by Stefan Mani
In actual fact, though, it hadn’t been death that parted them. Death is some inescapable phenomenon that works behind the scenes according to rules and regulations that no-one understands. When death takes a life it usually seems that there’s no connection between whose life is chosen and the causes and effects of our existence. But María’s death was due not to some imagined coincidence but to the single-minded will of Jónas, who – in a maelstrom of desperation, envy and jealousy – lost all control of his thoughts, words and deeds. In the dark night of his mind he forgot all the good and the beauty that had united him and María, had been totally blinded by the single evil that had taken root in their relationship. The evil that he had, at first, loved to flirt with and watch, like a little boy playing with fire. The evil that later consumed him like an evil spirit. The evil that María did, again and again. The evil he could no longer stand. The evil María didn’t want to stop. Or couldn’t stop, if you took her word for it. But it didn’t matter any more. She was dead, and the evil died with her. She could never do that evil again. Never.
It had begun with some innocent flirting at a crazy party. Men were attracted to María and that excited Jónas. As for him, well, he couldn’t bear the idea of having sex with only one woman for the rest of his life. María wasn’t very keen on the idea of an open relationship to begin with. She enjoyed flirting but didn’t consider that flirting was necessarily the start of something more. But Jónas knew what he wanted and María didn’t want to disappoint her husband.
Once María had ended up in bed with strange men two weekends in a row without being bothered by it; however, doubt began to gnaw at Jónas. He was, of course, not as attractive to women as María was to men. And his disquiet over María’s adventures meant that he couldn’t concentrate on his own urges which were, little by little, repressed; this made him irritated and frustrated.
When he came home from a tour María always welcomed him, but behind the warm smile and sparkling eyes was the shattered self-image of a woman who had become addicted to the attention and lust of men who fucked her once or twice and then disappeared forever. She had become a sex addict who used the internet and personal columns to find men who would meet her at lunchtime or in the evening, in a car on the edge of town, in a clean public toilet or a cheap hotel room. These countless assignations were hot and exciting, but essentially all the same. Afterwards there would be a period of regret and depression, a time of darkness of the soul that María would get herself through with the help of tranquilisers and alcohol.
He and María had tried to make love earlier that evening, before Jónas went to sea again. His mother had taken the kids – as she so often did – so they could say goodbye in peace. María had tried to calm him down, had massaged and caressed him, whispered words of love and sucked his member slowly and sweetly. But all for nothing. He couldn’t get it up. He was too tense, too confused, too worried by the situation. He had pushed María away, gone out to the living room and turned on the television. When he had come back to the bedroom two hours later she was lying in bed, naked. She had washed down who knows how many pills with vodka. She was so fast asleep that there was no way Jónas could wake her up. Then he had gone to the garage and fetched the hammer. He hadn’t quite known why. It was just something he’d felt he had to do. One blow and she was dead. One blow and his life was over.
Jónas breathes and his heart beats, but he is as lifeless as poor María, who lies in a frigid tomb. He is cold and empty, an abandoned house of flesh and bone, possessed by some kind of ghost, kept going by the shreds of the human being who once existed within him.
The ship rises and falls, the wave breaks and the blow pulses back along the ship.
Jónas sits on the side of the bed in his cabin on E-deck, staring at nothing while he rocks automatically in time with the slow, almost graceful movement of the ship; heavy, rhythmic movements that he knows as if the ship were an old dancing partner.
In his right hand he holds a rosary with a crucifix, and he squeezes the black beads until his nails dig into his palms and his knuckles whiten, while the cross hangs between his legs and swings like a pendulum, silently counting the seconds.
His swollen, broken nose is covered with gauze and brown tape. His nostrils are filled with clots of blood; the pain in his head rises and falls in time to his heartbeat; his stomach churns with nausea, and his mouth is dry and sour because he’s been breathing through it all day.
On the table in his cabin are three gas lighters, two boxes of matches and an out-of-fuel Zippo, but he hasn’t been able to find even one cigarette anywhere. To hell with a change of clothes, toiletries and reading material – how in the world is he supposed to survive the trip without tobacco?
‘Shit!’
He’s been awake for over seventy hours and hardly knows any more whether he’s thinking or dreaming, awake or asleep, dead or alive.
When he sits or lies down his mind chases around in circles through the lands of dark horror, bloody fury and fast-forwarded nightmares; but if he tries to walk around and rid himself of hellish thoughts, it’s as if his legs turn into an invisible mustang that gallops uncontrollably beneath him, while he floats giddily as if outside his own body, holding desperately onto the reins of common sense and mental health so he won’t fall off.
‘The Lord is my shepherd.’
God has sent a stranger aboard the ship. Whether the stranger is meant to show him the way back to the light, or Jónas is supposed to instruct the stranger and be rewarded with forgiveness in the arms of the Creator, isn’t clear to him. But God will show him the way.
He is the light that will show the way.
‘He is the light.’
However, why he should send that particular individual, of all men, is a mystery to Jónas. God certainly moves in mysterious ways.
‘The ways of the Lord.’
According to the laws of society, Jónas is guilty of a crime. It’s a crime that God has condemned, as the story of Moses and the tablets eternally witnesses.
Thou shalt not kill.
‘Not kill.’
How far he has gone astray! Is there a sheep in the Creator’s fold who is more lost than that sheep who has taken the life of his wife, the mother of his children?
‘I am a lost sheep.’
Jónas is guilty and the guilt is about to destroy him. Jónas is sinful and the sin is drawing him into the deep as if it’s a black stone tied round his neck.
He has, though, neither confessed nor given himself in. Rather, he has fled from the crime scene and attempted to hide the trail of evil.
He is following in the footsteps of Cain, the archetype of all who murder in a passion. He has shown criminal intent; he has destroyed evidence and perverted the course of justice; he has dishonoured the corpse of the dead.
But God forgave Cain! God was reconciled with him! God put a mark on Cain to protect him!
In the book of Genesis it says:
And the Lord said unto him, Therefore whosoever slayeth Cain, vengeance shall be taken on him sevenfold. And the Lord set a mark upon Cain, lest any finding him should kill him.
Jónas is Cain and God loves Cain!
And what does that mean? Is Jónas going to take responsibility for his actions, step up and admit his guilt, lay down this heavy burden?
‘The Lord is my shepherd!’
No! How would it change anything if he gave himself in and admitted his guilt? María would be just as dead as ever. The only thing Jónas would get out of that would be an arrest and custody, endless interrogations whose only purpose would be to cast a light on a crime that the murderer himself can’t understand and, finally, a long trial and heavy prison sentence.
What for? So he wouldn’t commit the crime again? As a warning to others? To salve the conscience of society? To provide dramatic entertainment for the citizens?
María is definitely dead. But she is also free. Free from the yoke of sin. Now she will rest until she rises up from
the dead, washed white from sin, on the last day.
‘On the last day!’
Then they will meet again; then they will be joined again before God.
Jónas has no reason to go to the prison of men. He is a lost sheep in the flock of God almighty, maker of heaven and earth. A sheep who wants to return home and commit his soul to Him who first placed it in transient flesh in a transient world.
God alone can decide whether this wretched flame will get a lamp to live in and burn forever or whether it will be blown out and the ultimate darkness made to swallow its foul smoke.
‘God alone!’
The God who put him on board this ship and far out to sea, the God who sent him a stranger to accompany him, the God that wants him to …
‘Quiet!’
Jónas puts his hands over his ears and walks around in circles in his cabin, so bewildered, confused and disoriented that he borders on total insanity.
He has to talk to that man before someone else does. Before that man talks to someone in the crew.
He has to know what that man is doing on board the ship.
First he has to figure out the will of God, who sent him that angel from hell.
Is the man in hiding? Or is he going to give the captain some kind of report or an explanation for his presence on board?
He mustn’t come forward! That would threaten … everything. Like a stone falling into a quiet pool, his crewmates’ sudden knowledge of who the deckhand really was would send ripples in all directions and call for unnecessary attention and questions and reactions and …
‘I have to talk to him,’ Jónas says to himself, beating his thigh with clenched fists as he walks in circles, counterclockwise, in the darkened cabin. ‘He mustn’t come forward.’
Jónas means to get all the way to South America without the crew finding out about the crime he committed just hours before he boarded the ship.
There he means to disappear. Once there he will look for signs and wait patiently for the guidance of higher powers. There he will walk in the way of God, penniless and humble, until he either dies or finds the light anew.
He means to end his days there or be reborn for the second time to eternal life in the merciful arms of God almighty, God the son and God the Holy Ghost. Amen.
‘Amen.’
Jónas stops walking and takes a deep breath. Then he opens the cabin door and walks, straight backed and looking confident, down to D-deck, where he knocks on the cabin door of the deckhand.
‘The Lord is my shepherd, my strength, my light,’ Jónas says softly, standing in front of the door.
No answer.
He knocks again:
Knock, knock, knock …
Jónas lets his arms fall and clasps his hands around the rosary. He bows his head, closes his eyes and intones the simple prayer again and again while he waits for an answer to his knock, waits for the door to be opened.
The Lord is my shepherd, my strength, my …
‘Come in!’
XI
Jónas puts his hand on the doorknob, opens the door and, putting on a look of authority, enters the cabin of the deckhand, who sits naked on the sofa behind the coffee table, studying his visitor with the cold eyes of a man who trusts nobody and is ready for anything.
‘How do you do, deckhand,’ says Jónas clearing his throat. ‘My name is Jónas Bjarni Jónasson and I am chief mate on this ship. As your senior officer I bid you welcome aboard.’
Your senior officer?
‘You got a light?’ asks the deckhand calmly as he waggles a cigarette between the fingers of his right hand, taking the measure of the second mate, who stands shifting his feet, his tired eyes flitting about the cabin.
‘Yes … of course!’ says Jónas, patting his pockets and finding a matchbook in his left hip pocket.
‘Thanks,’ says Jón Karl, taking the matches.
‘May I?’ asks Jónas, pointing to an open pack of Princes on the table.
‘Sure,’ says Jón Karl. He lights his cigarette, leans back on the couch, closes his eyes and pulls smoke into his lungs till the ember crackles.
‘I forgot to bring smokes,’ Jónas says, the cigarette hanging between his lips. He tears a match from the book, strikes it on the sulphur strip, shields the flame in the palm of his left hand and lifts it very carefully to the end of the cigarette, his rosary rattling between his trembling fingers.
What Jón Karl sees is an undernourished, insomniac, nerve-wracked, broken-nosed man with a three-day beard, smelling of sour sweat and clutching a Catholic rosary as if his life depended on it.
Fucking loser!
‘Whaddaya want?’ demands the deckhand.
‘What do I want?’ Jónas repeats in surprise, coughing as he shakes the match until the flame dies.
‘How many mates are there on a ship like this?’ asks Jón Karl, blowing smoke through his nostrils and lifting his arm to lay it carefully along the back of the couch.
‘How many? There are two,’ replies Jónas, taking a drag and shrugging. ‘Why?’
‘Who’s the second mate?’ asks Jón Karl, who knows that the same rules apply in conversations as in fights: the one who gives the first blow gets the advantage and is in control of the conflict from then on.
‘Second mate?’ Jónas coughs nervously. ‘Nobody. Or … Technically I’m second mate, but since the next highest ranking in the bridge is called chief mate, then …’
‘Take a seat!’ says Jón Karl, pointing to the still-unmade bed, which is covered with large and small bloodstains.
‘Yeah … thanks,’ mutters Jónas. He removes the extra safety rail before sitting cautiously on the edge of the blue-striped mattress. ‘But, look,’ he tries again, ‘as one of the officers from the bridge I’ve come to —’
‘Try to shut up for a moment, man!’ says Jón Karl, tapping his ash onto the floor without losing eye contact with Jónas, who goes bright red and blinks rapidly like a parrot.
‘Shut …’
‘One more word, my friend,’ Jón Karl snarls, snapping his fingers in front of the mate’s broken nose, ‘and I’ll twist your head so far that you’ll have to walk backwards all the way to hell dragging that stupid rosary behind you like a tail.’
‘I have never …’ Jónas stops in the middle of his sentence when he sees evil awake like a blind dragon in the eyes of the man who the underworld’s gang leaders and messenger boys fear more than death itself.
‘First,’ says Jón Karl, holding the middle finger of his left hand up from his tight fist, ‘what am I doing on this ship?’
‘They think you’re my brother-in-law,’ Jónas says, drawing on the cigarette. ‘But it’s not as if you … I mean, nobody asked you to …’
‘Second!’ Jón Karl inhales deeply from his cigarette. ‘How long have I been here?’
‘Three days,’ replies Jónas. ‘Or, rather, it’ll be three whole days tonight at –’
‘Fuck! And third …’ says Jón Karl, the smoke coming out of his nostrils as he lights a new cigarette from the old one, ‘where are we headed?’
‘To Suriname.’ Jónas allows himself a tentative, crooked smile as he sees the stranger’s face become one big question mark.
‘Suri-what?’ Jón Karl stubs out his old cigarette on the edge of the table.
‘We sail to South America every month to bring back eight thousand tonnes of bauxite. Suriname is bordered by Brazil, Guyana and French Guiana. It has the largest bauxite mines in the world, I think.’
‘Bauxite?’
‘Yeah, or aluminium oxide,’ says Jónas, inhaling smoke. And, when he sees that the deckhand is still at a loss: ‘It’s just a kind of white sand that the aluminium plant at Grundartangi melts down with electrodes to make pure aluminium.’
‘How long do we have to sail to get to … there?’ asks Jón Karl with a sigh.
‘Two weeks each way, including port time,’ says Jónas, shrugging. ‘When everything goes well, that is. We sail inla
nd up a river and it depends on —’
‘No fucking way!’ Jón Karl blows out smoke through his nose. ‘I’ve got to get ashore. Can’t I get someone to fetch me or something? Couldn’t we order a speedboat or a helicopter? Or stop at the next port?’
‘In the first place, we’ve already travelled almost 2000 kilometres, so we’re in international waters,’ says Jónas, inwardly smirking. ‘In the second place, we neither ask for help nor sail to the nearest port except in an emergency: engine failure, illness and suchlike. And in the third place, you are the deckhand and have duties to carry out.’
‘You’re not putting my back against a wall!’ Jón Karl barks, pointing at Jónas with his lit cigarette. ‘If I say I have to get ashore, then I get ashore, whether you like it or not. Understood?’
‘And might I ask who you are?’ Jónas asks, feeling a bit more confident but still fearful in the presence of this naked madman.
‘Jón Karl Esrason,’ replies Jón Karl dramatically.
‘Better known as … Satan,’ says Jónas, unwillingly cringing a bit, as if expecting an attack.
‘That’s right,’ says Jón Karl, smiling mirthlessly and raising his eyebrows.
‘I saw a picture of you in —’
‘Is there anyone else on board that knows who I am?’ Jón Karl asks as he leans back in the couch.
‘No, and I —’
‘And you don’t want them to know,’ says Jón Karl with a careless sniff.
‘It would be awkward for me, since I’m the one who found the new crew member.’ Jónas briefly looks in the eyes of the dark prince of the Icelandic underworld. ‘But it would be even worse for you if the crew found out the truth.’
‘Oh?’ Jón Karl smirks.
‘It’s bad enough being stuck with a guy who hasn’t been legally registered as a crew member,’ says Jónas, putting out his cigarette by stubbing it up under the table. ‘A lot worse if that same guy is a renowned criminal.’
‘It’s not as if I’ve been accused of anything, or wanted by the police,’ says Jón Karl, blowing smoke in Jónas’s face.
