“No, no, no!” shouted Marselius on the point of tears. “We don’t want any brawls in here, I said.”
“There isn’t going to be a brawl,” said Ivar. He turned calmly towards Bergthor and said: “Are you coming outside or not?”
Bergthor took another pull at his cigarette, looked around with a laugh and said: “Why, have you got a message from Marshall Badoglio?”
Several of the men laughed. Ivar breathed heavily. But suddenly he lost control of himself, thumped the grinning Bergthor in the chest and knocked him to the ground.
“No, no, no!” wailed Marselius, tearing at his beard.
“Well done, Ivar,” shouted Poul Strøm. “That stay-at-home was asking for a bloody nose. But let that be enough.”
Poul Strøm, the skipper of Solomon Olsen’s trawler Magnus Heinason, was a man of great repute, and a giant to behold. His words were always taken seriously, for he never lost his composure. But Ivar’s fury would not abate. Everything went black before his eyes, he bared his tattooed lower arm threateningly.
“Just you come on!” he fumed.
“Grab him!” screamed Marselius. “Get hold of him! He’s out of his mind. Shut the door into the dance hall!”
“All right, Ivar,” said Poul Strøm in an effort to soothe him. “Come over here and sit down and have a beer, mate.”
Ivar peered at him through unseeing eyes and approached him with his elbow raised behind. Marselius took flight and tripped over a chair leg. He wailed plaintively: “Do get hold of him, one of you … please! He might kill somebody.”
Ivar felt himself grasped from behind. He turned round quick as lightning and hit out, lowered his head like a charging bull and rushed at a clump of hands and fists, striking out at random, pale and with tightly closed mouth. Once more he was grabbed from behind and brought half way to the ground, but he got to his feet again, stumbled against a table, and felt a dull pain in his side, which made him even more furious. He caught hold of a bottle and hurled it along the table, smashing glasses and bottles alike. His ears were ringing to the sound of an immense number of voices singing the turbulent ballad of the Battle of Roncevalles; he felt himself being lifted from the ground and kicked, but he managed to battle his way free again, clutched a chair and swung it threateningly in the air.
“Where’s Frederik?” someone shouted. “Frederik’s the only one who can calm him down.”
“We’ll bloody well get him under control,” said Poul Strøm, flinging off his jacket. “Right! At him again before he does some damage with that chair!”
Ivar bared his teeth in a lunatic smile, took a couple of steps forward and swung the chair against the ceiling, smashing the lamp in the process. For a moment the bar was pitch dark, but soon torches appeared from all sides, all directed at Ivar, whose face contorted in the sharp light, while, dazzled, he swung the chair about him.
It took some time to get him tethered, but finally they managed to force him down on the floor and hold his arms and legs tight. He was pale, and groaned through tightly closed lips; there was froth in the corners of his mouth, and a trickle of blood was issuing from his nose. Marselius had fetched a lamp from the kitchen and put it on the bar. Bergthor Ørnberg, too, was bleeding from his nose and mouth; he had a cut on the upper part of his jaw, and his glasses had been smashed. A couple of other men, too, bore signs of the struggle, but no serious damage had been done. The darkened room was quiet; the scant light from the kitchen lamp was reflected in the broken glass strewn over the floor and tables. It was past midnight; the dancing had come to an end, and the men’s voices were subdued. They were debating whether it would be necessary to bind Ivar.
“No, nonsense,” said Poul Strøm. “The spark’s gone out of him. Let’s see about getting him back aboard his ship.”
He bent down and took hold of Ivar by the upper arm. “I suppose you can manage on your own, can’t you? We’ve got to get you on board. Come on!”
But now a heavy knock was heard on the door. It was the police, the inspector himself and two constables. Bergthor Ørnberg appeared behind them, holding a handkerchief up to his swollen mouth.
“Well, now you can see what it looks like in here,” he said. “Lamp smashed, furniture ruined, men beaten up… it’s a wonder there’s no more serious damage. And there’s the culprit. And there’s Jens Ferdinand Hermansen, the man who started the trouble.”
“No, you did that yourself,” said Poul Strøm.
Bergthor took the handkerchief from his mouth and stepped over to the inspector. “Look, Joab Hansen, you can see for yourself. I demand that he should be held responsible and punished so it can be a lesson to him.”
“Yes, he’s dangerous,” said the inspector curtly. “Get the handcuffs, Magnussen.”
Joab Hansen cast a disapproving glance at the assembly. His brown eyes were slightly askew in his face, and one was bigger than the other. His tight lips moved as though he were chewing on something.
Ivar lay with his eyes closed. His hand fell down limply when the officer raised it, and he offered no resistance. But what now … there was the sudden ring of metal against the wall. Ivar had grabbed the handcuffs and hurled them away, and the next moment he was on his feet again. He was again grasped from behind, but he tore himself free, stumbled across towards Joab Hansen and shoved him so violently that he toppled over.
“Oh God!” shouted Marselius in despair. “He’s even gone for the representatives of the law. Oh no, that this should happen under my roof.”
Ivar had managed to jump up on to the bar, and here he stood, dangerous to behold, grinding his teeth and ready for battle, once more gripped by fury and looking as though he were about to leap like a tiger into the body of the room.
“Take it easy,” Poul Strøm exhorted. He went and stood in front of Ivar and said sternly: “Now you’re not going to do any more daft things, Ivar. Do you understand? Or are you going to make a complete fool of yourself and end up in clink?”
One of the officers made use of the opportunity to creep behind the bar; he had a rope in his hand. But suddenly Ivar kicked out at the kitchen lamp and launched himself from the bar. There was a shout from the darkness: “Here, I’ve got him, I’m holding him! Let go, you bugger!” The torches came out again, and their beams shone in confusion in all directions. No one knew where Ivar had got to. The inspector’s peremptory voice rang out: “Watch the exit. Don’t let him get away!” The torches were trained on the door. It was wide open. They were not long left in doubt that Ivar had escaped.
“It was Jens Ferdinand who let him out,” yelled Bergthor. “I saw him do it.”
Now Marselius arrived with two candles. His hands were trembling uncontrollably.
“After him!” shouted Joab Hansen. “We must get him at any price! I’ll get help from the military if necessary.”
“Aye, do what you can, men,” groaned Marselius. “Don’t let there be a murder in this village … things are bad enough as it is … show yourselves to be men, and God be with you … !”
“Don’t just stand there shouting, Marselius,” said Joab Hansen. “Lend me a mirror, quick.”
Marselius fetched a mirror, and the inspector went across to the light with it.
“Oh, I can see now,” said Marselius in a voice breaking with rage and sympathy. “Joab Hansen’s got his forehead hurt.”
“It’s only a lump,” said Joab Hansen. “But I wouldn’t have got off as lightly if I’d fallen against the stove.”
“It’s a dreadful lump,” said Marselius, pathetically clacking his tongue. “Wait a moment, and I’ll fetch a cold compress.”
Ivar had made no attempt to hide; he was on board his ship. They found him there, sitting on the edge of his bunk in an unlocked cabin. He had been badly knocked about, his thick black hair was plastered to his skull, and blood was streaming down his forehead and cheeks. Frederik’s monkey was suspended from the ceiling, pulling faces at him.
Magnus Magnussen, better known as Big
Magnus, was a decent and somewhat ponderous policeman. He found a jug of water and set about wiping Ivar’s face. The blood was coming from a gash right across the top of his head.
“You’d better lie down, Ivar,” said Magnus. “While I fetch the first aid box.”
Ivar found a half full bottle of gin in the cabinet above the bunk and took a gulp. Then he lay down. The corners of his mouth turned down in a weary, sullen smile. Others arrived now, and he heard Joab Hansen’s unruffled, but slightly scornful voice: “Oh, it’s a good thing he ended up here. Search him for weapons. And you’ll keep guard, Magnussen. And never mind about coddling him so much.”
Big Magnus had found a bottle of antiseptic, which he was sprinkling on the wound in Ivar’s head. Luckily, it was only a superficial cut. He took his time.
“You’ve got yourself in a mess now, Ivar,” he said.
Ivar fell into a light sleep. He dreamt they were dancing up on the deck. It was again the fiery old ballad about the Battle of Roncevalles that was being sung. It slowly died away, and in the silence he heard the sound of an aeroplane. He bounded up from the bunk, but was forced back again by strong hands.
“The machine gun,” he shouted. “Let me get at those devils and shoot them down.”
“You’re having a nightmare,” said Magnus. “There’s no aeroplane. Now then, Ivar, let’s have no more nonsense.”
Ivar lay down heavily in the bunk again and dozed off once more.
Frederik returned at about two o’clock in the morning. He had been out with a girl he knew and had no idea of what had happened. Big Magnus let him into the cabin. The monkey jumped down from the ceiling and crouched on Frederik’s shoulder. In a low voice Magnus put Frederik in the picture. Frederik shook his head. “This can be a serious business. I ought to have stayed with him, then it might never have happened. It’s the second time in a week this has come over him. But what the devil are we to say … ?”
He sat down on the edge of the bunk and took the monkey on his knee.
“It’s a rotten life, this, Magnus,” he said. “A rotten life. We’ve hardly had a wink of sleep for days.”
“What do you mean, it’s the second time?” asked Magnus.
“Well, something similar happened in Aberdeen last Saturday. He’d had too much to drink then, too, and then there was something about a girl.”
Frederik stroked the monkey’s neck. He went on in a confidential tone: “Well, you see, Ivar doesn’t really bother with girls, he’s very reserved. But then he went mad keen on a certain one … she was only sixteen or seventeen, and he was determined to get engaged to her – he’d even bought a ring and I don’t know what. But when he went to visit her on Saturday, there was another chap with her. So what did he do? – He started beating him up. But the girl wouldn’t have any more to do with Ivar and told him to go to blazes, and that, Magnus, was more than he could take. He’s only twenty-five, and he’s never had anything to do with women, as far as I know. After that he went to a pub and drank himself silly and picked a fight with some foreign sailors, and if I hadn’t dragged him out there’s no knowing what might have come of it, because the laws down there are very strict now there’s a war on.”
“No, that sort of thing’s a real mess,” said the policeman, mournfully contemplating his huge, idle hands. “A real mess. But just you lie down, Frederik. I’m staying here in any case.”
Frederik took a bottle and two glasses out of the drawer under his bunk. “Have a drink to keep you going,” he said. “What do you think they’ll do, Magnus?”
The policeman rubbed his hairy nose, looked away and shrugged his shoulders: “It depends on Opperman. He can arrange everything, of course, if he wants to. And I don’t think he’ll let Ivar down.”
8
Engilbert was awakened by an ear-splitting cock crow, and when he opened his eyes he saw a black cockerel perched on the foot of his bed. He didn’t really believe in that cockerel, but expected it to dissolve like a figure in a dream. However, it stayed there and was obviously real enough, clucking quietly away like an offended hen, turning its head from side to side in a brief jerking rhythm and showing the white of its eyes. And now it was flapping its wings again and crowing with a wide open beak with such force that it resounded in the spring base of the iron bedstead. Yes, it was a real cockerel all right. It had clearly come in through the open window.
It was half past six on a still, overcast morning. Engilbert left the cockerel alone and lay for a while longer. He had had a restless night. He had dreamt he was roaming about in the Angelica Bog … there, there had been several suns in the sky, one of them coal black, and a funeral procession had emerged from Hell Water. He had also been in one of the great boulders up there: four powerful, sunburned women had been sitting in it, naked and their entire bodies covered with hair. His dream still felt like reality, and he thought excitedly of the four enormous women and would have liked to get to know them better.
In the next room Thygesen, the Danish butler, was greeting the morning with a song. Thygesen was one of those rescued from the big steamship, the Lesseps, that had been torpedoed south of the islands in 1940, and since then he had hung on here at Mrs. Lundegaard’s together with Myklebust, the Norwegian refugee. Thygesen was never really drunk, but always slightly intoxicated, and as soon as he had had the first drink of the day, he burst into song, accompanying himself on the guitar.
Myklebust laughed in approval; his voice was still rusty at this early hour, and he sounded like a steamer unsuccessfully trying to sound its siren. These two strange men haunted Mrs. Lundegaard’s big attic. Myklebust was a wealthy shipowner; his fleet was sailing for the British. He himself had no need to do anything, and in addition he could well afford to keep Thygesen. Their days passed in gentle boozing and pointless chatter and song. Occasionally, when the weather was good, they could be seen out on the fjord, fooling about in the “Gokstad Ship”, that ridiculous and grotesquely over-constructed Viking ship with the red-striped sail, that Myklebust had bought from the mad shipbuilder Markus.
Engilbert failed to understand how they could be bothered carrying on like this day in and day out. Neither of them was young; both had grown-up children, and both had plenty of worries and sorrows. Thygesen’s only son, who had been a saboteur in Copenhagen, was said to have been taken by the Germans. Myklebust had been in danger of his life and forced to flee together with his youngest son, while it seemed that the remainder of his family had gone over to the enemy. That son was now in the British Navy. Both Thygesen and Myklebust had on several occasions sought to volunteer for service, but nothing ever came of it, for they were too old to be of use.
The cockerel flapped its wings, but instead of crowing it produced a tiny, feeble hiss, as though it were making an attempt to speak. Now it hopped down on to the floor, and then up on to the window ledge. It was almost as though it were inviting Engilbert to get up and go out. All right, perhaps he could look forward to yet another strange experience on this new day. Though it was unlikely to be anything good. He had an agonising presentiment of immense difficulties mounting on his path. Ghastly temptations lay in wait for him. Mean and malevolent powers sought to rob him of the spiritual benefits which he had so laboriously harvested over the past six months.
Perhaps he ought to go and consult Stefan Sveinson’s wife, Svava. She was a woman of rare wisdom and knowledge; indeed in the opinion of some she was close on being a spiritual leader of great eminence.
The cockerel remained on the window sill while Engilbert dressed. It seemed to nod to him and wink knowingly as he pulled his jersey over his head. When he finally got the jersey on, the cockerel had disappeared.
Inspector Joab Hansen sat over his lunch while considering what to do with Ivar. There was no reason why that puppy should not be put well and truly in his place, with a three month gaol sentence which in effect would ruin him for the rest of his life. Yet, on the other hand, there was no reason why the entire affair could not be dealt
with by a small fine and an apology to that bloody-minded so-and-so Bergthor Ørnberg.
“Consul Opperman’s here to see you,” the maid announced.
Joab Hansen drained his cup of coffee reflectively. Opperman’s visit today had not caught him unawares. The two men shook hands and glanced furtively at each other, each weighing up the other. Of course, it was about Ivar. The Manuela was supposed to have left that very evening, and there was no time to be lost; fish prices were on their way up, and there was a particularly good telegraphic offer of a cargo from the Westman Islands. So it was important not to waste any time, and Opperman was coming now to ask the inspector to do him the favour of dropping, or at least delaying, charges against Ivar.
The inspector replied in a firm, clear voice, but with a dubious little twinkle in the corner of his eye: “It can’t be delayed as matters stand, Opperman. We are just going to have to send your skipper to Tórshavn under police escort. It will simply be demanded of me.”
Opperman blinked quite impassively at Joab Hansen and tapped him gently on the shoulder: “Oh, Hansen. We know each other, eh? Clever business people stick together. You do me favour, I do you favour. I give your shop best chance, I give good discount, long credit …”
“My sister’s shop,” the inspector corrected him.
“Your sister’s shop,” Opperman agreed. “I save her big delivery of lovely cottons, it go like hot cakes, I reserve her lovely new shoes no one else can get, lovely chocolate biscuits, very scarce. We talk it over, Hansen, oh it will be great advantage. I always give you advantage and knock-down price.”
The inspector chewed away meditatively. “Now a wholesaler in the capital has been fined 200,000 kroner for cheating the Price Control Commission,” he said, giving Opperman a quizzical sideways glance.
“I know,” smiled Opperman nonchalantly. “He behave very foolish. Make supplier write false invoice and then both share profit. Oh, very foolish, very cheeky.”
“Yes, it pays better to stay on good terms with the Price Control Commission,” Joab Hansen commented; a cruel line emerged at the root of his nose as he said this. “You’re very good friends, you and the Price Control Commissioner, aren’t you, Opperman, eh?”
The Black Cauldron Page 6
