The Ship

by Stefan Mani

  And then there is a third possibility: the co-ordinates are correct and he chooses not to believe his own calculations and continues to sail south, which means that he would not reach land until the ship ran into Antarctica ice after two weeks.

  It would have been better not to use the sextant under these conditions. An hour ago he knew little, but now he knows absolutely nothing.

  ‘Hell and damnation!’

  Guðmundur rolls up the chart, pushes the sextant to the side and turns off the calculator.

  What should he do?

  The captain snaps the rubber band off his deck of cards and lays a solitaire to calm his nerves and ease his mind.

  But it doesn’t do the trick.

  After losing track of the game, forgetting what he’s doing and getting mixed up seven times in a row, the game is just an incoherent pattern of cards. So Guðmundur pulls the cards together into total chaos, shuffles them and puts the rubber band back in place.

  Maybe he should unpack his suitcase?

  Guðmundur Berndsen stands up, pulls out his suitcase and lays it flat on his made-up bed. The minute he opens the case and sees the ironed, folded clothes he thinks instinctively of Hrafnhildur.

  What might she be doing now?

  Is she still wondering whether she should fly to meet her husband? Has she maybe already started to pack? Started the flight in her thoughts?

  Or has she thrown the ticket away in the garbage?

  ‘If I just …’ Guðmundur draws his fingertips over the stiff shirts and the soft flannel pants.

  If he just what?

  If only he’d pulled himself together and asked her straight out whether she really was interested in saving the marriage, instead of forcing her into a corner like that and leaving her there. If only he’d told her that he had resigned, and then maybe talked with her about her grief, the black dress and the singing at funerals. If he had just let her have the plane ticket a day sooner so she could sleep on it all, think it over and then give him an answer before he went to sea for the last time.

  If he had just sat down with her sometime and asked her whether she was ready to turn her back on shadows of the past and walk with him into the light again, instead of remaining silent like a brute the whole time he was on shore and letting four precious weeks burn up to nothing.

  What then?

  Then there wouldn’t be this damned uncertainty gnawing at the roots of his heart like a worm that eats the fruit from within.

  Personal relations have never been one of Guðmundur Berndsen’s strengths, though; he’s always preferred being at the helm of a ship to being near sensitive souls. He’s a ship’s captain and what ship’s captains do is find the most sensible path between two points; they sail around dangers, avoid collisions, and think only about getting the ship safely over the sea and into a safe port, together with its cargo and crew.

  That’s just how it is; that’s how it’s always been …

  Guðmundur Berndsen heaves a sigh and continues to unpack the case.

  He hangs the shirts and trousers on hangers in the clothes locker, arranges his underwear on one shelf and socks on another.

  ‘Well …’

  Guðmundur clears his throat loudly before continuing to unpack his case, sort his luggage and put it away.

  He wipes away a tear from the corner of his right eye with the back of his rough, veined hand and then takes out several short-sleeved T-shirts, lays four silk ties on the bed and hangs up a light jacket and light-coloured trousers. There is nothing left in the case except something folded in brown wax paper that covers the bottom.

  Hrafnhildur has never put wax paper around his clothes. Is this a gift? No, hardly. He’ll be home long before Christmas and his birthday isn’t until May.

  This couldn’t be …

  Guðmundur feels a cold stab in his stomach and his neck stiffens as if he’s about to suffocate.

  For thirty years a dark brown velvet suit has hung in the clothes cupboard in their bedroom. This is the suit that Guðmundur Berndsen wore on their wedding day. It hasn’t fit him for nearly twenty-five years but he is very fond of it, so Hrafnhildur has never been able to get him to throw it away despite pleading with him tearfully every single time she arranges the clothes in the crowded wardrobe.

  For some reason she’s never been able to stand that suit. Perhaps she can’t stand it because it reminds her of the day she married Guðmundur Berndsen and now she is sending it with him to sea to tell him that the marriage is over and that he can go to hell, him and his crummy suit.

  Or is she?

  Guðmundur touches the package, this wax-paper wrapping that perhaps draws the line between love and unhappiness, the past and the present, marriage and loneliness.

  ‘My love,’ murmurs Guðmundur, lifting the soft package that crackles in his trembling hands.

  My love?

  He’s never said that before. Has he never said that before? No! Why hasn’t he ever said that before?

  Because he’s a brute.

  A brute!

  A heartless brute who doesn’t deserve to have a wife and children!

  Guðmundur Berndsen is angry with himself and his brutish nature and rips the wax paper off the clothes. He throws the paper on the floor, grips the suit with both hands and shakes out the folds. The material straightens and slides between his thick fingers, all the way to the floor. The captain blinks his eyes because the material is not brown but black, and it’s not velvet. This is not his suit! He’s holding a long dress with a low-cut back and short sleeves.

  This is Hrafnhildur’s black dress! Which means that …

  ‘She’s coming,’ Guðmundur says softly, looking at the dress that he has hated for so long. He’s smiling from ear to ear. They had been thinking the same thing: when he had decided to stop going to sea, she had decided to stop singing for the dead.

  But instead of expressing themselves in words they had each decided to send the other a symbolic message. She wrapped the black dress in brown wax paper in the bottom of his suitcase, and he bought a plane ticket and left it behind with her before he went off to sea.

  As soon as he had handed her the ticket, Hrafnhildur knew she would use it but she chose to say nothing – because she didn’t need to. She knew that when Guðmundur found the black dress he would realise that it stood for ‘yes’. That was her answer. Taking off the black dress is her answer: Yes, I want to save the marriage. Yes, I will come to meet you.

  Yes!

  So they are linked after all. In harmony through thick and thin, until death do them part. Two people who are one whole.

  A couple.

  If only he’d told her he was through with the sea. But that can wait – he’ll tell her that as soon as they meet in Suriname. How surprised she’ll be! How happy she’ll be!

  ‘Thank you, Hrafnhildur! Thank you … my love!’ says Guðmundur in a voice as husky as the croak of a raven. He holds the shoulders of the dress and takes two steps back and one to the side. He wants to dance. He is dancing! He is dancing with an empty dress.

  Brute! Who’s a brute? He’s the most romantic man in the entire world!

  Guðmundur Berndsen feels he is floating on air, even though he’s probably stomping around his cabin like a newly awakened troll. And it’s almost as if the ship wants to dance too: it slows suddenly, as if bowing before an unseen dancing partner, then tilts to starboard, it tilts, and it tilts …

  The captain stumbles, falls on his back and hits his head on the edge of the table.

  What’s going on?

  He blinks his eyes and looks dizzily up under the table. Blood runs from the scalp above his left ear and his right shoulder hurts.

  ‘What the …? Is the ship …?’ grumbles the captain and rolls out from under the table. Something’s not right. The ship isn’t managing to right itself and it almost seems to have turned so it’s drifting side-on to the wind. As if it were …

  Guðmundur Berndsen stares at his ha
nds that are pushing against the rug on the floor but feeling neither vibrations nor thumps.

  The engine has stopped. The ship is dead in the water.

  ‘What the devil is going on?’ says the captain, his voice shaking. He stands up, flings the dress into his open suitcase and then goes quickly to the door, uphill over the rug-covered floor that is tilting at a thirty-degree angle to starboard. But he hasn’t opened the door into the corridor when the bell on the wall starts to ring.

  Loud warning bells resound throughout the ship, as if the end of the world were near.

  XXVII

  14:45

  When the captain enters the tilting bridge Rúnar is trying to phone down to the engine room.

  ‘What’s going on?’ shouts the captain.

  ‘I don’t know!’ Rúnar shouts back and replaces the phone. ‘There’s no answer from the engine room. Stoker isn’t on watch!’

  ‘Stay here! I’m going down to the engine room. The damn bell won’t stop ringing until someone either cuts the power to the main engine or restarts it.’

  The captain sets off down the stairs and the bosun grabs the wheel with both hands and looks out the window, terrified, at the starboard side of the bridge, which seems to be hanging in midair over a turbulent sea.

  ‘What’s going on?’ asks Sæli, meeting the captain on the landing of C-deck.

  ‘You know the regulations!’ cries the captain, throwing up his hands. ‘All crew to go to the boat deck.’

  ‘Is there a fire?’ says Sæli, spreading his arms to keep his balance. ‘Is the ship sinking?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. But the engine has stopped and …’ Guðmundur stops talking when the warning bell stops, which means one of the engineers has arrived in the engine room.

  The ship’s hull creaks as monstrous waves bend and batter the steel; the heavy beat of drums echoes in the hold and a long high-frequency tone resounds in the head of the crew. Then that slowly gives way to the symphonic whining of the wind.

  ‘While the ship is dead in the water we have a state of emergency on board,’ says the captain, gripping the handrail by the stairs. ‘But since the bells have stopped we’re hardly in immediate danger. Tell the men to stay put until I give the order to do anything else.’

  ‘Right!’ says Sæli, and he sits on the floor so as not to fall down.

  14:51

  Big John stands on the platform to port of the cooling main engine and opens the valve housings one after the other with a wrench, while below him stand the captain and Stoker on the floor of the engine room, waiting for a report from the chief engineer.

  ‘FUCKING HELL!’ screams Big John and he flings the wrench away, but because of the rattling of the generator the others can’t hear the wrench landing or bouncing about in this oil-soaked iron cellar. ‘Every single piston is broken. Repair is out of the question.’

  ‘What’s happened?’ asks Guðmundur.

  ‘I saw someone down here yesterday,’ says Big John as he climbs down off the engine.

  ‘Who?’ asks the captain.

  ‘Where?’ says Stoker.

  ‘Come with me!’ calls John. He walks ahead of them up the stairs leading to the iron platform on the starboard side. He goes to where he stepped on the sugar cube the night before.

  ‘Somebody was here.’ Big John gestures as if to mark off the area behind the generator.

  ‘Who?’ says Guðmundur, wiping the sweat from his soot-covered face.

  ‘Doing what?’ asks Stoker.

  ‘I don’t know! He got away from me,’ says the chief engineer as he looks around, examining the empty platform. ‘But I found …’

  He stops talking and looks thoughtful as his eyes rest on a ten-litre plastic container resting on an iron frame just inside of the ship’s hull, behind the generator and this side of a large water pump. The container is half full of some kind of oil, and sticking up from a hole in the stopper are two black rubber hoses held together with plastic bands.

  ‘Found what?’ the captain enquires.

  ‘I’ve got an idea,’ says Big John as he climbs over the water pump and rips the hoses out of the container. ‘Come with me!’

  John lifts the container off the iron framework and walks off with it towards the storeroom.

  ‘What’s your idea?’ asks Guðmundur as he follows the chief engineer over the iron platform. ‘What’s that container?’

  ‘It’s an additive for the fuel oil,’ says Stoker, who has followed behind.

  ‘What?’ asks the captain.

  ‘Óli! Find me a big pan,’ says Big John, opening the storeroom.

  ‘Aye, aye!’ says Óli Johnsen and runs off. The chief engineer only uses Stoker’s given name when there’s a great deal at stake.

  On the port side in the engine room are various containers that the engineers use for volatile liquids and strong soaps, for example, to scrub off spilled oil or clean parts after disassembling an engine. Stoker finds a big tin pan that’s half filled with congealed grease. He cleans it and then hurries back over the iron floor. When he is a few steps from the storeroom he spots something on the floor. Something that reflects the light like a silver coin.

  Stoker bends down and reaches his dirty fingers towards the glittering piece of metal that resembles a coin but isn’t.

  It’s a small key.

  14:54

  ‘What’s that oil?’ asks the captain when the chief engineer has closed the storeroom door.

  ‘It’s a fuel oil additive.’ Big John unscrews the stopper. ‘They’re mixed together with the heated oil before it’s pumped into the engine.’

  ‘And you think that …’

  The captain stops talking when Stoker opens the door, letting the rattling of the generator into the soundproofed storeroom.

  ‘Here’s a pan. I rinsed the shit out of it,’ says Stoker, putting down a large tin pan that smells of pure gasoline.

  ‘Good,’ says the chief engineer as he starts pouring the contents of the container into the pan.

  ‘But I don’t understand what …’ Guðmundur shrugs his shoulders.

  ‘What did you find on the floor?’ asks Stoker, looking at the oil and his superior by turns.

  ‘Look!’ says Big John, putting down the empty container.

  ‘What?’ says the captain as he leans over, the better to see what he’s supposed to see. ‘I don’t see anything!’

  ‘Salt?’ asks Stoker, and he looks at John.

  ‘No,’ says John. ‘Sugar.’

  ‘Sugar? Where?’ The captain looks from one engineer to the other.

  ‘Look,’ says Big John, pointing to very small drops that glitter like tiny stars in the dark oil. ‘It’s almost completely dissolved but it still glitters.’

  ‘Sabotage,’ murmurs Stoker and he sits on the floor.

  ‘I think I see it but I don’t understand …’ The captain shakes his head.

  ‘I stepped on a lump of sugar here shortly before midnight last night,’ says Big John, then he too sits on the floor.

  ‘Has someone put sugar cubes in …?’ Guðmundur stops talking when Sæli comes running down to A-deck.

  ‘What’s up?’ asks Sæli, standing in the doorway at the bottom of the stairs, bracing himself in the doorframe.

  ‘Nothing!’ answers Big John. ‘What’re you doing down here?’

  ‘I was just –’

  ‘I told you everyone should stay put!’ says the captain with a scowl.

  ‘Yes, but …’ says Sæli, reddening. ‘Rúnar sent me down to get Methúsalem, but Methúsalem didn’t answer me so –’

  ‘The engine’s stopped! It’s kaput! It’s an emergency!’ says the captain hoarsely.

  ‘What happened?’ asks Sæli.

  ‘It doesn’t matter … not for the moment,’ says the captain. ‘The ship’s dead in the water.’

  ‘What can we do?’ says Sæli to the chief engineer.

  ‘Nothing,’ says John. He looks at his reflection in the oil. �
��Nothing except send out an emergency signal.’

  ‘I see,’ says Sæli quietly.

  ‘The radio is unusable,’ says Guðmundur. ‘How can we send out an emergency signal while the aerials aren’t functioning?’

  ‘There’s an emergency transmitter behind the port bridge wing,’ says Big John, looking at Stoker, who nods his head.

  ‘The white box?’ asks the captain.

  ‘Yes,’ says John, nodding to the captain. ‘If the ship sinks, the pressure lock blows the box open and then the emergency transmitter floats up and start sending out an SOS along with the ship’s call signal.’

  ‘What do we have to do to activate the transmitter?’ asks Guðmundur. ‘Do we have to submerge the box?’

  ‘No,’ says the chief engineer, shaking his head. ‘All we have to do is unscrew the box and turn it upside down. The transmitter is upside down in the box but in water it rights itself and then the transmitter turns on automatically.’

  ‘That’s it!’ says the captain, clapping the chief engineer on the shoulder. ‘Sæli, go up to the bridge, unfasten that box and turn it upside down on the floor.’

  ‘Yeah, okay,’ mumbles Sæli with a nod.

  ‘Here’s a screwdriver,’ says Big John, fishing a medium-sized screwdriver from the toolbox and tossing it to Sæli, who catches it.

  ‘Thanks.’ Sæli sticks the screwdriver into his right trouser pocket.

  ‘Be careful,’ says the captain. He looks at his watch. ‘We’ll hold an emergency meeting in the mess at four o’clock. Let the others know.’

  ‘Will do,’ says Sæli, who then turns around and runs up the slanting staircase.

  ‘You were talking about the sugar,’ says the captain, looking at Big John and then at the pan, which tilts like the ship, disgorging thick oil over the edge and out onto the floor.

  ‘Yeah,’ says John, tossing dirty rags onto the sticky spilled oil. ‘Sugar dissolves in the additive and then runs into the engine as a liquid. Once there it crystallises in the heat and the hard crystals damage the pistons, make them crack.’

  ‘No deckhand would do that,’ says Stoker, sneering nastily. ‘If I didn’t know better I’d say only a trained engineer would know enough to think of such a thing.’