The Boy Who Glowed in the Dark

CHAPTER 27

The pamphlet at the ferry station boasted a picture of a luxurious ship with a massive swimming pool. Even if he had swim trunks, Bobby knew he couldn’t afford the risk of exposing himself, literally and figuratively. Still, he enjoyed a quick little daydream, where the driver accidentally fell overboard and he and Eva had the pool to themselves. The rest of the passengers were passed out drunk from vodka and paid no attention to them. What followed in the pool was an even more unlikely fantasy, though it had helped him endure the trip beneath the truck. In fact, he would have sacrificed all hope for its becoming reality to confirm she was still alive and secure her safety.

Bobby found a convenience store and a food kiosk in the ferry building. He bought a travel kit containing a toothbrush, toothpaste, a comb, a razor, and shaving cream. It also contained a mask, the kind painters wore in America, and sick folks wore in Tokyo. A rack of cheap sunglasses offered protection from ultraviolet rays and prying eyes. Bobby ran straight to the rack as soon as he saw it. He tried on a few pairs and settled on a wraparound design that athletes and kids his age might wear. They were a bit flashy, but he looked even stranger when he tried on the aviator designs adults might wear. His father had warned him not to outthink himself. Sometimes the best disguise was being oneself.

He bought a six-pack of bottled water and enough packaged food for two days. He knew from his experience on the Trans Siberian Express not to expect anything but boiled water on the ferry. Perhaps they would have food but it would be expensive. By bringing his own supplies he would arouse less suspicion. He might actually look like a regular commuter, someone who knew how to save a dime. He also bought a notebook, a pen, and two t-shirts from a souvenir stand, and a duffel bag. He stuffed his purchases into the bag so he appeared to have some luggage.

Once he was finished shopping, Bobby converted his yen into rubles at the currency exchange desk. Nadia had changed 500 dollars into yen for him. Even though he had a credit card, she didn’t want him traveling without local currency in his pocket. He’d used the credit card to make his purchases so he had 460 dollars worth of rubles left when he made the second conversion. The currency traders made a nice living. Eleven more conversions and he’d be left with no money even though he hadn’t spent a dime.

A wall in the ferry building contained ads from several hotels in Vladivostok. Bobby noted the cheapest one. He entered it as his destination on the proper Russian immigration form. He told the immigration officers he was on vacation with his aunt who was back in Tokyo. He was writing an article for his school blog about the students’ most unusual experiences. It was a contest, with the winner earning a place on a prominent New York City travel magazine’s blog. Boy did he want to win that contest. Such a victory could help a kid get into a good college. The top colleges were so competitive in the States, he told the officer, among other random observations about his high school experience. He spoke in English, enunciating carefully to hide any trace of his Russian fluency, not pausing to take a breath so as to frustrate the officer as much as possible.

It worked. The immigration officer’s face turned eggplant as Bobby yapped away. With a long line of people waiting behind Bobby, the immigration officer stamped his passport and let him pass.

Bobby found the driver and Eva sitting in a waiting area in front of a window facing the pier, their backs to the main lobby. No one could see their faces upon entering the waiting room, and those who walked past them to enter the pier had their eyes on the ferry. Eva rested her head on the driver’s shoulder. To a casual observer, it looked like an affectionate gesture from a daughter, wife, or lover. To Bobby, it spoke of needles or pills and a heavily sedated state. He resisted the temptation to try to catch a glimpse of her face. His goal was to follow them and not to be seen, he reminded himself. He would not be helping his cause by confirming she was Eva if the driver recognized him. The driver had a cell phone. He would call his associates. They would kill Bobby on Russian soil, dissolve his corpse in acid, feed it to pigs, or toss it into the foundation of a new high-rise in Vladivostok. No, Bobby thought. Keep to yourself.

Eva was Genesis II, he thought. She simply had to be.

When boarding started, Bobby watched the driver and Eva climb the gangplank and disappear inside. He waited five minutes to let them find their seats and minimize the risk he’d bump into them. Only then did he make his way onboard.

One side of the ferry resembled an open sardine can filled with used Japanese cars. They nestled so closely to one another that there was barely any room to open their doors. Bobby wondered how someone could manage to squeeze in and out, as it appeared that only a stick figure would be able to slither behind their wheels.

If the parking lot was a revelation, the swimming pool was a major disappointment. It bore as much of a resemblance to the picture in the pamphlet as Pripyat did to the utopian city built for the nuclear workers in Chornobyl. There were no lounge chairs or side tables with umbrella drinks. Patches of rust covered the handrails. The diving board had been snapped in half. Strips of cracked and peeling paint dangled along the sides and bottom of the basin. The pool itself wasn’t filled with sky blue water. Instead it was crammed full of motorcycles. A five-foot plank rested beside the shallow end, no doubt serving as the ramp to get the motorcycles in and out of the pool.

The passenger side of the ferry was actually worthy of a brochure. Probably not a luxury cruise brochure, but certainly one for ferries. An immaculate lobby the size of a ballroom greeted passengers. Stairs led to the second floor where the first- and second-class cabins were located. Bobby was certain the driver had secured such a room for himself and Eva. The thought of him spending two nights with her sent chills down Bobby’s spine, but he soothed himself with logical reasoning. He couldn’t overtake the man when he was locked in a private room on a boat in the middle of the ocean. He had to bide his time. He had to concern himself with his stealth and her survival.

Most passengers congregated in the restaurant. Bobby took his sunglasses off so as not to arouse attention, and put his mask over his nose. He pulled his hat down low to his eyes and glanced at his reflection in a lobby window. He looked like a sick young man acting in accordance with Japanese customs, keeping his germs to himself to prevent his fellow passengers from getting infected. The knit hat reinforced the notion that he had a cold. Even Russian passengers would pay him no mind. If they were on the ferry, they were probably regular commuters. They likely understood Japanese culture by now, and wouldn’t glance at the kid with the mask twice.

The restaurant resembled a secondary school cafeteria, with a room full of tables and two serving lines along perpendicular walls. There were plenty of noodle soups and teriyaki dishes for purchase. Bobby was reminded this was a Japanese operation and not a Russian one.

A second-class berth would have cost two thousand dollars and put him at risk of accidentally sharing the same room as the driver and Eva. For both these reasons he had no choice but to buy a second-class B ticket. It was a nice sales tactic. There was no third-class seat. Just two versions of second class, even though the B class was essentially general admission. He would share sleeping quarters with a hundred or more other passengers in the tatami mat room. A tatami mat was a traditional form of Japanese flooring made from rice straw. Pillows and blankets were provided.

Bobby spent his first day in the restaurant, going on deck to get a breath of fresh air as other passengers did the same. He kept to himself, and clung to groups of men when he needed to move about. Although he doubted the driver would emerge from his cabin except to get food, and he was confident in his disguise, he planned his movements to minimize the risk of being seen.

The reason the ferry was filled with cars and motorcycles became apparent the first night on the ship. Russian dealers bought used cars and bikes in Japan and sold them in Vladivostok. Bobby counted nine dealers and an equal number of vodka bottles at their table. They downed shot after shot, toasting Toyota, Nissan, the Emperor, the Japanese hostesses who could milk a man’s wallet and glands dry, and the genius who planted those beautiful cherry blossoms.

Bobby was reminded of something a teammate on the Fordham Prep hockey team had told him. The kid’s father owned a car repair shop with an export business on the side. According to him, used Lexuses were scarce in America because they were routinely shipped to Moscow.

Bobby drifted in and out of sleep during the first night, never catching more than an hour of consecutive shut-eye without being woken up by ship and human noises alike. Mechanical devices creaked and groaned. A few old men got up to use the bathroom in the middle of the night. The drunken Russians showed up around 2:00 a.m. Someone farted so loudly Bobby thought it was the engine backfiring until the stench of rotten eggs hit him.

Boredom set in during the second day. It mixed with a queasy anticipation of the unknown that awaited him in Vladivostok. The combination left him neither sleepy nor alert, but rather strangely unsettled. As he sat idling in the restaurant, Eva preoccupied him even more. Action and planning diverted his mind. In their absence, he thought of nothing and no one else. His imagination was consumed with the image of the face he’d seen through the truck’s window in Fukushima.

Shocked, scared, confused. More mature then he remembered her. Cheekbones more pronounced, porcelain skin a bit damaged from the sun. The eyes — the sweet puppy-dog look completely incongruous with her tough, self-reliant personality — meeting his. Conveying her fear, looking for a connection… a flicker of recognition, a parting of her lips… And then the truck drove off.

Bobby had never seized the opportunity to tell her what he felt in his heart before she supposedly died. The mere thought of doing so was absurd. They’d never discussed their feelings about each other. Besides, for years she hadn’t even acknowledged his existence. The thought of weirding her out by revealing his true affections for her sounded like the dumbest move a man could make.

And yet he regretted not doing so. For if there were a sliver of a chance that she shared his affection, that would mean more to him than anything else. More than his hockey career, his American citizenship, more than life itself.

If given another opportunity, he wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

The sound of footsteps interrupted his daydream. Heavy boots marching toward him. The sound was close, too much so for him to escape. Bobby cursed himself. He hadn’t been focused. And now someone had snuck up right behind him. Bobby didn’t turn, though. Instead he hoped he was mistaken and that man was simply walking toward the window to take a look outside.

The footsteps stopped behind him. For a moment there was no sound, and Bobby thought that maybe he’d guessed right. But then Bobby felt a boot connect with the leg of his chair. It was just a poke, to wake him out of his apparent slumber. The man spoke in a baritone, his voice rough from years of cigarette smoking.

“Hey, kid,” he said in Russian. “Don’t I know you?”