The Ship

by Stefan Mani

  ‘You’d get your wish,’ says Jónas, straightening up. ‘They would phone for help or sail to the nearest port, which would probably be Newfoundland. For your sake, I hope you are ready with a good reason for being aboard this ship, along with a credit card or some dollars, proof of identity and a passport.’

  ‘Are you wanted by the police?’ asks Jón Karl with a cold smile.

  ‘Me … Why would …?’

  ‘You board the ship without cigarettes for a two-week voyage,’ says Jón Karl, also putting his cigarette out on the table. ‘And judging by the way you look, you didn’t bring clothes or toiletries either. You must have been in quite a hurry. And where is this blessed brother-in-law of yours? Did you get into some drunken argument? Did you kill him, maybe? Oh, no! What have I done? And now you want me to pretend to be him so nobody will suspect anything.’

  ‘Whatever you say,’ Jónas says as he stands up. ‘But that doesn’t alter your situation. You are deckhand aboard this ship and I suggest you take that role seriously.’

  ‘Nobody tells me what to do.’

  ‘There’s eight of us against one of you, an injured man,’ says Jónas, pocketing his matchbook. ‘And the captain is armed with a shotgun.’

  ‘Good for him.’ Jón Karl leans forward onto the table, which makes him grimace with pain. ‘Do you mind if I keep the matches?’

  ‘If I get a pack of smokes,’ replies Jónas, digging the matches back out of his hip pocket.

  ‘Okay,’ says Jón Karl, throwing him the open pack.

  ‘I want a fresh pack.’

  ‘No way,’ says Jón Karl, holding out a trembling hand for the matches.

  ‘We’re on watch together tonight, up in the bridge,’ says Jónas as he passes the matchbook to Jón Karl. ‘You turn up at three to relieve Rúnar and you’re on watch with Methúsalem till four. Then I relieve Methúsalem.’

  ‘Is there a phone in the bridge?’ asks Jón Karl, opening a fresh pack of cigarettes.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Where do I get something to eat?’ Jón Karl knocks a few cigarettes from the pack.

  ‘Down in the kitchen,’ says Jónas and sticks his pack in his shirt pocket. ‘Dinner is at six. You eat in the seamen’s mess on the starboard side.’

  ‘Eight to one is nothing. Send sixteen seamen against me and then maybe I’ll take the trouble to tie my shoes.’

  ‘Don’t be an idiot,’ says Jónas as he walks to the door. ‘Think carefully before you do something you’ll regret. You’re not on your home turf here.’

  ‘I’ll be your brother-in-law for five million,’ says Jón Karl, sticking a cigarette in his mouth. ‘That’s about how much I’ll lose during this month.’

  ‘We can talk tonight.’ Jónas opens the door.

  ‘Precisely.’ Jón Karl grins as he lights his cigarette with the third-last match in the creased matchbook, then he winces, muffles a cry and drops the flaming match onto the rug when his broken collarbone sends waves of crippling pain across his chest, down his arm and up and down his back.

  ‘I wouldn’t bother,’ says Jónas with a furtive grin.

  ‘Bother with what?’ asks Jón Karl in a hoarse voice, stamping out the match with his bare foot.

  ‘Tying your shoes.’ Jónas gives a dry and humourless laugh. ‘There’s only eight of us against you alone.’

  XII

  Friday, 14 September 2001

  ‘Come in!’

  Rúnar turns the handle, opens the door and walks into the cabin of the chief mate, who gives him an imperious nod and gestures to him to close the door.

  ‘And put on the catch,’ says Methúsalem softly. The catch is a hinged metal plate screwed onto the door, which can be hooked onto a peg in the doorframe, so the door can’t open more than a few centimetres if an unwelcome guest wants to come in.

  ‘Is all well up in the bridge?’ says Methúsalem.

  ‘Yeah,’ Rúnar replies, looking at his watch. He sees that it’s twenty past midnight. ‘We’ve got just under fifteen minutes until the dead man’s bell goes off.’

  Methúsalem Sigurðsson and Rúnar Hallgrímsson have the same watch in the bridge, which is unattended while this secret meeting is taking place. The dead man’s bell is an automatic system that lets the captain know with a warning light and bell if the men on watch don’t clock in every fifteen minutes. People have fainted and died in ships’ engine rooms due to poison gases; dead man’s bells were first used to prevent such accidents and were named for the danger that is ever present for engineers on big ships.

  Both Methúsalem and Rúnar started their watch at midnight, but Rúnar will get off an hour earlier, at three o’clock, when the deckhand relieves him. The first and second mates have regular night shifts: Methúsalem from midnight to four and Jónas from four to eight. Big John Pétursson, chief engineer, who has just got off his regular six-to-midnight evening shift, is already in the chief mate’s cabin, chomping on an unlit cigar.

  The chief mate’s cabin is a reflection of its occupant. Everything is clean and tidy; there is no mess of any kind; everything in its carefully organised place, whether clothes, books or toiletries. There is nothing missing and nothing that isn’t needed. On the table are his diary and a ballpoint pen – nothing else. And the bathroom looks as if it has never been used.

  Methúsalem is just under two metres tall, fair haired and slim, yet also big boned and sturdy. He is considered to be an honest fellow and a loyal friend to the few friends he has, but neither entertaining nor exactly boring. The worst you can say about him is that he’s a fascist, but the tradition at sea is to disregard another’s extreme opinions or, at most, make fun of them to cheer things up a bit; after all, people who are forced to be in each other’s company aren’t much interested in experiencing the unpleasantness that comes with seriously and hotly arguing about beliefs and sexual orientation.

  A ship is essentially a closed world, a kind of microcosm in some part reflecting the wider world; but because it is small, specialised and thinly populated, it is free of serious environ-mental problems, political landscapes, wars and international disputes.

  Methúsalem is one of those individuals who are one person in their private lives and a totally different one at work. At sea Methúsalem is quiet and remote, and takes his role as chief mate very seriously; he neither looks down on the hoi polloi nor kowtows to the ‘king’. He simply has his mind on his job, day and night, for the whole tour; he doesn’t allow himself to relax or lighten up while the ship is sailing; he is burdened with responsibilities and worries. But once ashore Methúsalem Sigurðsson becomes totally reckless and doesn’t leave his crew mates in peace – he tries to get them to come drink with him at any time of the day or night, any time of year.

  Drinking with Methúsalem always ends up the same way, and it’s a way men can’t be bothered to repeat more than once or twice. First he tells endless gay, black or Jewish jokes, then moans about ‘bloody women’, adding a few gross blonde jokes before he changes his tactics and starts praising Iceland and the Nordic race, and conservative Icelandic politicians. After the jingoism comes a long lecture on navigation, the running of a ship and the responsibilities of officers, which always ends with his rancorous complaints that the bosses of Polar Ships have still not promoted him and made him a captain.

  Going by the book, the experienced and reliable Methúsalem Sigurðsson should long ago have been given his own command, but the years have passed and most, if not all, of his old mates have been promoted – all except Methúsalem, and this uncomfortable fact is becoming pretty embarrassing, both for Methúsalem and those who sail with him. But there is simply something wrong with Methúsalem Sigurðsson – something people can feel but maybe can’t put their finger on – and it’s this something that prevents him from being trusted to take on the demanding job of a captain. He’s been divorced twice; he is either on his way to treatment for alcoholism or freshly out of it; he is bankrupt; he’s a bloody fascist, and then there
’s something odd about him. Nobody who knows Methúsalem would maintain that he’s crazy exactly, yet his fellow crew members all agree that there’s something crazy about Methúsalem.

  ‘Well, lads, now it’s the real thing,’ says Methúsalem, gesturing to Big John and Rúnar to follow him over to the bed. From underneath he pulls out his suitcase and lays it flat on the neatly made bed. From the suitcase he takes a heavy oblong bundle, something wound in canvas and tied round with twine. Methúsalem closes the suitcase and puts it back under the bed, then he places the bundle lengthways on the bed, loosens the twine and carefully unwinds the canvas. They can hear the soft clinks of metal touching metal, metal touching wood and wood touching wood.

  ‘So how do you like that?’ the chief mate asks, taking a step backwards. Big John and Rúnar take a step forward, the chief engineer on Methúsalem’s right and the bosun on his left.

  All of them stare in awe at the darkish artefacts lying side by side on the canvas, smelling of soot and oil. Three dismantled guns: one .22 calibre bolt-action Savage rifle and two double-barrelled shotguns, one an old Remington side-by-side with one trigger, the other a double-triggered over/under Ruger.

  ‘These are my children,’ Methúsalem announces.

  ‘I’m not so sure this is a good idea,’ sighs Big John.

  ‘No revolution without weapons, my dear Che,’ says Methúsalem, clapping the chief engineer on his broad back.

  ‘It kind of gives you the creeps, I won’t deny it,’ says Rúnar.

  ‘The Old Man is armed, don’t forget that!’ Methúsalem says, picking up the barrel of the rifle and carefully blowing off some invisible thing.

  ‘Well, that’s just a condition of the insurance company,’ says Big John. ‘Some international requirement because of piracy.’

  ‘Besides, the gun belongs to the ship, not to the captain personally,’ says Rúnar, then shrugs. ‘Some shotgun provided by the company.’

  On board the ship the freight company Polar Ships is never called anything but ‘the company’.

  ‘Exactly! A shotgun provided by the company!’ says Methúsalem with a chilly laugh. ‘A gun that is nothing but a tool for separating the few who are in control from the many who control nothing. A tool that only one man has access to, and that’s the captain, of course, who – nota bene – is, in fact, the only representative of the company on board. Think about it! The rest of us are his subordinates, and the captain is the only one that bows to the will of the bosses.’

  ‘You’ve started talking like a noxious leftie,’ John says, smiling crookedly. ‘Like a nationalistic left-winger – that is to say, a national socialist.’

  ‘That’s right, though.’ Rúnar sighs. ‘What he’s saying about the company.’

  ‘Of course it’s right!’ says Methúsalem, putting the rifle barrel back on the canvas. ‘It’s not as if I only started thinking about this yesterday.’

  ‘There’s one thing I totally agree with,’ says Big John, chomping on his cigar. ‘Guns are tools. And, as with all tools, everything depends on who’s using them. What matters isn’t whether you’re armed or not, but what you do with the weapon you may be holding. D’you understand?’

  ‘Of course,’ mutters Methúsalem indifferently.

  ‘The way I understood this, the idea was that if men knew we had weapons, then they wouldn’t use their own,’ says Rúnar, getting out cigarettes and a lighter. ‘That one weapon would cancel out another, so that it wouldn’t really come to weapons. A sort of ceasefire. Wasn’t that it?’

  ‘Why are you saying “men” and “they” when we’re only talking about one man?’ Methúsalem says as he takes hold of the bosun’s right arm. ‘There is one gun in the hands of the enemy, and that enemy is our captain. Don’t smoke in here.’

  ‘Let’s not be talking about enemies,’ says John, scratching his beard. ‘And I agree with Rúnar. The idea behind these weapons was to strengthen our position and even up the odds. In an even game, neither adversary can oppress the other. That way we should solve this dispute quickly and effectively.’

  ‘The captain isn’t alone,’ Rúnar says, putting away his smokes and lighter. ‘People have a tendency to back up the person in power.’

  ‘Now you’re talking sense!’ Methúsalem claps the bosun on the back. ‘And these guns ensure our control over those who consider themselves above the three of us and everyone else.’

  ‘But we keep the guns out of it for as long as we possibly can,’ says Big John decisively. ‘Showing these weapons is a last resort and nothing else. I remind you that the mere presence of these murderous tools aboard the ship can have serious consequences. Not to mention if men start threatening with them.’

  ‘Yeah, I think we ought to keep the guns hidden,’ Rúnar adds. ‘Just knowing they’re here will make us feel more confident, which is useful in itself.’

  ‘These guns,’ says Methúsalem calmly, looking over the dismantled guns like a pastor over his flock, ‘these guns are meant to ensure that our forthcoming revolt will not just peter out and blacken our honour and reputations forever. These guns will distinguish between the victors and the defeated. They may not be the lamp that lights our way, but they will show the way and get rid of all obstructions.’

  ‘Amen,’ Rúnar says, giving the short, nervous laugh of a man who wants to win but fears the victory will be sour rather than sweet.

  ‘Just remember, lads, that this kind of dust-up can end badly,’ says John, looking at his companions.

  ‘We could end up in jail, for fuck’s sake,’ says Rúnar, scratching his head.

  ‘I don’t know about you, comrades,’ Methúsalem says, crossing his arms, ‘but I’m not about to go on the dole.’

  ‘No, nobody’s about to do that,’ mutters Big John.

  ‘Let’s finish this, comrades,’ says Rúnar with a deep breath. ‘I’ve gotta have a smoke, for Chrissake!’

  ‘That makes two of us,’ says Big John, spitting out wet tobacco. ‘Who’s taking which piece?’

  ‘I’d better have the rifle, because there’s an art to assembling it,’ Methúsalem says as he waves his hands over the pieces of guns. ‘Shotguns you can just slide together.’

  ‘I’ll take this one.’ Rúnar grasps the over/under shotgun.

  ‘Here’s its back end.’ Methúsalem hands Rúnar a magazine attached to a lacquered wooden stock.

  ‘Then I’ll take this one,’ says Big John, picking up the other shotgun, which is both older and more worn.

  ‘Meeting closed,’ says Methúsalem, winding the canvas sheet around the rifle. ‘Now go hide the guns in your cabins, either under the beds or in the cupboard. I’ll go straight up to the bridge.’

  ‘What about shells?’ ask Rúnar.

  ‘I’ll get them to you when I have a chance,’ says Methúsalem, gesturing them to leave. ‘It’s not a good idea to be wandering about with both hands full of guns and shells.’

  ‘No, probably not,’ Rúnar agrees with a shrug.

  ‘I’m going to regret this,’ Big John says quietly, undoing the catch before he opens the door and shows Rúnar out ahead of him down the narrow corridor.

  ‘Thanks,’ Rúnar says, stalking out with the shotgun parts upright in his right hand.

  He walks straight into Jón Karl, who is on his way up to the bridge.

  ‘Fuck!’ says Big John when he sees the deckhand, and hastily closes the door.

  ‘What? … Who?’ says Rúnar, backing against the closed door. He stiffens and stares in confusion at Jón Karl, who shows no change in expression and seems not to have noticed the gun.

  ‘Evening,’ says Jón Karl, nodding to the bosun, who hesitates in front of him, twists his body and sneaks the gun behind his back.

  ‘Yeah … evening … I, uh,’ Rúnar stumbles, but Jón Karl strolls on past him and up the stairs without looking back.

  XIII

  Like tumbling down a huge river in a closed barrel …

  Jón Karl stands sprea
d-legged in the shower stall, steadies himself against the slippery walls, squeezes his eyes shut, breathes fast and shallow, and lets the ice-cold water splash over his head and trickle down over his back and chest. He grits his teeth and silently counts to a hundred.

  And burning up in a cold flame …

  He had slept after the second mate’s visit, but has no idea for how long. It’s pitch black outside, but there is also a thunderstorm, so it’s not easy to figure out what time it is. His watch and mobile phone had been left at home in Staðahverfi.

  Cold, dark and eternal night …

  Without scientific instruments or a visible sun, time is just a relative experience, subjective evaluation or, simply, a dream.

  And the dreams are madness …

  Sleeping on board a ship is really weird. Rolling back and forth as if in a swing, only more slowly, but with unpleasant sideways movements as well, and always the strange feeling that the roll down is both longer and deeper than the roll up, as if the ship is plunging over some kind of brink, shown in slow-motion like a replay on television, again and again. It’s kind of relaxing in some hypnotic way, but first and foremost it’s a state of endless lethargy that gets more and more unreal the longer you float about in this oppressive void that smells of oil and is as large or small as your mind, as deep as the echo of the slow drumbeat of the engines:

  Boom, boom, boom …

  The heartbeat of nightmare.

  In a small first aid kit in the bathroom cabinet, Jón Karl found a bottle of painkillers – paracetamol with codeine – ten bitter white pills that he washed down with tap water. Maybe not the breakfast that the Public Health Centre would recommend, but the narcotic effects of the drug were now a welcome change from the screaming headache, bubbling nausea and steady messages of pain sent by his frayed nerve endings.

  A hundred seconds in a shower provides a local anaesthetic …

  Jón Karl turns off the cold water, opens his eyes and then stands still, staring at the clear whirlpool disappearing down the drain while his teeth chatter, muscles twitch and joints tremble. His skin is bright red and numb, fingers and toes virtually frostbitten, and each and every muscle so stiff with cold that he can hardly step out of the shower and walk from the bathroom to his bed.