The Black Cauldron

by William Heinesen

  Simon the baker uttered a prolonged sigh ending in a rather old-mannish ho-ho-ho-ho. Then he withdrew, brooding, and slowly settled himself on the cargo hatch beside Kristian the Beachman, who was smiling in wonderment, still moved to the bottom of his soul by the great event of the day.

  Jens Ferdinand was shivering with cold and irritability; there was the bitter taste of cinchona drops and bile in his mouth, and the clammy fish within him were once more squelching around half dead and pressing on his heart. Exhausted as he was, he clung to a memory … an old memory, a little worn from the many times he had taken it out for consolation, but nevertheless still very much alive:

  It is not long after his confirmation … all the children have been for a cup of chocolate at the pastor’s house and are now on their way home. Liva and he are walking together. They are of about the same height. Liva was little and slightly built at that age. She is wearing a white dress, and her dark plaits fall heavily against the thin, soft material. As white as chalk, as black as coal. Then there is a cheerful shout behind them: Liva! It is Pjølle Schibbye running up; he is big, with down on his face, and he already has a deep voice. Pjølle was such a kind lad, helpful and fat and amusing.

  “What about coming home with me, then we’ll have a bottle of pop and smoke a cigarette up in the warehouse loft?” he says.

  “Yes, Pjølle,” says Liva gaily.

  But now he bends down towards her and whispers something in her ear, and she suddenly blushes deeply and in her confusion takes Jens Ferdinand by the arm.

  “No, Pjølle,” she says and shakes her head energetically, at the same time clasping Jens Ferdinand’s arm. She will most certainly not go with Pjølle.

  “All right, then, don’t, you silly little schoolgirl,” he says irritably. He grabs one of her plaits and flicks her neck with it: “What are these things – cows’ tails?”

  Pjølle stops and is swallowed up in a new group of girls and boys, and his carefree laughter can be heard further away.

  “What was that he whispered to you, Liva?” asks Jens Ferdinand innocently.

  “He said we could … you know,” replies Liva, adding: “That’s what he’s like. I know. There are quite a lot of them like that.”

  … Jens Ferdinand leant against the gunwhale and looked at his turnip-green hands. For a brief moment that little memory filled his turbid being with innocent green leaves, cool damp sorrel leaves. It had been spring; the weather was showery and the light intense; his expectations great but undefined; alas, alas, he could weep over it. So now he was at it again, dripping with sentimentality. Liva … she had clasped his arm, she had stayed close to him for protection. He had lived on that little experience for years, modest as he was, self-effacing, hopelessly handicapped, despite his youth resigned like an old maid.

  And he continued with his memories.

  A few years elapsed; he saw Liva now and then; she became a grown woman while he himself was still the same stripling as when he was confirmed. Children and young people all towered above him – that’s how it was, and there was nothing he could do about it.

  Another blustery spring day he sees himself going past the Tarnowius quay and finding Liva standing together with some other girls and women, washing fish in huge coffin-like wooden troughs. It’s cold and frosty and most of the women are bluish-red in their faces. So is Liva; she looks tousled and harrassed, but her hands are working willingly. She is busy, but she nods to him, and they exchange a brief glance, and for all the rest of the day, indeed all the following days he wishes he could do something for her … for instance go over to her and say: “You mustn’t stand and get cold here, Liva. Come with me: I already earn fifty kroner a month in the printing works, and you can have them.” And then he would take her hands and rub them and warm them …

  But shortly after this he meets her one Sunday evening together with her sister Magdalena and two young, well-built lads, and then he is once more made to feel how small he is and indescribably superfluous. One of the two young men is Pjølle. Liva looks very taken by him, but nevertheless she has time for a brief, kindly nod to Jens Ferdinand. He, too, is in his best clothes, elated by the Sunday evening dancing … but as usual, he is walking home alone, diminutive and overlooked, a mere spectator, a voracious reader of the book of life. And Pjølle is both tall and well-built, and then he is wealthy, too.

  But he shall not be the one!

  Good God, frail as he was, he was strong and determined in this one desperate wish: it must not be that libertine Poul Schibbye, that seducer and fop. Liva must not be wasted. Liva must be happy!

  And he goes home and lies working out what words of warning he will say to her when they next meet: “You mustn’t throw yourself away on someone who isn’t worthy of you. You must guard that treasure they call life. There is only one life, and your youth will never return.”

  Then, finally, the evening arrived when Liva became Johan’s.

  And it was I, the helpless onlooker, who brought them together, thought Jens Ferdinand, grimacing tearfully at the ocean. It was I who suggested that Liva should come home with me, and I did it quite deliberately. I was so eager to bring those two together. Not really for his sake or for hers … but for my own, of course. I can see that now. But then I really felt I was a kind of superior being, a lifesaver, ugh. I enjoyed seeing her every day and having her around me. And while Johan was away at sea I was a sort of stand-in. I had her alone, for myself. I enjoyed it. Enjoyed pretending I had no erotic interest in her. I suppose I didn’t, either. It was her soul I loved. Perhaps that sounds affected, but it’s true even so.

  Aye … and then disaster struck Johan.

  And then, naturally, you’re no jackal, and you withdraw doggedly, taking care not to take advantage of his handicap; you make yourself hard and bitter, you avoid her, happily you have other interests, and for a time you become almost a sort of woman-hater. You lie to yourself … out of decency. For the fire deep down inside you is still burning, even if it is in a locked and blacked-out room.

  You know all that perfectly well. But you become practised in lying.

  Until one fine day you burst down the door, like a thief breaking in.

  Jens Ferdinand thrust his hands down in his coat pockets and bent forward, lowering his head as though to meet a heavy hailstorm, the hammering hailstones of self-scorn and dull disgust.

  I ought to jump overboard, he thought bitterly … so that this impossible drama could end with the annihilation of the onlooker… !

  But the drama continues with all the implacability of fate, while the spectator looks on.

  A tall, serious man, with sharp features, but with a vigorous growth of fair hair still bearing the traces of youth, and a little hunchback with intelligent sharp eyes and a sarcastic tongue arrived at Hansen’s Hotel and asked for Liva Berghammer. Martha the maid looked at them curiously; she estimated the tall man to be a schoolteacher, but gave up in disgust at the little man – she had never been able to stand ugly or deformed people.

  “Have a seat, and I’ll fetch Miss Berghammer,” she said in a formal tone.

  Liva came straight away. Her face was waxen and she looked as though she had just lacquered her eyebrows and lashes. As white as chalk as black as coal. Her part-open lips were devoid of colour and slightly cracked. She looked around the overcrowded room with eyes that clearly showed her to be in need of sleep. It was some time before she discovered Simon … then, suddenly a bright light came to her eyes, and two clearly defined patches of red appeared on her cheek. Two red flowers. Yes, by God that’s what she did, she burst into flower … like a rosebush. And as she approached Simon she tossed her head as though she was shivering with cold and closed her eyes.

  He rose and took her hand; she inclined her head and he touched her hair with his lips.

  Jens Ferdinand had also got up and was standing watching, part in protest, part in awe. The little scene was undoubtedly beautiful, a rare union of grandeur and grace … an unhappy
girl and her spiritual mentor! He vaguely remembered something about Jesus healing the woman with an issue of blood. Aye, she was healed, all right; the bloom spread all over her cheeks. He felt hot and wicked bubbles rising within his breast, as though some destructive and agonising decoction was seething there; he could scarce hold back his tears, ridiculous and humiliating as it was; never had he felt so expendable as at this moment, so degraded by his irrelevance. It was incredible, completely absurd, that she has not even noticed him. Red-eyed, he held out his slender, dirty and icy hand to her.

  “Jens Ferdinand. Are you here, too?” And then came the exchange of a few everyday words. “Thank you for coming … it was kind of you …!”

  And then Simon again. Again this deep inclination of the head, this humble devotion, the trustful light in her eyes … yes, indeed, this is love – sublimated … although … it’ll never be forgotten.

  Now Simon took her hands; she sat down at his side; they held their folded hands together and prayed with eyes closed.

  Jens Ferdinand moved away, as far as possible, sat down at another table, beckoned to the waitress and asked for a beer. He drank it down without glancing at the praying couple. Religion was only masked eroticism in any case. At least young women’s religion. All these girls and sinners with their hope and faith, their compassion and despair … the female disciples … the woman at the well, the woman who salved His feet, the women at the foot of the Cross, the woman who met the risen Saviour in the Garden … !

  But good heavens, thought Jens Ferdinand as he drained his second glass and considered ordering a third: “All goodness, all beauty … at bottom, most of it is sublimated eroticism … Like birdsong. And it’s far more natural to us mammals.”

  “Another beer, yes please.”

  Jens Ferdinand ducked down and felt like doing something desperate. He felt a sudden urge to get up from his seat, point to Simon and shout: “You’re under arrest! I arrest this man. He is a notorious violent criminal, a sexual miscreant. And the young woman is my beloved fiancée, the only woman I love, the woman who is everything to me in this life. My sun, my sun! My star in the night. Halleluja!”

  “Who’s that man sitting over there with Liva?” whispered Martha, bending over to him as she filled his glass. “Is he her father? Or her brother?”

  “No, he’s her fiancé,” replied Ferdinand. It amused him to confuse the girl: “Her new fiancé, that is to say, because the old one’s dead.”

  Martha stared at him and shook her head. Then, with a toss of her head she replied: “Oh, you are horrible!” And her mouth twisted in disgust as at the sight of a spider as she retired with the empty bottle.

  Jens Ferdinand drifted around alone in the wet, misty streets. There was an odd sense of consolation in knowing himself to be alone in this alien place, where no one knew him. Twilight fell, a dense twilight in which glowing cigarettes and pocket torches flashed eerily here and there. Sleepy trucks equipped with medieval horn lamps were forcing their way through the narrow alleys. It was an old town, this, strewn with tumbledown hovels and ramshackle houses.

  The sound of subdued bagpipes could be heard in the distance … it came closer; he arrived at a conglomeration of temporary huts lining dead straight concrete roads. The black-painted doors were closed, and there were signs in white on them saying NAAFI, Post Office, Sergeants’ Mess. The sounds of singing, raucous voices and wild bagpipe playing issued from one of the huts. Two men in civilian clothes opened the door a little and slipped inside. Jens Ferdinand followed them, unnoticed, and found himself in a smoke-filled hall rather reminiscent of an old-fashioned madhouse such as he had seen in pictures, with demented patients mixing freely with each other and allowed to do as they like. “No civilians allowed,” – he heard the words, spoken a little wearily and unconvincingly by a pale, fat man with rolled-up sleeves; he led the men in civilian dress across to a corner where he revealed his false teeth in an enquiring smile while at the same time scratching the back of his neck: “No, we’ve no gin. Whisky?” he looked around, whistling, and stuffed a bottle down into Jens Ferdinand’s pocket; then he whispered a price and took the notes with a yawn. Finally, in a loud, stern voice, he shouted: “Not in here; no civilian visitors allowed.”

  Jens Ferdinand slipped out into the darkness again. It was pouring with rain. Where should he go?

  Quite unexpectedly he found an instant solution to the problem: immediately in front of him there was a black cave gaping in the cliff; all he needed to do was to go inside – it was an air raid shelter hollowed out in the rock. There was an acrid smell of mould and tomcat, but at least he had a roof over his head, and he was left to himself. There was even a sort of bench to sit on.

  He unscrewed the top of his bottle.

  “Your health, sir,” he murmured, with a slight, deferential bow in the dark. “And welcome to the island of Jan Mayen one rainy October evening in the year of Our Lord 894. It’s nice and clean and uninhabited, swept out and washed, and everything freshly polished. May I introduce you to the absolute polar night. Your health.”

  Simon and Liva walked out along the quayside. They had a great deal to talk about, and there was no peace in the overcrowded hotel. So Simon had suggested that they should go on board the Kittiwake.

  “I didn’t have a good night last night,” said Liva, breathing deeply. “I was so afraid. I lay wondering whether Johan had … had grace … was redeemed … yes, they were the same thoughts as I had after Ivar’s funeral, you remember. One is sometimes so weak and frightened, Simon. You said that yourself then, do you remember? You were afraid yourself, you said, and then you said that it was God’s will that we should live in uncertainty, it was part of our suffering … didn’t you? I lay thinking about all that. But that uncertainty, Simon …”

  “Yes, I remember it all right,” Simon interrupted her. “I was weak and pitiful myself then. But that was because I hadn’t completely committed myself. I daren’t drain the cup that had been filled for me. I was afraid.”

  He sighed and went on: “I was afraid of the cross, Liva. But I’m not any longer. Now I’ve discovered the meaning of the command that we should take up His cross and follow Him. It is so simple, really. He overcame death on the cross and thereby atoned for the sins of others. That’s what we ourselves must do. Those of us who seriously want to follow in His footsteps.”

  Simon was speaking quite calmly, like a man who has learned his lesson and knows unfailingly which way we he must go. He repeated: “We must atone not only for our own sins, but for those of others. The living and the dead. We must atone for them with our love. We mustn’t flinch from any sacrifice.”

  He stopped and touched her arm. “Liva,” he said, with urgent tenderness in his voice: “As the Scriptures say: In this we have known love, that He has sacrified His life for us. And we, too, have a duty to sacrifice our lives for our brethren. That is the commandment, Liva. Once we have understood that, then the hour of trial has come in earnest.”

  They walked on slowly. Simon continued: “You know, they all try to avoid that commandment … the Church, the free churches, all these false prophets who, as the Scripture says, will be heard in the last days. They try to explain away the difficult truth and make arduous things easy, turn them into something that requires no sacrifice. They think that if we only believe, our skins are safe both in this world and the next. As though Jesus did not say quite clearly: He that findeth his life shall lose it; and he who loseth his life for my sake shall find it.”

  He stopped again, grasped Liva’s hand and pressed it hard. “You will come to understand me, Liva, even if you perhaps don’t this evening. I know. God has told me that He has chosen you, too, as His mighty servant. He will open your mouth, woman. Before long, you will speak. And your testimony shall be heard by many and bring with it disquiet and anxiety and awaken many souls. We must fight the last great battle at each other’s side, as God wishes. Selah!”

  “Selah,” replied Liva. She felt di
zzy. For a moment things went black before her eyes, and she had to cling on to him. “Thank you, Simon,” she said, overcome with emotion. “Thank you for saying that to me.”

  They went aboard the boat. The sounds of feeble singing emerged from the cabin; it was the three crew members at evening prayer. Simon joined in with a loud voice. Liva, too, sang along with them. She still felt dizzy. All those devastating, dreadful experiences of the past few days and nights vanished as though time and forgetfulness lay between then and now. She felt at home. Indeed, here, with Simon, there was comfort and spiritual elevation; this was her true home, her only home.

  7

  “So eternity is supposed to consist of sawdust?”

  “Yes, according to the latest estimates this quite ordinary and everyday substance constitutes the major component in life after death.”

  The stranger’s voice was as dry as a creaking door, and with a little smile that revealed the avenger in his otherwise correct and honest face, he repeated: “Sawdust. Billions of tons, an inconceivable heap of it, so huge that even the Himalayas, massive as they are, seem no more than a speck of dust beside it.”

  And as, half suffocated, he surrendered himself once more to the rustling, crackling dry matter enveloping him, Jens Ferdinand caught a final glimpse of the famous physicist’s cadaverous and phosphorescent grin. With a supreme effort he managed to clear a little space around his face so that he could breathe a little while yet. He opened his eyes and glimpsed a low, sloping wall … this was reality, not a dream … he was in a small attic room. The cold light of morning was streaming in through a low window. A slender woman’s figure was standing by his bed. He had a vague notion of hospitals and nurses.

  “You must get up now,” came the implacable command.