The Ship

by Stefan Mani

  ‘That’s true,’ says John, nodding.

  ‘How about an officer?’ asks Guðmundur Berndsen.

  ‘Not out of the question,’ says Stoker, leering at the captain. ‘But, with all due respect, you didn’t work it out, and you’re a highly trained seaman.’

  ‘You’ve got a point there,’ says the captain, ‘but if I had intended to damage the engine I would doubtless have remembered enough textbook learning to have thought of something similar.’

  ‘That’s right,’ says the chief engineer. ‘Every single graduate of the Navigation School knows enough to damage a ship in uncounted ways.’

  ‘Yeah, maybe,’ says Stoker with a shrug.

  ‘But others wouldn’t, you think?’ asks the captain.

  ‘If we don’t count the three of us, the man in the forecastle and Jónas, that leaves only four,’ says Big John. He puts a fresh cigar in his mouth. ‘Of those, I trust two completely, if not three.’

  ‘Which means that …’ Guðmundur looks questioningly at John, who lights a match and sucks life into his cigar.

  ‘Which means there’s only one left,’ says Stoker.

  ‘Ási is completely reliable, Sæli is an innocent … and the devil take me if Rúnar is involved in this,’ Big John says as he sucks on the cigar.

  ‘Agreed,’ says Stoker.

  ‘That leaves Methúsalem,’ groans the captain. He sighs. ‘Is that possible?’

  ‘You’ll have to answer that,’ says Big John, blowing a thick cloud of smoke out through his nose.

  ‘Yes, you’re right. It’s up to me to answer it.’ Guðmundur stands up. ‘It’s up to me to ask the questions and up to me to find the answers. It’s my responsibility to decide who is trustworthy and who is not.’

  ‘Yes, exactly, that was –’

  ‘Thanks for your help!’ the captain says, interrupting the chief engineer as he steps over the pan and walks to the stairs that lead up to A-deck. ‘See you in the officers’ mess at four o’clock.’

  ‘Yes, of course …’ mumbles Big John, going red around the eyes.

  ‘Don’t forget one thing, John Pétursson,’ says the captain as he turns at the bottom of the stairs. ‘When we went to sea less than a week ago I trusted every member of the crew. Each and every one.’

  15:21

  What should he do? What should he not do?

  Sæli holds onto the railing behind the wheelhouse with both hands, strains his eyes in the salt-laden wind and stares at a white plastic box the size of a cigarette carton which is screwed onto the iron wall farthest back on the port bridge wing.

  If he turns the box upside down the ship will send out an emergency signal, which means that someone will hear the signal and tow the disabled ship to the nearest harbour.

  Where is the nearest harbour? It could be St John’s in Newfoundland, Halifax in Nova Scotia or Boston in Massachusetts. But that isn’t so important. What’s important is the package that Sæli has to pick up in Suriname and deliver to Iceland. If he does not pick up the package his family will suffer. If the ship is towed to North America it will be impossible for him to pick up some package in South America. Unless he flies to Suriname, gets the package and flies all the way home to Iceland. But he can’t afford to fly anywhere; and besides, he could never smuggle this package between continents by air.

  But what’ll happen if the emergency signal does not get sent?

  They’re dead in the water in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, without any contact with the rest of the world and surrounded by high seas and storms. Actually, the storm has abated somewhat, but even so … Even if the ship drifts straight to Suriname – which, of course, would never happen – the drifting would take at least three to five weeks.

  What should he do? Of two bad choices, the emergency signal seems better than drifting over the ocean out of control. Or is it? If the ship is towed to the nearest harbour everybody will have to show their passport. Does Satan have a passport? Probably not. Which means he’ll be arrested. The man who was going to help him deal with the ‘debt collector’ back in Iceland and at the same time save his family from his clutches would be handcuffed and locked in prison.

  Then there’d be no hope left. If nobody comes to the rescue, though, Satan will be in the same hopeless position as everybody else on board. If it comes to the worst there’s nothing ahead but misery, starvation and death.

  What should he do? What should he not do?

  The cold wind whips Sæli’s hair, pulls at his clothes, bites at his face and fingers, dries his lips and draws salty tears from his eyes.

  What will that bully do if he comes back to Iceland without the package? If he so much as touches one hair on the head of Lára and Egill …

  ‘I’ll kill you if you touch them, you fucker!’ Sæli screams into the wind and tightens his grip on the ice-cold railing.

  ‘What are you saying? Is everything okay?’ shouts Rúnar from inside the wheelhouse.

  ‘Yeah, sure – take it easy!’ Sæli calls back and pulls the screwdriver out of his pants pocket.

  Damn. Damn! He has to loosen the box and turn it upside down – it’s their only fucking hope. If he doesn’t it’ll be the end of them. Damn it all!

  Sæli bends down and tries to use the screwdriver under the box without losing hold of the railing. The box is screwed to two angle irons that are bolted fast to the back of the bridge wing, one screw for each angle iron. But the screws are swollen with old rust that runs in long streaks down from the angle irons. Sæli has trouble getting the screwdriver to stick in the head of the screw, and it’s even more difficult to get the rust-brown screws to move at all. Every time the screwdriver slips out of the screw head the grooves are further damaged, and Sæli bangs his hand hard on the angle iron, which doesn’t help.

  ‘This is impossible,’ Saeli says and looks hopelessly at his hands, which are pale, shaking with cold and covered with scratches, sores and half-dry streaks of blood. ‘Goddamn it all to hell. Fucking, fucking hell!’

  In his fury Sæli pushes the screwdriver like a knife into the box lid. A crack appears on the lid and the screwdriver sits fast in it. He jerks the screwdriver slantwise up out of the box and then the lid splits apart from one end to the other. One half blows away but the other half is still there.

  Not so bad!

  Sæli sticks the screwdriver back in his pocket and makes his way along the bridge wing. He holds onto the edge of the wing wall and peers into the broken plastic box. There lies the transmitter, horizontal in a specially designed Styrofoam compartment. Sæli sticks the fingers of his left hand into the box but can’t get the transmitter out. He needs to break the lid completely off. In the front of the box is the pressure lock that is supposed to blow up at a certain depth; Sæli is slightly frightened that it’s delicately set and will explode straight in his face at any more disturbance. But that’s a chance he’ll have to take.

  Big John was clearly wrong when he said the transmitter was upside down in the box. Which means that it would not have been enough to turn the box upside down in order to start up the transmitter, as then it would be as horizontal and just as inactive as before. To start the transmitter he’d have had to set up the box vertically, and take care that the transmitter was vertical inside it and not upside down.

  ‘Come on,’ murmurs Sæli, grasping the broken box lid with his right hand. He holds onto the wall with his left hand, turns his face away, pushes with his feet, then gives the lid an unhurried but determined jerk.

  Nothing happens. Sæli grimaces and holds on fast to the sharp piece, which all at once splits apart so that he loses his hold on the metal wall and falls flat on the floor of the bridge wing. He lets go of the broken piece of plastic and watches the blood pour from a deep cut on his fingertips. On the floor beside him lies the circular pressure lock; up on the metal wall sits the bottom half of the box.

  Sæli stands up. He wipes the blood from his fingers on his trousers then grasps the edge of the wall on e
ither side of the plastic box. Inside the box lies the transmitter, shaped like a disposable gas canister with a stout aerial sticking up.

  Now he holds on tight with his left hand and picks up the transmitter with his right. As soon as the transmitter is vertical a red light begins to blink on the top of the aerial.

  One blink, two blinks, three blinks …

  The transmitter works! He is calling for help! This little instrument is the most beautiful thing Sæli has ever seen – or nearly. Nothing is as beautiful as a newborn baby – a man’s own child, that is – but this little blinking red light …

  Boom!

  The ship falls sideways off a huge wave and crashes with all its weight on the surface of the water, which explodes to all sides. Sæli loses his hold on the wall, flies backwards and lands on the forward wall of the bridge wing. The transmitter skids over the iron floor, spins in a circle in the middle and then rolls back behind the wheelhouse.

  ‘No, no!’ Sæli scrambles to his feet but he’s only managed two steps before the transmitter rolls under the railing back of the bridge wing, off the platform and out into thin air.

  NO!

  Sæli runs across the floor, grabs the top of the railing and looks down on the blue-grey emptiness below the top deck of the ship.

  But there is nothing to see, nothing there except salt-laden wind and rough seas as far as the eye can see. No blinking light; absolutely nothing. Did the transmitter land in the sea or did it land on the stern and break into a thousand pieces?

  ‘I can’t believe it.’ Sæli hangs his head and clenches his stiff and bloody hands around the salt-encrusted metal.

  16:03

  Six of the nine-man crew have come together in the officers’ mess. At the head of the table, furthest from the door, sits Guðmundur Berndsen, Big John and Stoker on his right, Rúnar and Sæli on his left. Ási stands in the doorway, gnawing on a toothpick.

  ‘I’ll keep it short,’ says the captain, leaning forward with clenched hands. ‘The ship is dead in the water. We have an emergency situation on board. You know this.’

  The ship is dead in the water.

  No matter how often Guðmundur Berndsen says it, he can’t get used to it. To be adrift on the high seas is a captain’s worst nightmare. Only a collision, a fire or icing up would worry him more.

  And mutiny …

  ‘No hope of repair?’ asks Rúnar after a short pause.

  The chief engineer shakes his head.

  ‘Stuff has got into the engine that doesn’t belong there,’ says the captain, who has to make an effort not to raise his voice. ‘Every single piston is ruined. Repairs are out of the question.’

  Silence reigns among those present, who glance at each other but don’t feel up to saying what everyone was thinking.

  Sabotage.

  ‘Yes,’ says the captain, nodding his head. ‘The engine has been sabotaged.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘The man in the forecastle?’ says the captain. ‘It wasn’t me who locked him up. It looks like he is innocent. Unless he has an accomplice.’

  Silence.

  ‘We’ll fetch him as soon as the storm subsides,’ says Guðmundur, taking a deep breath through his nose. ‘But until the crew is safe in harbour no-one will be suspected of anything, no-one will be punished for anything and no-one will be shut in anywhere. Is that understood?’

  The captain bangs his fist on the table.

  ‘Yes,’ murmur his listeners, nodding.

  ‘We are in a life-threatening situation, each and every one of us.’ The captain clenches his fists again. ‘We will all pitch in to help, and we will get through this difficult situation together. When we are back in a safe harbour there will be a maritime court inquiry, whether people like it or not. But until that time we are men in danger at sea and, given those conditions, we must set aside all our differences and stick together.’

  His listeners nod again.

  ‘Any questions?’

  Silence.

  ‘Where is Methúsalem?’ asks Ási, who is leaning on the doorframe with his arms crossed.

  ‘He appears to be sick,’ says the captain. ‘If he doesn’t show tomorrow morning we’ll have to break in to his cabin.’

  Silence.

  ‘Methúsalem is falling apart,’ mumbles Sæli.

  ‘How sad,’ says Big John, grinning, as he picks up a box of artificial sweeteners. ‘And he was so calm after we put Ritalin in his Canderel.’

  Silence.

  Methúsalem. It was Methúsalem who ruined the engine. It was Methúsalem who dropped that key on the floor of the engine room.

  Stoker puts his palm flat against the right trouser pocket of his overalls and feels the key under the thin material.

  What’s it a key to? Maybe it fits something important? Should he mention it? Let them know he found it?

  No. Not unless someone asks about it. Until then he intends to keep it, guard it well …

  ‘Isn’t the storm abating a bit?’ asks Stoker.

  ‘Yeah, looks like it,’ says Guðmundur, tilting his head. ‘Thank the lord. Such high seas could easily break the ship in two.’

  ‘Has the emergency signal been sent out?’ John asks, looking at Sæli and then at the captain.

  ‘The transmitter fell overboard,’ says the captain, sighing heavily. ‘But of course it’ll continue to transmit and with any luck it should drift in the same direction as the ship.’

  ‘What happened?’ says Big John and he looks at Sæli.

  ‘It was just an accident,’ Sæli says, barely audible, and he avoids looking the chief engineer in the eye. ‘The box broke and …’

  Sæli shrugs his shoulders and sighs.

  ‘He did his best!’ says the captain, decisively. ‘Let’s not despair. There is, of course, an emergency transmitter in the lifeboat but we’ll wait to start it up until we get in the boat.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t we start it up at once?’ asks Rúnar.

  ‘We might be stuck in the lifeboat for several weeks,’ says the captain. ‘I don’t want to risk having the battery in the transmitter give out before we find land or are saved.’

  ‘When are we going to get in the boat?’ asks Ási.

  ‘When the weather has completely calmed,’ the captain replies placidly.

  ‘Why don’t we get in the boat at once? Isn’t it safer?’ Rúnar demurs. ‘The ship could break up at any time but the boat is really strong. The fuel should last us three weeks, which ought to be more than enough.’

  ‘All of which is correct,’ says Guðmundur. ‘But before we get in the boat we need to know where we are. Otherwise we won’t know which direction to sail in. When the weather calms I’ll calculate our position exactly and then we can head for the nearest port.’

  ‘I thought you calculated our position earlier today?’ says Rúnar.

  ‘We can’t take that calculation seriously,’ the captain says, almost to himself. ‘There’s no accurate reading to be had in such high seas.’

  ‘So you don’t know where we are?’ Sæli asks hesitantly.

  ‘No!’ says the captain firmly, lifting his chin in the manner of stubborn children and dictators. ‘I don’t know except in a very limited way.’

  Silence.

  ‘Until we get in the boat I won’t leave the ship’s bridge,’ says the captain firmly. ‘Rúnar and Sæli will have eight-hour watches and take turns being with me up on the bridge – first Sæli for eight hours, then Rúnar for eight hours, and so on. As for me, I shall rest in the chart room every sixteen hours. Nobody besides us three has any reason to enter the bridge for the rest of this voyage. Nobody! If someone has to get in touch with me, he can phone the bridge or ask the seaman who is not on watch to get the message to me.’

  Silence.

  ‘When will you eat?’ says Ási.

  ‘Rúnar and Sæli can bring me food and something to drink.’

  Silence.

  ‘The engineers will keep their regular
watches,’ Guðmundur says. ‘They need to look after the generator, the heating and so on. Ási will, obviously, see to the kitchen, in addition to looking after Jónas while he’s stuck in bed. Outside of mealtimes and watches everyone is to stay in his own cabin, without exception. Is that understood?’

  The men look questioningly at each other.

  ‘Why?’ asks Big John.

  ‘If anything else threatens the ship I’ll ring the warning bell,’ says the captain. ‘Then everybody is to meet on the boat deck, ready to abandon ship. If there’s anyone who doesn’t show up then the others have to know he’s in his cabin so they can fetch him there. If he’s not in his cabin, nothing more will be done to find him. Is that understood?’

  ‘Yes,’ comes the unanimous mumbled response.

  ‘Any final questions?’ The captain gives each of the men a serious look.

  Silence.

  ‘Then this meeting is over.’ The captain stands up from the table. ‘Sæli, you have the bridge watch until midnight.’

  16:27

  In the galley Ási, Big John and Rúnar have a quick discussion before the latter two leave for their cabins, as the captain instructed.

  ‘The Old Man has never been like this before,’ grumbles Rúnar, taking a sip of fresh coffee. ‘I hardly dared open my mouth for fear of having my wages cut, or worse!’

  ‘You get to go up to the bridge, though,’ says Big John, spitting out a bit of tobacco. ‘I’m the next to top officer on board and I’m forbidden access to the bridge!’

  ‘He has his reasons,’ says Ási softly as he puts out applecake and doughnuts. ‘He’s always been a flexible and just man, has Gummi. Maybe he’s been too lenient with us through the years. I mean, he’s always stood by us, listened to our bullshit and let us get away with various antics, and how have we repaid him?’

  ‘Yeah, maybe.’ Big John sighs. ‘But we weren’t the ones who cut the wires on the roof, and it wasn’t our idea to destroy the engine. All we did was shut some idiot in the forecastle. That’s all!’

  ‘We were going to kill the engine,’ says Rúnar and shrugs. ‘That was a fucking stupid idea, now I think about it.’