniform.”

“A uniform?”

“You’re working.”

“Now?”

“Yup. A paid employee.”

The dinghy motored back to the boat. We hoisted and pulled out.

It is one of the mysteries of life that diesel is considerably cheaper on the Asian side of the Bosphorus than on the European. Istanbul is Istanbul is Istanbul. But there is a difference. The south side dresses Asian ... the food is different ... the women walk differently. It’s Turkey ... but South Istanbul is more Constantinople than Istanbul.