Lloyd Terminal - A Short Story By Radu Pintea

Lloyd Terminal a short story by Radu Pintea

When the VLCC King Bay Boy skipper issued the command to cast the anchor, he had no idea this operation would tap its owner $30 million. He barely tipped his cap and belched softly after a hearty meal when someone summoned him on deck at once. Once he reached there, there was no need anymore to hear his Second Officer yelling and pointing his forefinger to the sea. ‘Skipper, sir, look over there!’ He could see by himself with his own eyes a big, black blot surrounding the ship all over. ‘Slick,’ the Second Officer said. ‘I can see,’ the Captain said. ‘We struck oil, looks like.’ ‘Almost correct,’ the Skipper mumbled. ‘We hit an oil pipe. One that doesn’t show up at all on this damn map of this damn bay, and you know why? Because it’s an obsolete damn map, we have here, that’s why. I told the damn pig a thousand times to replace them with an updated set. F__K! ’ The Captain climbed up on the double the catwalk to the RT cabin at the top of the superstructure. Three hours later the “pig” was aboard a TWA Trident airliner and in his shiny aluminum briefcase tucked in his lap the last edition of the African coastal map just bought from the Admiralty bookstore a few hours back. He was the owner of the Very Large Crude Carrier King Bay Boy registered in Monrovia, California, U.S.A. And he seemed the only passenger aboard the Tangiers bound flight having the easily to notice tic of glancing at his gold wrist watch every five minutes. At exactly the same time, however, somebody else was airborne too. A man of middle age and middle build, conservatively attired, sipping tea off a china cup with the red British Airways logo on it. He scanned the Times trying to figure out how the weather would be like on the north African coast. His destination: Tangiers. A telex among the papers in his genuine leather briefcase promptly required someone from Lloyd to attend a classic legal action of naval damages disclaim.

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The man reading the Times was the counsel. He was from the Lloyd Insurance. He was that somebody else. By the end of the first day audition the King Bay Boy’s owner& skipper legal counsel grinned encouragement to his clients. ‘That’s OK, that’s good, no problem,’ he said and blinked his eyes in comfort. ‘Do you think so?’ the ship owner said. ‘Relax.’ The old lawyer was sweeter than St. John. ‘I was lucky enough to find that map fast.’ ‘Just in time, yes. Otherwise I could have been nailed down back to the wall. So the outcome is that our friend, the Skipper, did a mistake our good ol’ buddy St. John from the fabulous Lloyd’s God bless its name which is backing everything, will foot the bill, no shit, believe me. I 100% guarantee.’ The Captain cast a long, hard stare at him. He barely contained himself not to punch this smirking idiot in the nose. And another punch in the owner’s face since it was his fault that made him blemish his unblemished record. As he was now, his statute chipped, he was left to the mercy of the owner for letting him keep the supertanker’s command further on, or other ship for that matter. This climate of robust and jocular trustfulness bolstering more or less the crestfallen spirit of the three men brooding in the Soggy Mariner bodega over a glass of wine was shattered by a fourth man – the old legal counsel from Lloyd’s just checked in to eat his meal and drink his cup of Earl Grey tea before checking in Aphrodite Hotel across the street where he had booked his business suite in advance. ‘You might win the case,’ he addressed the other three, then he turned to his opponent, the counsel representing the party being legally sued by the port of Tangiers Authority: however, please, note that tomorrow I’ll ask you a $30 million worth question. Then he bid them good night, turned on his heels, and stepped out into the dusk of Tangiers, heading for Aphrodite Hotel. King Bay Boy skipper felt like laughing. He found very funny, indeed to witness in so short a time such dramatic changes of humor taking place with both the supertanker’s owner and their counsel. The neat little man from the Lloyd’s had placed the charge of dynamite and went dutifully to hit the pillow. Yes, this was funny stuff, indeed in a hair raising way, too. Prior to sleep he managed to decode the reason why he turned to like a lot the tidy legal eagle from London. He would break even by the end of 2

the trial anyway, so he could afford casting now a cool eye on all this matter, since no matter how the trial ended he personally had nothing to gain and nothing to lose. On the other hand, he cherished the Englishman’s sterling character, one of the most pristine quality. How else could have been explaining that very amok-mixture of fair play and cynicism propelling that warning phrase, neither to him nor to the owner, but to their stiff tight ass of a counsel himself ? This was the one grand true gesture of a true grand knight in full possession of that rare gift of deadly chivalry bound to win a duel even before it took place. It was damn worth to see what was going to happen. For twelve hours left all three of them bashed their brains to figure out the question the man at the Maritime Insurance had in store for them. Once they found the question that unquestionably would settle the action, it could be dismantled and torn apart to its dangers and consequences thereof , and, like some any deadly field weapon, it could be disabled. On the third day in Tangiers, in the Court Hall for Naval Mitigation the chairman of the commission stunned everyone while opening up session at the request of the Insurer Party which considered evidence as self explanatory and supplying full satisfaction and the expertise done. This blitzkrieg approach made all eyes in the court focus on the Lloyd’s counsel. Superficiality to be expected from this little man half way to his retirement for age limit? Was this case so obvious as to the old, tired counsel to wish to deal with straight away at once and return from sunny Tangiers back home to the misty wharves on Thames? Such rumors met and short-circuited in the Court Hall of Naval Mitigation. The chairman of the commission had Lloyd’s counsel have the floor. ‘Thank you, your honor. I summon to this stand Mr. Kim Duarte, the King Bay Boy’s owner, ’ he called. The nominee raised to his feet and came over in front of the commission. ‘Do swear you’ll tell all the truth and nothing but the truth, so helps you God,’ the Lloyd’s man asked the owner. ‘I do swear,’ Kim Duarte said. He is cool and his counsel is patting his shoulder in comfort and assurance. ‘I would like you to tell us, Mr. Duarte, whether you have knowledge or not about the fact that Insurance does not rescind liability when the honored commission decides the damage was done by owner’s fault or misconduct.’

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The hall began to stir and hum in apprehension. The owner started to smile, but he barely did so. What he had just heard was kid stuff, unless something else, real horrible, could lurk beneath this tautology. It stank. Particularly he disliked discussions starting from time old truths; these very much seemed demonstrations tailored by scientists for lecturing bunches of rednecks and yokels, the latter having eventually to acknowledge that they really were that dumb. Not too fancy for his taste either to have your nose rubbed into a step-by-step demo of your own idiocy. He didn’t grew gray hair for nothing the diminutive, fine man representing the interests of the Maritime Insurance Company. Kim Duarte knew him. His Victorian manners were concealing a first class intelligence second to none except only his legendary honesty. Rumors claimed even losing against this man was a pleasure, let alone his basic, human, sound ratiocination. Today fate had put this very character in his crossroad. ‘Yes, I know,’ Kim Duarte said.’ ‘In order. As owner of the King Bay Boy supertanker, did you take care to provide the ship on the advent of its voyage with the specific map of the target area of destination where we all know it did that ill fated anchorage?’ Kim Duarte felt encouraged. ‘Yes. I provided the skipper of my ship with the proper map,’ he answered without blinking. This was the key issue of the trial. ‘Please, tell us, were you aware actually there are two editions of this coastal zone map, one obsolete, featuring no submarine oil duct , and an updated version, subsequent to oil pipe laying on the sea bed, an edition where this oil pipe was marked? ’ ‘Yes, I know.’ ‘Very well, Mr. Duarte. Now I am asking you what map did you have now, as we speak, aboard the King Bay Boy, the old one, or its updated edition? ’ Second kid stuff, Kim Duarte scored again in silence. Could it be this one the famous $30 million question? The owner grinned a bit more confident this time. Anybody knew that if he claimed he provided the ship with the old edition of the map he would have been instantly being found guilty for neglect and therefore good to turn in debt for the Tangiers Port Authority, whereas if he acknowledged that he put aboard the supertanker the latest edition of the map, the court room will rule it a fault of the captain and Lloyd footed the bill …in both cases.

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He blinked and wiped the ice cold beads of perspiration suddenly popping on his furrowed brow. ‘The new edition, sir.’ ‘Specifically, when did you put the new map aboard the King Bay Boy?’ the Lloyd’s man asked. Kim Duarte did not answered right away. ‘When did you put the new map aboard the King Bay Boy?’ the Lloyd’s man repeated with excruciating patience. I remind you, you’re under an oath.’ ‘Well,’ King Duarte licked his lips suddenly turned parched. ‘Before leaving the berth.’ ‘We could we see it, now, of course, or no?’ Lloyd’s interests defender said quickly. ‘Objection!’ Kim Duarte’s attorney jumped off his seat. ‘My distinguished colleague deliberately harass my client!’ ‘Objection overruled,’ the chairman cried. Kim Duarte made strenuous efforts to take firm grip of himself on the brink of just losing it under the fierce incorruptible scrutiny of this tweed clad cobra. ‘Well, sure thing, no problem; it’s aboard the ship, sir. If you so wish I could have somebody fetch it for you, or else if you would like to see it for yourself aboard, as you wish.’ ‘Here, in this court the dispositions are issued by the court chairman only. But, why not? Maybe on this occasion we’ll see the old map as well, right?’ Briskly, the Lloyd representative turned to the Captain. ‘Where is the old map, Skip?’ The captain raised and said in a clear voice: ‘Aboard, sir!’ The old lawyer turned back to the court, then to the owner once again. He said: ‘So, both maps are now aboard the King Bay Boy. Why, Mr. Owner – and this is a $30 million question I promised yesterday – at the time when you said you provided the ship with the latest edition you didn’t get off the ship the old one?’ Instead of any answer, the left hand fingers of Kim Duarte gripped tightly the bar where he took the solemn oath. The Englishman carried on: ‘Let me tell you why: because not at the time of making out to the sea for the voyage some three weeks ago you supplied your ship with the new map, but three days ago, and you was in too much of a hurry and too sure of your move to imagine that you would not get away with it all, making Lloyd swallow rod, line and sinker and pay the damage in the process… yet you 5

missed a small detail, however: making the old edition of the map disappear from the ship. Which you, obviously, didn’t. Big mistake from your part, Mr. Duarte. This is the one for which Lloyd Maritime Insurance cannot pay on your behalf.’ Owner and the captain of the supertanker were looking very hard at the floor. Both wondered just how worn out the planks were. The Romanian version of this short story was first published in April 1997 in Marea Noastră magazine in Constanta

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