The Black Cauldron

by William Heinesen

  Half way down the hill he met a young woman with three small children. She was humbly dressed, with her youngest child in her arms and a bundle of clothes on her back. Engilbert realised that this must be Elias’s second daughter, Magdalena, who had been married in Ørevík, and whose husband had been lost on the Evening Star. There was no mistaking the similarity between her and the other sisters. Only she was fairer, with a reddish cast to her black hair. Engilbert nodded to her in friendly fashion, as though he knew her; she looked surprised, but returned the greeting.

  Engilbert felt heavy and drowsy from the akvavit, and had no desire to go down into the village. He longed to go back to the Angelica Bog, was drawn in that direction as though by strong electrical forces; his feet were heavy, but he could not resist, and he decided to obey this call and abandon any thought of working for Opperman for today. He quickly turned around and returned across the fields. It was one of those infrequent days when the sun was shining brilliantly. He was overcome by an irresistible drowsiness; he flung himself down into the heather and felt the irresistible hold of sleep dragging him down into its depths.

  Thomea went to meet Magdalena. “It’s about time you came, too,” she said.

  “I didn’t want to be a burden on you,” said Magdalena. “But now I’ve got the insurance money for Oluf … ten thousand kroner! So I’m all right now.”

  Magdalena tossed her head. She put down the bundle of clothes on the ground. “Aye, Thomea,” she said, “these are strange times, a time of life and a time of death – what are we to make of it? There is suffering and sorrow everywhere you look, and danger and misfortune – but then vast amounts of money are pouring into the country, and there are plenty of hungry mouths being fed when all’s said and done.”

  Thomea turned to the children and touched their clothes. “Now we’ll see about something to eat for you,” she said in a kindly voice.

  Before long Magdalena and her children were seated on benches around the kitchen table. Magdalena’s eyes took on a warm glow at the sight of all that unaccustomed food. She took a bottle of gin, stroked it lovingly and poured herself a drink. “Heavens, what a wonderful sight,” she whispered. The children ate with a ferocious appetite, at the same time looking in amazement first at Thomea and then at Alfhild, who was sitting in a corner by herself, knocking out tunes on the xylophone.

  After the meal Magdalena lit a cigarette and helped Thomea to clear the table. She hummed happily as she dried the plates. But suddenly she sat down on the bench and hid her face in her wet hands. It was over in a moment, then she got up again, tossed her head and exclaimed: “No, Thomea, it’s not that I’m going around hanging my head, don’t think that. But sometimes I can’t help thinking that it was me who got Oluf to sail on the Evening Star. He really didn’t want to. He was really rather a timid soul, you know. He never wanted to go to sea, least of all just now, of course. But what was there for him to do at home? He simply hung around, and we just had to make a serious effort to make a living, seeing as how expensive everything is…”

  Magdalena stared out into space and sighed.

  “And to be honest, Oluf could often irritate me. I could always get a little work on the farm, but it didn’t bring in much. Then, when I came home tired out there he’d be, just reading the newspaper and had hardly done anything all day – and hadn’t tried to get any work either. ’Cause it was his nature just to sit and dream, lost in his own thoughts.”

  Again Magdalena tossed her head: “So you can understand that in a way it was my fault that he finally pulled himself together. And then it had to end with him being killed on his first trip.”

  “Aye, it had to end like that, Lena,” Thomea sounded dispirited as she repeated Magdalena’s words. Then she sat and pondered.

  Magdalena set about the washing-up again. But suddenly she turned fiercely towards her sister and said: “You should see about getting rid of all those hairs on your face, Thomea! Honestly, you’d be a different person without them.”

  Thomea looked at her in hurt and dismay. Magdalena went over to her and took her sister’s arm to comfort her. “You must do it,” she said. “I’ll help you. There’s a good hairdresser here, and she can manage that sort of thing in a jiffy. We can afford it, lass. We’re not going to be done out of things any longer, are we?”

  “I don’t know,” said Thomea uncertainly, with a sad smile. She sighed and looked affectionately at her sister.

  Alfhild had gathered a host of dandelion flowers and was forming them into a wreath. It was for Ivar. When it was finished she went across to where her brother and Frederik lay asleep. She took a piece of straw and tickled Ivar’s ear, but he did not wake up. Then she tried to open his eyes, but the lids closed again. She smoothed his thick hair and fixed the wreath firmly to it.

  About midday Ivar awoke and got up shivering. The shadow from the barn had just reached the spot where he had been lying in the grass. Frederik still lay in sunshine, snoring. The monkey was at his feet.

  Ivar went over to the little brook to the north of the house to quench his thirst. Everlastingly unconcerned, the limpid water was running between the clean-scoured boulders and tiny untouched islands of sand, and had the secure taste of the land. The day was wonderfully mild and peaceful. Down by the quayside in the harbour several ships, one of them his own Manuela, lay side by side. Over on the other side of the pool stood Solomon Olsen’s pink warehouses, standing out against the grey mountain side. A proper little village had grown up there recently, with quays and ships, slipways and camouflaged oil tanks. Solomon always had luck on his side, his ships received top prices for their cargoes, and not a single one had so far been damaged. And it was the same with Opperman, Mrs. Schibbye, Tarnowius and all the others. They were all in full flower, earning vast sums on their transit trade in Icelandic fish. Aye, life was good and secure here.

  Frederik had awoken and was standing stretching. When he saw Ivar approaching he burst out laughing and shouted: “What the hell have you been dressing yourself up in?”

  “Me?”, said Ivar. He put his hand to his head and discovered the wreath, but he put it back on his head with a smile. “Alfhild’s been up to her tricks, of course.”

  “Sshh,” said Frederik suddenly, looking up at the sky. “I’m sure I can hear a plane.”

  They both listened. The distant drone of an aeroplane could now be clearly heard, and the sirens began to wail ominously out on the point.

  “There it is,” Frederik pointed up at the sky. “Up over Urefjeld.”

  “Yes.” Now Ivar, too, could see the tiny dark spot in the sky above the mountain. It grew, took on the shape of a cross, and the drone increased. The anti-aircraft guns bayed in deafening cacophony, and white smoke buds blossomed against the blue of the sky.

  “It’s flying over,” said Frederik.

  The machine moved northwards and disappeared. But shortly afterwards it returned, flying very high, and scarcely visible any more. Again the guns started thundering for all they were worth, and the echoes thrown back by the mountains sounded like raucous laughter mingled with moans and high-pitched shrieks.

  “Look over there,” shouted Ivar. A column of water was rising from the calm surface of the bay, only a few feet from one of the trawlers lying at anchor there, followed by another, just off the jetty. And suddenly a column of smoke rose from the quayside. One of the ships had been hit by a bomb.

  The two seamen exchanged glances and set off running down the hillside.

  Ivar was quicker off the mark and led the way. He could hear Frederik calling, but was too impatient to stop.

  “Ivar!” Frederik shouted again.

  Ivar stopped and turned round, irritated: “Well, what the hell is it … what do you want?”

  “The wreath!” Frederik shouted.

  Ivar could not contain a short laugh. He snatched Alfhild’s wreath from his head, laid it carefully on the grass, and ran on down the hill.

  5

  It was not
the Manuela that had been hit, but Schibbye’s Fulda. Flames and smoke were swirling all over the big, grey-painted ship. It had been hit in the prow, and seamen and dockers were busy moving the other ships from the jetty to prevent the fire from spreading; others were trying to put out the flames; a group of men and boys came rushing along dragging a fire hose. A few figures, enveloped in wet sacking, were running to and fro on the burning ship in an effort to salvage valuable equipment and get it ashore.

  The Fulda was not the only ship to be damaged. Those anchored closest to it had caught it, too, and the buildings near the jetty had had all their windows blown in. Old Mrs. Schibbye was standing in her smoke-filled office staring out through a shattered window. Blood was flowing from one of her cheeks. On the floor behind her lay a jagged lump of blackened metal that had been hurled in through the window. Mrs. Schibbye was in high spirits; her big, nubbly face was twisted in a smile, and she seemed almost to be thoroughly enjoying herself. Now and then she directed a stream of fierce utterances mixed with embittered cries from the window: “Ah, the swine! Swine, I say. Keep at it, my lads. It’s too good a ship to lose for so little. Remember, it’s bread and butter to all of us. What’ll we do if we’ve no ship? But it’s too late. We can’t get on top of that fire, and in any case the ship’s sinking, any fool can see that. We’ll get the insurance, but what the hell’s the good of that? No one ever grew fat on insurance money. And where am I going to find a new ship at a bloody time like this? Keep at it, lads. No, we’re too late. The battle’s lost. The battle’s lost.”

  Mrs. Schibbye burst into a flood of tears. She turned towards Lydersen, her head clerk, who was occupying his usual place, as white as a sheet and trembling uncontrollably like a dog after a cold shower: “Lydersen! Have you seen that piece of shrapnel? The thunderbolt! Just look at it, there it is. It came flying in through the window … so close it grazed my face. I was supposed to be murdered. Do you understand?”

  Overcome by her emotions she caught hold of the little clerk by both his shoulders and shook him vehemently. “Murdered, you understand … murdered! I was supposed to be stone dead on the floor here! That’s what those swine were after. But there was someone stronger than them…”

  Mrs. Schibbye turned round and opened a wall cabinet. She took out half a bottle of cognac and poured it out into two tumblers. “Look, Lydersen! Medicine!”

  The head clerk clutched his glass convulsively and emptied it at one go. Mrs. Schibbye turned back to the window. “The ship’s lost,” she said, and her flushed face contracted in pain; for a second she looked almost beautiful. But then she became hard again, like burnished copper, and shouted triumphantly: “Death had to take its teeth out of my throat, though, Lydersen, Death had to let go.”

  “Yes,” the head clerk confirmed, with a wan smile.

  “Hey, where the bloody hell’s my son got to?” Mrs. Schibbye suddenly shouted. “Is Pjølle still down in the cellar shivering like a puppy? You stayed at your post, Lydersen. I’ll remember that.”

  Mrs. Schibbye suddenly scowled and nudged her head clerk hard on the shoulder, adding quickly: “Has anyone else been hurt, I wonder, Lydersen? Has anyone been killed? Let’s go down and find out.”

  Lydersen turned scarlet; his eyes were brimming over.

  “Your cheek’s bleeding, ma’am,” he said. “Hadn’t you better let the doctor have a look?”

  “To Hell with him,” said Mrs. Schibbye. “Where’s my cap? Oh well, I can do without that, too.”

  Lydersen suddenly showed his prominent teeth in a sickly, foolish smile which he tried to conceal behind his drooping moustache. Mrs. Schibbye burst into a loud laugh; she went on for a long time, but then it developed into a kind of sombre, menacing, threatening howl: “Oh, oh, the Fulda was a good ship. She brought a lot of money back. She brought blessings and happiness every time she came … to great and small. She fed a lot of mouths. Oh, oh… !”

  Liva had been standing for a long time down on the quayside, lost in the sight of the burning, sinking ship. But she could hardly neglect her work in this way any longer. She tore herself away and pushed through the crowd of people.

  There was not a soul to be seen in Opperman’s warehouse. The door to the office was ajar; Liva glanced in and saw Opperman at his desk, busy filing some papers. He had obviously not been concerned at what had happened. Heavens above, how calmly he was taking everything … already hard at work, why, he was even humming a tune to himself and appeared to be well pleased! As for Liva, she was still trembling and felt weak in all her joints.

  As she drew back from the door she chanced to brush against a tall pile of shoe boxes, so that it tipped over and collapsed on to the floor with a great clatter. She made a feverish effort to collect the boxes and stack them as before. Opperman didn’t come out of his office, strangely enough, though he must have heard the din. Only when everything was more or less in place again did he appear in the door; his face was red; he smiled and beckoned to Liva. “Aha, so it’s you? Come in here a moment.”

  Liva got up, somewhat surprised, and went into the office. Opperman took her by the hand, bowed slightly and invited her to sit on the sofa. Only now did she realise that he was drunk, or at least very tipsy. His tie was askew, as was his mouth, and there was a weary, mawkish look in his eyes. He put a long-stemmed green glass on the table in front of the sofa and filled it from a conical bottle with a cross on the label. Liva made to get up and go, but he held her back; giving her a searching look, he said plaintively: “Oh, Liva. Confused day, very confused! You also need pick-me-up, Liva!”

  “No, thank you, I don’t want anything,” said Liva uneasily.

  “Just little drop?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Oh, then I’ll have one alone.”

  He poured himself a glass and emptied it, smiled vaguely and shook his head a little. Suddenly a cunning look came into his eyes; he went across and took hold of both her hands. She got up in confusion, and found herself standing close up against him.

  “Oh, Liva, you give me little kiss today?” he pleaded.

  Liva resisted, but she could hardly refrain from laughing at Opperman. She felt neither anger nor fear … a drunken man was a drunken man. Only it was pretty humiliating for Opperman that he had had too much to drink simply from fear…

  “No, no, Liva,” he said. “I not ask for kiss, for you a nice, good girl, you engaged and religious girl. No, it just I feel so lonely.”

  He sighed, made a weary gesture, and went on plaintively: “Everyone want Opperman’s money, no one want him himself; all want wages, want tax, want gifts to public works. Some simply take money … and no one say anything, for Opperman never protest, never make example of people, never. But I value you high, Liva, you are so beautiful. I value, too, your brother, he do me great service, he also get good rate. No, you misunderstand me, Liva, you not fond of me, I not trouble you … I give you beautiful coat, lovely reefer. You like? Not shoes, either? Not underclothes, Liva, fine silk?”

  Liva shook her head and could not suppress a smile. But now the door to the outer office opened, and Amanda, Mrs. Opperman’s old maid, put her head inside. Opperman looked irritated as he turned round. “What now, Amanda? You not see I busy? I tell this girl what to do.”

  He turned to Liva and appeared to scold her: “I hear all right you upset shoe boxes; you behave like little child. You upset everything, knock over, no use.”

  Liva blushed scarlet and hurried out of the office. Opperman sent her a warm, melancholy glance.

  The bombed ship was doomed. By late morning the fire had successfully been brought under control, but the ship was letting in vast quantities of water, and the pumping equipment had been destroyed. There was nothing for it but to tow the hulk in to the head of the bay and beach it.

  At dusk the quays were still full of people talking in groups and discussing the day’s sombre events. Another ship lost, and this time it had happened right in front of their noses, without any
one being able to do anything to stop it. But as though by a miracle, the misfortune had cost no lives. They would hardly be as lucky next time.

  There was a great deal of coming and going in Mrs. Schibbye’s home; friends and relatives came to ask how she was and to cheer her up after the catastrophe. She was flushed the colour of roast beef, with two strips of plaster across her cheek. The blackened piece of shrapnel lay on a piece of wrapping paper on the middle of the dining room table; she seemed unable to tear herself away from it, and kept glancing at it triumphantly, as though it was a dangerous wild animal that she had managed to bring down.

  “If it had been even half an inch closer, you’d have been coming to my funeral,” she laughed, the gold chain with the great medallion chinking as her breast heaved.

  “Aye, aye, what times these are,” sighed Nikodemus Skælling, who had come to glean some information for his newspaper. “We who had our best years before 1914, we can scarcely conceive that civilised life can be so brutally crushed in this way.”

  He added emotionally: “Don’t you agree, Mrs. Schibbye – those good old antediluvian days when Kaiser Wilhelm tended his moustache and the whole world hummed the Luxembourg Waltz … ?”

  Mrs. Schibbye laughed silently. “Days and days,” she said. “Have you ever known anyone sing the praises of the present, Mr. Skælling? No, for everyone always goes on about the present. No, ’Those were the days’, you know. But even so, I would say that the roughest days I have known were just before this war. Good God. We were all on our arses. It was a dreadful time, wasn’t it Pjølle?”

  She nudged her son and went on in the same mocking tone: “It was a terrible job negotiating terms with creditors, eh, running from pillar to post and asking for mercy and time to pay – wasn’t it, Pjølle? Cross your heart, wasn’t it almost worse than the war? Aren’t I right? The war came almost as a relief, that’s the truth of the matter. It was like a shower of rain over the desert. Not only for us, but for the whole country.”