by Stefan Mani
‘Mind your own business,’ is Lilja’s answer. Then Lilja strides out into the night, both hands locked round the suitcase handle.
Lilja opens the back of the Range Rover, lifts the case in, secures it and closes the door.
‘Granny!’ shouts the girl in the car.
‘My sweetheart!’ says her grandmother, on the verge of tears. With trembling fingers she taps the window in front of the child’s face.
‘Bugger off!’ says Lilja, shoving her mother-in-law into a flowerbed before getting into the car. She backs out of the parking lot at speed, brakes sharply and burns rubber along the tarmac.
‘Where’s Granny?’ asks her child from the back seat.
‘She just went back to sleep,’ says her mother dryly as she lights a cigarette.
‘Mummy, it’s not allowed to smoke in —’
‘Mind your own business,’ her mother spits out as she cracks open the driver’s window a little.
In another two minutes or so they are back in Staðahverfi, where the houses all look alike as the growling car rushes past them in the dark.
When their house comes into sight, however, we recognise it right away: the concrete lions eternally on guard by the driveway and the horizontal windows flaming like the eyes of a creature neither old nor young, real nor imagined.
Lilja parks the Range Rover partly up on the footpath in front of the stairs leading to the front door, puts it into neutral and considers whether she should honk the horn. But the night is too electric, too silent. She doesn’t honk.
‘Mummy …’
‘Hush!’ says Lilja, staring at the house. She bites her lower lip and taps the ash from her cigarette out of the open window.
Then she glances at the clock in the instrument panel.
01:13
Suddenly the house goes dark. Less than fifteen seconds later three shots blast a hole in the fragile silence. The gunpowder flashes light up the house, one of the living-room windows shatters and shards of glass rain down on the driveway.
Lilja throws her cigarette out the window, shoves the car into gear and floors the accelerator. The Range Rover bounds away, roars down off the footpath and disappears into the night.
‘Mummy,’ whimpers the little girl when they are halfway to the town of Mosfellsbær. ‘Where are we going?’
‘To the summer house,’ mutters her mother as, with shaking hands, she lights another cigarette. She turns on the wipers; a few raindrops hit the windscreen.
There aren’t many cars around and the dark Westland Highway merges with the cold night.
‘Where’s Daddy?’ asks the child as she stares out the window.
‘He’s coming later,’ her mother replies, forcing a smile in the rear-view mirror. ‘Just try to sleep, my love.’
‘Yes,’ says the girl, watching the lights as the car zooms through Mosfellsbær doing well over 100 kilometres an hour.
Near the Thingvellir turn-off the Range Rover hits
something hard and swerves back and forth until Lilja regains control.
‘Mummy?’ asks the girl, waking suddenly from her nap.
‘It’s nothing,’ says her mother, her slim fingers clenched round the steering wheel.
The right headlight is broken and there’s a long crack in the windscreen, which has dark red streaks of blood running across it.
Lilja presses a button that squirts lemon-scented fluid onto the windscreen and then speeds up the wipers. They mix the blood with the rain and spread it around until it can hardly be seen any more.
‘Oh, my God,’ says Lilja under her breath as she blinks away the tears, but instead of slowing down or stopping, she accelerates, hurtling into the rainy night at almost 200 kilometres an hour.
Lilja stares ahead as if in a trance, but the only thing she sees is the face of the man she hit. Frozen in a single moment. After he appeared in the lights and just before the car hit him. An ash-grey face. Paper thin.
A death mask.
Engraved on her mind.
III
Heavy blues music, the clamour of voices and a cloud of bitter smoke are pierced by the loud peal of a bell, as if from a ship lost in fog near the shore of some strange land.
The sound creates ripples on the dark surface of the regulars’ subconscious, and a cold sweat on their backs.
Déjà vu.
‘Fifteen minutes to closing!’ the bartender shouts, letting go of the cord that hangs from the clapper of the old brass bell that once served a Dutch freighter.
On the ground floor of the bar customers are smoking and drinking at the tables; some are playing chess or whist, others talking with their neighbours and others still are sitting alone at the bar, intent on their own wretchedness and the oblivion of drink.
Like the guy in denim who looks glassy eyed at the last sip in a greasy beer glass and then at his watch, which tells him it’s fifteen minutes to one in the morning on Tuesday.
00:45
He finishes the last of his beer, puts out his half-smoked cigarette and gets down off the high bar stool. Then he weaves his way over to a circular table, where five men sit drinking. He claps the two nearest on the back, leans forward between them and smiles ingratiatingly through his untrimmed beard.
‘D’you think you could lend me a ten-coin, lads?’ he asks, clearing his throat. ‘I haven’t got any change and I have to make a call.’
‘Leave us alone, man!’ says one of the men he’s leaning on, poking an elbow in the drunk’s stomach and pushing him away from the table.
The drunk takes two steps back then stops to gain his balance, freezes in that position and stares straight ahead, as though in a trance.
It’s as if his soul has gone to sleep, as if his personality has abandoned his drunken body. His eyes go dark and sink into his head, his mouth gapes and for just a moment there is literally no sign of life in his deathly pale face, which is little more than a skin-covered skull. He is lifeless – he has turned into a ghost or a zombie – but only for that single moment.
Then it’s as if an invisible hand seizes a silver thread in a dusky dream. His lungs draw breath, his eyes swell back out of their sockets, his fingers twitch and his tongue moves in his gaping mouth.
His soul has awakened, his heart beats and a character, of sorts, flickers like candlelight behind his glassy eyes.
‘Five, five, five … ship,’ the drunken man mumbles. He regains his balance on the floorboards, then clutches the stair rail and trudges up to the second floor of the bar.
‘Do you suppose that guy realises he’s walking on dry land?’ says the one who had pushed him. His mates laugh at this. But their laughter is neither long nor loud. They happen to be discussing serious matters. And they don’t have all night.
‘Anyway, getting back to those capitalists,’ one of them
says, curling his huge hand around a small shot glass of whiskey. ‘I have dependable sources inside the shipping company who say they’re about to cancel the flag-state contract on our ship.’
The speaker is the self-appointed socialist leader ‘Big’ John Pétursson, chief engineer on a large freighter that was built in China ten years ago and now belongs to a Malaysian investor, is registered in Monrovia and has been chartered by the Icelandic shipping company Polar Ships for the past five years.
‘What’s a flag-state contract?’ says Ási, the cook, as he lights a cigarette.
‘That means the chartering company pays for everything,’ answers the bosun, Rúnar Hallgrímsson.
‘Insurance, repairs, the lot?’ asks Ási.
‘I’m telling you,’ says Rúnar, who had pushed the drunk away from the table.
‘And then what?’ asks Ársæll ‘Sæli’ Egilsson.
‘They’re planning to get a new ship, those capitalist princes,’ says Big John, squinting like a sleepy bear. ‘And a new crew.’
‘Enough with the griping about capitalists!’ says Methúsalem Sigurðsson, chief mate, and the only one of this ga
ng of five who comes from ‘upstairs’ – that is, from the bridge. ‘This matter is above politics and factions.’
‘What crew?’ asks Sæli, whose mouth is dry and head aching with the worry of everything that’s going on in his simple life.
‘The crew will come with the ship,’ says Big John calmly.
‘Some scabs with a one-year contract,’ says Methúsalem, his right hand fiddling with the heavy gold Freemason’s ring that fits loosely on the middle finger of his left hand, ‘who’ll be sent home at the end of the year and replaced by another lot of the same kind.’
‘Have you ever heard anything like it?’ says Rúnar, softly beating the table with his clenched fist.
‘We’re a dying breed, boys,’ responds Big John, finishing his whiskey. ‘The dodo birds of Icelandic sailors.’
‘It would serve them right if …’ says Sæli, sighing.
‘We should stick together and refuse to sail tonight!’ declares Ási, violently crushing his cigarette in the ashtray. ‘Make those pen-pushers sit up and take notice!’
‘Hear, hear!’ says Sæli.
‘No. That’s just what they want,’ says Big John, ever the stoic. ‘That would give them a reason to sack the lot of us and save the expense of our severance pay. Besides, all our rights would be called into question.’
‘What do you suggest?’ asks Ási, who starts chewing on a match.
‘Why did you call us together?’ Sæli says. ‘And how come only us?’
‘I don’t trust the other four,’ says Big John, leaning forward. ‘Simple as that.’
‘John, Rúnar and me had already got together,’ says Methúsalem, ‘and we felt we could count on your support.’
‘I’d have thought that Jónas could be trusted,’ says Ási of the second mate.
‘That’s what I’d have thought, too,’ Sæli says, nodding.
‘I’m not taking any chances. Jónas isn’t entirely trustworthy, in my opinion. And don’t forget that the new deckhand is his brother-in-law,’ says Big John. ‘We don’t know a thing about him!’
‘That’s true,’ mutters Sæli.
‘As far as I remember,’ says Methúsalem, ‘Jónas has pretty much stood by those penny-pinchers over the years, like that time they decided to cut the crew by four. Have you forgotten that?’
‘No,’ Sæli and Ási respond quietly.
‘He’s always sucked up to the Old Man and done everything he’s told. And the Old Man is just the shipping company’s mouthpiece,’ says Big John. ‘Whether those two have been told what’s happening and been promised other jobs, I don’t know. But this I do know: the Old Man knows everything the office knows, so he’s going to try to have a majority of the crew on his side, in case word gets out about the management’s capitalistic plot.’
‘No politics!’ says Methúsalem, waving an imperious finger.
‘Unless it suits you conservatives, is that it?’ says Big John, his bearded face going as red as the old Soviet flag. ‘Goddamn fascist bullshit all the time!’
‘What did we agree on?’ says the bosun, slamming the table. ‘No bloody bickering. United we stand!’
‘What about Stoker?’ asks Ási, chewing on his match and casting a sideways glance at Big John. The man they call Stoker is named Óli Johnsen. He works under Big John.
‘Stoker shovels coal for the Devil himself and no one else,’ Big John answers with a faint grin, earning a laugh from his mates. ‘But while I’m chief engineer is doesn’t matter what the assistant engineer says or does, as long as he does what I tell him to do.’
‘Hear, hear,’ says Ási and he crunches his match between rotting molars.
‘There’s five of us, like the fingers on a clenched fist,’ says Sæli. ‘That’s the majority in a nine-man crew.’
‘Exactly,’ says Big John with a faint smile. ‘This is their payback for cutting the crew.’
‘By fair means or foul,’ says Rúnar, who clears his throat and nudges Methúsalem.
‘Take it easy,’ Methúsalem mutters, surreptitiously clasping his bag.
‘What do you think we should do?’ Ási asks Big John.
‘Speak up, man!’ says Sæli with an anxious look. ‘The clock’s ticking and I want to know everything about possible actions or protests before we cast off.’
‘We’re vulnerable on land,’ says Big John, clasping his huge hands on the table. ‘If we speak our minds before the ship sails they’ll simply put us ashore and give our jobs to other guys. There are plenty of unemployed seamen on this island, that’s for sure. But at sea we hold the reins. The engine and the wheel, in other words. After one week’s sailing we’ll be halfway between here and our destination. Then it’ll be too late for the Old Man to turn around or send for help. That’s when I suggest we make a move.’
‘What do you want us to do?’ murmurs Sæli. ‘I’m not taking part in any mutiny – just so I make that clear.’
‘Not exactly a mutiny,’ says Big John and he takes a deep breath. ‘But the engine could maybe fail.’
‘And then what?’ says Ási.
‘We could make the Old Man understand that the only thing that could get the engine going again would be a fax from the management of the shipping company making it clear that they had abandoned all plans to cancel the contract and lay off the crew,’ says Big John. ‘Signed by every member of the board and the director.’
‘So that’s it,’ Ási says, spitting out what’s left of the match.
‘That’s nothing but mutiny, John,’ says Sæli with a sigh. ‘And I just —’
‘It is and it isn’t,’ Big John says, lighting a cigar. ‘But what the company’s planning to do is nothing but the misuse of power, ruthlessness and an attack on the Icelandic sailor.’
‘Hear, hear!’ says Rúnar. ‘I’m in. There’s nothing wrong with this, guys!’
‘Do you think it’ll work?’ asks Ási.
‘I’m telling you,’ says Rúnar, ‘they’ll do anything to get the ship back on schedule. The last thing they want to do is to disappoint that aluminium giant. If the bauxite doesn’t arrive when it’s supposed to be smelted, they’ll lose their contract.’
‘Exactly,’ says Big John, puffing on his cigar.
‘It’s a simple question of independence,’ says Methúsalem. ‘A question of our right as individuals to —’
‘Work together for the good of the whole,’ Big John finishes for him with a deep laugh.
‘You guys are terrible,’ Sæli says somewhat darkly. ‘You can hardly imagine what it’ll be like up in the bridge if this actually happens. Methúsalem?’
‘The bridge is my problem,’ Methúsalem answers calmly, running his fingers through his fair, well-cut hair. ‘You think about your part, I’ll think about mine. That’s how we’ll come out on top.’
‘We don’t have any other choice, do we?’ says Sæli, looking at his companions one by one. ‘I don’t know about you, but this is not the best time for me to lose my job. But I’ve got to finish this trip and —’
‘We have to decide right here and now,’ Big John interjects, laying down his cigar. ‘On behalf of the engine room, I endorse this plan.’
‘The kitchen’s in if Rúnar’s in,’ says Ási, looking at the bosun.
‘The bosun guarantees the deckhands,’ says Rúnar, most senior of the ordinary seamen, foreman on board and contact person between the bridge and the rest of the crew. ‘We’re in.’
‘All right then,’ mutters Sæli.
‘That leaves just the bridge,’ Big John says, looking towards Methúsalem.
‘Independence above all!’ says the chief mate, straightening his long back. ‘It’s not my style to turn my back on my mates.’
‘Good for you!’ says Rúnar and slaps him on the back.
‘Fine,’ says Big John, smiling faintly. ‘Then we won’t talk about this any more for the time being, but we’ll try to find the chance to get together after we’ve sailed.’
‘Agre
ed,’ says Rúnar, polishing off his beer. ‘So, shall we order a taxi and get our arses to the ship’s berth?’
‘Yeah, let’s go,’ says Methúsalem, then takes out his mobile phone and rings for a taxi.
‘Last call!’ cries the bartender and he rings the old copper bell three times, filling the smoky bar with its clamour.
A few minutes later the five men load themselves and their duffel bags into a seven-passenger taxi outside the bar, which is in a side street in the middle of Reykjavík.
‘Where to?’ asks the driver once they’re all settled.
‘The harbour at Grundartangi,’ says Methúsalem, who is sitting in the front.
‘Grundartangi,’ the driver echoes and pulls away.
Apart from the caterwauling of some symphony on the car radio, which is tuned to the classical channel, silence reigns in the taxi. The five men sit still and stare out the windows at cars, houses and the lights of the city rushing past. After just a few hours, and then for the next fortnight, the endless ocean will be the only thing they’ll see. They know this; it’s why they’re soaking up everything they see on the way to the harbour. They are collecting simple memories that will eventually be precious to them. Little images to remind them of their homeland and the people who wait there.
As they drive through Mosfellsbær it starts to rain. The odd drop hitting the windscreen to begin with, then the rain building up so that by the time they are on the last roundabout the rhythm of the windscreen wipers has become fast and regular.
‘Look!’ says Methúsalem suddenly, pointing at a man in dark clothes who is walking backwards along the verge, thumb raised in the manner of hitchhikers. ‘Isn’t that the guy from the bar?’
‘The one who was scrounging change?’ Ási asks from the back seat.
‘Yeah,’ answers Methúsalem, getting a momentary look at the soaking-wet man out the side window as the car rushes past him. ‘Maybe we should give him a ride?’
‘What?’ says the driver and slows down.
‘No way,’ says Rúnar, signalling the driver to keep going. ‘He’s just a bloody scrounger. Nothing but trouble.’
